Good Day for a Crucifixion
	Deepsouth v.4 n.2 (Spring 1998)
Copyright (c) 1999 by Timothy J. Smith	Timothy J. Smith ,
	All rights reserved.

Issa thanked the service driver and handed him a few extra shekels for bringing him beyond his usual route. He winced as he stepped from the car. The nail wound in his foot throbbed, though he had said nothing to Nadia, not wanting to worry her. The air scorched his throat. The hot Saharan wind had blown through the night, sowing thirst and powdering the earth with a fine red sand. Billowy clouds swirled overhead in a swamp of currents and cross-currents, veining the sky with earthen rivers that surged and cast about gaseous red escarpments. The sun burned a white-hot circle in the peppery sky.

Pilgrims had gathered at first light outside Lion’s Gate. A man staggered under the weight of a wooden cross lifted to his shoulder. The cross’s attenuated shadow stretched on the stone wall, colored tangerine by the morning’s exotic light. He followed a priest through the gate, dragging the end of the cross over the cobbled path. Other pilgrims held clumsy hymnals, singing,

Beyond the gate, they emerged on the Viadolorosa and began their re-enactment of Christ’s last steps. Through song and prayer, they remembered his agony and pondered the miracle of his resurrection, and paused when the priest mounted a raised platform at the First Station. He cried out, "Let him be crucified!" as Roman soldiers had done along the same stone path two centuries earlier.

The congregation cried back, "Let him be crucified!"

A woman stepped forward, and the cross bearer shifted his burden to her. She faltered before finding her footing and moving along to the Second Station. Issa lingered, letting the pilgrims outpace him, and listening to the hymns being sung by other worshipers. A whirlwind touched down and swirled dust around him. He turned from the wind and closed his eyes. When the tempest had passed, he scoured his ears with his little fingers, and glanced up. He stood in front of Christ’s Prison. Oft-closed, today the door stood open, and Issa ducked inside.

He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. A hallway, painted puce and hung with silvered icons, led to side chapels and underground cells. A single candle before an altar sent up smoke that mixed with the stale scent of incense. Issa walked down spiral stairs to the lower dungeons and touched their clammy walls, awed by the massive stones from which they were rough-hewned. He had visited these rooms over the years, the first time before he had memories. His father had told Issa how he had been a baby in his mother’s arms and clamored until they had held him to the stone walls. His tiny fingers clung to the craggy ridges, growing ever-so-still with a startled and uncertain expression. From then on, his father knew that if he ever wanted to quiet Issa, he only need bring him here, or so he joked.

The cells still quieted him. He pressed a palm to the wall, letting his fingers transcribe the cut marks where ancient blades had chipped away at the stone, burrowing beneath the weight of the earth and carving out dank chambers where water seeped into lightless space.

Issa returned to the altar where he dropped a coin in a tin box. He took a tallow candle, held it to the altar’s sputtering flame, and walked into another unlit cell. He knelt before a crucifix and tilted the candle, dripping wax onto the stone floor. He stood the candle upright in the soft yellowy puddle. Issa prayed, needing neither prayerbook nor hymnal to find the words that beseeched God’s blessings on his family. He stayed kneeling after he had emptied his heart, hoping God might answer a prayer for guidance, for as he wandered these cells, his own burdens pressed in on him like the massive stone walls. He readied his petition, but felt himself suddenly drained, an aphasic supplicant whose tongue had wearied of unanswered prayers. A great sadness welled up inside him, and he sobbed, "Oh God, what am I going to do?"

He heard the shuffle of feet and turned to see a priest standing in the cell’s door. "Christ will guide you," the priest said. He stepped into the cell and placed a hand on Issa’s shoulder.

"I have so many problems, Father. I’m worried about my family, my business..." Issa’s shoulders heaved. "I don’t know what to do."

"Pray to Christ. Have faith that He will hear your prayers and guide you. He will, if you let Him."

The priest withdrew his hand. Issa slowly stood and brushed his knees. In the faint light, he saw that the man was not a priest, but instead wore the coarse cassock of a monk. His aged face, caught by the candle’s flame, looked vaguely familiar. "Thank you, Brother," Issa said.

"Me to Theo," the monk told him. "Go with God."

