Shabsi threw his body on top of the scrolls, but it was too late. Shimshon’s razor-sharp mind had already scanned the entire thing

Y

oung Shabsi pushed the scrolls sticking out of his pocket further in and turned his back on Shimshon.

“Don’t worry about what I’m working on, Shimshon. It’s nothing special.”

“Yes, of course….” Shimshon said slowly. “Nothing special. Just special enough that you closet yourself away for weeks inside a small room, late at night, and won’t let anyone observe you while you write. No, nothing special at all.”

“If I told you what I was working on, you would burn the scrolls.”

“Oh?” Shimshon’s face lit up. “Now you’ve really got me curious. Come on, Shabsi, just tell me what it is already.”

“No.” Shabsi stood up, and without noticing the dirt on his pants, headed off through the field, away from the river and back to the small hut the yeshivah bochurim would sleep in when in yeshivah.

But later that night, as Shabsi crept out of the hut and went into a small study and locked the door, he failed to see someone curled up in the shadows, watching closely.

Shabsi unfurled the scrolls and began to work, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he concentrated and meditated deeply, ancient seforim opened all over the table.

Suddenly, the shadow in the corner of the room moved forward.