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<= o:p>
The Little Hunchback Zia
By
Francis Hodgson Burnett
THE
LITTLE HUNCHBACK ZIA
The little hunchback Zia toiled slowly up =
the
steep road, keeping in the deepest shadows, even though the night had long
fallen. Sometimes he staggered with weariness or struck his foot against a
stone and smothered his involuntary cry of pain. He was so full of terror t=
hat
he was afraid to utter a sound which might cause any traveler to glance tow=
ard
him. This he feared more than any other thing--that some man or woman might
look at him too closely. If such a one knew much and had keen eyes, he or s=
he
might in some way guess even at what they might not yet see.
Since he had fled from the village in which
his wretched short life had been spent he had hidden himself in thickets and
behind walls or rocks or bushes during the day, and had only come forth at
night to stagger along his way in the darkness. If he had not managed to st=
eal
some food before he began his journey and if he had not found in one place =
some
beans dropped from a camel's feeding-bag, he would have starved. For five
nights he had been wandering on, but in his desperate fear he had lost coun=
t of
time. When he had left the place he had called his home he had not known wh=
ere
he was going or where he might hide himself in the end. The old woman with =
whom
he had lived and for whom he had begged and labored had driven him out with=
a
terror as great as his own.
"Begone!" she had cried in a smo=
thered
shriek. "Get thee gone, accursed! Even now thou mayest have brought the
curse upon me also. A creature born a hunchback comes on earth with the bli=
ght
of Jehovah's wrath upon him. Go far! Go as far as thy limbs will carry thee!
Let no man come near enough to thee to see it! If thou go far away before i=
t is
known, it will be forgotten that I have harbored thee."
He had stood and looked at her in the sile=
nce
of the dead, his immense, black Syrian eyes growing wider and wider with
childish horror. He had always regarded her with slavish fear. What he was =
to
her he did not know; neither did he know how he had fallen into her hands. =
He
knew only that he was not of her blood or of her country and that he yet se=
emed
to have always belonged to her. In his first memory of his existence, a lit=
tle
deformed creature rolling about on the littered floor of her uncleanly hove=
l,
he had trembled at the sound of her voice and had obeyed it like a beaten
spaniel puppy. When he had grown older he had seen that she lived upon alms=
and
thievery and witchlike evil doings that made all decent folk avoid her. She=
had
no kinsfolk or friends, and only such visitors as came to her in the dark h=
ours
of night and seemed to consult with her as she sat and mumbled strange inca=
ntations
while she stirred a boiling pot. Zia had heard of soothsayers and dealers w=
ith evil
spirits, and at such hours was either asleep on his pallet in a far corner =
or,
if he lay awake, hid his face under his wretched covering and stopped his e=
ars.
Once when she had drawn near and found his large eyes open and staring at h=
er
in spellbound terror, she had beaten him horribly and cast him into the sto=
rm
raging outside.
A strange passion in her seemed her hatred=
of
his eyes. She could not endure that he should look at her as if he were
thinking. He must not let his eyes rest on her for more than a moment when =
he
spoke. He must keep them fixed on the ground or look away from her. From his
babyhood this had been so. A hundred times she had struck him when he was t=
oo young
to understand her reason. The first strange lesson he had learned was that =
she
hated his eyes and was driven to fury when she found them resting innocently
upon her. Before he was three years old he had learned this thing and had
formed the habit of looking down upon the earth as he limped about. For lon=
g he
thought that his eyes were as hideous as his body was distorted. In her
frenzies she told him that evil spirits looked out from them and that he was
possessed of devils. Without thought of rebellion or resentment he accepted
with timorous humility, as part of his existence, her taunts at his twisted
limbs. What use in rebellion or anger? With the fatalism of the East he res=
igned
himself to that which was. He had been born a deformity, and even his glance
carried evil. This was life. He knew no other. Of his origin he knew nothing
except that from the old woman's rambling outbursts he had gathered that he=
was
of Syrian blood and a homeless outcast.
