by Fish, Susan
“Perhaps you know the Hebrew prophecies of a king being foretold by a star? That’s how we have come to understand this star. And so we have followed the star in the direction it led, and tonight it seemed to lead us directly to your home.”
There was silence. I looked around the room. My eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and now I saw that though the windows were covered, light from the star seeped in at every crack, like little stars in a dark sky. The silence continued, but the man and woman looked out at the light. Caspar cleared his throat. “We are not drunk as you may suppose—”
“No,” the man said slowly. “No, I do not suppose that you are. This star—you have followed it?”
“As it has moved across the sky.”
“Looking for a king?”
“Yes.” I took another drink. “Can you give us any direction?”
Joseph turned to look at his wife. I could not see his face, but I could see hers, urging him to trust, to tell, to believe. Her smile was that of a little girl who has been happily surprised once again. “I think you have come to the right place,” he said simply.
My heart began to pound, and I felt Caspar and Hasin flutter behind me.
“It is you who may doubt us,” the man added.
“Please tell us all you can.”
An incredible story poured forth, one that made ours sound commonplace. Angel visitations, virgin fullness, joy and sorrow, dreams and resolutions, promises, panic and pain—a child—squalor and shepherds, glory and—
“God,” the woman said, forming the sound lovingly, reverently. “God chose me.” A giggle escaped her lips, a spring of joy bubbling from a hidden source. “My child is his own.”
I was confused, unsure how this tale of wonders connected with our journey. We were seeking a king, not a carpenter’s miracle son.
“We are seeking the king of the Jews,” I explained. I gestured around me. “Your child—can he be—he cannot be—the king of the Jews?”
Joseph looked deeply at me with long-suffering eyes. “Our people have waited a long time for a Savior to come. God acts in ways we cannot understand, but our child is indeed his Son.”
“The Lord has told me my son will reign forever on David’s throne,” the woman said.
“How can he be a king here in Bethlehem?” Caspar asked incredulously.
“What about Herod?” I added.
She shrugged. “The Lord chooses the king. He says Yeshua will save our people from our sins.”
“That’s a new kind of king!” I said.
“Yes!” she said firmly. “It is. The Lord is doing many new things in our midst.”
Excitement seized me. Had I believed until this point that our journey might find a resting place? That the star had indeed been a message we had received? Suddenly I was aware that it was no accident we had seen the star and had interpreted its meaning correctly. Perhaps Someone had even sent the message to us. I felt an urge to laugh, my heart light with joy and prickling with wonder.
“Would you like to see him?” Joseph asked. I nodded. The woman slipped into the shadows once again and returned with a bundle within her robes.
We left the table and gathered on the floor around her as though we were children eager for a treat or a story. The baby sitting on her lap was now wide awake and interested in the activity around him. When I looked at the child, I felt disappointed: there was nothing particularly different about him from the other babies I had seen in the town square that day. I would not likely be able to remember what he looked like once we left.
Hasin knelt beside me, fully prepared to worship. He had been trained at his mother’s knee to await this Messiah, and I could see that he was grateful to be a witness to a promise fulfilled. Caspar still looked doubtful, though he was willing to sit at the woman’s feet.
Fearful of hurting the child, I reached out with my bad hand to touch him, wondering if he would feel like an ordinary baby. He did, butter-soft skin on his naked legs. Then the child grasped my finger, and suddenly I was no longer in the room, no longer in any room, but whirling through the stars, spinning round and round, anchored only at my hand. It was my dream, my old dream, only real. I looked at the unmoving star that held my hand, saw the baby’s face, and heard a voice.
“Melchior. I am. I am.”
