Chapter 7 | Rumors and Restlessness
The vineyard was quiet in the gray light of dawn.
I rose before the others, as I always did, and wrapped my shawl tight against the chill.
My knees sank into the hard-packed earth between the rows, a softness worn by my own prayers.
The damp sweetness of vine and soil filled my lungs—dew beading on leaves, the faint iron scent of the shears I’d left hanging from a post.
I bowed my head. “Baruch atah, Adonai… Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe…” The words flowed the way the sun climbs—slow and sure. Blessings Uncle Eleazar taught me as a girl, saying they keep the heart upright and the land in order.
I whispered more, the cadence fitting itself to my voice: “who brings forth bread from the earth, who gives the rain in its season, who set apart Your people with Your Law and Your covenant.” I formed each sound with care, holding to it, needing the act to steady the trellises and keep my world from coming undone.
When the blessings were spent, I slipped into the psalms that have always lived under my ribs.
“Adonai ro’i, lo echsar”
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”
“Esa einai el heharim…”
“I lift up my eyes to the hills—From where will my help come? My help comes from the Lord…”
The earth cooled my knees; the sky warmed my cheeks.
Obedience steadied the world. A woman’s prayers, her sacrifices, her work—they pleased God, even if the storms did not relent. If the vines failed, I could still keep the Law. If taxes rose, I could still bless the Name. The fence holds even when the wind howls.
I prayed for strength to carry what my abba no longer could.
For wisdom to keep accounts that never seemed to add up to enough.
For rain in the right measure—and no more storms like the one that had split our oldest olive down the spine.
And though I would not admit it to anyone, not even to Lavi, I prayed for the ache I could not name: the empty place at my table and in my chest; the want I pretended not to want.
Footsteps scuffed behind me. I didn’t lift my head.
“Talia?” Lavi whispered. “Can I pray with you?”
I nodded and reached for his hand without turning. His fingers, always warm, slipped into mine. For a moment we were three—child, woman, and the God who hears dirt-knees and morning prayers. I finished softly, “Elohei sason v’simchah—God of gladness and joy—toda.”
“Thank You.”
By full light I had a broom in one hand and a ledger in the other. Baruch arrived to the main house late, as he often did—slinging his hoe over one shoulder, the other hand rubbing his back like an old man twice his age.
“Start with the far row,” I said, not looking up. “It took wind last night. Brace the posts, then check the jars in the storeroom. See that the seals haven’t split.”
He snorted, but he moved.
Abba shuffled out near midmorning, shawl pulled tight though the sun had already warmed the basalt. He stood in the doorway, the lintel seeming the only thing keeping him upright.
“You’ve not eaten,” I said. “Bread is on the shelf.”
He looked at the shelf, then at me, like the act of choosing between them was too much. “Later.”
“Now,” I said, gentler. I tore a piece from the loaf, wrapped it in fig leaf, and pressed it into his hand. He took it the way a child takes a task he doesn’t understand.
“I can mend the small rake,” he offered, searching my face for approval like a boy.
“That would help.” I smiled, and Abba brightened at once, then slowed—his focus already drifting to a point I could not see. He was a good man. But though his body was here, the work was not always in him.
At the gate, Lavi was coiling twine with fierce concentration. He glanced up to see if I was watching, then bent back to it as though the rows depended on his hands. Sometimes I thought they might.
I had no other family—no ima, no siblings, no husband. The market women nodded but didn’t linger; neighbors kept their kindness measured. The vines kept my hours, the ledger kept my confessions, and Lavi was the closest thing I had to mine.
Sometimes it felt like he was all I had, but it was both not enough and somehow everything. Because he wasn’t mine. Not truly. He belonged to no one.
I couldn’t imagine his family leaving him on purpose. He was only a baby then. Maybe they’d perished in the storm and had no choice but to leave him behind.
Sometimes I let myself think of him as mine, but the thought never quite felt real. Any day, someone could appear at the gate. At first I hoped for that. Somewhere along the way, I began to fear it.
Once the sun cleared the eastern ridge, I called the workers in.
They gathered near the press shed—close enough to hear me, not close enough to linger.
