This is what he brings with him on the morning of his departure: 

Three servants—one to carry his finery, another his sustenance, and the last as keeper of his money bag. 

The finest mare in his father’s stables—this one his brother used to ride, but when asked, he’d just turned away with an angry scowl and told him to do whatever he wanted, what did he care. 

A finely woven pair of sandals slung around his neck in addition to the ones on his feet—they bang against his chest like an over-large necklace. 

And finally, gold. Lots of it. So much that he has three donkeys pulling wagons, covered with sheets of burlap so the treasure beneath remains hidden. 

There had been more, of course. Father had offered him half the property, but he’d taken the deeds and sold them back to his father only moments after receiving them. It’s not that he despises his inherited land. He grew up here, sneaking into the kitchen to steal food from the cooks before mealtime, hiding in the stables while playing, and, loathsome as the chore was, tilling the fields alongside the servants he’d grown to see as family. Father always said he wanted his sons to know the land they lived and to learn the best seasons to plant wheat and watch the fields turn golden with harvest. 

How could he despise this land when it holds such fond and precious memories? It’s just— 

So stifling. 

So he’d done what his older brother was always too afraid to do and asked Father for his inheritance. He’d planned this moment for months, dreaming of dancing girls in silks, talking with merchants about their investments over a meal, traveling with a horse beneath him and the wide blue sky above. The world was so vast, yet so distant. It seemed a shame to leave it unexplored. 

“Father,” he’d begged, kneeling outside the threshold one evening. “Give me the share of the estate that is coming to me.” 

Father could never say no to him. He couldn’t. It was his inheritance, after all, only received years in advance. The next day, Father had taken him through the house and pointed out all the treasures he had never noticed before, preoccupied with his own thoughts or with playing with his friends in the nearby town. It was much the same this time, only he now saw how many shekels he could get for that vase, how many talents that ornately carved table would go for.

And now, standing at the beginning of the long stretch of road that leads out of his father’s property. Freedom is so close, he can taste it. 

“Son.” 

He starts at the sound of that familiar voice. Unconsciously, he’s been leaning forward, sticking his nose to the wind like a hunting dog on the chase for prey, but an old master’s call brings him to heel. When he turns, he sees his father ambling towards him with his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Where are you going?” Father asks. 

If he tells Father, Father will no doubt send servants after him, intent on ensuring his safety and health. It’s a nice thought, but not one he needs. 

“Away,” he replies, as vaguely as he can manage. “A faraway country.” Where I can have everything I want, he privately adds in his mind. 

“Then…” Father hesitates before saying his next sentence. Brother isn’t here, he notices, but that’s hardly a surprise. He’s probably laboring in the wheat fields like the dutiful son he is. Boring. “Promise me you’ll return.” 

“I—” 

The sun is hot and blazing above them, and his tongue seems to stick to the roof of his mouth. He swallows. The air is so arid here, so dry. Another reason to leave. 

But when did Father begin to look so aged and tired? 

“I may,” he says. In the end, he can’t bring himself to lie. He’s not that depraved. “But I intend to go where my feet lead me, to travel and to enjoy life to fullest.” 

A wind is kicking up now, billowing sand around their calves. He knows the weather here. This kind of breeze doesn’t promise rain, a storm to come and bless the land. This is a dry wind. 

“Come back,” Father says quietly. It’s the only sound for miles. “Come back, and I will welcome you with open arms.” 

He blinks back a sudden sharpness in his eyes, fights back the wave of longing that threatens to overtake him, and turns away. Enough. If he lingers any longer, he may never leave, and that would be a true waste of all the riches he’s carried out already. He’s set his plans, and he intends to follow them.

The road lies wide beneath his feet, and the sky is a shimmering cerulean cloak. There are so many things he wants to try. His companions have told him about fine tapestries from foreign nations, beautifully wrought idols with gleaming eyes made of jewels, drinks that set the blood afire…. 

So many blessings await. 

Squaring his shoulders, he goes.