staggered into view, flailing at the air as if battling phantoms, then plunged back into the darkness of the rows of vines.
A blazing grasshopper landed on the pitch-covered sailcloth. The entire device caught fire in an instant, becoming a fiery torch too hot to approach. Thousands of invaders were incinerated. A cheer went up among the men.
As the trap erupted in flames, we left it to become ashes. Like a captain on the deck of a burning ship, Patrick dashed about, giving the orders that hurriedly erected another and another.
Amid the darkness and the fumes and the commotion, there was no ability and no time to see if we were actually accomplishing our goal. We were killing myriads of locusts, but could we ultimately save the best vines?
Only daylight and a final relief from the plague would tell.
I staggered from row to row, alternately waving a flickering torch to chase away the locusts and stooping to check for damage. My eyes burned from the smoke and lack of sleep. My throat was parched from shouting orders.
The smudge pots were going out again. “Samson,” I croaked, “more tar.”
Putting his mouth near my ear, he rasped, “Begging your pardon, sir, but there is no more. We used it all.”
This unwelcome news shook me awake. “Then send Patrick to the village to buy more! Don’t wait.”
As he raised his chin toward the light of the burning brand, I saw it quiver. “That’s just it, if you take my meaning, sir. There is no more to be had. None.”
That could not be right. We could not have worked so hard to be defeated now. “Then in Jerusalem,” I argued. “Send men to the Street of the Roofers. They will have more.”
“Already tried, sir. The man I sent came back an hour ago. Seems all the vinedressers followed your example. There is no tar to be had in all Judea.” Samson sounded as though he were about to cry.
I clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re not finished yet. Just give me a minute to think.”
I tugged at my beard again in thought, and for the first time since the previous morning, I did not encounter a kicking insect. The significance did not dawn on me for a time, and then I noticed: the space around my head was momentarily clear of winged pests.
The torrent of airborne pests was actually slowing. Even the breeze carrying the invaders dropped, then backed around into the south, like an unseen hand pushing the grasshoppers out of my estate.
Had the relief come in time?
Fearful dawn crept up from over Jordan, disclosing three things. First light revealed whole swathes of orchard and vineyard almost completely devastated, plucked cleanly … but these were the areas we had not tried to save.
As I rushed to the brow of the hill, I learned the second revelation: Faithful Vineyard had been spared. Around the edges of the field the vines had been gnawed, but the bulk of the leaves were intact; the crop was saved.
The third sight meeting my eyes was this: while no more locusts were arriving, the rows were still full of crawling pests. Battered from the sky and stunned by smoke, they were still a menace.
And my troops were as exhausted as the winged ones. My hired men displayed haggard faces and weary limbs.
There was a stirring of air on the side of my face toward the south, and a rustling on the breeze. Then I saw another wave of black specks dotting the sky.
The flapping increased and a shadow once more fell across me from above.
I hung my head in utter defeat and exhaustion. We had lost. It had all been for nothing.
Then I heard the sounds of cheering and laughter erupting from my workers, accompanied by shouts of “Selovs! The selovs are coming! The selovs of the desert are here!”
Quail! Flights, schools, armies of round-bodied birds from the wadis of the Negev and Sinai converged on my vineyards. Spiraling inward as if I had summoned them, their cries encircled me, the hilltop, and Faithful Vineyard. They pounced on the locusts and feasted, snapping up insects on all sides. My new allies plucked grasshoppers from leaves and unripe fruit with savage delight and perfect accuracy.
Later that day we learned that many of the vineyards and orchards of Judea had been saved by hard work, smudge pots, and the miracle of the quail.
The vines of Herod Antipas were not so fortunate: none of them were spared.
“Master!” Patrick exclaimed. “It’s a miracle!”
“A true