Chapter 25 · Chapter 25

The valley wind groaned against the southern cliffside, carrying the bitter scent of scorched wild thyme and dry dust, but within the perimeter of our stone-reinforced shelter, the air was still and thick with the warmth of heated stones. The heavy camel-hair curtain hung dead and immovable over the low entryway, sealing out the wadi and every wandering eye of the encampment.

For two days and a night, the horizon had dissolved into the rhythm of my breath and the relentless ache that bound my hips. Now, the sharp, tearing storm had receded into an absolute, hollow quiet, leaving only the sound of water trickling from a clay jug into an earthenware basin.

Across the packed-earth floor, the elder women of Sheikh Aber’s household moved with seasoned economy. They spoke in low murmurs, their hands dark against the clean linen cloths they rinsed and folded, but none crossed beyond the wicker screen where the birth bed lay.

Beside me, on the low pallet spread with coarse undyed wool, my newborn son let out a sharp, indignant cry. His small chest rose rapidly against the swath of soft woven linen that bound him snug. The sheer presence of him—