The Big Fisherman (29 page)

'He leaves off fretting about the things he does not have,' explained Simon, 'and he gives less heed to caring for the few things he does have. Thus he is freed from worry lest thieves should make off with his small possessions.'

'And after the fellow says that,' sneered the Prince, 'he probably passes his cap through the crowd, inviting them to pay him for advising them to have nothing.' They all chuckled a little at this cynical gibe—all but Simon who remarked quietly, 'He has no cap, sire.' There was a moment of silent embarrassment here, Simon having inadvertently flavoured the talk with a bit of disconcerting sincerity.

'How about these strange deeds?' demanded the Prince.

'One hears differing opinions, sire,' said Simon. 'Some claim to have seen miracles performed, others try to explain them, still others doubt them.'

'Our servant says you are now on your way to hear him again. Does that mean that you yourself believe him honest? Surely you would not make the journey if you considered him an out-and-out mountebank!'

'I am hoping to find out, sire,' murmured Simon. Observing that the Prince's friends were growing restless, he added respectfully, 'May I go now?'

The Prince shrugged and made a negligent gesture as if to say it was of no concern to him whether the big, burly fisherman ambled off at once or remained here for the rest of his life. He laid a jewelled hand on the pommel of his saddle.

'Just a moment!' he said. 'One thing more! We are advised that a homemade, self-appointed prophet has recently been gathered in by our good friend, your Tetrarch, for predicting the advent of an avenger who is to upset thrones, strip the wealthy, free the slaves, and put all the riffraff on horseback. Do the people hereabouts think that this wonder-worker is out on such an errand?'

'It is quite impossible, sire!' declared Simon. 'Surely no one who had heard him speak could have that opinion. So far as I have learned, the Carpenter has no quarrel with the rich; though I think he pities them.'

'Pities them!' exclaimed the Prince, while the others grinned incredulously. 'What impertinence! Who does this wandering beggar think he is—to be pitying his betters?'

Simon ventured no immediate comment on this smug remark, but his lip curled to match a frown that had a good deal of scorn in it. The Prince was quick to notice this irritation, and prodded it.

'If you do not object to the question, my massive friend, how do you yourself feel toward the rich? You are obviously not a man of property. Tell me truly: do you too pity the rich?' The raw taunt was stirring Simon to anger.

'No, sire,' he answered, staring fearlessly into the young man's eyes, 'I do not pity the rich. I envy them, as they expect me to do. I peer through their high fences and lament that I do not have their great possessions, for this pleases them.' Simon's voice rose and rasped as he continued recklessly, 'Whenever we poor cease envying the rich, we will be punished for robbing them of their highest satisfaction!'

The Prince had mounted now. He rose in his stirrups to shout: 'That is the most impudent thing that was ever said in our presence!'

'Well,' growled Simon sullenly, 'you asked for it.'

'In our country, fisherman, you would get thirty-nine lashes for that!'

'Aye, sire—and in my country too,' retorted Simon; and because he now had nothing to lose by further frankness he added, 'The great ones are the same everywhere, I am told. They face the truth with a bull-whip.'

'Be off with you!' shouted the Prince, raising his riding-crop.

'No—no—Joseph!' muttered the mounted friend at his side.

The Prince lashed his horse. They bounded away. Flushed with rage, Simon watched them galloping down the road. Never had he felt such bitter contempt for a fellow creature. Quite a courageous youngster, this Prince, when surrounded by his fine friends and a score of armed guards. Had he been alone, he would have been meek as a lamb. Simon wished he could have had the Prince all to himself for a few minutes. No, he would not have hurt the boy badly. He would have been satisfied to take the insolent brat by his beautifully curled hair—and fold him over the ledge of the old well—and spank him: a thorough spanking; a spanking he should have had earlier. Simon was sore. It had never been his habit to covet other men's property or privileges. He had nothing against the rich. Until now. Now he despised them! All of them! They were all alike! To hell with them! All of them!

