The Big Fisherman (26 page)

What the Italian trollop had said was true: the Jews did take themselves too seriously; they made the business of living a sad and sorry undertaking. As for himself, Simon was now resolved to be more light-hearted in the future. Any Jew so concerned over the world's wickedness that he would withdraw alone to the desert—and eat bugs—was entitled to all the pleasure he could find in it: Simon would have no part in such foolishness. Nor would he give another thought to the penniless Carpenter.

The well-kept driveway was rougher than usual—doubtless cut up by the hooves of the Tetrarch's pack-train—and Simon found himself slipping and stumbling over the loose gravel. He laughed aloud as he tried to mend his lurching gait and hummed a little tune. He wanted to sing. It had been a long time since he had loosed his big, deep, roaring voice. An old chant came back to him out of his early childhood. In the well-remembered, low-pitched monotone of the Synagogue cantor, he began the plaintive recitative:

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving-kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge
—

He broke off abruptly and muttered a savage imprecation as he realized the meaning of the ancient Atonement Day hymn that, as a little boy, he had learned by rote; learned so thoroughly that the words had no significance at all; just an august procession of sonorous words intricately woven into a haunting tune. Simon cursed himself bitterly. Was he never to be delivered, then, from these dour broodings that flowed in the milk and the blood of the Jew? Was he—by nature—beyond the reach of any happiness? In a mood to sing and to sing gaily, the only song he knew was a whimpering cry of guilt!

But now it occurred to Simon that he did know another song, a ribald sailor's ditty. Sometimes his men guardedly hummed it deep in their throats, knowing better than to articulate the dirty words; for the Big Fisherman, eloquently profane as he was, hated obscenities. Scornful now of all the self-flogging hymns wailed into his childhood by sanctimonious old Jonas, he sang the sailors' song as loudly as he could yell, defiantly bellowing the filthiest words as if he wanted God Himself to hear—and be hurt!

At the end of it, he laughed hysterically, laughed until his eyes were so wet he couldn't see the road, and found his sleeve caught in the shrubbery. It sobered him a little. The sound of his idiotic laughter resounded in his whirling head. He shambled back on to the road, hoarsely muttering that he was a fool: a damned, drunken fool!

He was nearing the highway now and its quietness warned him to cease his racket. There was a complete absence of the customary clank and clatter of vehicular traffic. Any man who pushed a barrow or drove a donkey-cart today would do so at the expense of his reputation for decency. The few pedestrians moved slowly, out of respect for the day. Meeting them, Simon bowed gravely, as if he too were mindful of the occasion. His recent sensation of reckless joy was completely dimmed out now.

At the wharf he stumbled awkwardly into a dory, sat down heavily, and began pulling toward the fleet. The vigorous exercise immediately fatigued him. His arms were heavy and the oars sliced splashes of water into the boat. Had he caught one of his boys pounding the lake as if flailing a threshing-floor, the Big Fisherman would have paid him off and kicked him out. He was weak with nausea and dripping with sweat when, at length, he pulled up under the prow of
The Abigail.

Thad appeared at the rail and tossed the master a rope, calling out cheerily that it was a fine day. Apparently the boy had not yet noticed that anything was wrong with his hero. Simon wished the youngster was less attentive and thought of contriving an immediate errand for him in some other part of the ship, but decided to brazen it out the best he could. With a great effort he heaved himself aboard, produced a weak imitation of a smile, and said, with laboured precision:

'I'll relieve you now, my boy. Perhaps you would like to go to the Synagogue.'

'Hell, no!' scoffed Thad, expectant of an approving grin.

But Simon's face was sober and he made no comment. Walking slowly aft, he sat down on the sun-warmed tiller-seat and dully occupied himself with a pretence of mending some frayed odds and ends of old ratlines. After a while Thad strolled back and volunteered to help, but Simon shook his head absently. When an hour had passed, the loyal young fellow—showing some concern now—returned with a plate of smoked fish and a couple of hard biscuits in one hand and a mug of sweet cider in the other.

The skipper nodded his appreciation, gestured to Thad to put the plate down on the seat beside him, and reached out a hand for the mug. He raised it almost to his lips, sniffed it, blinked rapidly a few times—and shuddered.

'Not feeling very well today, my boy,' mumbled Simon truthfully.

