Chapter 19

‘It was up there,’ he declaimed impressively, ‘that the great prophet Elijah lived! Right up there where you see that notch!’

‘Indeed!’ murmured Esther.

The old man fell back to inform the others and Myra moved in close beside her friend.

‘Tell me more about this wonderful man Elijah,’ said Esther.

‘He lived centuries ago,’ drawled Myra, ‘lived alone, and important people came to him for advice. He was very poor. Once he was so hard up that the ravens brought food to him.’

‘How did they know he was hungry?’ inquired Esther.

Myra chuckled, a bit irreverently.

‘Because he ate what they thought was good, I suppose. A man would have to be pretty hungry to enjoy a raven’s choice of victuals.’

‘You’re incorrigible, Myra!’ laughed Esther. ‘It’s a good thing your grandfather didn’t hear you say that.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Myra. ‘He wouldn’t like it. He dotes on all these old miracle-yarns, handed down from long ago…And Joel can talk of little else than the miracles of his wonderful Carpenter… Me?—I don’t believe in any of it! I hate the whole business of miracles!’

At noon on the day the Romans called ‘Monday’ they entered the Holy City through the ancient Damascus Gate and proceeded directly to the Temple, as was the custom of pilgrims to the Passover. Having paid their respects there, the party from Capernaum would go, as usual, to the home of wealthy Uncle Boaz in Bethany. Myra, with the full approval of the family, had invited Esther to be their guest. That would be quite agreeable, they all said, to their hospitable Uncle Boaz.

Jerusalem was very old and showed many battle-scars. The thoroughfare they travelled was a bewildering hodge-podge of dilapidated antiquities built of sun-baked brick, dwarfed by magnificent modern structures in marble. The cobbled street was crowded with all manner of traffic, on foot and on wheels. Camel-caravans and heavily laden donkey-trains pushed the pedestrians to the narrow sidewalks. Beggars whined and thrust out their basins. ‘Make way there!’ barked the mounted patrols in their gaudy Roman uniforms as they cleared a corridor for some haughty procession of black robes. It was very confusing to people from the country.

Myra, who had been here several times before and was able to identify the most prominent buildings, walked arm-in-arm with Esther…There was the Procurator’s Insula, a breath-taking achievement in Roman architecture…A little farther on, Myra pointed out the palace of the High Priest, Caiaphas, a massive old weather-beaten pile of marble. It was grim as a fort. The shutters at the high windows were tightly closed. A dozen sentries strutted slowly to and fro on the broad terrace.