The sun was sinking behind the western ridges, stretching the black shadow of the great oak across the limestone flagstones. The midday heat had dissipated, replaced by the first cool breath rising from the ravines. Before the cedar platter where the roasted calf rested untouched beneath its congealed fat, the three strangers stood motionless. Their smooth faces remained clear, but their eyes had turned from to fix on the east, where the plateau of Canaan dropped sharply toward the fault of the Jordan.
The messenger in the middle broke the silence. His voice no longer held the gentleness of the announcement of Isḥāq; it was heavy and cold as bronze.
"We are going to destroy the inhabitants of that city," he said, pointing toward the depths of the plain. "Its inhabitants are unjust."
took a step back. His fingers tightened on his gray wool tunic. At the bottom of the geological fault, where the earth descended lower than the waters of the great sea, rose the walls of Sodom and Gomorrah. had lived there since the day of their separation on the ridge of Hebron.
closed his eyes for a moment. In the darkness of his memory, his cousin's face reappeared. He saw as an adolescent, running behind him through the red clay dust of Ur's outskirts, his small sandals too big clapping against the ground. He remembered the cold nights on the road to Harran, when the boy slept rolled in his cape near the dying embers of the hearth, and the weight of his sleeping head against his shoulder. The memory of his waterskin, nearly empty, during the crossing of the northern desert beneath a sky of copper, came back too. They had shared the same dust, the same exile. The flocks too, on the slopes of Canaan.
stepped toward the messenger. His knees trembled beneath the weight of his years, but his voice rose, urgent.
"Will you destroy a city where there are three hundred believers?" he asked.
The three strangers answered together, without a breath of hesitation, their voices merging in a single flat accord:
"If we find three hundred believers there, we will not destroy the city."
The land wind fell. looked toward the eastern ridge, there, beyond which the plateau plunged into the void. No movement troubled the line of rock. He took another step, his hands outstretched, palms open toward the sky. A low groan rose from his chest. His lips trembled again before he spoke.
"And if there are two hundred believers there?"
"We will spare it for two hundred."
tightened his fingers on his olive-wood staff. The wood was dry, polished by years of walking. His knuckles whitened under the pressure. He took a step toward the motionless emissaries.
"And if there are forty?"
"We will hold back our hand."
The evening light was fading rapidly, casting long violet streaks across the limestone terraces. felt the cold of the shadow overtaking him. He turned briefly toward the threshold of the tent. stood there. She did not move, arms at her sides, her fixed gaze resting on the strangers, her stone presence silhouetted against the dark canvas. then remembered the closed face of 's wife, her hostile silence when they had crossed the rivers together, and the way she had turned away from them on the day of departure.
He turned his gaze back to the strangers.
"And if there are fourteen?"
"For fourteen as well."
's brow furrowed beneath the cool wind.
"And if there are ten?"
"For ten as well."
felt his throat tighten. The number was descending, and the silence of the heights of Hebron seemed to weigh heavier with each refusal of the angels to name the believers of the plain. He planted the end of his staff in a crack of the flagstone.
"And if there are only five just ones?"
"Even for five."
There was nothing left. took a final step, so close to the emissaries that he could see the flat clarity of their faces, hard and smooth as limestone polished by the water of torrents.
"And if there is a single believing man there? A single just one?"
"We will not destroy the city for a single just one."
let go of his staff, which fell without sound onto the loose earth at the edge of the flagstone. On the threshold of the tent, instinctively took a step forward, then froze again, arms hanging.
"But is there!"
The angel in the middle raised his hand, stopping the last murmurs of evening beneath the oak.
"We know better who is there," he replied in a tone that brooked no appeal. "We will surely save him, and his family, except his wife. She will be among those who remain behind to be destroyed."
wanted to speak again, but the flat clarity of the angel's face, hard as the stone of the mountains, stopped him.
"O , give this up," said the messenger. "The decree of your Lord has indeed come. An irreversible punishment is coming to them."
's shoulders sagged. His lips moved without any sound emerging, then he slowly lowered his head.
The three men turned away. Their movements were fluid, without the natural sway of men's walking. They did not take the caravan path. They walked toward the east, cutting through the wild rubble of the arid slope. followed them with his eyes until their white tunics were nothing but three points of light in the blue dusk of the valley. Then the sandstone ridge hid them from his sight.
remained alone beneath the great oak of Mamre. Silence settled over the height, immense and cold. He turned toward the flagstone where the feast meal had been served a few hours earlier. The roasted calf braised in its own juices rested on the cedar platter, its white fat congealed into a hard crust on the edge of the wood. The barley cakes, baked by , were beginning to harden and crack beneath the dry wind. The curdled milk reflected nothing but the first stars. No one had touched the food. sat on the stone, his back against the rough trunk of the oak, his hands resting flat on his knees.
The night that followed was heavy. Beneath the black wool tent, remained motionless, seated on the reed mat, her eyes fixed on the darkness. walked beneath the oaks. The usual coolness of Canaan's nights had not come. The air stayed warm, stagnant in the hollow of the hills. No dog barked in the neighboring camps. No cricket chirped in the thorn bushes. The silence was total, without a breath of wind to stir the canvas of the tent.
In the middle of the night, when the constellations had turned toward the west, opened his eyes. A change had occurred in the air. The wind had risen, blowing from the southeast with abnormal heat. It brought with it a heavy smell of burning bitumen, calcined stone, and sulfur. rose and walked to the edge of the camp, but the darkness was total. The invisible plain returned no reflection, no gleam of fire, only that acrid smell that clung to the throat.
At dawn, as soon as the first gray line appeared above the mountains of Moab, resumed his walk. He climbed toward the highest limestone ridge, the one that overlooked the plain of the Jordan.
An absolute silence enveloped the mountain. Even the birds nesting in the cliffs remained motionless. No flock moved on the arid slopes, and the shepherds of Hebron stood motionless near their tents, their eyes turned toward the east. waited for a cry or the rustle of a leaf, but nothing came.
looked toward the plain.
There where the green palm groves of the Jordan and the orchards of Sodom had stretched the day before, the earth had changed color. A column of black smoke, greasy and heavy, rose from the bottom of the geological fault. It climbed straight toward the pale sky, similar to the dense vapor escaping from an active brick furnace. The smoke spread as it rose, forming an immense dark veil that masked the light of the rising sun.
Beneath the gray ash that fell slowly, the Sea of Salt gleamed with a metallic and dead luster. The entire plain was devastated. planted his olive-wood staff in a crack of the limestone rock. His knees buckled, and he fell onto the stony ground, pressing his forehead against the cold stone. At his feet, the gray dust was slowly erasing the traces of his sandals.