The Big Fisherman (27 page)

It was the first time in her life that she had given any serious thought to the permanent effects of self-deception. Apparently you could deceive other people without suffering much damage, but once you entered upon a determined effort to lie to yourself—about yourself—you were in danger of losing your own personality!

A strict adherence to the truth had never seemed important. Lies were of no significance; unless, of course, they injured someone else. Certainly Arabia had never been scrupulous about truth-telling; nor had the Jews distinguished themselves for any sensitiveness on this subject. How indeed could one do any business at all if required to stick to the truth? Esther recalled that there was a Jewish commandment, written in their ancient law, making it a punishable crime to 'bear false testimony against a neighbour,' but that felony had very little relation, if any, to the casual untruth invented to implement a sale or save one from an embarrassing predicament. Today it had begun to appear that not only was the truth a form of property; but—what was still more important—it was possible to commit suicide by a long-continued course of self-deception.

Hannah was overjoyed at Esther's return and deeply touched when the girl impulsively put her arm around her in a surprising display of sincere affection.

'I have good news for you, dear,' she exclaimed. 'Master David has invited us to come and see his garden; this afternoon, if we will.'

To her relief and satisfaction, for Hannah had expected some reluctance, Esther promptly consented to go: indeed, she seemed pleased to go. An hour earlier she might have invented excuses.

* * * * * *

Upon their arrival in David's extensive grounds and after greetings had been exchanged, Deborah—a tall, gaunt spinster of fifty or more—abruptly suggested to Hannah that they stroll in the garden and see what was left of the autumn flowers, though her crisp tone hinted that it was much too late in the season and that the idea had certainly not originated with herself.

This laconic invitation, so pointedly addressed to Hannah, confirmed Esther's surmise that David had planned a private interview. His uneasy frown indicated that his forthright sister might have displayed a little more tact in this connivance; and Esther, unwilling to be thought too dumb to understand his annoyance, flashed a mischievous smile into his eyes. He accepted it with pursed lips and a shrug—and a slow, begrudged grin.

'My sister Deborah,' he drawled, 'has always believed—with Aristotle—that a straight line is the shortest journey between two points.'

'And the safest,' added Esther, suddenly sober, as if renouncing all devious ways.

He searched her eyes to make sure of her sincerity, and smiled his appreciation of her evident decision to disarm. They had been slowly following the women at a widening distance. Now David cupped his hand lightly under her elbow and they angled off into the well-kept grove containing a wide variety of trees, most of which Esther had never seen. For something to say, she remarked that it seemed strange to find them growing here.

'My father,' replied David, 'often travelled in foreign lands. He was greatly interested in trees. Not many of these are native to Galilee.' He halted to give her time to look about, and asked, in a tone too craftily casual, 'Do you recognize any of them—as of Idumea?'

She frowned impatiently.

'I know nothing whatsoever about Idumea, sir!' The unbridled asperity in her low-pitched voice reproached him for trying to trap her. Wasn't he going to play the game fairly?

Somewhat taken aback by the girl's irritation, David made the additional mistake of murmuring apologetically that he had been misinformed.

'I thought you were an Idumean,' he said.

'You did not!' exclaimed Esther hotly. Then, in a husky tone of entreaty, she asked, 'Why can't we be honest with each other? That's why you asked me to come here, Master David. You hoped I might confide in you. You are making it difficult. I am much in need of your counsel—and your friendship. . . . I am lonely—and lost.'

He pointed to a rustic seat beside the winding path and they sat down.

'Forgive me, my child,' he said softly. 'Now—you tell me as much, or as little, as you want me to know. I shall respect your confidence.'

'It may shorten my story, sir, if you tell me how much you already know of it.'

David complied. Some eighteen years ago, while a student in Athens, chiefly concerned with contemporary political movements, he had been obliged to inform himself about the unprecedented alliance of the Jews and Arabians, who hoped their united strength might discourage a Roman invasion. A royal wedding had been arranged to confirm this pact. Antipas had married the Arabian Princess—and shamefully mistreated her. There was a child, a little girl.

'I never learned her name,' David was saying.

'It wouldn't be Esther?' she ventured, without looking up.

