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The Dark Days, cont. (#23 and #24) 4/15/2012 10:42:56 AM
Continued research for my next historical novel: Peter and Paul. I am trying to visualize how a simple fisherman from a village in the middle of nowhere, who’d since proven a man of relatively weak character, perhaps even with a yellow streak, would handle himself when tremendous responsibility has been thrust upon his shoulders. Surely, he’d take time to adjust… For a while, I suspect, he’d escape into his memories of innocence and youths.
Chapter ONE (draft, continued)
The Dark Days (excerpt)
Shimon used to enjoy over-night fishing the most. Heaving off with the last rays of the sun dying over Mount Tabor, just missing the peek on the south side. Even from the shore the view was breathtaking. From the shore of Bethsaida—the Place of Nets; little more than a village. Soon after they cast of, they’d watch the night fires beginning to twinkle, afar, long, long ago, before Tiberias grew into a city.
He missed the western breeze carrying them to the middle of the Lake on a broad reach. Just a small sail, knit by his mother and sisters, was enough. They were in no hurry. They had all night. They didn’t have far to go.
His friends, in their prouder moments, liked to call it the Sea of Galilee. It sounded more important. Some sea—from every place on its near-lustrous surface you could see the shore, and not very distant, at that. But it was their lake. Theirs for generations. Sweet water where his father, and his father before him, fished for fresh-water fish.
He was a fisherman then. Carefree.
And then He came. Quiet, unimposing. Just his eyes. There was heaven in those eyes. Infinity? Andrew had seen him first. You couldn’t escape those eyes…
“Shimon?”
Shimon, He called him, long before He’d changed his name to Kepha. All too soon the Romans began to refer to him as Petrus taking their translation from pietra. The Greeks would give him their own version, naming his Petros, from their own rock or petra. Later, much later, some Gentiles coming from afar would call him Peter. Wherever he’d go, people would give him names of their own. Yes, he sensed the future and he was afraid.
Yet it all happened in just three short years. Just three…
When did He first call me Kepha?
“What? Shimon, you must eat!”
Andrew proffered a wooden bowl of steaming soup.
Later? It all happened in just a few years. Just a few…
He didn’t feel like a rock. He felt weak, fragile, inadequate, scared… like that night on the boat when…
“Shimon?” the sound of his name reached him from afar—perhaps the other shore? He ignored whoever tried to invade his memories. It was good to remember, even knowing what followed. After all, He did come back. He was real…
“Shimon?” this time the voice was louder. It must have been Andrew with something of no importance. It could wait. Back then he was happy. So happy. No decisions, few responsibilities… His mind drifted back, again, far, far back…
“Shimon, you haven’t eaten for three days…”
(to be continued)
It is hard to imagine how a group of men who never faced any challenges other than keeping “body and soul” together, were suddenly thrust into an existence well beyond their means to comprehend. I repeat, those early followers of Yeshûa were simple, (with one exception) uneducated men, who must have felt completely out of their depth.
Chapter ONE (draft, continued)
The Dark Days (excerpt)
Andrew was worried about his elder brother. He’d aged, fast, during just these last few years. Already his short trimmed beard was showing signs of gray hair. Andrew suspected that since the Master’s departure Shimon felt great weight pressing him down to earth. Literally, down to earth. Perhaps he was trying to reconcile heaven and earth into a single entity, like two sides of a single coin. Perhaps it was all the decisions he had to make. Everyone wanted his opinion, his advise.
I’m a simple fisherman, Andrew heard him say. Many a time. A simple fisherman…
But no one believed him. He really had to be Kepha, a rock; strong; unbending; not to cave in under all the expectations.
Shimon looked up for an instant. The next moment his eyes lost focus and drifted back, to the world of his own. Then, a gentle smile broadened his mouth. Andrew wondered if his brother would ever share his daydreams with him.
The wind was rising…
Just sitting there, amidships, on the rough-hewn board spanning from side to side, his two friends stretching abaft. A gentle sway of the dying wind… then silence, darkness, the sky punctured only by the stars of Yahweh. We cast our nets and waited, he recalled, catching a few hours of sleep.
“Not I. I’d sit silent, listening to the stars,” he murmured, hardly aware of Andrew’s presence. And then he repeated softly, “I miss fishing.”
I miss fishing… It really did sound like a mantra.
The waters rose with restrained anger and instantly he began drowning. Have faith, He said. Have faith. Trust me. The power lies within you.
Yeshûa was standing, seemingly on the water. He watched the Master walk towards him hardly touching the waves. Almost floating.
Come to me,” Yeshûa tempted, his voice relaxed, encouraging him with a smile. “Don’t be afraid…”