Thad murmured something that sounded like sympathy and moved quietly away. It was evident that the master did not want to be disturbed. Doubtless, reflected Simon, as he gazed at the retreating figure, the boy had guessed why. And that was too bad; but at least Thad would know now what the trouble was, and not be fretting for fear he had somehow got himself into the boss's disfavour.

Simon continued thinking about young Thad. He was a good boy, a good sailor, a good fisherman; but a sore trial to his parents. It was said that they felt they had lost their son and that it was Simon's fault. Well—maybe it was true, viewed from the angle of their fanatical piety. The youngster was completely devoted to him, even to the length of imitating the master's little tricks of speech and manner until the crew joked about it.

Bending forward, with his aching head in his hands, Simon retched disgustedly. Thad's parents were right: he was a bad influence. He wondered what Thad would say if he called to him and said, 'See here, boy; why don't you wash your dirty face and comb your hair and go to the Synagogue today? It would please your mother. Even if it didn't do you any good, it would be worth something to make your parents happy. . . .' But no—he couldn't do that: he had already bewildered young Thad with his extraordinary behaviour. It was enough disillusionment for one day.

Glancing up dully, he saw Thad vaulting over the starboard rail on to the deck of
The Sara.
Something had attracted his attention. He was leaning far forward now at the taffrail, shading his eyes with both hands. Presently he turned about with a broad grin and called to Simon excitedly: 'Damned if they haven't got her moving!'

Simon's curiosity brought him lumbering to his feet. He sluggishly climbed aboard
The Sara
and followed Thad's pointing finger. A full half-mile away, the discarded little fishing-smack that had been beached, at least three years ago, by poor old Japheth when he was no longer able to work, was making sail, a few hundred yards off shore.

'Somebody's going to get wet,' rumbled Simon. 'That old bucket must leak at every seam.' He chuckled disdainfully, remembering the sign that Japheth had nailed on her prow when abandoning her: 'To Sell or Rent,' under which announcement some clown had scrawled, 'Or Rot.' He turned to Thad. 'Who—do you suppose—has been fool enough to float her?'

'Why—don't you know, sir? I thought you must have heard. The Zebedee boys have leased her.' Thad's bright enthusiasm over the amazing project was quickly dimmed by the Big Fisherman's surly scowl.

'They're fools!' growled Simon. 'That old vessel is not seaworthy. Even if she stays afloat, she's unmanageable. First little puff of wind—over she goes.'

'Yes, sir,' agreed Thad obediently. 'But Johnny is pretty good with the sticks. He'll ride out a gale if anyone can!'

'How much of a crew have they—or do you know?' queried Simon. 'I suppose they have their old man with them.'

'No, sir; they picked up three or four boys in Capernaum, but they didn't want to take Zebedee away from us.' Thad risked a tongue-in-cheek grin, but Simon, not being in a jocular mood, only frowned bitterly and spat in the water as he swung about and returned to his seat on
The Abigail.
Thad, bored and unhappy, tagged along.

'You may go now, my boy,' said Simon. 'I'll stand watch.'

'But how about tonight, sir?'

'I expect to remain here.'

'I don't like to leave you alone, sir.'

Simon made no reply to that, and Thad lingered until the master called out impatiently, 'Go! Do as I tell you! I prefer to be alone!'

Crestfallen, the dismayed youngster slipped quietly away under this unearned rebuff and dropped into one of the rocking dories. When he was safely gone, Simon—sick and wretched in body and spirit—plodded feebly forward to the little cabin, eased himself down on the bare bunk that nobody before had ever had occasion to use, and reeled dizzily off into a troubled sleep.

Once out of Hannah's sight, Esther abruptly slowed her scamper to match the aimless amble of the dissolving holiday crowd, and sauntered casually alongside the northbound groups of chattering women.

It was a relief to find herself unnoticed by her fellow pedestrians, whose low-pitched voices seemed completely preoccupied with a review of the Tetrarch's cavalcade; or, at least, Esther surmised that this was the subject under discussion, though it was difficult to make out exactly what they were saying. The Galilean inflection of Aramaic had a tendency to slur a half dozen words into one, and when spoken rapidly took on a singular cadence that tipped every sentence up on end, making it sound like a query.