He had trudged toward the Hammath highway now and had joined the pilgrimage. Looking across the field to the Jerusalem road, he observed that the Prince's party had halted for a parley. After a rather lengthy colloquy, they wheeled about, galloped back to the junction, and came bearing down upon the crowded highway. The people screamed and rushed to the sides of the road for safety as the gay riders ploughed a wide furrow through them. Everybody was for saving his own skin in this frantic rout. Old people were trampled. Carts were upset. Children were crying. Shouting with laughter, the princely cavalcade swept on.

Simon stood still and watched the shameless scene, his every muscle taut with impotent rage, his big fists clenched.

'Men on horses!' he shouted aloud. 'Brave men on horses!'

* * * * * *

The somnolent village of Hammath had swollen to a city of five thousand and was adding to its population. Every grass-grown path was as a sleepy stream that had suddenly become a river at flood.

The huge crowd had congregated on a harvested field some distance north of the main highway. On the outskirts of the densely packed multitude, vendors pursued a busy trade with huge baskets of smoked fish, wheaten and barley rolls, sweetmeats and sun-cured figs swarming with flies, for which they found ready customers among the stragglers who were too far away from the point of interest to see what was happening.

The Prince and his party had ridden up close against the rear of the throng, apparently impatient at having been detained from proceeding through to the front where the Carpenter stood. The whole affair was a lark, a country circus, and the management should have been pleased to announce, 'We are honoured to have with us today His Highness Joseph, the Prince of Arimathaea. Clear the way for His Highness and his retinue! We welcome you, sire!'

The Carpenter continued speaking in a quiet voice, inaudible at this distance. Laughing loudly, the princely party urged their horses forward until the foam from their champed bits flecked the shoulders of men and women who were cupping their ears to listen.

'Make way!' shouted the mounted guards. 'Way—for the Prince of Arimathaea.'

The people turned their heads and scowled angrily, but did not budge.

'Hi! You! Fisherman!' yelled one of the Prince's friends, as Simon moved into the pack. 'Clear a road for the Prince!' But Simon did not reply, nor did he turn about to face them. Finding it impossible to hear anything, he circled the throng and discovered a spot nearer to the front where an amazingly large colony of cots and carts bearing the sick awaited the end of the Carpenter's address. A shaggy young farmer, standing by a bed on which an emaciated old woman lay shielding her sunken eyes against the sun with a bony hand, glanced up at Simon and grinned a rustic greeting.

'Your mother, maybe?' whispered Simon.

'Grandmother,' replied the young farmer.

'Came to be healed?'

'She hopes so.'

'Do you think there's anything in it?'

'There'd better be!' muttered the farmer truculently, pointing to the quarter-acre of sick and crippled. 'If he's a fake, he'll be stoned!'

'Has he been speaking long?' asked Simon.

'Long enough. Granny is tired waiting.'

'What's her trouble?'

The farmer guarded his voice as he replied, 'Old age.'

'Think the Carpenter can cure old age?'

'No; but Granny does. She's a little weak in the head.'

Simon edged gradually into the rim of the crowd. By listening intently he could hear snatches of the Carpenter's talk. But it was difficult. What with the confusion of the people pushing in from the rear, the moans of the sick, and the crying of the babies, Simon had to be content with broken phrases. But it was a haunting voice, a magic voice that stilled and soothed and comforted you even though you couldn't hear all the words.

From what Simon could make of it, a man could have a secret life with God. Once he determined to find happiness within himself, he reached out for a strength greater than his own . . . Like a babe, creeping, he longed to rise and walk . . . lifts his small hand . . . is gripped by a stronger hand . . . having learned to walk with God . . . he wants to talk with God. Too often, men try to talk with God . . . only in the temple. . . . Talk with Him alone. . . . His voice more clear when you are alone with Him . . . a private league with God . . . a secret life with God . . . an understanding with Him . . . you and God alone . . . in your closet . . . closed door . . . He will listen . . . He will bless you.

Some short-statured person was digging a sharp elbow into Simon's back. He turned about and looked down into the contorted face of a woman with a little girl of five in her arms. The child was blind.

'Please!' entreated the woman in a whisper. 'Help me to get closer! You are big and strong. You must help me!'

'Stay where you are—behind me,' said Simon. 'When the time comes, I'll do what I can.'

The Carpenter was talking about doing things for others. That, too, was better done in secret. . . . When you make gifts . . . no trumpet. . . . A secret . . . so secret your own left hand does not know. Only God will see . . . only God will know . . . but He will bless you.