Issa left the cell and limped down the dim corridor. The prison’s door stood open. He paused at its threshold and shielded his eyes against the blowing dust-ladened air. A sudden gust tossed off a woman’s hat, and Issa stepped into the street, catching its straw brim and handing it back. He joined the pilgrims, who were singing,

The Viadolorosa teemed with the faithful from around the world. Ethiopian Christians with hennaed hands and beige robes. Malaysian nuns in starched white habits and blue wimples. Black-robed Greeks burning incense, Japanese photographing themselves, and Russians window-shopping as they retraced the memory lane of Christ’s torment. Issa marveled at the diversity. He was strengthened by the fellowship he felt with others of his faith. For a while, he could forget about being part of a Christian minority in an Arab world and a Palestinian minority in an Israeli one. Instead, he felt part of a larger world. His father had once described St. Peter’s Square as big enough to hold all the world’s Christians and still have room for more, and as he watched the crowds pass, he marveled at just how big St. Peter’s Square must be.

He pressed past the worshipers until he reached the Viadolorosa’s corner where the passage rose steeply to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. At the Third Station, a cross bearer stumbled and Issa reached out to stop his fall. The man lost his grip on the cross, and thinking that Issa had stooped to relieve his burden, let the planed wood slide off his shoulders onto the good samaritan’s bent back. Issa fell to his knees under the sudden weight. He regained his balance, bending low and adjusting the cross, trudging after the pilgrims up the steep climb. He cringed at the burning pain in his punctured foot. He remembered that it was here where his father had stumbled under the weight of the cross that he had borne on his last Good Friday. When Issa had reached out to help him, his father pushed his hand aside. "I’m a dying man," he said. "I will carry this cross to heaven’s gate, if God wants."

Issa bowed his head and lugged the cross over the cobblestones, flinching at each jolt to his foot. At the top of the incline, he nearly bumped into the pilgrims who had stopped for another prayer.

A priest turned to him and said kindly, "You’re not one of us." He pointed to a young man in the congregation who lifted the burden from Issa’s shoulders. "God bless you, son," the priest said. "God bless you for your faith."

Issa straightened and stretched his back, and watched the pilgrims walk away. "I am not a dying man," he said to himself, "but I am a faithful man. And that," he added, speaking to his father, "is what I will carry to heaven’s gate."

Issa turned and walked against the stream of pilgrims.

n

Issa sat behind the counter turning the pages of the day’s newspaper, which he had read and reread, and if quizzed he could have quoted passages verbatim. Business had been slow, expected for a Friday but worrisome nevertheless. He had paced most of the day, crossing the shop to lean on the counter or slouch against the door jamb, and sitting only when his foot ached. He tented pieces of cardboard over the crates stacked on the sidewalk, a trick he had learned from his father to shield the produce when the great hamseens from Africa blew. All day, Issa had observed the sky, watching the powerful sandstorms surge overhead, dark veins of Egypt’s blistered earth swirling and repatterning the sky, and tinting it redder and redder until the sun blurred and baked the earth from behind clay clouds. He remembered his father sniffing the silty air, telling Issa-the-child how Egypt’s winds brought north the fragrances of desert oases, the smells of camels and smoke fires by the Nile; and in later years, telling Issa-the-young-man how the drifting air smelled from loins of Africa.

Issa, made edgy by the heat, left his seat and returned to the doorway. He turned away as a bus passed and its engine’s heat rippled over him. He picked up a cardboard lean-to that shielded a pile of withering cucumbers. He clapped the two panels together, sending dust falling. Issa cannot do this without thinking of his father and chuckling. When he was a boy, barely old enough to reason, his father explained the purpose of the lean-tos, and Issa had thought him so smart for thinking of such an invention. Over the years, his father had other lessons for him, but none so memorable as the lesson when Yussef first exposed his brilliance. Later, Issa understood that common sense, not brilliance, had guided his father, but he could always recall that boy’s mystification at his father’s seemingly complete knowledge. When his own growing years matured him enough to understand yet more, he had again divined his father’s brilliance, for what greater brilliance than common sense?

Now, testing for a breeze, Issa lifted a hand into air that had died. The morning’s hot gusts – as hot as from a baker’s oven – had expired as the sun retreated behind the heavens’ paradosal embankments. A pendulum clock hanging behind the cash register chimed. Issa read the time.

