Chapter 9 | Morning in the Vines
The sun had already climbed when I jolted awake. I never slept this late. Panic shoved me upright; my feet found sandals before my head was clear. I pushed aside the shutters and peered over the courtyard.
A bitterness stirred in me. Dawn is when the vines are easiest to tend—when the world is cool and the mind is straight. I had let first light pass me by.
I paused, mid-thought.
There was a man in the row—no, more than one—hands deep in a tangle of vines, sleeves rolled, back wet with sweat. James. Of course it was James. He was out where I did not let anyone work but my own.
I hurled myself down the steps and out the gate, heart thudding. Lavi met me at the corner of the house, eyes wide. “They’re helping,” he whispered, guarding it like a secret, while handing me my favorite pair of shears.
Helping?
“James!” I barreled into the rows, the smell of cut green and sap sharp in my nose.
He straightened, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, grin already in place, looking like nothing on earth could ruffle him.
Around him a few of the disciples moved—quiet, competent, hands not as awkward with tools as I’d feared.
Even their palms told on them—fishermen’s callouses, but they were learning the feel of cane and shoot quickly enough.
Still. They couldn’t possibly be doing things the right way—my way.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, shears clenched like a weapon.
“We’re helping,” James said, balancing a basket of pruned vines on one arm. “You said yesterday we could work to repay our stay.”
“I never said that!” I snapped. “I said—” I stopped, surprised by how high my voice had climbed. “This is my land. You do not go where you please.”
He laughed, the sound bright. “Are you truly mad that we are helping you? Trying to repay you?”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” I shot back. “You’re doing it wrong.”
He blinked in mock offense. “Doing it wrong?” He let out a chuff and shook his head. “Come now. Show me, then. Teach me your exacting ways.”
For a ridiculous second we both paused, sizing each other up—two stubborn animals unwilling to give ground. Then, because he could not resist, James stepped forward and mimed an exaggerated pruning that had the audacity to be almost correct. I found my mouth twitching despite myself.
“See?” he said, triumphant. “Not bad, right?”
“Not bad for a show-off,” I muttered, and surprising to even myself, I allowed a laugh to come, quick and disgruntled. Lavi, who had been watching with the rapt delight of a child seeing a story acted out, laughed too. And then James laughed hardest of all.
I told myself it was only noise—only a moment—but I loosened my grip—on the shears, and on the rest of it, if only slightly.
Then we began moving—standing on the same side of the row, hands close to one another while we worked: a snip here, a careful twist there.
James’s hands moved with ease, heavy in a way that made the shears feel like mine.
When a particularly stubborn tendril resisted both of us, he grinned and said, “See? Sometimes it takes two.”
I slid my fingers beneath the tendril, turning it gently to find where it had twisted against itself. One quick cut—clean, exact—and the tension gave. I guided it back along the line of the trellis and tied it off with a practiced twist.
“Or one who knows what she’s doing,” I said, sarcasm thin as a reed.
He winked and dipped his chin, granting me that much.
Then he straightened and wiped his hands on his tunic, and the grin slipped into a look that was almost solemn. “You should talk to Him,” he said. “My Teacher.”
“I’ve met plenty of teachers,” I said. My tone tightened. “Rabble-rousers and wise-men both.”
“This one’s not like the rest.” James’s voice dropped. “Talia—surely you’ve heard? He heals the blind. Lame walk. I’ve seen…” He spread his hands apart from each other as though he wasn’t sure how to use them to explain it. “Things one could only do if they were… more than man.”
I snorted. “Stories grow on roads like thistles. And you believe every one?”
“I don’t believe stories,” he said, eyes earnest now.
“I believe because I saw. Because men who could not see, saw. Because the lame walked. Because—” He laughed softly, the memory his alone.
“Because He teaches with authority. Authority He truly has.” He paused, then continued. “Talia… He is the Messiah.”
I stopped. The word sat between us heavy and impossible.
“You mean the Mashiach? The promised One? That’s—blasphemy. A bold claim at the least.”
James’s face went quiet, not dismissive now but raw.
“I’m serious.” He set the basket down and looked at me like I was the one not seeing.
“You don’t want to miss this. You don’t want to live your whole life trimming vines and never see the world changing because God’s own Son came to walk among us. ”
I held his gaze, forced myself to keep my voice even.
“Change looks like thrones set right, James—restoring David’s kingdom, breaking the yoke off our necks.
The Mashiach comes with power, with armies—not with crowds on hillsides and fishermen’s hands for heralds.
Does your teacher drive out Rome with parables?
Does he set judges at the gates? Or does he do wonders and charm crowds? ”
He didn’t flinch. “The blind see. The lame walk. The poor hear good news.” His tone stayed level, like a man laying out facts at a market stall.
“You want banners and swords. I’m telling you signs are already breaking out like spring.
What would you call it when a leper’s lesions disappear off of skin like they were never there—right in front of you? ”
“The world is full of tricks,” I said, keeping my jaw steady. “And full of men who mistake kindness for kingship, but kingdoms aren’t built on stories.”
“Maybe they’re built by changed hearts,” he said. “And hearts are moved by truth—by a Word that doesn’t bend.”
