Geoffrey
reached for the hilt of his sword, wrapping his hand around the crystal vial
holding St. John’s
bones and tried to feel the presence of the Saint. But how could he expect the
saint to favor him with Grace and presence, when he was still so bitter about
what had happened in Egypt? When he did not want
to accept God’s Will? Because that was the real problem: he didn’t want to believe that God could want what had happened….
Someone
seemed to be approaching him from the beach. Had another boat put in later than
the others? Geoffrey made a quick count. Yes, there were now seven boats moored
side-by-side.
The
man coming towards him was dressed like the other fishermen in a loose linen
shirt, bound with twine at the waist, over baggy trousers rolled up to the
knee. He walked barefoot toward Geoffrey with an uncanny self assurance, as if
he met armored knights at the village shed every evening. “God be with you, my
friend,” he greeted Geoffrey in a deep, melodic voice.
“And
also with you,” Geoffrey replied automatically.
The
man smiled gently. “Will you not join me for the feast?” He asked.
“Of
course,” Geoffrey answered confused. How could the late comer know about the
feast? Then again, the smell of roasting kid reached all the way to here, as
did the laughter and the voices. Geoffrey looked around for Petrus and
fisherman answered his gesture by pointing to the shadow of Petrus already
scampering up the incline to the village, “the boy has gone ahead.”
Geoffrey
nodded absently and fell in beside the fisherman.
When
they reached the tables, the fisherman gestured to an empty space at the very
end of the table, and asked, “Will you break bread with me?”
“Of
course,” Geoffrey answered without thinking.
“Wait
for me here, I’ll be right back.”
Geoffrey
did as he was bid, while the fisherman withdrew into the darkness beyond the
range of the lamps on the table....
The
fisherman returned to Geoffrey. “You are Sir Geoffrey de Preuthune?” He asked.
“Yes,”
Geoffrey conceded.
“Ah!
Then I beg you to bless me, sir.”
“Bless
you? I’m a knight, not a monk. I did not take my vows,” Geoffrey admitted,
nervously aware of his guilt.
The
man smiled, “But you carry St. John the
Baptist’s hand with you. I would be honored to be blessed by the hand that has
held the saint’s in his.”
Geoffrey
was embarrassed, conscious of his unworthiness. “I assure you, good fisherman,
I am not fit to bless you. The sword was only loaned to me until it can be
returned to its rightful owner. I am a sinner.”
“As
are we all,” the man answered knowingly. “Here,” he had brought a loaf of bread
with him and a jug of wine. He tore the end off the loaf and handed it to
Geoffrey. “Eat this in remembrance of Him that gave His flesh for the sake of
all sinners.”
Geoffrey
was so startled by this mockery of the Mass that he knocked over his cup. The
red wine splashed onto the table and splattered his white surcoat with bright
red drops. “His blood that was shed for thee,” the fisherman intoned.
“This
is not the Mass!” Geoffrey reproached the fisherman sharply.
“Isn’t
it?” He answered calmly. “Didn’t Christ break bread on the banks of Galilee with the fishermen Simon Peter, Andrew, James and
John? Didn’t he drink wine with them and laugh together as the stars grew
bright in the night sky?” He gestured to the glittering heavens overhead. “Do
not seek God only in the houses men have built for Him, sir; seek Him rather in
the cathedral He built Himself,” the fisherman opened his arms wide in a
gesture that took in the world around them.
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