eBook
Related collections and offers
Overview
When one of his brothers starts listening to Jesus’ troubling speeches and fanatical Zealots descend on Nazareth to convince his family to join their fight against Rome, James wants nothing more than to shut out these rumblings and have a normal life. But normal walked out the day his brother did.
James knows that this year’s Passover pilgrimage will be more important than ever. Hearing about a possible plot against Jesus, he must find him and talk some sense into him before it’s too late. And he must decide for himself who his brother really is. But on the dusty road to Jerusalem, more than one faction has murder on its mind. . . .
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781496422255 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tyndale House Publishers |
| Publication date: | 04/03/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 448 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
TRACY GROOT is a part-time writer and co-owner of a popular coffee shop and juice bar. Tracy is author of The Brother's Keeper, Stones of My Accusers and Madman. She, her husband Jack, and their three boys live in Holland, Michigan.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
He did not know what to call them. They were not Essenes, nor were they Zealots. Some were not even Jewish. He watched the latest two retreat down the slope that led to his home. The tall one, the ruder of the two, looked over his shoulder to stare boldly at James. The fact that these pilgrims never got what they came for pleased him greatly. To be sure, the shorter one carried away a pocketful of sawdust, scooped from the floor when he thought James was not looking; no matter. The fool had more sawdust in his head than in his pocket.
They were heading for the village. And how would these visitors find Nazareth? Would they be disappointed to see that it was no different than their own hometown? They would see the same filthy beggars and the same people who did not notice them. The same smelly streets, the same noisy marketplace. They would hear women arguing prices with the merchants. They would see the usual mix of people in typical Galilean villages: Jews, Gentiles, a few strutting Romans, traveling foreigners. They would see people who lived the hard facts of life, people who sweated and smelled like them.
Would they be as disappointed with Nazareth as they always were with James and his family?
James leaned against the workroom doorway and watched until the two disappeared down the hill. When the first of these strangers had come to visit, James and his brothers had treated them politely. Answered questions, showed them around. Pointed out the corner workbench; they always liked to see that. In the beginning the attention was entertaining. It amused them; truth to tell, it even flattered. Nearly three years later, James was no longer amused.
Many carried away tokens of their visit: a curled shaving from the workroom floor, a pebble from the path, a handful of stone chips from a roof roller James was chiseling. Once he caught Jorah giving tours of the home for two copper prutas per person. Though Mother put an end to that, James thought it time for recompense. At least someone had the sense to make these strangers pay for their intrusions.
What did they expect the home to be like? James saw it all the time, the looks that said their Teacher's home fell short of their expectations.
Those who made it past the workroom, and precious few did, came to the smallyard, an area where the sleeping rooms, the main courtyard, and the workroom converged. In the smallyard was the cistern. If there the stranger turned right, he would walk a few steps through a cool stone passage that opened left into the foreroom where the brothers slept, then the aftroom where Mother and Jorah slept. If instead the stranger went past the smallyard, he would find himself in the courtyard. There he would see Mother's oven in one corner, those corner walls blackened from smoke. He would see pots to dye wool, pans for cooking, a grindstone for wheat and barley, a small loom for cloth. He would see a shelter of coarse cloth covering half the courtyard, under which Mother and Jorah made food, cleaned and carded wool, and mended baskets, tunics, and sandals.
The strangers would see a home much like their own, if they were neither poor nor rich. They would see nothing remarkable. Nothing to account for an unordinary man in an ordinary world.
But they needed a name. James had a few he called them privately, names of which Mother would not approve. He rubbed his lower lip, looking at the place where the last two had disappeared. The tall one had looked long at James and the home ... perhaps to put them in his memory to tell his grandchildren.
What would James tell his own?
He shoved off from the doorway to turn into the workroom and noticed the gouge in a ridge of sawdust on the floor.
He bent and picked up a handful himself, rubbing the coarse wooden filings between his fingers. What did they do with it? Sprinkle it on sick relatives? He shook it away and went to his bench.
Jesus-ites. Nazarites would work, except it was taken.
Nazarenes would fit, but were not all the occupants of Nazareth called Nazarenes? He could just imagine how the villagers would take it, mistaken for followers of Joseph's son.
He picked up a hunk of cypress, hefted it in his hand, looked down the length of it. Five palms long, four fingers wide. He picked up his measuring stick, ever hearing his father's voice when he did so — "Twice measured is once cut —" and rechecked the measure. He would soon fashion the length into a replacement support for a threshing sledge. He ran his thumb over a knot, traced calloused fingertips along the grain, then tossed the chunk of wood onto the ground next to the thresher and wearily rubbed his eyebrows.
They came more frequently now — two, three times a week. Some were shy, some as rude as this last visitor. Some came to argue the Torah and the Prophets, some to rouse support for another go at an uprising. Some treated James and his family with a sickening awe, others with pity, as from a strange self-righteousness. He was not sure which he hated more.
