The Last Man at the Inn

by R. William Bennett

  Simon smiled at the gesture and bent over to catch his breath for a few moments. When he straightened up, Mara stood in front of him. She cradled in her arms what could have been mistaken for a bundle of blankets, freshly washed. But from within the folds, a beautiful little pink face looked out with bright eyes. Simon looked down into Alexander’s face, and for a moment they were the only three people in the world. He reached up and put his arm around Mara, glancing at her, but returned his gaze to his son while he pulled her close.

  “Has he changed?” she asked with a smile.

  “Yes, he is so much bigger! But, no, I would know those eyes anywhere. They are your eyes, and I have them emblazoned in my mind.”

  They both looked at Alexander, then at each other. Blessed was the only word he could think of.

  That evening, they ate supper together quietly, and then Mara fed Alexander. When she brought the child up to her shoulder to pat his back, Simon said, “It’s a beautiful evening. Let’s go up to the roof for a little bit.”

  “Let me bundle him. That would be pleasant.”

  She wrapped the baby snuggly and began to follow Simon up the stairs. At the top, he stopped suddenly, causing her to bump gently into him.

  “Simon, what is it?” she asked.

  He said nothing but reached his hand back and held it open for her to hold. She adjusted Alexander in her arms, took Simon’s hand, and made the final steps to join him on the roof.

  Once there, Mara could see what Simon had glimpsed when he paused at the top of the stairs. On every rooftop, husbands and wives and children stood, silently staring up into the eastern sky. Simon and Mara followed their gaze to a star on the horizon—a star so bright it lit up their faces and cast shadows around them.

  Mara drew close to him. “What is that?” she asked quietly.

  Simon just shook his head. “Well, of course, it’s a star, but it’s new. I have never seen it before, and it’s as bright as a full moon.”

  Something about the situation demanded silence from every onlooker. And so, without a word, Simon and Mara sat on the bench they kept on the roof and just stared. Mara pulled Alexander close to her. Simon noticed and asked, “Does it scare you?”

  She looked at him quizzically. “No, it’s odd, but not at all frightening. There is something peaceful about it. Look around at our friends. Everyone is curious, but nobody seems concerned.”

  Because of the bright light, Simon could clearly see the faces of a least six other families. Everyone was mesmerized, but Mara was correct: nobody seemed alarmed.

  “Are you frightened?” she asked.

  “No, of course not. I just don’t know what it is.”

  “I think I do,” she said.

  Simon turned to look at her. “You do? How could you know what it is?”

  Mara did not answer him directly. Rather, she looked at the star and began speaking: “I shall see him, but not now: I shall behold him, but not nigh: there shall come a Star out of Jacob, and a Scepter shall rise out of Israel . . .”

  “You think this has something to do with that baby?” Simon asked incredulously. Mara did not answer. But holding Alexander tightly, she placed her free hand on Simon’s arm and nodded.

  Simon did not know what to say. He pulled his little family close and continued to stare. This child, he thought. He is but a few months old, and he seems to be changing everything.

  Simon looked down at his own son and tried to chase the thought away. He could almost do it, but his own words, the silent ones in his mind, kept coming back to him: he seems to be changing everything.

  Although Simon could not really afford do it, he stayed home for nearly two months. The star remained. In fact, it never moved. While other stars arced through the sky, this one held steady. All were amazed, some were unsettled, but even so, after a few weeks, many became used to it and almost ceased to notice it. Simon looked at it every evening but said nothing.

  He traded goods in his own village. It never yielded much, but this way he could at least justify staying at home. Every few days he would head down to the port, buy whatever spices were most rare in his community, return to town, and sell them for a meager profit. Everyone knew they could buy the spices cheaper by simply walking down the hill themselves, but this was a small community, and everyone knew everyone else. They laughed amongst themselves at the new father who could not stand to leave his family; and they were willing to pay a few extra shekels to help the family make ends meet.

  Finally, the time came when Simon knew he must go on the road again. The evening before he left, Mara and Alexander stayed near his side as he prepared his things, soaking up every chance to be together.

  Finally, he finished packing and turned to Mara. “It will go fast.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you,” she said. It was not a question but a statement.

  He smiled. “No, I don’t. But I am trying to tell myself that. I will go as quickly as I can. At least things are peaceful here. You can enjoy your time with Alexander until I return.”

  The following morning, that peace would be shattered.

  A commotion outside—originating from somewhere up the street, perhaps—jarred Simon awake. The sleepy new father rubbed his face to become more alert, arose from bed, and dressed hurriedly. Quietly, he opened the door and stepped into the hazy morning air. Uphill from their home was a communal well surrounded by a short stone wall that created a square of sorts. The spot had long been a place for those living nearby to gather and talk. This morning it was filled with many of his friends—all of them listening to a man Simon did not recognize.

  Simon quickly approached the square and located his friend Tobias. “What is going on?” he whispered.

