The Copper Scroll

Kibbutz Or-Zahav and its many fields were nestled among the Judean foothills. Numerous dirt paths formed an extensive, irregular network that bound land and settlement together. On a cloudless day in the middle of July, a jeep, moving fast and leaving behind it a trail of dust, appeared on one of these dirt arteries. The driver was about twenty‑nine years old; he had dark curly hair, prominent cheekbones, and pale blue eyes. He was a ben‑kibbutz, born and raised on Or-Zahav. He had been checking the cotton fields in the far valley in the morning and was now on his way home.

But when the path started to swerve around a hill, he slowed down, stopped, and got out of the jeep. He listened for a moment to the complete silence that hung over this particular spot. The dry, hot air smelled of peppermint sage and yellow grass. A fig tree grew nearby, the only tree in the vicinity. Its slender gray trunk and equally slender branches were delicate and graceful to behold. The young man went up closer and examined the finger‑like leaves, which hid beneath them clusters of green, unripe fruit. The figs wouldn't become black and juicy until the end of next month.

He then turned and started to climb the familiar hill. Gleaming white rocks, and parched scrub, and hard earth that crunched apart with every step, covered the steep slope. He ascended slowly, often halting to enjoy the sight of a wild flower in the ground or a soaring bird of prey in the sun‑washed sky.

The Crusader ruins were perched, castle‑like, on the very crest of the hill. He rested in the shade of a freestanding arch of stone blocks. He had often wondered what its function had been. Did it once support a dome or a vault over a meeting hall? If so, the hall itself had vanished centuries ago, and only this solitary rib remained to tell the story. How old was it? Six hundred years? Seven? If only the stones could speak!

The young man glanced at a tractor cultivating in the field they called Dakrin below. Aaron was at the wheel inside the air‑conditioned cabin and going slowly back and forth. The young man then looked westward to the horizon; clouds were rolling in from off the Mediterranean Sea and advancing towards the coast. Soon a breeze would herald their arrival here in the foothills. The clatter of a tin bell and several shrill whistles interrupted his reverie. Goats and sheep suddenly spilled over the crest of the hill and inundated the top in white and brown waves. A Bedouin shepherd boy ran behind them bare footed. He whistled and threw stones at the strays.

The young man consulted his watch; it was already past eleven in the morning. He would have to turn on the irrigation pipes in the Far Valley field before finishing for the day. He rose and made his way back down to the jeep and raced along some more until he reached the aboveground section of pipe with its iron wheel and meter gages.

A short time later, he was barreling up the paved road, which led to Kibbutz Or-Zahav.