“Count it again,” Eli said, voice tight. “I want every measure tallied to the last fig.”
The servant hesitated, hands raw from harvest. “Master, we’ve counted it twice already—”
“And now a third time,” Eli snapped, pacing between the stacked baskets of grain under the fading sky. His eyes flicked up to the wooden barns — too small, already sagging under the weight of his fortune. “There’s not enough room,” he muttered. “Not even close.”
He turned on his heel. “Tear the barns down. Build new ones. Twice as tall.”
“But... the neighbors still wait for their lentils—”
“I didn’t ask about the neighbors.”
The servant lowered his gaze.
Eli stood in the orchard just beyond his villa, wind brushing through ripe trees like a whisper he couldn’t hear. From here, he saw it all — rows of vineyards, the water channels he’d commissioned, storerooms brimming with oil and wheat. No one in Judea had land like his. He had worked, yes — but he had also conquered. Beaten rivals, outbid men twice his age, outlasted drought.
And now? Rest. His fists tightened at the thought. He would eat. Drink. Command leisure.
He sat under the veranda that night with his cup of wine and the ledger. He read the numbers by lantern light, lips curving into a slow smile.
“Many years…,” he whispered to himself.
The breeze shifted. Something cold.
He coughed.
It twisted at first in his throat — just a catch. He rose unsteady, reaching for the wall. The cup of wine crashed to the tiles, dark red running like blood between the cracks. His hands grasped at the bench. Then —
Stillness.
In the dark, the servant knocked. “Master?”
No answer.
He stepped outside, bare feet brushing the crushed grapes.
“Master?”
Eli lay slumped where triumph had last touched his face.
The oil lamp flickered.
—
News traveled faster than carts. By morning, even beggars at the gates whispered of the rich man struck dead.
His cousins came first, squabbling over land deeds, arguing about who should inherit the kitchen courtyard or the silver riding bit. They didn’t ask how he’d died. They didn’t ask who mourned him.
It had been a good harvest. They smiled often.
Weeks passed. The barns were finished — towering frames of cedar that groaned in the sun, hungry for grain that would never be eaten.
One morning, the oldest servant, the one who had left figs by the door each day, stood in front of the newest barn.
He tossed the keys into the dirt.
—
Months later, a man with unclean sandals and a weathered robe sat on a stone wall just outside Eli’s field. A small crowd listened as he spoke, among them a widow, a shepherd’s boy, a man nursing a leper’s scar. His voice did not rise, but it reached.
“There was a rich man whose land yielded plenty,” said the teacher. “And he said, ‘I will build bigger barns. I will store up for many years. I’ll say to my soul: rest, eat, drink, be merry.’”
He paused.
“But God said to him, ‘You fool. This very night, your life is demanded of you…’”
The widow clutched her hands. The shepherd boy glanced toward the barn in the distance.
It stood there, empty.
Silent.
“Count it again,” Eli said, voice tight. “I want every measure tallied to the last fig.”
The servant hesitated, hands raw from harvest. “Master, we’ve counted it twice already—”
“And now a third time,” Eli snapped, pacing between the stacked baskets of grain under the fading sky. His eyes flicked up to the wooden barns — too small, already sagging under the weight of his fortune. “There’s not enough room,” he muttered. “Not even close.”
He turned on his heel. “Tear the barns down. Build new ones. Twice as tall.”
“But... the neighbors still wait for their lentils—”
“I didn’t ask about the neighbors.”
The servant lowered his gaze.
Eli stood in the orchard just beyond his villa, wind brushing through ripe trees like a whisper he couldn’t hear. From here, he saw it all — rows of vineyards, the water channels he’d commissioned, storerooms brimming with oil and wheat. No one in Judea had land like his. He had worked, yes — but he had also conquered. Beaten rivals, outbid men twice his age, outlasted drought.
And now? Rest. His fists tightened at the thought. He would eat. Drink. Command leisure.
He sat under the veranda that night with his cup of wine and the ledger. He read the numbers by lantern light, lips curving into a slow smile.
“Many years…,” he whispered to himself.
The breeze shifted. Something cold.
He coughed.
It twisted at first in his throat — just a catch. He rose unsteady, reaching for the wall. The cup of wine crashed to the tiles, dark red running like blood between the cracks. His hands grasped at the bench. Then —
Stillness.
In the dark, the servant knocked. “Master?”
No answer.
He stepped outside, bare feet brushing the crushed grapes.
“Master?”
Eli lay slumped where triumph had last touched his face.
The oil lamp flickered.
—
News traveled faster than carts. By morning, even beggars at the gates whispered of the rich man struck dead.
His cousins came first, squabbling over land deeds, arguing about who should inherit the kitchen courtyard or the silver riding bit. They didn’t ask how he’d died. They didn’t ask who mourned him.
It had been a good harvest. They smiled often.
Weeks passed. The barns were finished — towering frames of cedar that groaned in the sun, hungry for grain that would never be eaten.
One morning, the oldest servant, the one who had left figs by the door each day, stood in front of the newest barn.
He tossed the keys into the dirt.
—
Months later, a man with unclean sandals and a weathered robe sat on a stone wall just outside Eli’s field. A small crowd listened as he spoke, among them a widow, a shepherd’s boy, a man nursing a leper’s scar. His voice did not rise, but it reached.
“There was a rich man whose land yielded plenty,” said the teacher. “And he said, ‘I will build bigger barns. I will store up for many years. I’ll say to my soul: rest, eat, drink, be merry.’”
He paused.
“But God said to him, ‘You fool. This very night, your life is demanded of you…’”
The widow clutched her hands. The shepherd boy glanced toward the barn in the distance.
It stood there, empty.
Silent.
