The Euphrates was now no more than a gray line of water winding between dry reeds. For days, , , and had walked along the clay banks, guiding the animals whose hooves raised a fine white dust. The plain of Ur had faded behind the horizon, replaced by low hills where the grass yellowed under the east wind. Hanging from the neck of the first waterskin, a strip of linen dyed brown by Nūnā beat against the worn leather. It was the only mark of the home left behind, a remnant of dark color that recalled the threshold of 's workshop. The goats walked slowly, heads low, searching for the rare green shoots amid the limestone.
Harran appeared at the day's decline. Its gray clay houses, raised in tight clusters like beehives, stood at the crossroads of trading paths. At the entrance to the city, the great ziggurat of Sîn dominated the flat rooftops. stopped for a moment at the sight of the temple, his body frozen before the brick steps, before quickening his pace at 's gesture. The wind carried the heavy scent of resin incense burning on the raised altars, mixed with the drone of chants the linen-robed priests intoned from the upper terraces. Cattle merchants and scribes bowed on the brick steps, their foreheads brushing the fired stone. passed the temple without slowing his pace. His eyes stayed fixed on the dusty road opening beyond the walls, ignoring the silver effigies gleaming in the shadow of the gateways. The rumble of the chants faded behind them as the last houses of Harran merged into the steppe. For the first time since Ur, no voice spoke his name.
He had already left these gods before leaving their cities.
Between Harran and the land of Canaan, the desert stretched like a sea of gray stones. At night, the cold settled over the steppe, freezing the sweat of the day's walk. They pitched their single tent beneath the immense dome of stars. sat outside, his back against a cold rock, watching the slow movement of constellations that no longer had a temple. Beside him, slept in the silence of the steppe, wrapped in her cloak. No chant rose from the plain, no ziggurat blocked the horizon. The land was empty of men, immense and bare beneath the watch of the sky.
The following days passed without mark. counted the wells on his fingers to measure the distance covered; counted nothing. He walked ahead, his staff striking the dry ground at steady intervals, and this sound alone set the rhythm of their days, replacing the tumult of Ur's streets with a slower cadence, closer to breath.
The descent toward the south was a slow crossing of arid hills. As they moved deeper into the lands of Canaan, the sky stayed a fixed white, empty of the faintest cloud. The promised land was nothing but a plain of yellow dust where the olive trees shed their green leaves before their season. The irrigation channels were beds of cracked mud where the animals licked the dry stones. The goats refused to rise, their hollow flanks beating against their thin ribs.
Beneath the black wool tent pitched against the rock, took the last barley loaf baked on the hot stones. Her fingers, deft and quiet, broke it into two equal shares, which she set before and , keeping for herself only the crumbs left on the clay plate. Outside, approached a ewe lying near the tether stake. Her eyes were already veiled with a gray film. He tilted his leather flask, letting the last warm drops of water run over the animal's dry muzzle. The ewe stirred her nostrils faintly, but her head sank back onto the dusty ground. A young lamb, born two moons before, lay down beside her without a cry. crouched in the dust near the animal, his hands resting on his knees, watching the flank that ceased to rise. looked at the still carcass, then turned his eyes south.
"We go down," he said.
They abandoned the dry-stone pens of Canaan to take up the southward road again, driven on by the scorching wind that finished off the pastures. For weeks they followed the caravan tracks descending toward the great river. The nights grew milder. Water birds gradually replaced the vultures of the hills.
At the edge of the fertile valley, the first canals of Egypt appeared amid fields of green wheat stretching as far as the eye could see. On the black earth dikes, the guards of the Egyptian king patrolled on light wooden chariots drawn by swift horses. Their bronze spears gleamed under the harsh light of the delta. and stopped in the thick shade of a wild sycamore to let the weary animals rest. placed his hands on 's shoulders, his fingers feeling the coarse weave of her veil. His mouth opened to speak, but his lips closed in a tight line before parting again. He fell silent for a moment, watching the distant river, then explained to her the custom of the lords of this valley, who seized the wives of strangers and killed the husbands to remove any obstacle.
"There is no believer on this earth but you and I." His fingers spread over the leather of the saddlebag. "If the men of that palace question you, say that you are my sister."
looked at him for a long moment, without blinking. She bowed her head once.
The king's palace rose at the center of the city of decorated brick. Painted cedar columns supported high ceilings where blue birds were depicted amid reeds of gold. Alabaster cups filled with myrrh oil breathed out a heavy, sweet scent, while women musicians plucked ivory harp strings in the dimness of the galleries. was brought into the great audience hall by servants with eyelids painted in black kohl. She stood on the white plaster floor, her plain linen tunic of Canaan standing out against the pleated linens and glass jewelry of the court women.