Four o’clock. David had said he would pick him up at four o’clock. He would wait perhaps a half hour, and if David didn’t show up, he would go home. Issa tried to remember the last time he had been to Mar Saba. That last Good Friday, when Yussef had hauled a cross along the Viadolorosa, they had gone to the monastery for the afternoon service. Issa suddenly remembered that the monk he had seen that morning in Christ’s Prison had been at that last service, standing with the other monks around the ancient altar in the dim and sooty chapel. His father spoke to the monk that day, and also on their first trip together to the desert retreat, when he was still a child and Yussef had used the few words of Greek he had learned on his travels. It was curious that neither Issa nor the monk recognized the other that morning, but he had been to the monastery only three or four times since his father’s death. Troubles and restrictions kept him from attending the service most years. Although he had only reluctantly agreed to go with David, it was not for want of desire to return to Mar Saba. He hoped they wouldn’t be hassled at the checkpoint. He certainly didn’t want his Jerusalem ID confiscated. Issa sighed and half-hoped that David wouldn’t show, wanting to avoid trouble as much as he desired to go. He glanced at his watch.

Four ten. Issa folded the worn-out newspaper and tossed it into the trash can. The headlines reported Peace Now’s plan to defy the government and hold a candlelight vigil. That was certain to create more problems in Jerusalem. Where would it end? He walked outside and started pulling the crates of fruits and vegetables indoors. At least his situation with his father-in-law would be easier, and that was a blessing. He was fond of the old man and welcomed the truce in their religious war, though Issa had to admit, they had skirmished rarely. But he had not wanted to sneak off to the monastery as a religious fugitive, manufacturing a lame excuse should Azzedine ask his whereabouts and risking discovery through his own unclever cunning. His son’s naive questions had breached their one great divide, though Issa wondered if his father-in-law had not already planned their discussion. He had said that faith made a man good. Issa questioned that, for he had witnessed much bad done in faith’s name. What could Azzedine know about the role of faith in a land as old as God’s broken promises? Where the traceries of faith drew borders, made the righteous and fingered the outcasts? Issa felt himself an outcast in each identity he claimed. Besieged by Jews for being Palestinian. Scorned by Muslims for being Christian. And by falsely converting to Islam in order to marry Nadia, he had made himself an outcast from his own faith. Issa cared little for what others believed, assuming that most religions encouraged fair play and decency, and those were sufficient for him to live by. He had decided long ago that ‘God’ was a nickname on a long list of aliases, not so much caring about the right-or-wrong of his faith’s chosen names or prayers as much as his right to speak them. If unable to say God’s name, how the silence would deafen us. He was glad Azzedine had encouraged his going to Mar Saba, for otherwise he might have worried himself out of the trip, and it was important not be silenced. Where was David? Impatiently, he glanced at his watch.

Four twenty. He scraped the last two crates across the sidewalk and jerked them over the grocery’s threshold. It was hard work, his foot hurt, and he sweated from the heat. Looking far down the street, no sign of David. He wasn’t coming, so Issa lowered the shop’s squealing shutter. He glanced at his watch.

Four thirty. Issa fixed the padlock as David pulled to the curb. He leaned across the seat and called through the window, "Going somewhere?"

Issa turned with a smile. "Mar Saba," he said and limped to the car. He opened the car’s door and reached inside to shake David’s hand. "I was beginning to think you had forgotten."

Issa’s hazel eyes creased when he smiled. He had an ageless face graced by youthfulness. Its few lines were worn by worry and delight, not by time’s steady undoing. His beard had filled in, blonde hairs mixed with brown, and it suited him, maturing him without detracting from his comeliness. He slipped into the passenger seat, and David said, "No, only delayed by traffic. I was in Tel Aviv."

"Did you see the fire?"

"You’ve heard about it?"

"On the radio." Issa closed the door and reached for his seat belt, twice turning the tongue trying to insert it.

"Here," David said, " let me help." He reached over and wrestled the belt’s tongue into the clasp. "It sticks." He signaled and pulled away from the curb. "The fire is enormous. Huge columns of smoke all across the horizon and the flames are close to the highway. I must have been one of the last cars through. Where to?"

"Just head for Bethlehem." Issa sighed, and said, "It’s a tragedy to lose so many trees."

"It is a tragedy," David agreed. "These high winds are spreading the flames."

Issa told him, "We call it hamseen, a wind from Africa, but never before has there been so much sand."

The muddy sky had turned a molten red through which the sun burned a platinum hole. A sifting red talc, tasted on the tongue and dry to the eyes, settled on the windshield. David draped an arm from the window and felt the heat rising from the pavement. "It feels like the ground is burning," he remarked. "It’s a good day for a crucifixion. Why were you limping?"

