Lamech, a servant of Joseph,

joins me, huddling beneath

an acacia tree.

The sun threatens to peel me

like a grape,

and I am grateful for

this circle of shade,

though I would hate

for these deadly thorns

to pierce my skin.

I slide to the ground,

and lean against the trunk,

tensing at the sound

of a lion’s roar

in the distance.

Thankfully,

judging from the direction

of the sound, we are downwind

of his scent.

“Here,” says Lamech,

offering his waterskin

before slaking his own thirst.

I smile at his kindness,

remembering the Bedouin proverb

my father never tired of repeating:

Always take care

of the stranger,

for one day,

you may be the stranger.

“Learn this wisdom,”

my father said,

“for no one survives alone

in the wilderness.”

“Drink deep,” says Lamech.

“Only a camel travels miles

on a single sip.”

I reach for the waterskin,

and drink my fill.

“Come, Lamech,” I say,

springing to my feet.

“We must not allow this heat

to slacken our pace.

The hills of Judah call to me,

and I wish to see my cousin’s face

by nightfall.”

Zechariah meets us at the gate,

smiling wordlessly.

I assume, as priest,

he has taken a vow of silence,

and think no more of it.

He leads us to the inner court.

Elizabeth welcomes us

with cups of pomegranate juice,

as Lamech and I having been

spotted some distance away.

“Shalom!” Elizabeth calls to us.

As I draw near,