Letters from Neshiyah

Letter 1. The quarry stood quiet under a low grey sky, the light flat and thin as old milk. I had gone out with Tirzah at her asking—she said she wanted a second pair of eyes, and a toolmaker's eyes are trained to count. The records list six stones in the quarry: six great blocks, squared and…

Letter 2. That morning came in grey and close, the fog standing at the end of the streets like a wall that had always been there. I was at my bench fitting a new lens into a rangefinder when Shem the younger came in, his plumber's hands still carrying the smell of solder and copper. "You heard…

Letter 3. The rain came slanting in from the east on the morning of that day, a thin cold drizzle that beaded on the window glass of my workshop and blurred the fog line into a smudge of grey. I was at my bench, mending a survey drone's altimeter, when Noa came in without knocking, her blue…

Letter 4. That morning came in cold and still, the fog pressing at the road ends like it always did, and I was at my bench fitting a new thread into a survey drone’s mount when Noa came in without knocking, her blue sweater clean but thin at the elbows. “Fernando,” she said. “My mother says the…

Letter 5. The morning of Day 30 came in warm and close, the fog pressing at the road ends like a held breath. I was at my bench, cleaning the thread guides on a survey drone, when Noa came in without knocking, her blue sweater bright in the grey light. “Fernando,” she said. “Three babies this time….

Letter 6. That morning came in warm and close, and I was at my bench calibrating the rangefinder when Noa came in without knocking, her blue sweater bright, her river stone in her hand. “Fernando,” she said. “Three babies again. All born before dawn. All dreaming the sentence.” I set down the calibration weight. “Three.” “Yael and…

Letter 7. The afternoon came in warm and close, and I was at my bench fitting a new lens into a survey drone when Noa came in without knocking, her blue sweater bright against the grey that pressed at the window. “Fernando,” she said. “Liesl had five babies.” I set down the lens. “Five?” “All born before…

Letter 8. The morning came in warm and close, and I was at my bench fitting a new calibration weight to the rangefinder when Noa came in without knocking, her blue sweater bright against the grey pressing at the window. "Fernando," she said. "Liesl had triplets." I set down the weight. "Triplets." "All born before dawn. Batsheva,…

Letter 9. The afternoon came in warm and close, and I was at my bench fitting a new bearing into the rangefinder when Noa came in without knocking, her blue sweater bright, her river stone in her hand. “Fernando,” she said. “Liesl had another one.” I set down the bearing. “Another?” “A boy. Reuben.” She held the…

Letter 10. The afternoon came in warm and close, and I was at my bench fitting a new calibration weight to the rangefinder when Noa came in without knocking, her blue sweater bright against the grey pressing at the window. “Fernando,” she said. “They’re all saying it now.” I set down the weight. “Who’s all?” “The babies….

Letter 11. That afternoon I was at my bench fitting a new lens to the rangefinder when Noa came in without knocking, her blue sweater bright against the grey pressing at the window. “Fernando,” she said. “Efrat and Shiloh.” I set down the lens. “Who?” “The Segal babies. Nitzan had a boy. Elam had a boy. Both…

Letter 12. That morning I was at my bench, the rangefinder open before me, when Rivka Raz came in holding something in her cupped hands. She was the network technician, a lean woman of about thirty with glasses pushed up into her hair and a tangle of cables always in her bag. "Fernando," she said. "Look at…

Letter 13. The morning came in grey and still, and I was at my bench with the rangefinder open when Tobiah Sharon came in, holding a sheet of paper. He was the surveyor, a lean man of about forty with a leather case slung across his chest and a pencil behind his ear. "Fernando," he said. "I…

Letter 14. The morning came in grey, and the plaza was already busy when I walked out with my rangefinder case under my arm. Two guards stood at the north road, their backs to the fog. Ivo was not among them. I found him at the town hall, in the Clerk's office. Garrin Zohar sat behind his…

Letter 15. The morning came in grey, and I was at my bench when Liesl Kfir walked in. She was the repair shop owner, a strong woman of about thirty-five, her dark hair tied back, sparks still fresh on her forearms. She held a bundle in her arms, wrapped in a plain blue cloth. “Fernando,” she said….

Letter 16. The morning came in grey, and I was at my bench when Jael Kfir walked in. She was Liesl's sister, a guard with a narrow face and the same unblinking stare. She held her helmet under one arm. "They turned me back," she said. "At the north line." "I heard," I said. "Guard duty." "Not…

Letter 17. The morning came in grey, and I was at my bench when the bell rang twice. I set down my screwdriver and walked to the plaza. Garrin Zohar stood at the town hall steps, his tablet under his arm, his thin glasses low on his nose. He looked tired. “Four births,” he said. “Oren Erez,…

Letter 18. The old well sat at the south edge of town, a ring of grey stone half-swallowed by grass. Liesl Kfir stood at the lip, her mechanical stopwatch in one hand, Noa's stone in the other. The girl had come with her, a thin nine-year-old in a blue sweater, holding a second, smaller pebble. "You sure…

Letter 19. Miriam Harel met me at the river path, her rangefinder slung over her shoulder. She was a dealer who sold maps of what lay beyond the fog, and she had the quick, clever eyes of someone who had learned not to trust what she was told. "Good, you're here," she said. "I've got my rangefinder—let's…

Letter 20. The old well sat at the south edge, and Liesl Kfir stood at its mouth with a long pole from the mill balanced on her shoulder. Noa Hadar was there too, the girl in her blue sweater, holding a stone in each hand. The morning was grey and still. "I've got the pole," Liesl said….

Letter 21. The path past the mill was dry and hard-packed. Noa walked ahead, her phone in her hand, and Liesl came behind with her stopwatch on a cord around her neck. The old well stood at the south edge, grey stone half-swallowed by grass. "You sure about this?" Liesl said. "I'm sure," Noa said. "Same stone,…

Letter 22. The old well sat in the grass at the south edge, and the morning was grey and still. Liesl Kfir stood at the mouth with her stopwatch in one hand, and Noa Hadar held her phone in the other. They had been at it an hour. "Alright, Noa," Liesl said. "Here's my stopwatch. You take…

Letter 23. Dalia Shalev found me at the survey post that morning, her recorder clipped to her collar. She had the voice memo pulled up on her phone. "I want you to hear this before I write anything," she said. We sat at the counter. She pressed play. The release came, then the splash, clear as anything….

Letter 24. The old well stood grey at the south edge, and the morning air was damp. Liesl Kfir stood at the mouth with a stone in her hand, and Dalia Shalev held her phone out toward the water, recorder running. "You ready?" Liesl said. "I'll drop it from arm height, same as before. You just say…

Letter 25. The café tables on the plaza were wet with morning mist. Dalia Shalev set her coffee down and nodded to Miriam Harel, who was already seated with a rolled map in front of her. "Miriam, may I sit with you a while?" Dalia said. "I've spent so long listening for a splash that I haven't…

Letter 26. The old well stood grey at the south edge, and the morning air carried the smell of wet stone. I set Noa's two microphones on the grass—one on a short stand at the well mouth, the other on a smaller stand where Liesl Kfir would stand. She was already there, her canvas apron off, her…