The Big Fisherman (32 page)

Having given the sentry time to be well on his way, she unlocked the door and invited John to come out into the sunshine.

'I heard you tell the sentry your name, daughter,' he said, when they had sat down together.

'Would you like to call me Esther?' She handed him a goblet of grape juice which he sniffed suspiciously. 'It is not fermented,' she said. 'I pressed it only a few moments ago. Claudia told me you could not drink wine.'

'I am a Nazarite.' He touched the goblet with his lips experimentally, and then sipped it with relish.

'Do the people of Nazareth not drink wine?'

'I do not mean that I am of Nazareth. I am a Nazarite, which is a different thing altogether. There is a monastic order among us known as the Nazarites. We take a vow—or, as in my own case—it is taken for us at our birth; chastity, poverty, abstinence.'

Esther offered him the plate of wheaten bread. He put down the goblet and broke one of the small loaves.

'That doesn't seem quite fair,' she ventured, 'to have had a vow imposed upon you when you were only a baby.'

'I have never regretted it,' he said. 'It is a good life.' A shy, unexpected smile lighted his deep eyes. 'And my name is John. It would please me—after so long away from home—to hear my name spoken by a friend.'

'What a lonely life you have had!'

'Not until recently. I have spent many years in solitude, pursuant to my Nazarite vow, but they have been spent under the open sky. I was not unhappy. But here, in this dark prison, I am quite desolate, friendless, and strangely beset with forebodings.' He turned toward her with anxious eyes. 'Tell me, daughter, were you able to see him?'

She had hoped to postpone this query as long as possible, for she was unprepared to answer it to his satisfaction.

'Yes, sir—John—I saw and heard him yesterday afternoon. There was the greatest multitude I ever saw. It was gathered about him—in a pasture—not far from Bethsaida. I was amazed to see so many people. I wondered where they all came from. It was—'

He had been studying her face intently, as she laboriously put off the moment when she must tell him what manner of man she had seen. Divining her difficulty, he broke in upon her hesitations.

'You were disappointed, I think.'

'No, John, I was not disappointed—but I fear you will be. This man does not seem to be an avenger. He speaks with the most gentle, entreating voice I ever heard, a soothing voice that makes you very quiet—inside. He did not talk about punishment in store for wrongdoers, nor did he say that the mighty would be dragged from their seats, nor that those of low degree would be exalted. But he spoke peace and courage to the poor.' She paused for a long moment. 'And little children crowded about him—and he cured a small boy of his lameness.'

John stared hard at his prison-door and drew a deep sigh.

'Begin at the beginning then,' he said huskily, 'and tell me everything.'

So Esther began at the beginning and told him everything she could remember: the wistful, hurrying pilgrimage on the road, the great mass of people in the field, the placid voice that reached far and tugged hard at your heart, the silent, breathless, yearning multitude, the uncanny sensation of peace.

'I can feel a little of it yet,' she went on dreamily. 'While he spoke, this peculiar peace laid hold on me so fully that I wished—above all things—that I might possess it for ever.'

Conscious that John had come out of his moody reverie, and was giving her better attention, she turned toward him and continued: 'I think that everyone in the vast crowd must have felt the same way. I found myself hoping that he would not stop, for while he spoke my heart grew still—and all the things that ever have troubled me were forgotten.'

'Apparently his voice wrought a strange spell on the minds of the people,' reflected John.

'Surely you should know, sir,' said Esther, 'for when I heard you speaking to a great crowd, everyone listened intently to your voice.'

'But the Carpenter's voice was different, I think.'

She nodded her head slowly, and groped for the words that might define that difference without hurting him.

'Your voice, John, stunned me—and made me afraid of the days to come. The Carpenter's voice stilled me—and gave me peace. I feel a little of it today; but it is leaving me, and I am sorry.' Again she was silent for a time. 'Do you know,' she went on, suddenly confident, 'I believe that if one could really get acquainted with him—and stay close beside him for a while—one might learn how to keep it!'

'Perhaps there are others who feel the same way,' wondered John. 'Does he seem to have any close friends about him?'

She didn't know. She had not noticed any special companions with him, on the knoll or when he departed.

