Four

But this was again put out of his mind at the evening meal that night, when John's father told him that Andrew and Simon were going to Jerusalem in a month or so (which John already knew, of course), and that he had arranged for John to accompany them, and while he was there, to see Annas, with the possibility that he might next year begin studies to be a rabbi. "I have had communications with him, and he seems to think it might be achieved. If you would write for me a letter of introduction that I will dictate, then I can sign it, and have you bring it to him. You can be my scribe."

John burst with pride. "I will do my very best, Abba."

"I am sure you will; and it will be satisfactory. I may even tell him who took down the letter."

John could hardly contain himself. A whole new life! His mind was filled with impossible visions; he pictured himself an old man, writing down revelations of winged creatures and seas of glass.

But his reverie was shattered by a neighbor who came in to tell them that Samuel and Thomas were missing, and that Malachi was looking for volunteers for a search party. John leaped up, and James and Zebedee joined the neighbor. It was already dark, and they went to the boats, with the idea that an accident had happened on the lake.

But before they got far, someone shouted from the shore that the search was over. John's heart leaped, and then sank when the man shouted, "One of them is dead--I know not which, they are so the same. They were found on the shore."

"Is the other one safe?" John shouted, hoping that it was Samuel. But what happened to Thomas?

"Malachi found them, and he is saying nothing. He wishes no assistance. He says that he will take care of it himself. We are to go home, he says. He is, of course, devastated."

So they re-anchored the boats, and went back to their houses, wondering what had happened, and why Malachi did not want their help. At least one of his sons was dead, and the other must be injured or something. No one could understand it

--but John.

He very much feared that Samuel had followed his advice that morning and confronted Thomas, and that they had fought--and Thomas must have killed him.

He tried not to believe it. "But how could a drunk kill that strong man?" Surely Samuel could not have killed Thomas! He would never have done such a thing; he had said that he would give his life if it would save Thomas! No, it must be Samuel who was dead. But it must have been an accident! Thomas would not kill his brother for telling him what he needed to be told! Something else must have happened.

And John kept inventing useless scenarios, as one does when one knows no facts and simply is trying to make sense out of something that cannot make sense. He even once railed against the Master for letting such a thing happen. "How could you permit it? You say that you love us and wish the best for us! How could this be the best for anyone? For anyone? Samuel, the good brother, is dead, and the drunk still lives. And I will wager, has drunk himself into insensibility, and his father found him thus, and could not face the disgrace of having anyone else see him in that condition! And now what will happen? It is the worst of the worst!"

"And it is my fault! If I had not been so furious, and had let myself think, I could probably have see that the very worst thing to do would be to confront a drunk so suddenly with what he was doing--and in a boat! I actually told him to do it in a boat, in that little two-man boat they had, ready to tip over at the slightest carelessness--and I told him to grab the pouch and fling it into the sea! It would have been bound to overset the boat! How could I have been so stupid?"

And these and similar thoughts went marching through his mind the whole night, and when he rose the next morning, they were confirmed by the rumors that had spread. It seemed that Samuel and Thomas were found on the shore near where they were accustomed to anchor their boat, and the boat, and even the oars, had drifted up beside them, the boat, some said, overturned, while others said it had been righted and beached.

Thomas, it was said, was naked, and was completely drunk, with an empty wine pouch of some sort over his privates. This was attested to by a companion of Malachi, who only caught a glimpse of the situation before Malachi bellowed for him to leave immediately, that he would see to everything himself and wanted no help, no help at all.

Before he was driven away, the man got the briefest of looks at Samuel's head, with a huge ugly gash on it; it seemed to him that he would have to have bled quickly to death.

Those who had known or suspected that Thomas had a drinking problem understood and sympathized with Malachi, who they later watched from a considerable distance (out of sight of him) put a covering over Thomas and carry him, all but a corpse, the short distance to their house, after which he came back for the body of poor Samuel, and took him inside also. He then came back, and some said righted the boat and put the oars inside it, and wept over it as he beached it properly.

And then went in. They saw him no more that day.

The following day, which happened to be a Sabbath, they did not, of course, go out to fish; but they probably would not have gone in any case, in sympathy for the tragedy, which had stunned the whole fishing community. While at the synagogue, they heard that the funeral for Samuel was to take place on the morrow. Zebedee, of course, said that he and his family would attend.

John doubted that he would have been able to go out fishing that day; he doubted that he would ever be able to go fishing again, or do anything else. He spent both days moping and cursing himself.

But for some reason Jesus's mother had heard of the accident, and, because of the ties she had with Zebedee and the boat her husband built, she came to the funeral. She of all people was the one John could talk to about this, and when he saw her at the side of the congregation, he thanked the Master for bringing her there. She would know what to tell him; she could make some sense out of this disaster, if anyone could.

After the ceremony was over, she made, in her quiet way, to return to Nazareth, merely offering--like everyone else--brief condolences to Thomas's parents (Thomas was not there; John wondered if he were ill--or still drunk). They obviously were not to be condoled; the jolt they had received was so great that they were numb and could barely speak, and merely wanted to get everything over and done with and return home.

John had already seen them, and, incapable of saying anything, merely held a hand of each and looked tearfully into each face, turning away before he broke down completely. The mother's face spoke volumes, but the father was like flint, and merely grunted whenever sound was called for. Everyone did what had to be done, because it had to be done, but did no more, the parents because they were incapable of it, and everyone else not to cause any more distress than absolutely necessary.

As soon, however, as he saw Mary leave the parents, he went up to her and said, "Might I speak with you apart for a moment, my lady?"

