Chapter 12

‘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.