The two brothers from the lower terrace arrived first, their cousin trailing behind them.
Baruch took the spot nearest the door as he always did, grumbling about ropes and damp mats like the vineyard had offended him personally.
I kept them as workers, not kin—mats in the barn, bread from the pot, wages at sundown. They knew the terms; so did I. Clear edges kept the vineyard steady.
I gave the day’s instructions plainly: which rows needed pruning, which jars needed sealing, a trellis that had to be retied before the heat worsened. There were nods, brief questions, no needless chatter. I didn’t invite more than that.
They dispersed without ceremony.
By late morning the sun had climbed, turning the terrace stones warm underfoot. I was marking the last amphora when two traders turned into our lane, donkeys’ bells tinkling, baskets of figs swaying and jugs sloshing.
“Water?” one called, tapping the well’s rim politely.
“Drink,” I said, drawing up the bucket. They cupped their hands, slurped, sighed.
“News from the road,” the bearded one announced—men like him measure their lives in roads and what rides them. “Huge crowds. A rabbi from Nazareth—teaches on hillsides, and the sick walk away healed.”
The second leaned in, lowering his voice to bait a better audience. “They say he spoke blessings over the poor and the mourners, and people wept. Said he taught like someone with authority—not like others.”
Lavi’s eyes went round as amphorae. “Truly? Healings? Did you see it yourself?”
“Not I,” the man chuckled. “But ask anyone along the road—they’ll tell you the same. They say he might be...”
“Enough,” I said, sharper than I meant. “Vines don’t prune themselves. And stories won’t put bread on our table.”
Lavi’s face fell, but the wonder smoldered behind his eyes.
I got back to work, bending to the vines, pretending the shears demanded all of me. Yet all through the day’s work, their voices clung like bees to my ears. Healing. Crowds. Blessings.
No. God’s order is in the Law, not in wild-eyed men wandering hills. I told myself not to think on it more.
A breeze rose—a small one that made the trellis cords hum. The sun was still high, but a single leaf let go and drifted past my cheek, turning like a coin. My eye followed it down to the road.
The light had faded without my noticing. Shadows lengthened. Dust hung low. That’s when I saw them—men on the road, hems gray with road dust, shoulders low from too many miles on foot. No carts, no goods, only men. At least ten of them.
As they neared, one straightened. His eyes found me where I stood between the rows. A grin broke wide and unguarded across his face.
“I know her!” he shouted, waving like a fool. I kept my eyes averted, but my heart jolted.
James.
Before I could stop myself, I looked back at him. His smile widened as our eyes met. Immediately, I turned back to the leaves, shears snipping too fast to be useful.
A ripple of laughter ran through the group. I heard one of the men say, “Are you certain she knows you? Doesn’t seem like it.”
Another chuckled. “Maybe she remembers—and decided one meeting was enough.”
“Is it ever?” he responded.
Heat crept up my neck. Still arrogant.
James was undeterred. “Talia!” he called. “It’s me—James, son of Zebedee. We met in Capernaum!”
By then Abba had stepped from the house, leaning on his staff. His eyes widened at the sight of so many men.
They reached the gate as I made my way down from the rows.
James cleared his throat. “We’ve been traveling since morning. This is our Teacher, who we are following. We need a place to stay the night.”
The man he called teacher was ordinary enough—until you met his eyes: wise, kind, and somehow already familiar.
I scoffed loudly. “This is not an inn.”
“Of course not,” James said easily. “But there’s space, yes? A barn, a corner of the courtyard—we’ll sleep wherever you like. We’ll work to repay it. My abba always said, ‘Never take a gift without giving something back.’”
I opened my mouth to refuse, but Abba stepped forward and bowed low. The movement was so smooth it startled me—the old dignity finding his bones again. “Shalom be upon you,” he said, voice hushed. “You are welcome here. Rest, and may the God of Israel refresh you.”
As he stepped into the courtyard, the teacher said, “Peace to this house.”
His voice was low, steady—not loud, not soft. It hung on the air like a blessing that did not evaporate.
Something in me bristled. He spoke like the blessing was his to give.
I did not like the thought.