But old Zebedee caught fire. “Won’t you get the hell out of here, Philip, and leave us alone,” he yelled, the blood rising to his head. “Can’t you see we’ve got work to do. We’re fishermen and you’re a shepherd, so let the farmers complain-what do we care?… Men, your work!”
“And have you no pity, Zebedee, for the farmers who’ll die of hunger?” objected the shepherd. “They’re Israelites too, you know, our brothers; we’re all one tree, all of us, and it’s obvious that the plowmen are the roots-if they dry out, so do we all. And one thing more, Zebedee: if the Messiah comes and we’ve all died in the meantime, whom will he find to save? Answer me that if you can!”
Old Zebedee huffed and puffed. If you’d pinched his nostrils, he surely would have exploded. “Go on, for the love of God; go back to your philipkins. I’m sick and tired of hearing about Messiahs. One comes along, he’s crucified; along comes the next, he’s crucified too. And haven’t you learned what message Andrew brought his father, Jonah: it seems that wherever you go and wherever you stop, you find a cross. The dungeons are overflowing with Messiahs. Ooo, enough’s enough! We’ve been getting along just fine without Messiahs; they’re nothing but a nuisance. Go on, bring me some cheese and I’ll give you a panful of fish. You give me and I give you: that’s the Messiah!”
He laughed and turned to his adopted sons. “Step lively, my brave lads, so that we can light the fire, put on the chowder and eat. Look, the sun’s risen a yard and we haven’t done a thing.”
But no sooner had Philip lifted his foot to go join his flock than he halted. A donkey, nearly perishing with a load which reached to its ears, appeared on the narrow path which hugged the shore of the lake, and behind the donkey was a colossus with bare feet, open shirt-and a red beard. He held a forked stick in his hand and prodded the beast: he was in a hurry.
“Look! I think it’s old devil-hair himself, Judas Iscariot,” said the shepherd, holding his ground. “He’s started his rounds to the villages again to shoe mules and make pickaxes. Come on, let’s see what he’s got to say.”
“A plague on him!” murmured old Zebedee. “I don’t like his hair. I’ve heard that his ancestor Cain had a beard like that.”
“The unfortunate follow was born in the desert of Idumea,” said Philip. “Lions still roam there, so better not pick an argument with him.” He put two fingers into his mouth and began to whistle to the donkey-driver.
“Hello, Judas,” he called, “glad to see you. Come over this way a bit so we can get a better look at you.”
The redbeard spat and cursed. He did not like this shepherd fellow, nor did he like Zebedee, that parasite-didn’t like them at all. But he was a blacksmith, a man of need, and he approached.
“What news do you bring us from the villages along your route?” Philip asked. “What’s happening on the plain?”
The redbeard stopped his donkey by pulling its tail. “Everything’s just fine,” he answered with a dry laugh. “The Lord is exceedingly merciful, bless him! Yes, he loves his people! In Nazareth he crucifies the prophets, and here on the plain he sends a deluge and takes away his people’s bread. Can’t you hear the lamentations? The women are wailing for the wheat: you’d think it was their own sons.”
“Whatever God does is right,” Zebedee objected, vexed because all this talk was crippling the day’s work. “I have confidence in him no matter what he does. When everyone drowns and I’m the only one to escape, God is protecting me. When everyone else is saved and I’m the only one to drown, God is protecting me then too. I have confidence, I tell you. Two and two make four.”
When the redbeard heard these words he forgot that he was a day laborer who lived from hand to mouth and had to rely on every one of these people for his livelihood. Fired up by his evil disposition, he spoke and did not mince his words. “You have confidence, Zebedee, only because the Almighty lays a nice soft bed for you and your affairs. Your Worship has five fishing boats in his service; you have fifty fishermen as slaves; you feed them just exactly enough so they’ll have strength to work for you and won’t die of starvation-and all the while Your Highness stuffs his coffers and his larders, and his belly. Then you raise your hands to heaven and say, ‘God is just; I have confidence in Him! The world is beautiful; I hope it never changes!’… Why don’t you ask the Zealot who was crucified the other day why he struggled to free us; or the peasants whose whole year’s supply of wheat God snatched away in one night-ask them! They’re rolling in the mud right now, picking it up grain by grain, and weeping. Or ask me. I go around the villages and see and hear Israel ’s suffering. How long? How, long? Didn’t you ever ask yourself that, Zebedee?”
“To tell you the truth,” answered the old man, “I have no confidence in red hairs. You’re from the stock of Cain, who murdered his brother. Go to the devil, my friend. I don’t want to talk with the likes of you!”
This said, he turned his back on him.
The redbeard gave the donkey a swat with the forked stick. The beast drew up its head, slid back into the yoke, bolted forward and began to run.
“Never fear, old parasite,” Judas murmured; “the Messiah will come to put everything in order.”
When he had got around the rocks, he turned. “We’ll have a chance to discuss all this again, Zebedee,” he shouted. “The Messiah will come one day, won’t he? He will, and then, personally, he’ll put every rascal in his place. You’re not the only one who has confidence! See you again-on the day of judgment!”
“Go to hell, red hair!” was Zebedee’s reply. The womb of the net had finally become visible, and it was filled with giltheads and red mullets.
Philip stood between the two of them, unable to take sides. What Judas had said was true, and courageous. The shepherd had often felt like smearing such words in the old man’s ugly face or beating them over his head, but he had never had the courage. This unregenerate was a potent landlord, strong on land and sea. He owned every one of the meadows in which Philip grazed his goats and sheep-so how could the shepherd attack him? One had to be either a madman or a hero, and Philip was neither. He simply talked big, and much; and he never took an unnecessary chance.
He had remained silent, therefore, while the other two quarreled, and was still standing by, bashful and irresolute. The fishermen had now pulled in the nets. He bent down with them and helped fill the hampers. Even Zebedee was plunged waist deep in the water, where he directed men and fish.
But while they all admired the overflowing hampers, completely elated, the redbeard’s hoarse voice suddenly echoed from the rock opposite. “Hey, Zebedee!”
Old Zebedee played deaf.
Once more the voice thundered. “Hey, Zebedee, take my advice and go collect your son Jacob!”
“Jacob!” the old man cried out in a ferment. As far as his younger son was concerned, the damage was done: he had lost him. He did not want to lose this one too. He had no other son, and he needed him in his work. “Jacob!” he called to Judas in a worried voice. “What do you have to say about Jacob, you confounded red hair?”
“I saw him on the road getting friendly with the cross-maker. They were having a pleasant chat!”
“What cross-maker, infidel? Speak clearly!”
“The son of the Carpenter, the one who builds crosses in Nazareth and crucifies the prophets… Too late! Poor old Zebedee-Jacob’s lost too. You had two sons. God snatched the one and the devil the other.”