The Big Fisherman (63 page)

'Tell me more about this wonderful man Elijah,' said Esther.

'He lived centuries ago,' drawled Myra, 'lived alone, and important people came to him for advice. He was very poor. Once he was so hard up that the ravens brought food to him.'

'How did they know he was hungry?' inquired Esther.

Myra chuckled, a bit irreverently.

'Because he ate what they thought was good, I suppose. A man would have to be pretty hungry to enjoy a raven's choice of victuals.'

'You're incorrigible, Myra!' laughed Esther. 'It's a good thing your grandfather didn't hear you say that.'

'Yes,' agreed Myra. 'He wouldn't like it. He dotes on all these old miracle-yarns, handed down from long ago. . . . And Joel can talk of little else than the miracles of his wonderful Carpenter. . . . Me?—I don't believe in any of it! I hate the whole business of miracles!'

At noon on the day the Romans called 'Monday' they entered the Holy City through the ancient Damascus Gate and proceeded directly to the Temple, as was the custom of pilgrims to the Passover. Having paid their respects there, the party from Capernaum would go, as usual, to the home of wealthy Uncle Boaz in Bethany. Myra, with the full approval of the family, had invited Esther to be their guest. That would be quite agreeable, they all said, to their hospitable Uncle Boaz.

Jerusalem was very old and showed many battle-scars. The thoroughfare they travelled was a bewildering hodge-podge of dilapidated antiquities built of sun-baked brick, dwarfed by magnificent modern structures in marble. The cobbled street was crowded with all manner of traffic, on foot and on wheels. Camel-caravans and heavily laden donkey-trains pushed the pedestrians to the narrow sidewalks. Beggars whined and thrust out their basins. 'Make way there!' barked the mounted patrols in their gaudy Roman uniforms as they cleared a corridor for some haughty procession of black robes. It was very confusing to people from the country.

Myra, who had been here several times before and was able to identify the most prominent buildings, walked arm-in-arm with Esther. . . . There was the Procurator's Insula, a breath-taking achievement in Roman architecture. . . . A little farther on, Myra pointed out the palace of the High Priest, Caiaphas, a massive old weather-beaten pile of marble. It was grim as a fort. The shutters at the high windows were tightly closed. A dozen sentries strutted slowly to and fro on the broad terrace.

'Not very homelike,' commented Esther, for something to say.

'It has quite an interesting history,' said Myra. 'It was formerly the palace of King Herod the Great.'

Esther tugged them to a stop for a longer look, wondering what Myra might say if she told her that this was her birthplace.

At length they sighted the Temple. It was the most beautiful building that Esther had ever seen. She stood fascinated, slowly shaking her head in wonderment. Their further progress was at a snail's pace, for the street was packed to suffocation. After many long delays they reached the exquisitely sculptured entrance to the Temple Court. Old Asher had found an acquaintance of his own years with whom he was exchanging affectionate hugs and excited greetings. Presently the other old man was whispering some important news into Asher's ear. His eyes widened as he listened. He nodded vigorously. His friend moved on.

It was easily to be seen that old Asher was bursting to tell what he had heard. Gathering his family about him he announced dramatically:

'Galilee will be troubled no more by this Carpenter who has scorned the faith of our fathers! He came to the Temple yesterday and created a disturbance—drove the people's sacrificial offerings into the street; upset the tables of the exchangers who were here to assist the pilgrims! Now the authorities intend to deal with him as he deserves!' Asher scrubbed his thin hands together and grinned happily. 'This time,' he shouted, 'the Carpenter will pay for his disrespect to Israel!'

Esther leaned heavily on Myra's arm and felt her knees giving way.

'You're ill!' muttered Myra, supporting her. 'Hold on tight—and we'll get out of here!'

'What's the matter with her?' demanded old Asher crossly.

'She is fainting,' said Myra. 'It's so stuffy and hot in here. I'll take her outside. . . . Help me, father!'

Gideon obediently took the other arm and they half-carried Esther through the jostling pack and out on to the pavement, where she revived enough to murmur that she was ashamed to have caused them so much bother.

'We must find a place where you can sit down,' said Myra. 'I'll take care of her, father. You go back and join the others. We will meet you in Bethany. I know the way.'

Gideon hesitated.

