sat at the bottom of the sarb. His knees nearly touched his chin. The earth of the vault was close above him. He raised his hand. His fingers brushed the dry clay.
Fifteen months had passed. His limbs had grown. The reed mat was too short for his body now. His feet hung past the edge. The reeds pricked his ankles.
He heard footsteps above. Mule hooves on the road. Distant voices. Men passing by. Then silence. Then more footsteps. Always the same rhythms. Never the same sounds.
came down. She set down the waterskin. The linen of her dress was worn thin. She took a clean tunic from her bag. The wool was coarse. It smelled of sheep.
straightened up. He had to bend his shoulders. The vault touched his head when he stood upright.
"Take me out," he said. "I want to look."
His voice rang against the narrow wall. The words were clear. They struck the clay and came back.
stopped. Her hands stayed on the tunic. She looked at the crack in the sarb. The daylight was fading. The gray rectangle on the ground had turned blue.
"The guards are on the road," she said.
Her voice was low. Her thumb ran over her copper bracelet. The metal was cold.
"They aren't looking," said.
exhaled slowly. Her shoulders dropped for a moment. She straightened them again. She took the tunic. She pulled it over his head. The wool scratched his neck. She said nothing more. She began climbing the earthen steps. followed her.
The round stone blocked the way out. set both hands against the flank of the rock. She pushed. The stone rolled into the dry grass. A great rectangle of sky came in.
put his head out through the hole.
The air was not still. It moved. It smelled of cold silt and burnt straw. set his palms on the rim of the pit. He pulled himself up.
His bare feet touched open ground. The clay was cold beneath his soles. It rose between his toes. It fell away when he lifted his foot. It came back when he set it down again.
The world had no roof. looked up. Blue stretched without limit. No pillar held up the vault. His head spun. His knees shook. He set a hand on his mother's shoulder to keep from falling. His heart beat faster. He felt as though he were falling upward.
"Who makes the sky?" he said.
did not answer. She gripped his hand. A little harder this time.
The wind blew into his hair. It moved. It struck his forehead. He raised his hand. His fingers tangled in it. He pulled. His head moved with it. He let go. The hair fell back. The wind took it up again.
"Who makes the wind?" he said.
slowed her pace. Her gaze slid toward the road. Then to the sky. She walked on.
"Keep walking," she said.
The horizon was far away. The plain stretched out in bands of brown and green all the way to the marshes. Birds passed low, fast. They vanished behind a line of reeds. Other birds passed higher up. They did not beat their wings. They glided. Still. Then they turned. Then they went on.
took his hand. Her fingers were warm. They walked along the canal.
The water ran clear. It passed over stones. It made a sound. Not steady. In bursts. Whenever it met a stone, it rose. It fell back. It began again.
knelt at the edge. He set his hand in the water. Cold. It licked at his fingers. It slipped between them. It went on without him.
"Who makes the water flow?" he said.
tightened her grip on his fingers. She looked back at the road behind them.
"Be quiet," she said.
pulled his hand back. Drops fell. Slow. He watched them. They caught the sunlight. Then they faded on his palm.
An animal was passing on the path across the water. It carried two baskets of straw. Its hooves sank into the mud. A man walked behind it, a stick in hand.
stopped. He pointed at the animal.
"What is that?"
"A donkey," said .
"Does it have a master?"
"The man with the stick," said .
watched the man. The man struck the donkey to make it move faster.
"And who is the master of the man?"
tightened her grip on his fingers. Her shoulders tensed. She looked back at the road behind them. Then she looked at the sky. She did not answer.
"Be quiet," she said.
walked on. He asked no more questions. He pressed his thumb against his index finger. He held it there. The gesture reminded him of something. He did not know what.
Women passed by, baskets on their heads. They did not look at . They did not notice the child. Their steps were even. Their shadows stretched long across the ground. followed them with his eyes. Every shadow. Every step. Until they turned into an alley.
The village of Hurmuzjard appeared behind the palm trees. The houses were cubes of gray brick. Smoke from the hearths rose straight up into the cool air.
pushed open the wooden door of their courtyard. She went in first. crossed the threshold behind her.
The room was dark. A sesame-oil lamp burned in a niche. sat on the ground. A block of cedar rested between his thighs. He held a rasp. Rust-red sawdust covered his knees.
