BY GENNESARET WATER
To Peter, broken in spirit, bowed down with the shame of his thrice‐
repeated denials, sleepless with torturing memories of his dead Master,
came Mary of Magdala at dawn of the first day of the week. “They have
taken away the Lord out of the tomb,” she sobbed, “and I know not where
they have laid him.”
Peter arose at that word and girded his garments about him that he might
run swiftly to the spot. He had no thought of what he should do, but a
blind anguish of desire to serve the Master he had scorned drove him forth
like a scourge.
He scarce noticed that John, the beloved disciple, was with him, running
evenly at his side. Then some murmured word of that other disciple brought
a faint memory of words spoken and straightway forgotten, words of painful
prophecy, of unearthly hope, which he himself had rejected with scorn and
impatience. The Galilean faltered, lagged behind. And so it came to pass
that John was first to reach the open tomb.
The rosy light of the new day shone softly into the shadowy sepulchre,
revealing the rough‐hewn walls, the shallow niche wherein the body had
lain, the folded cere‐cloths, the scattered spices. The place was
fragrant, bright, mysteriously empty.
Peter stared in at the small, still, empty place, those half‐awakened
memories stirring strangely within him. “When I have arisen from the
dead,” he murmured half unconsciously. Had the Master indeed uttered those
strange words, or was his brain touched with some sweet madness? He turned
to John. The eyes of the beloved disciple were fastened upon the empty
niche, his lips moved as in prayer.
With sudden, hard‐won resolution Peter entered the tomb, stooping to look
more closely at the chill, empty bed with its array of fair linen and
odorous spicery. He noticed with an awed tightening of the throat that the
fine linen napkin which had been wound about the dead man’s head was not
lying with the other cerements, but was folded carefully apart, as if the
wearer, sitting upon the edge of his couch, had placed it there with a
tender thought of the giver.
His bewildered, grief‐stricken eyes met the look of dawning hope in the
eyes of the other. “He is not here,” murmured John, “he is risen!” And on
a sudden his face became radiant with angelic beauty.
Then the two went away in wondering silence to their own house, and as
they went they met other women of their company who told them of angels
waiting within the tomb with that question which still sounds in ears
grief‐sealed against the truth of Omnipresent Life: “Why seek ye the
living among the dead? Go, tell his disciples and Peter, He goeth before
you into Galilee: there shall ye see him, as he said unto you.”
To Galilee, therefore, after certain days of growing hope and marvelous
vision, the disciples journeyed in great numbers, and with them went a
certain small lad, of a joyous and shining face, no longer a homeless
beggar of Jerusalem, but a brother beloved because he had looked upon the
King in the beauty of his resurrection body.
It was one of the women, called Salome, who first came upon the child as
he walked slowly toward Jerusalem in the dawning day. The little lad was
chanting softly to himself the words he had learned on the day of his
healing: “Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest! Blessed—blessed is he that
cometh in the name of the King!”
“Why dost thou sing, child?” asked the woman querulously. She was still
bearing the burden of spicery which she had fetched to the empty tomb, and
her eyes were red with weeping and anxiety.
“I sing,” answered Tor, “because my Master, the King, is alive. He opened
my eyes, which were blind as night, and with these eyes have I seen
him—alive! Therefore, I sing.”
The woman shook her head sorrowfully, for the thing was yet too wonderful
for her understanding. “I have seen the empty tomb,” she said. “Also I
beheld a young man clad in white garments, who declared to us that he was
alive; but I know not what to think. How can it be that he is alive when
he was dead—crucified—pierced with a spear?” And again she wept bitterly.
“I saw him,” said Tor simply,—“the man who opened my eyes. He is alive. I
am going to Galilee to see him.” And once more the child cried, “Hosanna!”
with a clear, jubilant voice.
“Whose child art thou, little one?” said the woman, marveling at the
brightness of his eyes, which, indeed, shone like the eyes of the angel at
the empty tomb. “And where dost thou live?”
“I have a Father in heaven,” said Tor, “and once I had a master who was
blind and a beggar; but him I serve no longer, since I serve only the King
who gave me my eyes.”
And when, by dint of questioning the lad, the woman found that he was
without kindred and alone in the world, she took him to her own house.
And so it happened that Tor traveled with that great concourse of
disciples who went to Galilee to keep the tryst with their risen Lord.
Again Tor met Peter, the Galilean. It was on this wise: the child,
enchanted with the beauty of the lake, wandered upon the shore at evening,
his eyes wistfully following the fishermen as they put out one after
another upon the radiant water. “I should like to sail away in a boat,”
murmured Tor to himself.
He looked up to find the eyes of Peter fixed upon him. “How camest thou
hither, small one?” asked the fisherman.
“I came from Jerusalem with the woman who is called Salome,” answered Tor.
“I am come to see my Master, who was dead and is alive again. Already I
have seen him. And I shall again see him. Perhaps,” he added timidly, “he
is there.” The child’s small finger pointed to the lake, which glowed like
a sea of lambent fire in the dying light.
