Andrew knelt there with his face in his hands as morning dawned. But his soul was still dark. He found himself wishing he’d been drowned in the storm. Now I’ll never get my father back, he thought. He’ll kill Jesus! And then Artemas will have Father put to death! Jesus had been his last hope, and now hope was gone. In silence he waited for the inevitable.
Then he heard a voice. “What do you want with us, Son of God! Have you come here to torture us before the appointed time?”
Such a strange voice! Rasping, ragged, utterly foreign and inhuman —a voice, it seemed, made up of many voices, all of them tortured and strained. Andrew raised his head at the dreadful sound.
He wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted his eyes. The men who had followed Jesus up the beach were running back to their boat. But their leader stood straight and still upon the sand, his face calm, his hands at his sides, his dark hair ruffled in the early morning breeze. His gaze was directed downward at a figure on the ground.
Father?
Was it possible? Could that horrible voice be coming from my father? wondered Andrew.
There was no mistaking Jacob’s physical appearance. He was naked, bruised, and bleeding. His wrists and ankles bore the marks of the iron fetters. Writhing and foaming at the mouth, he lay on his face in the sand at Jesus’ feet, like a tormented but submissive dog. It was a picture that filled Andrew with feelings of fear, awe, and pity.
When they were ankle-deep in the water, the fishermen stopped and turned. Some of them stood fingering the knives and swords that hung from their belts. Again Andrew found himself holding his breath.
Then Jesus spoke. “What is your name?”
“Legion!” screamed the voices that burst from Jacob’s mouth. “Legion is my name! For we are many!”
Andrew froze. Legion! Another picture flashed before his mind’s eye —thousands of Roman soldiers, terrible with their flashing shields and spears, marching through Gadara’s northwest gate.
Now he’ll kill Jesus for sure! Andrew thought. And me too!
Andrew jumped up and looked around for a way of escape. The sun’s glow, full of the promise of day, pulsed in the east. To the south, at the top of the cliff, a small clump of observers stood gaping down at the scene on the shore. Even at this distance, Andrew knew who they were —Demas and the other pig boys.
Even here, even now, he thought absently. Even when I’m about to die, Demas can’t leave me alone.
“The swine! The pigs!” Jacob was on his knees, trembling from head to toe, gripping Jesus’ ankle with one hand and pointing up at the cliffs with the other. “Up there! Let us go into the swine!” screamed the voices. “Don’t send us away into the Abyss! The pigs, not the pit!”
For a moment Jesus stood gazing up at the plateau. Andrew saw his brow wrinkle and the edges of his bearded lips curve downward in the hint of a frown. But in the next moment his eyes dropped decisively to the man who lay groveling at his feet. Instantly the clouded expression cleared like mist before the rising sun.
“Very well, then,” he said. “Go!” Then Andrew saw the hand of Jesus —a strong, work-hardened hand like his father’s —reach down and touch a lock of Jacob’s dirt-encrusted, twig-matted hair.
A pause. Then Jacob convulsed violently, cried out, and fell to the ground. Silence.
What now? Andrew took one hesitant step toward Jesus and his father. He was about to take another when —
Thunder! Another storm! But from the south? Storms on Lake Kinneret almost always came down out of the north. Pivoting on his heel, Andrew looked up at the cliffs.
What he saw nearly took his breath away. There, amid clouds of rising dust or smoke (he didn’t know which), a dark torrent suddenly poured over the edge of the plateau. The storm obscured the rocks and cave tombs. Was it a flood? Andrew stared hard. He couldn’t tell.
The ground beneath his feet trembled as the torrent fell farther and drew nearer. Now he could see that it wasn’t made up of water at all but of solid shapes —stones or boulders, perhaps.
An avalanche! He turned to run. But then a new sound reached his ears —a sound made up of squeals, grunts, screams, and the shouts of angry herdsmen. He squinted up at the cliff again. All at once he realized what he was seeing.
Pigs. Hundreds of them. Rushing headlong down the crags and onto the sandy beach. On and on they thundered, past the boat shed, past Andrew and Jacob and Jesus, past the astonished fishermen, straight into the lake —splashing, floundering, drowning. In a matter of moments there was nothing left of them but bubbles and foam on the surface of the waves. Andrew could do nothing but stare.
He was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of a comfortingly familiar voice calling to him from the lake. “Andrew!”
Looking out beyond the spot where the pigs had plunged into the water, he saw a boat approaching. And in the boat two familiar faces —his mother and Uncle Yohanan!
“Thank heaven you’re safe!” called Helena.
Uncle Yohanan leaned on his oars and wiped his brow.
Then came another well-known voice, behind him this time. “Well! A man never knows what he’ll find when he comes to work!”
“Stephen!” shouted Andrew in surprise. “Lyra!”
“And old Baal too!” piped up Lyra. As always, the gray goat was pulling a small cart with a worn rag doll aboard.
Together, Stephen and Andrew ran down to the water’s edge to help Helena out of the boat.
“Helena,” said Stephen. “I didn’t expect you back until —”
Andrew interrupted him. “Mother, I —”
Helena hugged her son and then held him at arm’s length. She looked at him severely. “What were you thinking, Andrew? When we saw that your boat was gone, we realized what must have happened. We followed you as soon as the storm ended . . . so suddenly and strangely.”
“A miracle —that’s what it was,” said old Uncle Yohanan, climbing ashore and tossing his oars into the boat. Then he sat down and mopped his forehead again.
Suddenly Andrew’s mother raised her hand in a silencing gesture. “Look!” she said, her eyes as round as two silver coins.
They followed her gaze up the beach. There, at the feet of Jesus, in the middle of a circle of ten or twelve men, sat Jacob. He was wrapped snugly in a brown fisherman’s cloak. Gratitude, relief, and intelligence shone from his weary face.
“Jacob!” screamed Helena. Her hand shot to her mouth. Her face went white. Then she picked up her skirts and rushed toward her husband, who was already on his feet and running to meet her.
Andrew glanced over at Stephen. Stephen grinned back. “Well,” he said with a shrug, “I guess that’s that!”
Andrew was about to give Stephen a good-natured punch in the arm when out of the corner of his eye he saw his father coming toward him. He was running, just like the father in the story the fishermen had heard Jesus tell.
What now? He backed away, trembling. Should he run? Would his father attack him, attempt to strike him as he had done in the cave? Was this only a dream after all? Or was Father really cured, really himself again? Andrew’s face burned. He started to shake. He felt cold perspiration break out on his forehead.
And then, before he had time to think another thought, he found himself enfolded in his father’s strong arms. His face was pressed against his father’s chest, weeping hot tears into the brown folds of the fisherman’s cloak.