“My word is the Law,” I answered. “It does not bend, because it is God’s order. It tells me what justice is, what mercy looks like, when to rest, how to weigh, what to leave for the poor. It does not sway because a rabbi tells a good story.”
Heat climbed my throat, tightening each word. I meant to keep my voice level, but it sharpened anyway—because he spoke with that maddening certainty, as though nonsense could become truth simply by being said with conviction.
He was wrong. I knew he was.
And yet, treacherously, another thought slipped in—quiet as a snake through grass.
Was he truly?
For a moment, it made room for something I did not want: Listen. At least listen. Talk to his teacher and judge for yourself.
I crushed it as quickly as it came.
No. I will not be swayed.
The Law is the Law. This man is a fraud.
He nodded once—surprisingly respectful, like he’d heard not only my anger, but the fear beneath it. “Then measure Him by that Law,” he said. “Weigh what you’ve heard and seen. Is it crooked—or straight? Forget what you think you know. What do you feel when you look at Him?”
We stood like opponents in a debate—his side of the world hungry for wonder, mine clinging to order; both of us pretending we weren’t afraid of what it would cost to be wrong.
And that was it, wasn’t it? He had found the tender place I kept boarded shut.
Because I did feel something.
It was there, whether I wanted it or not. Not awe, not excitement—nothing so easy to dismiss. Something quieter. Something that pressed in, finding the place I had kept hidden and refusing to leave it untouched.
I felt… seen.
Not the way merchants saw coin, or collectors saw deficiency. Not even the way my uncle saw obedience and failure. Seen like the teacher had spoken to the vines and somehow meant me, too—like he could look past my clenched jaw and my calloused hands and name the burden I never admitted was heavy.
And that was precisely the problem.
It did not fit. Not neatly. Not safely. It did not slide into any proper place I knew how to guard. The Law was order. The Law was fences and measures and lines that kept holiness from spilling out into chaos.
This feeling was not a fence. It was an opening.
So it could not be right.
It could not.
My laugh came out too sharp. “The Law is steady,” I said. “The Law is enough.”
He didn’t flinch. He only tilted his head. “Is it enough when collectors watch the weight of your jars? Is it enough when men like Silas come calling?” His eyes flashed. “Does the Law feed you when storms destroy fields and jars crack?”
My pride flared at the implication that I was weak, and worse, that he could see it. Still, a part of me recognized the shape of truth in his words, and I hated that most of all.
How did he know about Silas?
What had Abba let slip? I thought sharply. At the table—over bread and olives, with strangers in our courtyard—what had he said too loosely, too tired to guard? Our struggles were certainly none of these men’s business. His business least of all.
I forced my expression into stone. “You sound like a zealot,” I said, too quick, too hard. “This is blasphemy and foolishness. I will not have my vineyard filled with prophets and charlatans.”
James’s expression changed then, the teasing giving way to something like pity, and that angered me more.
“Fine,” he said lightly. “No prophets. No charlatans. But if you don’t want trouble, perhaps you should consider that you can’t do everything alone.
We can be gone by midday if that’s what you insist.”
James wiped his brow with the back of his hand, grin still plastered across his face. “You’ll miss the finest vineyard hands this side of Galilee.”
I folded my arms. “I’ve managed well enough without fishermen ruining my vines.”
“Fishermen know nets, knots, storms,” he said, leaning on the trellis, easy and unbothered. “We’re not strangers to hard work.”
“Hard work and right work are not the same,” I shot back.
He laughed, low and easy—infuriatingly so. “There it is. You’d rather break your back than admit someone else might actually help you, let alone challenge your beliefs.”
I bristled. “I. Don’t. Need. Help.”
He shook his head. “No—you don’t like help.”
For one treacherous moment, I almost smiled.
He was impossible.
But then he grew serious. “Talia—I’m telling you, you don’t realize Who you’re refusing.”
I frowned. “A band of wanderers who can’t tell a vine from a weed.”
His grin faded. “The Teacher is no wanderer.” His voice dropped, almost reverent. “He’s not just a rabbi. He is the Messiah. I’m telling you—The Lamb of God walks this earth today—your earth. You don’t want to miss it.”
My stomach lurched. He believed it—truly believed it. Not rumor, not exaggeration, but truth. I clenched the shears tighter in my hand.
Referring to this man as the Lamb of God—as though the Holy One Himself had sent Him.
No, not on my land. I would not allow it.
“Blasphemy.” My voice cracked sharp across the vines. “Dangerous words from reckless men. You bring shame even speaking them here.”
The disciples had gone quiet, their work faltering. James opened his mouth again, but I cut him off with a sweep of my arm.
“Out. All of you! My abba welcomed you into our house, but these rows are mine. You will not trample them with lies and wild tales. Gather your things and go.”
For a moment, silence stretched between us—his chest heaving, my heart pounding. Then he set down the basket, dusted off his hands, and gave me a look that was half sorrow, half defiance.
“As you wish,” he said.
He turned, calling something low to the others as he started down the row. The men began to gather their tools, moving off in scattered lines between the vines—slow, reluctant.
I stood where I was, forcing my breathing to slow, watching them go.
I had no time to recover before another shadow fell over the vineyard.