Star over Bethlehem - Agatha Christie [16]
The Saints of God
Saint Lawrence with his Gridiron
Saint Catherine with her Wheel
Saint Margaret with her Dragon
Saint Wilfred with his Seal
The Saints of God are marching
Are marching down the hill
The Saints of God are marching
To ascertain God’s Will
“Oh, we have sat in Glory
And worn the Martyr’s Crown
But we now make petition
That we from Heaven go down.
“In pity and compassion
Let us go back to men
And show them where the Pathway
Leads back to Heaven again …”
The Island
There were hardly any trees on the island. It was arid land, an island of rock, and the goats could find little to eat. The shapes of the rocks were beautiful as they swept up from the sea, and their colour changed with the changing of the light, going from rose to apricot, to pale misty grey, deepening to mauve and to stern purple, and in a last fierceness to orange, as the sun sank into that sea so rightly called wine-dark. In the early mornings the sky was a pale proud blue, and seemed so high up and so far away that it filled one with awe to look up at it.
But the women of the island did not look up at it often, unless they were anxiously gazing for signs of a storm. They were women and they had to work. Since food was scarce, they worked hard and unceasingly, so that they and their children should live. The men went out daily in the fishing boats. The children herded the goats and played little games of their own with pebbles in the sun.
Today the women with great jars of fresh water on their heads, toiled up the slope from the spring in the cleft of the cliff, to the village above.
Mary was still strong, but she was not as young as most of the women, and it was an effort to her to keep pace with them.
Today the women were very gay, for in a few days’ time there was to be a wedding. The girl children danced round their elders and chanted monotonously:
“I shall go to the wedding … I shall go to the wedding … I shall have a ribbon in my hair … I shall eat roseleaf jelly … roseleaf jelly in a spoon …”
The mothers laughed, and one child’s mother said teasingly: “How do you know I shall take you to the wedding?”
Dismayed, the child stared.
“You will take me—you will—you will …” And she clung to Mary, demanding: “She will let me go to the wedding? Say she will!”
And Mary smiled and said gently: “I think she will, sweetheart!”
And all the women laughed gaily, for today they were all happy and excited because of the wedding.
“Have you ever been to a wedding, Mary?” the child asked.
“She went to her own,” laughed one of the women.
“I didn’t mean your own. I meant a wedding party, with dancing and sweet things to eat, and roseleaf jam, and honey?”
“Yes. I have been to weddings.” Mary smiled, “I remember one wedding … very well … a long time ago.”
“With roseleaf jam?”
“I think so—yes. And there was wine …”
Her voice trailed off as she remembered.
“And when the wine runs out, we have to drink water,” one of the women said. “That always happens!”
“We did not drink water at this wedding!”
Mary’s voice was strong and proud.
The other women looked at her. They knew that Mary had come here with her son from a long way away, and that she did not often speak of her life in earlier days, and that there was some very good reason for that. They were careful not to ask her questions, but of course there were rumours, and now suddenly one of the older children piped up and spoke like a parrot.
“They say you had a son who was a great criminal and was executed for his crimes. Is that true?”
The women tried to hush her down, but Mary spoke, her eyes looking straight ahead of her.
“Those that should know said he was a criminal.”
“But you didn’t think so?” the child persisted.
Mary said after a pause:
“I do not know of myself what is right or wrong. I am too ignorant. My son loved people—good and bad equally …”
They had reached the village now and