She asked for a vessel of water. A young servant brought her a cup of red clay. In a corner of the room, away from the eyes of the courtiers, poured the water over her hands, rubbed her forearms, and passed her damp fingers over her face and hair. The water ran down her left wrist, wetting the red wool ribbon whose dye left a rosy trace on her fair skin. Her movements were slow, measured, repeating the ritual of purification with the same precision as beneath the tent in Canaan. She turned toward the place where was accustomed to stand in prayer, and began her invocation in a low voice.
Outside, in the palace's outer courtyard, stood in prayer beneath the vertical sun that made the air above the pavement shimmer. The guards' camels chewed their cud in the shade of the brick walls. did not move, his body tense and motionless before the desert. The sun climbed higher, the stone beneath his bare feet grew burning as the sole of an oven, and sweat began to soak his linen tunic, tracing long dark lines on the coarse cloth. He made no move to wipe it away, remaining fixed in his silent petition.
The king entered the audience hall. His woven papyrus sandals clicked with a dry sound on the smooth plaster floor. At the sight of him, the servants prostrated themselves, their foreheads touching the painted tiles. The tyrant approached , his eyes fixed on the clarity of her face, which the veil no longer quite concealed. He raised his right hand, his gold-ringed fingers reaching to seize her shoulder. For the space of a heartbeat, the room hung suspended in the silence of the harps. His fingers were only two inches from the linen.
closed her eyes, her fingers twisting the red ribbon around her wrist.
"O Allah, if You know that I believe in You and Your messenger, and that I have kept my body chaste save for my husband — then do not let this disbeliever have power over me."
The silence of the audience hall did not change. The Pharaoh took another step, his hand almost touching the linen of her tunic.
"Do not let him touch me."
Before the king's fingers could brush the cloth, his breath stopped short. His throat contracted in a hoarse wheeze and his face turned purple from sudden suffocation. His right arm froze in the air, hard and heavy as a dead oak branch. He collapsed to his knees, his nails scraping the white plaster of the floor. His trembling lips managed to form the words:
"Pray to your God for me, and I will not touch you."
prayed quietly for him to be released:
"O Allah, if he dies, they will say I killed him."
The spasm released at once. Air rushed back into the Pharaoh's chest, and his arm regained its suppleness. He rose again, breathing with difficulty, but as soon as the pain eased, he stood and reached for her a second time. This time the seizure was even more violent: his jaw clenched, his limbs shaken by brutal tremors, and he fell heavily to the floor, unable to breathe. He begged again, promising to let her go. prayed a second time, and the king was freed, pale, his body covered in cold sweat.
Some hands freeze before they touch linen.
No one moved. The harps had gone silent. The guards and servants stood frozen along the walls, not daring to lift their eyes to , who stood at the center of the room. The king himself, drawn back onto his low cedar seat, avoided meeting her steady gaze. His voice, once forceful, was now only a trembling murmur as he ordered his ministers to see her out.
"This is not a being of flesh you have brought me," he said, "but a force beyond my reach. Let her go."
To appease the invisible power watching over her, he ordered that Hajar be given to her, the daughter of the fallen king of Memphis whose royal house his armies had defeated. Hajar stepped forward among the servants. Despite her plain fine-linen tunic trimmed with small blue faience beads at the collar, she walked with her head held high, her bearing betraying the pride of royal blood that captivity had not broken. She took three steps and placed herself behind , matching her stride to hers.
As she passed through the bronze gates, paused a moment to adjust her linen veil before rejoining in the sunlit courtyard. He was still standing under the midday sun, bare feet on the burning stone, finishing his prayer. Seeing her approach, he raised the index finger of his right hand.
"What happened?" he asked.
stopped before him, her face having lost none of its usual calm.
"Allah drove back the tyrant's arm," she said. "And here is Hajar."
rested his gaze on the young Egyptian woman standing a little behind. Hajar approached the pack animal without being told. Her hands, though slender and once accustomed to the softness of the palace of Memphis, took hold of the great new leather waterskin, filled with fresh water from the Nile, and lifted it with a precise motion to load it onto the animal's flank. The small group set off north, leaving the green fields of the delta to return to the hills of Canaan. The steady beat of the full waterskin against the animal's flank marked the rhythm of their silent progress along the caravan track.
Hajar said nothing. She walked behind , matching her pace to hers. The new waterskin beat against her shoulder.