"What I tell you now is true," Ishma was saying. He lifted one dirty hand as if under oath. "These very eyes have seen it. Once each year in Jerusalem, on the Day of Atonement, the High Priest puts on sack-cloth and asks God to forgive the people. He takes two goats. One of them he kills." Ishma drew one finger across his throat and made a gurgling sound.

"Then the High Priest carries some of the blood into the Holy of Holies and sprinkles it around. That cleanses the Temple of all sin. But the people are still dirty with sin. So the Priest goes to that second goat. He ties a red cord around its neck. And then do you know what he does? On, no, he doesn't kill the beast. He does something worse.

"He puts his hands on that goat's head. And he begins to pray. He prays out loud and in that prayer he names all the sins of the people. And as each sin is named the priest lays it on the head of that goat. Poor beast, carrying all that sin on his back when he didn't do a thing wrong. By the time the priest is finished praying, the guilt of a whole nation is weighing down on that one little scapegoat, and believe me the people are eager to be rid of him.

"So they drive off that scapegoat. They kick him. They hit him with sticks. They pelt him with stones. They grab handfuls of his hair and they yank it out. They spit on him and shout at him until the scapegoat runs off, carrying all their sins. And where does that goat go?" Old Ishma paused. The youngsters leaned forward, scarcely breathing. Satisfied with the effect, the story-teller continued.

"The desert," he whispered. "Right out here where we are." He swung one arm to embrace all the wilderness around them. "They drive that goat to Azazel, a demon that lives out here in the sand. Oh yes, this land we're traveling through now is thick with demons. Why do you suppose that no one lives out here? There's Azazel. And there's the old night hag who steals children in the dark. And the hairy-legged things that dance when the moon is full."

At this the eyes of one boy grew so large that his eyebrows nearly disappeared into his shaggy hair. He looked into the sky and said, "But there's a full moon tonight!"

"Humm," grunted Ishma. "So there is. But I wouldn't worry about the hairy-legs. If I were you, I'd watch out for that scapegoat. He's out there somewhere, maybe just beyond the reach of the firelight. He's lurking out there somewhere, all battered and bloodied and wild with sin. I wouldn't want to meet him. Would you?"

The children shook their heads solemnly.

"In that case," said Ishma, "you should go straight to bed now, and not make a peep all night long." Ishma rose to his feet in dismissal. No more stories tonight.

Mary fumed as she and Joseph led Jesus back to their own blankets and dying fire. "Such stories! Hardly what I want my son listening to!"

"It does no harm," said Joseph. "Jesus is too young to understand much of it. He just likes sitting with the other children. Besides, there are terrible things in the world, Mary, and the sooner our son knows that the sooner he'll be able to take care of himself." With that Joseph stretched out on the groundcloth, pulled a blanket over himself, and began to snore almost immediately.