"I don't mean to do that," I said. "I'm tired."
"You're tired? You?" His cheeks flushed. The light of the lantern made shadows in his eyes. "The men and the women of this house have come together on it," he said. "They all say that it is time you married, and I say that you will."
"Not your father," I said. "You won't tell me that your father says so. And not my mother, because I know she would not. And if the others have come together, it's because you brought them together. And yes, I'm tired, James, and I want to go in now. I'm very tired."
I pulled loose from him as slowly as I could, and I picked up the lantern and moved towards the stable. All was done there, the beasts were fed, the place was swept and clean. Every harness was on its hook. The air was warm from the beasts. I liked it. For a moment I let it warm me.
I came back out into the yard. He had snuffed the other lantern and he stood fidgeting in the darkness and then he followed me into the house.
The family had gone to bed. Only Joseph remained by the brazier and he was asleep. His face was smooth and youthful in sleep. I loved the faces of old men; I loved their waxen purity, the way the flesh melted over their bones. I loved the distinct shapes of their eyes beneath their lids.
As I sank down by the coals and began to warm my hands, my mother came in and she stood beside James.
"Not you, too, Mother," I said.
James paced as Jason had paced. "Stubborn, proud," he said under his breath.
"No, my son," my mother said to me. "But you must know something now."
"Then tell me, Mother," I said. The warmth felt delicious to my stiffened fingers. I loved the glitter of the fire right beneath the thick gray ash of the coals.
"James, will you leave us, please?" asked my mother.
He hesitated, then he nodded respectfully, almost bowing in his respect, and he went out. Only with my mother was he that way, unfailingly gentle. He drove his wife often enough to the brink.
My mother sat down.
"This is a strange thing," she said. "You know our Avigail, and, well, you know this town is what it is, and kinsmen come asking for her from Sepphoris, even from Jerusalem."
I didn't say anything. I felt a sudden exhausting ache. I tried to locate this ache. It was in my chest, in my belly, behind my eyes. It was in my heart.
"Yeshua," my mother whispered. "The girl herself has asked for you."
Pain.
"She's far too modest to come to me with it," my mother whispered. "She's spoken to Old Bruria, and to Esther and to Salome. She's spoken to Little Salome. Yeshua, I think her father would say yes."
This pain seemed more than I could bear. I stared at the coals. I wouldn't look at my mother. I would hide this from my mother.
"My son, I know you as no one else does," said my mother. "When Avigail's with you, you're faint with love."
I couldn't answer. I couldn't command my voice. I couldn't command my heart. I remained still. Then very slowly I made my voice regular and quiet and I did speak.
"Mother," I said, "that love will go with me wherever I must go, but Avigail will not go with me. No wife will go with me - no wife, no child. Mother, you and I have never needed to talk of this. But if we must talk of it now, well then, you must know: I will not change my mind."
She nodded as I knew she would. She kissed my cheek. I held my hands out to the fire again, and she took my right hand and rubbed it with her own small warm hand.
I thought my heart would stop.
She let me go.
Avigail. This is worse than the dreams. No images to banish. Simply all I knew of her and had ever known, Avigail. This is almost more than a man can endure.
Again, I made my voice regular and small. I made it soft and without concern.
"Mother," I asked. "Was Jason really intolerable to her?"
"Jason?"