The Ascent of Eli Israel by Dara Horn Jonathan Papernick

olives, almonds, figs, sage, carob, mint leaves, anything he could find in the hilltops and wadis out there in the wilderness. He slept in caves when he could find them, bathed himself in fresh mountain water, and sometimes didn’t speak a word aloud for weeks.
    One day as he was grazing his sheep on the rough tangled bushes and grasses of the Judean hills, an army jeep pulled to the top of a rocky cliff above him. He could see an Israeli flag standing stiff in the wind. He knew there was no use in running, so he sat among his sheep, staring into the distance. They called and waved him to come up. And now the grass stopped singing to God and Eli’s blood began to churn up again.
    Zev had warned Eli before he left Hebron not to talk to anyone; Arabs, of course, but especially the army.
    â€œThat’s my hill,” Eli shouted and pointed with his staff to another bare hill. “And that belongs to King David.” He had not spoken aloud in such a long time, he was not even sure his voice would carry far enough for them to hear.
    He sat on his carpetbag and looked back toward his sheep. The sun was a giant copper disk, pressing down on his head, and he looked toward his .38 lying nearby.
    A few minutes later a dark, Sephardi-looking soldier wearing a helmet two sizes too big sauntered down the hill lighting a cigarette. “Nudnik. Boker tov,” he called.
    Eli called back good morning in English.
    The soldier lit another cigarette then took off his helmet and sat on it near him. He unstrapped his M-16 and laid it on the ground beside him.
    Eli’s heart began to pump faster than it had since he had come to the wilderness. He could feel his heart squeeze like a fist. He shifted on his pack. Eli thought, this punk is eighteen, nineteen at most. What does he know?
    â€œNize day. Cigariah?” He held the cigarette out to Eli, who didn’t say anything. He noticed that the soldier had a terrible case of acne and a long feminine nose. Two soldiers laughed like camels at the top of the hill and danced to music blasting from Army wave radio.
    â€œYou don’t smoke,” the soldier said with a slow thick accent. “You can’t to be here. It’s not safe.”
    â€œI don’t see any Arabs,” Eli said. “Just me and my sheep.”
    â€œYou are paralyzed to an army shooting range,” the soldier said.
    â€œYou mean ‘parallel’?”
    â€œIt’s not safe,” the soldier repeated.
    â€œI’m okay,” Eli said. He only wanted the soldiers to go away. But then he thought about his beard, and sidecurls, and the fringes of his tzitzis hanging from his pants and realized: these rock ’n’ rollers think we all look the same.
    â€œWhat is that stink?” the soldier said, pinching his nose.
    Eli didn’t even notice anymore that his bag smelled. He didn’t answer.
    â€œCome. Have some tea and nana in the jeep. Let me invite you,” the soldier said, pointing up to the jeep.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou must not to be here,” he said, putting the second cigarette in his mouth. And then one of the other soldiers called to him from the hilltop. “Motti. Yala! Imshi! ”
    He waved him away and said, “You like young girls? Boys? Come to the base. You can’t to be here. We have food and beds to sleep.”
    â€œWhat about my sheep?” Eli asked.
    â€œYou like fuck sheep?” The soldier laughed. “Okay. Sheep okay.”
    â€œGet out of here,” Eli said. “My sheep don’t eat in a mess hall, and I don’t need a bed. The land will take care of us. I can go wherever I want, I’m a Jew on Jewish land.”
    â€œIt’s not safe,” the soldier said.
    â€œSafe, not safe. I don’t gave a damn.”
    The soldier looked toward the red, black, and green bag again. Eli shifted uneasily. “That is the Palestine colors,” the soldier said, moving closer. “I should