“When a man is this weak, you do not ask him what he wants.” He forces himself to stay calm. “Pillows. Bring me pillows”
Tzidkiyahu’s cave, where they go each day to quarry the glistening white stone, is wide — cavern after cavern, a vast underground stone city.
Eliyahu’s cave near Tzfat was roomy: a good size for one man to make a home, with a corner for sleeping and another for study and eating. But this cave is narrow and shallow; no more, really, than a great crack within the hills. When Eliyahu sits down, back to the wall, his legs touch the other side. He flattens his feet and pushes, hard. His back presses against the uneven stone and pain spreads through his back.
No matter.
He eases into a sitting position, and then, unsure of what to do, he opens the package that Bilhah handed him. There is bread, but he has no means of washing his hands. There’s a water pouch, but it is only enough for drinking. The cheese. He takes a bite and tries to swallow, but it forms a salty lump at the back of his mouth.
He coughs.
Outside, night closes in. He feels around him, and his hands close on his basket of herbs. He thought to give it to Bilhah, tell her how to prepare it for Yannai, but shocked and afraid, they both ran.
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