Unholy Night

“Good,” he said. “Now, what’s your name?”

The carpenter glared back at him for what seemed an eternity — his chest heaving, blood already beginning to dry on his lips and chin. Just when Balthazar was beginning to think he would never answer, the carpenter said, “Joseph.”

“Joseph, good. Nice to meet you, Joseph. And her?”

“My wife,” he said after another pause. “Mary.”

“Good. Joseph? Mary? My name is Balthazar. This is Gaspar… this is Melchyor. We don’t want to hurt you… we’re just looking for a place to rest. But, Joseph? If you don’t put that pitchfork down, I’m going to take it from you and stab you to death in front of your wife and child. Do you understand?”

Balthazar watched the carpenter think it over for what seemed an eternity. Hard, isn’t it? If you give up the pitchfork, you’ll be defenseless. If you don’t, you might have to kill all three of us. So… what’ll it be? As if answering Balthazar’s thoughts, the carpenter threw the pitchfork to the ground. Gaspar was quick to make a move for it, but Balthazar held his hand out and stopped him. He needed peace.

“Good,” said Balthazar. “Now, let’s all sit and talk for a minute.”

The wise men tied their camels up, sat in the hay, and leaned their weary bodies against the stalls. Joseph and Mary sat, too, keeping to the opposite side of the stable, which was a scant ten feet away. Mary held the baby close to her body, still reeling from the shock of seeing her husband beaten and the embarrassment of being seen in such a private, indecent state. Joseph sat beside her, still pinching his nose shut.

“What business,” asked Mary after an extended silence, “do three men have barging into someone else’s stable in the middle of the night?”

“Your stable?” asked Gaspar.

“Our stable. We were here first,” said Mary.

“We just need a place to rest our heads for a little while,” said Balthazar.

“Well you can rest them somewhere else,” she said.

“Afraid we can’t.”

Mary looked them over. Their robes were among the more expensive she’d seen. They were adorned with gold jewelry, and she could smell the frankincense they were carrying.

“You’re obviously noblemen,” she said. “Go and force one of the shepherds from their homes. Better yet, go to Jerusalem and force one of the other nobles out of theirs.”

“Our situation is… complicated,” said Balthazar.

“He’s the Antioch Ghost,” said Melchyor.

Balthazar had to suppress the urge to break the little Greek’s jaw. How could anyone be so stupid? Here they were, in disguise and running for their lives, and he casually offers up the one piece of information that could get them all killed faster than any other. Now, the moment they fell asleep, the Jews sitting across from them would go running to the nearest soldier and give them up. Sell them out for whatever reward Herod was offering. Now he’d have to tie their wrists. Gag them.

There was no going back now. It was out in the open. Balthazar waited for the familiar wide-eyed reverence to wash over their faces… and waited, until it became clear that Joseph and Mary had no idea who or what the Antioch Ghost was.

This aggravated him even more. Everything aggravated him: his aching head, his weary body, the bleating of goats in the stalls behind them — everything.

“I go here and there,” he said at last, “taking what I can from the Romans and those who serve them, then disappearing. Some people have taken to calling me ‘the Antioch Ghost.’”

“So… you’re a thief,” said Mary.

“Not just a thief,” said Gaspar. “The best thief who ever lived.”

Balthazar allowed himself a private swell of pride. Obviously there was no way to know if he was “the best thief who ever lived.” But at the same time, there was no way to prove he wasn’t. Either way, it was nice to be recognized.

“Whether he’s the best or not doesn’t matter,” said Joseph through a pinched nose. “Stealing is a sin.”

“Really?” asked Balthazar. “And trying to kill three unarmed men with a pitchfork — is that a sin?”

Joseph looked at the weapon in Gaspar’s hand. Before tonight, he’d never so much as raised a fist in anger. It wasn’t in his nature. He looked away, suddenly frightened by how close he’d come to committing the sin of murder.

“I thought you were Herod’s men.”

Balthazar and Gaspar exchanged a look. They could’ve almost laughed at the irony of anyone thinking they were Herod’s men were it not for the chill they both felt down their backs. What did they know?

“Why, would Herod’s men be looking for you?” Gaspar asked.

“Not looking for us,” said Joseph. “Looking for the child born in the city of David… the one the prophets call Messiah.”

Balthazar was suddenly back on the stone bench outside Herod’s throne room, surrounded by the soldiers who’d chased him through the desert. Listening to the raspy king rant through the doors. Something about “prophecies.” Something about the “dead rising,” and “plagues” and a “Messiah.” But as recent as the memory was, it was vague. His mind had been on other things at the time. Namely his impending death and how to avoid it.

“That’s very interesting,” he said at last, “but what’s it have to do with you?”

Now it was Mary’s and Joseph’s turn to exchange a look. Should they tell him? They didn’t know these men. They were criminals by their own admission. Then again… the fact that they were criminals made them unlikely to go running to Herod.

“It began before we were married,” said Joseph.

He explained it all as earnestly and clearly as he could. He told them about the archangel Gabriel visiting Mary in a dream. About Mary getting pregnant, though they hadn’t lain together, and the message that the son of God was growing in her womb. He told them about his own visions, including the most recent one — the one he’d had only last night. The one in which the angel Gabriel warned Joseph that Herod was going to slay all the newborn males of Bethlehem. He and Mary had been preparing to flee on their own when Balthazar and the others barged in.

When Joseph was finished telling the story, the six of them sat in silence. The wise men with their mouths closed, processing what they’d heard. The baby was asleep, its chest rising and falling in Mary’s arms. Only the occasional bleating of goats around them.

“And you believe all that?” asked Balthazar. “You believe that your son is… ”

“The son of God,” said Joseph.

“And that the king of Judea is sending soldiers to kill… a baby?”

“Of course I believe it,” said Joseph.

“You don’t think it’s a little suspicious?”

“Suspicious?”

It was the obvious question. The only question. Balthazar suddenly felt a little tinge of sympathy for the carpenter. Did he really have to point it out?

“She gets pregnant before your wedding, and you think it’s some kind of… miracle?”

Joseph glared at Balthazar, the yellow bruise beneath his eye already turning blue.

“I know what I saw,” he said.

“I think the only ‘miracle’ is that you believed her,” said Gaspar.

Balthazar couldn’t help but laugh. Melchyor joined in, though he didn’t quite understand the joke. But he did understand the way Joseph got to his feet and came at them — and he didn’t like it. He and the other wise men got to their feet and stood chest to chest with Joseph in the middle of the stable. Balthazar saw that look in the carpenter’s eye. The look of a man who’d just had his honor insulted and was thinking about doing something about it. Go on, little carpenter. I’ll give you more than a bloody nose this time.…

Mary rose behind Joseph, still cradling the baby. She took him by the arm. “It’s pointless,” she said.

“I know what I saw,” he said again, looking Balthazar dead in the eye. “I wouldn’t expect a man like you to believe me.”