There was a general stirring in the great congregation when the Carpenter had stopped speaking. Now, according to his custom, he would receive the sick ones. The crowd pushed and shoved for a better view. The people were not very considerate of one another. The weak and timid were elbowed out of the way. Even among the very ill ones on their beds, the rivalry of the bearers was rude beyond belief. Simon wished he was up there in front to improve their manners. He expected and hoped that Jesus would rebuke the importunate. But, after all, they couldn't be much blamed, he thought. People couldn't be polite when it was a matter of life or death for a loved one.

The little woman behind him was growing desperate. She was crying hysterically. Bidding her follow him closely, Simon began edging his way forward, but it was quite impossible for her to make any use of his intervention. Other people crowded in behind the big man and pushed her roughly aside. There seemed only one practical thing to do now. Simon would have to carry the child himself. Turning, he held out his long arms, and the woman, tearfully grateful, relinquished her burden.

It was an arduous journey forward through the solid mass of seemingly immovable people. Simon entreated, pushed, scolded, shouldered, begged, shouted, as he pressed on.

'This child is blind!' he announced, in his big, booming voice. 'Let me through! Please let me pass!'

And now—now—at last—he stood face to face with the strange man of Nazareth, close enough to have touched him. By comparison with Simon's height and bulk, the Carpenter was of slight physique; but something about him, emanating from him, made him a commanding figure. Simon sensed it, and felt inferior. In point of years, the man was his junior. Every other way considered, Simon felt himself a mere awkward, overgrown boy. He looked down into a pair of tranquil, steady, earnestly inquiring eyes. They held him fast; they brightened with a friendly smile, almost as if two long-time companions were meeting after a separation. The Carpenter's face was pale. Tiny beads of perspiration showed on his forehead, for he was tired and the day was hot.

It was such a gentle gesture that it seemed like a caress when Jesus laid his hand lightly upon the little girl's eyes. The child had been frightened by all the confusion and had been holding herself rigidly, hugging her arms to her breast as if to ward off a blow. At the touch of Jesus' hand, she relaxed and drew a babyish sigh of relief and reassurance. Simon's eyes suddenly swam blindingly as Jesus' forearm rested on his own. It was a strange sensation. He knew now what it was that had suddenly soothed the child and freed her of her fears.

Jesus was praying. He had closed his eyes and was praying in a soft voice barely above a whisper. His prayer was made to his 'Father,' and it was as if they two were closeted together in some secret place. In a tone of intimate companionship and confidence he asked his Father to give this little one her sight, for it was through no fault of hers that she could not see. Then—and there was a note of sadness and longing in his voice—he prayed that all men everywhere, groping in the shadows, might be led into the bright sunshine of his Father's love. Then—and this stirred Simon deeply—he prayed for all those who, now and in days to come, would lead the blind into the presence of the Eternal Light.

Simon thought he couldn't bear it—when it happened. He gasped involuntarily and stifled a sob. The incredible thing had happened! It was impossible—but it had actually happened! Jesus had gently moved his hand from the child's eyes and his finger-tips touched the damp little ringlets on her forehead. Now she had slowly raised her wondering eyes to his—and smiled. Then, turning her head, she gazed bewilderedly into Simon's face; and, seeing his tears, her own little eyes overflowed.

Jesus was turning aside now to speak to a man on crutches. Simon tarried, trying hard to speak some word of gratitude. Glancing toward him, Jesus nodded his head and smiled companionably, as if to say he understood.

A low murmur of astonishment swept the crowd as Simon turned about with the child hugged tightly in his arms. She was crying softly now, for she was frightened. Her mother, shrilly calling, 'She is my child! Oh, let me go to my baby!' finally made herself heard, and was pulled, pushed, half-carried by the excited people around her. She was much too overwrought to thank Simon—even with a smile—when he gently placed the little girl in her hungry arms.

Suffocated by his emotion and still half-blinded by his tears, Simon was forcing his way through the throng—now standing transfixed, breathless, and on tiptoe—in anticipation of another marvel, when a hand clutched his sleeve. He looked down into the sober, white face of the Prince of Arimathaea.