Time was when his father had talked of nothing else for a fortnight preceding the Day of Atonement, but it had been many a year since Simon had so much as made the motions of honouring it. He always dismissed the crews on the big day, the real day, the day of the Synagogue ceremonies. That was common practice. You gave your employees the day off: they could do what they pleased with it. It never had been customary to dismiss your help on the first day, the day you were to go about making things right with people you had defrauded or otherwise offended. As for himself, he usually spent the Day of Atonement mending ropes and oiling pulleys. Sometimes respectable people, marching soberly toward the Synagogue in their Sabbath garb, would regard him with reproach when they met him on the highway in his workaday clothes.
Now the Carpenter was going to flog the old straw; for surely there was nothing new to be said about the Day of Atonement. We would be told how important it was to go to the Synagogue and have our sins forgiven; not forgetting to take the yearling lamb along.
Simon came to attention. The Carpenter was talking about the first day of the Atonement event. That was the important day. That was today! What had you done about it? How about the quarrels you had had—since last Atonement Day? Were you and old Naaman still refusing to speak to one another because of that trouble over the line fence? Had you gone to see the old man today? If not—you would only be wasting your mutton tomorrow. How about that feud with the Ben-Gileads? You remember—the chickens that got into your garden and caused such a rumpus that everybody in the neighbourhood took sides. And cursed one another and threw stones. Is that old quarrel still smouldering? Did you do anything about that today? The sun is setting. Are you going to do anything about that before you sleep tonight? If not—there's no sense in taking your pigeons to the Synagogue tomorrow; nor will the lamb do you any good; and you'd better sell the steer for whatever it will fetch, or slaughter it and eat it. Forgiveness and peace are to be had—but not bartered for beef.
Simon liked that. It was sensible. Not much use asking for pardon and peace if an old friend has something against you, especially if the quarrel was your own fault. The Carpenter was talking about peace of mind, considered as 'property.' You could toil all summer in the fields and fill your barn with grain. That was property, too; only the barn might take fire or the rats destroy the wheat. Peace was the kind of property that wouldn't burn, and you didn't have to set a watchman over it to see that it wasn't stolen. . . . Make things right with your offended brother; then go to the Synagogue with your fat lamb—and be blessed.
There was some restlessness in the multitude now. What the Carpenter was saying was reasonable enough, thought Simon, but it would just go in one ear and out the other. You couldn't change human nature very much. . . . Take Johnny, for instance. He was probably in this crowd and listening to this good counsel. But—do you suppose the stubborn youngster would take it to heart—and apologize? Of course he wouldn't! . . . It wasn't much wonder that the Carpenter looked lonely. If he really practised what he taught, people would think him a queer one. Friendship with the man would be embarrassing.
The Carpenter had stopped speaking now and there was a perceptible stir in the crowd. It shifted its weight to the other leg, straightened its back, and stretched its neck for a better view.
A tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man stood forward from the pack and faced the Carpenter. He had a small boy in his arms. Whatever happened then, it was done so quickly that Simon could only guess that the child had received some attention; for the man who carried him turned away, apparently satisfied, and was making his escape through the craning multitude. There was much jostling, the crowd swarming about the man, blocking his way. The little boy was crying shrilly.
Simon impulsively went into action. Reviewing it later on his way home, he could not decide whether he had elbowed his way savagely into the mob because of his indignation at the people's rudeness, and a desire to rush to the man's defence, or to satisfy his own curiosity; but, whatever inspired him to plunge through the crowd, he made a success of it, thrusting a shoulder and a knee, tugging at collars, elbowing ribs, pulling hair, tramping on feet, until he had mowed a swath to the defenceless man in the centre of the congestion.
'Stand back!' he shouted. 'Make way there!' Planting the heels of his open hands on the nearest chins, Simon cleared a path. Presently he and the rescued were out in the open, and almost alone; for the crowd seemed reluctant to follow. The child's frightened cries had subsided to convulsive sobs.
'Thank you, friend,' murmured the exhausted man. He lowered the boy to the ground.
'No, no, grandfather!' pleaded the little fellow. 'It hurts! Lift me up!'
'What's the matter with him?' asked Simon.
