he stepped around a corner, up over the shallow ledge, and onto a rocky flat, which had a clear view of a large section of the valley. A ledge, but no cave, only the mountainside covered by a heavy layer of dead coarse brush and sage. But as he looked closer, prodded around in the tangle of branches and thorns, he was unable to find the rock wall which the brush appeared to cover. Instead he found that the stone curved inward, and that the vegetation was not well attached, as he first thought, but that it came off in his hand when he grabbed it, revealing a dark recess behind.
Little by little, the branches fell away, revealing a shallow opening about the same depth as the ledge, the ledge itself serving as a kind of threshold. His imagination had turned the cave into a kind of temple, but reality was rougher. He was not disappointed, desperate as he was for any kind of shelter before the approaching night, but at the same time, the shallow depression in the rock wall did not live up to the image hehad created in his mind. Judging by the dark burn marks on the ceiling and the packed earth that made up the floor, he concluded that it had been used as a shelter in the past, perhaps during an earlier war.
The sun was sinking quickly, and the temperature began to drop with it. Younis set about as best he could making the cave marginally more habitable, clearing out what brush and stone he could with his good left arm. He was no stranger to sleeping outside, although he usually had a fire during all but the warmest parts of summer. But he carried nothing with him to make a fire, no matches, no flint, and the prospect of spending the night exposed and alone without warmth terrified him.
He pushed away some stones from the cave floor, enough to create a flat area on which to lie, and dragged a fir bough to cover it as a kind of rough pallet. Then he took the dry brush he had pulled from the cave mouth and stacked it up around the rim of the ledge, to prevent the opening from being seen from below. This done, the sun dipping below the horizon, he crawled inside the cave, exhausted, and blacked out.
5
He woke shivering in the dark, the cave mouth edged by the crescent moon’s silvery light. His teeth rattled together and his fingers and toes had gone numb. With tremendous effort, he stood up and walked to the entrance of the cave, movinghis limbs in an effort to regain some feeling. As he left the cave and walked onto the rocky ledge, he was bathed by the moon, the same wan light that anointed the great valley laid out before him. A thousand visible stars beamed tiny versions of the same pale cast, making everything appear to glow from within. Gradually his limbs, though still cold, regained most of their feeling, and his forearm throbbed. He could clearly see his breath, which seemed to be painted with the same silver sheen. Despite his cold and hunger, he found comfort in the sight of it, precious as the unknowable future, as though the concentrated energy of everything he saw were being focused upon him, standing high up on the mountain, looking out over all the world.
6
Jonas allows this image to linger. He has always liked this detail, this thought: the moonlight, himself looking out on the valley. He is not lying about it, either. At least, no more so than anyone who tells a story. He was there. If anything, it was more dramatic than he describes. But he can’t help thinking that maybe he is overdoing it. Perhaps he describes the moonlight once too often. As he watches Rose’s face, Jonas becomes concerned that he has gone too far.
The difficulty, he realizes, is inherent in the use of both words and memory. Their imprecision combines to make it nearly impossible for him to tell a true story. Even as he speaks,he is conscious of the fact that it wasn’t exactly as he describes. Had he really stopped beside the river that night, looked out into it and thought those things, or had he done that on a previous evening, and
Little by little, the branches fell away, revealing a shallow opening about the same depth as the ledge, the ledge itself serving as a kind of threshold. His imagination had turned the cave into a kind of temple, but reality was rougher. He was not disappointed, desperate as he was for any kind of shelter before the approaching night, but at the same time, the shallow depression in the rock wall did not live up to the image hehad created in his mind. Judging by the dark burn marks on the ceiling and the packed earth that made up the floor, he concluded that it had been used as a shelter in the past, perhaps during an earlier war.
The sun was sinking quickly, and the temperature began to drop with it. Younis set about as best he could making the cave marginally more habitable, clearing out what brush and stone he could with his good left arm. He was no stranger to sleeping outside, although he usually had a fire during all but the warmest parts of summer. But he carried nothing with him to make a fire, no matches, no flint, and the prospect of spending the night exposed and alone without warmth terrified him.
He pushed away some stones from the cave floor, enough to create a flat area on which to lie, and dragged a fir bough to cover it as a kind of rough pallet. Then he took the dry brush he had pulled from the cave mouth and stacked it up around the rim of the ledge, to prevent the opening from being seen from below. This done, the sun dipping below the horizon, he crawled inside the cave, exhausted, and blacked out.
5
He woke shivering in the dark, the cave mouth edged by the crescent moon’s silvery light. His teeth rattled together and his fingers and toes had gone numb. With tremendous effort, he stood up and walked to the entrance of the cave, movinghis limbs in an effort to regain some feeling. As he left the cave and walked onto the rocky ledge, he was bathed by the moon, the same wan light that anointed the great valley laid out before him. A thousand visible stars beamed tiny versions of the same pale cast, making everything appear to glow from within. Gradually his limbs, though still cold, regained most of their feeling, and his forearm throbbed. He could clearly see his breath, which seemed to be painted with the same silver sheen. Despite his cold and hunger, he found comfort in the sight of it, precious as the unknowable future, as though the concentrated energy of everything he saw were being focused upon him, standing high up on the mountain, looking out over all the world.
6
Jonas allows this image to linger. He has always liked this detail, this thought: the moonlight, himself looking out on the valley. He is not lying about it, either. At least, no more so than anyone who tells a story. He was there. If anything, it was more dramatic than he describes. But he can’t help thinking that maybe he is overdoing it. Perhaps he describes the moonlight once too often. As he watches Rose’s face, Jonas becomes concerned that he has gone too far.
The difficulty, he realizes, is inherent in the use of both words and memory. Their imprecision combines to make it nearly impossible for him to tell a true story. Even as he speaks,he is conscious of the fact that it wasn’t exactly as he describes. Had he really stopped beside the river that night, looked out into it and thought those things, or had he done that on a previous evening, and
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