Inconspicuous in Abigail's simple country dress, Esther strolled along at the verge of the highway, busy with her own accumulation of problems. She had had no intention of trying to overtake Simon and make-believe she was searching for her fictitious Uncle Joseph. She was simply killing time until the eminent David, having concluded his conversation with Hannah, should have returned home. Then she would feel safe to retrace her steps to Bethsaida.

This deeply learned and widely travelled lawyer's almost reverential respect for her had been most disturbing. It was obvious that the shrewd old man had done some expert guessing about her identity. Her identity!—the thought produced a pensive, momentary smile. David wondered who she was. Well—who was she? Of late she had been required to change her identity so often that she was a bit bewildered about it herself.

It was amazing, reflected Esther, what one could do to one's own mind if some emergency demanded the practice of a deceit that involved self-deception also. To masquerade successfully as a boy was a serious and hazardous business. It wasn't enough to pretend she was a boy. To cut off her long hair and put on a man's clothing was the smallest part of it. The deception had required diligent, earnest, relentless concentration. Even when alone and unobserved, she had hardened her face, lengthened her stride, swaggered, scowled, growled and spat. Every little feminine trick of posture or gesture was critically examined and corrected. She practised walking with her feet wide apart; was mindful to keep her fingers away from her throat and make them into fists; kept her elbows away from her ribs, and swung her arms like a soldier.

John, the baptizer, had discovered her secret; that had been her own fault. The strong breeze on the hill-top that morning had moulded her clothing tightly to her form. But for this carelessness of hers, the hermit might never have suspected. She had been lucky throughout the whole adventure.

When, however, it had become quite impossible to deceive Hannah, she had accomplished her reconversion to her own sex with a minimum of effort. She had dressed in Abigail's clothes from the skin out, tucking her own underclothing deep in the bottom of the old chest. Now she was Esther. But, curiously enough, the abandonment of her studied role as a boy had suddenly affected her memory of all the experiences she had had while playing that part. No—she hadn't forgotten them completely; but they were faded, distorted, as if viewed dimly through a clouded glass. It was a queer sensation, being Esther.

Nor was that all that had happened to her mind now that she had taken on a new personality. This Esther had to account for herself. It wasn't sufficient to stop being a camel-boy, fugitive from a caravan. It was imperative that Esther should contrive—and at very short notice, too—a new explanation for her presence in Galilee. So she had invented an uncle for whom she was searching. Aware that she mustn't take the risk of impromptu replies to the inevitable queries about this relative, she had elaborately created an Uncle Joseph whom almost anyone should be able to recognize from her detailed description. Uncle Joseph became as real to her as rain! He had a short, grizzled beard; his near-sightedness gave him the appearance of peering impudently into your face, though he really wasn't that sort of person, at all; rather shy and reticent, indeed. Uncle Joseph was bald and slightly stooped and walked with a limp. Yes—he had broken his leg when a boy and it had lamed him; not badly enough to interfere with his work. He had a friendly smile, though he never had much to say. All that—and plenty more—had Esther contrived about Uncle Joseph.

At the outskirts of unkempt little Magdala, she paused to take a leisurely look at the lake, shimmering in the summerish noon, turned slowly about, and began to saunter back toward Bethsaida.

No: it hadn't been difficult to become Esther, the orphaned niece of Joseph, the lame, near-sighted stone-cutter of Idumea; but the trouble was that in becoming Esther you were losing your hold on Fara. To be Esther you had to leave Fara far behind you; Fara—and everything that pertained to Fara!

She half-closed her eyes and a little shudder swept over her. Fara and all that belonged to the Fara-personality had dimmed to the vagueness of a dream. Arabia! Her mother! Ione! And Voldi! Voldi! She tried to recover the sensation of galloping alongside him on a narrow mountain-trail; tried to feel the tight grip of her knees hugging Saidi's hot, rippling withers; tried to smile up into Voldi's laughing eyes; and, failing of it, found herself blinded by sudden tears; tried—with a whimpering little sob—to feel again the caress of Ione's gentle fingers combing her hair. But it was all unreal now, as unreal as if it had happened to someone else and she was reading about it—or making it up. Esther was very lonely and lost and homesick for Fara—and frightened! She quickened her steps: she must get back to Hannah. Hannah was real!