THE AMULET.
It was high noon in the desert encampment. The shadows of the palms,
which had boldly displayed themselves in the early cool of the morning,
had gradually retreated before the triumphant progress of the sun, till
now they lay a shrunken heap about the slender stems of the trees, which
in their turn scarcely dared murmur to their children of the coming
hours, when the burning tyrant overhead should again be brought low and
the shadows reign triumphant. Through the shimmering air came the
insistent voice of dropping water, telling over and over again of great
depths of refreshing hid away in the secret places of the rock, safe
from the thirsty ball of fire above, safe from the hungry sands which
crept uneasily to and fro about the rocky margin of the fountain.
The camels crouched in the meagre shade, their large, heavy-lidded eyes
half closed; they heard and understood both the faint murmur of the
palms and the voice of the water; therefore were they silent, being
satisfied. But from within the tent of goat's hair close at hand there
came the sound of voices. "These men," grunted an old camel, "they be
forever making a noise with their mouths; why cannot they be silent, and
look and listen as do we?"
This is what the voices were saying:
"God is good, my husband, and as yet I have scarce had room in my soul
for more than the sense of that goodness which hath snatched me from the
jaws of death, and with life hath also restored to me the more precious
treasure of thy love. Tell me how it chanced that thou hadst a hand in
our rescue?"
"It is not unknown to thee, beloved, how that for many months my soul
was a very hell of fear and remorse. I was blood-guilty; I knew that
upon my head rested the blood of an innocent man; nay more, I knew in my
inmost soul that my crime was yet more deadly--that I, even I, had
condemned to an accursed death the very Son of God. Yes, I believed;
but alas, it was even as the devils, who believe and tremble and
yet--are devils still. I cast thee forth because thou didst also
believe, I, black-hearted wretch that I was, did pronounce upon thee a
curse, then my angel fled and the curse recoiled upon mine own head. I
will not tell thee--I cannot--how I tried to strangle the ever-growing
misery in my soul; how I flung myself, heart and strength, into the
deadly persecutions against them that believed; all the while with the
mean hope that the fire would drive thee back from the heavenly path
which thou wast climbing into the black road down which I was plunging
alone. I saw and gloried in the death of Stephen; I gloated over the
agonies of them that suffered beneath the scourge; I outdid Saul of
Tarsus in the work of denouncing men and women whose only crime it was
to believe on God manifest in the flesh. There is a hell, for I have
sojourned there.
"One day I was told that thou wast in prison; that on the morrow thou
wouldst be scourged--stoned. Issachar himself told me, with an air of
mock sympathy.
"'She is less to me,' I declared to him coldly, 'than the stones beneath
my feet.' But I lied when I said it. That night I begged Annas on my
knees to have mercy.
"'I will have mercy,' he said. 'I will send a message to the woman
within the hour,' and he called Caleb. I waylaid the man, and offered
him gold to show me the message; he showed it me.
"That night I went to my chamber resolved to die before the light of
another day, but each time that I lifted the dagger to my breast
something seemed to hold my hand. At last I flung it from me and sank
upon my knees, crying aloud, 'God be merciful to me a sinner! God be
merciful to me a sinner!' Again and again I repeated the words till at
last there came into my soul a great peace. God was merciful--I knew, I
felt it; and then and there I made confession of all my guilt before
him. 'I am guilty of the blood of him whom thou didst send to save me,'
I cried, 'yet he prayed in his last agony, saying, Father, forgive them,
for they know not what they do.'
"I rose up forgiven, and the morning dawned. 'I will go,' I said, 'to
the place where she is to suffer, and there before them all I will make
confession of my guilt and my belief; then shall I die also.'
"But when I had come to the place outside the Damascus Gate--very early,
for I could not wait--I fell in with the man Ben Hesed, and because my
soul was full even to overflowing, I told him all. 'I will die,' I said,
'with them.'
"'Nay,' he cried, 'rather must thou live, that thou mayest overlay the
wickedness of the past with the pure gold of righteousness.'
"Thou knowest the rest, beloved."
Then the voices ceased for a space, and the sound of the falling water
again filled the stillness.