Issa waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, it’s nothing serious. I stepped on a nail walking home last night."

"You should get a tetanus shot."

"Have you been talking to Nadia?"

"No," David chuckled, "why?"

"It’s what she said, but the clinic was closed today."

David navigated the maze of one-way streets, passing graffiti-marred walls behind which stood fine homes. Roses trailed from eaves and citrus blossoms overhung the sidewalk. He sped through a signal as the light started to flash and made a left turn. Traffic was light as the faithful had already rushed home in time for prayers. "How are things?" he asked Issa.

"The usual. Business is very bad."

"Things have calmed down somewhat. Perhaps the closure will be lifted soon."

"Inshallah."

"How’s Nadia?"

"She’s fine. No morning sickness. She thinks it will be an easy pregnancy."

"That’s great. Supposedly not having morning sickness means it will be a boy."

Issa visibly brightened. "A man can not have too many sons," he said.

The traffic moved swiftly alongside the Old City’s walls. David shifted gears, dropped into the valley, and followed Hebron Road, the main thoroughfare running south through Bethlehem. As he crossed an intersection, he glanced left up his own street and saw an army jeep at the far end. "I live up there," he said.

"I know, you once told me your address. My uncle lived on the same street."

"Really? I didn’t know that. Where did he move?"

"He didn’t. He was killed fighting in nineteen forty-eight. After the war, the Israelis confiscated the properties to the end of the block. Did you know that the Jordanians had a military post there until sixty-seven?"

"I didn’t realize they had been so close."

"It was just at the end of your street where the road turns. All of this" – Issa indicated the left side of the road – "was Jordan’s until Jerusalem was occupied."

David shifted gears and picked up speed. "Yesterday in Gaza," he said, "I met a man who’s very angry about what has happened to his family. You never sound angry, Issa. Exasperated, frustrated, but not angry about all that’s happened here."

"Anger only leads to more trouble. What can we do except live with the situation? I pray that my sons will not fight in a war, but I pray for many things that have yet to come true."

"But you keep praying."

"Yes, I keep praying."

"That means you think peace has a prayer?"

Issa chuckled. "I have prayed for other miracles."

"Have any of them happened?"

"Nadia married me," Issa grinned, "and then we made three more miracles. I suppose now I should say four. It’s for them that I pray for the biggest miracle of all: peace."

"Perhaps that miracle will come in your children’s lifetime."

"No," Issa shook his head, "if not now, there won’t be peace for a long time. We have ancient hatreds. We know how to hate more than love. We have few chances for peace, and they come generations or centuries apart."

"Do you really think that peace is possible now?"

"I won’t stop praying for miracles, and yes, I think it’s possible. At least I think there’s a solution. If there’s an Israel, there must be a Palestine. If there’s agreement on that, the details can be worked out if we use common sense."

Issa laughed to himself, and David asked, "What is it?"

"Something I was thinking about earlier. But," Issa added, again becoming serious, "it won’t happen. Common sense won’t prevail because there is no common sense to religion."

Now it was David’s turn to laugh and for Issa to ask, "What is it?"

"Something I was thinking about last night."

They shared a moment of laughter, not knowing each other’s thoughts but confident that understanding lay within them. "If you are asking," Issa said, "if I want my uncle’s house returned to my family, of course the answer is yes. If I want back my father’s warehouse? Again, yes, but I’m realistic. I know it will never happen. As a younger man, I thought about revenge, not just for me but for all my friends who have lost something, or someone. Now, I only want to be left alone. A man should not have to worry that his house may be confiscated or his pass revoked. I just want my family to be safe. I would forget the past for a future."

"You sound like a forgiving Christian."

"Forgiveness is God’s business, not mine. Besides, David, forgiveness is easy. It’s stopping the hatred that’s difficult. You don’t have a strong faith, do you?"

"No," David answered, and glibly added, "You have two religions, Issa, that’s enough for both of us."

Issa smiled appreciatively, and asked, "Why do you go to synagogue for prayers?"

"I thought faith might mean more to me here. I don’t know for certain what exists, but there’s always a little voice that whispers, ‘What if the believers are right?’ I’m tempted to try religion just to better my odds. I’ll admit, the more time I spend here, the more I distrust religion. If God ever existed, the Holy Land has killed him for me."

"I suppose we should be thinking about God’s death on this day," Issa said thoughtfully.