'Your grandfather will be put out, Myra, by your leaving.'

'You tell him I'm sorry,' she said. 'Esther can't go back in there, the way she feels. And I don't want to, myself. It's stifling! It stinks!'

'That,' said Gideon reproachfully, 'is not the way to speak about the House of God.'

'Forgive me, father,' said Myra contritely. 'I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.'

Gideon clumsily patted her arm.

'It is rather close in there,' he conceded, as he turned away. 'Don't get lost. We will see you at Uncle Boaz's house.'

'Your father is so gentle—and kind,' said Esther.

'Yes,' said Myra; 'when my grandfather isn't looking, my father can be quite a darling. Sometimes I wish I knew what he really thinks—about our religion.'

They were walking slowly south in the direction of the old Sheep Gate. Although the whole Temple area for many blocks was densely packed, it was so much more quiet here that by comparison the street seemed almost deserted. Esther had recovered from her sudden weakness, but was silent and depressed.

'Tell me, Esther,' said Myra confidentially, 'was it really the bad air in the Temple that affected you—or what my grandfather said about the Carpenter getting into trouble?'

'It was a shock, Myra. We were all afraid to have him come here. I hope they don't hurt him.'

'If he can do miracles, as they say, maybe he can defend himself.'

'I'm sure he could, if he wanted to; but he seems unconcerned about his own safety. He will go to any lengths to help other people, but—'

'Perhaps he has left the city,' thought Myra; but Esther doubted it.

'He wouldn't run away,' she declared.

They were nearing the twin-towered Sheep Gate now. Hard by, at the end of the street, loomed a grimy old edifice, bearing a peculiar star-shaped roof supported by massive stone columns. On all of its five façades it was open, without walls. Esther inquired what it was, and Myra obliged her with an amazing story.

The queer old pavilion sheltered a pool. It was commonly believed that an eccentric angel occasionally touched the water, and whoever dived in immediately was cured of whatever disease he had.

'Surely you don't believe that!' said Esther.

'Me? Of course not! But plenty of sick people do; and they lie here all day on the flagging, waiting for this angel. It's quite pitiful! What an angel! Swooping in here once in a while, to help just one person, and letting the rest suffer!'

They paused on the well-worn steps that led into the cavernous old structure, Esther remarking that apparently the institution wasn't operating today.

'It's usually crowded,' said Myra. 'I suppose they're all up around the Temple, begging. . . . I see one man over there.'

Suddenly Esther clutched Myra's arm and uttered a little cry of surprise. A small group of men sauntered into the building through an opposite entrance.

'Look, Myra!' she whispered excitedly. 'There is Jesus! It seems so strange to see him without a great crowd following.'

'It's not strange at all,' said Myra, 'if he's in trouble. People aren't going to risk being seen with him.'

'Come!' said Esther. 'I must speak to him!' She took Myra by the hand and tugged her forward. Jesus, somewhat in advance of his little company, was strolling beside the pool, gazing down into the water. He halted now before an emaciated invalid, lying motionless on a mat, and engaged him in conversation. The disciples had gathered around to listen. Esther and Myra, unnoticed, crept in close behind them.

'The trouble is, sir,' the sick man was saying feebly, 'whenever the angel comes, those who have very little ailing them, and are more nimble, leap into the pool. . . . My people have been bringing me here, sir, day after day for many years, to be healed of the palsy; but always another reaches the water before me.'

'Come, friend,' said Jesus gently. 'You have waited long enough. You may get up now—and go home.'

Myra suddenly tightened her grasp on Esther's hand and drew a quick, audible breath like a child's sob. The paralytic was slowly rising to his feet! He was weeping, and incoherently mumbling his thanks.

Peter, turning aside with wet eyes, recognized Esther and came to greet her.

'This is Myra,' she said. 'I came to Jerusalem with her family. Her father is Gideon, of Capernaum.'

'I used to know him well,' said Peter. 'Your father is an upright man. . . . And your grandfather is Asher,' he went on, a little frown creasing his forehead. 'Did he come with you?' And when Myra had nodded, rather diffidently, he said, 'You have just witnessed a miracle, Myra. Is that not true?'

'Yes, sir!' declared Myra. 'That is true!'

