Eight
Eventually, John did get to sleep that night. He was young and healthy, and he did not actually spend much time tossing ideas, worries, and experiences around; it only seemed that way. He woke to the sound of the bell, completely at a loss as to where he was for some moments; and then yesterday, with all its concerns, flooded back to him.
He had been told that on rising, all bathed. As he had hung up Daniel's tunic on one of the pegs near the door, he noted that his tunic and mantle were there on two of the other pegs. He would not need the mantle as long as they were inside or in the courtyard, of course, since the weather was quite warm, not to say even hot, but it was ready, just in case, relieved of its fishiness (he sniffed at it just to make sure, but it too smelt of soap).
He emerged, wearing his tunic and carrying Daniel's, certain that he would find him and be able to return it, and sure enough, almost as soon as he stepped out of the door, there he was, with his smile. "You slept well?" asked Daniel.
"Very," he answered. "Here is your tunic. I am grateful for the loan of it."
"It was nothing. I was happy to do it." John suspected he was, once he saw him.
"I was thinking of having it washed before I gave it to you, but I knew not how to go about it."
"Oh, one leaves ones things for Hannah, but do not bother. You only wore it one afternoon, after all." He spoke casually enough, but John had a suspicion that he was not averse to wearing something that had been touching John's skin--and doubtless had a bit of his sweat. John wondered if that smelt of fish.
They all went to the room John had bathed in, and stripped and got into the pool, one or two with soap, while most simply, like John this time, used the water. John was accustomed to bathing with a number of people, and thought nothing of it, until he saw a couple of them, including Daniel, watching him as he did so. He moved over to a corner, facing the wall, and made a rather hurried bath. In Galilee, at least, it was an unwritten rule that one did not look at anyone else when bathing or relieving oneself; or if one did, as in talking to someone, it was a casual glance at the face, and one looked away promptly. Most behaved in this way here also; but John did not really look around to see this, because he did not want to be taken for one of the starers--if they did stare, and it was not simply his imagination.
But when he emerged and was drying himself off, Daniel, dry but not yet dressed, came up to him and put his arm across John's shoulder, more or less as Andrew had done, and was about to say something when John said, "Daniel. Enough." in a not unfriendly, but firm, tone.
"What?" he answered. "I meant nothing."
"Enough."
"You are not angry, are you?"
"No. I simply want us to understand each other."
"Very well. As I said, I meant nothing by it."
"Fine."
There was a silence. Then Daniel said, "I was about to say that next we go to the refectory to break our fast. We will keep our former seats; we always sit in the same places."
"Very good." Daniel then went to where he had hung his tunics, and put on--the one John had been wearing the previous day. John sighed. He had hoped that he had handled the situation properly, but this made him wonder. He gave no sign that he noticed what Daniel had done, and Daniel had been anything but ostentatious about it; John would not have noticed had he not precisely been looking for it. He supposed, however, that if he had not issued his warning, Daniel would have put it on and smiled over at him; and so if he did not do so, perhaps John had gained his point. Well, let him have this little satisfaction, then, as long as he left John alone in the future.
Breakfast went well; it was in silence, and so Daniel did not really have an opportunity to lean back on John's chest to make a remark. In any case, he did not, which was a relief to John--and something of a disappointment? He wondered at that feeling.
After a time during which they straightened up their rooms, they went back to the classroom, and John again sat beside Adam, who pushed over the scroll of Malachi, now that he knew John could read it. John, however, thanked him, but then showed the codex that he had brought from his room, and opened to the page that corresponded to what was on the scroll, and listened to what was going on.
The discussion had passed the place that John had been interested in, so he raised his hand, and asked, "But who is this 'messenger' he spoke of just there? And what 'way' is he preparing, as you say, for the Master himself?"
"Well," said a student on the other side of Adam, "you remember we said that it might have some connection with what Isaiah said about leveling mountains and filling up valleys when the Master comes. But of course, perhaps it has simply a spiritual significance. Can you imagine the Valley of Hinnom being filled up, and a straight road from here, say, to Jericho--or to where Jericho would have been before the valley got filled?"
"Of course," chimed in another, "there is what Ezekiel said about the water from the Temple that flowed down to the east into the Salt Sea [the Dead Sea], and made it fresh. That would require an enormous earthquake, to lower the mountains to our east--or make a cleft in them."
"That was why I said it must be only spiritual," answered the first.
"The reason I asked," said John, "is that shortly after I read that, I heard that there was a man down by the Jordan who was bathing people 'for a change of thinking,' claiming that the Prince who had been prophesied was about to appear; and I wondered if the passage might refer to him, somehow."
All of them laughed. John reddened; the very first thing out of his mouth apparently showed how ignorant he was. Adam said, "There are fanatics such as that who appear almost every year--"
"Every year!" said one. "Every month! Every week!"
Adam went on, "So it is not likely that this one will be the one referred to by Malachi."
John countered, "Well, but the Prince must come at some time; perhaps this is the time."
