“James stood regarding me with cold contempt, ready at any moment to erupt. My brothers were now grouped about, behind him. . .
I looked unwaveringly at James.
‘I am weary of you, my brother,’ I said. ‘In my heart, I’m weary.’
He narrowed his eyes. He was astonished.
My mother came back. She held a chest which was heavy for her to hold, and Mara and Esther assisted her as she brought it forward and set it down on the floor in front of us.
Decades it had been hidden away, this chest, ever since our return from Egypt. James had seen this chest. James knew what it was, but my own brothers never set eyes on it. . .It was a Persian chest, plated in gold and exquisitely decorated with curling vines and pomegranates. Even the handles of the chest were gold. . .
‘It’s never enough for you, is it, James!’ I said. My voice was low. I struggled against my anger. ‘Not the angels filling up the night skies over Bethlehem, not tghe shepherds who came through the stable door to tell my mother and father of the angels’ song, no, not enough for you. And not the magi themselves, the richly clad men from Persia who descended on the narrow streets of Bethlehem with their caravan, brought there by a star that lighted the very Heavens. Not enough for you! Not enough for you that you yourself saw these men put this chest at the foot of my cradle. No, not enough, never enough, no sign ever. Not the words of our blessed cousin Elizabeth, mother of John bar Zachariah, before she died – when she told us all the words spoken by her husband as he named his son, John. No, not enough. Not even the words of the prophets.’
I stopped. He was frightened. He backed away and my brothers shifted uneasily away from me.
I stepped forward and James stepped back again.
‘Well, you are my older brother,’ I said. ‘and you are the head of this family, and I owe you obedience, and I owe you patience. . .’”
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