Chapter 34 · Chapter 34

The morning haze hung low over the rocky ridges of the valley, smelling of crushed tamarisk, cold basalt, and the dry smoke of acacia wood burning in the low campfires beyond the stone dwellings. In the outer courtyard, where the pack camels grunted under the tightening of woolen girths, a merchant caravan bound for the northern borders of Syria stood waiting for the dust of the gorge to clear.

Shimon stood beside the low wooden chest where the cedar cases had rested through the long watches of the night. He had wrapped the first seven scrolls himself, binding each roll of stiff, inked papyrus within sleeves of sheepskin rubbed supple with tallow, then tying the bundles with plaited goat hair.

Seven accounts: the bitter brick-pits of Goshen, the night of blood upon the lintels, the red waters split before the host, and the four wanderings across the white wastes of Paran where the bones of his generation had been laid beneath unmarked mounds.

I stepped into the threshold of the inner chamber, bringing a bowl of water and a handful of dried dates for the traveler.