Prologue
Prologue
The courtyard smelled of pine resin and ink. Eliyahu bent over parchment at his workbench, testing a new formula that might keep words alive through sea voyages. Rivkah crouched nearby, watching the black strokes sink into the fibers, wishing her father would let her try. Her grandmother hummed a lullaby as she rocked little Devorah, while Rami and Azriel darted past, chasing each other with sticks.
Shem Tov sat with Oren beneath the fig tree, their heads bent together, voices low but urgent. Rivkah edged closer, broom in hand, pretending to sweep dust from the stones. She wanted to hear, to belong, to be part of their secret world.
“You’ll see,” Oren whispered, his dark eyes alight. “The sea is freedom. No priests, no soldiers—just wind and stars.”
Shem Tov laughed, though his voice carried a tremor. “And pirates. Don’t forget pirates.”
“Better pirates than chains,” Oren shot back. He leaned closer. “One day, Shem Tov, we’ll leave this place. We’ll carry the scrolls across the water, guard them ourselves. No one will burn them again.”
Rivkah’s heart thudded. She wanted to ask what scrolls, what freedom, but Shem Tov caught her eye and shook his head. Not for you, little sister.
Heat rose in her cheeks. She hated being shut out, hated the way Oren’s smile belonged to Shem Tov alone. She wanted Oren to look at her the way he looked at her brother—with trust, with promise. She wanted to matter in their world of whispered plans.
That night, Oren’s laughter vanished.
Rivkah woke to hushed voices, her grandmother’s prayers rising like smoke, her mother’s hands trembling as she folded linens. Eliyahu sat motionless at his bench, staring at parchment he could no longer see.
Shem Tov paced the courtyard, calling Oren’s name into the dark. “He promised—he promised he’d stay.” His voice cracked, breaking into silence.
By dawn, the truth settled like ash. Oren was gone.
Rivkah pressed her hands to the pine resin jar, breathing its sharp scent as if it could anchor her. She thought of Oren’s vow beneath the fig tree, of his promise to guard the scrolls, of the way his laughter had filled the courtyard with light. And she thought of how he had never let her in, how she had been left outside the circle of trust.
Her grandmother gathered the children close, her voice steady though her eyes were wet. “Names are scrolls,” she whispered. “Even when the bearer vanishes, the name remains. Remember him, Rivkah. Remember, Oren.”
Years later, aboard a ship that smelled of salt and tar, Rivkah would hear that name again. But in her childhood, it was only an absence—a wound carved into memory, a silence that never healed.
