The Big Fisherman (28 page)

The descending road began to veer toward the west. It had been many years since Simon had traversed this neighbourhood of small farms and vineyards. He had never been lured by the soil. It was a common jest that men who followed the sea were always chattering about the ease and security of life in the country, declaring that they would some day rent a couple of acres and raise their own food. And often they seemed to be quite in earnest about it. This had always amused Simon, who couldn't imagine a less interesting tool than a hoe. But today the serenity of the countryside made a bid for his turbulent spirit.

Harvest was past, but the farmers were busy with the less urgent affairs of autumn, snugging themselves in for the winter, carrying well-laden baskets of root vegetables from the kitchen-garden to the sod-roofed cellar, the old women gathering herbs and tying them into bunches to be hung up and dried.

On the other side of the highway, a little farther on, three half-grown youngsters were lazily roping wheat-sheaves to the backs of as many shaggy pack-asses. Simon waved a hand to them, but they only stared back. That's the way it was in the country. Their ideas came slowly. Doubtless, if he stood there and waved at these boys for half an hour, reflected Simon, they might respond to his salute. It was a dull life; no mistake about that. He wondered how the country people took to the Carpenter's belief that food was less important than flowers.

At the far corner of the next farm, a larger one, father and the boys were on their threshing-floor, beating a knee-deep carpet of barley-sheaves. The mother of the family wielded a much-mended winnowing-fan. The two girls were sweeping the cleaned grain on to a hempen mat.

Simon paused here, turned off the highway, and approached them with a friendly greeting. They were early to work, he said. The women rested, sitting on the ground, and the boys—one of them as tall as his father—leaned on the long handles of their flails.

'We wanted to get as much done as we could,' said the grey-thatched farmer, strolling toward Simon. 'Not much work being done in these parts just now—everybody scurrying off to listen to this fellow from Nazareth.'

'Where is he today?' inquired Simon. 'I should like to see him.'

'There's no telling, exactly,' said the farmer. 'He moves around.'

'Yesterday he was about six miles from here,' said the oldest boy, 'over beyond Hammath.'

'Were you there?' asked Simon.

'The family went over in the afternoon,' said the farmer. 'I heard him talk, about a week ago, over here on the hill. Didn't think much of it. He was saying we should love our enemies. I don't hold with that kind of talk. Though I'm not saying he isn't a good speaker. You can hardly take your eyes off him.'

'Big crowd yesterday?' Simon asked the young man.

'Bigger every day!' bragged the youth, as if he were part of the show. 'Nothing ever like it in this country!'

'Tell me about it, won't you?' said Simon, squatting on his heels.

At this they gathered about him, and sat, apparently eager to talk. It was plain on their faces that the subject was already well-worn—but by no means worn out. They all contributed to the conversation. Very strange doings. Very strange talk. They were agreed on that. As for the particulars, the testimony failed, in some respects, to add up.

'The trouble is,' explained the woman, 'the crowd is so big you can't get close enough to see rightly what's going on.'

'I saw him cure an old man who couldn't hear,' put in the youngest boy. 'He danced up and down, he was so glad.'

'But you didn't know whether the old man was deaf or not,' cautioned his father. 'He might have been putting it on.'

'He claimed he was deaf—and now he could hear,' declared the lad doggedly.

'All old people have more or less trouble with their hearing,' commented his mother.

'And sometimes they can hear better than other times,' added his little sister. 'Father's like that.'

'Never mind,' mumbled her mother.

'But the sick woman on the cot,' said the tall boy. 'She really was sick. She wasn't putting it on: I'm sure of that!'

'Yes,' confirmed his brother, 'she got up and walked away after Jesus spoke to her.'

'But not very lively,' demurred their mother. 'She leaned on her son's arm; pretty heavily too.'

That's the way it would be, thought the older girl—if she hadn't walked for a long time.

'Where do all these people come from?' Simon wanted to know. 'Everywhere; seems like,' said the farmer. 'A wool-buyer was telling me, last week, that he saw whole families he knew from as far away as Ramah and Shunem and Nain. Brought their tents along, and a couple of milch-goats.'

