9

THEUDAS WOULD BE refilling his cup. Zadok ben Zakkai would be boasting of another exploit with one of the servant girls from Pilate’s palace. Bargil would be eyeing every passerby with cold suspicion, and Ephrem would be joking with Philo. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what his friends were doing right now.

He could shout himself purple at the God of the compulsion, but it would not do any good. He could rave and foam and spit like the demoniac from —Nathanael snorted. That fellow wasn’t foaming and spitting anymore. Well, he could scream anything he wanted to the God who said, Seek James, but Nathanael somehow knew that this cursed compulsion would not leave.

In the darkness he brooded on his haunches in a thicket of trees on the ridge, looking down on the neighborhood below. He had seen James come and, half an hour later, had seen him go. James never saw him. If he had been looking for Nathanael, he took a long time at Annika’s to do it. Was it possible he went to speak with Raziel? Nathanael was too far away from James to see his face when he passed. He would have liked to know what —

No. He was done with this crazy family. Done with Nazareth. His mother probably missed him . . . maybe she did . . . and his friends, well, at least he’d have a story or two to tell them when he got back. When he got —back.

He scratched his neck and tossed another pebble into the little pile he had been building. The only thought more miserable than staying was going back. Back to Caesarea. Back to friends who, a few weeks ago, he could not imagine being without. Now the very thought of lounging about with them on the harbor made him want to writhe for the suffocation of it.

“Where does that leave me?” he growled at the deeply violet sky. “You were the one who brought me here. You were the one who sent me on this adventure. I was supposed to be like one of those men of Israel. This was your idea, not mine.” He punched his fist at the stars. “You got me into this. Why don’t you take your Seek James and —and give it to Zadok ben Zakkai? He is the son of a priest. What were you thinking to choose me? The son of a whore.” He shook his head in bitter amazement.

The fact that the compulsion remained, unchanged, not a whit stronger or lesser for all his anger, made him even angrier. He felt the compulsion with every breath. He felt as though someone had given him a dose to hear better, see better, think better. It felt like an . . . awareness. Stitched to his soul, with no hope of tearing it out. With it came the sense that someday it would leave, but it would not be on Nathanael’s terms. And that part made him livid.

In the back of his mind, like the rustle of Mother’s wind chimes, was the thought that he had a choice in this. He could leave Nazareth, go back to Caesarea, and eventually the compulsion would die out. He knew how it would go . . . the way Theudas would holler from the top of Sebaste’s Cliff and leap off into the Mediterranean surf . . . a strong, clear shout would become a descending cry, no less strong but dimmer for the distance. Seek James would descend within him, dwindle away to silence. It horrified him.

He did not want it to be a choice. He wanted someone to blame. And really, what choice was there? He had never felt more alive in his life. Never more full of doubt, never more scared, and he would sooner die than admit that to his friends. He had never had a burden like this. He did not want it to leave.

He squeezed a fistful of pebbles. Those sons of Joseph, they didn’t know how good they had it. Spoiled brats, the lot of them, and that Jesus included. How could Jesus leave behind everything he had? Brothers, a sister, a mother who —

Jesus left behind a normal life. He left behind scheduled meals and tidiness and nice neighbors. He left behind order. Didn’t Nathanael have the hardest time of all behaving as if all this wonderful life about him was normal?

Jesus left behind a home full of good memories, for all the things James had told him this past week, all the things Annika said. That Joseph, he was a good man. A righteous man, the good kind of righteous, and Nathanael knew the difference. Folks like Joseph were rare. Nathanael would have liked him, he knew. Nathanael liked anyone who treated people with dignity. Annika never remembered he was a bastard; Zadok’s father, Zakkai the priest, never forgot.

He let the pebbles drain through his fingers. Nathanael had a feeling that Joseph would have liked him, maybe. Joseph would have seen something in him, that he was honest —that he tried to be —and most of all that he was loyal. Joseph would have treated him as Mary did. He had never met anyone like Mary.

He did not want to compare his mother to Mary; it wasn’t fair. Mary surely had had a perfect little childhood, adored by her parents; his mother had scars on her legs given her by her own mother. Mary grew up in a cushion of love. His mother grew up with a drunken father, whose favorite thing to do was to cuff her on the back of the head when she wasn’t expecting it. To avoid the blows, she tried hard to be a good child. But it did not matter if she was good or not, and to this day, anytime a hand moved suddenly around her —to swat a fruit fly or scratch a nose —she would flinch. Nathanael hated his grandfather, hated him in his grave. He would have killed him, old man or not, had not the wine already done so. He hated his grandmother too. She treated Nathanael nicely but treated his mother with an insidious amount of contempt —not enough for his mother to throw her out when she came to visit, but enough to make Nathanael wish his grandmother would stay away.

