Chapter 17 | East of the Ridge
Morning settled over the vineyard in slow layers—light sliding down the terraces, dew lifting from the leaves, the first careful cuts of the day already shaping what would later be harvest.
Abba sat beneath the fig tree near the press, ledger open across his knees, squinting at the figures as though they might change if he stared long enough.
“You moved the western stakes?” he asked without looking up.
“Before sunrise,” I replied, tying back a trailing vine. “The soil was loosening.”
He grunted approval. “And Baruch?”
“In the lower rows. Complaining about the trellis.”
“That means he is working.”
A small smile threatened my mouth, but I swallowed it.
Lavi was two rows over, humming softly, moving faster than I would have allowed if I were watching him closely. Every so often he lifted something heavier than necessary, for no reason but to prove his strength.
He had not stopped moving since he’d returned back to the vineyard after his accident.
Abba shaded his eyes suddenly and peered toward the road.
“Who is that coming up the lane?”
I straightened.
A single figure moved through the shimmer of late morning light, strides long and unhurried.
Broad shoulders, dust at the hem, no hesitation at the gate.
James.
He did not knock.
He stepped through the gate as though he belonged there.
Lavi saw him first.
“James!”
He dropped the basket he was carrying and sprinted the length of the row, nearly colliding with him.
Only a few days ago, Lavi had lain broken in the road.
Now he ran like a colt loosed from its tether.
James caught him by the shoulders and laughed. “Easy. I’ve no wish to see you beneath another cart.”
“I’m fine,” Lavi declared, spinning once to prove it. “See? I can run. I can jump. I can lift whatever she tells me to.”
“Yes,” James said, watching him with a strange mixture of joy and gravity. “You can.”
I had noticed as well. I had not stopped noticing. There were no bruises, no stiffness—no trace of what had been crushed. It was hard to believe he had ever been injured at all.
But his shirt… the ground… there had been so much blood.
More than a body should lose and still rise. Baruch’s words would not leave me.
James’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary—like a man confirming that what he witnessed had not dissolved in daylight.
Only then did he look at me.
I held his gaze.
“We are moving east of the ridge today,” he pointed. “The crowds are gathering again.”
I had seen more people passing through these last few days—now I knew why.
Lavi stepped closer to him. “Will He teach?”
James’s mouth curved faintly. “He always does.”
Hope lit the boy like sunrise.
“There is work,” I said, sharper than I intended. “Miracles do not prune vines.”
“No,” James agreed. “They do not.”
But his eyes did not leave mine.
“He asked about the boy,” James said, nodding toward Lavi.
Lavi went still.
“He asked?” he whispered.
James nodded once.
That did more than any invitation could have done.
He stepped back toward the gate.
“We will be near the ridge. Shalom, Talia.” Then, lighter, “Shalom, brave one.”
Then he was gone.
The nickname landed like a fingertip to a bruise—small, and somehow finding the exact place.
Lavi stood in the lane staring after him long after the dust settled.
“Back to work,” I said.
He obeyed.
But his hands moved as though his heart had already climbed the hill.
I kept him close, giving him small tasks I could watch. He did them all. Even so, his gaze kept drifting east, his hands obedient, but his attention elsewhere. Not long after, I stepped into the storage chamber to check the seals.
When I came back, Lavi was gone, and the vineyard had gone wrong-quiet.
His basket lay tipped among the rows. The shears rested where he would never leave them. I stepped into the lane as a cluster of women hurried past, skirts gathered, breathless.
“Where are you going?” I demanded.
“To the ridge!” one called over her shoulder. “Jesus is there—the Teacher!”
More followed. Men. Children. Even old Eli from the vineyard over, hobbling as fast as his stick would carry him.
My stomach tightened.
I knew exactly where Lavi was.
I followed the throng of people.
The road bent upward, dust rising under the press of my sandals. The hum of voices swelled as I climbed. Not market chatter. Something fuller. Anticipation.
When I reached the crest, I stopped.
The hillside was covered.
Thousands.
They sat in loose clusters across the grass, faces lifted toward one man.
He stood below them, simple as any other—dust at his hem, sun in his hair—yet the air around him felt… ordered.
At the edge of the gathering stood James.
He stood tall, broad-shouldered, his attention fixed on the crowd, holding it in place by sheer force of presence. I scanned the slope—until my gaze circled back and settled on someone near his feet.
Lavi.
He sat cross-legged in the grass, chin tipped upward, listening with a stillness I had never seen in him. Every so often he would lean toward James and whisper something, and James would bend low to answer.
And at the center—
The teacher spoke.
He looked over the hillside as though the thousands before him were not a crowd at all, but something smaller. Something counted.
“You are not forgotten,” he said. “A shepherd does not lose sight of his flock.”
A murmur moved through the grass.
“When one sheep wanders,” he continued, “he does not say, ‘It is only one.’ He goes after it. He lifts it. He brings it home.”
He looked around the crowd as he talked.
“And when the flock grows weary,” he said, “the shepherd leads them to pasture. He does not drive them as cattle, nor abandon them to hunger.”
The wind picked up, stirring leaves on the ground nearby.
“The Father sees you,” he said. “He knows your need.”
A murmur moved through the people like wind through grain.
He lifted his hand toward the crowd. “Do the sparrows worry?”
“And are you not of more value than many sparrows to my Father?”
Around me, men and women leaned in, listening to his every word.
And Lavi—
Lavi leaned forward like a boy dying of thirst.
