The Big Fisherman

Lloyd C. Douglas

Description

"The Big Fisherman" is a historical novel centered around Simon Peter, one of the twelve apostles. He is a large, strong man, who initially rejects the whisperings about Jesus. Though he had long denied religious teachings from his father, Simon is drawn to Jesus and feels changed when he meets him. When Jesus tells him to follow, he does. In "The Big Fisherman" we intimately experience the story of Jesus and go with Him into the countryside where thousands follow to hear His teachings. We travel to Jerusalem where we see Peter deny knowing Jesus, but whose faith is restored when Jesus Christ is risen. Following Christ's resurrection, Peter takes on the role of spreading the Word as far as Rome where he is ultimately imprisoned and put to death. "The Big Fisherman" is the prequel to "The Robe."

Sujets

• Fiction
• Ancient
• Historical

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 23 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774644867
• Langue: English

Extrait

First published in 1948.
This edition published by Rare Treasures.
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THE BIG FISHERMAN

by
Lloyd C. Douglas

I n appreciation of his constant kindnessand encouragement in all weathers,this book is affectionately dedicated to
JOHN WELDON (“WEARY”) WILSON

1
It was a calm, early summer noon in the southern mountainsof Arabia. Sheltering the King’s well-guarded domain, amile above and a dozen miles east of the Dead Sea, motionlessmasses of neighborly white clouds hung suspended from aremote blue ceiling.
There had been an unusually heavy snowfall in the winter,not only upon the King’s land but throughout the country.It was going to be a prosperous season for everybody. Intertribaljangling and discontent would be reduced to aminimum. Arabia anticipated a relatively peaceful summer.
Viewed from the main entrance to the King’s encampmentthe undulating plateau was a rich pasture on which athousand newly shorn sheep, indifferent to the roughnuzzling of their hungry lambs, grazed greedily as if someinstinct warned that there might be a famine next season.
Nor was a famine improbable, for the distribution ofsnow was unpredictable. Almost never were two consecutivewinters partial to the same area. This accounted for thenomadic habits of the people. They held no permanentproperty, built no permanent homes. They lived in tents;and, with their flocks, followed the snow and the grass. Allbut the King, whose encampment was a fixed establishment.When the King had a dry season the tribes replenished hispurse.
And few ever complained about this assessment, for thecrown in Arabia was more than an ornament worn on stateoccasions. The King was indispensable in this country. Heearned his wages and his honors. It required a strong andcourageous man to deal equitably with these restless, reckless,competitive tribesmen who were distinguished throughoutthe East for the brevity of their tempers and the dexterityof their knives.
It had been a long time since Arabia had been governedby a ruler with the moral and physical strength of KingAretas. Everyone respected his relentless administration ofjustice to the rich and poor alike. There was no favoritism.They all admired his firmness, feared his frown, and—forthe most part—obeyed his decrees.
Of course it would have been foolish to say that theArabian people were sentimentally devoted to Aretas. In hisdifficult position he could not bid for their affection: hewanted only their obedience; prompt obedience and plentyof it. But there were a few who did sincerely love thetaciturn, sober-faced, cold-blooded Aretas.
First of all there was his motherless daughter Arnon, uponwhom he bestowed a tenderness that would have amazed thepredatory sheiks who had often been stilled to sullen silenceunder his hot chastisements. And there was battle-scarredold Kedar, who had taught him to ride when he was a merelad of ten, who had watched him draw a man’s bow to fulltorsion when he was in his early teens, and had followed himworshipfully into all his hazardous adventures as Prince andKing. And there were his twelve Counsellors who, in varyingdegrees, shared his confidence. Especially there wasIlderan, Chief of the King’s Council. And young Zendi,Ilderan’s eldest son who, everyone surmised, would presentlymarry the Princess Arnon with whom he was reputed to bemuch in love. Surely the wedding would be soon, theythought, for the Princess had recently celebrated her sixteenthbirthday.
The tribesmen, who rarely agreed about anything, wereunanimous in their approval of this alliance. Not only wasArnon popular for her beauty, and Zendi for his almostfoolhardy courage, but—taking a long view of their marriage—theremight come a day when Zendi would be theirruler; for if an Arabian King was without male issue thethrone passed to the house of the Chief Counsellor. Ilderanwas nearing sixty. If anything were to happen to Aretas,which was not inconceivable, considering how dangerouslyhe lived, the gallant young Zendi might succeed him. Thiswould be generally acceptable. All Arabia looked forwardto the royal wedding. It would be a great occasion. It wouldlast for a week. There would be games, races and feasting.