  “You would not believe it!” Tobias replied. “Actually, what is so terrible is that it is believable. But it is so . . . heartbreaking.”

  “What is?” Simon asked.

  “Herod.”

  Nothing good begins with that name, Simon thought.

  His friend continued. “You have heard talk of a baby born in Bethlehem—a baby said to be the fulfillment of prophecy?”

  Simon nodded.

  “Well, Herod is apparently frightened by this child.”

  Simon squinted and looked at his friend. “Really? Herod ‘the Great’? Troubled by a baby?”

  “Not just any baby,” Tobias said. “This baby is . . .”

  “I know, I know,” Simon interrupted but then paused. “Wait, so now this baby is the prophesied King, not just possibly the prophesied King?”

  “Well, yes, it is not proven . . .” Tobias said before Simon smiled and interrupted him again.

  “It’s just that this story gets grander every time I hear it.”

  He waited for his friend to smile back but became worried when he did not.

  “So,” Simon rushed on, “I suppose this is not just about Herod being worried, is it?”

  Tobias did not answer, so Simon turned his attention to the man addressing the crowd.

  “How do you know this?” someone called out.

  “The word travels fast. I do not know firsthand, but the man who told me was there and witnessed it.”

  Another question, spoken with a cracking voice: “How many?”

  “I do not know. Some say a dozen, some more.” The man paused and became emotional himself. “But if it is even one, it is too many.”

  Simon was now absorbed and confused. He called out. “I’ve just gotten here. What’s happened?”

  Everyone turned to him and started talking at once.

  “Shh, shh, shh,” Simon said. “I would like to hear it from him.”

  Everyone hushed. The man looked at Simon, winced in visible pain, and began again.

  “A baby was born in Bethlehem a little while ago that many believe is the promised child spo
ken of by Isaiah.”

  Silence hung thick in the air.

  “Some holy men from the East were drawn by the star we have been seeing each night. They went looking for this baby, to honor him. But first they inquired of Herod to learn what he knew. He did not know anything. But the news concerned him. He worried about what the birth of this child would mean to the people. To assure this prophesied King could never be a threat, Herod issued an edict and sent his soldiers to murder every boy born in or near Bethlehem in the last two years.” The man paused, took a breath, and simply said, “And they did.”

  Simon stood frozen, mouth agape. He could not process what he had heard. He had been there—in Bethlehem—not long ago. He had seen babies—many of them. And all of them were now gone? He pictured mothers bent over in anguish, clutching empty clothing, crying uncontrollably. He thought briefly of his son, barely six months old, and his eyes welled with tears.

  His mind then turned back to that evening. To the cave and its occupants. To the feeling or emotion—or whatever it was—that had drawn the shepherds from their flocks and held them transfixed at the cave’s entrance. No matter who the child in that cave was, these murders were a tragedy. But if by some chance the prophecy was true and the child in the cave was the future King . . .

  He swallowed and called again to the man who had told the story. “I am sorry, so sorry. Did . . . did you have any family that were . . . lost?”

  “No,” the man said softly without looking up. “I did not.”

  Simon spoke again. “Please, one more question. This baby everyone has spoken of so much. Do you know if he is among those taken?”

  “I have heard,” the man continued, “though not from the same person, that his family was made aware of the danger and fled. I don’t know the truth of it, nor have I heard where the family went. These rumors could be untrue but believed by those who hope and pray for his safety. I cannot offer you any confidence about that—only that I heard it and that I pray, like others, that it is true.”

  As Simon turned to walk back home, he was startled to find Mara in front of him, Alexander clasped tightly in her arms. He could tell she was stifling back tears, holding her lips rigidly to avoid crying out. He walked slowly to her and put both arms around her. Together they looked down at their son, who slept peacefully. Then he felt her shake; she could not hold back any longer. Her soft crying brought on his own, and they stood on the crowded street, weeping for the terrible losses in Bethlehem.

  Despite lingering tales of a king who had been born to save the people, a mysterious new light in the heavens, and a tyrannical ruler who would kill to maintain his throne, life for Simon and Mara went on in quite ordinary ways. Herod’s crime against the children was not forgotten by the Jews in the land; but the memory did fade into the fabric of Jewish life under Roman rule.

  At first there was much talk of the baby and his family’s escape. To Egypt, some said; to the Far East, others said. New details were added to the story with each retelling. Simon believed this tale, like so many before it, would eventually topple from the weight of its incredulity and then be lost to history.

  Within a short time, Herod died. The kingdom of Judea was divided between three of his sons, political and geographic boundaries were realigned, and Roman authority continued to press heavily upon the Jews. For Simon, however, all of this was mostly a distraction, something to talk about with other travelers as they shared a meal around the fire after a long day’s work. Every now and then, talk of Herod’s massacre or of the baby born in Bethlehem would arise. Simon never asked anyone what they knew about the child on these occasions; he simply listened with guarded interest.