But though he had so long trained himself =
to
look downward that it had at last become an effort to lift his heavily lash=
ed
eyelids, there came a time when he learned that his eyes were not so hideou=
sly
evil as his task-mistress had convinced him that they were. When he was only
seven years old she sent him out to beg alms for her, and on the first day =
of his
going forth she said a strange thing, the meaning of which he could not
understand.
"Go not forth with thine eyes bent
downward on the dust. Lift them, and look long at those from whom thou aske=
st alms.
Lift them and look as I see thee look at the sky when thou knowest not I am
near thee. I have seen thee, hunchback. Gaze at the passers-by as if thou
sawest their souls and asked help of them."
She said it with a fierce laugh of derisio=
n,
but when in his astonishment he involuntarily lifted his gaze to hers, she
struck at him, her harsh laugh broken in two.
"Not at me, hunchback! Not at me! At
those who are ready to give!" she cried out.
He had gone out stunned with amazement. He
wondered so greatly that when he at last sat down by the roadside under a
fig-tree he sat in a dream. He looked up at the blueness above him as he al=
ways
did when he was alone. His eyelids did not seem heavy when he lifted them to
look at the sky. The blueness and the billows of white clouds brought rest =
to
him, and made him forget what he was. The floating clouds were his only fri=
ends.
There was something--yes, there was something, he did not know what. He wis=
hed
he were a cloud himself, and could lose himself at last in the blueness as =
the
clouds did when they melted away. Surely the blueness was the something.
The soft, dull pad of camel's feet approac=
hed
upon the road without his hearing them. He was not roused from his absorpti=
on
until the camel stopped its tread so near him that he started and looked up=
. It
was necessary that he should look up a long way. He was a deformed little c=
hild,
and the camel was a tall and splendid one, with rich trappings and golden
bells. The man it carried was dressed richly, and the expression of his dark
face was at once restless and curious. He was bending down and staring at Z=
ia
as if he were something strange.
"What dost thou see, child?" he =
said
at last, and he spoke almost in a breathless whisper. "What art thou
waiting for?"
Zia stumbled to his feet and held out his =
bag,
frightened, because he had never begged before and did not know how, and if=
he
did not carry back money and food, he would be horribly beaten again.
"Alms! alms!" he stammered.
"Master--Lord--I beg for--for her who keeps me. She is poor and old. A=
lms,
great lord, for a woman who is old!"
The man with the restless face still stare=
d.
He spoke as if unaware that he uttered words and as if he were afraid.
"The child's eyes!" he said. &qu=
ot;I
cannot pass him by! What is it? I must not be held back. But the unearthly
beauty of his eyes!" He caught his breath as he spoke. And then he see=
med
to awaken as one struggling against a spell.
"What is thy name?" he asked.
Zia also had lost his breath. What had the=
man
meant when he spoke of his eyes?
He told his name, but he could answer no further questions. He did not know whose son he was; he had no home; of his mistress he knew only that her name was Judith and that she lived on alms.<= o:p>
Even while he related these things he reme= mbered his lesson, and, dropping his eyelids, fixed his gaze on the camel's feet.<= o:p>
"Why dost thou cast thine eyes
downward?" the man asked in a troubled and intense voice.
Zia could not speak, being stricken with f=
ear
and the dumbness of bewilderment. He stood quite silent, and as he lifted h=
is
eyes and let them rest on the stranger's own, they became large with
tears--big, piteous tears.
"Why?" persisted the man, anxiou=
sly.
"Is it because thou seest evil in my soul?"
"No, no!" sobbed Zia. "One
taught me to look away because I am hideous and--my eyes--are evil."
"Evil!" said the stranger.
"They have lied to thee." He was trembling as he spoke. "A m=
an
who has been pondering on sin dare not pass their beauty by. They draw him,=
and
show him his own soul. Having seen them, I must turn my camel's feet backwa=
rd
and go no farther on this road which was to lead me to a black deed." =
He
bent down, and dropped a purse into the child's alms-bag, still staring at =
him
and breathing hard. "They have the look," he muttered, "of e=
yes
that might behold the Messiah. Who knows? Who knows?" And he turned his
camel's head, still shuddering a little, and he rode away back toward the p=
lace
from which he had come.
