“There’s a story in the Bible,” he explained. “The children of Israel are surrounded by the Syrians. Evil people. Really bad. They had a mighty army. A terrible and deadly scourge. But when the prophet Elisha stood up to face them, instead of seeing all of the Syrian soldiers that had surrounded them, he saw thousands of celestial soldiers that stood ready to defend the children of Israel. Chariots of fire. Angels with their mighty swords. ‘They that be with us are more than they that be with them,’ the prophet Elisha said.”
Mitchell stopped and looked at us. Barzee nodded as if it were the most inspired thing she had ever heard. I looked at him as if it made no sense.
“You don’t see it, do you, Shearjashub?”
I shook my head. I didn’t.
“Just like with Elisha, the Lord could surround us with His angels. He could protect us so that no one would ever find us. But”—he paused and looked at me—“He can’t do it if you’re not worthy.” He turned and looked at Barzee. “He can’t protect us if you’re not humble. He can’t bless me if your faith isn’t strong enough. He can’t hide us. He can’t protect us. He is bound by your weak faith.”
He fell silent and thought a long moment. “We need to move to a more secure and hidden location. Tomorrow, we will go out and find our new home.”
*
The next day, Mitchell made us dress in our street clothes, a bunch of filthy rags he had taken from the abandoned homeless camps. I wore a gray shirt and some oversize pants. Pulling them on, I felt so dirty. There I was, putting on a shirt that was so thin and filthy that a homeless man had thrown it away. That is what I had come to. I shook my head sadly and held my nose.
Once we were dressed, we headed out. It was my first time in public without wearing a veil. I felt uncomfortable. Vulnerable. I was surprised how much I’d grown used to it. And I knew it made Mitchell nervous to have my face exposed, which made me nervous too. Mitchell, of course, led the way. I followed. Barzee followed me. But we took a completely different route from any we had ever taken when exiting the fire swamp before. Instead of crossing the riverbed and climbing the small embankment, we turned left and crawled through a large irrigation pipe that crossed under the road. Emerging on the other side, Mitchell told us to be quiet and stay low while he checked it out. After a couple minutes of watching, he decided it was clear and we headed out again, following the dry streambed. We only went a couple of miles, but it seemed to take all day. It was hot and dry and dusty. When we couldn’t go any farther, we climbed out of the ravine and found ourselves in an empty pasture. Again, Mitchell made us stay low while he took a look around. He was acting like a kid playing some kind of spy game, sneaking and creeping here and there. But I knew it wasn’t a game. It was dangerous. And I knew he had his knife.
While we waited, I sat down and put my hand into a patch of vibrant, green plants. I felt instant pain shoot through my hand and immediately jumped up. The stinging nettle was vicious and my hands were quickly covered with red blisters. Barzee watched me but showed no sympathy. “Spit on your hands,” she instructed drily. “Dogs and cats lick their wounds. You’re no better than they are. You should do the same thing.”
I hated her reasoning but figured she might be right. I spat and rubbed it in. It felt a little better and Barzee seemed to puff a bit with pride.
Mitchell crouched toward our hiding place and pointed to a mountain about half a mile away. We would have to sneak across pastures and a narrow road to get there. Mitchell took off, leading the way. Trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible—something that was ridiculously difficult to do—we made our way across the pasture and road and started climbing the small mountain. It proved to be much harder than it looked from the bottom of the hill. It was steep and thick with shrubs and covered with huge rocks. We climbed slowly. I was already weak from hunger. Mitchell pushed us on, always talking. Barzee had taken to not saying very much anymore. I don’t know why. She was just quiet now. It was slow and difficult work to climb the mountain. We had to scramble over boulders, pulling ourselves up by thorny bushes before dropping down on the other side. We had to lift and pull and help to catch one another. Sometimes we had to slip between tiny cracks between the boulders. As we climbed, Mitchell would point out how various rocks reminded him of sexual body parts and he would name the rocks with these names.
We finally made it to the top. But there was no place to make our camp. Mitchell looked around, then told us to sit tight while he looked for a place to pitch our tents. He scrambled off and I sat down, hungry and weak with exhaustion. A little while later, he came slithering back. Panting excitedly, he exclaimed, “I’ve found it! Come quickly! Follow me!”
We followed, fighting through scrub oaks and more boulders before dropping through a rock crevice that led to a small clearing. The north side of the clearing was backed by massive rocks that would be almost impossible to climb and far too dangerous to drop down from the top. The other side of the clearing was walled in by scrub oaks and then a sheer cliff. The left and right sides of the clearing were surrounded by prickly plants, scrub oak, and huge boulders.