Mary had the childhood his mother deserved. It was not Mother’s fault she was the way she was. Nathanael was very sure she would be . . . different today . . . if her own mother had been like Mary. Or Annika. He had never known anyone like Annika. A pity, that one could not choose one’s own grandparents.

Nathanael slowly pulled up his tunic, inched it above his knees. The scars on his thighs, bumpy horizontal stripes like terraced stone walls on a hillside, were old now, turning white. It was not Mother’s fault. If she had had a childhood like Mary’s . . . if she . . . it was not her fault . . . she never meant it . . . and the only tool Nathanael could not bring himself to touch, in that grand assortment of tools at the carpenter’s shop, was the razor.

The tunic fell back into place, and Nathanael picked up another handful of pebbles. Caesarea or Nazareth. Caesarea or Nazareth. The family probably hated him now, dunking their precious brother. Spoiled, contemptuous brats, the lot of them. He hated every one. James, next time he saw him, would fire him on the spot. No use showing up at the shop tomorrow. No —it was Sabbath. Well, no use showing up at the shop the day after.

He glanced over his shoulder into the murky night. He had a scratchy feeling of late, that the night had eyes. He sometimes felt a gaze upon him even in the daylight, but when he turned to look, no one was there. The other day he even thought he saw —what was his name? Avi? —with his friend in the marketplace. But when he looked harder, they were gone. He grimaced, and the pebbles ground against each other in his fist. The suspicion was probably joined in some way to the compulsion. He was hounded, from within and without.

Caesarea or Nazareth. Seek James or a dwindling shout. He gazed at the candlelit village below and squeezed the pebbles till they squeaked.

“‘Out of my way, old fool’? You cannot do better than that? Use your imagination, boy. How about ‘Out of my way, you with the breath of a thousand camels’? Or ‘Out of my way, you donkeyless pile of wrinkled age spots’? If you are going to insult someone, make it interesting.”

Of course, the young man with the unflattering scowl, who had jostled him as he passed, could not understand a word he said. Not many knew the tongue of Persia in these parts, even fewer knew the dialect of his village. Oh, Balthazar could speak Aramaic. It was simply nice to let loose in a good scathe of a decent language now and then.

The sun crept up the horizon, heading toward a cap of gray. Not many were on the roads today, contenting Balthazar. Well, he missed their songs of ascent, to be sure. Today he passed parties camped beside the road, and sometimes he caught a snatch of music. It would be good to hear the fullness of the joyful sounds tomorrow. But for today, he would enjoy a road less traveled, less congested with caravans of people on their pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Today was their Sabbath, emptying the road, and today he would leave many miles behind him.

He greatly delighted in the sights that accompanied the bustle of the roads these days. He loved to watch fathers point out places to their sons, surely telling them of the ancient events that had happened at the spot of their fingertips. He watched them openly marvel at the wonders beyond their villages, at the historic places and ancient monuments. They did not hide the thrill of journeying to their holiest of cities.

Balthazar found himself humming one of their psalms of ascent. I will lift up my eyes to the mountains; from whence shall come my help? My help comes from the Lord, Maker of heaven and earth. Wonderful words with a richly resonant tune. Sometimes the pilgrims would break into a sort of skipping dance; how he longed to join them at times, to celebrate with them under the loving gaze of the Creator. He chuckled to think of it, imagining the looks on their faces. A pagan, matching joyous fluid steps to their own —a Gentile, the Unclean, uniting with them to fling arms to the sky in a grand celebration of the One True God. They, to celebrate their Passover, God’s great and terrible deliverance of his Jews from cruel bondage. He, to celebrate being chosen again.

He wondered if there were psalms of descent; soon his direction would veer from that of Jerusalem. Yesterday he had crossed the Jordan River and had passed the ancient city of Jericho. He had chosen to rest near the remains of a fortified tower, hundreds and hundreds of years old. He made sure he was near enough to a family so he could hear what the father said to his seven children, whom he had gathered about him, seating them near him on the ground.

The young father had told the story of Joshua and the trumpets of Jericho. Balthazar had listened and nodded, thoroughly enjoying the sweet young faces of rapt attention. He watched the attentive mother, the patient and earnest young father. What a beautiful sight it was, family. How much his people could learn from these Jews.