There was gold in the purse he had given, =
and
when Zia carried it back to Judith, she snatched it from him and asked him =
many
questions. She made him repeat word for word all that had passed.
After that he was sent out to beg day after
day, and in time he vaguely Understood that the old woman had spoken falsely
when she had said that evil spirits looked forth hideously from his eyes.
People often said that they were beautiful, and gave him money because
something in his gaze drew them near to him. But this was not all. At times
there were those who spoke under their breath to one another of some wonder=
of
light in them, some strange luminousness which was not earthly.
"He surely sees that which we cannot.
Perhaps when he is a man he will be a great soothsayer and reader of the
stars," he heard a woman whisper to a companion one day.
Those who were evil were afraid to meet his
gaze, and hated it as old Judith did, though, as he was not their servant, =
they
dared not strike him when he lifted his soft, heavy eyelids.
But Zia could not understand what people m=
eant
when they whispered about him or turned away fiercely. A weight was lifted =
from
his soul when he realized that he was not as revolting as he had believed. =
And
when people spoke kindly to him he began to know something like happiness f=
or the
first time in his life. He brought home so much in his alms-bag that the old
woman ceased to beat him and gave him more liberty. He was allowed to go ou=
t at
night and sleep under the stars. At such times he used to lie and look up at
the jeweled myriads until he felt himself drawn upward and floating nearer =
and
nearer to that unknown something which he felt also in the high blueness of=
the
day.
When he first began to feel as if some
mysterious ailment was creeping upon him he kept himself out of Judith's wa=
y as
much as possible. He dared not tell her that sometimes he could scarcely cr=
awl
from one place to another. A miserable fevered weakness became his secret. =
As
the old woman took no notice of him except when he brought back his day's e=
arnings,
it was easy to evade her. One morning, however, she fixed her eyes on him
suddenly and keenly.
"Why art thou so white?" she sai=
d,
and caught him by the arm, whirling him toward the light. "Art thou
ailing?"
"No! no!" cried Zia.
She held him still for a few seconds, still
staring.
"Thou art too white," she said.
"I will have no such whiteness. It is the whiteness of--of an accursed
thing. Get thee gone!"
He went away, feeling cold and shaken. He =
knew
he was white. One or two almsgivers had spoken of it, and had looked at him=
a
little fearfully. He himself could see that the flesh of his thin body was
becoming an unearthly color. Now and then he had shuddered as he looked at =
it because--because--There
was one curse so horrible beyond all others that the strongest man would ha=
ve
quailed in his dread of its drawing near him. And he was a child, a
twelve-year-old boy, a helpless little hunchback mendicant.
When he saw the first white-and-red spot u=
pon
his flesh he stood still and stared at it, gasping, and the sweat started o=
ut
upon him and rolled down in great drops.
"Jehovah!" he whispered, "G=
od
of Israel! Thy servant is but a child!"
But there broke out upon him other spots, =
and
every time he found a new one his flesh quaked, and he could not help looki=
ng
at it in secret again and again. Every time he looked it was because he hop=
ed
it might have faded away. But no spot faded away, and the skin on the palms=
of his
hands began to be rough and cracked and to show spots also.
In
a cave on a hillside near the road where he sat and begged there lived a
deathly being who, with face swathed in linen and with bandaged stumps of
limbs, hobbled forth now and then, and came down to beg also, but always
keeping at a distance from all human creatures, and, as he approached the
pitiful, rattled loudly his wooden clappers, wailing out: "Unclean!
Unclean!"
