The Big Fisherman (13 page)

All day long the female servants, a dozen or more, had tiptoed in by twos and threes to stand helplessly at a respectful distance from the bed, regarding their dying mistress with compassionate eyes, and had tiptoed out again as if remembering some neglected duty. Nothing remained to be done for Arnon; or, if so, there was old Nephti who had nursed both Princesses from babyhood, and the faithful Ione, hovering close—and a bit jealous of each other.

The whole mind of the household at present was concentrated on Fara and her probable plans for the future. Of course she would now marry Voldi, whose constant attentions during the past few years had been unceasing and whose intentions were unmistakable. It was generally taken for granted that Fara had decided not to marry until her responsibility to her mother had ended. And that responsibility had increased as Arnon's strength declined; for the unhappy Princess had developed an immense capacity for absorbing all manner of trivial but incessant personal services. 'Hand me the small pillow, please. No—the other one, dear, the blue one. Thanks, Fara, but I believe I'd rather have my shawl. It's out in the pergola, I think. Would you mind getting it, darling? I know I'm a dreadful bother.' And so she was; but it had never seemed to annoy Fara, who stayed on duty day and night. Obviously she couldn't bring much happiness to Voldi until she was free. It wouldn't be long now.

But where would they live? This was the question that troubled the servants; especially the older ones. Arnon's land had been ceded to her only for her lifetime. It was inconceivable that Voldi, as Fara's husband, would press a claim to it, or that the King could consent to such favouritism. Voldi would be as nomadic as all others of equal rating. The fact that his father Urson was the son of Mishma, who as Chief of the Councillors was the heir-apparent to the throne, was of no immediate consequence. Arnon's land would revert to the King's domain. Voldi and Fara would follow the snow and the pasture. And the older servants, long accustomed to soft living, might be considered too frail for such a rigorous life.

Indeed, as they huddled in little groups, waiting, watching, they wondered whether Fara herself was likely to be happy as a nomad. She had never taken any interest in their herds and flocks. She had shown much friendly concern for the shepherds and their families, but cared nothing for the business that provided her own living. Of course, there was no use trying to understand Fara. They had never known what to make of this alien who had become more of an enigma as she matured. She was as mysterious as she was beautiful. Doubtless that could be explained by her racial heritages. It was an odd combination—Arab and Jew. True, it was an arrestingly lovely blend, viewed objectively. Arabian women were taller than Jewesses and more sinewy. At sixteen, Fara's figure was slim, supple, almost boyish: in short, Arabian. Her face was an interesting study in racial conflict. The old antipathy was written there as on a map. The high, finely sculptured nose, with the slightly flaring, mobile, haughty nostrils, had been Arnon's gift. The childishly rounded chin and throat were Mariamne's. It was a readily responsive face, well disciplined in repose, but of swift reactions to any stirring event. She was capable of flashing Arabian rages like sudden summer storms in the mountains, but it was well worth anyone's patience and forbearance to wait for the penitent smile Fara had inherited from long generations of highly emotional people who believed in atonements and were never ashamed of their tears.

Arnon's last day wore on, and when the declining sun had been nicked by the glowing tip of Arcturus, twenty miles away, old Kedar rolled up the western tent-panels also, admitting a jasmine-scented breeze. Rousing, Fara lifted her eyes to the breath-taking panorama of rolling hills in the foreground descending to the green Valley of Aisne, with the majestic Arcturus in the far distance; and, beyond the southern slope of the mountain, the dazzling white shoreline of the Dead Sea.

Noting that Fara had been momentarily diverted from her vigil, Ione drew closer to whisper that Voldi had come. Did she want to see him? Fara shook her head.

'Tell Voldi not to wait,' she murmured; and, as Ione moved away, she added, 'Tell him I cannot come now. He will understand.'

Fara's heavy eyes slowly returned to her mother's drawn face. She laid her cheek against Arnon's breast and listened—and listened. Old Nephti took a step forward and held up an outspread hand for silence, though no place had ever been so quiet. At length Fara straightened and kissed her mother on the forehead, very gently, so as not to waken her. Then she came slowly to her feet. Her eyes were tearless now and her proud face was composed. Lightly touching old Nephti's shoulder in a brief caress and making a weary little gesture of appreciation toward the others, she left the tent.

