“But we’re here and we’re home,” I said. “And something happened.”

“No,” she said. She meant it. She didn’t understand. She smiled. I could see that in the firelight, and I could feel the heat of the fire. She told the truth as she always did. I looked over and saw James fast asleep, and beside him Zebedee’s little brothers, and so many others, I didn’t know all their names. Little Symeon was asleep bundled up against Little Judas. Little Joseph was snoring.

Mary, the wife of Zebedee, was talking to Mary, the wife of Cleopas, in a fast, worried manner but I couldn’t hear her words. They were friends, now, I could see that, and Mary, the Egyptian, the wife of Cleopas, was gesturing and making pictures with her hands. Mary of Zebedee was nodding.

I closed my eyes. The others, the great crowd of others, so sweet, like the blanket, like the wind with the smell of the river. Were they here? Something stirred in me, knowledge as clear as if a voice was speaking: this is not the most difficult part.

It was only a moment. Then I was myself.

New voices sang from here and from there, and people who passed us were singing. I was happy with my eyes closed.

“The Lord shall reign forever,” they sang, “even your Lord, O Zion, unto all generations. Praise to the Lord.”

I heard the voice of my aunt Mary of Cleopas. “I don’t know where he is. He’s out there over by the river singing with them, talking. They’re shouting at each other one minute and the next singing.”

“Look to him!” whispered my mother.

“But he’s stronger now, I tell you. His fever’s gone. He’ll come back when he needs to lie down. If I go to him with the men he’ll be angry. I’m not going. What’s the use of going? What’s the use of trying to tell him anything? When he needs to come, he’ll come.”

“But we should see to him,” said my mother.

“Don’t you know,” said my aunt Salome to her, “that this is what he wants? If he’s to die, let him die quarreling over kings and taxes, and over the Temple, and by the River Jordan, shouting to the Lord. Let him have his last strength.”

They were quiet.

Their voices went low. Talk of common things. And then the worries, but I didn’t want to hear it. Bandits everywhere, villages burning. Archelaus had gone to the sea to sail to Rome. If the Romans weren’t on the march yet from Syria they soon would be. Weren’t the signal fires telling them what happened? The whole city of Jerusalem was in a state of riot. I snuggled close to my mother. And my whole body was like a fist.

“Enough,” said my mother. “Nothing ever changes.”

Sleep. I went away in my half sleep.

“Angels!” I said out loud. I opened my eyes. “But I didn’t really see them.”

“You lie quiet,” said my mother.

I laughed to myself. She had seen an angel before I was born. An angel had told Joseph to bring us back, I had heard it said. And I had seen them. I had seen them but only for a moment. Less than a moment. They came in great numbers, numberless like the stars in their numbers, and I’d seen them for a moment. Hadn’t I? What had they looked like? Let it go. This is not the most difficult part.

I turned over, my head against the soft bedroll. Why hadn’t I paid more attention to what they looked like? Why hadn’t I held on to the sight of them, and not let them go? Because the truth of it was they were always there! You just had to be able to see them. It was like opening a wooden door, or pulling back a curtain. But the curtain was thick, and heavy. Maybe that’s how it was with the curtain of the Holy of Holies—it was thick and heavy. And the curtain could fall down, closed, just like that.

My mother had seen an angel who spoke to her, who must have stepped out of the numberless ones, who came towards her, said words to her, but what was the meaning of the words?

I wanted to cry again, but I didn’t. I was happy and sad. I was filled with feeling, as a cup can be of water. I was so full of it my body curled up under the covers, and I held tight to my mother’s hand.

She slipped her fingers out of mine.

She lay down beside me. I almost dreamed.

That’s how to do it, I thought. Thoughts began to slide. That’s how to do it, so that no one knows. And don’t tell anyone ever. Don’t ever tell, not even Little Salome or my mother. No. But Father in Heaven, I did do it, didn’t I? And I will find out what happened in Bethlehem. I’ll find out everything.

They came again, so many of them but this time I only smiled and I didn’t open my eyes. You can come, you aren’t going to make me jump and wake up. No, you can come, even if there are so many of you there are no numbers for you. You come from the place where there are no numbers. You come from where there are no robbers, no fires, no man dying on a spear. You come, but you don’t know what I know, do you? No, you don’t know.

And how do I know that?

What was the peace of that night? How soon was it shattered?

The next morning, the river valley was flooded with those fleeing the uprisings. We woke up to shouts and crying. The nearby villages were in flames. We packed up the donkeys and made our way north.

First we went straight along the river, but soon the sight of flames and the sound of cries drove us far to the west, only to find fighting there and people running, their bundles and children under their arms.

When we crossed the river, the other way, we found the same terrors. The road was crowded with the miserable and the weeping who told stories of bands of robbers, and would-be kings, swooping down upon them for livestock and gold, and even burning their villages for no good reason. My fear rose in me and became a thing always with me so that all happiness seemed finally to be a dream, even in the brightest sunlight.

I lost count of the days, and the names of the towns and places we passed did not drop a hook into my mind. Again and again we were stopped by the bandits themselves. They forced their way into the crowds, shouting and cursing, and seeking to rob everyone.

We huddled together and said nothing, and before dark, pitched our camp away from the settlements which were more often than not empty or burnt out.

In one town we hid from them while they set fire to the houses around us. Little Salome started to cry and it was I who comforted her, I who had been crying so hard outside Jericho and now held her and told her we’d be home soon. Silas and Levi were in a passion that they couldn’t fight the men who accosted us, and James repeated the stern warnings of his father to be silent, to do nothing in the face of their huge numbers.

After all, these “rogues,” the men said, carried swords and daggers. They killed at whim. They were “thirsty for blood.” We were to give them no “provocation.”

Sometimes we walked late into the night, even as other pilgrims pitched camp, and the men quarreled, with Cleopas always in the middle of it. Aunt Mary said he was having a high time of it with so many new men to listen to his speeches.

He didn’t have any more fever.

People didn’t talk about it now.

I stayed close to him to learn what he had to say. And he would not stop speaking his mind about King Herod Archelaus, no matter what Joseph said to him, and Alphaeus gave up too. Archelaus had sailed to Rome. The word was out. But so had others of Herod’s children, “those who had been lucky enough to survive,” said Cleopas. For it seemed the King had murdered five of his own sons as well as countless other helpless men over the thirty and more years of his reign.

Joseph’s brother Simon was quiet too, and so were his boys and girl, as they’d always been. They had no interest in these things. And neither had my mother.

When we parted from Zebedee and my mother’s dearest cousin, Mary Alexandra, there was much crying because “the three Marys” wouldn’t be together again until the next Festival in Jerusalem and with things as they were, who knew when it would be safe to go?