It was the leper Berias, whose hopeless ta=
le
of awful days was almost done. Zia himself had sometimes limped up the hill=
side
and laid some of his own poor food upon a stone near his cave so that he mi=
ght
find it. One day he had also taken a branch of almond-blossom in full flowe=
r,
and had laid it by the food. And when he had gone away and stood at some di=
stance
watching to see the poor ghost come forth to take what he had given, he had
seen him first clutch at the blossoming branch and fall upon his face, hold=
ing
it to his breast, a white, bound, shapeless thing, sobbing, and uttering
hoarse, croaking, unhuman cries. No almsgiver but Zia had ever dreamed of
bringing a flower to him who was forever cut off from all bloom and lovelin=
ess.
It was this white, shuddering creature that
Zia remembered with the sick chill of horror when he saw the spots.
"Unclean! Unclean!" he heard the
cracked voice cry to the sound of the wooden clappers. "Unclean!
Unclean!"
Judith was standing at the door of her hov=
el
one morning when Zia was going forth for the day. He had fearfully been awa=
re
that for days she had been watching him as he had never known her to watch =
him
before. This morning she had followed him to the door, and had held him the=
re a
few moments in the light with some harsh speech, keeping her eyes fixed on =
him
the while.
Even as they so stood there fell upon the
clear air of the morning a hollow, far-off sound--the sound of wooden clapp=
ers
rattled together, and the hopeless crying of two words, "Unclean!
Unclean!"
Then silence fell. Upon Zia descended a fe=
ar
beyond all power of words to utter. In his quaking young torment he lifted =
his
eyes and met the gaze of the old woman as it flamed down upon him.
"Go within!" she commanded sudde=
nly,
and pointed to the wretched room inside. He obeyed her, and she followed hi=
m,
closing the door behind them.
"Tear off thy garment!" she orde=
red.
"Strip thyself to thy skin--to thy skin!"
He shook from head to foot, his trembling
hands almost refusing to obey him. She did not touch him, but stood apart,
glaring. His garments fell from him and lay in a heap at his feet, and he s=
tood
among them naked.
One look, and she broke forth, shaking with
fear herself, into a breathless storm of fury.
"Thou hast known this thing and hidden
it!" she raved. "Leper! Leper! Accursed hunchback thing!"
As he stood in his nakedness and sobbed gr=
eat,
heavy childish sobs, she did not dare to strike him, and raged the more.
If it were known that she had harbored him,
the priests would be upon her, and all that she had would be taken from her=
and
burned. She would not even let him put his clothes on in her house.
"Take thy rags and begone in thy
nakedness! Clothe thyself on the hillside! Let none see thee until thou art=
far
away! Rot as thou wilt, but dare not to name me! Begone! begone! begone!&qu=
ot;
And with his rags he fled naked through the
doorway, and hid himself in the little wood beyond.
Later, as he went on his way, he had hidden
himself in the daytime behind bushes by the wayside or off the road; he had
crouched behind rocks and boulders; he had slept in caves when he had found
them; he had shrunk away from all human sight. He knew it could not be long
before he would be discovered, and then he would be shut up; and afterward =
he would
be as Berias until he died alone. Like unto Berias! To him it seemed as tho=
ugh
surely never child had sobbed before as he sobbed, lying hidden behind his
boulders, among his bushes, on the bare hill among the rocks.
For
the first four nights of his wandering he had not known where he was going,=
but
on this fifth night he discovered. He was on the way to Bethlehem--beautiful
little Bethlehem curving on the crest of the Judean mountains and smiling d=
own
upon the fairness of the fairest of sweet valleys, rich with vines and figs=
and
olives and almond-trees. He dimly recalled stories he had overheard of its
loveliness, and when he found that he had wandered unknowingly toward it, he
was aware of a faint sense of peace. He had seen nothing of any other part =
of
the world than the poor village outside which the hovel of his bond-mistress
had clung to a low hill. Since he was near it, he vaguely desired to see Be=
thlehem.
