It was a little red book, only the size of Olkeli’s palm. It rested cozily there, the cover worn and soft, the wrinkled pages inside pressing back against the cover as if to escape. Elder Olkeli lifted it reverently. His eyes shone as he handed it to her. She took it and ran her finger over the gold lettering on the front. She whispered the words as she read: “The Book of El.” She turned her face up to his. “What is it?” “It is a book written a long time ago, written for us—for these times—so we would have a way to remember the ways of old. So we would have a way to remember who we are. Open
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