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himself with a certain freedom。 Terrible as his death had been； he had largely participated in his own destruction。 In this new captivity； though； he was no more than an animal； his veins tapped for one blood sacrifice after another。
Day and night； his keepers caged him in this metal afterlife。 Metal holes took his dung and piss away。 Metal tubes provided water to drink。。。water that tasted like metal。 Even the light was held balled in glass and trapped in metal。 The underworld was not a place of shadows； after all。 Everywhere he turned； there was his own bright reflection in the metal walls。
He knew this was the afterlife； because he had died。 Remarkably there was not the slightest proof of his death； no scars； no funeral souvenirs； only a memory。 Since waking in this place； the memory had grown so powerful that it began to consume all his other memories。 He had started to forget his family and rades and land。 The blue sky； the taste of bread； the sound of women singing： a thousand things had dimmed。
He had grown lost in his own darkness。 It was a darkness of his own making； this hell。 For he had forsaken God。 God had forsaken him； first。 He couldn't get over that。 After so much love and devotion； he had been cast into shame and suffering。 He objected。 What kind of father was He？ To even think the thought； though。。。that was his sin。
Against the memory of his terrible death； the snow and his slash wounds and deadly confusion were almost wele distractions。
Only upon escaping； had he finally glimpsed the edge of their empire。 Their entire city was built of metal and glass and wires。 Ice hung like wolves' teeth。 The roads were made of night。 And light！ Such light！ Their might was terrible。 They had unlocked the secrets of the earth and trained iron to be silver and glass to grow in tall sheets。 Even so； the sight of their frozen city had strangely forted him。
He had begun to think the afterlife was a universe without history； a punishment without past or future； forever rooted in the opening and closing of his metal door and the taking of his blood。 The view of their city had revived in him a sense of progression。 Time still existed； he saw。 The generations marched on。 In his day； the Sons of Darkness had lived in legendary cities made of marble。 But these were like the Sons of Light。 Perhaps they had won the great war。
All the races of Adam were gathered here； every color； every shape of eye。 That was marvelous to him； too； the earth's flocks assembled into one。 It was like Rome； but not Rome。 They were his enemies； but they were not devils； no more than the Romans had been。 That was the awful truth。 His keepers did not hate him。
When he broke free and sprinted off； they had shouted at him and their faces had filled with fear； not hate。 Devils would not have been afraid。 These were people like any other。 He had terrified them for what he represented； a moment of chaos。 He was like a lion that had escaped in their midst。 He realized that the hateful things they perpetrated on him were not acts of punishment。 He was； to them； simply a wild animal。
Shuddering； his hot breath smoking in the air； the fugitive listened for any pursuers； and there were none。 He heard only his own lungs and heartbeat。 Birds did not sing in this forest； there were no birds。 The sun did not shine； there was no sky。 He looked up at the great empty gray vault overhead and the light was fading。 Night was falling。 Part of him took hope。 Perhaps they would give up the chase。
The possibility drove him deeper through the canyon。 He craved； not freedom； but exile。 If only they would leave him to wander in this dead white desert； he would gladly suffer its hardships。 His desire was a hunger more powerful than the ache in his stomach。 With all his being； he wanted to start over again。 He would eat the nettles and sleep with the snakes and wash his wounds with sand。 Anything to re…enter the great cycle of his people： captivity； exile； renewal。
Father；he prayed。Forgive me。
He had always tried to do his duty。 He had listened to his heart。 He had fasted。 Invited voices。 He had taken the footsteps that he thought were written into the earth for him to follow。 And this snow was like the desert； trackless； and at the same time rich with paths。Let me be lost； so that I may be found。 Deliver me from my enemies。
High above him； perched on the side of the striped cliffs； a village appeared。 He came to a halt in the snow； half certain it was a vision sent to torment him。 From the ground； he could see only the upper tips of the buildings； and they were in ruin。 But they looked like home。
He was no stranger to such places。 At Qumran and elsewhere along the River and the Sea； caves had been his second home。 And so； he had a knack for the slight niches cut into the rock。 He brushed the snow from footholds and they formed a vertical staircase that led to a ledge； a hundred feet off the ground。 The ledge wound around the wall； rising slightly； suspended halfway between the canyon floor and the top of the plateau。
The ledge came to a dead end。 There the village stood。 It was decayed and roofless； its windows barren。 It was larger than it looked from the ground； and also much older。 No one had lived here in many generations。 Yet the collapsed walls had been tended and repaired and plastered with fresh mortar。 That suggested its antiquity held some special meaning。 Why else would anyone take the time to restore its fallen walls？
Here had been the sleeping quarters and the fire pits。 Gutters were carved into the stone to channel drinking water。 Far below； evident from this height； he saw slumped terraces where the fields would naturally have laid。 If this had been an outpost； such as Masada had bee； where was the road it manded？ Why set it in this remote canyon？ That left another possibility； that remoteness was its appeal。 Perhaps； like Qumran； this had been the asylum of aha…edah； a religious congregation。 But at first glance； it seemed more a mon farm village than a fortress or a monastery。
He wandered about the ruins； putting off the cold and the pain of his wounds for as long as possible。 It was going to be a long； brutal night。 He had no blanket and no way to make fire。 There were no branches to cover himself。 Once he lay down； his lacerations and the frozen earth would wrack him。 His limbs would stiffen。 For all he knew； strange animals might rise up in the darkness。 By dawn； his captors might have found him。 No； while there was still light； he forced himself to stay on his feet。
In that way； he came upon the petroglyphs。
The wind and vandals had abraded them from exposed places； and snow had covered others。 But at the rear of the caves； in more hidden spaces； cut into the walls and boulders or scratched into black soot smoked onto the stone； primitive hands had drawn animals and geometric shapes and stick figures。 In them； the village came to life。
Many of the particulars were strange to him； the horned beasts that were neither sheep nor goats； the crops that were not wheat； the lions that were not quite lions。 Yet the drawings spoke to him directly。 In the snakes and birds； he saw their reverence for the earth and sky。 The