Enchanted, he had forgotten himself yesterday and had offered one of the little ones a stick of cinnamon. The mother, though polite and smiling, had whispered gently in the ear of the little one. The child, dark eyes solemn and wide, ducked behind his mother’s skirts, but peeped out long enough to catch Balthazar’s wink. Balthazar had nodded to the young woman and withdrawn the offered treat; he understood perfectly and felt a little abashed at the slip. Strict Jews could accept nothing from the hand of a heathen, not without a purification rite.

Perhaps he had made them uncomfortable too, by eating so close. Jews were not allowed to eat with the heathen. So Balthazar picked up his things and moved himself farther away. Sadly, it was out of the hearing of the young father, but it was for the comfort of the family. He continued to watch them as much as he could without appearing to stare openly; it was simply that the road was long and lonely, and this lovely family so very vibrant.

The thump of his stick was hollow on the Roman road. Balthazar adjusted the pack on his shoulder and wondered if the family had reached Bethphage yet. The young man had told him he had cousins there, to stay with during the Passover celebration. The strictest of Jews did not even converse with the heathen, but fortunately for Balthazar the young father did not seem to hold with this particular tradition. While he replaced articles from their meal into their basket lashed to the donkey saddle, he called amiably over to Balthazar. “You are traveling far?”

“Yes. Far. Galilee, I am thinking.”

“Ah, Galilee is beautiful in the springtime. In a few weeks the rains will pass, and the almond trees will blossom. Beautiful white flowers. Looks like snow from afar.”

Balthazar had nodded from where he lounged against his pack, eating his bread. “We also have almond trees where I am from. Nothing like the sight of a grove of blossoming almonds.”

“You are from the East? Very far?”

“Very far. Have you heard of Susa?”

The father paused at his pack. “That is far. How long have you been on the road?”

Balthazar had chuckled as he glanced at the wide stones used to pave the roads. “A very long time, but on this one, not long enough. Would that the Romans could pave every byway. Makes for a faster and easier journey. You are going to one of your feasts?”

The young man nodded.

“Tell me,” Balthazar mused, “is frankincense offered to your God for part of the sacrifices of this feast? I see the lambs with the caravans; I know these are for your sacrifices . . . but I wonder about the frankincense.”

The man shrugged. “It is used in grain offerings, but it is not specifically a part of Passover. Why do you ask? Do you sell it?”

Balthazar had given the man some sort of response; he did not remember what —he did not wish for the young father to know he had been a pagan priest. He had actually wondered if Mary still used Baran’s box for frankincense. Though he was familiar with some of the customs of these people —he snorted —enough to make him an expert on Jewish affairs back home —he still was unsure what part frankincense played in worship. In his own country, frankincense was a typical offering to Ahura Mazdah’s flames. Baran’s gift was appropriate for a man who wanted to be well represented to the new . . . to the ancient . . . Deity.

Perhaps it would not rain today. He surveyed the cloudy sky, striated with gray but broken here and there with patches of blue. He would like a day to dry out down to his skin. When he had started the journey, he had not given thought to protection from the rains; the winter rains had not yet begun. He had traded spices for a cloak coated with beeswax somewhere near Babylon, but the wax was now cracked and crumbling. He had spent an entire season on this road.

Balthazar’s walking stick thumped the paved road in dull hollow thuds, rhythmic and comforting. He wondered how the nice young father and his sweet family were doing. Humming one of their songs of ascent, he made for Galilee.

“Hear, O Israel, Adonai is your God. Adonai is one. You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your might. Take to heart these instructions which I charge you this day. Impress them upon your children. Recite them when you stay at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you get up. Bind them as a sign on your hand and let them serve as a symbol on your forehead. Inscribe them on the doorpost of your house and on your gates.”

“Amen,” murmured Joses, Judas, and Simon.

James glanced about the workroom at the brothers and settled on Joses. He nodded at him, and Joses took up the benediction.

“True it is, that you are Jehovah our God and the God of our fathers, our King and the King of our fathers, our Savior and the Savior of our fathers, our Creator, the Rock of our salvation, our Help and our Deliverer. Your name is from everlasting, and there is no God beside you. A new song did they that were delivered sing to your name by the seashore; together did all praise and own you King, and say Jehovah shall reign, world without end. Blessed be the Lord who saves Israel.”