Those in the village were too eager to give directions to the seekers. James did not blame them, after all. Fair trade for the notoriety inflicted upon Nazareth. Last week he overheard a merchant giving cheerful directions: "Straight up the main road, past the well; you will come to a home on the left; that would be Eli's place. The home past that one, up the hill, is Joseph's place." The seeker had turned away, with the trader calling after him, "Be sure to ask for a relic! They love to give away relics!" Then he laughed with the customers at his stall.
James knelt and looked under his workbench. In the corner against the wall was a box full of seasoned pieces of wood for carving. He dragged the box to himself and brought it to the top of the bench, where he rummaged through it, holding certain pieces out from under the awning to see them in the sun. He remembered this one with the crook at the end. A remnant of the olive tree he had sectioned off last summer. He had thought to fashion a water dipper out of that crook. He laid it on the table and rummaged some more.
Time was when he was James ben Joseph. Time was when James, Joses, Simon, Judas, Devorah, and Jorah were all children ben Joseph, the carpenter. Now he was James, brother of the scourge of Nazareth.
Here was an oblong chunk of sycamore. Maybe Jude had put it into the box; he didn't remember it. Perhaps left over from the synagogue project. He turned it over. Make a nice platter, maybe a good oblong bowl. When was the last time he had carved? With jobs and projects and the time-wasting seekers to fill their days, he didn't often have the leisure for this pastime.
"This is the carpenter's home?"
He slowly put the piece of sycamore back into the box, resting his hands on the edge.
He looked over his shoulder and squinted at the young man who stood in the doorway, gazing at the workroom. He was younger than James by at least ten years — maybe eighteen or nineteen. He had wild reddish-brown hair barely kept in place with a thin leather tie circling his head. A vain attempt at a beard gave him a dusky jawline. When James did not answer, the lad's wandering gaze came back, showing his brightly colored eyes.
"Is this the carpenter's —"
"We are bread makers," James cut him off, with a gesture at the workroom. "What do you think the wood and stone is for?"
On the heel of the young man's startled look came a grin. "You must be James. Annika said I remind her of you."
For the first time since the seekers left, the knot inside began to loosen. "You are Nathanael?"
The young man nodded and stepped inside, inhaling deeply. "Smells wonderful in here." He picked up a handful of stripped cypress bark and held it to his nose, closing his eyes as he breathed deeply. "I love cypress. I've missed it."
James noticed that Nathanael did not kiss the mezuzah fixed to the doorjamb, but he did not care. Religious Jew or nonreligious Jew, as long as he was not one of the seekers. Annika hadn't said much about Nathanael, only that he was new to Nazareth and in need of work.
"Have you worked with wood before?"
"I apprenticed with my uncle. Once in a while."
Hands clasped behind his back, Nathanael gave himself a tour. He strolled under the shade of the awnings, erected at the top of the walls to shelter the workbenches from the late-winter rains. He came first to Judas' bench, appraising every detail. Most of Jude's tools were hung neatly on a rack above the bench; some were jumbled less neatly on the table. He passed James' bench; James watched his amber-hued eyes, a different color for these parts, whisk eagerly over everything. He stopped at Father's bench near the passage to the small-yard. Father's bench looked more like what it had become, the catchall spot for odds and ends. Opposite Father's bench was the fire pit. He crossed the room to the pit, looked it over, then walked past Joses' bench and Simon's bench and came to stand at the bench in the corner.
The corner workbench was the only one without wood chips near it. It was as neat and tidy as the day it was left. The tiny wooden boat James had carved when he was seven still lay where it always had, on the shelf above the bench in the corner, tilted on its side. A little vase Jorah had made was on the other side of the shelf. Jesus would put a sprig of fresh herbs or a posy of wildflowers in it.
Nathanael reached for one of the tools. James gave an involuntary start but held fast. It was the first time in three years ...
Nathanael did not see his reaction. He turned the heavy gouge adze over in his hands, thumbed the curved blade. "It's a little rusty. Needs a fresh edge. Where is your grinding stone?"
"Outside, by the steps to the roof." Nathanael started for the door, but James said, "We need to talk first."
Nathanael stiffened. Studying the adze edge, he said flatly, "You hired someone else."
James regarded the young man, who now had a defiant set to his jaw. Annika, the woman who could not spare her tongue to save her life, had not offered much information about this lad.
James took a stool and gestured to another by Joses' bench — away from the corner. "Please, sit. Rest yourself. Don't I get a full ear of how far our place is every time Annika brings the eggs?"
"What is far?" Nathanael muttered. "She is an old woman."
On the way to the stool he studied the adze as though he would rather be sharpening it. He took the stool, then looked straight at James with those strange-hued eyes. "If you do not want me, just say it."
James pulled back. "If we do not want you ...? That is not the question. The question is if you want us. Our apprentices come and go. Nobody wants to stay."
"Why not?"
James cocked his head, squinting at him. "What did Annika tell you about us?"
