Chapter 7

Once out of Hannah’s sight, Esther abruptly slowed her scamper to match the aimless amble of the dissolving holiday crowd, and sauntered casually alongside the northbound groups of chattering women.

It was a relief to find herself unnoticed by her fellow pedestrians, whose low-pitched voices seemed completely preoccupied with a review of the Tetrarch’s cavalcade; or, at least, Esther surmised that this was the subject under discussion, though it was difficult to make out exactly what they were saying. The Galilean inflection of Aramaic had a tendency to slur a half dozen words into one, and when spoken rapidly took on a singular cadence that tipped every sentence up on end, making it sound like a query.

Inconspicuous in Abigail’s simple country dress, Esther strolled along at the verge of the highway, busy with her own accumulation of problems. She had had no intention of trying to overtake Simon and make-believe she was searching for her fictitious Uncle Joseph. She was simply killing time until the eminent David, having concluded his conversation with Hannah, should have returned home. Then she would feel safe to retrace her steps to Bethsaida.

This deeply learned and widely travelled lawyer’s almost reverential respect for her had been most disturbing. It was obvious that the shrewd old man had done some expert guessing about her identity. Her identity!—the thought produced a pensive, momentary smile. David wondered who she was. Well—who was she? Of late she had been required to change her identity so often that she was a bit bewildered about it herself.

It was amazing, reflected Esther, what one could do to one’s own mind if some emergency demanded the practice of a deceit that involved self-deception also. To masquerade successfully as a boy was a serious and hazardous business. It wasn’t enough to pretend she was a boy. To cut off her long hair and put on a man’s clothing was the smallest part of it. The deception had required diligent, earnest, relentless concentration. Even when alone and unobserved, she had hardened her face, lengthened her stride, swaggered, scowled, growled and spat. Every little feminine trick of posture or gesture was critically examined and corrected. She practised walking with her feet wide apart; was mindful to keep her fingers away from her throat and make them into fists; kept her elbows away from her ribs, and swung her arms like a soldier.

John, the baptizer, had discovered her secret; that had been her own fault. The strong breeze on the hill-top that morning had moulded her clothing tightly to her form. But for this carelessness of hers, the hermit might never have suspected. She had been lucky throughout the whole adventure.

When, however, it had become quite impossible to deceive Hannah, she had accomplished her reconversion to her own sex with a minimum of effort. She had dressed in Abigail’s clothes from the skin out, tucking her own underclothing deep in the bottom of the old chest. Now she was Esther. But, curiously enough, the abandonment of her studied role as a boy had suddenly affected her memory of all the experiences she had had while playing that part. No—she hadn’t forgotten them completely; but they were faded, distorted, as if viewed dimly through a clouded glass. It was a queer sensation, being Esther.

Nor was that all that had happened to her mind now that she had taken on a new personality. This Esther had to account for herself. It wasn’t sufficient to stop being a camel-boy, fugitive from a caravan. It was imperative that Esther should contrive—and at very short notice, too—a new explanation for her presence in Galilee. So she had invented an uncle for whom she was searching. Aware that she mustn’t take the risk of impromptu replies to the inevitable queries about this relative, she had elaborately created an Uncle Joseph whom almost anyone should be able to recognize from her detailed description. Uncle Joseph became as real to her as rain! He had a short, grizzled beard; his near-sightedness gave him the appearance of peering impudently into your face, though he really wasn’t that sort of person, at all; rather shy and reticent, indeed. Uncle Joseph was bald and slightly stooped and walked with a limp. Yes—he had broken his leg when a boy and it had lamed him; not badly enough to interfere with his work. He had a friendly smile, though he never had much to say. All that—and plenty more—had Esther contrived about Uncle Joseph.