'Your grandfather, Asher, is hostile to our Master,' said Peter. 'Will you tell him what you have seen here today?'

'He would not believe me,' said Myra.

'But you will tell him?' entreated Peter.

'I—I don't know, sir,' stammered Myra. 'It would only make him angry with me.'

While this colloquy was in progress, Jesus had sauntered on through the pavilion and was descending into the street, his company following at a little distance.

'I'm sorry we weren't able to speak to him,' said Esther, as they moved out into the sunshine. Myra made no reply.

At the corner of the street, they came face to face with him. He smiled and extended his hands to them, saying, 'Peace to you, my daughters.' Esther warmly clasped one of his outstretched hands and murmured, 'Master!'

Myra, visibly perturbed and with eyes averted, nervously toyed with the fringes of her cape. Then, tentatively, her eyes ventured to meet his. They widened and swam with tears. Impulsively she reached for his hand with both of hers, and whispered brokenly, 'Will you be my Master, too?'

Fully an hour before sunset on the fourteenth day of Nisan Jerusalem began to go into retirement. It was as if the shadow of some spectral hand had moved across the Holy City invoking silence.

The bazaars and food-markets, seemingly responsive to a prearranged signal, were closing their shutters. Vehicular traffic was rapidly clearing from the streets. The pedestrian throngs were melting away. Only the Roman patrols remained.

Residents and their Jewish relatives and guests from afar were quietly assembling behind closed doors. Even the Gentiles, who had come to Jerusalem on business and were under no obligation to do honour to Jewry's solemn observance, had tethered their camels and were lounging in their tents.

On such a springtime night as this, fifteen centuries ago, the Israelites had escaped from their intolerable bondage in Egypt. On that occasion, according to their sacred Scriptures, the Angel of Death had passed over the Land of the Pharaohs, striking down the first-born son of every Egyptian home; and that the avenging Angel might identify the houses to be spared, the Children of Israel had been instructed to sprinkle the blood of a lamb upon their door-posts. And while they waited for the summons to depart they stood in silence round their tables, equipped for their adventure, and solemnly ate the sacrificial lamb.

That was the 'Passover,' and it was still annually commemorated. Perhaps the dramatic event might have been long since forgotten—such is the inconsistency of human nature—had the daring flight to freedom led the fugitives to a permanent peace and prosperity in their 'Promised Land.' They had not found peace and prosperity. Through the ages they had worn the yokes and chains of many oppressors; but in spite of their enslavements, or because of them, they dutifully ate the paschal lamb, emblematic of a freedom unachieved but still to come. The Jew was a melancholy optimist. He shed tears over a tragic past, but he had never lost his faith in a triumphant future.

Tonight he was further from freedom than he had been for at least a century. Even while he devoutly ate the lamb he could hear the ominous jangling of the Roman Empire's armour on the street outside his blood-smeared door.

Grandfather, at the head of the family table, bent with the burden of his years, piously read from the well-worn scroll in his trembling hands, 'O Jerusalem, that bringest good tidings, lift up thy voice! Say to the cities of Judah, "The Lord will come with a strong hand."'

And while Grandfather read the comforting words, the young Centurion on the street was harshly measuring, in clipped syllables, the well-disciplined foot-beats of his marching legionaries.

'Thine eyes shall see Jerusalem a quiet habitation; a tabernacle that shall never be taken down!' intoned Grandfather.

'Un'! . . . Du'! . . . Tres! . . . Quat'!' barked the Centurion.

* * * * * *

On a hillside in the country, halfway between Bethphage and Bethany, with no shelter but the spreading branches of an ancient cypress, a company of forlorn men from Galilee sat silently watching the sun go down.

They had made no preparations for a celebration of The Passover, and it was too late now to do anything about it, even if the facilities had been available. They had no lamb, no house, no door-posts to anoint with blood, no roasting-oven, no table.

It wouldn't have mattered—certainly not to the Big Fisherman—had they faced this predicament at home in Capernaum. The Passover had meant nothing to him for many years, not since he was a youngster in his pious father's home; and even then he had regarded the depressing ceremonies with glum indifference. But here, on the outskirts of the Holy City, where the commemoration was so universally and reverently observed, the Jew in Simon the son of Jonas felt lonely, lost, expatriated.