"Look into my eyes," I said. "And you tell me who you really are. You are Avigail, the daughter of Shemayah, and you've been slandered, wickedly slandered. And we will make it right."
She nodded. The tears were gone, but the anger had left her empty and seemingly lost. It seemed for a moment, she'd fall.
I held her.
"Avigail, I will demand the elders come together. I will demand of the Rabbi that there be a village court."
She looked at me, puzzled, and then away as if these words confused her.
"This man, Shemayah, is not the judge over life and death, not even of his only daughter."
"The court?" she whispered. "The elders?"
"Yes," I said. "We will bring it out in the open. We will demand a verdict on your innocence, and with that you'll go to Capernaum or Bethany or wherever it is that's best for you."
She gazed up at me, steadily for the first time.
"This is possible?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "It is possible. Your father has said he has no daughter. Well, then he has no authority over that daughter, and we, your kinsmen, now have that authority, and the elders have that authority. You hear what I say?"
She nodded.
"Forget the words you spoke here; they were for me, for your brother who knows the innocent and suffering child who you are."
I laid my hand on my heart.
"Lord, give to my sister a new heart," I whispered. "Lord, give her a new heart."
I remained quiet, my eyes closed, praying, holding her shoulder with my left hand.
When I opened my eyes, her face was calm. She was Avigail again, our Avigail before it had all begun.
"Come then, let's get to it," I said.
"No, you needn't go to the elders, you needn't do this. It will only humiliate my father. I'll go to Capernaum, to Salome," she said. "I'll go to Bethany, to wherever you say."
I straightened her veil again. I tried to brush some of the leaves from her veil and mantle but it was impossible. She was covered in broken bits of leaf.
"Forgive me, Yeshua," she whispered.
"For what? For being frightened? For being alone? For being hurt, and for being condemned?"
"I love you, my brother," she said.
I wanted to kiss her. I wanted just to hold her close to me again in purest love and kiss her forehead. But I didn't do it.
"You're really the child of angels," she said sadly.
"No, my beloved. I'm a man. Believe me, I am."
She smiled, the saddest most knowing smile.
"Now, you go on down to Nazareth before me, and you walk right into my house and ask for my mother, and if you see your father, you turn and you run from him, and round about until you come again to our door."
She nodded. And she turned to go.
I stood waiting, catching my breath, drying my own tears quickly, and trying to stop my own trembling.