The Big Fisherman (54 page)

'Not
The Abigail
!' protested Thaddeus.

The Big Fisherman patted Thad on the shoulder, but did not reply. The company was breaking up now. At the door, Thomas remarked, to no one in particular, 'I can't understand why the Master wants to leave Capernaum, now that Jairus is solidly behind him—and the people are so anxious to have him stay.'

'Don't forget,' admonished Peter, 'that we couldn't understand why he wanted to leave Cana and come to Capernaum.'

'That was different,' mumbled Thomas. 'He felt that he was urgently needed here.'

'Perhaps he feels that he is now needed elsewhere,' observed Andrew; to which James added, 'I don't believe he cares very much whether we understand him or not.'

'You're quite right, Jimmie,' rumbled old Bartholomew. 'He's teaching us to have faith in him.'

'But—can't a man have faith and understanding too?' argued Thomas.

'No!' declared Bartholomew bluntly. 'That's what faith is for, my son. It's for when we can't understand.'

'That's true!' approved Peter. 'When a man understands, he doesn't need any faith.'

'I don't like to be kept in the dark,' put in Philip.

'If a man has enough faith,' replied Peter, 'he can find his way in the dark—with faith as his lamp.'

They were finishing a leisurely breakfast. It was the first time the four of them had eaten a meal together for many weeks.

Peter's place at the square table faced the kitchen door; Hannah sat opposite him; Andrew was on his right; and, across from Andrew, Esther dropped down between her frequent excursions to the kitchen, for she had insisted on doing all the serving.

At appropriate intervals she had brought in the stewed figs, cups of milk for Hannah, Andrew, and herself, a tall mug of pomegranate juice for Peter, boiled eggs and wheaten loaves for all.

Every time Esther had risen, the Big Fisherman's eyes had followed her with such undisguised admiration that Hannah—ever alert to matters of fresh interest—was amazed and amused. She wondered if Andrew had noticed, and covertly aimed an inquiring glance in his direction, but the stolid bachelor did not look up from his plate to share her curiosity. She had never known anyone so exasperatingly indifferent to significant events transpiring under his very nose.

Esther, apparently oblivious of Peter's unusual awareness of her, was wearing a simple white linen house-dress that had belonged to his wife; but his fascinated expression as he frankly studied the uncontrived sinuosity of the girl's movements did not reflect a poignant memory of his all-but-forgotten bereavement. Indeed, the dress, which had hung limp and shapeless on his frail and ailing Abigail, had so generously responded to Esther's figure that Peter marvelled at its unsuspected beauty. The girl was superb! She was altogether lovely! It was as if he were seeing her for the first time!

He had never tried to get acquainted with her. Their relationship had got off to a bad start. On the very first day she had irritated him by coming on to his ship in the guise of 'Joe,' a half-starved, dirty, ragged camel-boy, presently turning out to be 'Esther,' a mysterious young woman whose inconsistent accounts of herself seemed to have been recklessly made up while you waited.

The Big Fisherman had not known what to think about her, and had given it up. He had had many other things to bother him in those days. He had thrown away Johnny's friendship; he had scornfully investigated the Nazarene Carpenter, only to be made captive by the strange man's unquestionable power. His orderly, uneventful, workaday world had been turned upside down. Not much wonder that he had had no time or mind for this Esther person.

If Hannah, alone all day and in dire need of companionship, wanted to mother this unexplained alien, Peter had no serious objections, but he had gone to no trouble to conceal his antipathy to the new member of their household. Whoever the girl was and wherever she had come from and whatever she was up to seemed to be a secret. Hannah appeared satisfied that the mysterious waif merited their hospitality; and, after all, it was Hannah's home. Perhaps the girl was helping Hannah to recover from the loss of Abigail. Moreover, Peter was obliged to admit that Esther was earning her keep and that her presence in the household had never discommoded him in any way. But he rarely had anything to say to her beyond a perfunctory grunt at breakfast, nor had she made the slightest effort to improve their acquaintance.

