Authors: Unknown
The dramatic story had been told with fervour, told with an old man's
verbosity, but without excitement. Bartholomew wasn't trying to persuade you;
nor was he trying to convert you. He had nothing to sell. Justus had asked him
to tell about that storm, and he had done so. Perhaps it was his first
opportunity for so complete a recital of all its incidents. Certainly it was
the first time he had ever told the story to someone who hadn't heard it.
Shortly after Demetrius had set off alone, that morning, the little
caravan had proceeded slowly down the winding road to the valley; had skirted
the sparsely populated lake-shore to Tiberias where the ostentatious Roman
palaces on the hills accented the squalor of the water-front; had followed the
beach street through the city; had passed the frowning old fort, and entered
the sprawling suburbs of Capernaum.
Jonathan had been promised a brief visit with Thomas--and the donkey; so
they had turned off into a side street where, after many inquiries, they had
found the little house and an enthusiastic welcome. Upon the urgent persuasion
of Thomas and his mother, Jonathan was left with them, to be picked up on the
morrow. Everybody agreed that the donkey recognized Jonathan, though the elders
privately suspected that the sugar which had been melting in the little boy's
warm hand for the past two hours might have accounted partly for Jasper's
flattering feat of memory.
Regaining the principal thoroughfare, they had moved on toward the
business centre of the town which had figured so prominently in Justus's
recollections of Jesus. They had halted for a moment in front of Lydia's home,
and Justus was for making a brief call, but Marcellus dissuaded him as it was
nearing midday and a visit might be inopportune.
The central plaza had seemed familiar. The synagogue--ironically more
Roman than Jewish in its architecture, which was understandable because
Centurion Hortensius had furnished the money--spread its marble steps fanwise
into the northern boundary of the spacious square, exactly as Marcellus had
pictured it; for it was from these steps that Jesus had addressed massed
multitudes of thousands. It was almost deserted now, except for the beggars,
tapping on the pavement with their empty bowls; for everybody who had a home to
go to was at his noonday meal.
Marcellus felt he had been here many times before. Indeed he was so
preoccupied with identifying the cherished landmarks that he almost forgot they
were to have met Demetrius here. Justus had reminded him, and Marcellus had
looked about apprehensively. It would be a very awkward situation if Demetrius
had been arrested. He had no relish for an interview with old Julian; not while
on his present mission. Justus relieved his anxiety somewhat by saying he had
told Demetrius where they would make camp, on the grounds of the old Shalum
Inn; but what could be detaining Demetrius in the meantime?
'Perhaps he misunderstood me,' suggested Justus.
'It's possible,' agreed Marcellus, 'but unlikely. Demetrius has a good
ear for instructions.'
They had sauntered down to the beach, strewn with fishing-boats drawn up
on the shingle, leaving the donkey-boy to keep an eye open for Demetrius.
Justus had suggested that they eat their lunch on the shore. After waiting a
half-hour for the Greek to appear, they had packed their lunch kit and
proceeded northward, Marcellus anxious but still hopeful of meeting his loyal
slave at the inn. It was a quiet spot--the Inn of Ben-Shalum, with spacious
grounds for travellers carrying their own camping equipment. No one had seen
anything of a tall Greek slave. Hastily unpacking, they put up the tent in the
shade of two tall sycamores, and made off toward the home of Bartholomew, a
little way up the suburban street.
And now the old man had ended the story they had come to hear. In its
preliminary phases, episodes had been introduced which bore no closer relation
to the eventful storm than that they had occurred on the same day. Jesus had
been very weary that night; so weary that he had slept at the height of the
gale and had had to be awakened when it became clear that the little ship was
foundering. Such deep fatigue had to be accounted for; so Bartholomew had
elaborated the day's activities.
Sometimes, for a considerable period, the husky old voice would settle
deep in the sparse white beard and rumble on in an almost inaudible monotone,
and you knew that Bartholomew had deserted you and Justus for the great crowd
that sat transfixed on a barren coast--a weary, wistful, hungry multitude of
self-contained people who, in the melting warmth of Jesus' presence, had
combined into one sympathetic family, for the sharing of their food.
'A clean, bright lad,' Bartholomew was mumbling to himself; 'a nephew of
Lydia's, who had none of her own; he spent most of his time at her house. She
had packed his little basket.'
