'Hannah will not talk,' said Fara. 'My secret will be as safe with her as it is with David; and you have told me that you trust him fully.'
'It is different with the Sadducee,' said Voldi. 'He knows who you are—and why you are here. Your friend Hannah is in the dark about you. If you trust her at all, you had better confide everything.'
'If I promise to do that, will you come?'
They sauntered down the winding driveway, Voldi leading Darik, who tossed and shook his head impatiently, for he disliked to be led and made no bones about his annoyance. Presently they came out through the imposing gates and upon the broad road, joining the heavy southbound traffic.
'Where are all these people going?' Voldi wanted to know. 'They're all headed in the same direction. What is it; a fair or a feast-day? Hardly a carnival: none of them seems to be very gay.'
'Jews are never gay,' observed Fara, avoiding his query.
'That's true enough,' agreed Voldi. 'They are a sober lot. But these people look troubled, frightened! Perhaps some calamity has occurred. Shall we inquire?'
She turned toward him momentarily, with indecision in her eyes as if debating whether to explain, but did not reply, which added to Voldi's bewilderment.
'You have more than your share of cripples in this country,' he remarked. 'And there goes a woman, leading a blind man.' They drew aside to pass a party of four, carrying a half-grown girl on a cot. 'What's all this about, Fara?' persisted Voldi.
'They are going out into the country, a little way beyond Bethsaida,' said Fara, 'where a village carpenter speaks nearly every day to great crowds. He has been creating quite a sensation. It is believed that he heals diseases.'
'The Carpenter!' exclaimed Voldi. 'The man from Nazareth!'
'You have heard of him, then?' Fara searched his eyes.
'Indeed, yes, all along the way! There was talk of him as far down as Caesarea. It's a wonder you haven't tried to see him, what with your curious interest in religious prophets.' He gave her a teasing smile: she had lost a valuable horse by showing too much concern about an itinerant preacher. Fara accepted his raillery with a wisp of a smile, but sobered to say that she had seen and heard the Carpenter. Voldi's steps slowed. Cupping his hand under her elbow, he drew her closer.
'But why are you so mysterious—and reticent—about it?' he queried. 'It's nothing to be ashamed of. Didn't you want me to know?'
'I hesitated to tell you, Voldi,' she confessed. 'I know how you feel about magic, and miracles, and the weak-mindedness of superstitious people who believe in such things. . . . I didn't want you to think I had gone crazy.'
'That sounds a little as if you had been impressed by this fellow. Did you see him do anything out of the ordinary?'
'If you like, we can go out and see him,' suggested Fara. 'Hannah may want to go with us. You will have a chance to form your own opinion.'
'So you would rather not tell me any more until I have seen him?'
'I can tell you this much, Voldi,' she replied, measuring her words deliberately; 'his voice is not like that of any other man, and the things he says have not been spoken—just that way—ever before. He does not scold or condemn or threaten: he quietly takes possession of your whole mind. . . . You shall see for yourself, my dear. . . . The man does not belong to this world, at all.' Fara's voice had lowered to a mere whisper as she added, 'He is from somewhere else!'
There wasn't anything much to be said in response to that strange remark. Voldi studied her eyes with candid anxiety.
'I wonder,' he murmured gently, 'whether you realize what you are saying. Surely you don't think that this Carpenter is a god!'
'I don't know,' she mumbled vaguely; and, after a long interval. 'It wouldn't surprise me—if that were true.'
They had come now to the northern outskirts of Bethsaida and were turning off the busy highway into a quiet leaf-strewn street where Fara pointed to the cottage shared by Hannah and the fishermen Simon and Andrew.
'The men will not be at home,' she said. 'I wish you might meet Simon, who is the master of his fleet—a gigantic fellow. He has no learning and knows nothing beyond his occupation, but one can't help feeling that if he had had any advantages at all he might be a very forceful person.' Arriving in front of the cottage, Voldi said he would wait at the gate while Fara inquired whether her friend was prepared to receive them.
There was no response to her knock at the front door. She stepped into the hallway and called cheerily. A weak voice bade her come in. Hannah, fully clothed, was lying on her bed. She tried to smile a welcome.
'Hannah!' cried Fara. 'You are ill!'