“Once he came to us walking upon the water,” said the fisherman
thoughtfully. After a little his eyes wandered to his boats, drawn high
and empty upon the shore. There were others of his old comrades near at
hand, and to these Peter presently called out with something of his old
energy: “I go a fishing,” he said.
They answered, “We also go with thee.”
And so the boat was made ready, with nets and lanterns, and rough fisher’s
gear for possible wild weather in the night watches. Tor watched the
preparations with shining eyes. When all was at length finished he bowed
himself before Peter after his old mendicant’s fashion. “I pray thee,
honorable Galilean, that I also may go fishing,” he said timidly.
Peter stared down at him in some perplexity. “What is it that brings thee
ever athwart my path, small one?” he asked, not unkindly. “In Jerusalem
thou wast verily like my shadow—and now, thou wilt fish.”
“I want to see my Master, the King,” answered Tor. “He is there.” Again
the small finger pointed to the darkening lake and the solemn blue
mountains beyond. “It is so beautiful he will be there,” he repeated
softly.
“Come, then,” said Peter, and, catching up the little lad, he stowed him
snugly in the bow of the great clumsy fishing‐craft amid a pile of nets.
Through stretches of moonlit water, where the breeze rippled keenly, in
the dark lee of swelling hills, now anchored, now drifting slowly under
the winking stars, the fishermen bent to their work. And through the long
hours Tor lay quite still in the place where he was bid, speaking to no
one, but wrapped in a dream of perfect delight, which the men busied with
their fruitless fishing could scarce have understood.
When, now, the darkest hour, that comes before dawn, was already past, and
the white mist that shrouded sea and shore and drifted light as thistle‐
down upon the glassy surface of the nearer water began to glow with rose
and amber tints of dawn, Tor wriggled his lithe little body from its nest
of coats and stood upright in the bow. His great bright eyes were fixed
upon the wavering curtains of the mist. “Listen!” he cried suddenly, in
his clear, shrill voice.
A long, level ray from the rising sun burst through the vanishing clouds
and rested full upon the land not many furlongs distant.
“Look!” cried the child again, and pointed with his finger.
Some one—a man—was standing upon the pebbly shore looking out over the
water. The fishermen rubbed their tired eyes and stared.
“Children, have ye aught to eat?” A clear, human voice brought the little
cheerful question across the narrowing space.
“No,” shouted the fishermen, satisfied that the friendly voice belonged to
some wayfarer, curious as ever to know the luck of an all‐night fishing
expedition.
“Cast the net on the right side of the boat and ye shall find,” came the
answer.
“Perchance he sees the ripple of a shoal,” muttered Peter, and heaved the
great net for another cast.
And now the net sank with its weight of struggling fish. Two of the men
leaped hastily into the small boat to secure the catch, but Peter and John
were gazing past the heaving net at that solitary figure upon the shore.
“It is the Lord,” whispered John. And Peter, with a smothered cry of love
and longing, girt his fisher’s coat about him and flung himself into the
water.
Upon the shore burned a fire of coals, and upon it sputtered a great fish,
giving forth appetizing odors to the cool morning air. Beside the fire
were piled loaves such as the common people were wont to use with this
broiled fish. It was all quite homely and natural, yet the hands that
busied themselves with that simple, satisfying meal bore the mark of the
nails.
The fishermen stood with bowed heads, no one daring to ask the question
which trembled on every lip.
“Come and break your fast,” said their mysterious host, smiling upon their
awe‐stricken silence. And he took the bread and the fish and gave them to
eat.
So when they had broken their fast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon, son
of John, lovest thou me more than these?”
Peter answered in a half whisper, “Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love
thee.”
Jesus said, “Feed my lambs.”
He said to him a second time, “Simon, son of John, lovest thou me?”
Again Peter answered with an anguished glance of entreaty, “Yea, Lord;
thou knowest that I love thee.”
Again came the command, “Feed my sheep.”
He said to him the third time, “Simon, son of John, lovest thou me?”
Then Peter burst into a great passion of weeping, and wept as on the night
he had denied his Master. “Lord,” he cried out, “thou knowest all things;
thou knowest that I love thee!”
Jesus said, “Feed my sheep.” Other words spake he also which they that
heard forgot no more either in time or in eternity.
Thus did Peter, the Galilean, who was also called Simon, son of John,
answer his Master three times by Gennesaret water; and thus was the bitter
memory of his three denials purged from his soul. Verily he loved much,
and was therefore forgiven much. And to the end of his days he remembered
right well both to cherish the lambs committed to his care by the Upper
Shepherd, and to tend and feed the sheep both in fold and in pasture.
So it was that he no more spoke carelessly or slightingly to the little
lad, Tor, but, counting him as a special charge from his risen Lord, he
became to him even as a father.
And Tor, growing into manhood, learned many things both strange and
beautiful from the world’s page; but he found nothing there to blot out
the memory of the Man who had opened his eyes. To the end he followed the
King, his Master, and Jesus, long since received into the visible heavens
over Galilee, yet remained with him, a sweet and satisfying presence.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs
and are near the text they illustrate.
The first page has a handwritten number and the author’s autograph.