The Big Fisherman (40 page)

'But he never gathered up a crowd—and talked?' asked Voldi.

'No. As I say, he was not a one to talk much, except to the smaller children; and, after he came into his teens, he was very quiet and walked alone most of the time. I think that was because—as he grew up—the older children laughed among themselves at the stories he had told. Once it was spread about that a half-grown boy, tormenting him about this faraway land, rudely accused him of being a liar, and Jesus replied that he had told them the truth; that there was such a country; that he knew more things about it than he had told them.'

'And then the people thought he was crazy, I suppose,' remarked Voldi.

'Well, we couldn't help feeling that he was different, and perhaps he guessed how we felt about him—for he spent most of his time alone, except when he was working in the shop.'

'What did his family think about him?'

'They didn't know quite what to make of him. He used to go for long walks by himself, in the hills. His mother worried about him. Shortly before he left Nazareth, he was gone for a couple of months, and when he came back you would have thought he was walking in his sleep. He had something on his mind—and it weighted him. Nobody seemed to know where he had been. Maybe his folks did. But it was plain that he was much stirred up—inside. . . . On the morning of the day he left Nazareth—for good, I fear—he attended the service in the Synagogue, for it was the Sabbath Day. He sat with the family, as usual. Sometimes our good old Rabbi Ben-Naboth would ask some man in the congregation to read the Scripture Lesson; some one of the old men who were known for their piety. On this day the Rabbi called for Jesus to come forward. It was unusual to invite one so young. The place grew very quiet.'

'You thought it would be something out of the ordinary?' asked Voldi.

'Wouldn't you,' countered Ephraim, 'considering how out of the ordinary Jesus was? . . . Well—he walked forward and took up the scroll containing the writing of the Prophet Esaias. . . . I suppose you've heard of our famed Prophet Esaias?' he interrupted himself to say.

'No,' admitted Voldi. 'I have little knowledge of your great ones—since our Father Abraham.' They both grinned.

'Nearly as I can recall the words,' continued Ephraim, 'what Jesus read went something like this: "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me. He has appointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to release men in bondage and open the eyes of the blind. I am to raise up those who have been beaten down, and I am to announce that the Lord will make this a blessed year. . . ." Then Jesus rolled up the scroll, handed it back to the Rabbi, and said, "This prophecy is now to be fulfilled." Then he returned to his seat. All eyes were fixed on him. Even the Rabbi seemed bewildered, and it was some little time before he went on with the devotions. . . . After the meeting, the congregation gathered about Jesus, as he came out, and asked him what he meant; and was someone coming—here—now—to Nazareth—to open the prison and free the slaves and give sight to the blind?'

'It hadn't occurred to any of you that Jesus might be referring to himself as the promised healer?'

'No; you see, he had grown up with us. It was beyond our thought that one of our own neighbours might be gifted to do such things.'

'What did Jesus say then?'

'He declared that it was to be his mission to spread the good news. And the people were silent and unbelieving—and slanted their eyes at one another with sulky faces. One old man shouted crossly, "You think you are going to open the eyes of the blind—here—in Nazareth?"'

'I'll wager they all listened to his reply!' said Voldi.

'They did indeed—and it made them angry. Jesus said, "Not here—not in Nazareth. A prophet has no value in his own community." At that, the people drifted away, grumbling; many of them turning to scowl or laugh scornfully.'

'And—after that—they mistreated him?'

'No; he gave them no opportunity to mistreat him. He left Nazareth at once; not even tarrying to have dinner with his family. After the meeting at the Synagogue he wandered away—and he hasn't been back.'

'Perhaps,' surmised Voldi, 'if he is really doing great things for people elsewhere, the people of your town will beseech him to return.'

Ephraim shook his head and renewed his forge-fire.

'No,' he replied. 'It wouldn't be like Nazareth—to do that.'

'Not even to have your blind ones see?' asked Voldi.

'No; not even to have our blind ones see!' Ephraim was now resuming his interrupted work with diligence. Voldi felt that the interview was over, and rose to go. At the door he turned to say with a smile:

'What will your fellow townsmen think of you for making a journey to see Jesus? Will they be annoyed?'

Ephraim tapped his anvil a couple of times, chuckling to himself.

