The Last Man at the Inn

by R. William Bennett

  Just the same, he was curious. Walking in a wide swath and keeping his distance from the cave, he crept through the rocky field until he could see inside. What he saw caused him to freeze in his tracks.

  Carefully, he took a few steps forward, squinting to confirm what he thought he’d just seen. Two steps more. Another.

  He paused and caught his breath.

  There in the cave was the couple he had seen pleading for a room at the inn just hours before. Simon felt a growing discomfort. He moved closer yet again, in tiny steps, one arm back, as though he could pull himself away should he get too close. There was the young woman, resting on some hay that had been propped up just so to make a spot for her. Simon moved carefully from side to side until he saw what he was searching for.

  There! In her arms—a child! A new child, born this very evening. He was mesmerized by the scene. Certainly he had seen many children before, including those as young as this. Birth was awe-inspiring. But why the fascination of the shepherds, who had uncharacteristically left their flocks? As he pondered this, he had an experience unlike any before it. It was a thought—no, not a thought. It was something more—an affirmation, perhaps? Suddenly he knew something he had not known just seconds earlier. He did not know how he knew it, but he knew he knew it: this was different. There was a peace here that was more than quietude, more than respect, though both were palpable. This was something else. This was holy.

  Though he was not a religious man, he recoiled from the thought. It felt . . . sacrilegious. Things holy were somewhat foreign to him; but, still, he was loath to call something holy that was not. Holy things were in the synagogues, in the scrolls, and with the priests burning incense in the temple. This was just a cave, a mere peasant woman and man, and a baby just like millions before him.

  Yet, there! It came again.

  And with it came comfort, a reassuring feeling that it was acceptable for him to think this way. He felt unsure, confused, and captivated all at once.

  He stood for a while, lost in his thoughts, until one of the shepherds turned and saw him. With a kind look, the man beckoned him to come forward. Simon waved his hand back and forth almost imperceptibly. He was not sure why. He was . . . what? Uncomfortable somehow? It felt inappropriate for him to go nearer. It was not the newness of the birth, in which a mother should be given privacy. It was . . . well, he was not sure what it was.

  Suddenly, shame swept over him. He realized that this woman had given birth in a cave, on a bed of hay, surrounded by animals. He remembered the thought he had had earlier that he should give up his space for them—the thought he had worked so hard to force from his mind at the time. Certainly a mat on the floor of the householder’s home would not have been much more comfortable than this, but at least it would have been more private; and the mother staying there with her family would have been able to assist with the birth.

  That was it! He felt guilty . . . but also unworthy somehow of moving any closer. Then another thought hit him: Go forward. Just for a moment. Speak to the man and his wife and apologize for not taking the opportunity to make them more comfortable. But he did not move. He looked at the ground, shame bubbling up within him. No, this was his place, out here. He did not deserve to get any closer.

  Still, the thought persisted—Go to the man, ask if there is anything you can do for him and his wife. Perhaps the master of the house had some stew left; he could run and get it for them! Perhaps they could use a shawl, as the night would likely get cooler; he could spare one of his extra robes! His spices! One could be used to mix with oil to anoint the child.

  But he did as he had done before; he forced himself to start back. I am so tired, he repeated to himself, and I need to be on the road in the morning. I need my rest. They have had a baby and seem comfortable enough. If they need anything, I am sure they will ask one of these shepherds.

  He took several steps and then paused to gaze back over his shoulder for one last look. He could no longer see inside the cave, but the fire illuminated some of the shepherds’ faces in its entrance. On the far right of the growing congregation was a young boy not more than twelve. Tears rolled down the boy’s face, glistening in the firelight.

  Again, he felt the urge to approach the cave. And again he denied himself. He spoke out loud to provide extra will: “I need to go back into town.”

  He walked quickly toward the lodgings, as though he could outpace his discomfort. He had felt something. It appeared all the shepherds had as well. But what had they seen that he had not? What was so powerful that they had left their responsibilities behind? Was he more disciplined because he had made himself return? Or was he more shallow because he had not been enveloped by what seemed to have a hold on them? He felt a strange sense of loss.

  It was far from the first time he had encountered this kind of dissonance. Most often, the feeling came when he passed a beggar. The man or woman would plead for money. Simon nearly always had money, but it troubled him to give it away, and he rarely would. Furthermore, he doubted his coins would make a difference. And even if they could, there were still so many beggars on the street. If he helped one, shouldn’t he help them all? When would it end? And didn’t they bear responsibility for being in that state? Wasn’t their condition a result of their own lack of industry? Wouldn’t it be better for them to work themselves out of poverty than for him to assist them in staying in it? In time he developed a strategy when encountering beggars on the streets. He would set his sights straight ahead, eyes in front of him. If a vagabond called out to him, he would pretend not to hear. It felt a little uncomfortable, but he didn’t know what else to do. In fact, this habit had become his resolution for all things he did not understand: he ignored them. Ignoring such things, he believed, would free him from vexing issues—his existence would remain unclouded by troubles.

