The Jericho Spring
"Maya discovers an ancient spring outside Jericho—and the groundskeeper Rashid, whose knowledge of the old ways runs as deep as the water."
The Jericho Spring
The spring appeared on no maps. Maya found it only because she got lost—her rental car's GPS dying somewhere between Jericho and the Dead Sea, leaving her wandering dusty roads until a stone archway caught her eye.
Beyond it, paradise. Date palms arching over crystal water, ancient stones covered in moss, the air twenty degrees cooler than the desert outside.
"Min wain inti?" a voice demanded. Where are you from?
Maya spun to find an older man emerging from the trees. He was perhaps fifty-five, lean and sun-weathered, with the kind of intense eyes that made her feel seen down to her bones.
"I'm sorry—I got lost—"
"You're American." His English was accented but clear. "Palestinians from America always get lost. They forget how to read the land."
"I'm just trying to get back to—"
"Sit. Drink." It wasn't a request. He gestured to a stone bench by the water. "You're dehydrated. I can tell by your eyes."
His name was Rashid, and he'd been groundskeeper here for thirty years. The spring had been in his family for generations—a secret kept from developers and tourists, shared only with those who found their way by accident or fate.
"The water has healing properties," he explained, filling a cup for her. "The old ones knew. They came here to cure heartbreak, infertility, grief."
"Do you believe that?"
"I believe the water is cold and clean, and that sitting still is its own kind of healing." His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Why are you really in Palestine, Maya? No one comes to Jericho in August without a reason."
She hadn't told him her name. But somehow it didn't surprise her that he knew.
"My grandmother died," she said slowly. "She always talked about this land. I wanted to... I don't know. Feel close to her."
"Then you've come to the right place." Rashid sat beside her, close enough that she felt his warmth. "The dead aren't far here. The veil is thin."
Maya didn't mean to cry. But the water, the shade, the weight of grief she'd carried for months—it all came pouring out. Rashid simply held her, his arms steady and strong, asking nothing.
"Shh, habibi," he murmured. "Khalas. Ana hon." It's okay. I'm here.
When the tears finally stopped, she felt emptied out but lighter. Like something poisonous had drained away.
"I'm sorry," she started.
"Don't be." Rashid pulled back to look at her, thumbs wiping her cheeks. "You've been carrying that alone too long."
"How do you know?"
"Because I recognize it." His gaze was ancient, knowing. "I lost my wife to cancer. My son to distance. I've learned what loneliness looks like."
"But you're not lonely?"
"Not anymore." His fingers lingered on her face. "Will you stay for dinner?"
His cottage hid among the date palms, simple but clean. Rashid cooked for her—grilled lamb, fresh tabouleh, bread still warm from the fire—and Maya ate like she hadn't in months.
"The spring needs a woman's touch," he said, pouring tea. "I'm getting old. The work is hard."
"Are you offering me a job?"
"I'm offering you a place to heal." His hand covered hers. "Stay as long as you need. No obligations. No expectations."
But there were expectations—she saw them in his eyes, felt them in her own rapid pulse. Something had shifted in the spring's ancient shade, something that felt inevitable.
"Rashid," she said carefully. "I should tell you I'm not looking for—"
"I know." He raised her hand to his lips, kissing her palm. "But sometimes we find what we weren't looking for."
She kissed him first. Blamed it on the tea, the grief, the strange magic of this place—but she kissed him, and Rashid responded with a passion that belied his years.
"Ya Allah," he groaned against her mouth. "I've wanted this since you walked through that archway."
"Take me to bed," Maya commanded. "I need to feel something besides sadness."
He carried her—actually carried her, like she weighed nothing—to a bedroom filled with books and moonlight. Rashid undressed her slowly, worshipping every curve with hands and lips.
"Helwa," he whispered against her breast. "Inti helwa kteer." So beautiful.
When he finally entered her, Maya gasped at how right it felt. Rashid moved with controlled power, building her pleasure with patient expertise. He knew exactly where to touch, how hard to thrust, when to slow down and when to let go.
"I'm close," she whimpered.
"Khalliki." Let go. "Ana ma'ik." I'm with you.
They crested together, Maya crying out his name to the ancient stones. And when they drifted down, she found his arms waiting to catch her.
She stayed. Not forever—she had a life, a job, obligations—but for three months, Maya lived by the Jericho spring. She learned to tend the date palms, to clear the channels, to find peace in simple work.
And at night, Rashid taught her other things.
"Birja'i?" he asked on her last morning. Will you come back?
Maya looked at the spring that had healed her grief, at the man who had reminded her how to feel.
"Akeed," she promised. Of course. "Kul saif." Every summer.
Rashid smiled, pulling her close for one last kiss. The spring burbled its ancient song, and somewhere overhead, Maya could have sworn she heard her grandmother laughing.