Christ the Lord - Anne Rice [23]
James worked without a word, banging the hammer with more strength than needed for the slightest nail.
Mary, the wife of Little Cleopas, broke into sobs. Not only had he gone on, but so had her father, Levi, and her brothers. And word had come that every man worth his salt was joining the movement to Caesarea.
“Well, not this man worth his salt,” said James. He threw the lumber into the cart. “There's no point to going to work,” he said. “This can wait. Everything can wait, as we wait on the windows of Heaven.”
The sky was a pale soiled blue. And the wind was filled with the smells of the unwashed stables and courtyards, of the dying fields, of the urine drawing flies to the stained plaster.
The next night was quiet. They were all gone. What could the signal fires say except that more and more people were taking to the roads, except that they came from the north and the south and the east and the west? And that the ensigns remained in the Holy City.
James said to me at dawn:
“I used to think you would change things.”
“Remember yourself,” said my mother. She set down the bread and olives for us. She poured the water.
“I did,” said James, glaring at me. “I used to think you would change it all. I used to believe in what I'd seen with my two eyes—the gifts of the Magi laid down in the straw, the faces of shepherds who'd heard angels fill up the sky. I used to believe that.”
“James, I beg you,” said my mother.
“Let him alone,” said Joseph softly. “James has said these words many a time. So we bear with him again.”
“And you, Father,” James asked. “Have you never thought, what was the meaning of all of it?”
“The Lord made Time,” said Joseph. “And the Lord will reveal all in Time when He wants to reveal it.”
“And my sons will die,” said James. His face was twisted with anguish. “My sons will die the way men died before, and for what?”
Avigail came in with Silent Hannah, and the usual following of little ones.
“Please no more talk of this,” said my aunt Esther.
“My father says the world has gone to Caesarea,” said Avigail. “We had a letter from our cousins in Bethany. Your cousins, our cousins, all of them from Bethany. They've gone as well.” She burst into tears.
All the children crowded around her to comfort her. “They'll all come home,” said Isaac, her little protector. He snuggled up to her immediately. “I promise you, Avigail. I give you my word. They'll be back. My brothers will be back. Stop. You'll make Silent Hannah cry. . . .”
“And who is left in Nazareth, do you think?” asked James bitterly. He turned to me. “Ah!” he said with mock surprise. “Yeshua, the Sinless.”
Avigail looked up, startled. Her eyes moved over the faces of everyone there. She looked at me.
“And James, the Just! Is left here too,” declared my aunt Esther.
“James, the Merciless!” said Aunt Salome. “Be quiet, or go yourself.”
“No, no . . . hush now, all of you,” said my mother.
“Yes, please, I didn't mean to . . . I'm sorry,” said Avigail.
“You did nothing,” I said.
And so on the day went.
And the next day.
And the day after.
9
THE BRIGANDS HIT THE VILLAGE AT DAWN.
James and I had just come out of the Rabbi's door. We stood at the top of the hill. And we saw them—two ragged men on horseback—racing down the far slope towards the creek.
The women with their water jars and bundles of laundry screamed and scattered in all directions, children racing with them.
James and I gave the alarm. The horn was blasting as we ran towards the men.
Only one drove his mount uphill right towards us, and as people came out of the doors on all sides, he pressed into us and we fell backwards, the hooves stomping past our heads.
“Avigail,” James cried out. “Avigail” came another shout and then another. As I scrambled to my feet, my hand bleeding, I saw what all saw: the man who stayed behind had snatched her up by the waist. The children hurled their stones at him. Isaac dragged at the man's left shoulder.
Avigail screamed and kicked. The children grabbed hold of her flailing