'Not likely.' He pretended to be debating the matter. 'Esther is definitely Jewish, and by the time this baby was born her Arabian mother would hardly have wanted any more reminders of her unhappy life in Jewry.'

'That is true, sir. My name is Fara.' After a lengthy pause she added, 'But perhaps you had better continue to call me Esther.'

David nodded his approval of that decision. She was much safer in Galilee with a Jewish name, he said.

'By the way,' he continued, 'do you want to tell me what brings you here? Surely you have no thought of restoring relations with your father.'

She shook her head slowly; and, after some deliberation, said, 'I shall tell you—everything, Master David.'

And she did. It was a long story, but David did not often break into it with queries or comments. When she had told him about Ione's insistence that she learn Greek, his eyes lighted and he interrupted her to say: 'Excellent! It has been a long time since I have conversed in that beautiful language.'

'It will please me, too,' she replied; and David smiled happily at her evident relief in abandoning her imperfect Aramaic for the more musical tongue in which she felt at home. From there on, she proceeded with more self-confidence, David watching her lips with delight. The effortless shift to Greek had given the girl a new freedom that added much to her charm.

As she came to the end of her story, however, the old lawyer made a long face and shook his head.

'No, no, my child!' he protested. 'What you have set out to do is utterly impossible! You are very brave, but this is something that no amount of courage can accomplish!'

'Would you counsel me then to break my vow?' There was disappointment and reproach in her query.

'I hope you will not ask me to assist in sending you to certain death!' he muttered.

Esther's eyes widened. David didn't want to be asked to assist. Perhaps that meant that he could—if he wished.

'Please remember, Master David,' she said entreatingly, 'I have burned all my bridges to Arabia; I have no home in Jewry; I have sworn to avenge my mother; and that I intend to do. If I should lose my life, well, is it not better for me to die with honour than to live to no purpose at all—unwanted anywhere, an embarrassment to those I love?'

The old man sat for a long time with half-closed eyes, stroking his grey beard. After a while he surprised her by what seemed an abrupt change in their conversation.

'My long-time friend and client, Jairus, informs me that the Tetrarch has recently acquired the entire private library of a bankrupt Corinthian. The scrolls—Greek classics, for the most part—have been long neglected, their owner having spent his recent years in a Roman prison.'

Esther had come to attention and was listening with wide eyes and parted lips.

'Perhaps the Tetrarch will want someone to mend the broken scrolls,' she said, 'and put his library in order.'

'Perhaps. We shall see,' said David. 'I shall inquire of Lysias, the steward.'

Deborah and Hannah were approaching.

'Let me see you again,' said David—'the day after tomorrow.'

* * * * * *

Simon had not been home for two whole days now and Hannah was beside herself with anxiety.

At breakfast on the first morning of his absence she had given his taciturn brother an opportunity to explain; but Andrew, whose only distinction was a talent for minding his own business, had not gone farther than to say that Simon had slept on shipboard.

But on the morning of the third day the desperate woman decided to learn the meaning of it even at the risk of a rebuff. Having brought in their breakfast, she seated herself opposite Andrew and stared at him until he reluctantly and briefly lifted his eyes.

'I cannot bear this any longer!' she exclaimed. 'Andrew, you must tell me now what has happened to him!'

Andrew, finishing his cakes and honey, waited until he had swallowed the last mouthful. Glancing in her general direction, he made what was—for him—quite an elaborate reply.

'I wish I knew,' he said.

'Have I offended him, Andrew?'

'You would know if you had.'

'Did Esther have anything to do with it?'

'Better ask her.'

'I did.'

Andrew grinned a little, but exhibited no curiosity about the result of this inquiry, his silence proclaiming that it was none of his business. Hannah broke down now and cried. It distressed Andrew. He had never seen her in tears since the day Abigail died. Pushing back his chair, he faced her directly with sympathy in his eyes.

'I do not know what troubles him. The fleet goes out every day, same as always. The fishing has been good, and the weather. There has been no trouble among the men. My brother attends to his duties. He has little to say to anyone. His mind is not in his work. He is worried about something.'

'And you don't know what?' persisted Hannah, when Andrew seemed to have ended his surprisingly long speech.