"John, is it? My goodness, you are a man indeed, now!"

"It is John--or what is left of him."

"What is the matter? Come, let us go over here and sit on this bench."

They sat down, and John looked around. "Do you think anyone will hear?"

"No one is paying any attention, and they are all going off to their homes. We will be as private here as we could be anywhere."

John looked down at his hands, and said nothing.

"How can I help you?" Mary said soothingly.

"I know not if anyone can help me; but I must speak to someone, and you have been so kind to me." He lapsed into silence again.

"What is it, John? Is it something you did?"

He looked into her face, and suddenly tears gushed from his eyes, and he blurted, "Oh, my lady, I--I think I killed him!"

"Samuel?"

John wept. She waited until the storm was over, and said, "Why do you think that?"

"You see, I--the day before, I--he told me that Thomas drank, and--and I told him that he must confront him and take his pouch of wine and throw it into the sea, and--and it seems he did do so, and--I should have realized that confronting him in that tiny boat would overset it, and apparently it did do so and hit Samuel on the head somehow, they say he had a big gash on his head and must have bled to death from it, and if I had not been such a fool! it would never have happened!" He burst into tears again.

Mary waited patiently once again, and then said, "Would you say that Thomas killed his brother?"

"Do you mean do I think he tried to murder him?"

"Or wanted him dead. It seems likely, think you not, that it was an accident because they were struggling over the pouch of wine?"

"It must have been so. Thomas would never kill his twin. If Samuel threw it into the sea, Thomas probably jumped after it, and that was what overset the boat."

"Then you would not say that Thomas was guilty of killing Samuel."

John thought about it. "No, of course not. Not really. Of course not. It was an accident."

"Then how are you guilty of killing him?"

"It is not the same!"

"Why not?"

"Because I put them into the situation where the accident could happen! I should have known it would!"

"Do you think Samuel himself might have foreseen that struggling in that small boat was very dangerous?"

"Of course he might have; but he was so concerned that it probably never occurred to him!"

"Then you do not think he was to blame for his own death."

John began to see what she was trying to say. "You mean that even though he could have foreseen it, he probably--certainly--did not foresee it, and no one would hold him guilty of bringing about his own death. And so--" he lapsed into silence.

"And so," she finished, "even though you could have foreseen what your advice would bring about, you did not do so, and so why should you find yourself guilty of his death?"

"Because I was counseling him what to do. I should have thought that it might happen, and not told him to seize the pouch in the boat."

"Perhaps we can say that. If you had calmly thought the whole matter through, you would have given different advice; so what you were guilty of, it seems to me, is rashness, not murder. You had no idea what the consequences of your advice might be, because you did not think them through. You are young, John, and young people do not see that actions--and advice--have many consequences, and not only the ones one desires or intends."

"I would I could erase the whole thing!"

"Often and often, John, we do things and wish afterwards that we could erase them. But what is done is done. The first thing that one should do in such a situation is to learn from it to try to prevent it from happening again; and to do that, one must know what wrong it was that one actually did. In your case, it was giving advice--or, I would say, acting in general--without paying attention to the consequences. So when you are tempted to act without thinking, stop and examine what you plan to do, and say, 'What is likely to happen if I do this?' And only after thinking, act."

John paused and thought. "What you say makes sense. But will I be capable of doing it?"

"Ah, that is another story. Perhaps not always. But what one should do is try. The Master does not ask for success, but that we try. And if we try, he can bring good out of what we do."

"You mean that he could bring good out of this? One brother dead, and the other still a drunk?"

"One never knows, John. You see, I believe--I know--that not one thing happens in this world that is not under the absolute control of the Master, and that he loves us, and if we try to serve him, whatever we do will finally turn out to be the best thing that could have been done."

"I cannot see how this could be best for anyone!"

"Perhaps not, but the Master can. He knows what he is doing."

"I do not understand."

"Well, this mistake of yours--for it was a mistake, not malice--will make a difference in your life; it has made a difference in your life. You came to me, and we have made some sense out of it. And you no longer need accuse yourself of killing your friend. You had some part in what led to his death, but it was an accident; and the Master knows how to manage accidents. You will see eventually."

John was silent. He still did not really believe it.

"Be careful, John," she said. "One often wishes to take blame upon oneself because he wishes to think he is in control of everything. And we are not. The Master is the only one in control of everything; and we must recognize that we are not the Master. He does not expect us to know everything, because he is aware that only he knows everything; and that is why I said that he does not expect success, but that we try. What are we? Feeble insects crawling about before him, but insects that for some reason he loves. He knows that we are but insects, and it is for us not to pretend that we are more."

He thought again. "I suppose that you are right."

I understand from your mother that soon you are to go to Jerusalem, to see about studying to be a rabbi."

"Yes; in a month or so."

"Jesus has gone into that area. He also is about to begin a new life. It may be that you will see him there; and if you do, he will be able to help you in a way in which I cannot."

"A new life?"

"If you see him, you will find that it is indeed a new life."

"You are being very mysterious."

"Well, I do not wish to reveal anything prematurely. It will become obvious soon, I think." She stared off at the horizon. "I rather think you will meet him. But we shall see."

John did not quite know what to say. He sat in silence for a while, and then finally said, "Well, I do not wish to take more of your time. Thank you for paying attention to me; I could not have told anyone but you." As he said this, they rose, and went to the place where her donkey was tethered. She undid the bridle, and mounted.

"Fear not, John. Trust the Master."

"I will try, my Lady."

"As I said, that is all he asks. Peace.

"Peace."

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