Immediately she blurted out, “Oh, I’m sorry sir!” Then began to wipe my wet tunic with a rag.
“It’s all right,” I lamented. It really wasn’t all right, but it truly wasn’t her fault. “I take care of the spill, and change my tunic later. No problem.”
“Okay,” she said. “My name is Ariel, if you need anything, please call for me.”
“Very well,” I replied as I continued to dab at the spill, “My name is Steve. I’m looking for a table where there are supposedly three former shepherds seated. Do you happen to know if they’re here?”
She pointed to a table in the corner, where Ashar was headed already.
With all that sloshed ale from night to night, it’s no wonder how the place earned the stink of putrefying hops and barley.
As we approached the table, one of the seated men looked up, then turned his head to look back at the other men that he was seated with. I saw his lips moving, but in the din, I couldn’t make out what he was saying. They all glanced back at me, then immediately looked straight down at the mugs stationed in front of them. I wasn’t sure what to make out of all that movement. Were they shy? Were they blood brothers forming a pact to tell me only certain bits? It looked suspicious.
Edging up to the table, Ashar greeted the men and threw his arms into the air in an over-acting gesture. Seemed like classical Ashar, always the dramatist. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming here tonight.” Sounding more like the ringmaster of a circus, he continued, “This is Mr. Steve Stanton of the World Observer Gazette. He is here to write your story and buy us dinner!”
Out of politeness and a sheer embarrassment for Ashar, the men looked at me and nodded, acknowledging my presence. I think Ashar embarrassed us all. The man seated closest to me acted as if he wanted to stand to shake my hand, but the confines of the table and the booth prevented him. Motioning with his hand, he invited me to sit with them. “We are pleased to meet with you, Mr. Stanton of the World Observer Gazette, and we are pleased to have dinner with you. We have known Ashar for a long time, and we know of his antics. We are not presuming that you are purchasing our meals. Ashar should be ashamed of himself!” He glanced at Ashar who had helped himself to one of the empty chairs, and was still flashing that cheesy smile. I wanted to reach over and rub that grin off his face. We had begun our conversation in Hebrew. My Hebrew was rough, but conversational.
The lead man continued, “My name is Hananiah. These are my friends. We have been friends for a long time. We’ve known each other since the days we’ve spent in the fields together. But, we are retired shepherds and we welcome you to our town and to this table.” Hananiah was a rugged looking man. It was obvious that he had spent a career exposed to the sun, the weather and the wilderness of Israel.
The man seated in the middle spoke up, “My name is Mishael. I am the oldest of the three of us, but Hananiah likes to do the talking.” Immediately I glanced at Hananiah to gauge his response to the not so veiled aspersion cast on his behavior. I could see that these guys had been together for a long time. They knew each other well and were comfortable enough to speak disparagingly about each other as if they were siblings.
“Are you men brothers?” I asked. Taking the lead, as expected, Hananiah jumped in, “No, not by family or blood, but by occupation and shared glorious experiences. I’ll explain that part in a moment.” As he concluded his sentence, he looked over at the other two. His eyes met theirs and they responded in silent affirmation that they agreed. Something has happened to these three that has made them stick close and to accept each other as brothers. Perhaps they combined forces in the fields to ward off preying wolves, or perhaps they formed a pact that helped them to survive other scheming shepherds or outlaws? I wasn’t quite sure, but I knew they shared a relationship that was very apparent, unusual for the area, and certainly unique to them.
Before I could respond to Hananiah, the third man spoke up, “Well, before Hananiah takes control here, as he is accustomed to doing, allow me to introduce myself. I, Mr. Stanton, am Azariah, and I too am pleased to meet you. How can we be of service to you and your publication? Why would you travel all this way to interview three tired old shepherds like us?” It seemed, from his tone of voice, that he knew why I was there. From what I had gathered up to this point was that they were sort of celebrities in their own right, and the events of thirty years prior rocketed them to the top. At first, their own fellow countrymen discarded their stories, but not now. Apparently, many people throughout the countryside had now changed their minds about what has been called “The claims of the Shepherds” and are agreeing with the “claims.” I wanted to know what occurred to file the “claims,” and why so many thousands agree with it today.
Hananiah cut in, “What is it that you want to know?”
Dismissing his brusque tone and almost feeling baited, I asked, “What does that mean, this claim of ‘glorious experiences’?”
As if on cue, the three men, in synchronous motions, looked to the ceiling, raised their hands and recited a phrase under their breaths. Something sacred was being remembered, and they were moved just at the remembering of it.
“Pardon my ignorance, but what is that all about?” I asked. “I haven’t quite seen that type of response before.”
“Forgive us, Mr. Stanton, but every time we are allowed to share our glorious experience with people, we feel that we are among a privileged few. What I mean is that there are few people that have had the personal attention of Jehovah as we have had.” There was a glow about Hananiah as he spoke. I could sense in his voice that he was winding up, preparing the dissertation about his glorious experience. Suddenly, Hananiah’s face went flat and dour. Before he could start, he saw a waitress approaching the table, it was Ariel, the one I literally bumped into earlier. She was holding a flat tray with spent mugs on it and asked if we wanted to place an order. The men ordered a favorite Israeli tea and recommended the same for me. Hananiah was eager to dismiss her and curtly said, “Now, go fetch us the drinks.” Casting a look at him as if to say, “How rude,” she pivoted around so fast that spilled ale on the bottom of her tray splashed on Hananiah. I felt that she had done it purposefully. Instinctually reacting, Hananiah jumped up in a vain attempt to keep the ale off his clothes. He quickly wiped the ale off his tunic, causing the whole booth to rock. In the old days, Hananiahs’ ensuing stare would have caused wolves to retreat, but the waitress simply tossed an insincere apology over her shoulder as she went to fetch the drinks.
“Mr. Stanton, please forgive my excitement,” Hananiah said, “and I apologize for not allowing you to speak your own order.”
I shrugged my shoulders and in a conciliatory voice said, “I am perfectly fine with your choice. I came through that windstorm we had earlier today, and a cool tea will help wash the dust down.”
“What windstorm are you speaking of Mr. Stanton,” Mishael asked inquisitively.
“Earlier today, as I made my way to Bethlehem from Jerusalem, the wind was so strong that I had grit in every pore of my body.” I acted surprised that he hadn’t experience a strong wind today.
“Hmmm, we didn’t have a windstorm here. It’s been calm, and all too calm to boot,” responded Mishael. “Was extra hot, I mentioned it to Sarah how hot and calm it was, hmmm.”
“Forget windstorms,” interrupted Hananiah. “I want to tell Mr. Stanton about the event that sent him here to talk with us about.” Looking at his friends, and Ashar, then to me, he said, “May I continue?”
With a collective assent from the group, as demonstrated by their sudden clamming up, I nodded and said, “By all means Hananiah, please continue.” I reached into my pocket to remove a pen and pad. I dared not bring my laptop through this part of town. I wasn’t so sure that I wanted to leave it in the care of the innkeeper either, but I figured the risk was more minimal in