Chapter 7

‘We wanted to get as much done as we could,’ said the grey-thatched farmer, strolling toward Simon. ‘Not much work being done in these parts just now—everybody scurrying off to listen to this fellow from Nazareth.’

‘Where is he today?’ inquired Simon. ‘I should like to see him.’

‘There’s no telling, exactly,’ said the farmer. ‘He moves around.’

‘Yesterday he was about six miles from here,’ said the oldest boy, ‘over beyond Hammath.’

‘Were you there?’ asked Simon.

‘The family went over in the afternoon,’ said the farmer. ‘I heard him talk, about a week ago, over here on the hill. Didn’t think much of it. He was saying we should love our enemies. I don’t hold with that kind of talk. Though I’m not saying he isn’t a good speaker. You can hardly take your eyes off him.’

‘Big crowd yesterday?’ Simon asked the young man.

‘Bigger every day!’ bragged the youth, as if he were part of the show. ‘Nothing ever like it in this country!’

‘Tell me about it, won’t you?’ said Simon, squatting on his heels.

At this they gathered about him, and sat, apparently eager to talk. It was plain on their faces that the subject was already well-worn—but by no means worn out. They all contributed to the conversation. Very strange doings. Very strange talk. They were agreed on that. As for the particulars, the testimony failed, in some respects, to add up.

‘The trouble is,’ explained the woman, ‘the crowd is so big you can’t get close enough to see rightly what’s going on.’

‘I saw him cure an old man who couldn’t hear,’ put in the youngest boy. ‘He danced up and down, he was so glad.’

‘But you didn’t know whether the old man was deaf or not,’ cautioned his father. ‘He might have been putting it on.’

‘He claimed he was deaf—and now he could hear,’ declared the lad doggedly.

‘All old people have more or less trouble with their hearing,’ commented his mother.

‘And sometimes they can hear better than other times,’ added his little sister. ‘Father’s like that.’

‘Never mind,’ mumbled her mother.

‘But the sick woman on the cot,’ said the tall boy. ‘She really was sick. She wasn’t putting it on: I’m sure of that!’

‘Yes,’ confirmed his brother, ‘she got up and walked away after Jesus spoke to her.’

‘But not very lively,’ demurred their mother. ‘She leaned on her son’s arm; pretty heavily too.’

That’s the way it would be, thought the older girl—if she hadn’t walked for a long time.