'Plenty of people from Nazareth too, I suppose,' said Simon, 'if that's where he lives.'

'No; funny thing about that,' replied the farmer. 'Very few from Nazareth, they say. If he's such a great one, you'd think—'

'Maybe his own folks got used to seeing him do strange things,' suggested the youngest boy.

'Home folks never give much heed when their neighbours do something extra good, like fine wood-carving, or rug-weaving, or beautiful singing,' said the mother. 'They think that because they know a person and grew up with him, he can't be very much.'

'That's a fact,' declared her husband. 'Lots of country folks sneer at what's going on around them and praise what's going on in Bethsaida; and the people in Bethsaida laugh at their own town, and envy the people in Cana, and—'

Simon laughed a little and said he supposed the people in Cana thought everything was livelier in Jericho—and that Jericho wanted to see the more interesting sights in Jerusalem.

'I'd like to see Jerusalem myself,' murmured the tall boy.

'Now you take our girl Judith here.' Her mother laid a brown hand on her elder daughter's arm.

Judith, apparently suspecting what was coming, lowered her eyes, smiled shyly, and shook her head a little, as her mother went on:

'She plays the harp better than you'll hear it anywhere! And a poor old harp it is, too, that's been in my family for three generations. But do you suppose the people around here think anything of her playing? Not at all; you have to go to the city to hear a harp played.'

'I should like to hear you play, Judith,' said Simon, at which the girl's cheeks flushed prettily.

'No time for that today,' said her father, turning about toward the threshing-floor.

'I told her to take her old harp along—and play for the people when the Carpenter isn't speaking,' said her mother.

Simon politely approved of this as a good idea. They reluctantly ambled back to their tasks. He waved a farewell and resumed his westward journey. So—the people of Nazareth hadn't been very much impressed. This wasn't a good sign. There must be something shaky about this business, reflected Simon. The family he had just met was not of one mind in respect to these strange occurrences. It was still a matter of debate with them whether the Carpenter of Nazareth was a healer or a fraud. Maybe some light would be shed on that problem today. Simon hoped so. He hoped the Nazarene would turn out to be merely a glib talker with a talent for making sick people feel encouraged; for surely the world was a much more reliable institution if nobody was playing tricks with it, not even for the benefit of a few. And—as he trudged along, moodily intent on the road—Simon wondered whether the girl Judith, with the big, solemn eyes and the wistful smile, was really a harpist. Not very likely, he thought.

* * * * * *

For the past hour the highway had been receiving more and more traffic from the tributary roads and lanes, all manner of traffic: high-wheeled market-wagons filled with people of all ages, elderly couples in donkey-carts, here and there a garden-barrow occupied by a frail and feeble old woman or a pale and wizened lad, pushed by an earnest-faced young farmer. Occasionally a cot joined the procession bearing the prone figure of an emaciated, half-grown girl or a crippled old man with pain in his eyes. Clumps of people on foot, by the dozen, by the score, overtook and passed the sick ones. Every path, every open gate, every cross-road fed them into the highway.

Simon had found himself wishing that the Carpenter would be soon exposed as an ordinary man who had nothing much to work with but a winning voice, a confident manner, and the ability to make people listen to him—and trust him. But as he surveyed these sorry crews of hopeful burden-bearers, he began to wish, with all his heart, that something could be done for them. If the Carpenter was a fraud, this conglomeration of misery was indeed a tragic spectacle. Maybe the Carpenter didn't realize what a responsibility he had taken on. If he didn't, it was high time he found out!

It was a pitiful sight. Why couldn't this Nazarene have stayed in his carpenter-shop? What was the good of stirring up hope that couldn't have any outcome but a cruel disappointment? These wretched ones had learned to bear their galling loads. Most of them had done all their crying and calluses had formed to ease the pain of their yokes. Now they would lay their burdens down at this Carpenter's feet! What monstrous cruelty if—after so great hope—they must strap on their heavy packs again and plod wearily home, broken-hearted!