'No; he has not said and I have not asked him.'

'Why don't you?'

'It is not my habit to ask people what they are thinking about.'

'But Simon is your brother!'

Simon's brother acknowledged this relationship with a slow nod, and rose to go. At this, Hannah began weeping again piteously, and Andrew resumed his seat, fumbling awkwardly with his knitted cap. At length he spoke.

'As you know, he has been very fond of old Zebedee's boy John, almost as if the youngster was his son. A few days ago Johnny went out into the country to hear this Carpenter who, they say, has been performing miraculous deeds. You have probably heard strange tales about this man. He is said to have been healing the sick.'

'Pish!' commented Hannah, drying her eyes.

'Of course,' agreed Andrew. 'Well—Johnny came back and said, in the presence of all of us, that he had seen the Carpenter heal a paralysed arm.'

'But you didn't believe it, I hope!' protested Hannah.

'Me? No—I did not believe it; but Simon has not been himself since Johnny told the story.'

'But—surely—Simon wouldn't take any interest in a thing like that!' Hannah's swollen eyes were wide with astonishment. 'Simon—of all people!'

'Maybe not,' said Andrew. 'Perhaps he has been fretting about Johnny. The boy has quit the fleet. He and his brother James have rented an old boat and are fishing for themselves.'

'And Simon hasn't talked about it?'

'Not to me.'

'But—what are we going to do, Andrew?'

'We? We aren't going to do anything. You may do whatever you like. I intend to keep out of it. My brother is an adult and of sound mind—far as I know. If he wants any advice from me, he will ask for it.' Andrew got up to go, resolutely this time, and pulled on his fisherman's cap. Hannah pursued him through the open door and out on to the stoop.

'He can't sleep comfortably on that ship,' she said.

'In his present state,' rejoined Andrew, 'he might not sleep comfortably anywhere.' He started down the path. 'Don't fret about it,' he flung back. 'Simon is big enough to look out for himself—without anyone's help.'

Hannah kept tagging along as far as the gate.

'Easy enough to say, "Don't fret." But that's all I have to do now that Esther's gone. She left yesterday—to work at the palace.'

Andrew absently rattled the gate-latch and frowned.

'I thought she was decent,' he muttered.

'Couldn't she work at the palace and be decent?'

'Perhaps—for the present,' conceded Andrew, 'now that the Tetrarch and his family are gone. They took most of the servants with them.'

'Maybe that's why Esther got a job,' surmised Hannah. 'I hope she doesn't fall into trouble there. I didn't know it was such a wicked place, Andrew. Simon delivers fish at the palace every day. Surely he wouldn't go there if—'

'My brother is not a rabbi or a policeman. He is a fisherman. Why should he concern himself with the Tetrarch's behaviour—so long as he likes fish?' Andrew grinned with knowledge he would not be sharing with Hannah, and went on, 'If Simon had to look into the private lives of his customers before selling them fish, he might soon be out of the fish business.'

'Rather than have anything to do with such nasty people,' snapped Hannah, 'I should do just that; go out of the fish business!'

Chuckling a little at this impractical remark, Andrew inquired dryly, as he closed the gate behind him, 'What other business would you go into?' And without waiting for a reply, he set off at a brisk walk, for he was starting later than usual and did not want to add the annoyance of his tardiness to his moody brother's frets.

* * * * * *

Having given some last-minute instructions to young Samuel, who had been doing his turn as night watchman, Simon prepared to leave, though dawn was barely breaking.

'I expect to be gone all day,' he said. 'You will tell Andrew, when he comes, to take over until I return. Tell him to see to it that the palace delivery is made this afternoon; half the usual order, now that the family is gone.'

As he climbed into a dory, he had called back to Samuel, 'And tell Thad—or somebody—to go to my house and fetch another blanket for my bunk.'

He had the Cana highway almost to himself for a couple of hours. Nobody was awake in Bethsaida when he passed through. The long, winding hill beyond was deserted. At the broad summit he paused to survey the landscape gaily dressed in autumn colours. In the area of the great white rock, which dominated the high plateau, the frost-touched grass had been trampled flat by innumerable feet.