“Amen,” responded James, Judas, and Simon.

James glanced at Judas and nodded. Judas took up the first eulogy. He cleared his throat and began.

“Blessed be the Lord our God and the God of our fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob; the great, the mighty, and the terrible God; the Most High God, who shows mercy and kindness, who created all things, who remembers the gracious promises to the fathers, and brings a Savior to their children’s children, for his own name’s sake, in love. O King, Helper, Savior, and Shield. Blessed are you, O Jehovah, the Shield of Abraham.”

“Amen,” said the brothers. James glanced at Simon.

Simon intoned the second eulogy. “You, O Lord, are mighty forever; you, who quicken the dead, are mighty to save. In your mercy you preserve the living; you quicken the dead; in your abundant pity you bear up those who fall, and heal those who are diseased, and loose those who are bound, and fulfill your faithful Word to those who sleep in the dust. Who is like you, Lord of strength, and who can be compared to you, who kills and makes alive, and causes salvation to spring forth? And faithful are you to give life to the dead. Blessed are you, Jehovah, who quickens the dead.”

“Amen.”

All four brothers offered the final eulogy. “You are holy, and your name is holy, and the holy ones praise you every day. Selah. Blessed are you, Jehovah God, the Holy One. Amen.”

The prayer shawls came off; the phylacteries were removed, kissed, and folded. The tefillin were unwound, kissed, and placed with the phylacteries into the shawls. The shawls were folded into bundles, and the bundles placed in the willow basket on Father’s bench.

A lifetime of going to synagogue was not an easy habit to change. Sometimes James ached to be back. It felt foreign not going. It felt wrong.

“You did not come home until very late,” Simon said, not looking at James, as he took his stool at his bench and picked up the half-carved bowl.

“I had much to think about,” James said as he slipped onto his own stool. He hooked his legs around the stool legs.

“Did you see Nathanael?” Jude asked. James squinted at him. His tone was too casual.

“No. I didn’t.”

“I waited long, James,” Joses said quietly. “We all did. I finally had to go home to Abigail. Where did you go last night?”

James inspected a ragged thumbnail and turned in his seat to look at his hanging tools. He took down the rasp and went to work on the nail. “After I spoke with Raziel, I went for a walk.”

Simon put the bowl back and folded his arms, his thoughtful gaze on James.

Simon was not a tall man, but he had the chest of a wine cask, big as a barrel. His arms were as thick as a metalsmith’s. He was considered the best looking of the lot. He had square, strong lines in his face and brown eyes set in thick, long lashes. Though his eyes were often cold and mocking, the girls in the village still gave him a second look. James supposed they still did.

It was not fair that Simon, even Simon, was denied a normal life. Only Joses and Devorah were married, raising children for an inheritance. Simon and Jude and Jorah were all denied the happiness of married life. Nobody wanted to be united to the family of the Galilean preacher. James had never really wanted to be married, himself. The only one he wanted had wanted someone else. If she even had a wisp of a thought toward James; well, he was second choice. He would not be second choice.

Simon, he could have had his pick. Heaven help the woman who would marry him, but still . . . it was not fair. As much as Simon irritated James, there was the flashing memory, not thought of in a few years, not since late yesterday afternoon. Simon, his broad shoulders protecting. Simon, taking a blow meant for Jesus.

James raised his eyes to Simon. “I never knew you studied Torah with Simeon.”

Simon gave a small shrug. “What of it?”

James went back to his nail. “Nothing.”

“Raziel —” Judas broke off to lower his voice. James could understand, too, his quick if irrational glance toward the doorway. But what Roman or Israelite would be strolling about close enough to hear on the Sabbath? The men of Israel were in the synagogues, and the Roman soldiers stationed in Nazareth considered Sabbath their day of rest too. It left them only the pagans to keep an eye on, cutting their work by half.

“Raziel is leaving at twilight?” Jude asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Well, James? Why are you so hesitant to speak?” Simon said less quietly. “What did you learn from Raziel? Is there a connection between him and this Judas who runs with Jesus? What about Avi and his friend? Why were they here? What does Raziel know about that?” He lifted his hands and dropped them. “Is there a plot against Jesus? You seem very reluctant to talk about any of it.”

James replaced the rasp on the peg behind him. He straightened a few tools that were not perfectly aligned. He dreaded this moment, dreaded it and was ready for it. Three long years, and he was finally ready. For last night, after leaving Annika’s home, he went and did what Raziel suggested. He sat down to choose a side and fight from there.