  So, with practiced skill, he pushed the troubling thoughts from his mind on this unusual evening, and when he reached the house, he went quickly to his bedroll.

  But sleep did not come.

  The next morning Simon walked out to feed his animals and prepare them for the day’s long journey back through Jerusalem and on to Jericho. But when he looked out at the street, he was surprised to see crowds pulsing in every direction.

  He rarely sold his wares in Bethlehem, where the villagers were less wealthy than those two hours up the road in Jerusalem or a day ahead in Jericho. To meet the needs in Bethlehem required him to lower his prices. But with the morning’s overflow from the Holy City, there appeared to be many who would make time spent here more lucrative than usual.

  Simon retrieved one of his saddlebags, slung it over his shoulder, and walked to the square, which was teeming with merchants and townsfolk. He quickly found a man selling spices and approached him. The man’s bins were nearly empty, and the marketplace was crowded. These were perfect conditions! The man would see Simon’s leather bag and know exactly why he was there.

  This was where Simon was wrong. The merchant, who was hurriedly speaking with several other men, turned, gave Simon a quick glance, and then returned to the anxious conversation.

  Simon was surprised. “You!” he said firmly, trying to get the man’s attention. “I have spices to sell. You appear to be nearly out. Would you like to buy more?” The man looked at his bins with surprise, then up at Simon somewhat apologetically.

  “Of course. Sorry. Just a moment.” And one more time he turned to his group of friends.

  Simon was shocked. In just the few minutes he’d been there, he had watched several people walk up to the table expectantly, observe the smatterings of spices left in the bottoms of the baskets, and then quickly move on to find another seller. He too moved on.

  As he walked through the marketplace, searching for another spice seller, he noticed that many of the other merchants also seemed to be lost in hushed conversations with each other while barely registering their customers�
� presence. In a crowd like this, good sellers should be calling out their offerings and watching prospective buyers like hawks. The best merchants would be aware of twenty people at once, noticing even the most imperceptible turns of the head or split-second lingering looks, and then calling the person out, drawing them to their table. Today, however, everyone was preoccupied.

  Just when his thoughts were about to give way to verbal exasperation, Simon heard, “Sir, you need spices? I have a good assortment.”

  Simon looked to see who had spoken and saw what must be the one man who had managed to stay focused. He walked to the table, and the man looked pleased, fanning his hands over his baskets.

  “I don’t need to buy spices, but I have them to sell. Do you need to replenish?”

  The man was momentarily disappointed, but then he looked in his baskets and shrugged his shoulders. “If you have anise, and perhaps cinnamon. Nothing else, and not too much.”

  Simon took the bag off his shoulder and reached in, finding the right pouches. He and the merchant engaged in the typical haggling to agree on a price. Simon usually enjoyed this, for he was good at it, but today it gave him greater pleasure because it was the first thing so far that seemed to work as it was meant to.

  Simon tucked his earnings into his pouch and, as he did so, said, “May I ask you something?”

  “I need nothing else,” the merchant came back quickly. “And please stand aside. I cannot see through you.”

  “Of course,” Simon said, then walked around the table. The merchant gave him a confused look but turned to a new customer who had just come forward. Simon waited patiently, and after the person left, he asked, “Your fellow merchants. They all seem engaged in some deep conversations. They are missing buyers . . .”

  “To my advantage,” the man said, never taking his eyes off the passersby.

  “What is it they are all talking about?”

  The merchant paused and glanced at Simon, looking at him as if he had just asked where Bethlehem was. He turned back to the crowds but spoke to him.

  “You must not be listening. It’s all foolishness, but people love a foolish tale. Look how it turns them from what they should be doing.”

  Simon tried to encourage him. “I know. I’ve seen it often. What is it this time?”

  The merchant shook his head with a look that resembled something between pity and disdain. “They talk of the prophecy from the scriptures. They all think the baby was born here last night.”

  Simon waited in silence for more information.

  Again, the merchant glanced at Simon, but this time he lingered longer, looking at him from top to bottom. “You look like a Jew. Are you not a Jew?”

  “I am a Jew,” he answered simply.

  “Not a good one, then,” the merchant said as he smiled and turned back out to watch the crowd. “Sir!” he called out. “Are you in need of spices? I have fresh spices!”

  The skilled merchant was successful, and again, Simon waited while the transaction was completed.

  “I may need some more of your spices after all. Your presence seems to be good for business. Stay here with me longer,” the merchant said. Then, without missing a beat, he continued as though it was part of the same thought: “A good Jew would know the scriptures, even a little.”

  Mockingly, he continued. “Let me think. What prophecy was that, the one about the baby being born who would save the Jews? Hmmm, I know I’ve heard about that somewhere. . .”

  Simon knew the prophecy. And it wasn’t that he didn’t want it to be true, but things were what they were, he often said. Rather than wait on a distant hope of being delivered from the Romans, he had long ago learned how to live under Roman authority, going along with the rules rather than chafing against them. He was not sure he believed in the prophecy.

