You may have heard those rumors about me: how I escaped by moonlight, how I hid inside each one of the seven wells of Beersheba, with nothing in my possession but the shirt on my back, how I eluded my enemy, my brother, and then, how frightened I was, how alone. I’m afraid you have been, at best, misinformed—or, more probably, mislead by some romantic foolery, some fiction and lies, the kind of which can easily be found, and in abundance I might add, in the holy scriptures.
I insist: it was not moonlight but rather, high noon. I was wearing no shirt whatsoever—nothing, really, but a goatskin sleeve. There was only one well in which I could hide, not seven. And most importantly, I was hardly alone, for the entire camp—all the maidservants, the shepherds, the guards—stood aghast all around me. So now, you must see that I could not, despite my best intentions, escape stealthily out of there, nor could I elude anyone.
Instead I was flung out, kicking and screaming, with tugs and pulls loosening the remaining shreds of my clothes, and whacks and smacks coming at my bare back from all directions. My left eye swelled up to such a degree that out of necessity, I resorted to use the right one—only to discover, once I raised my head from the dirt, that my brother was standing right over me. His foot could be seen coming straight at me, at an easygoing, unhurried pace, until it turned into a full blown kick.
I managed to roll away, mainly by flailing my arms wildly over my head. With a great sense of urgency I crawled on all four through the crowd, and hid inside the closest well. Luckily it was bone dry, thanks to a yearlong drought. And so for a second, I could hang there by my fingernails and pant, and catch my breath. Then I tiptoed behind the corner, right into the shade of my mother’s tent.
From there I took a plunge and hurled myself downhill—where, to my utter disappointment, I found out that my brother had already caught up to where I was headed, and was waiting there for me with open arms. He made a point of letting me know that his hate for me would, by no means, stand in the way of our closeness.
“Come, Yankle,” said Esav. “I promise not to hurt you.”
“Really,” I said. “Can I trust you?”
“Aha,” said he. “I will just kill you.”
His bulging, bloodshot eyes were full of vigor, and so, unfortunately, was his fist. It met my chin once, then again, attempting to drive the point home, but on the third try, he missed—which was the sole reason why I still had my wits about me.
I staggered away, aided in my movement by the quaking of my knees. A desire to live made me, somehow, light on my feet. I turned and ran, leaving my brother behind, way back in the dust. I could no longer see him. He may have given up the chase—but still, knowing his skill as a hunter, I had to keep on going, opening a measure of distance between us. An hour later I found myself crossing the dry river bed, which was such a long distance from camp, so far from where I used to feel safe, that it was, for me, an unknown, dangerous zone.
The sun scorched overhead, beating upon the steep, rocky slopes. I hesitated. I looked back. The peaks of the tents had shrunk away. A short time later, they disappeared completely from view.
The notion of asking my brother—no, begging him—to forgive me, crossed my mind. I thought of retracing my footprints and perhaps, finding my way back home, only to realize, by nightfall, that those footprints had led me astray.
I must have been walking around in circles that entire day, which made me feel helpless. I thought that in the future, if I was lucky enough to have one, I could never become more helpless than this. How wrong was I then!
Bonus Excerpt: Apart From Love