Ascending on foot from the King’s Road to Levonah, I drank in the smell of young shoots sprouting in the valley. Now that I was forced to return to my flock, the farmers’ dread of the rain faded; the prospect of shepherding again was eased by the promise of early pastures. I scanned the hillside for my flock, but it was nowhere to be seen.
I hiked up to the fig tree where I’d met Uriel less than two weeks before, picked a fig that was still green on top, and split its reddish-brown bottom with my fingers. Its flesh wavered before my eyes as thin, white worms fled from the light. I dropped the infested fruit with a shudder and didn’t reach for another.
Every rock and tree on the footpath that hugged the city walls whispered of home, yet the familiar landmarks brought constriction to my throat. A different sun shone on everything I knew, casting it in an unfamiliar light. My uncle’s house appeared smaller than I remembered. Dahlia saw me first, peeking around the mud dome of the oven. “Lev!”
“Lev?” Aunt Leah stepped outside, two-year-old Ruth grasping the back of her skirts. Tears were already on her cheeks as I hurried forward into her embrace.
“Tell us about the man eating the sword again,” six-year-old Shimi asked for the third time.
“As I said, he didn’t exactly eat it.” I dropped my spoonful of lentil stew—everyone else had finished eating, but my bowl was still half full. “He bent his head back like this and held the sword over his head.” I held my spoon over my upturned mouth. “Then he lowered it down his throat.” I lowered the handle until I gagged. “But he kept it going all the way down.”
“How long was the sword?” Eliav asked.
“About this long.” I held my arms out.
“But it must have gone down to his stomach.” Dahlia wrinkled her nose. “And it came out without any blood?”
“Not a drop.”
“I think you should all let Lev eat,” Aunt Leah said. “You can ask him about his adventures tomorrow. He’s home now. Come Ruth, Shimi, Naamah. To sleep.”
The youngest children followed their mother up the ladder as Dahlia cleared the table. Uncle Menachem didn’t recite verses, as was our nightly custom; instead, Eliav went outside to check on the flock, and Uncle Menachem stayed at the table while I finished. He’d passed the meal in silence, hardly taking his eyes off me as he ate.
Eliav returned and climbed the ladder without a word. I wiped the clay bowl with the last of my bread, handed it to Dahlia, then turned toward the door.
“Eliav’s already seen to the sheep,” Uncle Menachem said.
“I know, Uncle.” I walked outside anyway and leaned against the edge of the pen, patting the head of the nearest sheep, which stared up, then pulled away.
“You didn’t mention the rest of the wedding.” My uncle came up behind me.
“I didn’t want to scare them. I wasn’t sure if you even knew.”
“We felt the rain here too, Lev. It didn’t take long to learn the reason why. Everyone’s in a panic to gather in their crops.” Uncle Menachem tugged at the gate of the locked pen, checking that it was secure. “What does Master Uriel say?”
“The rains will come, just as Yambalya promised. He ended the gathering early.”
“That’s why he sent you home?”
“No, Uncle. That’s not why he sent me away.”
“No? What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything. He closed the gathering and told everyone they could go home to bring in the harvest.”
“But if the gathering was closed, it was closed.”
“No, Uncle.” I fought the tremor in my voice. I wanted to understand the truth, and to do that, I needed to tell my uncle everything. “He stayed behind with any disciples wishing to remain.”
“Then it probably wasn’t worth paying a musician for just a few disciples.”
“No, Uncle. He paid me for the entire summer.” One of the sheep crossed the pen to lick my hand. I felt bolstered by the sudden affection. “He sent me away because he’s angry.”
“Angry?”
“On the way to the gathering, Uriel sent me into Beit El to deliver a message. I finished earlier than I expected. I had time, so I went to the altar to bring an offering, but they wouldn’t let me. So I went and bowed to the Holy One. I told him this last night when I returned from the wedding.”
Whatever response I may have expected, it wasn’t the burst of laughter I received. “You told a navi that you bowed to the Golden Calf?”
My face grew hot. “Why not? You taught me that bowing to the calf is bowing to the Holy One. You go every year.”
“Yes, yes I do.” His smile melted, and even in the fading light, I saw a shadow grow in his eyes. “I’m not proud of it. But I go. And I bow.”
“Why wouldn’t you be proud? And if you’re not proud,” I could tell he wanted to look away, but I held his eyes, “then why do you go?”
He sighed, turning aside and resting his arms on the pen. “I didn’t use to. Of course, when I came of age, my father took me. But once I married your aunt, your father wouldn’t hear of it.”
I started at the mention of my father; my uncle almost never spoke of him. “What do you mean?”
“The tale of the calf is a troubled one. Have I ever told you why the Kingdom was split?”
I sensed a story coming and sat down on the wall of the pen, shaking my head.