He had not walked the ridge at twilight in a very long time. The skies were clear, and the night was a glittering cloak of comfort. With the setting of the sun he was finally at ease, able to relax in the concealing darkness.

He went to his favorite place as a boy, the highest point on the ridge, past his home, past the terraced strips, past Eli’s place, and past the home of Tobias and Sarah, Joses and Abigail. It was a quiet outpost, one of the highest places in Nazareth, with a solitary olive tree near its peak. There James settled down, back against the trunk, and there he gazed on the flickering lights in the valley below. From here he could look to the East and see the mound of Mount Tabor. If it were a clear day, he could turn to the west and see Mount Carmel, near the coast of the sea. There it was that Elijah had engaged in the contest of power with the priests of Baal. The very tree he leaned against was hundreds of years old; perhaps this very tree had witnessed the sight.

Father once told James he thought the tree had been around when King Solomon built the first Temple six hundred years ago. It existed when Nebuchadnezzar sacked Jerusalem, destroyed the Temple, and carried off most of the inhabitants to Babylon. It was here when Cyrus the Great allowed the captives to return. And it was here when, south in a place called Modi’im, a man named Mattathias the Maccabee said, No more.

Joseph had taken a peculiar liking to this tree. He came yearly to prune it and had placed a ring of white stones about it. The stones were still there, a few out of place. James knew why Joseph liked the tree. It was representative of Israel —of the Jewish people. It endured; it survived. Half the tree was stunted from an oval scar the size of a cistern cover. Where the trunk suddenly stopped, limbs branched beneath and curved toward the sky. It was a tree that would continue to grow, no matter what devastation had caused the scar. And it was there, with the tree to brace his back, that James made up his mind.

At first he had wanted to convince them. Raziel’s fire, he could feel it burning now within, but now he did not want to convince them at all. He had decided, and that was that; he would leave the rest of his family to their own decisions.

“Simon, last night at some point, those questions did not matter anymore,” James said with a sigh. “They were what drove me to Raziel, but I came away with something different. I was not planning to go up to Passover this year, but I have changed my mind. I will go and speak with Jesus.”

“About what?” Simon demanded.

“We will warn him about the potential plot against him,” Joses broke in, daring James to say differently. “Of course that is why we will speak to him.”

“I want to speak to him about why he is here,” James said, ignoring Joses. “About his gifts. About his obligation to Father.”

“Oh, you know what he will say,” Simon sneered, shifting on his stool. “He will talk about his heavenly Father. You of all people, James.”

It didn’t even bother him. Something had happened last night. In deciding, an unexpected balm had come to his stomach. It had not left.

“What exactly will you say to him, James?” Joses asked from where he sat on the ground near his bench with his back against the wall.

“I will tell him that I am on his side.”

Simon’s stool tumbled backward as he suddenly stood. “What did that Raziel do to you?”

“What do you mean, you are on his side?” Judas demanded. While he and Simon yammered protests, James slipped a glance at Joses. He remained silent, watching James.

“Be quiet, and I will tell you,” James said.

Simon shook his head, muttering, and grabbed the stool to drop it into place. He snatched the bowl from his bench. He selected a small gouge adze, sat down heavily on his stool, and began to chip out the bowl.

“Simon . . . ,” Judas warned, watching the pitch of wood chips.

“Shut up, Judas.”

No one else offered any recrimination about work on the Sabbath. Simon’s back was to James. Fine with James; Simon could hear him front or back.

“Raziel only spoke aloud the things I have long felt. He convinced me of nothing; he merely gave voice to the things of my heart.”

Simon grunted, and the chips flew.

“What things of your heart, James?” Joses asked.

“Oh, the honesty is thick this morning,” Simon sneered. “I think I am going to be sick.”

“Shut up, Simon,” Judas said. “What things, James?”

James did not want to push Simon over. He did not want to throw anything at him. He marveled on this a minute before answering Jude.

“We know him. As no one else does, we know him. What we know most about him is that he is true.”

“According to him, the truth,” Simon muttered.

“The . . . extraordinary gifts he has . . . how he heals . . . and brings hope. . . . I believe that God’s hand rests upon him.”

“Who can argue with that? Snap your fingers and calm a storm. I wonder what would happen if he sneezed.”

“Simon . . . ,” Joses warned.

“He would wipe his nose on his sleeve like the rest of us,” Jude said. “Continue, James.”

