"Jason, you have many things on your mind. I scarcely think my cousin John has much to do with it, if he has anything at all." I was trying to draw the line. The line wasn't straight. I took a rag, knotted it, and rubbed at the mark. I'd cut a little too deep, but I kept at it.
"Oh, yes, your cousin John has plenty to do with it," he said, stopping in front of me.
"Move to the left, you're in the light."
He reached around, picked up the lantern by its hook, and set it down right in front of me.
I sat back again, but I didn't look at him. The light was in my eyes.
"All right, Jason, what is it you want to tell me now about my cousin John?"
"I have a mind for poetry, don't I?"
"Without doubt." I rubbed gently at the mark, and watched it slowly fade from the wood. The wood took on a slight luster.
"This is what makes me pick at you," he said, "the words that John entrusted to me, the litanies that he carried in his heart - about you. These litanies he had from his mother's own lips and he recited them each day as he recited the Shema with all Israel, but these litanies were his private prayers. You know what these words were?"
I thought for a moment. "I don't know that I do," I said.
"Very well, then, let me tell you."
"Seems you're determined to do that."
He crouched down now. What a picture he was with his beautifully oiled black hair and his large scowling eyes.
"Before John's birth, your mother came to his mother. She was near Bethany then, and her husband, Zechariah, was still alive. They didn't kill Zechariah till after John was born."
"Yes, this is the story," I said. I went back to trying to draw the line, correctly this time, no mistakes. I cut into the wood with the sharp bit of pottery.
"Your mother told John's mother of the angel who'd come to her," Jason said, leaning close to me.
"Everyone in Nazareth knows that story, Jason," I said, and continued to draw the line.
"No, but your mother," he said, "your mother, standing there in the open space, with her arms around John's mother, your mother, your quiet mother who says so little so seldom, at that moment, she broke into a hymn. She looked beyond to the hills where the prophet Samuel was buried, and from the ancient words of Hannah, she made her hymn."
I stopped my work. I looked up slowly at him.
His voice came reverent and low, and his face was open and kind.
" 'My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord. My spirit rejoices in God, my Savior. Because He has looked upon the lowliness of His handmaid. Behold, from now on, all ages will call me blessed. The mighty One has done marvelous things for me; and holy is His name. His mercy is from age to age to those who fear Him. He's shown might with His arm, scattering the arrogant of mind and heart. He's thrown down rulers from their thrones but lifted up the humble. The hungry He's filled with good things. The rich He's sent away empty. He has had mercy on Israel His servant, remembering His mercy, according to His promise to our fathers. . . .' "
He stopped.
We looked at one another.
"You know this prayer?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
"Well, then," he said sadly. "I'll tell you another - the prayer spoken by John's father, Zechariah, the priest, when John was given his name."
I said nothing.
" 'Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel, for He has visited and brought redemption to His people. He has raised up a horn for our salvation within the house of David, His servant, even as He promised through the mouths of the prophets of old.' " He broke off, looking down for a moment. He swallowed and then he went on. " 'Salvation - from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us . . . and you child' - he spoke here of his son John, you understand - 'and you child will be called prophet of the Most High, for you will go before the Lord to prepare His ways. . . .' "
He stopped, unable to go on.
"What's the use of this!" he whispered. He stood up and turned his back.