Star over Bethlehem - Agatha Christie [17]
“How is your son? Well, I hope?” asked one of the women politely.
“He is well, thanks be to God.”
To erase the memory of what had been said before, the woman said kindly:
“You must be proud of this son of yours. We all know that he is a Holy Man. They say he has visions and walks with God.”
“He is a good son,” said Mary. “And, as you say, a very Holy Man.”
She left them to go her own way and they stood looking after her for a moment or two.
“She is a good woman.”
“Yes. It is not her fault, I am sure, that her other son went wrong.”
“Such things happen. One does not know why. But she is lucky in this son. There are times when he is animated by the Spirit, and then he prophesies in a loud voice. His feet, they say, rise off the ground—and then he lies like one dead for a while.”
They all nodded and clucked in wonder and pleasure to have such a holy man amongst them.
Mary went to the little stone cottage, and stood the jar of water down. She glanced towards where a man sat at a rudely fashioned table. There was a scroll of parchment in front of him and he bent over it, writing with a pen, pausing now and then, whilst his eyes half closed, as he lost himself in the ardours of the spirit …
Mary was careful not to disturb him. She busied herself in getting together the midday meal.
The man was a man of great beauty, though no longer young. He had great delicacy of feature, and the far-away eyes of a soul to whom spiritual life is as real as the life of the body. Presently his hand slackened on the pen, and he seemed almost to pass into a trance, neither moving nor speaking, and indeed hardly breathing.
Mary put the dishes on the table.
“Your meal is ready, my son.”
As one who hears a faint sound from very far away, he shook his head impatiently.
“The vision … so near …” he muttered, “so near … When—oh when?”
“Come, my son, eat.”
He waved the food away.
“There is another hunger, another thirst! The food of the spirit … The thirst for righteousness …”
“But you must eat. To please me. To please your mother.”
Gently she coaxed and scolded—and at last he came down from that high exaltation, and smiled at her with a human half-teasing look.
“Must I then eat to satisfy you?”
“Yes. Or else I shall be made unhappy.”
So he ate to please her, hardly noticing what the food was.
Then he bethought himself to ask:
“How is it with you, dear mother? You have all you need?”
“I have all I need,” said Mary.
He nodded, satisfied, and took up his pen once more.
When Mary had cleared all away, she went out and stood looking out over the sea.
Her hands clasped together, she bowed her head and spoke softly under her breath.
“Have I done all I could? I am such an ignorant woman. I do not always know how to serve and minister to one who is assuredly a Saint of God. I wash his linen, and prepare his food, and bring him fresh water, and wash his feet. But more than that I know not how to do.”
As she stood there, her anxiety passed. Serenity came back to her worn face.
On the shore beneath, a boat had drawn into the little stone pier. It was not an ordinary fishing boat, but one that stood high in the water, and had a big curving prow of richly carved wood. Two men landed from it, and some old men who were mending fishing nets came to accost the strangers.
Politely the two men made known their business.
“We seek amongst the islands hereabouts for an island on which is said to dwell the Queen of Heaven.”
The old fishermen shook their heads.
“What you seek is certainly not here. We have no shrine such as you describe.”
“Perhaps your women have knowledge of such a shrine?” one of the strangers suggested. “Women are often secretive about such matters.”
“Inquire if you wish. One of us will go up and show you the village.”
The strangers went up with their guide. The women came clustering out of their houses. They were excited and interested, but they all shook their heads.
“No Goddess