A half-mile east of Hammath the highway divided, the road to the right proceeding to the village and on toward Cana, the left fork bearing southward through the Province of Samaria and onward to Jerusalem. In the triangle at the parting of the ways a small encampment was breaking up. The service tents were already down and being loaded on to the pack-train. The master tent, a beautiful thing of white and blue, was in process of dismantling. Half a dozen fine horses, expensively caparisoned, were restlessly waiting their riders, who now emerged from the sagging tent.

Full of curiosity, Simon slowed his pace and candidly stared. The leader of the party was a mere youngster, certainly not more than eighteen, and his companions were youthful, too, though not so young as he. They were extravagantly dressed. Simon drew off to the side of the highway, sat on the ledge of the stone-walled well, and studied this pageantry at his leisure. That it was a company of nobles he had no doubt. Presently, to his surprise, he saw the young master of the group point toward him: and give an order to a servant, who made off at once to the well. Simon's brow furrowed as he saw the man coming. He was quite sure he was within his rights to rest at the well.

'Do you live in this neighbourhood, sir?'

The servant, a tall bearded man of Simon's age, had bowed respectfully, before asking the question in a quality of Aramaic that was spoken in Judaea.

Simon shook his head and replied, 'Bethsaida.'

'But that is not far away,' continued the servant. 'Would you perhaps know anything of this Carpenter who has stirred up so much excitement?' His arm swept the congested highway.

'Not much,' said Simon. 'I saw and heard him a few days ago, and I am hoping to see him again today.'

'Would you object to having a word with my master, sir?'

'Who is your master?'

'Joseph—the Prince of Arimathaea,' said the servant proudly.

Simon rose now and followed. It was little enough he knew about the small but fertile Principality of Arimathaea, up north beyond Ramah, which had been ceded to the fabulous Hyrcanus and his descendants many generations ago, in consideration of some long-forgotten favour to northern Jews. Whenever Arimathaea was mentioned the word suggested wealth. 'Rich as an Arimathaean' was a trite phrase which the Galileans used without examining it more closely than many another simile, such as 'Tricky as an Arab' or 'Wise as a serpent.'

The beautiful tent was down now and the swarming servants were folding it with care. The vanguard of the pack-train was moving off down the Jerusalem road. The young Prince was standing by his white horse in evidently playful conversation with his friends. He was a handsome youth with a ready smile and a gracious manner. Simon was favourably impressed and doffed his forebodings about the interview.

Courteously requesting him to wait a moment, the servant approached his master and made a brief report in low tones, after which he beckoned to Simon, who advanced rather diffidently and removed his cap.

'My friend,' said the Prince, looking up at the big Galilean who towered over the lot of them, 'we are curious about this great multitude and the man they are said to be seeking. They tell us that he speaks to great crowds and heals many sick ones. Noting your extraordinary height, it occurred to us that you might have been able to hear and see what has been going on.'

'I would that I had more to tell you, sire,' said Simon. 'I heard the man speak. He has a strange voice. The people hang on his words as a sailor overboard in a storm clings to a rope.'

'Good!' approved the Prince to his companions. 'The fellow has some imagination.' Turning to Simon, he said, 'Perhaps you are a sailor yourself.'

'A fisherman, sire.' Simon smiled briefly, and went on, 'No matter what he is saying, the people hardly breathe for fear of missing something; yet they are simple words.'

'Such as what?' asked the Prince, interested now.

'He wants people to be kind to one another: that's about all,' said Simon. 'Everyone is to be kind and helpful, all the way up and down from the pauper to the . . .' He hesitated, and the Prince, frowning a little, crisply provided the obvious word. It was evident that he was annoyed. His voice was challenging as he went on.

'So—this fellow is trying to make the people restless! Everybody is to be generous, eh? The pauper is as good as the Prince, eh? Is that it?'

'Not if I heard rightly, sire.' There was a stiffening dignity in Simon's voice now. His frown deepened. He didn't like the arrogant tone of this spoiled youngster. After all, he hadn't arranged this interview; nor was he on trial. 'Quite the contrary,' he continued courageously; 'the Carpenter wants peace among the people. If a man is badly used by his oppressors, let him find his happiness inside himself.'

'A good thought.' There was a touch of mockery in the Prince's voice, though he had mended his temper somewhat. 'And how does a man go about it—to find happiness inside himself?'