"Perhaps," said Adam. "But I would not put a wager on it. Actually, it is this notion that the Prince must come at some time that makes these fanatics be listened to. And they are aware of that, never fear. Even when their predictions fail, you find them and their followers twisting what was said so that it fits events that totally contradict it."
"I suppose you are right," said John, and lapsed into silence as the others went on with the discussion they had been having. Somehow, this depressed him even more than he had been depressed the day before; these people were undoubtedly correct, but somehow, John had hopes that now might be the time when salvation was to come. He needed it--though, based on his encounters with Daniel, perhaps less than he had previously thought. On the other hand, based on his disappointment that Daniel had stopped his advances, perhaps he was not so virtuous as he hoped.
As the week wore on--and it must be said that in several respects, it wore on for John, he joined other groups, who were working at different levels on other texts; but it was, it seemed to him, the same sort of thing; puppies worrying a sandal they had filched from the closet, sometimes playing at fighting over it, sometimes taking it in their mouths and shaking it to death, and never, it seemed, asking what the author was actually trying to say. John kept feeling that he was unjust in this, but he found no real evidence to contradict his impression.
There were also the discussions of the various commands of the Law, in which this or that commentator had spelled out what had to be done to ensure that it would be meticulously obeyed. It was not simply, for instance, that the name of God was not to be used irreverently; it must not be used at all, to avoid even the possibility of a frivolous use. Even in reading Scripture, and even when quoting God when he gave Moses his name, one had to say, "Master" instead of it, leading to silly readings of the Song of Moses, such as, "The Master is a warrior, and Master is his name," which it clearly wasn't; it was his title, and he had a name, which in this context certainly could be used without being irreverent about it. But John had heard such things already in Synagogue, and had the same reaction there. But one did what the authorities commanded--most of the time.
And one group was discussing the rules for keeping the Sabbath holy; how many steps one could take without "working," and whether it was "work" to rescue an ox that had fallen into the ditch. There were endless disputes on such matters by the commentators, and in general the consensus seemed to be to err on the safe side.
But to John, the more this was entered into (and of course, he had lived a good deal of it in Galilee), the more difficult it became simply to get from one end of the day to the next, especially on the Sabbath, without violating one regulation or the other. And was the Master really a spider waiting at the edge of a web for one to touch one of the strands so that he could pounce? But then where was the love he was supposed to have?
True, he was definitely annoyed at the people Malachi excoriated; but they were doing rather flagrant things: building their own houses and paying no attention to the Temple, sacrificing sick animals instead of healthy ones. What kind of a sacrifice was it to foist off on the Master what one wanted to get rid of anyway? That sort of thing made sense. But it seemed to John that the people here were carrying things too far. He was all for reverencing the Master, and fearing him, but not being in terror of him to the extent of looking over one's shoulder at every action one did to see if his rod was raised in fury.
"Of course, it is only my first week," he told himself--
--and then pictured the weeks stretching on and on to eternity.
Interestingly, during this week, Daniel turned out to be quite a friend, once he had got over his flirtation. He was a very intelligent man (he was a year older than John, who considered himself definitely a man at sixteen, though no one else seemed to), and easy to talk to, something John greatly appreciated, with his lack of social skills. In the short time they were together, John grew quite to like him.
And it was interesting also that the other students who seemed to take an inordinate interest in him had also backed off, once they saw how Daniel had changed toward him. He wondered if they formed a kind of group or if each realized for himself that any overture in that direction would only receive a rebuff. Whatever the case, it made life considerably more comfortable for John.
Adam also became something of a friend to John, though he was older; he evidently had seen that John had taken what they had said about the messenger as something of a rebuke, and he wished to make amends without actually saying so. John was grateful for his effort; but the fact was that John was ignorant, and became more and more aware of it as the week progressed; questions kept arising in his mind, and occasionally he asked one, but he became afraid that they were questions whose answers everybody had known for years, and, despite the students' politeness, he did not wish to risk too often what he sometimes saw: the opening of eyes that clearly said, "You mean you did not know that?"
He was not really ignorant, he told himself; but after all, what he knew were the intricacies of fishing and manipulating a boat in all weathers, something that not one of them knew the least thing about or cared to know about, and beyond simply deciphering what he had been given to read, he had absolutely nothing to do with scholarly matters--and, he was discovering rapidly, he had about as much interest in them as they had in fishing.
He supposed he could do the work they were doing, if he applied himself to it seriously; but to what end? To be able to explain every jot and tittle of some text which as a whole might have some profound import, but which as a puzzle of scattered pieces did not seem to mean anything to John.
When the week was almost over, John and Daniel were in John's room, discussing what he would do next. "I must return home," John said, "for my father does not want me to make such a profound change in my life without giving it considerable thought. He said I should take a month afterwards before I actually came to a decision."
"I gather, however," said Daniel, "--or at least I suspect, that the decision is going to mean that we will not be seeing you after the month is over."
"I would not say that," said John.