He had learned of its nearness as he lay
hidden in the undergrowth on the mountain-side that he had begun to climb t=
he
night before. Awakening from sleep, he had heard many feet passing up the
climbing road--the feet of men and women and children, of camels and asses,=
and
all had seemed to be of a procession ascending the mountainside. Lying flat
upon the earth, he had parted the bushes cautiously, and watched, and liste=
ned
to the shouts, cries, laughter, and talk of those who were near enough to be
heard. So bit by bit he had heard the story of the passing throng. The great
Emperor Augustus, who, to the common herd seemed some strange omnipotent in=
his
remote and sumptuous paradise of Rome, had issued a decree that all the wor=
ld
of his subjects should be enrolled, and every man, woman, and child must en=
roll
himself in his own city. And to the little town of Bethlehem all these
travelers were wending their way, to the place of their nativity, in obedie=
nce
to the great Caesar's command.
All through the day he watched them--men a=
nd
women and children who belonged to one another, who rode together on their
beasts, or walked together hand in hand. Women on camels or asses held their
little ones in their arms, or walked with the youngest slung on their backs=
. He
heard boys laugh and talk with their fathers--boys of his own age, who trud=
ged
merrily along, and now and again ran forward, shouting with glee. He saw mo=
re
than one strong man swing his child up to his shoulder and bear him along a=
s if
he found joy in his burden. Boy and girl companions played as they went and
made holiday of their journey; young men or women who were friends, lovers,=
or
brothers and sisters bore one another company.
"No one is alone," said Zia,
twisting his thin fingers together--"no one! no one! And there are no
lepers. The great Caesar would not count a leper. Perhaps, if he saw one, he
would command him to be put to death."
And then he writhed upon the grass and sob=
bed
again, his bent chest almost bursting with his efforts to make no sound. He=
had
always been alone--always, always; but this loneliness was such as no young
human thing could bear. He was no longer alive; he was no longer a human be=
ing.
Unclean! Unclean! Unclean!
At last he slept, exhausted, and past his
piteous, prostrate childhood and helplessness the slow procession wound its=
way
up the mountain road toward the crescent of Bethlehem, knowing nothing of h=
is
nearness to its unburdened comfort and simple peace.
When he awakened, the night had fallen, an=
d he
opened his eyes upon a high vault of blue velvet darkness strewn with great
stars. He saw this at the first moment of his consciousness; then he realiz=
ed
that there was no longer to be heard the sound either of passing hoofs or
treading feet. The travelers who had gone by during the day had probably
reached their journey's end, and gone to rest in their tents, or had found =
refuge
in the inclosing khan that gave shelter to wayfarers and their beasts of
burden.
But though there was no human creature nea=
r,
and no sound of human voice or human tread, a strange change had taken plac=
e in
him. His loneliness had passed away, and left him lying still and calm as
though it had never existed, as though the crushed and broken child who had
plunged from a precipice of woe into deadly, exhausted sleep was only a vag=
ue memory
of a creature in a dark past dream.
Had it been himself? Lying upon his back,
seeing only the immensity of the deep blue above him and the greatness of t=
he
stars, he scarcely dared to draw breath lest he should arouse himself to new
anguish. It had not been he who had so suffered; surely it had been another
Zia. What had come upon him, what had come upon the world? All was so still=
that
it was as if the earth waited--as if it waited to hear some word that would=
be
spoken out of the great space in which it hung. He was not hungry or cold or
tired. It was as if he had never staggered and stumbled up the mountain path
and dropped shuddering, to hide behind the bushes before the daylight came =
and
men could see his white face. Surely he had rested long. He had never felt =
like
this before, and he had never seen so wonderful a night. The stars had never
been so many and so large. What made them so soft and brilliant that each o=
ne
was almost like a sun? And he strangely felt that each looked down at him a=
s if
it said the word, though he did not know what the word was. Why had he been=
so
terror-stricken? Why had he been so wretched? There were no lepers; there w=
ere
no hunchbacks. There was only Zia, and he was at peace, and akin to the sta=
rs
that looked down.
How heavenly still the waiting world was, =
how
heavenly still! He lay and smiled and smiled; perhaps he lay so for an hour.
