Thirteen years had passed since the day left the infant and his mother beneath the wild acacia of the uncultivated valley. At Hebron, the winter rains had carved new furrows in the limestone, and the cisterns had filled and emptied without 's face reappearing beneath the tent. Sometimes, caravanners coming from the south spoke of a spring that had burst forth among the black stones, and of a boy growing up among the nomads of , learning their language and shooting the bow. listened to these accounts without a word, his hands resting on his bony knees. He was ninety-nine years old.
The flocks of sheep grazed slowly under the shepherds' watch in the highlands of Canaan, where the oaks of Mamre spread their black shadow over the stony ground. Beyond the arid ridges, the plain of the Jordan sank toward the Salt Sea, where now dwelt among the cities of bitumen. , for her part, remained barren beneath her tent of black wool, and no longer counted the barren moons.
The day was at its height. The midday heat crushed the hills, making the air shimmer above the white stones as above a brick kiln. The sheep huddled heads low beneath the rare shade of the oaks, their flanks heaving at a rapid rhythm. sat at the entrance of his tent, his back against the wooden post.
squinted toward the ridge. A few moments earlier, there had been no one on the line of white limestone. Then, suddenly, three silhouettes were already walking in the shimmering light, descending the slope with a regular step.
straightened up, his hand gripping the tent wood. The strangers advanced with a regular step beneath the vertical sun. Their linen tunics kept a perfect white, as if fresh from a chest. Their feet glided over the dry track without leaving a trace, and their clear eyes faced the glare of the rock with an almost mineral immobility.
ran to meet them, his sandals slapping against the stone. He bowed before them, palm to chest.
"Salam," he said.
"Salam," they answered in a voice that resonated without effort through the empty valley.
guided them beneath the shade of the great oak of Mamre. He had a plaster basin brought, filled with cool water to wash their feet, but none of them made a move to untie his leather thongs.
"Rest here," he said, "while I go fetch what will strengthen your steps. You shall not pass before your servant's tent without breaking bread."
He slipped quickly inside the linen partition. was preparing the barley flour there, her attentive gaze sliding through the gap in the cloth to observe the three motionless silhouettes beneath the oak.
"Hurry," he murmured, his mouth opening twice before the word came out. "Take three measures of fine flour, knead them, and bake cakes on the hot stones."
nodded, her hands already working in the clay of the basin. While she turned the barley cakes on the burning stones, ran down the hill, to where the beasts sought shade. He chose a fat, tender calf whose coat still shone, and handed it to the young servant waiting beneath the sun. The bronze knife flashed once.
The servant dug a pit in the hard earth, arranging limestone stones that he heated white-hot with acacia wood. Once the embers were ready, he laid the prepared meat there for the hanīdh cooking. The hot stones crackled beneath the calf's fat, releasing a rich smell of cooked meat that rose toward the camp. The hole was covered with earth to keep the heat and smother the fire.
The roasted calf, golden in its own juices and tender, was arranged on a large cedar-wood platter. brought it himself, accompanied by fresh curdled milk and soft butter. Through the tent opening, stood in the shade, her eyes fixed on the guests.
set the steaming platter before the three strangers.
"Will you not eat?" he asked.
The strangers looked at the platter, but their arms remained motionless on their knees. The grease beading on the roast cooled slowly beneath the oak's shade, congealing on the edge of the wood. Their chests remained still, with no breath of hunger lifting them.
looked at the platter. His hands, resting on his thighs, drew back an inch. The hot wind lifted ash from the hearth, but beneath the oak's shade, the roast grease began to whiten and congeal on the cedar wood. In the plain, the traveler who refuses food hides a knife or announces a blood vengeance. moved no more, his breath locked in his chest.
The three men raised their eyes to him.
"Do not fear, ," said the one who stood in the middle. "We are the emissaries of your Lord, sent to the people of ."
felt the stiffness leave his limbs, but his eyes remained fixed on their unlined faces.
"Fear nothing," added the second. "We come to announce to you the birth of a son full of knowledge."
Behind the woolen partition of the tent, had pressed against the cloth, her ear strained toward the whisper of the wind. Her barren face, marked by ninety years of waiting, tightened under the shock of the promise.
"We announce to you Isḥāq," said the messengers, "and after Isḥāq, Yaʿqūb."
A dry laugh, almost a cackle, escaped from behind the cloth. came out of the tent, her face creased. Her right palm struck her forehead with a sharp blow.
"Woe to me!" she cried. "Shall I bear a child when I am an old woman, and my husband here is an old man? This is a wondrous thing!"
The first messenger turned his shadowless gaze toward her.
"Do you marvel at the decree of Allah?" he said. "May the mercy of Allah and His blessings be upon you, people of the house. He is worthy of praise and glorification."
lowered her eyes. Through the linen partition, her gaze slid toward her own left wrist. The skin there was white, stripped of the red wool cord she had given thirteen years earlier to seal the departure.
A dry leaf from the oak of Mamre detached itself, turned slowly in the hot wind, before falling back onto the cedar-wood platter where the meat remained untouched. Silence returned beneath the great oak of Mamre, while the sun began its slow descent toward the salt sea.