Free Khirbet Khizeh by S. Yizhar Page A

boldness, as the incline was dislodged beneath wheels that repeatedly grabbed at its cascading pebbles; drawing a momentary effort, and raging with all its strength and joyful desire at a trial of strength, the jeep quickly reached the topmost height, and there we sought out a place and surveyed the entire land below us.
    A first glance and the great land stretched out before you, emphasizing all its sharp-hewn outlines, hunched and hollowed with drenched lushness, in a light that was growing whiter, and with a bit of a breeze that had started in the meantime and blew upon us a breath of beauty, of enjoyment, to the point that it could be tasted, a thrill of pleasure. Everything took on a new dimension, areas were opened and closed, and it appeared there was something that had almost been forgotten but actually seemed solid, and you could lean on it—until the next moment, as its being became real, suddenly here was the checkerboard of fields, plowed and verdant, and the patches of shade-dappled orchards, and the hedges that dissected the area into peaceful forms stretching into the distance, and the variegated hills that blocked and revealed distant pale bluish horizons—and suddenly upon all these an orphaned longing descended, a shadowy veil. Fields that would never be harvested, plantations that would never be irrigated, paths that would become desolate. A sense of destruction and worthlessness. An image of thistles and brambles everywhere, a desolate tawniness, a braying wilderness. And already from those fields accusing eyes peered out at you, that silent accusatory look as of a reproachful animal, staring and following you so there was no refuge.
    Then we saw in the distance, on another hill, which was cut by the big dirt track, several trucks rolling heavily along, crawling like blind beetles, struggling with the potholes in the road, their sound still inaudible. Apparently what I was thinking was visible on my face without my knowing it, as the wireless operator, in the midst of his communication, turned to me and said:
    â€œYou’re in some mood today, what’s up?”
    â€œI’m not in any mood today, and nothing’s up,” I snapped in a tone that didn’t exactly suggest the sound of sheep chewing cud at sunset, and that shouted, if you don’t mind—“you wanna get hit, come and get hit!” with the vehemence of a man cursing another out of hatred for his face that had betrayed what he held in his heart.
    We descended from the hilltop, into the jaws of death (that flattered my inner thoughts), to another plantation, and while we were sinking into the sludge and the mire, frantically moving backward and forward trying to find a way out, Yehuda, who had climbed out to help by pushing, got doused by a dollop of mud and came back to us, smeared, dripping, and sprayed; he bellowed a heartfelt roar at the driver for his witticisms that were no longer funny and cursed our laughter and mockery, promising that he would show us, but his fury still hadn’t been assuaged when we finally emerged onto the dirt track, nor even when we comforted him with the thought that as soon as he was dry the whole lot would fall off without leaving a trace, because mud isn’t dirt but simply wet soil.
    We continued to circle on the desolate paths, we wandered between hedges huddled like frightened sheep, crossing open, spongy, absorbent tracks, beyond which the crops were sprouting as from time immemorial, combed by the breeze with waves of shallow shadows, with their usual ebb and flow. But I imagined I saw a hand inscribing sternly, “Won’t be harvested,” and wearily crossing the entire field and its neighbor, and passing over the fallow, and the plow, and being swallowed up with a faint shudder among the hills. We examined the entire agricultural plan of the village and its fields, we fathomed their purpose in selecting places for planting, and we grasped their reasoning