The large limestone blocks no longer moved. The black and naked temple rose at the center of the hollow, forming a rectangle of raw stone that cut the wind. At its feet, the red sand had settled back into place, smoothed by the light breezes descending from the cliffs. The white midday light struck the green basalt of the foundations, making dark water reflections run across it. A few stone shards and fragments of broken basalt still lay in the dust, last witnesses of the summer worksite.
The work was finished. and his son remained several days near the structure. They no longer built. Sometimes, bent down to push aside a tuft of dry reeds or pick up a sharp flint flake. Their bronze tools rested under the acacia, covered with a thin film of ochre dust. They drank water from the Zamzam well in a polished wooden bowl, passing it from hand to hand under the moving shade of the thorny leaves.
In the morning, the old man approached the roofless wall. He tried to lift a rectangular block still on the ground, as if to test his own strength before the long journey. His arms trembled under the weight of the grey limestone, and his old muscles refused the effort.
Before his old bones could bend, was already there. The man seized the grey stone in his arms. He lifted it without a breath and set it farther away, in the alignment of the eastern wall's shadow.
let his hands fall. He continued walking along the wall, his step slow, as if his son's gesture had been planned since the evening before.
At dusk, they sat under the acacia near the Zamzam well. The smoke from the dry wood fire rose straight into the blue sky, then dissipated without sound above the ridges. The hunting dog, lean and fawn-colored, slept with its muzzle against its paws, its breath moving the dry acacia pods fallen to the ground.
broke the barley bread baked under the ashes. The scent of roasted grain mingled with the smell of dried sweat and dust. His calloused fingers cut the thickest piece to offer to his father. took the loaf without protest. His worn teeth chewed the hard grain slowly.
In the evening, when wanted to fill the wooden bowl at the well, 's hand rested gently on his to take the vessel and lower the leather cord into the shadow of the water. When the night gusts shook the tent canvas, the old man had no time to stretch his arm to secure its edges: his son had already driven the pegs deeper into the sand.
When the eastern wall's shadow reached the well, rose. rose almost at the same instant. They stood side by side before the House of stone. When they finished their prayer, only the wind answered their greeting.
At night, the valley air grew cold and dry. They lay on woven reed mats, eyes open on the black vault. No word broke the silence of the plain.
They now knew the same constellations. Their eyes followed the path of the red star behind the Bakka ridges.
A sudden coolness descended from the eastern cliffs. The wind changed direction, sweeping the plain with a continuous murmur. The air grew denser, as if under the weight of an invisible presence that guided their steps in the immensity of the hollow.
rose. He nodded to .
They left the tree's shade to walk on the white limestone. Their steps led them to the flank of the first rocky hill. The stone was burning under the heels, and the white dust stung the skin of bare feet.
walked ahead, his breath short on the steep climb. His fingers gripped the olive wood of his walking staff. At the top of the first rocky mound, he stopped. His eyes swept the empty hollow, then he descended toward the sandy depression to climb the opposite hill, his gaze fixed on the horizon line.
followed two paces behind, matching his step to the old man's. His feet left clear prints in the soft sand.
They crossed the plain to enter the narrow defile of Mina. The rocky gorge was crushed by sun. The heat was trapped between two walls of white limestone, drying the travelers' throats. slowed his pace.
He stopped before the mound of stones and the red limestone slab. His right hand moved forward. His fingers brushed the rough surface of the flat stone, where the iron blade had slid over 's skin.
The man watched his father's gesture. He said nothing.
The south wind rushed between the two limestone walls. withdrew his hand and resumed his walk toward the plain of Bakka.
The black and empty temple waited under the white afternoon sky. The two men stood before the eastern wall, where the sealed stone in the angle caught the day's faint light.
raised his arms. His palms were turned toward the sky, his hands open to the desert wind.
The recitation began. His voice was low, matched to his heavy breath.
"Our Lord..."
The murmur was lost in the empty hollow. The wind passed between the dry stone joints. kept his hands open, his eyes fixed on the Kaaba's limestone.
"... make us both submissive to You."
A whistle of hot air rose from the ravines.
"And from our descendants, a community submissive to You."