'A crooked foot. Born that way. I heard of this Jesus and hoped he might heal the child. I carried him—all the way from Sepphoris.'
'That's a long tramp.' Simon peered down at the foot. 'Apparently it hasn't done the lad any good.'
'Are you a believer in this man?' inquired Justus soberly.
'No, I'm not. We've been hearing many strange stories about him—over in Tiberias. I came out to see. My name is Simon.'
'Mine is Justus, Barsabas Justus. . . . Now, Jonathan, see if you can't stand on the lame foot. Grandfather will not let you fall. Try it, my boy.'
The child clung for a moment, but consented to be put down, whining with fear. He took an uncertain step.
'It hurts!' he whimpered. Justus gathered him up in his arms.
'Let's have a look at it,' suggested Simon kindly. They inspected the foot.
'It's hard to tell,' muttered Justus. 'It was bent over, like this. Seems straighter, don't you think, Simon?'
Simon felt both feet.
'They're about alike, I should say. But why can't he stand on it?'
'Perhaps it's the rough ground,' said Justus, still hopeful. 'He never stood squarely on that foot before. It's tender as a baby's. Besides—the lad's frightened.'
The crowd was dispersing now, many pausing to gape at the child. Simon glanced toward the rock where the Carpenter stood. He was gone.
'Well, I'll be on my way, friend Simon,' Justus was saying, 'I hope we may meet again.'
'You've a long journey ahead of you, Justus, carrying the lad. Perhaps I should go with you, part way.'
'You are kind; but there will be moonlight presently. The boy is not heavy. I shall stop for the night with friends in Cana.'
Simon was reluctant to see Justus leave. He walked beside him to the southern brow of the hill, where they paused.
'I wish I knew—about the boy's foot. What do you think, Justus? Has it been healed or hasn't it?'
'I don't know,' mumbled Justus. 'Maybe it's too early to tell. I only hope so.'
'Yes—so do I, Justus. It would be a great blessing to the child.'
At that, Justus turned to face Simon with a sober stare.
'Do you—honestly—hope that?'
'Why, of course!' declared Simon. 'What a question! Who could wish it otherwise?'
'Because,' muttered Justus, 'if this village Carpenter can change the laws of nature, nothing will ever be the same again; not for any of us! Do you realise that, Simon? Nothing you ever thought—about anything—will be true; not any more—ever!'
Having no ready rejoinder to this surprising speech, Simon said he supposed it would affect one's views somewhat. They bade each other farewell; and Justus, shifting his burden to his other arm, made off down the road, where he was promptly joined by many people who had tarried to wait his coming.
He was a peculiar fellow, thought Simon, as he walked away toward the other rim of the plateau; evidently had given a bit of careful thought to this business of miracles; not only was inclined to be sceptical about it, but wasn't sure he wanted to believe it. If it was true, nothing would ever be the same again; not for anybody! If a man could go about straightening crooked feet and restoring paralysed arms, everything would be topsy-turvy.
On his way down the hill the Big Fisherman's long legs and urgent thoughts overtook and passed everybody. He recognized no one, but as he moved aside to pass one group that had slowed to discuss whether they had seen a miracle or not, the voices were abruptly hushed and he heard his name spoken in a half-whisper. It annoyed him more than a little. He had as good a right to be out here as anyone. What business was it of theirs? But—let them gabble! He didn't care. To hell with them! Simon was angry now—angry at himself; out here on this fool's errand! Miracles? Rubbish! He had seen quite enough of this Carpenter: it was high time to put all this nonsense out of his head.
Careless of his footing he stumbled along through the pale moonlight, finally reaching the valley. His legs were lame and his feet were hot and sore. He was exhausted in body and mind. It was to be hoped that Hannah had retired. Simon was in no mood for talking. Hannah, if awake, would be anxious to know where he had been. She wouldn't ask a direct question, but she would probably have it out of him somehow.
Bethsaida—at last! He sat down wearily on the stoop and took off his dusty sandals. Tiptoeing softly through the silent house and out through the kitchen door, he found a basin by the cistern and washed his blistered feet. Hannah appeared and handed him a towel, for which he thanked her briefly. In a tone of finality he bade her good-night and retraced his steps down the hall to his own room.