  “This baby they talk of—they think this baby is the prophesied King?” Simon chuckled. “And born in Bethlehem?!”

  The merchant looked at him angrily, surprising Simon. “Yes, Bethlehem. The city of David, or didn’t you know that, either?” he said derisively.

  “I am sorry,” said Simon. He had forgotten that part. “I meant no offense. It was just surprising to me for a moment. Of course, this is the city of David. Still . . . a king . . . ?” He trailed off.

  The merchant transacted another sale, then turned to him. “Quickly, is there more cinnamon?”

  Simon retrieved another pouch, saying simply, “I should charge you more, but it will be the same.”

  The merchant quipped back, “You should charge me less, but it will be the same.”

  The merchant jostled the basket of freshly added cinnamon, dusting the air with its scent to entice passersby.

  “As for me, I believe the prophecies. But, this . . . this is not the fulfillment. These people, they are so tired of the”—he lowered his voice—“the Romans. Anything that happens, they say, ‘This is a sign,’ as though talking about it will bring it sooner.”

  Simon cocked his head. “You don’t believe in signs, then?”

  “No, I believe. But the King would at least be born in the nicest house in town, not in a cave.”

  Simon froze. He replied cautiously, trying to sound nonchalant. “In the caves? The caves east of town?”

  The merchant stopped and eyed him suspiciously. “There are caves every direction from town. It was indeed in the caves east of town. You must have seen this birth, then?”

  Simon shrugged. “I live far from here. I don’t know the area, but I saw caves to east when I arrived, so that is what I was asking.” That was not a lie, so he was able to say it easily. He added another truth, one that was, in its incompleteness, designed to deceive: “I did not see any birth.”

  The merchant lingered in his stare, then looked back to his business. “Yes, in those caves. Supposedly many shepherds left their flocks. The people are saying this was a sign.” He laughed. “It’s a sign, all right. A sign that those shepherds are irresponsible. And here is my prophecy . . .” In a serious tone, he leaned forward and said, “I foresee they will lose their sheep.” He chuckled at his own wit.

  Suddenly his demeanor changed. “Sir, you have been entertaining, and I appreciate the spices, but I am weary of this. I cannot think of two things at once. I need to tend to my table.”

  Simon thanked him and said goodbye. He began to search for others who might be interested in his herbs and spices, but as he wandered the market, he did not put much effort into finding any buyers. Instead, he drifted close to some of the other conversations, trying to listen in. But when the whisperers noticed him, they would cease talking and stare until Simon moved on. He understood now why everyone was conversing in hushed tones. Everyone, including Simon, knew that when there was unrest in the communities, Herod would send out spies and guards to listen and learn. These spies, nearly everyone believed, reported back to Herod, who took swift action against anyone who seemed the least bit out of line. Herod maintained peace at any cost.

  By evening time, Simon had decided he would leave the next day for Jericho. He had been tempted to stay in Bethlehem and take advantage of the crowds, but he knew he would still sell all he had in the long run, so there would be no loss in leaving.

  At dinner, after making small talk with the other guests, the owner of the inn walked over to Simon and sat across from him on the floor. “You have seemed deep in thought. I have more stew to offer you, but I thought I would wait until you asked me. You haven’t, so I thought I would check before I give the rest to my sons.”

  Simon looked up from his bowl. “Yes, thank you. I’ll be on my way tomorrow, and the extra would be appreciated.”

  The man stood and retrieved a ladle, dipped it in the pot, and carried it without a drip to the table, where he poured it into Simon’s bowl. He sat again.

  “I don’t mean to bother you, but you seem troubled. Would yo
u like to share what concerns you?”

  Simon did not move, nor did the man. Finally, Simon looked up. “Yes, I’ve been trying to remember something and I am a bit embarrassed to ask you for help. I’m afraid it will say more about me than I care to share.”

  “We are all on a journey,” said the man. “Where I am and where you are does not matter, only that I may help you in the direction you wish to travel. What is it?”

  This was unusual, to find someone so helpful. Simon looked at him, felt his humility, and decided to trust him.

  “Well,” Simon began, “I am a Jew.”

  The man laughed out loud. “Really? And here in Bethlehem? How strange!”

  Simon smiled. “Yes, but I am not done. I am a Jew, but I don’t keep our ways too diligently. I have been sitting here trying to remember the words in our scripture that refer to the prophecies of a king being born in the city of David who would come to save us. Try as I might, I cannot recall them.”

  He looked up sheepishly.

  The man pursed his lips and nodded slightly. “You have been listening to the talk, then?”

  “I did hear it. Yes. But that only got me thinking about it. I thought it would be good to recall exactly what has been taught.” He paused, then quickly added, “It’s not that I think this baby is the King.”

  The man cocked his head, “And why not?”

  Simon was surprised. “I am sorry, I’m not trying to challenge whatever you feel.”

  “Oh,” he replied quickly. “You didn’t bother me. My question is sincere. I am just curious why you are so sure this child is not the King.”