In the shade of a clump of willows sheltering a walledspring, not far from the royal encampment, Arnon wasawaiting the return of her father who had ridden early tothe camp of Ilderan, seven miles east. She had joined him atbreakfast, shortly after dawn, finding him moody and silent.
“Is anything amiss, my father?” Arnon had ventured toask.
The King’s reply was long delayed. Slowly lifting his eyeshe had stared preoccupiedly at the tent-wall beyond her.
“Nothing you would know about,” he had said, as from adistance.
Arnon had not pressed her query. Her father had madeshort work of his breakfast. At the tent-door he had turnedto say, “I am consulting with Ilderan. I shall return bymidday.”
For a long time Arnon had sat alone, wondering what hadhappened. Perhaps it had something to do with the messageher father had received yesterday. Of course there wasnothing strange about the arrival of a courier with a message.It happened nearly every day. But this courier—she hadseen him riding away—was apparently from afar. He wasattended by a half-dozen servants with a well-laden pack-train.The donkeys had seemed cruelly overburdened. Afterthe courier had departed, the King had retired to his ownquarters. It was quite obvious that he did not want to bedisturbed.
Arnon strolled restlessly about under the willows, herthoughts busily at work on the riddle. Presently her wide-setblack eyes lighted as she saw her father coming up the well-worntrail, at full gallop, on his white stallion. She knewwhat to do. Emerging from the shade, Arnon stood besidethe bridle-path with her shapely arms held high. Aretasleaned far to the left—the stallion suddenly slackeningspeed—and sweeping his arm about the girl’s slim waist—swungher lightly over the horse’s shoulder and into thesaddle. Arnon laughed softly and pressed her cheek againsther father’s short, graying beard. No words were exchangedfor a little while.
“You have something very serious on your mind, haven’tyou, Father?” murmured Arnon.
He drew the stallion down to an easy canter.
“I have had a strange message from Herod, the King ofthe Jews,” said Aretas, slowing the impatient horse to awalk. “Herod wants me to meet him for a private conference,a fortnight hence, in the city of Petra.”
“How fine for you, Father!” exclaimed Arnon. “You’vealways said you were going to visit that beautiful city!”Quickly noting her father’s lack of enthusiasm, she inquired,“But—you’re going; aren’t you?”
“Yes—it sounds important.”
“Is it not a long journey from Jerusalem to Petra? Iwonder why the Jewish King wishes the conference heldthere?”
“Perhaps it is something that concerns Petra, too.”
There was an interval of silence before Arnon spoke again.
“Is this not the first message you have ever had from theKing of the Jews?”
“It is indeed! The first that has crossed our border for—”Aretas paused to reflect.
“A hundred years?” guessed Arnon.
“A thousand years!” said Aretas. “Many, many more thana thousand!”
“What do you make of it, Father? What does the JewishKing want of us?”
Aretas shook his head. They were arriving at the encampmentnow. Guards stepped out to meet them. Arnon wasreleased from her father’s arms and slipped lightly to theground. Dismounting, the King beckoned to old Kedar, ashis horse was led away.
“You will fit out an expedition to Petra. We are leavingon the third day of the week. The Counsellors will accompanyus, and a guard of twenty riders. We may be tented atPetra for one day—or ten: it is not yet determined. TheCounsellors will have had their instructions from Ilderan.You will attend to all the other arrangements.”
“The festival tents?” inquired Kedar, implying that hissharp old eyes had observed the royal insignia on the accoutermentsof yesterday’s courier.
“No,” replied Aretas. “We will take only the equipmentwe commonly use when we visit the tribesmen.”
Kedar bowed his gray head, his seamed face showing disappointment.He wanted to say that if the event was of highimportance the King should make a better show of hisroyalty. He was turning away when Aretas spoke again,quite brusquely:
“And—Kedar—though you may have conjectured aboutthe nature of our errand in Petra, if anyone should ask youwhat is afoot you will reply that you do not know. And thatwill be the truth.”
Retiring to his private quarters, the King resumed his contemplationof the conundrum. What manner of emergencycould have induced the proud and pompous Herod to ignorethe age-old enmity between their nations?
For all of fifteen centuries, notwithstanding they wereneighbors according to the map—their frontiers facingacross an erratic little river that a boy could wade in midsummer—theArabs and the Jews had been implacable foes.This ancient feud