Beneath the Black Pool

6983 words

The water lapped at Miriam’s ankles, cold as a blade, seeping through the worn leather of her sandals and biting into her skin. She stood frozen at the edge of the underground pool, the tunnel’s damp air clinging to her face like a shroud. The scroll, wrapped tight in its oilcloth and bound to her chest with a scrap of linen, pressed against her ribs with every shallow breath. Ahead, the black surface of the water stretched into shadow, rippling under the faint flicker of the torch Salome held behind her. The girl’s small hand trembled, the flame wavering, casting jagged streaks of light across the stone walls that hemmed them in. “Miriam, we can’t just stand here,” Salome whispered, her voice tight, barely louder than the drip of water somewhere in the dark. “The Romans—they’re not far. I heard their boots. Back there, before the fork.” Miriam’s fingers curled into the rough edge of the tunnel wall, the stone cold and slick under her palm. She didn’t turn to look at Salome. Couldn’t. Her eyes were fixed on the water, on the way it swallowed the light, on the faint shimmer that might’ve been a reflection—or movement. Her stomach churned, not just from the gnawing hunger of days without bread, but from the weight of what she carried. Elazar’s...