Chapter 35 · Chapter 35

The dust of the northern road had barely settled when Shimon turned away from the courtyard lintel, his hand resting once against the rough cedar of the gate before letting the timber slide shut into its groove. He did not look back toward the track where the merchant's pack-camels had disappeared with his ink and parchment.

The weight of those years had been lifted from his shoulders and entrusted to the Gaza road; what remained of him was here, standing upon the bare rock.

"Come," he said softly. "The valley will be full before midday."

I drew the coarse wool of my veil over my hair, tucking the fringe beneath the collar of my woven tunic, and followed him along the narrow goat-track that wound behind our dwelling. The stone beneath our sandals was already radiating the fierce morning heat, pale granite broken by clumps of thorn and dry scrub.