The journey from the plains of Canaan had worn his joints. walked with a slow step, his heel heavy on the valley limestone, his fingers tight around the dry wood of his walking staff. His beard was now a uniform white, like the washed wool of the Mamre flocks, and the grey dust of the desert had settled in the deep furrows of his forehead.
When he crossed the last narrow pass opening onto the plain of Bakka, the sun was already low. The yellow light grazed the bottom of the rocky cirque, stretching the hills' shadows to an enormous length.
stopped on a rise of red earth. His eyes searched first for the camp.
In the shade of a large acacia with thorny foliage, near the Zamzam wellhead, life had settled back in. A black goat-hair tent stood there, from which rose a thin blue smoke. In the distance, a woman's figure moved about near a hearth; a young child sat on a mat playing with shards of red pottery, and a hunting dog, lean and fawn-colored, slept with its muzzle in its paws.
But the old man's gaze shifted to an empty space, a few paces from the tree.
Where 's tent once stood, there was only silence. The earth there was lighter, bounded by a circle of grey stones half-buried in the sand. At the center of this circle, a remnant of cold ashes had hardened under past rains, colonized by dry yellow grass poking between the cracks.
remained motionless for long moments. He watched the wind lift the grass blades from the dead hearth, then resumed his walk.
sat on a flat rock, his back curved. He held between his thighs a reed bow, scraping the wood with a sharp flint flake to even out its curve. His shoulders had broadened, hardened by years of hunting in the Bakka ravines. His face had taken on the firm features of desert men, marked by wind and salt.
At the sound of footsteps, the dog rose growling, then fell silent. looked up.
He set down his flint flake and stood. The bow remained on his knees a moment before sliding onto the sand.
The adolescent of Mount Mina had become a man whose stature surpassed his father's. The greeting was sober, without raised voices. approached, placed his wide calloused hand on 's shoulder, and pressed gently the old muscle tired by the road.
"You have come," said. His voice was low, assured.
inclined his head. They sat side by side on the warm rock. From where they sat, the red mound at the center of the plain barred the horizon, higher than the surrounding ground, covered with calcined stones.
looked at the reed bow at their feet, the braided gut string trailing in the dust.
"O ," the old man said. His hand tightened around the pommel of his staff. "Allah has given me an order."
The scraping of the flint had stopped in the hollow. The wind rushed under the acacia, shaking the dry leaves with a sand-whistle. did not move. His fingers tightened on the bow wood, then relaxed slowly. The wood struck the stone with a dry sound, like the blow of the olive-wood handle against the throat at Mina. Neither man spoke.
"Do what your Lord has commanded you," the man replied.
"And you will help me?" asked.
"I will help you."
raised his staff and pointed the end toward the mound of red earth rising at the center of the plain.
"Allah has commanded me to build a House here."
The next day, as soon as the sun crossed the eastern ridges, they climbed the mound. carried two heavy bronze picks on his shoulder. held a hard-wood shovel.
They began to search. The earth there was compact, mixed with hard gravel and limestone debris.
indicated a spot near the top of the earthen dome. They struck the ground. The bronze picks rang dryly, raising clouds of ochre dust that clung to their skin and burned their throats.
They dug for hours under a sun that rose quickly, erasing shadows. Their backs ached. The old man had to stop every ten blows, his breath whistling, his hands reddened by the wood of the handles. But beneath the sand and beaten earth, they found only the sterile raw rock of the hills, no trace or foundation.
By midday they had to stop. They sat at the bottom of the sterile pit, their temples throbbing, their water skins almost empty. The plain of Bakka vibrated under the heat. There was no direction to follow.
That was when a dry wind rose from the bottom of the valley.
It was not the usual desert breeze. It was a rapid, hot breath that began to turn on itself in a funnel of red dust. The wind struck the top of the mound with a sharp whistle, sweeping sand and gravel in a precise direction, drawing a perfect circle before dying out at once.
stood. He looked at the trace left by the wind: the sand had been pushed back, revealing a strip of dark earth, free of stones.
"Let us dig there," he said.
Their picks struck the ground again along the circular trace. Hardly had they driven the bronze to the depth of a forearm when a dull sound, different from ordinary limestone, resonated.
They set down their tools. Their hands sank into the loose earth to clear the stones.
Beneath the red dust appeared blocks of deep dark green basalt, polished by centuries. These stones were massive, interlocked with one another like the tight humps of a camel herd lying in the ground, sealed to the bedrock by an ancient force. An unexpected coolness rose from these green blocks, a smell of damp earth old as the world, preserved from the day's heat.
stroked the smooth surface of the green basalt.