And then the child let go and began to play with his mother’s loosened hair, and I fell to the ground, my hand tingling as though with starlight. Tears poured from my eyes, and I began to pray, deeply from the heart. Somehow, this baby in this carpenter’s home, in the middle of the village night, was the magnificent unmoving star, the center of all moving things, of all life, of the whole world. The gods of my father and my land seemed suddenly like child’s toys, like foolish superstition. This was reality. This was what I had sought my entire life. This desire had been placed in my heart by this baby, this God, and he had filled it. I felt entirely small and yet blessedly significant at the same time. I felt loved as I had not since my beautiful mother died. I had been securely held all my life and led on this journey for the purpose of discovering this truth, of discovering God. Balzar had been right those months before when he said that the deepest desire of my heart might indeed lead me closer to God. The seeker of stars had been sought and found. There was nothing religious about this; it was holy and true.
We unwrapped gifts for the baby. Lavish, extravagant, impractical gifts. The mother gasped at the gold we held before her child. He tried to stuff one of the coins in his mouth before Joseph removed them to safety. The frankincense and myrrh in their heavy vessels we presented to the family, and I laid my heart before the child.
With the reticence of men, neither Hasin nor Caspar, nor even Joseph said anything of my tears, but the woman placed her hand on my head and said, “His mercy extends from generation to generation to those who fear him.”
I felt it as a blessing on my whole family, even on my son who was about to be born.
When all the gifts were presented, we sat back.
“Are we the first? To recognize him as the Messiah?” Hasin asked eagerly.
The woman laughed again. “I’m afraid not,” she said gently. “The Lord has already sent worshippers and prophets, though you are the only kings—”
“We’re not kings,” I interrupted, though our finery might have misled her. “We come on behalf of our king … and ourselves.”
As we rose to leave before the sun rose and our absence was discovered, Caspar apologized again for our clandestine visit.
The woman smiled. “I was not sleeping. The starlight woke the baby, and I was holding him in it when you knocked.”
~ 17 ~
Home
We rode at full gallop for three days, with pauses only to ensure the health of our horses. We needed to be well past the reach of Israel’s king as soon as possible, and we avoided the highway, sticking to the pass through the mountains.
For my part, the pace was welcome for several reasons. My spirit soared with the recollection of the infant king we had left behind—God had indeed lifted the veil from my eyes to worship and praise this child. Another baby also spurred me homeward: my own child would surely have been born by now. And Reta—my heart welled up with new longing for my wife. Her letter and the changes wrought in me on this journey made me crave her as she had been revealed to me.
Danger to our lives was, however, the practical reality that sped our journey. Even as we packed to leave Bethlehem, Caspar gathered us together—magi, guards, and servants—speaking freely of the accomplishment of our journey’s task and then his fears, my dream, and our necessity for haste and discretion. We talked of finding Shaz but knew that either he would laugh at us for seeking him or he would already be dead—depending on which way Herod’s whim had fallen—and so, reluctantly, we left him to find his own way. I did not envy Caspar telling Stela.
; We broke into two groups, with Caspar leading one along with the guards and me leading the other with the servants. We needed to pack lightly, and so we took some of our belongings to the child’s father, Joseph. Caspar was reluctant to confide our plans to Joseph for fear that the man might suffer for his knowledge, but we did warn him to beware of the king and his representatives who might feign homage.
Joseph listened to all we said—and to what we did not say. Then he nodded. “We will soon be on our way home to Nazareth. There our son should be safe. Your gifts will help us on our journey. The Lord bless you and keep you and make His face to shine upon you.”
It was the same blessing Reta had spoken over me in her fear and grief at the beginning of my journey. The journey to the child’s cradle had been a long one. I had traveled down years of my life I had only existed through before. I had reconciled with a brother and my beloved wife, and even with the Creator of my beauties. He was a God who delighted in small things—the stars, tiny but perfect, set in their places in the dance, leading those who would look to the small, perfect wonder of the infant king.
The night skies had shifted once again. No longer was I following a moving star, but I was following its Maker. The dark spaces between the stars were still mysterious but no longer troubling, and all the joy I had felt as a little boy, gazing at my dancing beauties, was back, and more. Finally the stars were a guide to me, familiar though glorious; they helped me set a course that was true.
