Chapter 36 · Chapter 36

The shadow of the ridge broadened across the red stone of the terrace by late afternoon, drawing the elders of the valley from their dwellings toward our courtyard. They walked with slow, measured steps, their walking staffs tapping in dry cadence against the rock, their woolen mantles gathered against the gusting desert wind.

Behind them came Ibrahim, his stride steady and quiet, bearing a low bench of seasoned cedar and the stone inkwell that had traveled through the wilderness from the borders of Goshen.

Shimon did not rise in haste. He waited until the eldest among them had settled upon the woven reed mats lining the courtyard wall, their greetings murmured and answered with the solemn brevity of men who had outlived whole generations of wanderers. Only then did he sit upon the bench, smoothing the final length of papyrus across his knees with hands that had long forgotten the clay pits of the Nile.

"The road ends where the well gives water without blood," the elder seated nearest the stone pillar said, resting his gnarled knuckles on his staff.