'It is nothing, dear,' protested Hannah feebly. 'I am very tired; that is all.' She made an effort to sit up, but slumped back upon the pillows. Her grey eyes were cloudy, her cheeks were flushed, and an agitated pulse pumped hard at her temple. 'Give me your hand, Esther,' she muttered thickly. 'Perhaps I can get up now.' But a sudden seizure of faintness swept her and she made no further protest when entreated to lie still.
After what seemed like a long delay to Voldi—and Darik, too, whose restless capers were bringing elderly neighbours to their doors and windows—Fara reappeared at the gate, her serious face warning that something had gone amiss. Hannah, she reported soberly, was ill, perhaps very ill indeed. Voldi had better go quickly down to the business district where, hard by the Synagogue, he would find the old physician Gershon.
'When I have found the doctor and sent him here, I think I shall be on my way,' said Voldi. 'There is nothing I can do. Hannah will need your full attention. My tarrying here will be only an embarrassment to your friends—and you.'
Fara's face showed mingled regret and relief. She nodded her approval of his decision. Promising to return with the spring flowers, he vaulted into the saddle; and Darik, apparently already late for some urgent engagement, clenched his teeth on the bit and bolted. At the corner of the street, Voldi was able to wave a farewell. It was not a satisfactory way to take leave of Fara, but—was there a better way? Perhaps this was less painful than a more deliberate parting.
To locate the physician's house was easy enough. The white-bearded, taciturn Gershon, having stiffened haughtily when approached by the young Arabian, listened, nodded, scrambled out of his chair; and, hastily stuffing an old leather bag with the various trinkets of his trade, tottered up the street in the direction of Hannah's house. He did not look back. Voldi watched him until he had disappeared round the corner.
The highway seemed even more congested with the unorganized procession moving southward. There were very few spectators along the edges of the road. This, thought Voldi, was in need of an explanation. Almost any parade, anywhere, however insignificant, was good for at least a scattered audience of loafers; but the main thoroughfare of Bethsaida was all but deserted except for the passing throng. Voldi ventured to express his curiosity about this to a wizened, toothless, bent old man who stood near-by sourly staring at the multitude.
'Where is everybody?' inquired Voldi, raising his voice as the old man bared his gums and cupped his ear with a trembling hand.
'Out yonder!' growled the ancient, pointing with his stick. 'All Bethsaida is out there listening to the blasphemer from Nazareth, that dirty, thieving town from which no good thing could come!' He spat angrily but unskilfully, wiped his bearded chin with the back of a shaky hand, and dried the hand on the skirt of his faded robe. 'You should laugh, Arabian, to see Israel renounce his proud heritage! This should be a day of rejoicing in the tents of Ishmael! Woe is come upon Bethsaida! Even our Rabbi Elimelech has joined the apostates!'
'How far do they go?' shouted Voldi, unimpressed by the tirade.
'To their destruction!' screamed the old man.
'I mean—is it a mile or five?'
'Less than a mile. You had better go! It's just the place for you, Ishmaelite! Then you can ride that fine horse back to Arabia and say that you saw the House of Israel fall!' The angry old eyes were dripping. Voldi could think of nothing to contribute to the conversation. Bowing, in respect to the Bethsaidan's years rather than his views, he mounted and joined the procession, keeping close to the rim of the road, Darik seeming to realize that no foolishness would be tolerated.
It was unlike any pilgrimage that Voldi had ever seen. Like a river at flood, with swift currents channelling the central stream and sluggish eddies eating into the weeds and bushes of its banks, the crowd pressed on in silent, sober, sweating, desperate haste. Crude, home-made crutches dug into the loose gravel, scraping dangling legs and crooked feet through the dust. Barrows and carts bore haggard old men and women, pale, dull-eyed, emaciated children, and on cots and litters helpless invalids lay supine, their sunken eyes tightly closed against the glare of the mounting sun and the callous stares of the passing pack; for, far outnumbering and outspeeding these hapless ones trudged a pushing, elbowing multitude apparently bent upon appeasing its curiosity. It was by no means a pleasing spectacle, this conglomeration of misery jostled by a heedless throng whose behaviour too closely resembled the conduct of stampeded cattle.
The procession was moving faster now. Three hundred yards ahead, the more agile were breaking into a run as they reached the place where their ruthless predecessors had toppled the stone wall, and were racing across a flat-trampled stubble-field. Darik jumped easily over what was left of the wall. Voldi turned toward the old farmhouse and rode on to the stableyard, where a stocky, middle-aged, greying man was stirred to prompt interest in the sleek Arabian horse.