And then, suddenly remembering his guests, Bartholomew had roused from
his reverie to tell Marcellus all about Lydia's strange healing; and Justus had
not intervened with a hint that their young Roman friend had already heard of
her experience. Having finished with Lydia--and Jairus, too, whose little
daughter had been marvellously restored that day--the old man had drifted back
to his memories of the remarkable feast in the desert.
'The boy must have been sitting at the Master's feet,' he soliloquized,
with averted eyes. 'He must have been sitting there all the time; for when
Jesus said we would now eat our supper, there he was, as if he had popped up
from nowhere, holding out his little basket.'
It had taken Bartholomew a long time to tell of that strange supper; the
sharing of bread, the new acquaintances, the breaking down of reserve among
strangers, the tenderness toward the old ones and the little ones. . . . And
then the tempo of the tale speeded. Wisps of chill wind lashed the parched
weeds. Dark clouds rolled up from the north-east. The old man swept them on
with a beckoning arm; black clouds that had suddenly darkened the sky. There
was a low muttering of thunder. The crowd grew apprehensive. The people were
scrambling to their feet, gathering up their families, breaking into a run. The
long procession was on its way home.
Darkness came on fast, the lowering black clouds lanced by slim, jagged,
red-hot spears that spilled torrents splashing on to the sun-parched sand.
Philip was for rushing to shelter in the little village of Bethsaida, two miles
east. Peter was for beaching the big boat and using the mainsail for cover. And
when they had all finished making suggestions, Jesus said they would embark at
once and return to Capernaum.
'He said we had nothing to fear,' went on Bartholomew, 'but we were
afraid, nevertheless. Some of them tried to reason with him. I said nothing,
myself. Old men are timid,' he paused to interpolate directly to Marcellus.
'When there are dangers to be faced, old men should keep still, for there's
little they can do, in any case.'
'I should have thought,' commented Marcellus, graciously, 'that an
elderly man's experience would make him a wise counsellor--on any occasion.'
'Not in a storm, young man!' declared Bartholomew. 'An old man may give
you good advice, under the shade of a fig tree, on a sunny afternoon; but--not
in a storm!'
The boat had been anchored in the lee of a little cove, but it was with
great difficulty that they had struggled through the waves and over the side.
Unutterably weary, Jesus had dropped down on the bare bench near the tiller and
they had covered him up with a length of drenched sailcloth.
Manning the oars, they had manoeuvred into open water, had put out a
little jib and promptly hauled it in, the tempest suddenly mounting in fury. No
one of them, Bartholomew said, had ever been out in such a storm. Now the boat
was tossed high on the crest, now it was swallowed up, gigantic waves broke
over their heads, the flood pounded them off their seats and twisted the oars
out of their hands. The tortured little ship was filling rapidly. All but four
oars had been abandoned now. The rest of the crew were bailing frantically. But
the water was gaining on them. And Jesus slept!
Justus broke into the narrative here, as Bartholomew--whose vivid memory
of that night's hard work with a bailing-bucket brought big beads of
perspiration out on his deep-lined forehead--had paused to wield his palm-leaf
fan.
'You thought Jesus should get up and help, didn't you?' Justus was
grinning broadly.
The old man's lips twitched with a self-reproachful smile.
'Well,' he admitted, 'perhaps we did think that after getting us into
this trouble he might take a hand at one of the buckets. Of course,' he
hastened to explain, 'we weren't quite ourselves. We were badly shaken. It was
getting to be a matter of life or death. And we were completely exhausted--the
kind of exhaustion that makes every breath whistle and burn.'
'And so you shouted to him,' prodded Justus.
'Yes! We shouted to him!' Bartholomew turned to address Marcellus. '
I
shouted to him! "Master!" I called. "We are going to drown! The
boat is sinking! Don't you care?"' The old man dropped his head and winced
at the memory. 'Yes,' he muttered, contritely, '
I
said that--to my
Master.'
After a moment's silence, Bartholomew gave a deep sigh, and continued.
Jesus had stirred, had sat up, had stretched out his long, strong arms, had
rubbed his fingers through his drenched hair.
'Not alarmed?' inquired Marcellus.
