Fiction: The first apostle

When the winter winds had blown the sands of the great Sahara across the cities and towns, and brought the harmattan early, an old innkeeper and his wife, joyful even at the end of a tired day, despite what they saw everyday as the curse of their childlessness, hurried to shutter the windows to keep the sand out of their eyes. The old man, in the wind, heard the cry of an infant child. Rushing to see what mother and child could be out at a time like this, the innkeeper found to his dismay, an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes, thin, and on the verge of death, fingers turned blue from the dry cold, with only the blazing light in his dark dark eyes - as black as large, fresh olives - left on the doorstep in a reed basket.
Praising god, and the welcome aid to their old age, the inkeeper and his wife, took the child in, and on the following Sabbath, threw a great feast for the people of the town, emptying their meagre coffers to spread their joy.
And it was all good. For the boy, under the loving care of his foster parents, grew to be simple, and strong, and a sturdy support for them in their old age. And no job was too difficult, or came too late, nor was he ever too tired, or too angry, or too busy to do their bidding. And the animals were fed, and the floors were washed, and the tables cleared, and the customers attended to, and the food served to them warm at nights.
And the boy would retire to the manger, where he nuzzled the cows and felt the warmth of their breath upon him protectively. And when his father looked in upon him at nights he would notice that his son had not slept. But rather kept open those bright bright eyes, as if still waiting.
And the worried father, in his quiet moments wondered if he was too harsh on the child. For he was never seen playing, or laughing, or doing things that other boys did. And while the other young men went to the village dances, or teased the maidens, or played on their lutes by the village fire, or drank the wine, and prepared for their futures, the child - now a young man - when his tasks were through, went to the back of the inn, and stood there, as though waiting, waiting, waiting, eternally.
And one day, the census was announced. And the travellers came thick and fast. And they were all tired, and were all hungry and they had all travelled long distances to be counted. And the hall was filled with men who had met their mates after years of being away, and so was filled with raucous laughter and free flowing ale. And the innkeeper and his wife, and his son, were tired from it all, and yet the night was filled with the energy of so many people, happy to be home, that neither the innkeeper nor his family felt the tiredness.
And when it was all almost done, there came a knock on the door. "No room for more, no more food" said the innkeeper, tired now of repeating it, thoguh he had never had occasion to say it before in his life. "But she is with child" said the young man, nervously, quietly, not beseeching, just tired of hearing "no".
When he felt a tug on his shirt sleeve. "But there is room".
And the guests looked at into the olive black eyes gratefully, and with many blessings in their gratitude, while the innkeeper wondered, but said nothing.
While his mother rustled up some bread, and the few leftovers in the kitchen that she had been saving for the boy's breakfast, and poured some warmed milk into a glass for the mother-to-be, the boy laid thick rugs on the straw of the manger floor, that still smelt of warm fresh dung, despite having been washed only that morning. He quietened the animals, the donkeys, the cows, their two roosters - all excited by the presence of stangers. And opened the top ventilator of a window so that some fresh air and moonlight could stream into the room, but not the fine, fine sand. He brought them some water warmed in a jug, with which to wash their hands and their faces. And set another bucket outside their door. He gave them the freshest linen, taken from his mother's camphor chest, and smelling of cinnamon, and other spices.
And then he sat outside in the moonlight, and strummed his lute, and waited no more.
And when the dawn was born, there was the cry of a child, and the lowing of the cows, and the sounds of mirth rejuvenated from the inn within. And the innkeeper called and called out to his son, but the boy did not come.
And some said, in the days that came, that he had been spotted playing his lute over in the mountains, where the sheep grazed, near galilee, in the east, where the boats docked. And some said he was found, and then lost.
And though the boy was lost, and the census was over, since that day, the people flocked to the town, which grew by its curious pilgrims, to be a town, and then a great city, and the fortunes of its people paved over the now-in-ruins inn with the blessings of prosperity that its people once never dreamed of. For it was a city made sacred by the meeting of many wise and the learned and devoted, the simple and the strong, the seeking, and the found, for the people, though they spake in different tongues, knelt in many different ways before the self-same god.
And it is said in this city to this day, be not unkind to any child, any man, any woman who comes to your door - for you know not whether it may be god, or the child of god, or his servant sent to pave his way. And may your homes and your towns and your cities and the futures of all its people be blessed, if you do not turn a child, born or unborn, from your door.