Alli was grateful for any company at all. She greeted the man and woman and off ered them food and water, even though there was precious little to spare. Dor was proud of his wife’s kindness. But he worried about the visitors, who did not look well. Their eyes were red and watery and their skin had dark blotches. When he was alone with Alli, he warned her, “Do not touch them. I fear they are diseased.” “They are alone and poor,” she protested. “They have no one else. Show them the mercy we would want in return.” Alli served the visitors barley cakes and barley paste and the little goat’s milk they had. She listened as they told their tale. They, too, had been cast out from their village, the people fearful that the dark blotches meant they had been cursed. They lived now as nomads, in a tent made of goat skins. They moved in search of sustenance and waited for the day they would die. The old woman cried when she said this. Alli cried with her. She knew what it felt like to lose your place in the world. She held the small cup so the old woman could sip. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Drink,” Alli said. “Your kindness …” She reached out to embrace Alli, her wrinkled hands trembling. Alli leaned in and nuzzled her cheek. She could feel the old woman’s tears mixing with hers. “Be at peace,” Alli said. As they left, Alli slipped the woman a skin fi lled with the last of their barley cakes. Dor checked his water clock bowl and saw a fi ngernail’s length until the sun disappeared. 13 Before you measure the years, you measure the days. And before the days, you measure the moon. Dor had done this in exile, charting its stages—full moon, half moon, quarter moon, moonless. Unlike the sun, which looked the same every day, the changing moon gave Dor something to count, and he gouged holes on 5
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