"These are the foundations," he murmured. "The work begins."
spent his days in the ravines of the mountain that dominated the valley. With dry wooden wedges that he wet to split the granite, he detached rectangular blocks, grey and black. He loaded them on his shoulders, one by one, descending the steep slopes along the goat paths. His bulging muscles were streaked with white dust; his chest was marked by the bite of raw stone.
stayed on the mound. He received the stones, checked their plumb, and placed them on the green foundations, without mortar, adjusting the edges so the building would hold by its own weight alone.
The work was slow, measured by the rhythm of their bodies. To sustain the effort under the vertical sun, they began to sing.
It was not a song of celebration, but a monotone, dull litany, paced to their breath.
lifted a block with his powerful arms.
"Rabbana..." he said, setting his foot on the slope.
stretched his old calloused hands to guide the stone.
"... taqabbal minna..." he replied, adjusting the block against the previous one.
The dry noise of rock against rock sealed the phrase.
"... innaka Antas-Sami'ul-'Alim," they murmured together before catching their breath again.
Thus the walls rose. One stone, one recitation. The shock of blocks against rock echoed in the empty hollow, returning in echo from the cliffs to pace the work of dust and sweat.
On the third day, when the walls reached the height of a pitched tent and the afternoon sun burned the ridges, a breeze of sudden coolness swept the worksite. It smelled of living water and damp rock.
stopped. His tired eyes swept the eastern angle of the building.
In a crevice of the dark stone wall, a soft light had just appeared. A stone lay there, which neither he nor had brought from the quarries.
It was a block of matte white, like fossil salt or polished bone, that caught the shadow of the angle. approached and placed his palm on it. Despite the leaden heat that cooked the surrounding granite, this white block was ice-cold to the touch, dispensing a cold peace that penetrated his fingers and stilled the trembling of his joints.
took the white stone. He fitted it carefully into the eastern angle, where the dawn light would strike it first.
"It will mark the beginning," he said softly.
looked at the white block set in the black rock, then resumed his walk toward the mountain.
The walls rose further, surpassing 's chest. His old arms could no longer lift the grey blocks above his head; his back refused to bend to adjust the summits.
moved away toward the dried stream bed. He returned carrying with both hands a heavy yellow sandstone slab, raw and flat, which he placed at the foot of the wall, before his father.
"Stand here," said.
mounted the sandstone slab. His bare feet took purchase on the stone's rough surface.
Then a strange thing happened.
Under the old man's weight, the hard rock baked by the sun lost its rigidity. The sandstone became soft, warm, yielding under the soles of his feet like wet river mud or fresh clay. felt his heels sink slowly, the stone fitting the contour of his arch and the shape of his toes, holding him without letting him slip. Then the stone froze again under his weight, becoming a solid base.
From this raised platform, could reach the top of the wall. passed him the last grey granite blocks.
They laid the final row under the slanting light of dusk.
The old man stepped down from the yellow sandstone slab. His feet left the base.
At the center of the stone, two deep oval cavities were carved into the rock, showing the exact trace of his bare feet, with the detail of the toes imprinted in the grain of the sandstone.
They stepped back a few paces to look at the building.
It was a simple structure, about the height of two men, the length of three tents. Its walls of grey and black granite were bare, assembled without mortar. There was no roof to hide the sky, no wooden door to close the entrance, no hanging or statue to decorate the corners.
The interior was inhabited only by the emptiness of the valley and the wind that moved freely through it.
The shadow of the cliffs gained the plain, staining the limestone copper-red.
approached the bare structure. He said nothing. He stretched his right hand, brushing with his dusty fingers the rough surface of the first stone.
Then, with a slow and regular step, he began to walk along the wall.
He rounded the eastern angle where the white stone gleamed, walked the north face under the mountain's shadow, crossed the west side open to the winds, and returned by the south. He made one complete revolution, slow, his bare feet leaving light prints in the red dust.
watched his father, then fell into step behind him, walking at the same silent pace.
When they returned before the opening, the sun had disappeared behind the ridges. The sky was nothing but a vault of deep blue where the first stars lit one by one.
stopped. He raised his two hands before his face, palms open toward the sky. stood at his side, imitating his gesture.
"O our Lord! Accept this from us. For You are the All-Hearing, the All-Knowing."
The night wind rose, sweeping the ashes from 's old hearth and carrying the murmur of their prayer toward the dark ravines of the valley, while the box of black stone stood alone beneath the stars.