This mutually cool attitude had been altered considerably at the time of Hannah's grave illness and miraculous recovery. Esther had taken charge of the house; she had become a member of the family. Also, it was evident that the Master had taken an interest in her. If Esther had a secret, he undoubtedly knew what it was; and either in spite of it or because of it, had invited her to be the sole witness to Hannah's restoration. Exactly what had happened on that occasion had not been disclosed, but the event had wrought a change in the girl. Her new demeanour was difficult to define. It was as if she had been released from prison.

The Big Fisherman had been required to make a fresh appraisal of their increasingly interesting guest, even to the extent of bestowing on her a clumsy friendliness, though he was embarrassed somewhat by her indifference to his amiable condescensions.

This morning, every time she sat down beside him, Peter had turned toward her with a pleasant smile, for which she had given him no receipt, either of surprise or gratification. He had remarked, as she removed the empty bowl in which his figs were served, that they were very good, very good indeed, and she had replied casually that Hannah had cooked them. A few minutes later, he had said that the eggs were boiled just the way he liked them, and Esther had nodded to Hannah as if inviting her to take a bow.

Finishing his breakfast and carefully folding his napkin, he had had the audacity to tell Esther her hair had grown so rapidly that she could never pass herself off for a boy any more, an observation accompanied by a reminiscent chuckle. And to this impertinence he added that the little fringe of curls on her forehead certainly did her no harm.

She gave him the merest wisp of a smile, as to a small boy who was talking too much, and turned to Hannah with the irrelevant statement that, if she might be excused, she would go out into the garden and gather a basket of tulips, after which she left the table, Hannah following her as far as the kitchen.

Peter fretfully rubbed his chin and seemed out of sorts.

'What makes this girl think she's so superior to the rest of us?' he testily inquired of his brother.

'Perhaps she is,' drawled Andrew.

'I'm afraid I treated her like a dog,' admitted Peter, somewhat to the surprise of both of them, for the Big Fisherman was not adroit in offering apologies.

Andrew did not immediately abandon his meditations to refute this statement; and Peter, anticipating something more comforting than his brother's silence, went on to say, 'But she needn't hold it against me—for ever!'

'If you're expecting her to come wagging up to lick your hand,' remarked Andrew, 'you'll have to give her a little more time.'

'I should like to patch it up with her before we leave,' mumbled Peter, half to himself. 'We will be gone all summer. She might be gone when we return. There's no telling what she may do next. I might never see her again.'

'Oh, you'll be seeing her every day, Simon.' Andrew hadn't yet got his brother's new name firmly fixed in his mind. 'Esther is coming along.'

'What?' barked Peter. 'With us? Impossible! Who told you that?'

'Hannah. Esther is to help look after the sick babies—and their mothers.'

'But'—spluttered Peter—'we can't permit that! This girl—well, she isn't a girl any more, Andy. She is a young woman. A very beautiful and desirable young woman—much too attractive to be exposed to all manner of indignities! There are some very rough people in these big crowds! If it's anything like last summer, we shall encounter plenty of unpleasant incidents—without having Esther on our hands!' After smouldering for a moment, he inquired, 'Whoever put this foolish idea into her head?'

'The Master,' said Andrew.

'She asked him if she might go along?'

'No; it was his own idea. He invited her.'

Peter drew a deep, baffled breath that puffed his bearded lips when he let go of it. He shook his head, uncomprehendingly.

'Our Master does some strange things, Andy.'

His brother nodded.

'We had all noticed that, Simon. But—so far—everything he has done—'

'I know! I know!' broke in Peter, with an impatient toss of his big hand. 'Everything he does is right! . . . But—how is it going to look for this lovely creature to be camped all summer with a dozen men?'

Andrew gave a slow, sly grin and remarked dryly that it would probably look better than if she were to be camped all summer with any one of them, a comment which his brother instantly resented with a scowl, a shrug, and an abrupt departure from the room.

The soft-spoken bachelor, who had intended no disrespect by his drollery, stared after the retreating figure and chuckled a little. . . . 'Ah—so that's what ails Simon,' he mused. 'Esther has become important to him. He is getting touchy on the subject. Well, well—who would have thought it?'

Hannah bustled in from the kitchen now. It had been very quiet out there for some time. She began clearing the table and making quite an energetic task of it.