"I would," he replied. "The signs are all there. You are like a colt let out to pasture as soon as you leave the house. Your life is leaping and frolicking in the fresh air, not sitting here like us, with the lamp burning, poring over smelly parchment."
"I like the smell of parchment," said John.
"That may be, but it is one thing to like the smell of it and another to devote one's life to it."
"I must admit there is something in what you say. But I have no idea now what it is I wish to do with my life. I cannot escape the notion that I have more to offer the world than fish every day--"
"Of a certainty that is true!" said Daniel. "There are great depths in that mind of yours."
John laughed. "I cannot see where you would find them. I feel as if I am swimming in the middle of the ocean, and belong in a tiny pond."
"Ah, but that is because you are unfamiliar with everything here. But I have heard some of the people discussing questions you have asked--"
"And from them you have inferred that I am profound? They generally produce nothing but laughter."
"Well, I heard that also, from time to time. But it is the laughter of surprise, because they are confronted with someone to approaches the subject from a completely different point of view."
"True. A point of view of total ignorance!"
"No, no. There are ideas behind your 'ignorance.' And a few of them, like Adam, see this. True, they see all kinds of difficulties that you do not with what you say; but they also see that there is something behind it that makes sense, and that ought to be considered. They really do."
"I am amazed!"
John paused. Finally he said, "I know not what to say." "All I meant is that you have nothing to be ashamed of in that head of yours. I think you are perfectly right that you are not really cut out to be a fisherman; and there is something intellectual there, if I may so put it. You might have a great contribution to give to the world. But not here, unfortunately."
"I am--flattered is too weak a word. I am overwhelmed. But it makes life a bit difficult for me."
"Oh, I suspect the Master knows what he wishes to do with you, and will give you the tools you need for whatever work he assigns."
"I fondly hope so. But I wish he could make himself a bit more explicit in what he wants. I would, I think, gladly do it if I but knew what it was. But I think you are right in one thing; this life here does not seem to be what I was looking for."
"I agree. We will miss you, you know. Some of us, at least."
"And I will miss you also, Daniel. You have been a good friend."
"Well, I am happy to hear that. I was afraid I might have made you an enemy."
There was another pause. "Tell me, Daniel--I know not how to say this--" he paused.
"What is it? Be not afraid."
"Did I--Did I look like--like the kind of person you thought I might be at first?"
Daniel laughed. John turned red.
"You doubtless wish to know so that you can avoid sending the wrong message to people like me."
"Well, I--"
"No, John, there was nothing you did. It was what you are. I happen to like muscular men, but most muscular men I have met are brutes, and you seemed quite human, and not really unfriendly, even when I seemed a bit more than friendly, if I may so put it."
"Well, I was new here, and I did not want to antagonize anyone at the very start."
"And you handled matters very diplomatically, I must say, for which I am very grateful. Instead of a bloody nose, I gained a friend I feel comfortable with--and, I hope, one who finally feels rather comfortable with me."
"I do, now that we are simply friends."
"I have no problem with being simply friends, as you can see. Of course, if you were ever to change your mind--"
"I cannot see that ever happening."
"I am sure you cannot. But if it should ever happen, I just wanted to say that I am willing to accommodate you. But to return to what you asked, no, you did not send any signals to me--or to others, whom you may have noticed also. It is just that we--or rather, I should speak only for myself--had hopes rather than evidence. Is that sufficient for your purposes?"
"Quite sufficient."
"I suspect that you feel as uncomfortable discussing this as I do. Shall we change the subject? Or let us return to the real issue. If you think this is not the life for you, have you any idea at all what it is that you would really like to do with yourself? Besides fish, I mean."
"Well--you will laugh at this."
"Possibly. But who am I? Go ahead, say it."
"I once thought I would like to be a prophet."
He did laugh. "I can see why being a mere scholar would be a considerable deflation to that ambition! But of course, why not? It never entered my own head, I must say, but if we ever needed prophets, we do now, at a time when there seems to be a dearth of them."
He pondered for a moment. "But how would one go about making oneself a prophet? It seems one simply gets a call of some sort. It would be futile, I imagine, to prepare by going out and 'dressing sycamores,' whatever that means."
John laughed.
"Who knows?" Daniel went on. "Perhaps the very desire to be a prophet is a kind of call. If so, you will be directed as to what to do. I would not necessarily expect an angel to come down with a burning coal and apply it to your lips, but something might happen. Of course, if you are not destined to be a prophet, probably nothing you did would be of any avail."
"I would not call it exactly a 'desire,'" said John. "It is simply something that occurred to me."
"Well, I would not dismiss it. Stranger things have happened, even to those who dress sycamores."
"Well, in any case, I have not decided anything. Other than that, my future seems a complete blank."
"I would not concern myself with it. The Master knows what he is doing, and unless I miss my guess, he has some sort of plan for you; and doubtless this stay with us is part of the preparation he is giving you. He does nothing in vain. I expect some day to be able to say to my friends, 'Oh yes, I once knew the great John, and even gave him a little advice and encouragement!'"
John laughed.