The words are hidden now, but the answer is clear: Moneylending to those of the Christian faith is permissible

When he has finished eating the barley that Eliyahu has prepared, the old man — he has introduced himself as Yannai — struggles to his feet. He is smaller than he looked on the grass, more bent over. On the grass he looked ageless despite the white beard, but now he looks old. His eyes are set deeply in his face, so it is hard to read them, but they are still bright — now with curiosity and now with pain.

“Come, Harav Yannai, I will help you on your way. You are coming from Tzefat, is that true? You have wandered far to end up in this forgotten place.”

Yannai grips his arm, his hand trembling. “Oh, I do not believe I got lost. Well, I did not know my way, certainly. But I was led here, from above. Though I am no rav, and I would thank you to call me by my name.”

“You lost your way,” Eliyahu repeats firmly.

“Do you not pray? Do you not say the blessing, who prepares the footsteps of man?”

Eliyahu looks upward. The sun catches his face and warms it. “When I say those words, I think of the footsteps that brought me here, to the Holy Land.”

“Where from?”

“Alexandria.”

“And before?”

He waves his hands. “Too many steps to count.”

Yannai nods. “Like many of us.”

“But now, let us have you stepping toward home.”

Eliyahu picks up his stick and hands it to the old man. With Eliyahu’s arm around him, Yannai takes a slow, shaky step forward. His eyes close in pain.

Eliyahu pauses. Across the meadow they will come to a steep decline. They will both need two arms and two legs to scramble down the rocky slope. “You said that nothing hurt you.”

“Sheker. I said that everything hurt me.”

“But look at your leg…”

Yannai leans against an olive tree, and Eliyahu kneels down and examines his right leg. It is bruised and badly swollen. It could be broken or fractured. Really, Yannai should stay and rest with him, while he recovers.

The thought fills him with unease. If only he had a donkey. He would gladly sacrifice it to get Yannai home safely. But he has only six sheep and two hens. No help at all.

Perhaps if he binds it.

Eliyahu picks a handful of tall grass and braids it into a wide bandage, which he wraps around Yannai’s leg. The old man winces as the bandage touches his wound.

“Come, Yannai. I’ll see you on your way, and you will make it home easily.”

They take two more steps. Yannai leans heavily on him, his breathing shallow, his face squeezed in the effort. Yannai lifts his hand.

“Stop.” He sits down on the ground. “It hurts.”

Eliyahu nods. “I will brew you something. I have herbs and plants that will stop the pain. You will drink it down, and I will give you some extra for your journey.”

Yannai shakes his head. “I will drink it, somehow, and it will ease the pain so I can walk, but then the sun will begin to set and you will wave goodbye, asking me to reassure you that all will be well so that you can sleep easily. But I will not do so, for I will be stuck in the dark and the wild, and there are wolves here at night, and I do not want my bones picked at by vultures.”

He says it almost gleefully, as if this is a game.