Voldi was waiting in the garden. Rising, he held out his arms and Fara nestled her head against his breast. He could feel the silent, convulsive sobs and drew her closer.

'She is gone?' he asked.

Fara nodded wearily, dejectedly.

'I will take care of you, dear,' murmured Voldi.

'Let us not speak of that now,' said Fara, gently releasing herself from his embrace. 'There are many things to do, I suppose. Will you ride over to the King's encampment—and tell them?'

'Of course; and then may I come back?'

'Voldi, I am so very tired. Perhaps tomorrow . . .'

He took her in his arms again and kissed her, but her response was apathetic.

After Voldi had ridden away, Ione joined Fara, who had remained in the garden, seated in her mother's favourite chair.

'What do we do now, Ione?' she asked weakly. 'I know so little about it.'

'The men will come tonight, dear, and attend to the burial.'

'And—am I to have anything to do with that?'

'No—you will not be expected to go along. Nephti and I will dress her for the burial.' Ione reached out her hand. 'Come now—and take some rest. You are quite exhausted. I shall bring you something nourishing to drink.'

Late in the evening, King Zendi himself arrived, accompanied by a dozen neighbours. After a consoling word with Fara, he left her, saying that he and the Queen would see her tomorrow. Fara lay on her bed, with eyes closed and a pillow pressed hard over her head so that she might not hear the sounds of retiring hoofbeats. When she roused, everything was quiet. The full moon shone brightly through the tent-door. Ione slipped in very quietly. Fara sat up, patted the bed, and Ione obediently sat down beside her.

'I want you to do something for me, Ione,' said Fara, hardly above a whisper, 'and I want you to promise me you will never, never tell.'

Ione's voice trembled a little as she promptly consented.

Fara faced her with sober eyes.

'I want you to hold up your hand, Ione, and swear by your gods that you will do for me what I ask of you—and never reveal it to anyone!'

Ione hesitated and began to cry.

'I wish I knew, dear,' she said, brokenly. 'I hope this isn't something you shouldn't do!'

'Let me be the judge of that!' Fara's tone was severe. 'Will you do as I say—and keep my secret?'

Ione protestingly put up a trembling hand and said, 'Yes, Fara—I will do as you wish—and never tell.'

Rising impetuously, Fara went to a small table where she kept her needlework, returning with a pair of scissors which she handed to the bewildered slave.

'You are to cut off my hair!' Fara wound her fingers about her heavy braid, at the back of her neck. 'There! See, Ione? Just above my hand. I am to be a boy. Cut it like Voldi's.'

Ione was whimpering like a child.

'You promised!' Fara shook her roughly by the shoulder. 'Don't sit there crying! Do as I say—and do it quickly!'

Still gasping incoherent protests, Ione committed the crime. When it was accomplished, Fara retired to the alcove and presently returned to exhibit herself in the conventional garb of a well-to-do young Arabian, the burnous patterned after Voldi's best.

'How do I look?' she demanded.

'Where did you get it?' asked Ione in a strained voice.

'Made it,' said Fara, 'a long time ago.'

'But why? What are you going to do?'

'I am going very far away, Ione, to keep a vow,' declared Fara. 'Now—see to it that you keep yours!'

The alarming news broke early in the morning. Old Kedar rode to the King's encampment with the appalling report that Fara had disappeared during the night. The fractious bay filly that she had insisted on stabling in a separate paddock was gone. Zendi sent word to a score of young cavalrymen, informing them of what had happened. In his opinion, Fara, beside herself with grief and unable to sleep, had gone for a reckless ride in the moonlight. Perhaps she had met with an accident. They set off in all directions.

Voldi dashed away at a gallop along their favourite bridle-path skirting the rim of the plateau. At places where the trail was narrow and the descent precipitous, he dismounted and led his tired horse slowly, searching for ominous signs. When the late afternoon came, his hopes were fading. He was no longer meeting anxious friends engaged in the quest, for he was many miles beyond the furthest point he had ever travelled.

Slowly he retraced his course as the twilight settled down. At intervals, where the path was dangerous, he stopped and listened into the deep silence, and despairingly called, 'Fara! Fara!'