That evening when the shadows were displaying themselves once more in
triumph, and the voice of the fountain had sunken to a low murmur
because of the more insistent voices of the women who were filling their
jars at its cool brim, Ben Hesed held converse with them whom he had
snatched from death. Their talk was sweet and comforting, as of those
whose feet had trod the margin of the river of death, from whose hither
bank the traveler can hear faint echoes of the heavenly melodies of the
redeemed, and where every breeze wafts the perfume of the blossoming
tree of life.
"It is good to have been near death," said Mary of Nazareth, "because it
is good to have touched the boundary of the life more abundant. There
is no terror to them that believe on him that hath conquered death; 'he
that believeth hath everlasting life.'"
Afterward, while the day merged slowly into the night, they told Ben
Hesed of all that happened to them since he had left them in Jerusalem;
of the last days of Stephen, of his death and burial; of that stern
enemy, Saul of Tarsus, and his unrelenting hatred of them that believed.
"Nay," said Anat, after a pause, "I know that he would have rejoiced
truly had we but confessed as he bade us; there was a look in his eyes
that was not all hatred; perchance God is leading him into peace by some
sure way of his own, even as he led the Egyptian, Amu. Surely, God's
ways are unsearchable."
"That is a true word," said Ben Hesed musingly. "But tell me of the
Egyptian, Amu."
So Anat told him how that he had rescued Stephen from death by the
sacrifice of his life, together with all the story of their own wrong at
his hands. "I would that God had given him one more breath," said the
girl sighing, "for then would he have told us the name of our mother's
kindred."
Ben Hesed looked at the clear profile of the girl as she sat looking
away into the afterglow which still burned dully at the horizon, and a
haunting memory of the past suddenly awakened in his breast. "Hast thou
aught that belonged to thy mother, maiden?" he said, and there was a
strange thrill in his voice.
"I had anklets of wrought silver when I came out of Egypt," said Anat
slowly, without turning her head; "also a necklace of coins; but when I
was healed of my blindness I made an offering of these baubles to the
Lord's poor. It was all that I had to give." Then she was silent for a
moment. "I kept but one piece from the necklace; I thought that I should
like that one small bit of my mother's past. It is a strange coin."
"Show it to me," said Ben Hesed.
Without a word Anat took from off her neck the slender chain of wrought
silver, from which hung the one token that bound her to an unknown past.
Ben Hesed took it, his iron fingers trembling like those of a woman. In
that simple amulet lay a strange power, for no sooner had he examined it
in the fading light, than all else before his bodily eyes vanished. It
was a bright morning now, and the sun was shining merrily on a caravan
of strangers out of Egypt. He was trading with them, horses and sheep
and cheeses of goat's milk, receiving in exchange bales of cloth and
divers weapons of war, together with utensils of wrought brass and jars
of pottery.
"Give me also the horse," said the chief merchant, pointing to the
animal which Ben Hesed himself bestrode. "I will give thee for it a
bale of scarlet and another of fine linen for thy women."
"Women of the desert do not wear scarlet nor fine linen," he answered.
"Dekar is the prince of all the herd; I will not sell."
"Nay then, I will give thee gold--fifty pieces," persisted the merchant.
"Give me an hundred," he had said, "and the beast is thine."
So the merchant gave him an hundred pieces of gold for the horse--which
was truly a great price, but he paid it without murmuring for he knew
that he could again sell for a greater to the king of Egypt.
Of the gold pieces there was one of strange device, and this Ben Hesed
gave to his eldest-born, that she might hang it upon her necklace. The
maid was beautiful to look upon, and Ben Hesed felt for her a great
tenderness, which was a thing quite by itself and apart from the pride
which filled his breast when he looked upon his mighty sons. The name
of this maid was Zarah, which signifies the Dawn; and truly she was fair
and pure as the first beams of the new day, ere yet mortals have sullied
it with sin.
It came to pass--Ben Hesed saw it all once more because of the wonderful
amulet which he held in his hand--that one day a stranger came to the
encampment alone. He was sick and exhausted because of the hardness of
his journey, and he begged of Ben Hesed that he might sojourn for a
space with his tribe till he should recover himself. And Ben Hesed made
him welcome, as was ever his custom, and the stranger tarried many days;
the women also ministered unto him, for he was both comely and young.