  And then, one evening, some five or six years after the child’s birth, a fellow traveler mentioned the baby. It was out of character for Simon, and he was not sure why he did it, but he asked a question.

  “I rarely hear this story about the baby now. It has been years. Do you think the people have stopped believing it?”

  The man pushed the embers of the fire with a stick, then looked up and smiled. “No, my friend. And speaking for myself, I absolutely believe it. But I wait. I wait upon this child. I wait upon the Lord.”

  This both intrigued and troubled Simon. He leaned forward. “Wait . . . for what?”

  The man smiled and shook his head. “I am not sure. For whatever the Lord intends—for both this child and for us. I know the boy was not killed. He would be, what, six years old now? That is, perhaps, a little young to lead an army?” He laughed.

  Simon smiled. “Yes, of course.” He became serious again. “You said you know he was not killed. How do you know that? Have you some firsthand knowledge? Have you seen him?”

  The other man looked directly at Simon. “No, I have never seen him, nor his parents. But when I first heard of Herod’s act—I can see right where I was, in Bethel, conducting business with a buyer who told me the news. I knew at that moment the child was safe.”

  Simon leaned forward even farther. “That which you just said. That knowledge. Nobody told you? You did not witness anything. How did you . . . how do you now . . . know that he is safe?”

  Simon found the other man’s absolutism irritating. These fanatics were always so sure; everything was always so black and white. Why could they not just say, “As for me, I think . . .”? It was always, “I know . . .” They fairly begged for an argument if you disagreed.

  The other man seemed to read Simon’s mind, for he approached the question gently albeit firmly. “I understand, my friend. This is hard to comprehend for me too! And it is hard to explain even if one could understand it. All I can say is that something inside of me knows it to be true; I cannot conceive of another way to say it.”

  “I can help you there,” said Simon flippantly. “How about, ‘I am not sure’?” He knew it was wrong, but he wanted to get under the skin of this man, to see him flinch when he challenged him. He was disappointed to see the reaction.

  Nothing.

  “Oh, I understand how to say the sentence. And I know you don’t share my belief. But it does not change what I believe.”

  Simon felt guilty. Why had he done that? It was not like him to prod people with whom he disagreed.

  “I’m sorry. I mocked you. I shouldn’t have.”

  “Forgiven,” the man said with a smile.

  “May we keep speaking of it?”

  “Of course.”

  “This belief of yours, this surety,” Simon continued. “Perhaps you are sure because you so badly want it to be true? Or perhaps because it helps you explain something horrible, like Herod’s crime, in a way you can deal with it?”

  “You are saying I am lying?”

  It was an interesting question. The words seemed an incendiary challenge, but the man’s tone was one more of genuine inquiry.

  Simon quickly responded. “No, no, I am sorry if it sounds like that. I am suggesting . . . perhaps you have even convinced yourself, so that it is a truth to you?”

  The other man looked down with a smile. “I once thought as you do.” He stirred the embers for a long time without saying a word. Simon just watched him, sensing he was not done. Finally, still looking into the fire, the man spoke slowly. “I take no offense from your statement, so I hope you will take none from mine. Perhaps it is you, not I, that is finding a way to explain something he cannot understand?”

  Simon wanted to say he was not offended, but he was. He wanted to lash out, accuse the man of denigrating him by suggesting he could not face uncomfortable facts, to put him in his place and let him know he was out of line. And yet, was this not just exactly what he had said to the man moments before? And here this man was—calm and without guile. Simon looked at the ground and said nothing.

  The other man responded to the silence. “I understand. I really do. I am not faulting you. This thing that has happened is unlike anything else w
e have experienced. It leaves the man who is truly searching speechless.”

  Simon responded quickly and more sharply than he wished he had. “I am not searching.”

  Again, the other man was soft and respectful. “This too needs better words. Help me, then, that I might respect you and your beliefs. What is it you are doing by asking me these questions?”

  Simon had no answer. He did not know what he was doing. He wanted to ignore everything about this child, to keep his life in order the way he always had. But he could not get away from it. At times he felt the whole thing was an invention of a desperate people who could not face their Roman occupation. What were they clinging to? A baby, born in Bethlehem, whom shepherds left their flocks to see? An unusually bright star?

  At other times, he wanted to say he was not sure. But if he said that to those who were discussing it, he knew they would descend on him like flies to honey. They would back him into a corner, pushing him to answer questions that would qualify him as a follower, or not.

  If it mattered as much as everyone said, why didn’t he believe? If it mattered so little, why could he not clear it from his mind?

  All he could think to say was, “More food?”

  Twelve years after the child was born in Bethlehem, Simon asked Alexander, his firstborn, to join him in his travels.

  Like his father before him, Simon had become a master merchant. His travels grew beyond the borders of Judea, Samaria, and Galilee to the more distant regions of the Empire. As his successes increased, so did his family, and he purchased a larger home to accommodate them.