Chapter 5

Having come here to criticize and, if possible, to discover some trickery, the Big Fisherman had approached with a scowl. He was angry at this Carpenter for creating so much hubbub and for trying to deceive a lot of weak-minded people; but, in all honesty, the fellow did not look like an itinerant showman. It wasn’t the impudent face of a juggler, nor was it the brazen voice of a street-hawker with some nostrum to sell. Johnny had been right about the man’s voice. It was calm, deliberate, conversational, as if addressed to a single individual, a personal friend. You had to listen closely or you wouldn’t hear, certainly not from where Simon stood; though it was to be observed that even the people in the forward rows tipped up their good ear. It was not a harangue. And the man was not exerting himself to compel attention. It was indeed a voice such as you had never heard in a public address: it singled you out. You! Yes—Simon—you!

He edged in closer against the backs of his neighbours. A head taller than most, he had no trouble seeing the Carpenter clearly. The man was tired. Surely the people should be able to see that. They had crowded in on him until he had hardly standing-room, nor could he retreat for the great rock immediately behind him. What the Carpenter needed, reflected Simon, was somebody to keep the crowd off him. This heedless pack of curiosity seekers were suffocating him; wearing him out. One would think he might have found at least one friend to stand by and protect him. Perhaps he didn’t want any close friends. Maybe you couldn’t get acquainted with him, even if you wanted to. But that conjecture was not in tune with the tone of the voice that appealed to your spirit of neighbourliness—if not, indeed, to your comradeship. Johnny was right: there was something very strange about the man. Not much wonder the boy had stammered—and groped for words.

Simon’s animosity had cooled now. He had come hopeful of hearing something revolutionary, something seditious; something that would get the Carpenter into trouble. He intended to be on the alert for it; and if he heard anything incriminating, he would be willing to testify when the matter came to court, as it surely would. The rabbis would see to that. They too were eager to show him up as a seditionist. Simon hadn’t given any thought to this phase of the problem, and it now annoyed him to foresee that he might presently be on the side of the rabbis. No—he didn’t want to have anything to do with it personally. Let the patrols and the priests attend to it.

The extreme weariness of the Carpenter made a bid for Simon’s sympathy. If it weren’t for making a spectacle of himself, he would like to get down into that front row and use his elbows. He wouldn’t be above cracking a couple of heads together. Simon had often done that in a general brawl; suddenly grab two handfuls of hair, and whack! It was always effective. Yes, he would enjoy nothing better than a chance to teach these yokels better manners.

The soft voice was talking now about the Day of Atonement. Simon wouldn’t be interested; wondered what the Carpenter could find to say on such a dull subject; surely the multitude wouldn’t have climbed the long hill to listen to that. The farmer in front of him twisted his head around, looked up fretfully, and lifted a cramped shoulder. Simon had unwittingly crowded in on the fellow until he couldn’t stand straight. The sour look suggested that some people should mind their manners and stop pushing—even if they were big as Goliath and knew they could impose on smaller folks. Simon moved back a step and tramped on a squirming toe.