Part 25 (1/2)
”Let your flock shelter by the south wall of the fold: there is good picking there and no wind. Come you and sit with us.”
So they all sat down by the fire; and the sad shepherd ate of their bread, but sparingly, like a man to whom hunger brings a need but no joy in the satisfying of it; and the others were silent for a proper time, out of courtesy. Then the oldest shepherd spoke:
”My name is Zadok the son of Eliezer, of Bethlehem. I am the chief shepherd of the flocks of the Temple, which are before you in the fold. These are my sister's sons, Jotham, and Shama, and Nathan: their father Elkanah is dead; and but for these I am a childless man.”
”My name,” replied the stranger, ”is Ammiel the son of Jochanan, of the city of Bethsaida, by the Sea of Galilee, and I am a fatherless man.”
”It is better to be childless than fatherless,” said Zadok, ”yet it is the will of G.o.d that children should bury their fathers. When did the blessed Jochanan die?”
”I know not whether he be dead or alive. It is three years since I looked upon his face or had word of him.”
”You are an exile, then? he has cast you off?”
”It was the other way,” said Ammiel, looking on the ground.
At this the shepherd Shama, who had listened with doubt in his face, started up in anger. ”Pig of a Galilean,” he cried, ”despiser of parents! breaker of the law! When I saw you coming I knew you for something vile. Why do you darken the night for us with your presence?
You have reviled him who begot you. Away, or we stone you!”
Ammiel did not answer or move. The twisted smile pa.s.sed over his face again as he waited to know the shepherds' will with him, even as he had waited for the robbers. But Zadok lifted his hand.
”Not so hasty, Shama-ben-Elkanah. You also break the law by judging a man unheard. The rabbis have told us that there is a tradition of the elders--a rule as holy as the law itself--that a man may deny his father in a certain way without sin. It is a strange rule, and it must be very holy or it would not be so strange. But this is the teaching of the elders: a son may say of anything for which his father asks him--a sheep, or a measure of corn, or a field, or a purse of silver--'it is Corban, a gift that I have vowed unto the Lord'; and so his father shall have no more claim upon him. Have you said 'Corban'
to your father, Ammiel-ben-Jochanan? Have you made a vow unto the Lord?”
”I have said 'Corban,'” answered Ammiel, lifting his face, still shadowed by that strange smile, ”but it was not the Lord who heard my vow.”
”Tell us what you have done,” said the old man sternly, ”for we will neither judge you, nor shelter you, unless we hear your story.”
”There is nothing in it,” replied Ammiel indifferently. ”It is an old story. But if you are curious you shall hear it. Afterward you shall deal with me as you will.”
So the shepherds, wrapped in their warm cloaks, sat listening with grave faces and watchful, unsearchable eyes, while Ammiel in his tattered silk sat by the sinking fire of thorns and told his tale with a voice that had no room for hope or fear--a cool, dead voice that spoke only of things ended.
II
NIGHTFIRE
”In my father's house I was the second son. My brother was honoured and trusted in all things. He was a prudent man and profitable to the house-hold. All that he counselled was done, all that he wished he had. My place was a narrow one. There was neither honour nor joy in it, for it was filled with daily tasks and rebukes. No one cared for me. My mother sometimes wept when I was rebuked. Perhaps she was disappointed in me. But she had no power to make things better. I felt that I was a beast of burden, fed only in order that I might be useful; and the dull life irked me like an ill-fitting harness. There was nothing in it.
”I went to my father and claimed my share of the inheritance. He was rich. He gave it to me. It did not impoverish him and it made me free.
I said to him 'Corban,' and shook the dust of Bethsaida from my feet.
”I went out to look for mirth and love and joy and all that is pleasant to the eyes and sweet to the taste. If a G.o.d made me, thought I, he made me to live, and the pride of life was strong in my heart and in my flesh. My vow was offered to that well-known G.o.d. I served him in Jerusalem, in Alexandria, in Rome, for his altars are everywhere and men wors.h.i.+p him openly or in secret.
”My money and youth made me welcome to his followers, and I spent them both freely as if they could never come to an end. I clothed myself in purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day. The wine of Cyprus and the dishes of Egypt and Syria were on my table. My dwelling was crowded with merry guests. They came for what I gave them. Their faces were hungry and their soft touch was like the clinging of leeches. To them I was nothing but money and youth; no longer a beast of burden--a beast of pleasure. There was nothing in it.
”From the richest fare my heart went away empty, and after the wildest banquet my soul fell drunk and solitary into sleep.
”Then I thought, Power is better than pleasure. If a man will feast and revel let him do it with the great. They will favour him and raise him up for the service that he renders them. He will obtain place and authority in the world and gain many friends. So I joined myself to Herod.”
When the sad shepherd spoke this name his listeners drew back from him as if it were a defilement to hear it. They spat upon the ground and cursed the Idumean who called himself their king.