Jerusalem is a city of fire. Tzfat is the city of air, and it is the place where we go when we can no longer breathe

When Eliyahu stands at a distance, just beyond the stream, and closes his eyes slightly, he sees the mountain as a great face. The craggy rock that juts out just above his cave is the nose, the drooping grass is a beard surrounding the small, puckered mouth that is the entrance to his cave.

Small and round, the entrance is barely noticeable from the outside; all that time ago, he only discovered it because he was desperate, frozen by rain, eyes trained for any kind of shelter. He had crouched down, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled. “Shemaaaaa!”

He listened.

An echo came back to him, faint but true. Shema, shema, shema.

SomeOne, then, was listening to his prayers, and had carved a new home for him in the mountainside.

That first time, in the dim light that the rain had not extinguished, he had not seen that the cave floor was lower than the ground outside. He had lowered himself inward, only to feel his feet suddenly dangling in midair. He had fallen, hit his knee on the stone and ripped his sleeve, grazing his arm.

When he had got up and caught his breath, he had looked around and something inside had lifted. He was concealed within the concealment. He had found his own grave, surrounded by rock, hidden in the earth. It was a place he would stay.

Now, he’s supporting Yannai, who leans on him heavily; they are both breathless as they arrive at the entrance.

“Pray, sit down.”

Yannai grunts, then lets out a moan of pain as he sits. How to do this?