Ben Patrick Eden

Ben Patrick Eden's first Christian novel A SON OF CAPERNAUM is coming soon.

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ONE

 

 

Raf sat on the dock, basking in one of his favorite feelings. A stiff and chilly wind came off Galilee, buffeting his lower half. His legs hung over the edge, swayed by the breeze. It had rained hard the night before, and even the air smelled damp. Crystal droplets clung to every board and blade of grass. To the right, fishermen dumped the morning’s catch into plaster-sealed pools. They would spend the rest of the day cleaning fish and selling them to passing caravans. To the left, the sun swelled. Warm rays embraced his shoulder and back. Raf closed his eyes, mystified as to how his body could be cold and warm at the same time. He liked it that way. The opposites complimented each other. It felt so good he hardly noticed the tiny spurs of fleas as they leapt across his scalp.

In the distance a boat trawled near, emerging through the mist so slowly it seemed to materialize from thin air. The men onboard were becoming easier to see, more noticeable. Not that they noticed him. They probably saw the dock well enough, its weathered gray planks little more than a bundle of driftwood sewn together. They probably saw the small cluster of Roman soldiers standing farther up the ridge, pretending to scrutinize the morning traffic. But even after they landed they would likely never notice the twenty-four year old man waiting for them. That was okay. Raf was good at being noticed when he needed to be.

 

A splash made him glance sideways. A log sat half-in and half-out of water, buckling against the shore as the tide strummed against it. Several turtles sat atop the log, probably enjoying the same warm-but-windy feeling he did. The fishermen were using them for target practice. As he watched, one fisherman zinged a stone off a turtle shell. The turtle’s only response was to plop back under the waterline, its moss-colored shell fading quickly into muddy water. The fisherman laughed.

 

Behind him feet shuffled along the creaky boards. The steps sounded familiar—lost but determined. He suddenly wanted to plop into the water with the turtle. The same feelings came over Raf every time he heard those footsteps. The frustration of a child followed by a nosy parent. The guilt of knowing he should turn and call but not finding the will to do so. And somewhere beneath the first two, warmth. It was nice to be needed, even if the person who needed him was eternally bothersome.

 

The footsteps paused at a group of fishermen. “Excuse me,” said a low rumbling voice. “I’m looking for a wee man with greasy hair. He usually smells of sweat and donkey dung.”

“Keep going. You’re getting warmer. But watch that first step.” The fisherman laughed.

          Raf reluctantly called over his shoulder. “I’m here, Garon.”

 

The heavyset man grunted. His feet shuffled faster then stopped next to Raf. “You’d think they’d tire of that one,” he mumbled. “Watch that first step…As if my lack of sight means I’m destined to walk off the dock.”

Raf turned to him, noticing how Garon had halted only an inch from the edge. He smiled up at the blind man. “I thought you did fall off the dock once.”

“Once!” Garon shoved a finger toward Raf’s face. “Just the once. And yet they constantly throw it in my face.”

“Next time I’ll tell them to focus less on your blindness and more on your staggering ugliness.”

Garon smiled. “Next time I’ll pretend I don’t hear you breathing and accidentally kick you right into Galilee.”

“You know, you could easily avoid their comments by not coming to the dock to pester me.”

Garon bent his burly legs and plopped onto his bottom. The dock creaked in response. His leathery cheeks crinkled as he frowned, making his crows’ feet prominent. He was forty-two, and his straggly black beard was peppered with white. His quivering walnut eyes seemed to scan the horizon. Raf wondered what it was like to know a lake sprawled outward for miles ahead of you without being able to see it. Maybe that was why Garon fell in the one time: to make sure everyone else wasn’t lying.

“I have sinned,” Garon said. “I feel I must confess.”

Raf rolled his eyes. This comment came from Garon on a daily basis, usually right after morning prayers.

“Do you have to?” Raf asked. “Can you wait until you have a few more sins under your tunic and confess them all at once?”

“I already have. You forget I haven’t seen you in five days. Sins pile up quickly.”

Raf kept his eyes on the boat. It was almost to the dock. “Garon, you’ve never seen me. You’re blind, remember?”

“Another blind joke.” Garon huffed. “Will they never end?”

“Trust me, I wish you weren’t. If you saw me, you would realize I’m no Pharisee or priest or even upstanding member of society. You’d see I’m a cripple who works for food. Then you might stop confessing to me.”

Garon sniffled a laugh. “That’s why I confess to you. You’re crippled. You can’t run away.”