'Why don't you try to meet him face to face, Esther?' suggested John. 'If he is so gentle and kindly disposed, might he not be willing to talk with you?'

'But what right would I have to intrude upon him when he is already so overburdened and weary?'

'Go to him with a message—from me!' said John, in a tone of command. 'Say to him that I have given my life to foretell the coming of the Anointed One. Ask him if he knows anything about that—about me! Ask him—in my name—if he is the One I foretold or are we to expect another!'

Esther gave a little smile and shook her head.

'I'm afraid I couldn't do that, John. He isn't the sort of person one walks up to with such a query.'

'But I must know! Can't you see that my very life depends on my knowing? Will you not try?'

'Let me think about it,' she said soberly. 'That's a very large assignment—for a girl.'

'I agree,' conceded John. 'It is indeed a large assignment—for a girl—or for anybody; for a rabbi, or the High Priest, or the Tetrarch himself! But you have already undertaken a very serious and dangerous errand which shows the courage that is in you. Do this—for me!' He challenged her silent indecision with urgent eyes, and waited.

'I will try,' she whispered.

* * * * * *

It was on the same morning, but much earlier—the morning of the twenty-sixth day of Tishri, a date to be remembered—that Simon rose from his uncomfortable narrow bunk on shipboard, resolved that he would go again today into the country and hear Jesus speak.

And he was resolved also that if circumstances permitted he would try to stand close enough to the Carpenter to be of some aid in keeping the selfish, jostling multitude from wearing the man out with their thoughtless importunities. He had slept hardly at all, last night, for thinking about this, imagining himself standing protectingly at Jesus' side, keeping the crowd back, admonishing the cot bearers to take their time and remain in line, and not push in ahead of others who had got there first. Surely someone should be doing this for Jesus—and why not he? For he was tall and strong, and the people might listen to his demand that they keep in order. He was quite alone on the ship, having sent young Thad home at nightfall. He had wanted to be alone, for his thoughts were incommunicable and he did not want the boy to be bewildered and distressed by his moody silence.

A greyish-blue light was showing faintly in the east, presaging dawn. The autumn mist hung low on the water, obscuring the beach.

Simon walked forward, lowered a bucket, and carried the water into the little galley where he washed his face. Then he broke one of the barley loaves that Hannah had sent him and emerged from the galley, munching the bread dutifully but without relish, for he was wholly preoccupied with his thoughts about the day's possible adventures.

Strolling aft, he climbed over the side of
The Abigail,
boarded
The Sara,
and sauntered across to her starboard taffrail, where he stood scanning the faraway eastern mountains. The whole range would show pink presently. His eyes drifted about to the northwesterly shore. If the fog lifted a little, he might be able to see whether Japheth's old boat was still afloat. He thought he heard a voice on the shore, and turned about, narrowing his eyes in an effort to pierce the fog, but he could see nothing. 'Halloo!' he called, funnelling his lips with his hands. 'Halloo!' came the voice—and Simon wondered if it might be an echo; but—no—it didn't sound like his voice. His heart was beating strangely. He waited and listened, cupping his ear with his hand.

The dawn was coming now, coming fast, leaping over the mountains, pouring down upon the sea. Leaning far across the rail, Simon peered hard into the dissolving mist that enveloped the shore. He made out a dim figure standing on the beach, close to the water's edge.

The stranger waved his upraised arm, and Simon—after a moment of indecision—put up his hand and waved it. The fog was lifting. Again the stranger waved his hand, and called: 'Simon!'

There was no mistaking that voice! For there was no other voice like it in the world—or ever had been!

'Coming!' shouted Simon, hoarse with excitement. His throat was dry and his big hands trembled as he vaulted over the rail and dropped into a rocking dory. He was an experienced oarsman, but no one observing would have thought so from the awkwardness of his nervous flailings and splashings. It seemed a long voyage, but eventually he arrived, very much out of breath, and dragged the dory up on the sand.

Limp with emotion, his face twitching, he found himself staring mystifiedly into the calm, friendly eyes of Jesus. He dropped to his knees. He felt the wonder-working hands on his bent shoulders and experienced the same sensation that had thrilled him when their bare arms had touched—at Hammath.