Where my thoughts on the journey to Bethlehem had been heavy and circuitous, now my heart leaped with one simple thought: I’m going home.
We were well into our own country when I realized Hasin lagged behind the rest. One long day’s ride would take me to my heart’s desire, and my mouth longed to be there more than it yearned for water. I swallowed my impatience and dropped back to ride with Balzar’s son.
“Is your horse well? Are you ill?” I asked. He shook his head. As my horse slowed to meet the pace of the other horse, I suddenly felt in my body what my companion must feel.
“Balzar,” I said quietly.
“My heart grows heavier as we approach home.”
I was silent, feeling the grief. I felt a throb in my bad hand.
“It’s one thing in a foreign land where everything is different and when we’ve been running for our lives, but now that we’ve made it, the ache rises up,” Hasin said. “My father should be with us—or at home to hear our stories.”
I wiped a tear. Balzar had been a father to me among the cabal, a force of laughter and love. There would be a huge hole in my life. I considered how much more Balzar’s son would miss his father. The intimacy I had envied was now gone. I looked over and saw tears streaming down his face.
I had never tried to embrace anyone from a horse or a camel, and the task struck me as impossible now. Still, as we rode on in silence, I didn’t want Balzar’s son to interpret my silence as indifference. A tune Balzar had sung drifted into my head, and without thinking, I began to sing, remembering Balzar’s rich voice as he sang it. I glanced over and saw a rainbow: tears pouring down Hasin’s cheeks and across his smiling mouth, into his beard. When I finished, he said, “That was my mother’s song. My father sang it to keep her memory alive. And now you have kept his memory for me. Thank you, my friend.”
I bowed across my reins.
“I’m taking his name,” Hasin said. “I’m to be called Balthazar from now on. It really is my first name, but my mother insisted on calling me by my middle name to avoid confusion. She never could say my father’s full name correctly.”
“She was half-Jewish, I think?”
“All Jewish actually.”
“But Balzar said—”
“It was my parents’ joke. That she was Jewish at home and Gentile in the world, so that made her half-Jewish.”
I smiled, thinking of Reta, who played essentially the same game.
“So it is you who are half-Jewish … like my child waiting for me.”
Now Balthazar was intrigued. “Your child? Your wife … she is a Jew?”
“Half-Jewish, your mother would say, but yes, Reta is an Israelite, and she will have borne my child while we have been on this journey.”
“A good reason for you to hurry back!” Balthazar said, smiling. Then, setting his face toward the city, he said, “My hurry is pointless. I have no family waiting for me. Since my mother’s death there has only been my father and I.”
“I envied your closeness,” I said.
Balthazar looked up with the unconsciousness of a child with a loving parent—to him, such a father was as natural and familiar as breathing, and he presumed it to be the rule.
“It is no consolation now that Balzar is gone,” I said carefully, “but I think he was a rare treasure of a father. He taught me much about the kind of father I mean to be.”
Balthazar took this in quietly. “I’m lost without him,” he said.
“Come home with me,” I said impulsively.
Balthazar shook his head with a laugh. “A new baby and a guest? I don’t think so. You’ll want to see your family.”
“With all my heart, yes! And I mean no sacrilege to the infant king we have worshipped, but I suspect every baby needs as many admirers and lovers as possible. My brother will not be there to praise my son. Perhaps you could stand in.”
Balthazar smiled again.
“I will warn you,” I said, my light heart returning, “to be prepared with compliments for my child. And that I may not be an attentive host at all times.”
Balthazar laughed again. “Your wife won’t mind?”
I laughed. “Reta is a jewel. This will not trouble her!”
“As long as all is well then,” Balthazar said. A brief jolt of anxiety ran over me but was soon gone again, serving only to increase my impatience to be home.
“Let’s be there for dinner!” I took the reins in both hands and raced ahead of the servants, who hurried to keep up.