'I'll have a surprise for you—at breakfast,' whispered Hannah.
'Honey cakes, I suppose,' muttered Simon apathetically. . . . Anything to detain him—and make him talk—he thought.
'Want to guess again?' pestered Hannah sweetly.
'No—not tonight, Hannah. I am very tired.' And because he didn't care to risk any further conversation with her, he closed his door—not noisily enough to give offence, he hoped, but with sufficient emphasis to accent his desire to be let alone.
It turned out to be a bad night for Simon. He tried to sleep, but his busy brain shuttled to and fro from one dilemma to another. Life had been suddenly stripped of all its brightness. Everything was in confusion. There was Johnny, to whom he was as devoted as he might have been to a son; Johnny had found another master, the Carpenter. If it hadn't been for this Carpenter, everything would have continued to be in order; the way it ought to be.
The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that his first impression of the rumours had been correct. The fellow—for all his gentle voice—was a deceiver; enticing people to follow him about and listen to his prattle; pretending to heal diseases; advising them to own nothing—and live like the birds. He deserved to be exposed.
This man Justus: he knew it was a fraud. Oh yes—the poor man had pretended to be hopeful, but you could see he had lost faith in it.
Simon turned the pillow over, dug his big fist into it, buried his face in it, and returned to Johnny. The boy never had been worth anything as a fisherman. He was worse than no help at all, a bad influence on other lazy men. If Simon hadn't liked him so much, he wouldn't have signed him on; not even if he had worked for nothing—and brought his own dinner!
Rolling over on his back, Simon stared wide-eyed into the darkness and reviewed every unpleasant detail of yesterday's quarrel. The boy had behaved badly. Doubtless there was some weakness in his character that might account for it. Surely he hadn't inherited his disposition from old Zebedee, who couldn't see beyond the end of his leaky nose and talked so incessantly that he never had time to think. We might as well discharge the old bore; would have done it long ago if it hadn't been for the boys.
Of course Johnny hadn't inherited anything from his silly mother. Mothers didn't bequeath any of their traits to their children: everybody knew that. But Naomi could have had an unhealthy influence on him. She was for ever nagging the lad to find a job where he could earn more pay; lamenting that he hadn't trained to be a scrivener, which, she thought, would give the family a better social standing. Zebedee had been a fool to marry Naomi; almost old enough to be her grandfather. Well—he was getting paid off for wanting a young wife. Naomi had the old codger saddled and bridled; made him do most of the housework; beat him with a broom, according to reports. Maybe that was why Zebedee was such a nuisance on shipboard: had no chance to express himself at home. No; Johnny hadn't learned any star-gazing from Naomi. All she thought about was how to make her menfolk earn more money, the greedy little devil. More than once she had embarrassed the boys by waylaying Simon, in their presence, with a whimpering plea that they be paid better wages.
Johnny was a queer one; no doubt about that. He loved to look at the waves: the bigger they rolled the better he liked them. He saw pictures in the clouds and a brilliant sunset would set him off into ecstasies. Maybe that was what had drawn him to this Carpenter.
Sunsets! Wild poppies! Bah! Lilies wear good clothes without having to spin and weave; better clothes than kings wear. Why should anybody work? The birds don't work. If you meet a soldier, carry his pack. Grin—and like it. Johnny would love that kind of talk. Simon wished he had said to Johnny, 'How about making an arrangement for all of the people to work part of the time, so that everybody can get better acquainted with the poppies—and the birds—and the sunsets—and the dew on the grass?'
But there was that paralysed arm. Johnny wouldn't lie. Why, if that tale were true, everything in your life goes overboard! If the Carpenter has enough wisdom—and power—to do a thing like that, then whatever he says must be true. If he tells you to take counsel of the poppies and the birds, you'd better do it. Yes—and if he tells you that the right way to walk is on your hands instead of your feet, you'll have to do it; for the Carpenter will know best. . . . But it was all nonsense! . . . In a few days the legionaries would have the fellow in jail—and the deluded people could get back to work. Then Johnny would want his job again. Well—if the boy came—in the right state of mind—admitting he had been a fool to go out and listen to the Carpenter in the first place—Simon would be willing to forgive him.