Then high, high above he saw, or thought he saw, in the remoteness of the v=
ault
of blue a brilliant whiteness float. Was it a strange snowy cloud or was he=
dreaming?
It seemed to grow whiter, more brilliant. His breath came fast, and his hea=
rt
beat trembling in his breast, because he had never seen clouds so strangely,
purely brilliant. There was another, higher, farther distant, and yet more
dazzling still. Another and another showed its radiance until at last an ar=
ch
of splendor seemed to stream across the sky.
"It is like the glory of the ark of t=
he
covenant," he gasped, and threw his arm across his blinded eyes,
shuddering with rapture.
He could not uncover his face, and it was =
as
he lay quaking with an unearthly joy that he first thought he heard sounds =
of
music as remotely distant as the lights.
"Is it on earth?" he panted.
"Is it on earth?"
He struggled to his knees. He had heard of
miracles and wonders of old, and of the past ages when the sons of God visi=
ted
the earth.
"Glory to God in the highest!" he
stammered again and again and again. "Glory to the great Jehovah!"
and he touched his forehead seven times to the earth.
Then he beheld a singular thing. When he h=
ad
gone to sleep a flock of sheep had been lying near him on the grass. The fl=
ock
was still there, but something seemed to be happening to it. The creatures =
were
awakening from their sleep as if they had heard something. First one head w=
as raised,
and then another and another and another, until every head was lifted, and
every one was turned toward a certain point as if listening. What were they
listening for? Zia could see nothing, though he turned his own face toward =
the
climbing road and listened with them. The floating radiance was so increasi=
ng
in the sky that at this point of the mountain-side it seemed no longer to t=
he
night, and the far-away paeans held him breathless with mysterious awe. Was=
the
sound on earth? Where did it come from? Where?
"Praised be Jehovah!" he heard h=
is
weak and shaking young voice quaver.
Some belated travelers were coming slowly =
up
the road. He heard an ass's feet and low voices.
The sheep heard them also. Had they been
waiting for them? They rose one by one--the whole flock--to their feet, and turned in a body t=
oward
the approaching sounds.
Zia stood up with them. He waited also, an=
d it
was as if at this moment his soul so lifted itself that it almost broke away
from his body-- almost.
Around the curve an ass came slowly bearin=
g a
woman, and led by a man who walked by his side. He was a man of sober years=
and
walked wearily. Zia's eyes grew wide with awe and wondering as he gazed, sc=
arce
breathing.
The light upon the hillside was so softly =
radiant
and so clear that he Could see that the woman's robe was blue and that she
lifted her face to the stars as she rode. It was a young face, and pale with
the pallor of lilies, and her eyes were as stars of the morning. But this w=
as
not all. A radiance shone from her pure pallor, and bordering her blue robe=
and
veil was a faint, steady glow of light. And as she passed the standing and
waiting sheep, they slowly bowed themselves upon their knees before her, an=
d so
knelt until she had passed by and was out of sight. Then they returned to t=
heir
places, and slept as before.
When she was gone, Zia found that he also =
was
kneeling. He did not know when his knees had bent. He was faint with ecstas=
y.
"She
goes to Bethlehem," he heard himself say as he had heard himself speak
before. "I, too; I, too."
He stood a moment listening to the sound of
the ass's retreating feet as it grew fainter in the distance. His breath ca=
me
quick and soft. The light had died away from the hillside, but the
high-floating radiance seemed to pass to and fro in the heavens, and now and
again he thought he heard the faint, far sound that was like music so dista=
nt
that it was as a thing heard in a dream.
"Perhaps I behold visions," he
murmured. "It may be that I shall awake."
But he found himself making his way through
the bushes and setting his feet upon the road. He must follow, he must foll=
ow.
