It was about the third hour of the day. All of them —Father, Mother, Andrew, Lyra, Uncle Yohanan, Stephen, and Jesus and his men —were sitting together. A breakfast of carp and catfish was roasting over the glowing coals of a wood fire.

Andrew sat looking out over the sun-flecked waters of the lake. Distantly he recalled the cold, the darkness, and the hopelessness he had known while struggling beneath their surface the night before. A feeling of unreality flooded over him. His father restored! Normal! Somehow or other, he couldn’t believe it, didn’t trust it. Somehow he felt he must stay on his guard.

“See! Old Baal likes it too,” said Lyra, letting the goat gobble a piece of fish out of her open palm.

“Is there anything old Baal doesn’t like?” scoffed Andrew.

Lyra ignored him. “And look what else he can do,” she added, jumping up. Without introduction or explanation, she led the goat, cart and all, straight up to Jesus.

Oh no! thought Andrew. She’s going to embarrass us all! She’s going to ruin everything! He got to his feet, feeling that Lyra had to be stopped before she did something to shatter this fragile, beautiful dream. Old Baal? A goat named after a pagan god? What would Jesus think? He wouldn’t understand. He might even get angry. He might change his mind about Father.

But the silent man in the peasant cloak and tunic showed no sign of anger. Instead, he looked down at the little girl and her goat, smiling as she drew near. Lyra smiled back. Then, as Andrew stood rooted to the ground, wondering whether to grab her arm and yank her back, she took the rag doll from the little wooden cart and held it out to Jesus with both hands.

“For you,” she said. “From old Baal —and from me too. For helping my daddy. Her name is Iphigenia.”

Andrew’s jaw tensed as he waited for Jesus’ response. But Jesus said nothing. Instead, his smile broadened and he bent to brush a strand of stray hair away from Lyra’s nose. Then he took the little rag baby from her hands and gently tucked it into his belt.

Andrew breathed a sigh of relief. But in the next moment, he heard the sound of approaching voices and footsteps. He spun around and saw twenty or thirty men and boys heading straight toward the little group gathered around the fire. Some were carrying sticks and clubs. At the head of the group strode Demas, jabbering and pointing a stubby finger at Jesus. Beside him stumped his portly uncle, his face as round and red as a juicy ham.

Demas! If Lyra can’t spoil everything, Demas will!

“A word with you, sir,” called Artemas. “With all of you.” The rotund figure waddled into the circle and stepped straight up to Jesus. A few of the fishermen scrambled to their feet and drew their weapons.

“There is the little matter of my herd!” whined the pig farmer. With every word, his voice rose in pitch. “Extremely valuable animals, I assure you. Destroyed this very morning!”

“Yeah! And he did it!” volunteered Demas, pointing at Jesus. “With some kind of Jew magic! I saw it myself! From up on the cliffs!”

“Payment of some kind is in order!” demanded Artemas. “What do you plan to give me in exchange for my property?”

There was a pause. Andrew’s fists tightened involuntarily.

“What about a man’s life?” said Stephen quietly.

Artemas stared. “What man’s life? What are you talking about?”

“My life, Artemas,” said Jacob. In silent amazement Andrew watched his father rise slowly to his feet. There was a light in Jacob’s eyes. Andrew realized in a moment that he was a different man than he had been. It was a realization that frightened him even more than the insane things his father had done while possessed by demons.

As for Artemas, he was dumbfounded. It was the first time Andrew had ever seen the man speechless. His mouth dropped open. His face looked like a slab of bacon —half red, half white. Anyone would have thought that his eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.

“You!” he squealed at last. “I might have known you had something to do with this! But . . . how? How is it possible?”

“I can tell you that,” said Andrew, stepping to the center of the circle. “Demas is right. This man,” he said, pointing to Jesus, “healed my father! I watched him do it!”

There was a murmur from the crowd.

“But it wasn’t magic!” Andrew went on. “It was . . . well, something else. It was” —he flushed, faltered, and groped for words —“it was the work of the one true God! Jesus saved my father when nobody else could! And that’s worth all the pigs in the world, if you ask me!”

An odd silence fell upon the gathering. Artemas stood shifting his gaze from Jesus to Jacob and back to Jesus again.

“So,” he said at last, “the game is clear to me now. My nephew was right! It’s a case of Jews, Jews, and more Jews! Jews with their tricks! Jews with their infernal rules against eating pig flesh! Jews bent on destroying my business, determined to undermine my trade! Am I right? Am I right?”

“No, Artemas!” Andrew heard his father say.

“What next?” continued Artemas. “Does every single Jew in Galilee intend to relocate to our side of the lake?”

Andrew glanced over at Jesus, wishing, hoping, and praying that he might do something to silence the pig man. But Jesus said nothing. He sat perfectly still, his sad eyes fixed on Artemas’s face.

“Go on! Get out of here!” The pig farmer had worked himself into a frenzy. “Get back on your boat! Go back to your Jew towns! We don’t want you around here!”

By this time the crowd was shouting with him. Jesus’ friends raised their blades, ready to strike in defense of their master. But Jesus simply stood up, turned without a word, and walked down to the big fishing boat. The fishermen hesitated a moment and then followed him.

“You sure told them, Uncle!” said Demas, grinning stupidly.

Artemas smirked and mopped his dripping brow with a silk handkerchief.

“Too bad, Bar Meshugga!” added Demas with a sneer as the crowd broke up and moved off. “Looks like you lose again!”

Andrew was too tired to respond. Exhausted and shaken, he sank down beside Lyra and his mother. I guess that’s that, he thought.

That was when he caught sight of his father.

Jacob stood unmoving, eyes fixed, jaw set, watching Jesus and his friends climb aboard their high-prowed fishing boat. Suddenly he stooped and kissed his wife’s forehead. “Helena,” Andrew heard him say as he took her by the hand, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this, but . . .”

The blood was pounding in Andrew’s temples. He didn’t know what his father was about to say, but he felt certain it was something he would rather not hear.

“Everything is different now,” Jacob went on. “I’m different. And somehow . . . well, I can’t help feeling that my place is with him.”

Tears stood in his mother’s eyes. Andrew saw them glinting in the morning light. She nodded as if she understood, but she said nothing. Andrew wanted to scream, but he was powerless to utter a sound. Instead, he stood paralyzed, rooted to the ground. Helpless, he watched as his mother released her husband’s hand.

With that, Jacob turned and followed Jesus down to the water’s edge.