Now Jesus was speaking, quietly but insistently.

'Simon, son of Jonas, I have need of you.'

'But I am a very sinful man, Master,' confessed Simon thickly.

'I have come to save sinners, my son,' said Jesus.

'How can I help you, Master? I am only a fisherman.' Simon's voice was barely audible now, for his pent-up emotion was choking him.

'You are to remain a fisherman always, Simon,' said Jesus. 'But—from this day forward you will fish for men!'

Humbly and penitently, Simon bowed himself far forward, his eyes overflowing. Now the invigorating hands were laid gently upon his shaggy head. It gave him a strange feeling of exultation.

'Come!' said Jesus softly. 'Arise, Simon, and follow me!'

And Simon arose—and followed Jesus.

* *
* * * *

But instead of leading the Big Fisherman to the highway, and south through Bethsaida and on into the country near Hammath—as Simon had expected—Jesus walked northward, keeping close to the shore.

He had asked Simon to follow him, and Simon was obeying; trudging along through the sand, a few cubits behind him, and making no effort to come abreast, though Jesus was walking slowly.

In this manner they proceeded for half a mile, in silence.

It seemed strange to the Big Fisherman that he could so complacently consent to follow the Carpenter without asking him where they were going. It had been his intention to go out into the country today and volunteer his services as a strong-armed bodyguard to help keep the jostling people from harassing Jesus with their importunities. He could do that, he thought, without making any alterations in his own beliefs or behaviour. . . . Now, it seemed, he was expected to join cause with Jesus—and 'fish for men.' . . . Had anyone—the servant-girl Anna, for example—had Anna asked him, a week ago, whether he had a notion of following Jesus, he would have sworn a surly oath and spat on the ground!

Now he was following Jesus—and with a curious sense of peace; for the mysterious calmness that had briefly possessed him, yesterday afternoon, had returned.

Japheth's old boat was lazily rocking at anchor, some three hundred yards off shore, a dory bobbing at her stern. Doubtless the Zebedee boys were aboard preparing to sail early to a fishing-ground.

Jesus' steps slowed to a stop here. He turned about, silently regarded Simon with an inquiring smile, and then shifted his gaze seaward. For a long moment Simon stood beside him, indecisively stroking his chin. Then he moved toward one of the beached dories, pushed it into the water, climbed in, shipped the oars, and began to pull steadily toward the storm-battered fishing-smack.

Facing astern, he kept his eyes fixed on Jesus, who remained standing on the shore. After a while, as Simon neared the old boat where James and John were awaiting him at the rail, Jesus waved a hand, turned about, and moved southward toward the highway.

After a fortnight's diligent search for Fara, everyone but Voldi gave it up.

With tireless persistence, but waning hope, the loyal young fellow had continued his quest, investigating every square cubit of terrain which she might have covered in a reckless midnight ride.

He had even gone to the length of having himself lowered over precipices to the unexplored depths of bramble-choked chasms into which she might have fallen, and had vigorously queried shepherds in pasture-lands so far remote that the possibility of their having any information for him was inconceivable. He had pestered the grief-stricken Ione with questions until she fled at the sight of him.

The plight of the once so well-balanced and self-contained Ione was indeed pitiable. Upon the death of Arnon and the disappearance of Fara, King Zendi had taken their helpless servants into his own household where the older of them fitted at once into the well-remembered routines of a King's establishment. But the inconsolable Greek slave seemed dazed. Everyone thought that she was going mad.

According to report, Ione sat all day alone in a far corner of the female servants' quarters, occasionally breaking into hysterical weeping; and, when anyone approached her, would shrink back terrified as if expecting a blow. Advised of her appalling condition, Voldi had left off hoping that she might be able to furnish a clue.

Of course there were many who recalled the fantastic vow that Fara had taken when hardly more than a child, but it seemed beyond all reason that she would have set off alone on a mission so palpably impossible.

To clear the air of these speculations, and, more particularly, to dissuade the now frantic Voldi from his half-formed decision to seek for her in faraway Galilee, the King and his Councillors held a conference in which the matter was fully discussed. And when it was ready to adjourn, Voldi was invited in to learn the outcome of their parley.