Howsoever steep the hill, he must climb to Bethlehem. But as he went on his=
way
it did not seem steep, and he did not waver or toil as he usually did when
walking. He felt no weariness or ache in his limbs, and the high radiance
gently lighted the path and dimly revealed that many white flowers he had n=
ever
seen before seemed to have sprung up by the roadside and to wave softly to =
and
fro, giving forth a fragrance so remote and faint, yet so clear, that it did
not seem of earth. It was perhaps part of the vision.
Of the distance he climbed his thought too=
k no
cognizance. There was in this vision neither distance nor time. There was o=
nly
faint radiance, far, strange sounds, and the breathing of air which made him
feel an ecstasy of lightness as he moved. The other Zia had traveled painfu=
lly,
had stumbled and struck his feet against wayside stones. He seemed ten thou=
sand
miles, ten thousand years away. It was not he who went to Bethlehem, led as=
if
by some power invisible. To Bethlehem! To Bethlehem, where went the woman w=
hose
blue robe was bordered with a glow of fair luminousness and whose face, lik=
e an
uplifted lily, softly shone. It was she he followed, knowing no reason but =
that
his soul was called.
When he reached the little town and stood =
at
last near the gateway of the khan in which the day-long procession of wayfa=
rers
had crowded to take refuge for the night, he knew that he would find no pla=
ce
among the multitude within its walls. Too many of the great Caesar's subjec=
ts
had been born in Bethlehem and had come back for their enrolment. The khan =
was
crowded to its utmost, and outside lingered many who had not been able to g=
ain
admission and who consulted plaintively with one another as to where they m=
ight
find a place to sleep, and to eat the food they carried with them.
Zia had made his way to the entrance-gate =
only
because he knew the travelers he had followed would seek shelter there, and=
that
he might chance to hear of them.
He
stood a little apart from the gate and waited. Something would tell him wha=
t he
must do. Almost as this thought entered his mind he heard voices speaking n=
ear
him. Two women were talking together, and soon he began to hear their words=
.
"Joseph of Nazareth and Mary his
wife," one said. "Both of the line of David. There was no room for
them, even as there was no room for others not of royal lineage. To the man=
gers
in the cave they have gone, seeing the woman had sore need of rest. She, th=
ou
knowest--"
Zia heard no more. He did not ask where the
cave lay. He had not needed to ask his way to Bethlehem. That which had led=
him
again directed his feet away from the entrance-gate of the khan, past the
crowded court and the long, low wall of stone within the inclosure of which=
the
camels and asses browsed and slept, on at last to a pathway leading to the =
gray
of rising rocks. Beneath them was the cave, he knew, though none had told h=
im
so. Only a short distance, and he saw what drew him trembling nearer. At the
open entrance, through which he could see the rough mangers of stone, the h=
eaps
of fodder, and the ass munching slowly in a corner, the woman who wore the =
blue
robe stood leaning wearily against the heavy wooden post. And the soft light
bordering her garments set her in a frame of faint radiance and glowed in a
halo about her head.
"The light! the light!" cried Zi=
a in
a breathless whisper. And he crossed his hands upon his breast.
Her husband surely could not see it. He mo=
ved
soberly about, unpacking the burden the ass had carried and seeming to see
naught else. He heaped straw in a corner with care, and threw his mantle up=
on
it.
"Come," he said. "Here thou
canst rest, and I can watch by thy side. The angels of the Lord be with
thee!" The woman turned from the door and went toward him, walking with
slow steps. He gazed at her with mild, unillumined eyes.
"Does he not see the light!" pan=
ted
Zia. "Does he not see the light!"
Soon he himself no longer saw it. Joseph o=
f Nazareth
came to the wooden doors and drew them together, and the boy stood alone on=
the
mountain- side, trembling still, and wet with the dew of the night; but not
weary, not hungered, not athirst or afraid, only quaking with wonder and jo=
y-- he,
the little hunchback Zia, who had known no joy before since the hour of his
birth.
He sank upon the earth slowly in an exquis=
ite
peace--a peace that thrilled his whole being as it stole over his limbs,
deepening moment by moment. His head drooped softly upon a cushion of moss.=
As
his eyelids fell, he saw the splendor of whiteness floating in the height of
the purple vault above him.