South of the city, the buildings fell away, and the view opened to the distant Judean hills shrouded in dusty veils. A white steeple peered through the haze, rising atop a graceful whitewashed cathedral on a solitary hill.

"You’re superstitious," Issa remarked. "I’ve seen you touch wood. Is that so different from religion?"

"Ah, but I do believe in luck. Touching wood, crossing yourself, they’re easy ways to better your odds."

"It’s the same as praying. Touching wood is symbolic for touching Christ’s cross." Issa paused, and with a smile said, "Azzedine has forgiven my being a Christian."

"No more hiding in the pews," David teased, "trying to catch you at prayer?"

"No more hiding in the pews," Issa chuckled. "Yesterday Azziz came home from school with lots of questions about religion. By the end of the evening, Azzedine agreed that we all believe the same thing, only we call God by different names. He’s right, it’s not what you call God that’s important, but how you live."

"Does that mean the children will convert?"

Issa burst out laughing. "No, I don’t think Azzedine has that in mind."

"Well, that’s good news, Issa. It will make your life a little easier."

"It will, and soon we think he’ll come live with us. He wants to be closer to Nadia and the children."

David braked as they neared the checkpoint and traffic merged into a single lane. Red dust blurred the outlines of the watchtowers. Barriers straggled the road and forced drivers to slow, veering right, then left, then right again through the short obstacle course. Soldiers waved cars through with circular hand motions.

"We’re not going to have a problem," David said. "Nobody’s being stopped."

Issa pointed at the stalled line of cars and trucks coming from the opposite direction. "They’re stopping traffic coming back in."

"Don’t worry, they can’t stop you if you have a Jerusalem ID. You do have your ID, don’t you?"

Issa touched his pocket. "I never leave home without it."

"Don’t act nervous," David cautioned.

Soldiers flanked the road, examining license plates which served as telltale reports of the owner’s place of residence, or in David’s case, alerting them that he was a foreigner. "Don’t worry," he said again, "they’re letting everyone through."

Issa began to relax. "It’s good that there haven’t been any incidents for a couple of days."

The next in line, David rolled forward, not stopping but proceeding slowly as the other cars had done. A soldier raised his hand and signaled him to halt. "Passport," he said curtly.

David handed over his passport along with his press pass. A second soldier walked to Issa’s window and demanded, "ID."

Issa handed over his identity card.

"Where’s your pass?"

"I’m a resident of Jerusalem. I don’t need a pass."

"Where are you going?"

"He’s with me," David said, leaning across Issa to speak to the second soldier. "I’m press."

"Pull over," the first soldier said, and pointed to the road’s shoulder.

"I’m press, I have a right to—"

"Pull over!"

Issa said, "Let’s just go back."

The soldier brandished his rifle. "I said pull over. Now!"

David edged onto the sandy wayside. "What’s the problem?"

The soldier reached into David’s window. "Turn off your engine and give me your keys." He walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Another soldier stooped in front of the car, fiddled with the hood’s latch, and raised it.

David started to get out.

"Stay in the car!" a third soldier ordered.

"What’s happening?" Issa asked.

"I don’t know," David said. "It’s very strange."

"Let’s just turn around."

"Sure, as soon as they let us."

The soldier slammed shut the car’s trunk. Issa jumped and twisted around to see what was happening.

"Sit still!"

The soldier at the front of the car let the hood fall with a crash. He looked toward the checkpoint’s booth and waved over another guard, who ran over pulling a flat trolley with an upward positioned mirror that he rolled under the rear bumper. He worked his way around the side, bending and examining the undercarriage.

"Just tell them we’ll leave," Issa said. He had started to sweat and leaned forward, reaching into his back pocket for a handkerchief.

"Don’t move!"

Issa fell back into his seat.

The trolley guard paused at the front left wheel. He adjusted the mirror’s position and crouched for a better view. He moved to the second front tire, again adjusting the mirror for a better perspective of the fender’s underside. He withdrew the trolley and pulled a knife from a belt holster, and slipped under the car. He reappeared a moment later, holding a bundle in his hands. Cautiously, he unwrapped the package.

"What is that?" Issa asked.

David looked baffled. "I have no idea."

The guard pressed his fingers into the bundle’s contents and sniffed them. He looked up, and slowly nodded at the other soldiers around the car. They stepped back and aimed their rifles at David and Issa. "Out! Get out now!"

"What’s the problem?" David asked through the window. "What—"

"Out!"