'They can't be too much annoyed,' he said. 'I'm the only farrier in Nazareth. Perhaps if there were two, I shouldn't risk my neighbours' displeasure.'

Voldi bade him farewell and returned to the inhospitable inn. Shortly after midnight he was awakened by a violent thunderstorm followed by a heavy rainfall that continued throughout the night and until mid-forenoon of the next day. When finally it cleared, he set off at the best speed he could make on a slippery road, hoping to arrive in Bethsaida before darkness fell.

It had rained steadily all night and was still hard at it when Jairus roused in the morning. He sat up in bed and frowned.

Ordinarily, Jairus would not have cared. Of complacent mind, it was his habit to accept all weathers without complaint. Besides, the country needed rain, for it had been the sunniest autumn that Galilee had seen for many years.

But, much as his cherished gardens and vineyards would benefit by a refreshing downpour, this was clearly an inconvenient day for it, and Jairus was annoyed; so very much annoyed that when Adiel, his uncommonly attractive wife, entered the room, she found him in a posture of dejection, with both hands in his tousled hair. He mumbled a gloomy acknowledgment of her presence without looking up. Seating herself on the edge of his bed, Adiel gently patted him on the shoulder. What was the trouble? Didn't he like the rain?

'Any other time,' muttered Jairus, slipping his arm about her. 'I was a fool to consent to that meeting here today. These tedious discussions always bore me, even when the day is fine and they can do their dull haranguing out in the pergola. Now we will have them on our hands—all day—indoors—with no chance of escape. . . . But one can't offend Rabbi Ben-Sholem. He is a good old man.'

'Yes, dear; he is indeed—though a bit tiresome,' murmured Adiel. 'I had forgotten that you were having company today. What is this party to be: one of those dreadful all-day meetings of the Synagogue Regents?'

'Worse than that,' sighed Jairus. 'This is a deputation of priests, scribes, legal counsellors, and such things, who are coming all the way from Jerusalem to decide what should be done with this preaching Carpenter.'

'Maybe they won't come,' said Adiel hopefully, 'now that it's such a bad day.'

'Of course they'll come!' grumbled Jairus. 'They will have been on the road for three days. We may as well prepare for them. They'll be here. You can depend on that!' He glanced up, brightened perceptibly, and waved his hand to a pair of smiling, twelve-year-old eyes that had appeared in the crack of the slowly opening door. His invitation brought the happy child dancing into the room. She snuggled down on the other side of her father.

'Breakfast's ready,' she announced gaily. 'And Rachael says we're to come directly and eat it, for there's to be a lot of company here for dinner. . . . What kind of company, father? Will they be jolly—and tell funny stories; or are they the other people?'

Jairus absently fondled his daughter's curls and replied sadly that they were—he regretted to say—the other people.

'No funny stories today, Sharon.'

'Go and tell Rachael we will be there immediately, dear,' said her mother; and when the child had scrambled out of the bed and was on her way Adiel asked, 'What are they planning to do to this strange person? You said he hadn't broken the laws. What charge will they bring against him?'

'That's what they are going to discuss today,' replied Jairus. 'They can't apprehend him as a disturber of the peace. If he has disturbed the peace by preaching to these big crowds, it is the business of the provincial police to arrest him. I had a talk with Antipas about this, a few days before he left. He had sent several of his men out into the country to see what the Carpenter was trying to do, and they reported that nothing seditious had been said. The Tetrarch seemed satisfied that the fellow was doing no harm with his admonitions to the people that they should try to be contented—and live at peace with all men.'

'Surely the Rabbis can't object to that,' reflected Adiel. 'Perhaps they have been disturbed by all these tales of miracles.' She grew suddenly serious, searching her husband's eyes. 'You don't think there can be any truth in these stories, do you, Jairus? All the people on our estate are talking of nothing else! I've never known our house-servants to be so excited about anything!'

'Well,' drawled Jairus, 'you know how servants are. They dote on such yarns. It's quite beyond belief that the Carpenter is really healing diseases. Have any of our people told you that they themselves have been cured of anything?'