At the back of the workshop, three wooden figures faced the room. Black eyes. Motionless mouths. Arms held at their sides. They stood taller than . Dust covered their shoulders.
stopped. He looked at them.
"Who are they?" he said.
raised his head. His eyes fixed on the child. The rasp slipped from his fingers. It struck the packed earth with a dull sound.
did not pick it up. His lips parted. Then closed again. As though he had forgotten what he meant to say.
The sculptor stood. He was tall. His shoulders blocked the lamp's light. He approached slowly. His sandals crackled on the sawdust.
"The gods of men," said .
looked at the figures. He stepped closer. He held out his hand. He touched the wood. Cold. Smooth. The dust stayed on his fingers.
"Why don't they speak?" he said.
stopped. He looked at the child. Then he looked at the idols. His hands closed around the cedar block.
"They have no mouths," he said.
"Who took their mouths away?"
did not answer. He stepped back. His heels struck the cedar block. He turned. He picked it up. He set it on the bench. His fingers did not let go of the wood. He was not looking at . He was looking at the wood.
took his hand off the idol. He looked at his fingers. The dust was gray. He rubbed it on his tunic. The dust stayed.
"Who is this child?" said .
His voice was low. It shook.
did not answer. She stood near the entrance. Her fingers were still trembling. She set them on the edge of the table. She stilled them.
came toward . He bent down. His hands gripped the boy's shoulders. His fingers were hard, worn by the chisel. He turned him toward the light.
He was searching for the infant he had lost. He found only a boy who looked back at him. The eyes did not lower. They did not cry. They were open. Direct.
released his shoulders. He stepped back. His heels struck the cedar block again. His lips parted. Then closed again.
"Fifteen months," he said. "This is no baby."
"He grew, there," said .
took 's right hand. He turned the palm upward. He searched for the thumb. He saw smooth skin. No honey. No milk. The thumb was dry.
"How did he eat?" said .
"Allah feeds whom He wills," said .
let go of the hand. He stepped back toward the bench. His eyes went from the door to the child. Then to the idols. Then to the child again. His fingers trembled. He set them on the cedar block to still them.
"The soldiers are still searching," he said. "The priest came to the workshop this morning. He asked questions."
"They are searching for newborns," said . "This one walks."
picked up the cedar block. He set it on the bench. His fingers still trembled. The rasp lay on the ground. He did not pick it up. He looked at the wood. He did not touch it.
"He will say he is my brother's son," said . "My brother died at Haran. No one will ask questions over one more orphan. He will work with me. He will carry the wood."
looked at the cedar block on the bench. The wood had the shape of a human torso. The arms had not yet emerged from the material.
climbed onto the flat roof of the house.
Dusk touched the plain. The earth was turning black.
To the south, a dark mass cut across the horizon. The great ziggurat of Ur rose toward the first stars. Fires were lit on its three terraces. The orange flames shone like fixed points of light.
The wind carried the sound of bronze horns. The priests were singing for the rising stars.
A dog barked. Once. Then silence. Then again, farther off. turned his head. He did not see the dog. He heard the silence between the barks. This silence was different from the silence of the sarb. Wider. Emptier. It held more within it.
sat on the edge of the roof. His feet hung over the void. He looked at the ziggurat. He watched the tiny men moving around the fires.
He set his hand on the roof brick. It was still warm from the sun.
climbed up behind him. She sat down beside him. She said nothing. She looked in the same direction. Her shoulders sank slowly. For the first time in a long while, her vigilance eased, just a little. She breathed out.
"Why do you look at the sky?" she said.
did not answer. He lifted his head. His neck stretched. His eyes wide.
The moon appeared. Not round. A sliver. White. It rose behind the ziggurat. It lit one side of the city. The other side stayed black.
A star appeared. Then another. Then ten. Then too many to count. They hung there. Still. Distant. Farther than the city. Farther than the wind.
raised his arm. His fingers curled. He wanted to touch. The sky was too high. He lowered his arm.
set her hand on his shoulder. Warm. She squeezed his shoulder.
"It is vast," said .
did not answer. She squeezed his shoulder. A little harder.
He did not sleep. He did not close his eyes. He watched until the roof stones turned cold. Until the lights of the city went out one by one. Until the silence was complete.
lifted him. He did not resist. His head fell against her shoulder. His eyes stayed open. They were still watching when she carried him into the house.