'You like horses, I think,' remarked Voldi, pleasantly.
'I don't know much about them,' replied the farmer. 'Never owned one. That's the finest horse I ever saw.'
'How would you like to take care of him for a little while?' Voldi dismounted, hopefully. Darik tossed his head and snorted.
'Is he dangerous?' inquired the farmer dubiously.
'Tame as a kitten, after he's acquainted. I see you keep bees. Give him a little piece of honeycomb and he'll be one of your best friends. . . . Of course I shall want to pay you for your trouble.'
'You're going over to hear the Carpenter?'
'Thought I would. Quite a crowd. I must see what it's all about. Some kind of religion, isn't it?'
'I haven't heard him,' admitted the farmer. 'I've got to stay on my place and see that the rabble don't carry anything off. If it's religion, it isn't doing them very much good. They trample down as many berry bushes on their way out as on their way in.'
'You could have them all thrown out for trespassing, couldn't you?' suggested Voldi.
'I suppose so,' nodded the farmer; 'but that might cause trouble for the Carpenter. He stopped here, one day last week, for a drink of water.'
'And you were favourably impressed?'
'Bring your horse into the paddock,' said the farmer, ignoring Voldi's query. 'Want him to have a basin of grain?'
'Oh—I'll not be gone that long.'
'I wouldn't be too sure about that,' chuckled the farmer. 'If he gets to healing diseases you may want to stay awhile.'
'You mean—the fellow really does heal the sick?'
'Well, my boy Jake—he's fourteen now—hadn't heard a word since he had the red fever when he was nine. I signed him to draw a bucket of water from the well and give the stranger a drink. The Carpenter took the cup and said, "Thank you, son," and Jake heard it. You should have seen the way his eyes popped open wide!'
'And—now he can hear?'
'Good as you can! Better than I can! Jake's over there now, listening to the Carpenter. He likes to tell about it when the neighbours ask him.' The farmer laughed good-naturedly. 'I can't get much work out of him any more. The boy was quite a help to me before the Carpenter came along. In fact, nobody wants to work since the Carpenter showed up in this country. What time they're not out here listening to him, they're sitting around at home talking it over. I hear that the landowners are complaining about their labourers. Lots of corn still out in the weather. . . . There's going to be plenty of empty bellies this winter.'
* * * * * *
Upon Voldi's arrival at the luxurious new hostel in Caesarea, where he was immediately recognized, welcomed, and accommodated, he learned that an Empire ship, having disembarked a cargo of iron and other building materials, was sailing tomorrow for Rome in ballast, which promised a speedy voyage. Having sought an introduction to the Commander he requested that a letter should be conveyed to Mencius. The Commander, a long-time friend of the Proconsul, gladly complied. Voldi finished the letter at midnight.
He had found Fara (he wrote) employed in the Tetrarch's palace, if Mencius would believe it! Their meeting had been tender, painful, disappointing. Fara was determined to keep her vow. It was inconceivable that she would succeed; or if, by some strange circumstance, she did succeed, it would be at the cost of her life; no question about that! Voldi had done his utmost to dissuade her, had begged her to come back with him to Arabia; but none of his arguments had availed. . . . He would return to her in a few weeks and try again.
Having ended his account of his unsuccessful visit with Fara he proceeded to another subject that he felt would be of immense interest to Mencius.
'Yesterday I saw the Nazarene Carpenter in action. It was said that more than three thousand were present. The assembly had gathered in an open field. Many blind professed to have received their sight, most of them so joyful over their good fortune that it was difficult to disbelieve in the validity of their healing.
'When the crowd dissolved, after the meeting, the lucky ones were surrounded by astonished neighbours and friends whose amazement was too spontaneous to have been feigned. One bewildered fellow, a man of thirty, seemed annoyed when questioned. A circle of scribes and youngish priests blocked his way and asked questions which he was reluctant to answer. He was accompanied by his elderly parents, who appeared to be embarrassed, if not frightened, by the attitude of the critics. When it was obvious that their son was in no mood to discuss the matter, the old people were asked for their opinion of what had happened, to which they replied cautiously, "We do not know. Our son is of age: ask him." The inquisitors then renewed their attack on the young fellow. He tried to shake them off. At length he shouted, almost desperately, "I cannot say what he did to me. All I know is that I was blind and now I can see! . . ." Things have come to a pretty pass in this wicked world when a country's religion denounces a citizen born blind for accepting the gift of sight!