The dawn was breaking and yet the stars had
not faded away. This was his thought when his eyes first opened on a great =
one,
greater than any other in the sky, and of so pure a brilliance that it seem=
ed
as if even the sun would not be bright enough to put it out. It hung high in
the paling blue, high as the white radiance; and as he lay and gazed, he th=
ought
it surely moved. What new star was it that in that one night had been born?=
He
had watched the stars through so many desolate hours that he knew each great
one as a friend, and this one he had never seen before.
The morning was cold, and his clothes were=
wet
with dew, but he felt no chill. He remembered; yes, he remembered. If he had
lived in a vision the day before, he was surely living in one yet. The Zia =
who
had been starved and beaten and driven out naked into the world, who had
clutched his thin breast and sobbed, writhing upon the earth, where was he?=
He looked
down upon his hands and saw the cracked and scaling palms, and it was as th=
ough
they were not. He thrust back the covering from his chest and saw the spots
there. But there were no lepers, there were no hunchbacks; there were only =
Zia
and the light. He knelt and turned himself toward the cave and prayed, and =
as
he so knelt and prayed the man Joseph rolled open the heavy wooden door.
Then Zia, still kneeling, beat himself sof=
tly
upon the breast and prayed again, not as before to Jehovah, but to that whi=
ch
he beheld.
The light was there, fair, radiant, wonder=
ful.
The cave was bathed in it. The woman in the blue robe sat upon the straw, a=
nd
in her arms she held a new-born child. Zia touched his forehead to the earth
again, again, again, unknowing that he did so. The child was the light itse=
lf!
He must rise and draw near. That which had
drawn him up the mountainside drew him again. The child was the light itsel=
f!
As he crept near the cave's entrance, the woman's eyes rested upon him soft=
and
wonderful.
She spoke to him--she spoke!
"Be not afraid," she said.
"Draw nigh and behold!"
Her voice was not as the voice of other wo=
men;
it was like her eyes, his body, through his blood, through every limb and
fleshy atom of him, he felt it steal--new life, warming, thrilling, wakenin=
g in
his veins new life! As he felt it, he knelt quaking with rapture even as he=
had
stood the night before gazing at the light. The new-born hand lay still.
He did not know how long he knelt. He did =
not
know that the woman leaned toward him, scarce drawing breath, her wondrous =
eyes
resting upon him as if she waited for a sign. Even as she so gazed she behe=
ld
it, and spoke, whispering as in awed prayer:
"Go forth and cleanse thy flesh in
running water," she said. "Go forth."
He moved, he rose, he stood upright--the
hunchback Zia who had never stood upright before! His body was straight, his
limbs were strong. He looked upon his hands, and there was no blemish or sp=
ot
to be seen!
"I am made whole!" he cried in
ecstasy so wild that his boy's voice rang and echoed in the cave's hollowed
roof. "I am made whole!"
"Go forth," she said softly.
"Go forth and give praise."
He turned and went into the dawning day. He
stood swaying, and heard himself sob forth a rapturous cry of prayer. His f=
lesh
was fresh and pure; he stood erect and tall. He was as others whom God had =
not
cursed. The light! the light! He stretched forth his arms to the morning sk=
y.
Some shepherds roughly clothed in the skin=
s of
lambs and kids were climbing the hill toward the cave. They carried their
crooks, and they talked eagerly as though in wonderment at some strange thi=
ng
which had befallen them, looking up at the heavens, and one pointed with hi=
s crook.
"Surely it draws nearer, the star!&qu=
ot;
he said. "Look!"
As they passed a thicket where a brook flo=
wed
through the trees a fair boy came forth, cleansed, fresh, and radiant as if=
he
had but just bathed in its clear waters. It was the boy Zia.
"Who is this one?" said the olde=
st
shepherd.
"How beautiful he is! How the light
shines on him! He looks like a king's son."
And as they passed, they made obeisance to
him.