Chapter 6

The well-kept driveway was rougher than usual—doubtless cut up by the hooves of the Tetrarch’s pack-train—and Simon found himself slipping and stumbling over the loose gravel. He laughed aloud as he tried to mend his lurching gait and hummed a little tune. He wanted to sing. It had been a long time since he had loosed his big, deep, roaring voice. An old chant came back to him out of his early childhood. In the well-remembered, low-pitched monotone of the Synagogue cantor, he began the plaintive recitative:

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving-kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge—

He broke off abruptly and muttered a savage imprecation as he realized the meaning of the ancient Atonement Day hymn that, as a little boy, he had learned by rote; learned so thoroughly that the words had no significance at all; just an august procession of sonorous words intricately woven into a haunting tune. Simon cursed himself bitterly. Was he never to be delivered, then, from these dour broodings that flowed in the milk and the blood of the Jew? Was he—by nature—beyond the reach of any happiness? In a mood to sing and to sing gaily, the only song he knew was a whimpering cry of guilt!

But now it occurred to Simon that he did know another song, a ribald sailor’s ditty. Sometimes his men guardedly hummed it deep in their throats, knowing better than to articulate the dirty words; for the Big Fisherman, eloquently profane as he was, hated obscenities. Scornful now of all the self-flogging hymns wailed into his childhood by sanctimonious old Jonas, he sang the sailors’ song as loudly as he could yell, defiantly bellowing the filthiest words as if he wanted God Himself to hear—and be hurt!

At the end of it, he laughed hysterically, laughed until his eyes were so wet he couldn’t see the road, and found his sleeve caught in the shrubbery. It sobered him a little. The sound of his idiotic laughter resounded in his whirling head. He shambled back on to the road, hoarsely muttering that he was a fool: a damned, drunken fool!

He was nearing the highway now and its quietness warned him to cease his racket. There was a complete absence of the customary clank and clatter of vehicular traffic. Any man who pushed a barrow or drove a donkey-cart today would do so at the expense of his reputation for decency. The few pedestrians moved slowly, out of respect for the day. Meeting them, Simon bowed gravely, as if he too were mindful of the occasion. His recent sensation of reckless joy was completely dimmed out now.

At the wharf he stumbled awkwardly into a dory, sat down heavily, and began pulling toward the fleet. The vigorous exercise immediately fatigued him. His arms were heavy and the oars sliced splashes of water into the boat. Had he caught one of his boys pounding the lake as if flailing a threshing-floor, the Big Fisherman would have paid him off and kicked him out. He was weak with nausea and dripping with sweat when, at length, he pulled up under the prow of The Abigail.