'I wonder if Simon isn't fond of Esther,' she said, busily brushing crumbs.

'Why not?' rejoined Andrew casually. 'We all are.'

Hannah's lips firmed in a little pout. Then, deciding on a more promising strategy, she smiled, lowered her voice to a confidential whisper, and said, coaxingly, 'Surely you know, Andy, that I wouldn't say anything.'

Andrew soberly nodded his approval.

'That has always been my policy, too,' he said. 'It certainly keeps one out of trouble, doesn't it?'

Hannah did not pursue the subject any further, though the kitchen door plainly said 'Humph!' when she closed it behind her.

* * * * * *

For many generations it had been customary for the reigning Prince of Arimathaea to observe the fast and attend the festivities of Passover Week in the Holy City.

This annual event, originally commemorative of the Jews' release from their intolerable bondage in Egypt, had gradually evolved from a stark and solemn re-enactment of that miraculous deliverance and had acquired many irrelevant but attractive characteristics. It was Homecoming Week for all Jews who were able to return to their Holy City. Hundreds of them came from great distances and from foreign countries, bringing with them all manner of merchandise. Long caravans, laden with exotic foods, spices, jewels, and costly textiles, encamped in the surrounding hills. Minstrels, magicians, actors, acrobats, soothsayers, fortune-tellers, vendors of confections and medicinal herbs swarmed the narrow streets. Passover Night was still solemnly celebrated in the silence and seclusion of dimly lit Jewish homes, but Passover Week was a carnival for many more visitors than viewed it as an austere ceremonial.

Young Prince Joseph of Arimathaea always looked forward with happy expectancy to this pilgrimage. It belonged to springtime. The country was beautiful. Had there been no pleasures in prospect at his destination, Joseph would have felt repaid by the delights of the journey. He travelled in a style befitting his wealth and position, attended by a gay group of his young cronies and an impressive retinue of servants.

Jerusalem, in Joseph's opinion, was an enchanted city. Generations of his forebears had been conspicuous in the making of its history, as the inscriptions on their massive tombs in the 'Garden of Sepulchres' eloquently testified. The day would come when Joseph himself would join them there. His own tomb, elaborately planned, was even now under construction and would be completed by the end of the summer. He was in no hurry to occupy it, for life was good, but it was a comfort to know that whenever he needed it the sepulchre would be ready to welcome him.

And he had many influential friends in Jerusalem who received him cordially. Even the gruff and short-tempered Procurator, Pontius Pilate, served him cakes and wine when he paid respects at the Roman Insula—and called him Joe.

And he always paid a duty call at the Galilean Embassy, though this was less to his taste. By custom, all inter-provincial affairs involving the Principality of Arimathaea were adjudicated by the Tetrarch. Joseph was glad that the services of Antipas were but rarely invoked; for he did not like him and did not trust him. Another reason for not wanting to visit the Embassy: he invariably encountered the brazen, jingling, over-painted Salome, whom he detested. . . . And once he had been obliged to spend an unhappy hour with her mother whose reputation was in such appalling disrepair that to be on friendly terms with her was to invite a scandal.

Now he was on his way home from Jerusalem. Tonight they would break the trip, as usual, by camping at the road junction near the village of Hammath.

Early the next morning, the Prince's encampment was roused by the unexpected noise of traffic on the highways. A great crowd was converging on a meadow not more than five hundred yards away. Inquiries revealed that the Nazarene Carpenter was to appear.

Much annoyed by the intrusion of this rabble, Joseph's companions importuned him to break camp at once and defer their breakfast until they had arrived at some quiet spot farther down the road; but he saw no reason for scurrying away.

'Indeed, I should like to see him again myself,' declared the Prince. 'He must be something more than a mountebank or the people would not continue to follow him.'

Remembering with embarrassment the cool reception they had had at the hands of the Carpenter's following a few months earlier, Joseph's friends so strongly counselled him against risking another rebuff that he lost his patience and announced his intention of going into the crowd alone. And with that he set off by himself, on foot, to join the increasing multitude.

The throng had quieted as the Master mounted the little knoll where a space had been cleared for him. He began at once to speak in the effortless, intimate, far-reaching tone that always commanded complete silence and rapt attention.