'No, but they are convinced that the man has done some very remarkable things.' Rising, Adiel held up Jairus's exquisitely quilted robe. Hoisting himself out of bed, he slipped his arms into it and ambled off toward the spacious bath, pausing in the doorway to remark, 'I think it's rather undignified for these pundits from Jerusalem to be making a big thing of this. If they pay no attention to the man, he will soon dispose of himself—and the people will forget all about him and he can go back to his carpenter-shop. I'm ashamed to be serving as host to this foolish business, Adiel.'

She loitered in the corridor for him, and when presently he rejoined her, Adiel tucked her hand under his arm and said, with some hesitation, 'I wish you would have a talk with a few of our farmers; old Simeon, for one. You can trust him to tell the truth. He claims that he actually saw this Jesus give sight to a man who had been born blind!'

'Pouf!' scoffed Jairus good-naturedly. 'Don't be silly! There's some sensible explanation for these tales. You may be sure of that!'

They strolled toward the breakfast-room. It was on the east side of the villa, adjoining the large dining-room, and was usually flooded with sunshine. On fine summer days the servants rolled back the central panels of the roof, made of tightly woven goat-hair, and the family breakfasted under the blue sky. It was closed today and the room was dreary. Even the beautifully crafted mosaics on the walls were dingy and lifeless.

As they neared the high-arched doorway, Jairus slowed to say, before they entered, 'If our people want this sort of entertainment, I've no objection. The crops are all in. The men have nothing much to do. Listening to the Carpenter is certainly better than loitering around the wine-cellars down in Capernaum. . . . Good morning, Rachael! We will make short work of our breakfast. You and the maids have a busy day before you, with the large party for dinner.'

'Yes, sir,' sniffed old Rachael, beckoning to her crew to proceed with their table-service. Then, with the bland impudence to which her seniority entitled her, she remarked, 'And they will eat a lot!'

'What makes you think so?' inquired her master, anticipating some astringent drollery.

'We've had their like before, sir—men who speak big words. They always eat big dinners.'

'I had never noticed that, Rachael,' chuckled Jairus; 'but by Jove I believe you're right! Well—make sure you have enough for them.'

Sharon now came up out of her half-drained milk-goblet, with a gasp, and solemnly remarked, 'Nurse says "By-Jove" is a Roman swear-word, father.'

'Perhaps, if we must swear,' commented her mother, 'it is better to take the names of the heathen gods in vain.'

'Is this By-Jove a heathen?' asked Sharon.

'Drink your milk, little one,' admonished her father gently. 'We'll all have our fill of theology before the day is over, without beginning it now.'

'I'm not expected to attend this dinner, am I?' asked Adiel.

'No, dear,' said Jairus. 'Not if you don't want to. It's a business affair. You needn't show up at all. It's Rabbi Ben-Sholem's party really. We're just providing food and shelter.'

* * * * * *

By mid-forenoon it had cleared. Patches of blue sky were appearing and the sun was glinting on the puddles in the rose-garden as Jairus sauntered out to the pergola. Perhaps it would dry off sufficiently for the learned men—having fed well—to carry their weighty matters out of the house. That would be a relief. Jairus could see to it that they were comfortably seated—and then drift quietly away. The wise men would not miss him.

Upon examination, the vine-bowered pergola was still a-drip, but giving off a promising steam, and the wicker chairs and divans were drying fast. Jairus was almost cheerful when Rabbi Ben-Sholem appeared, punching holes in the wet gravel with his cane. The Rabbi, habitually sedate, was almost animated.

'This promises to be an interesting day, my son,' he said, in a tone that hinted at a treat in store.

'That's good,' rejoined Jairus, without enthusiasm. 'I have been hoping that the gardens and the pergola would be dry enough for your people to hold their meeting, this afternoon, out-of-doors.'

'Well, as for that, this will not be a festive occasion,' declared Ben-Sholem soberly. 'It is not a garden party. What we have to do today can better be done indoors!'

'Oh? So serious as that?'

'Yes. The Carpenter is to be here!'

Jairus, who had been shaking a dripping vine, straightened—and brightened a little.

'Indeed!' he said. 'That's interesting!'

'Yes. A couple of our young students for the priesthood hunted the fellow down yesterday, and—'

'Hunted him down, eh?' There was a trace of asperity in Jairus' tone. 'That must have called for much shrewdness, seeing that the Carpenter has been openly speaking to great throngs. Had he hidden himself somewhere?'