Chapter 8

It was on the same morning, but much earlier—the morning of the twenty-sixth day of Tishri, a date to be remembered—that Simon rose from his uncomfortable narrow bunk on shipboard, resolved that he would go again today into the country and hear Jesus speak.

And he was resolved also that if circumstances permitted he would try to stand close enough to the Carpenter to be of some aid in keeping the selfish, jostling multitude from wearing the man out with their thoughtless importunities. He had slept hardly at all, last night, for thinking about this, imagining himself standing protectingly at Jesus’ side, keeping the crowd back, admonishing the cot bearers to take their time and remain in line, and not push in ahead of others who had got there first. Surely someone should be doing this for Jesus—and why not he? For he was tall and strong, and the people might listen to his demand that they keep in order. He was quite alone on the ship, having sent young Thad home at nightfall. He had wanted to be alone, for his thoughts were incommunicable and he did not want the boy to be bewildered and distressed by his moody silence.

A greyish-blue light was showing faintly in the east, presaging dawn. The autumn mist hung low on the water, obscuring the beach.

Simon walked forward, lowered a bucket, and carried the water into the little galley where he washed his face. Then he broke one of the barley loaves that Hannah had sent him and emerged from the galley, munching the bread dutifully but without relish, for he was wholly preoccupied with his thoughts about the day’s possible adventures.

Strolling aft, he climbed over the side of The Abigail, boarded The Sara, and sauntered across to her starboard taffrail, where he stood scanning the faraway eastern mountains. The whole range would show pink presently. His eyes drifted about to the northwesterly shore. If the fog lifted a little, he might be able to see whether Japheth’s old boat was still afloat. He thought he heard a voice on the shore, and turned about, narrowing his eyes in an effort to pierce the fog, but he could see nothing. ‘Halloo!’ he called, funnelling his lips with his hands. ‘Halloo!’ came the voice—and Simon wondered if it might be an echo; but—no—it didn’t sound like his voice. His heart was beating strangely. He waited and listened, cupping his ear with his hand.

The dawn was coming now, coming fast, leaping over the mountains, pouring down upon the sea. Leaning far across the rail, Simon peered hard into the dissolving mist that enveloped the shore. He made out a dim figure standing on the beach, close to the water’s edge.

The stranger waved his upraised arm, and Simon—after a moment of indecision—put up his hand and waved it. The fog was lifting. Again the stranger waved his hand, and called: ‘Simon!’