I told myself I would not.
Yet something in me ached all the same, dry and desperate as dust.
I found myself already weaving toward Lavi, already reaching for his shoulder, already gathering my scolding like stones in my mouth.
“Lavi,” I hissed, low. “Now.”
He didn’t move. His eyes stayed fixed on the teacher, my voice failing to reach him.
James looked at me, almost in protest—but I gave him a look that stopped him.
I tightened my grip on Lavi’s arm and hauled him up. He rose reluctantly, stumbling over his own feet.
“Talia—please—I want to hear…”
“We are leaving.”
He looked back once, and I felt something sharp in my chest—something like jealousy, which made no sense at all.
As I pulled him through the edge of the crowd, the teacher’s voice felt unchanged, yet… aimed.
Not at me. Surely not.
Yet the words found their way into my bones, pressing against the space between my ribs.
“Why do you labor for what does not satisfy?” His gaze moved over the people, and his voice carried, borne on the wind. “Why do you spend yourself on what cannot fill you?”
My steps faltered.
I hated that question. Hated it because it felt like it had been living inside me.
My prayers had tasted like yesterday’s bread—dry, thin, a thing you chew because you must.
And his voice made me remember it.
“I tell you, blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness—because they will be filled.”
My fingers tightened around Lavi’s wrist, intent on pulling him back to the vineyard with all the strength in me.
But the teacher went on, calm as ever, his words reaching past the crowd to the ache beneath it.
“Ask the Father,” He said. “He knows what you need before you speak. And He is not stingy with those who come to Him hungry.”
My throat ached. My eyes burned. I blinked hard, furious at the weakness.
“Come on,” I muttered, more to myself than to Lavi. “Enough.”
Lavi stumbled with me as we pushed through cloaks and blankets and bare feet, the words still lingering within me like a song you couldn’t unhear.
And as we walked away, I could not stop thinking of bread.
Dry bread. Stale prayers. A hunger that never left no matter how many blessings I spoke out of duty.
Behind us, the crowd shifted, murmuring, restless.
Ahead of us, the edge of the gathering opened—thinner now, less crowded, the press of bodies easing as we neared the outskirts but not yet free of it.
I told myself it meant nothing.
But the question followed me anyway—soft and relentless as footsteps in dust:
Why do you labor for what does not satisfy?
~
I had nearly dragged Lavi to the edge of the gathering when James’s voice cut through the murmur.
“Talia—wait!”
I turned despite myself.
He was moving toward us now, weaving between seated groups. The hillside had grown strangely ordered. Clusters formed into neat rows—like a vineyard.
“What is it?” I demanded.
James lowered his voice. “Do you have any food?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Bread. Dried fruit. Grapes—anything.”
“Why?”
“These people have been here for hours.” His jaw worked. “They’re hungry.”
I stared at him. “James… there are thousands.”
“I am aware,” he said dryly.
“They have been listening all day,” he continued. “Some came without provisions. They are faint.”
“And this is my concern?” I shot back. “Can I be blamed for their poor planning?”
His jaw flexed, but there was no anger in it.
“They followed Him,” he said simply.
“As do you.”
“Yes.”
The sureness unnerved me.
“I just thought if you had something nearby we could get it and bring it back.”
“Well, I have nothing,” I said sharply. “We are not a market stall.”
Before James could answer, a small voice piped up near his elbow.
“I have something.”
A boy stepped forward, clutching a cloth bundle. He unfolded it shyly.
Five barley loaves and two small fish.
A faint scoff escaped me.
“That would not feed this one,” I said, nodding toward James.
A flicker of humor passed over his face. “You are correct.”
He crouched, studying the offering.
“But it is something,” he murmured.
He stood suddenly and called out, “Rabbi!”
The teacher turned.
Even from where I stood, the murmuring thinned—words dropping away until only his presence remained.
James stepped aside, gesturing toward the small bundle in the boy’s hands.
“The people are hungry,” he said. “This is all we have found.”
The teacher’s gaze moved over the loaves.
Then to the boy.
Then—unexpectedly—to me.
“Talia,” He said.
My name, spoken plainly.
“Is this your offering?”
“No,” I answered quickly. “It belongs to the boy. And even if it were mine, it would not suffice.”
A faint smile touched His mouth.
“I am glad you are here,” He said.
The words struck harder than rebuke.
I opened my mouth to respond, but he had already lifted the loaves.
He raised His eyes toward heaven.
Spoke a blessing.
Broke the bread.
And placed it back into James’s hands.
James moved toward the nearest group and began to pass out pieces.
I watched carefully.
The bread did not diminish.
He passed more. And more.
Bread and fish.
More of Jesus’ followers came up to James and he handed them food. They brought baskets and he filled them. I felt dizzy, confused.
Were my eyes deceiving me? Was it another trick?
Each follower continued to more groups of people. People eating, talking, laughing. Eating five loaves and two fish… thousands eating… but how? How could it be?
Clusters of people, hundreds—thousands.
Eating. All of them eating.
No scrambling, no riot, only order.
James passed near me again, arms full.
He paused, as though daring me to say something.
There were still loaves in his grasp.
Whole, unbroken as though the first had never been torn.
Lavi stood beside me, stiff as a board. “Do you see?” he whispered.
I didn’t answer.
Because I did. And once seen, it could not be unseen.
“Come,” I said, taking his arm. “We’re going.”
Whether it was fear or a trembling wonder that compelled me, I could not tell.