Smoke from the brick kilns drifted in through the workshop's half-closed shutters, gray and warm. It hung above the packed earth. Red cedar sawdust had gathered around the base of the anvil, in pale heaps that the day's footsteps had trampled flat. On the great oak bench, 's tools were not arranged in their usual order. The heavy boxwood mallet lay beside the wood rasp. The great bronze chisel lay crosswise, its edge pointing into empty air. The slanting light of late afternoon cut the room in two. On one side, white dust danced in the beam of light. On the other, gloom.
stood in that shadowed half. His arms hung at his sides, his fingers tightened on the wood of the bench until his knuckles whitened. His shoulders were bent, almost drawn in, as though beneath the weight of too heavy a lintel. When the latch of the front door moved, he did not startle. He only raised his chin, his gaze fixed on the unfinished Ningal idol before him.
came in. His sandals stopped at the edge of the light. He no longer carried the basket on his right shoulder. His hands stayed still along his thighs, open and empty. Silence settled between them, heavy with a heat that would not abate.
did not turn his head. His eyes slid over the cedar hip of the goddess Ningal, then he spoke. His voice was low, almost a murmur, but its tone was dry.
"Do you seek to turn away from my gods, O ?"
The name fell into the room with the hardness of a flat stone. The usual words of the workshop, the formulas of apprenticeship, the word "son" — all of it was gone.
did not take another step. He slowly pressed the thumb of his left hand against his index finger. The nail dug into the flesh. The rising unease stayed contained there. His eyes swept the row of idols lined along the brick shelves: the gray clay faces, the white cedar shapes, the empty eyes his father had not yet painted.
"This statue of Ningal," he said, "you carved it last night. The wood was still damp beneath your chisel."
closed his eyes for a second. His fingers tightened further on the edge of the bench, leaving dark marks on the dry wood.
"She protects the house from fevers and hot winds," the father said. "Your ancestors set their offerings before her long before your father built this roof."
"If fire took hold of this workshop tonight," said , "Ningal would burn first. She could not step away from the flame. Who among them would protect you then?"
turned away abruptly. He seized the iron rasp on the bench and began scraping the flank of the wooden statue. The harsh, steady sound of metal on cedar fiber filled the workshop. It nearly drowned out their breathing. Small shavings fell onto his bare feet, but he did not stop. His rasping was fast, too hard. It threatened to ruin the curve of the hip. He was fleeing the question, his eyes locked on the grain of the cedar. He did not meet his son's gaze.
A piece of bark broke loose from the wood and fell to the packed earth. It rolled once, then stopped in the dust.
set down the rasp. Silence returned, more suffocating than the noise had been. The father took a step toward . He came halfway out of the gloom. His face was marked by the wrinkles of age and sweat, but his eyes were wide open, bright with a panic his mouth did not express. The priests of the Ziggurat had passed by the temple after the outcry at the market. 's guards were watching the Hurmuzjard canal. He knew as much.
"The scribes have written your name on their clay tablets," said . His voice had dropped to a lower pitch, hoarse, tight in his throat. "If you do not stop your blasphemies, the crowd will drag you out through the gate. I will be the first to stone you, to save this house."
did not flinch. His hands stayed still along his thighs. He set his flat palm against his chest.
turned away completely. His bent back faced . He seized the chisel at his belt, then set it back down without using it.
"Keep away from me for a long while," he said.
pressed his thumb against his index finger, slowly, the nail sinking into the flesh. This time the gesture went unanswered. There was nothing left to hold onto — no thumb, no milk, no mother's voice in the dark of the sarb. There was only his father's bent back, already moving away.
The word of banishment fell without appeal. It was the order of distance, the end of the household, the breaking of the apprenticeship bond. turned back toward the rear of the workshop, where the wood was piled. He began putting away useless scraps of cedar. His movements were mechanical. The room already seemed empty.
watched his father's back recede into the gloom. He drew a slow breath, then spoke in a gentle voice that carried no anger.
"Peace be upon you. I will ask my Lord to forgive you. He has always been gracious to me."
did not answer. The dull sound of a cedar log being set against the brick wall was the only reply. He kept moving the wood. He avoided the slightest eye contact.
took three steps toward his own apprentice's bench. He looked at the tools his father had given him on the first day: the pine mallet, the horn awl, and his small chisel of raw bronze. He picked up the last of these. The metal was cold, marked by the imprint of his fingers and years of work.
He went to the great iron anvil used for straightening points. set the chisel's edge against the iron rim. He pressed down with his full weight, slowly, without striking or making a sound. The bronze resisted at first, rigid. Then the metal began to bend under the steady pressure of his palm. It creaked faintly. The bronze rod twisted. It lost its straight line. It became useless for any carving.
set the bent tool down among the cedar shavings scattered on the bench. It was a gesture of final closure, without anger.
"I am leaving this house," he said. "And what you invoke within it."
had stopped moving at the back of the room. He was looking at the apprentice's bench, his eyes fixed on the twisted shape of bronze gleaming in the red sawdust. He said not a word. His arms fell to his sides.
slung his gray wool bag over his left shoulder. He crossed the room at a calm pace and passed through the workshop door into the inner courtyard of the house.
In the courtyard, was waiting for him near the wall of dried reeds. His knees visibly trembled beneath his pale cloth tunic, but his hands stayed steady. He held a new goatskin waterskin and a pair of walking sandals with thick leather straps. Without a word, he came up to and slid the sandals and the waterskin into the open bag. His fingers brushed the gray wool, then he stepped back two paces to return to the shadow of the wall.
The warm afternoon wind blew across the courtyard. The dried reeds of the roof began to rustle. A loose brick near the well shifted in the wind with a small, sharp sound.
stood straight in the outer doorway that opened onto the alley of Hurmuzjard. The red wool cord held her hair back. With her right hand, she pushed open the heavy raw-wood door to clear the way to the street. She did not look at . Her dark eyes, long and fixed, stayed turned toward the inside of the workshop. They met 's gaze directly, where he watched from the gloom. She held that gaze without flinching. Her presence alone, still as stone, said enough of her dissent. She lowered her eyes only when reached her and crossed the threshold.
Nūnā had stayed near the great empty water trough, her back to the household. Her shoulders were still, but her breath came in fits, short then long, beyond her control. She did not intervene, did not cry out, and shed no tear. Her right hand rested for a moment on her bare wrist, where her copper bracelet had once left a pale mark on her sun-browned skin. Then her hand fell back against her thigh. She stayed like that, silent, facing the mudbrick wall.
passed through the outer doorway. The packed-earth alley was empty beneath the white sun beginning its descent toward the horizon. Dust rose in thin clouds beneath his walking sandals with every step that carried him away from the house. He walked toward the Hurmuzjard canal, arms at his sides, without once looking back.
Inside the workshop, the gloom had spread. slowly approached the apprentice's bench. He reached his fingers toward the cedar shavings and picked up the small bronze chisel had bent. The twisted metal was heavy in his callused palm. He braced it against the iron rim of the anvil, placing both thumbs on the curve of the bronze, and pushed with all his strength to try to straighten it. His knuckles went white. His chest heaved with the effort, but the twisted bronze did not move a hair's width. He could not do it. He let the tool fall back onto the bench with a dull sound.
The cedar sawdust stayed on the floor. No one swept it away.
He called upon his Lord. The alley was empty.