Saidi, the bay filly, was independent and impertinent but sure-footed. Old Kedar, increasingly prudent at eighty, distrusted her; but Fara, better understanding the filly's caprices, knew that while Saidi was mischievous she was not malicious.

For the first five miles of a gradual descent, Fara did not spare her. Time was precious. At any moment old Nephti, though strongly admonished to take her rest, might come in and find the bed empty. Immediately the household would be roused and a search would begin forthwith.

At first Saidi—in need of exercise—wanted to play, changing her gait without warning from canter to lope and pretending to be frightened at every huge white boulder and pale grey clump of sage standing in the bright moonlight, but Fara's spurs soon dissuaded her from the belief that this was a romp.

After a while the grade levelled off for a few miles before taking the sharp zigzags toward the valley floor. Here Fara dismounted and led Saidi until she began to toss her head impatiently, for she always objected to being led unless quite exhausted.

Occasionally they passed a weaver's hut: no lights visible, everyone asleep except the little huddle of goats that stirred and lifted a few heads inquisitively. The night was still. Fara thought it strange that she was not lonely. Even her bereavement, not yet of seven hours' duration, seemed to have occurred long ago; as indeed it had, for that incurable sorrow had set in when Arnon's waning strength presaged the inevitable end.

It was strange too, thought Fara, that she felt no apprehensions about the grim and hazardous mission on which she had set forth. She made the experiment of saying to herself that this was a very serious business, a man's business, that undoubtedly would cause her much trouble long before she reached her well-fortified objective in Galilee; in short, that she was riding toward almost certain disaster as fast as Saidi's slim legs could carry her. But this re-examination of her purpose did nothing to discompose her, doubtless because she had so long and earnestly planned this audacious undertaking that it had become the sole aim of her life.

And there was dear Voldi. What a deal of anxiety she had caused him! How much more kind it would have been, reflected Fara, if she had told him firmly that she could never marry him; and, if pressed for the reason, she could have said that she did not love him. But Voldi would have known it wasn't true, for she had given him too many guarantees of her affection. However—Voldi would not fret very long. A girl might in similar circumstances, but a man would quickly forget. How fortunate men were in their ability to pull their love up by the roots and transplant it so successfully that it grew again without the loss of a leaf or a petal. There was really no need for her to worry about Voldi.

Only one anxiety disturbed her: what success would she have in masquerading as a young man? Of course there was no other alternative. It was quite inconceivable that a sixteen-year-old girl could travel alone from southern Arabia to northern Galilee without risking some very unpleasant, if not positively dangerous, experiences; but this effort to pose as a young man would be a very risky business.

A few facts were in Fara's favour. Her natural speaking voice was low-pitched and throaty; it might easily be mistaken by a stranger for the voice of a boy in his mid-teens. Too, the loose-fitting burnous ignored the curves of her girlish figure. But, even so, it would require much courage and self-confidence to maintain her role if suddenly projected into the company of men. It had not yet occurred to her that it would be quite as difficult to deceive another woman.

This dilemma had cost Fara many an anxious hour. She had privately practised being a bold and bumptious youth, accustomed to rough talk and capable of serving a large helping of convincing profanity. She had stalked up and down her bed-chamber with long, stiff-legged strides, jerking her head arrogantly from side to side as she scowled crossly into her mirrors, and growling gutturally. Once the absurdity of it had momentarily overcome her, and she had laughed at her reflection in the highly polished metal plate that hung by her door; but had instantly sobered at the sight of a pair of girlish dimples in this young man's cheeks, and resolved that she would do no more smiling.

At the first signs of dawn Fara crossed the southern extremity of the fertile Valley of Aisne and moved on into the arid Valley of Zered, which skirted the eastern shore of the Dead Sea. It was a desolate expanse of parched and blistered land, utterly without vegetation, birds, rodents, or reptiles. There were even no insects, with which most deserts abound. The Dead Sea had been aptly named. Saidi clearly shared her rider's hope that they might soon be out of this forsaken country, and quickened her pace, Fara straining her eyes for a glimpse of the ancient village of Akra, which, she knew, maintained a precarious existence on a bit of oasis at the southernmost tip of the Dead Sea.