By the time we approached the city gates, the sun was low in the sky. We had ridden a three-week journey in nine days. We were worn, dirty, and exhausted. Our horses were weary. Balthazar and I left the horses in the care of the servants at the city gate. As we took leave of them on wobbly legs, I put an arm around each of the two faithful men who had served us well and without questioning; they had been pleasant and useful companions, and I told them so. I told them I would tell the chief astronomer and urged them to go home as soon as the horses were tended and word of our arrival was sent to the astronomers.
My legs were heavy on the ground and my bad hand twitched at intervals, but I was eager to be home. We met several people who greeted us, but no one spoke either of our journey or of my wife. It was good that way. I wanted no intermediaries.
The door to my home was opened by one of the Hebrew midwives, who smiled at my ragged appearance and pointed upstairs. I took the stairs in three bounds and ran into Reta’s room, where she reclined on the bed, and I flung my head into her lap.
“Melchior! You’re filthy!” The voice was my sister’s. Reta’s hands stroked my hair, unmatting and untangling it. I did not raise my head. For once, Daria would not be obeyed. Sensing either her own defeat or perhaps that she was intruding, Daria retreated down the stairs.
I looked up at last at Reta’s face and marveled that I could ever have lost sight of who she really was. Her eyes were large and shining with joy and love. Our letters had passed and the journey had stripped our hearts bare. I could tell I had been forgiven, though I still needed to ask it. In reply, Reta bent her head over mine and kissed me deeply.
“Now, Melchi, isn’t there anything else you wanted to ask about?” she said, voice bursting with delight.
“The baby! Oh, Reta! The baby has come! I shouldn’t—are you all right? The baby—is it—is he—it is a—”
Reta smiled and pointed to
the small woven basket on the floor. There, nestled among soft blankets, was a tiny face whose beauty took my breath away. My eyes grew wide, and tears coursed down my cheeks.
“Our son,” Reta said. “Just as we thought.”
“And when?”
“Three days ago. I couldn’t wait any longer for you. I’m sorry, Melchi.”
“No. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” I looked at my hands. “I can’t pick him up. I’ll ruin him.”
Reta pointed to a basin and towel on the table, and I washed my aching hands and sand-etched face. Then I felt afraid to lift my son, afraid I would hurt him. I lifted the basket instead, and Reta scooped him out. Then the baby—my son—began to wail. Reta loosened her robe and offered a breast to the baby. I was filled with longing. She was more desirable than ever, and I remembered the Reta who had met me after another feverish journey so many years before. What was it about suddenly seeing this woman that destroyed my defenses? This time I would not forget. I would learn to savor this wife of mine so that familiarity would not become a barrier between us.
I stroked the baby’s foot with a finger and then his hand, and his fingers curled around mine. I thought of that other baby holding my finger and my realization of who he was.
“I saw another baby, Reta.”
“A baby?”
“The star led us to a king as we had thought, but he was just a baby—bigger than this, but still a baby. Reta …” I paused, and she looked at me. “Reta, I think he is the one from your prophecies.”
“The Promised One,” she mouthed.
“The Messiah who will save his people,” I said. “Reta, I worshipped him.” Her eyes betrayed surprise. “I did. Reta, have I ever told you about my dream?”
She shook her head.
“You know the unmoving star—the one in the north? For as long as I can remember—before my accident, before my mother died, and Omar—I have had a dream where I reach up and touch the unmoving star and hold it with my hand and move about it in the dance of the night sky. Reta, when our baby holds my hand, I feel a sense of belonging—that my father and his father and I—all our blood is in his veins. I feel proud. But when this baby king held my finger, Reta—I was suddenly spinning around the stars. He was what I had sought all my life. I knew, Reta—I knew. You asked me once if I believed in my father’s gods, if I worshipped them. I thought I did in my own way, as much as I could. But it has been the stars that have—they have been the object of my worship. Only now it is what is behind the stars. Who, I should say. Your God, Reta, has been leading me all my life to this journey. I have no idea why, but he dazzled me with his beauties, and now he’s shown me his face. All I know, Reta, is that this is true, and I want you to teach me more about this God—me and our son.”