The ochre dust swirled around his ankles.
"Show us our rites..."
caught his breath. His old shoulders trembled under the weight of the white sky.
"... and accept our repentance. For You are the Accepter of Repentance, the Merciful."
The east wind blew stronger, shaking the acacia leaves in the distance. closed his eyes. His dry lips moved again for the last request.
"Our Lord! Send among them a Messenger from themselves, who will recite to them Your verses and teach them the Book. Let him teach them Wisdom, and let him purify them."
His voice faded almost into the murmur of the hot air.
"For You are the Powerful, the Wise."
Silence returned to the plain of Bakka. The stones would keep them longer than men.
On the morning of departure, the dew had not had time to form on the acacia. The sky was pale grey, tinted with an orange glow on the ridge line. tied the straps of his worn leather sandals.
He took his old polished olive-wood staff. seized his reed bow.
They walked together toward the north, along the caravan track. Their steps led them to the sandy pass that closed the plain. The morning wind brought the coolness of the mountains.
They stopped at the crest summit. Bakka was now nothing but a hollow of red limestone under the newborn light. The dark shape of the Kaaba could be made out at the center, small and solitary in the immensity of the hollow.
No farewell word was spoken. Neither of them knew if the roads would cross again.
turned his face toward his son. His right hand rested on 's shoulder. He pressed the wide muscle, exactly where his son had placed his own on the day of his arrival.
The man did not move. His eyes remained fixed on the desert track.
withdrew his fingers. He turned and began his descent toward Canaan. remained motionless at the pass summit. His silhouette grew smaller with each step of the old man, before blending into the grey limestone.
The return to Canaan was long. The landscapes changed slowly, passing from the red scree of the Hejaz to the hills covered with dusty olive trees. crossed the arid plains of the Negev, sleeping under the stars of Palestine.
When he crossed the Hebron ridges, the old man found the flocks grazing on the slopes. He saw again the great Mamre oak whose bark had thickened with grey ridges, and the flat stones of the well he had dug long ago. Everything was in its place. Nothing had changed, except him.
sat before the tent, under the shade of the foliage. The years had deeply marked her face. Her skin was fine like worn parchment, and her hands trembled when she offered him a bowl of cool water.
She did not rise. Her clear eyes looked at the old man without speaking a word. Her silence was that of the trees and the earth tired by the harvests.
The winters whitened the Mamre hills several times. The cold north wind brought rain on the grey olive trees. passed away at the end of a shearing season, when the wool was still stored in the reed baskets.
bought the double cave of Hebron to lay her remains there. On a flat stone, he placed the agreed weight of silver, the coins ringing on the slab without him discussing the price with the people of the land. The limestone slab was cleared, and the body was laid there in silence.
Then time continued its course.
The old man's joints grew painful. His hands could no longer tie the ropes of the wool tent. His white beard touched his chest when he walked bent under the Canaan wind.
One morning, his breath grew slower. He did not rise from his mat.
arrived from the Hejaz as the sun declined over the valley. His mount was covered with white dust, and his garments of raw camel hair kept the smell of the Bakka desert.
Near the tent, Isḥāq waited. His hands were finer, marked by the grease of sheep's wool. His white wool tunic was of a tight weave, different from the raw wool of the desert.
The two brothers greeted each other with a simple nod. They entered under the black canvas.
's body lay in the center, cold and motionless. In silence, they washed their father's limbs with warm water and myrrh oil. Their fingers wiped the travel dust from the wrinkled skin.
Then they lifted the olive-wood bier.
's hand, calloused and scarred by the green basalt, placed itself under the wood. Beside him, Isḥāq's hand, softer and with clean nails, supported the weight.
They carried the body to the cave entrance. The closing slab slid with a dull friction. It sealed the tomb of and .
The two brothers came back out under the Mamre oak.
approached his mount. He stopped a moment, his gaze resting on the ground. His fingers reached toward 's old olive-wood staff, left leaning against the tree trunk.
He took it in silence, then mounted to resume the southern track. The wind swept the dust from the road.
The wind swept the last footprint.
But it could do nothing against the words left at Bakka.
Above the hills of Canaan, the same stars were already rising.