The boat thumped into the dock, its hull scratching the planks like an off-kilter door. Shipmen leaped over and tied it off. Passengers would step out soon.

“All right. Make it quick. Pick the worst sin.”

“I’m not sure I want to confess the worst sin.”

Raf rubbed his temples. “The next worse sin then. Just hurry. I’m working here.”

Garon nodded. “Right. That would be from earlier this morning. I sat on the wall, as I often do. You know the corner next to the bent palm tree.”

             Passengers emerged from below deck. Rebellious faces appeared in the sunlight, squinting against the harsh rays like brittle pottery. Raf studied each one. “Yes, yes. I know it,” he said distractedly.

            “Of course, you do.” Garon dipped his head. “Anyway, I sat there, giving my usual chant, pleading for God’s mercy and such. Then someone ran by. As the person passed I heard a coin drop.”

            “Did you find it?”

            Garon grinned. “I may be blind, but I’m not slow. My hand snapped out like a viper. I caught the coin as it was bouncing.”

            “And that’s a sin?”

            “No, not that part. I thanked the person for his kindness and tucked it away.”

The passengers ambled toward Raf and Garon, heading for town. Raf saw several women, a few sleepy-eyed children, and even fewer men. He bit the inside of his cheek and kept watching.

“So what’s the problem?”

“Well, I got to thinking. What if the man didn’t mean to give me that coin? What if he ran so fast it fell from his purse, and I scooped it up like a thief? What if I cost some weary traveler his lunch?”

As the last of the passengers trickled out a man appeared—a beanstalk of a man, at least six and a half feet tall. He plodded along with shoulders hunched and eyes half-closed, a tree that just learned to walk. Raf grinned, realizing he had spotted his own lunch money.

“We’ve been over this before. What do I always say in these situations?”

Garon thought. “You say, ‘People only give to beggars to buy their way into heaven.’ But you usually say it to justify your get-rich-quick schemes.”

“True. But it applies in this case, too. Whether the man meant to give you money or not is unimportant. God knows he gave the money, and so the man has been blessed. It’s a win-win situation.”

Garon sighed. “That’s a relief. I already spent the money on a loaf of bread.”

Raf chuckled as the tall man approached. “Next time buy some wine and then come see me.”

“I can’t see you,” Garon said. “I’m blind, remember?”

“Good day to you, Garon.” The giant stepped off the boat. Dock planks groaned against the man’s powerful stride. He stared ahead without seeming to look at anything. His lower lip vibrated, mumbling silent instructions. Raf pushed off with his hands and scooted toward him.

Garon scooted with him, as if his own legs had gone sour as well. Raf hated it when Garon did that, but never said so. The last thing he needed was more sins confessed to him. If Garon only knew how many splinters Raf had to dislodge from his palms on a nightly basis.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Garon started. “How is this job going?”

“I haven’t had to put up with you in five days, so it’s going well.”

Garon cleared his throat like a Pharisee about to preach, an annoyingly close analogy.

“You do realize this job is a sin. It’s deception of the worst kind.”

Raf scooted faster. “It’s also what I’m trying to do right now, so if you’ll excuse me…”

But Garon kept up with him. “You work for Aviv, the most corrupt man in Capernaum. And what do you do? You trick every foreigner who steps off the boat into working Aviv’s grain fields for next to nothing.”

“Except Samaritans,” Raf corrected. “Aviv’s always had a thing about Samaritans.”

“You’re avoiding the point.” Garon’s voice rose. “This is wicked work. People come to Capernaum looking for a new start, not bondage into slavery.”

Raf stopped and rolled toward Garon. The blind man barely noticed in time to keep from bumping him.

“Garon, I know your day doesn’t feel complete unless you’re able to bestow some guilt, so let me save you some time. I’m a terrible, terrible person. I am the pond scum of society, and I deserve to have my fleshed whipped from my body. Woe is me. Oh, woe and more woe. I am the very definition of woeful.” He leaned closer to his burly friend. “See, don’t you feel better about yourself now?”

Garon gave him a humorless grin. “Your sarcasm borders on blasphemy. And you’re still avoiding the point.”

“You’re the one avoiding the point,” Raf snapped back. “You come every day filling my head with your sins. You thought unrighteous thoughts about another person, you only prayed two times instead of four, or maybe you slept an hour too long. It’s always something. Well, I sin every day, too. The difference is I do it for more than a loaf of bread.”

Raf turned and resumed scooting. This time Garon didn’t follow.