And when he was recovered, he came to Ben Hesed and said to him,
"Behold, I have received kindness at thy hand, and the springs of life
are again strong within me. Now, I pray thee, give thy servant further
of thy bounty; for there is yet one thing that I would ask of thee."
And Ben Hesed said, "Speak, my son, for my hand is open to satisfy the
utmost wish of him that is an honored guest within my borders."
Then the young man bowed himself and said, "If I have found favor in the
sight of my lord, give to me thy daughter Zarah for my wife; for I love
her with my soul."
Ben Hesed looked at the young man long and earnestly, and his heart went
out to him.
"Tell me," he said, "all of thy past; for thou hast asked of me the most
precious thing that I possess, the maiden who is called the Dawn. Speak
freely, for as my soul liveth, if thou dost keep back aught that I
should know, thou shalt die accursed!"
At this the young man groaned aloud; but he told him how that he had
disputed with his brother over the inheritance, and had smitten him that
he died--for so he believed at the time.
And when Ben Hesed heard all he rose up, and his voice was cold and
stern. "Go," he said, "that I see thy face no more. Thinkest thou that
I will give my daughter to one that is a murderer? Go, lest I fall upon
thee in wrath."
And he went straightway without a word, but he found the maiden, Zarah,
beside the fountain, and he told her all that had passed. That night
when all were sleeping, the two rose up and fled away from the
encampment and were seen no more.
When Ben Hesed found that they were gone, he said only one word: "My
daughter is dead." And from that time no one durst speak to him of the
matter. But he did not forget, though long years were passed. And now
as he held the coin of strange device once more in his hand, he knew it
for the token which he had given the maiden, Zarah, so long ago. And as
he looked into the face of Anat, he saw that the Dawn was again risen.
Then he called the two, and he told them all the story, and when he had
finished, he said, "Long ago hath the bitterness passed from my soul;
but there hath remained ever an aching wound which the years have not
healed. God hath given me many wonderful mercies, but none more
wonderful than this, that the children of my daughter have returned to
her father's house."
Then they fell on his neck and kissed him; and all that were in the
encampment rejoiced, and the rejoicing continued many days.
Afterward, by the word of messengers which Ben Hesed sent to Jerusalem,
they learned that the great persecution was at an end, because that
Annas was now dead, and the others of his family were too much taken up
with disputing over the inheritance of lands and houses, to trouble
themselves further about the religious beliefs of any man. As for Saul
of Tarsus, strange tales were told of him; some said that he was dead;
others that he was blind; while others still declared that he had been
rebuked of the Lord in a vision, and that he now believed. But this
tale was not credited of many.
"Let us return to Jerusalem," said Mary of Nazareth, "for I would fain
know whether my son John be safe; then there is also the house to be
looked to."
So they went back to Jerusalem for a space. Ben Hesed and his
grandchildren also.
But Anna and her husband went not all the way. "Jerusalem is hateful to
me," said Caiaphas, "and, moreover, we should be in peril of our lives
at the hand of our kindred. We will go away into Galilee, for I would
fain behold all the places where the Lord lived and taught, and where
also he passed his childhood."
So the two parted from the others after that they had passed the
wilderness, and they traveled humbly as pilgrims; sojourning long in all
the places where Jesus had been in his life-time; and this did they for
many years, till that Caiaphas was grown to be an old man.
"I am not worthy," he said humbly, "to write of all that he taught and
suffered, that should be writ by the hand of one that loved him while he
yet lived; but I can gather up the tales that are told of his sinless
childhood."
And so as they journeyed he made inquiry everywhere concerning the child
Jesus; insomuch that after a time the children would point him out and
whisper, "Yonder old man is the prophet of the Child Jesus."
And after many years he made a book of these tales, and it was called
"The Gospel of the Infancy." He took great pleasure and comfort in the
work, and it occupied all the closing years of his life.
"One thing only do I regret," he said to his wife many times, "and that
is that I did not begin this work while the mother of our Lord yet
lived; for she could have told me whether it be truly set forth; but now
I shall never know."
"Thou wilt know, beloved, afterward," said Anna, her eyes shining with a
wise and tender light. "For it must needs be that angels watched with
awe each moment of that earth-life; be sure that it is all writ in
heaven."