Soldiers pulled open both car doors. "Out!" they cried. "Out, now!"

David unlatched his seat belt and stood next to the car.

Issa fumbled with his seat belt’s mechanism.

"Out! Get out now!"

"I’m trying, I’m trying. It’s stuck."

The soldier thrust the butt of his rifle through the open door and smacked Issa on the side of his head.

"Goddam fucking terrorist! Get out now!"

"Terrorist?" Issa cried in alarm, grappling with the seat belt. Blood trickled down the side of his face. "I’m not a—"

"Now!" the soldier screamed and hit him again.

"Hey! What are you doing?" David made a movement to help Issa, but a soldier pressed a rifle barrel to his chest and held him back.

"Oh God," Issa cried with blood running into his eyes. "David, what’s happening?"

"There’s a mistake here," David said, still pinned by the rifle’s muzzle.

Issa succeeded in freeing himself from the seat belt. He scrambled from the car and stumbled on his injured foot.

"Get up!" the soldier shouted, and caught Issa’s side with his boot. The guard spit in his face. "Goddamn fucking Palestinian."

"No!" Issa cried, wiping his spittled cheeks. "Stop, no—"

"There’s a—" David tried to speak, but the trolley guard thrust the bundle in his face.

"What’s this?"

"I don’t know," David stammered, "I’ve never seen it before."

"It’s a fucking bomb!"

"A bomb?" Issa cried. "Oh God, David, what have you done? Tell them I didn’t know!" He whirled around with his arms outstretched. "I didn’t know. Tell them, David, tell them!" Issa’s hands reached for the sky. "My family! Oh God!" He lurched forward, his knees giving way as if preparing to pray. He cried again, "Oh—"

n

The watchtower guard had observed the car approach the checkpoint. They were on alert for grey Hondas, so he was not surprised when the car was pulled over. As a precaution he sighted his rifle, blowing dust from its scope, and with skittish fingers snicked the safety. Soldiers searched the suspicious car, and one hit the passenger with his rifle. The passenger stumbled from the car. There were shouts. Through the rifle’s scope, he saw blood on the passenger’s forehead. A truck momentarily blocked his vision, but when it had passed he saw the passenger, his arms upraised, lunge forward to attack the soldier. He squeezed his rifle’s trigger, releasing a single shot.

n

David jumped at the rifle’s sharp crack. A perfect black circle showed on Issa’s forehead, his mouth opened but his last words stopped, and in the same instant the back of his head exploded into fragments that smeared the car’s windshield and peppered the ground. His body crumpled. Blood pumped from his shattered skull and pooled in the red dust. David stared, disbelieving. His hands, as if sensing their own futility, hung heavily at his sides, his whole body affixed in place by the realization that nothing he could do would retrieve the last minute or prevent his friend’s graceless fall. Issa had ceased caring for calming words or comforting gestures.

A soldier’s strong hands circled David’s wrists and pulled his arms behind him, clinching on handcuffs. He pressed a hand to David’s shoulder to turn him. A sudden darkness fell, and with it a distilled and hollow silence. The sooted air had buried the sun and dispersed a deep twilight below. Mute earth’s moment of remembrance. Then, with a perceptible sigh, the sky exhaled, and all the wind and ashes that had been sucked heavenward by the great, churning columns of smoke rising from the forest fires fell in that same exhalation upon the earth. With a fury, winds swept through the checkpoint, whipping up dirt and ripping leaves, and blowing sand so hard it stung the face. The soldier shielded his eyes. David, his hands captive behind him, bent away from the wind as sand filled his ears and nostrils, the wind’s howling the only sound he could hear. The wind tugged at his clothes and untucked his shirt and filled his pockets with soil until, with a stupefying suddenness, the gale ceased and ushered in a second silence as profound as the first.

David opened his eyes to a world of tarnished light. A porcelain sun burned white in the blurred sky. All about him, the air was thick with falling ashes. Drifting like wet snow, slow-falling and silent, the ashen flakes settled on the checkpoint, the waysides and surrounding hills, a burnt mulch that muted colors and turned trees to driftwood. He lifted his face, and his vision filled with the seesawing crisps that wafted lower, blinking when their weightlessness tickled his eyes.

The soldier replaced his hand on David’s shoulder and nudged him along, his own upturned face awed by the transformed world. Before he turned away, David glanced back at Issa, toppled beside the car with wind-cast sand caught in the folds of his trousers and ashes filling his gaping mouth.