A circle of rocks in the basement of the French hospital in Jerusalem. No one knows what it is and the staff has no time to investigate. Everything is always a frantic last minute emergency of irrational promises made long ago, their reasons lost. It is just a legend the laundry workers propagate in those far dank corners:
Once it had been a tower of Goliath’s fortress. Now it rests beneath the great boiler that heats the whole hospital. A boiler that always seems to run.
One strange nervous man, a man like a rat with his dull courtesies, guards it as much as repairs it. The boiler must always be kept secure in case of terrorists. This one man knows the whole story of what the Muslim’s call Kalaat Yalud.
A beautiful name for a dank corner fit only for worms, a place that constantly screams with the strength of the mighty furnace, a place with giant fans tearing the air with great force. Heat is thrown from the fire like an endless stream of daggers.
One man stands at the edge of light in a dark passage, losing his mind with loneliness to keep the great and terrible secret alive.
Goliath, Goliaths Tower, philistineGoliath, Goliaths Tower, philistine
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