'Jesus was never alarmed!' retorted Bartholomew, indignantly. 'He rose
to his feet and started forward, wading through the water, hands reaching up to
steady him as he made for the housing of the mainmast. Climbing up on the heavy
planking, he stood for a moment with one arm around the mast, looking out upon
the towering waves. Then he raised both arms high. We gasped, expecting him to
be pitched overboard. He held both hands outstretched--and spoke! It was not a
shrill shout. It was rather as one might soothe a frightened animal.
"Peace!" he said. "Peace! Be still!"'
The climax of the story had been built up to such intensity that
Marcellus found his heart speeding. He leaned forward and stared wide-eyed into
the old man's face.
'Then what?' he demanded.
'The storm was over,' declared Bartholomew.
'Not
immediately!'
protested Marcellus.
Bartholomew deliberately raised his arm and snapped his brittle old
fingers.
'Like
that!'
he exclaimed.
'And the stars came out,' added Justus.
'I don't remember,' murmured Bartholomew.
'Philip said the stars came out,' persisted Justus, quietly.
'That may be,' nodded Bartholomew. 'I don't remember.'
'Some have said that the boat was immediately dry,' murmured Justus,
with a little twinkle in his eyes as if anticipating the old man's
contradiction.
'That was a mistake,' sniffed Bartholomew. 'Some of us bailed out water
all the way back to Capernaum. Whoever reported that should have been helping.'
'How did you all feel about this strange thing?' asked Marcellus.
'We hadn't much to say,' remembered Bartholomew. 'I think we were
stunned. There had been so much confusion--and now everything was quiet. The
water, still coated with foam, was calm as a pond. As for me, I experienced a
peculiar sensation of peace. Perhaps the words that Jesus spoke to the storm
had stilled us too--in our hearts.'
'And what did
he
do?' asked Marcellus.
'He went back to the bench by the tiller and sat down,' replied
Bartholomew. 'He gathered his robe about him, for he was wet and chilled. After
a while he turned to us, smiled reproachfully, and said, as if speaking to
little children, "Why were you so frightened?" Nobody ventured to
answer that. Perhaps he didn't expect us to say anything. Presently he
reclined, with his arm for a pillow, and went to sleep again.'
'Are you sure he was asleep?' asked Justus.
'No, but he was very quiet and his eyes were closed. Perhaps he was
thinking. Everyone thought he was asleep. There was very little talk. We moved
to the centre of the boat and looked into each other's faces. I remember
Philip's whispering, "What manner of man is this--that even the winds and
waves obey him?"'
The story was finished. Marcellus, for whose benefit the tale had been
told, knew they were waiting for him to say whether he believed it. He sat
bowed far forward in his chair, staring into the little basket he had made of
his interlaced fingers. Bartholomew wasn't wilfully lying. Bartholomew was
perfectly sane. But--by all the gods!--you couldn't believe a story like
that!
A man--speaking to a storm! Speaking to a storm as he might to a stampeded
horse! And that storm obeying his command! No!--you couldn't have any of
that!
He felt Justus's friendly eyes inquiring. Presently he straightened a little,
and shook his head.
'Very strange!' he muttered, without looking up. 'Very strange indeed!'
The afternoon was well advanced when the grey-haired captain of the
guard came down to free the legionary who had sliced off the ear of a visiting
fellow-in-arms from Minoa.
Demetrius listened attentively at the little window in his door as his
neighbour's bolt was drawn, hoping to overhear some conversation relative to
the prisoner's release; but was disappointed. Neither man had spoken. The heavy
door was swung back and the legionary had emerged. The captain of the guard had
preceded him down the dusky corridor. The sound of their sandals, scraping on
the stone floor, died away.
Shortly afterwards there was a general stir throughout the prison;
guttural voices; unbolting of doors and rattling of heavy earthenware bowls and
basins; the welcome sound of splashing water. Feeding time had arrived and was
being greeted with the equivalent of pawing hoofs, clanking chains, and
nostril-fluttering whimpers in a stable. Demetrius's mouth and throat were dry;
his tongue a clumsy wooden stick. His head throbbed. He couldn't remember ever
having been so thirsty; not even in the loathsome prisonship on the way from
Corinth to Rome, long years ago.