The lad shrugged. "That you needed an apprentice. And that you have a pretty sister."
Annika the matchmaker. Annika the meddler. "She did not say anything else?"
"What's there to say? You need help; I need work."
A movement at the doorway caught James' eye. "It isn't that simple," he muttered as he took in the group of three now standing at the door.
The familiar knot returned to his stomach, hardening to a fist of iron.
The girl in the middle chittered to the boys next to her in a lordly way, gesturing toward the workroom. Keturah. She used to come for carving lessons, trading cucumbers for instruction. But the young men with her, near Nathanael's age, he had never seen before. James rose from his stool.
"Hello, James," the girl said airily, as if she spoke to him in the market all the time. To the boys she said, "That is his brother, the next oldest. His other brothers, Joses and Simon, are still away on a trading trip. Aren't they, James?" When James did not answer, she chattered on. "Judas just left for Capernaum; he should be back in a week or so."
She pointed to the corner workbench. "Over there. That is where he worked. He was the one who taught me to carve. He was the best wood-carver in Galilee."
"Simon is the best," James stated.
She only glanced at him. "He carved a bowl for my grandmother," she told the boys. "Finest bowl I have ever seen. It's her favorite."
The girl would not be able to tell apart a bowl carved by Simon or —
"Do you have business here, Keturah?" James asked, and reached for his mallet.
Her brown-eyed look flickered over him. "So, you remember my name." Some of her lordliness softened.
"I remember," James said quietly.
He used to feel like a lumbering fool around her. Every time she came to the shop, every time he saw her in the marketplace ... instant idiot is what he would become. But after her favorite wood-carver left, she stopped coming around. And James' trips to the market became fewer. He glanced at her tunic. She was wearing lavender again.
He realized he did not feel stupid around her anymore, and strangely, the thought brought a flicker of sadness. She was already pointing out another attraction to the boys.
"Do you have a loom that needs mending?" he said, his voice tight. "Stones to be cut, a tool to be sharpened? Do you have business here, Keturah, or are you here to waste my time?"
He had learned something about the seekers: the ruder he was, the quicker they left. He had never been so rude when his father was alive. He never imagined he could be so rude. She broke off midsentence to stare at him. "I — no. I was only —"
"I have work to do," James snapped. He pointed with the mallet to the outdoors beyond them. He did not miss the darkening of her cheeks.
"This is his brother?" one of the lads muttered, looking James up and down as he crossed the threshold and sauntered into the workroom.
"Not much like him, is he, Avi," the other commented, upper lip pulled to sneer.
The iron fist lurched painfully in James' stomach, and he gripped the mallet handle convulsively as the hatred flared. They did this. They touched off something inside him that ought never have been touched.
God of Israel, help me now, because I surely want to kill them.
The one called Avi pulled himself tall. "How is it you are not out there with him? Why does not a single brother of his help him?" He snorted. "I would give anything to be one of his twelve. Anything! You are his own brother, and you cannot find the time of day even to listen to him."
"The Teacher said it himself, Avi." The other lad shrugged and stepped into the workroom after his friend. "'A prophet will have honor, but not from those of his own household.'"
God of Israel ...
Any words but those ... any words that filtered back to the workroom but those words. The images of the one day Jesus had come back to Nazareth, and what happened in the synagogue ... the memory rioted his senses, flooding his gut with torment.
"You do not even care." Avi's voice dripped scorn, and he shook his head. "This whole village is crazy."
Keturah's fists went to her hips. "I did not bring you here to flail your tongue. Come. It is time for us to leave."
"The greatest leader our people has seen since Judah the Maccabee, and we sit around sawing wood," Avi scoffed. He brushed past Keturah as he strolled to the bench in the corner.
"Now is the time to throw off the Roman yoke! We did it to the cursed Syrian Greeks; we can do it to the cursed Romans. And throw out all the rest of the Gentiles as well. This is our land. God has seen and heard, and the time of the Jew has come once more."
His dark eyes glittered as he placed both palms lightly on the surface of the workbench, either in wonder or perhaps to infuse himself with residual power.
"The time is coming soon, I can feel it," he whispered. "He will declare soon, and I will be there when he does."
Oddly, the rage in James' stomach diffused and died away.
"Just leave," James whispered. The crooked piece of olivewood, his whittling knife ...
Day after day, for nearly three years, he had heard it all. From the passioned Zealots like this one, from the gentler and much more polite Essenes. From the Pharisees, the Sadducees. From other sectarians whose tenets blurred into the rest. From synagogue leaders, and once a Temple leader. Even from Annika the meddler. Everybody had an opinion about Joseph's son.
Interesting, the effect these people had on his family. They set Simon to studying with fury, draping himself over the family's two scrolls any chance he could get. They caused gentle Joses to plead and argue. They made Judas hide. And all James wanted to do was carve.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Brother's Keeper"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Tracy Groot.
Excerpted by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.