Chapter 29 | The Rumor of Dawn
At first light, I told them.
Abba was awake already, seated at the small table with his hands wrapped around a cup that had long since gone cold.
Baruch stood near the doorway, tying his belt with the slow irritation of a man whose morning had begun earlier than he preferred.
Lavi hovered close, alert in the way children are when something important is about to happen.
“I’m going to Capernaum,” I said.
The words landed heavier than I expected, as if they had weight of their own.
“You’ve heard the rumors,” I added, because silence demanded an explanation.
“From Jerusalem. About the Teacher, about Jesus. I need to know if they’re true.
I need to speak to someone—Mira, or Malka.
James. Peter. Someone who was there.” My voice tightened.
“I cannot believe He is truly gone. Not after I finally understood who He was.”
Abba studied me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then he pushed his cup aside and stood.
“I will go with you,” he said.
“No.” I reached for him without thinking. “Abba, you cannot walk that far.”
He straightened, one hand braced on the table, the other closing around his staff. “I can,” he said simply. “And I will.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. There was a firmness in him I had not seen for some time—not stubbornness, but resolve, like a door set carefully back on its hinges.
Beside me, Lavi sat up straighter. “Then I’m going too,” he declared at once, as though there had never been another possibility.
Baruch snorted softly. “Well,” he muttered, tugging his belt another notch tighter, “if we’re all setting out to chase rumors before breakfast, I suppose I’d better come along too.”
I blinked at him.
He shrugged, adjusting the strap over his shoulder, treating this as nothing more than another errand. “If you and the boy are going, I’m not staying behind to listen to Yoram guess at knots all day.”
His mouth twitched.
“Besides,” he added gruffly, “someone ought to complain about the journey properly, or the day won’t feel right.”
He glanced back toward the terraces, then back at me. “The vineyard will stand. It’s held worse than a morning without us.”
The old me would have argued with both of them. Stubbornly wanted to go alone. But, for some reason, I was happy to have them along.
Lavi’s eyes lit. “Are we really all going?” he asked.
“Apparently,” I said with a small shrug.
“Then, let’s make dust!” Abba said, with a spark I hadn’t seen in him in years.
Baruch and Lavi exchanged a look—quick, startled, almost amused.
The way to Capernaum was not long if your mind was full, but grief had stretched every distance for days.
Now hope did something stranger still: it made near things seem far, because my heart kept racing ahead of my body, already turning corners I had not yet reached, searching every face along the road.
And somewhere ahead of us—whether in truth or only in longing—I felt the pull of answers waiting to be found.
As we finally drew closer to the water, I noticed small waves curling like prayer fringes against the stones. At the place where the fishermen mended their nets, a few men stood in a loose cluster, their hands idle for once, their eyes fixed on the lake, watching the pattern of ripples for a sign.
We turned inland, toward the marketplace—with its voices and smells—fish and smoke and thyme and sweat, and the clean, sweet warmth of new bread drifting down a lane.
Malka’s fig stand sat where it always had, half in shade, half in sun, a low table worn smooth by years of coins and hands and conversation. She was there, of course. Malka was always there when the world was moving faster than it should.
She looked up as we approached, her face already rearranging itself into something like a smile and something like tears. “You’ve heard,” she said, before I could speak.
“Not enough,” I answered. “Tell me.”
“Mira came back from Jerusalem,” Malka said, leaning in as though the figs themselves might listen. “She reached Liora in time. One last time. Then she passed” Her voice softened. “Mira held her hand—told her that our Lord lives.”
I stilled. “Mira saw it?”
“With her own eyes,” Malka said. “The tomb—empty. Peter and John ran with her. They saw it too.” She nodded once. “They say the grave-clothes were folded. Not torn. Not taken in haste.”
“And James?” The question slipped out of me before I could stop it.
Malka’s mouth curved, knowing and kind. “Alive,” she said. “All of them. Every last thunderous one.” Then she added, lowering her voice, “Except Judas. The betrayer. God will not allow me to say what I think of him—and that is mercy, for us all.”
“So it’s true,” I whispered. “Jesus… He is truly alive?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “He lives.”
The words sounded steadier than I felt. I hesitated, then added, quieter, the words tentative, “Do you think I could go to see Salome and Zebedee? To… see if they’ve heard more?”
Malka’s eyes sparked. “More?” she repeated, innocent as a lamb. Then she leaned closer, her mouth tilting like she couldn't quite hold it in. “Or from James?” she murmured with a very obvious wink—and I swear the figs looked smug.
“My dear, they would love to see you. Love it.” She waved a hand down the lane. “Go. Don’t stand here turning ripe.”
I did not argue. I gathered my shawl and turned the way she pointed, my feet already moving.
Zebedee’s house stood a little apart from the road, close enough to hear the lake but far enough to pretend it belonged to the quiet. Salome met us at the threshold, her hands dusted with flour, her face open with concern that gave way to welcome.
“Talia,” she said, and then her eyes moved past me, polite and searching.
“This is my abba, Yosef,” I said, stepping aside. “And Baruch—my vineyard foreman. And this is my son, Lavi.”
The word rested easy between us—simple, unadorned.
Salome inclined her head at each of them in turn, warmth without ceremony. Zebedee appeared behind her, offering Abba a firm nod and Baruch a look that lingered long enough to decide he was no threat.
“You’re welcome here,” Zebedee said. “All of you.”
“We won’t trouble you long,” Abba replied. “We’ve only come because… well. We heard there were rumors.”
Salome’s mouth pressed into a thin, wondering smile. “There are,” she said. “More than I can hold all at once.”
Before more could be asked—or answered—footsteps sounded in the lane. Quick. Familiar. The kind that never bothered to soften themselves for doorways.
James appeared at the threshold, John just behind him, and stopped short as he stepped inside.
He blinked once. “Didn’t expect such a full house.”
His eyes found me, and everything else seemed to fall away.
Lavi broke the stillness first. He darted forward with a small cry and wrapped his arms around James’s waist, pressing his face hard against him, unwilling to let him go again. James laughed—a startled, breathless sound—and bent to return the embrace without hesitation.
“There you are, little lion,” he said, ruffling Lavi’s hair. “I missed you too, you know.”
I stood where I was, suddenly aware of my hands and not at all knowing what to do with them. For one foolish moment, I wished I could step forward too, wished I could do what Lavi had done and let the relief speak for itself.
“I have so much to tell you,” he said at once, the words tumbling over each other—urgency and wonder tangled together.
For a moment he only looked at me, the rest of the world falling away. His hand lifted—slow, unthinking—toward my face, reaching for me, for the stray hair at my cheek, for the certainty that I stood before him.
Then he seemed to remember himself.
His fingers stopped short, hovering in the air, and his gaze flicked past me—Abba’s staff, Baruch’s set jaw, Zebedee and Salome, and John standing beside him with that quiet, watchful steadiness.
James cleared his throat, dropping his hand as though it had burned him. “I mean…” He let out a quiet, uneven laugh, more shaken than smug. “We have so much to tell you.”
John’s mouth twitched, like he’d seen the almost-mistake and would file it away for teasing later.
“Please do,” I said, softer now. “I think we all need to hear it.”
Zebedee gestured toward the courtyard. “Sit,” he said. “All of you. If the world has turned upside down, let us all hear the same story.”