“But I think his compassion is misplaced. At least, I think it is premature. He has allowed his heart to get in front of his head, because the issue, as always, is the foreigner. The foreigner, brothers.” James spread his hands. “This land is ours. It was given to us by God. The prophets and the great men who came before us were all about the land —to dwell in the land and to possess it. It’s God’s command. Then Jesus comes, and as they say . . . no one has ever spoken like him before. He says things that, that —strike us within for the truth of it . . . and that is good. But, brothers, he speaks different things. He is not about the land, which to me is not Jewish. And that is not good.”

Simon, at his stool, was shaking his head. James pushed down a ripple of annoyance and continued. He would give them what he felt, toss it into the middle of the workroom, and leave them to their own decisions.

“Deliverance from within must be preceded by deliverance from without. We must do what our fathers before us have not been able to do, what David himself was not able to do. We must fully root out the foreigner. After that, let the kingdom of Israel truly begin. After that, let . . .”

Simon’s shaking his head was more than annoying; it was distracting.

“After that, let Israel flourish and become what God intended Israel to be. This is where Jesus comes upon the scene. Jesus has been chosen by God to be our leader, to liberate with his powers and his words. He must be made to see that his kingdom is indeed of this world. Simon, what do you find so offensive about this?”

Simon looked up, the expression on his face one of mock surprise. “Me? Nothing at all. By all means, continue, James.”

“If Jesus can be made to see that Rome is an interloper, not something to be tolerated, that Rome represents a test of some kind by God to see whether we will unite as one and —Simon, why don’t you take your insolent head shaking and —”

“Better yet, Simon, tell us what is wrong with James’ words,” Joses said from his place at the wall.

Chips flew from decisive cuts. “Why don’t you take yourself to Jesus, James? Let him heal you of your blindness.” Before James could sputter a single word, Simon continued. “You are a fool. You bought into Raziel’s talk, which is nothing more than another distraction from the real issue.”

Joses folded his arms and cocked his head. “And the real issue is . . . ?”

Simon turned in his seat to glare at James. Anger made his face harder than ever. He was so full of it the words came out between tight lips.

“You are a coward, James. Like Raziel. The only honest people around here are some of the Pharisees and Sadducees, because they hear what Jesus says, and they are not afraid to confront him. People like Raziel would seize him and make him king. The am ha-aretz, who are thrilled to see someone align himself with them, would seize him and make him king. The leaders are not happy with what Jesus says about himself, but at least they are honest. They take him to task for the things he says, and that is courageous honesty.”

James rose from his stool. He would not allow this, not when he had finally figured it out. He knew where he stood now; he knew what was right. The fact that the gut pain strained at the balm meant nothing.

“Simon, you are only full of poison because he ruined your chance to serve at the Temple,” James said evenly.

Simon looked him up and down, nodding, his lip curled. “You would believe that.”

Anger oozed from under the lid, coating James’ stomach, breaking a sweat on his brow. No! He would not let Simon goad him. He would not go back. “It’s over for me. I have chosen which side I am on.” He looked to Joses. “You were the one who said we had to decide if we were for him or against him. I have decided —I am for him. I am on his side. There it is; you can take it or leave it.”

Simon gave a long, mocking laugh. “You are on his side, though you want what he does not? Sounds like you are on your own side. Why can’t you look something in the face instead of always running away? The issue, James? The real issue? He says he is the Light of the World. He says horrifying things like ‘My flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink.’”

James made his hands into fists to prevent himself from clapping them over his ears. His decision threatened to unravel, when finally he had firm footing, and James hated Simon for it.

“The issue, James —”

“Enough!” James screamed.

Simon rose and tossed the bowl and the adze onto his bench. “The issue, James? Jesus said, ‘Before Abraham was born, I am.’ The people see his miracles; the leaders hear his words. And what they have heard is blasphemy.”

Black and silver spots skittered on the periphery of James’ vision. No matter how much he gave, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how far he allowed himself to go, it always came back to this. Blasphemy, blasphemy. And so it was.

Simon looked at each brother, then turned and walked out the doorway. Odd how James noticed he did not kiss the mezuzah. Such a little thing to notice.

After a moment, Judas followed Simon, kissing his fingertips and touching them to the small metal plate. Joses drew his knees up and rested his arms on them. James slowly made his eyes look into the eyes of his brother, who was already looking at him but not at his eyes. James looked down to where his hands clutched his stomach.

It was blasphemy. That was the accursed misery of it.