“When King Solomon died, the tribes called his son Rechavaum to Shechem to crown him King of all Israel. Now King David was a mighty warrior, and the people followed him with all their hearts. His son Solomon was a great builder who set the people to build the Holy One’s Temple and his own palace in Jerusalem. Twenty years of sending people north, thousands at a time, to fell trees and cut stones in the mountains of Tzidon. Twenty years of fathers gone from their families, husbands from their wives, sons from their farms.
“So when Rechavaum came to Shechem, the tribes said to him, ‘Your father placed a heavy yoke upon us. Lighten our burden, and we will serve you as we served him.’ Now it is no small thing to make demands on the honor of a King. Unwilling to answer right away, Rechavaum took three days to consider.
“The elders who sat at Solomon’s feet advised Rechavaum to heed the people. They promised that if the King bent to their will, the people would bow to him all his days. But Rechavaum’s friends, the youth of the palace, did not agree. They told him that it was dangerous to meet demands with weakness. They advised him to say, ‘My little finger is thicker than Solomon’s loins. My father laid a heavy yoke on you, I will add to it. If Solomon beat you with sticks, I will whip you with scorpions.’” Uncle Menachem shook his head with a mirthless laugh.
“Why would they say that?”
“I think they were afraid.”
“Afraid? Afraid of what?”
“Of what the tribes would do. Of having to hold together the Kingdom without King Solomon.” He stroked his beard and sighed. “And when men are afraid, they feel safer if they can make others afraid as well—afraid of them.”
“So he listened to his friends?”
My uncle nodded. “His friends convinced him that the strong hand is the one that holds the whip. But he didn’t count on the strength of the tribe of Ephraim. They killed his tax collector and sent Rechavaum fleeing back to Jerusalem. Only his own tribe of Judah and the small tribe of Binyamin stayed loyal to the House of David. The other tribes chose Yeravaum as their king, and he declared the new Kingdom of Israel, independent from the Kingdom of Judah.”
“But how could they do that?”
“As I said, Ephraim is a powerful tribe, and the northern tribes resented twenty years of forced labor to build a capital in the south.”
“But you told me the Holy One granted an eternal kingdom to the House of David.”
Uncle Menachem’s eyes narrowed. “Well, this is where your friends, the prophets, enter the story.”
“They fought against Yeravaum?”
He shook his head. “King Solomon’s weakness for foreign women raised the wrath of the Holy One. Achia of Shiloh, Uriel’s master, was sent to anoint Yeravaum as king even during Solomon’s lifetime.”
“The prophets declared Yeravaum king even before the people rejected Rechavaum?”
My uncle nodded.
“But what does this have to do with my bowing to the calf?”
“Well, Yeravaum had the support of most of the people, especially after it became known he was anointed by a prophet. But there was one thing he didn’t have: The Holy Temple. All the men of Israel are obligated to go up to the Temple for the three yearly festivals: Passover, Shavuot, and Sukkot.”
“So?”
“Only a king from the House of David is allowed to sit in the Temple; all others must stand. Yeravaum was afraid that if he allowed the people to go to Jerusalem, they would see Rechavaum sitting in the Temple courts while he stood. Who would look like the greater king then? He feared their loyalty would return to the House of David. So, he closed the roads to Jerusalem and forbade the people from making the pilgrimage.”
I pictured the faces of the nobles bowing to the Baal at the wedding. “Yeravaum was afraid, so he frightened the people?”
Uncle Menachem nodded. “He put soldiers on the road. After he killed the first few who defied his orders, most stopped trying. But Yeravaum understood he couldn’t stop the people from serving the Holy One. Their connection was too strong—attack that and the nation would rise against him. And he was not opposed to the Holy One, just to the people going to Jerusalem. So, he crafted two golden calves, placing one in Beit El in the south of the Kingdom and one in Dan in the north, and declared: ‘Here are your gods that brought you up from Egypt.’ Then he created a new pilgrimage festival one month after Sukkot.”
“Why did he choose the calf?”
“I think because our ancestors already worshipped the calf in the desert—it was already in our hearts. Your father had some other explanation that I never understood.”
“What was that?” I couldn’t keep the eagerness out of my voice. I’d never before heard a teaching from my father.
“He said the calf represents the animal half of our souls. That worshiping it was turning toward our animal self, away from our higher destiny.”
I rolled the statement over in my mind, wanting badly to understand my father’s words. “I don’t know what that means,” I admitted at last.
“Neither do I.”
I ran my hand across the back of one of the sheep, where the wool was just starting to grow in after the spring shearing. “Uncle, if you know all this, why did you start going again?”
Uncle Menachem dropped his eyes. “It’s what everyone does, Lev. It’s a time for the people to come together and strengthen our connections to each other and the Holy One. I loved going with my father when I was young. Is it better to go to the Temple? Of course. But the road to Jerusalem is closed.” He cleared his throat, yet held his gaze low to the ground. “Your father made me ashamed to go, but when he was no longer here, I started again.”
I nodded, glad my uncle had answered, but not wanting to push him further.
“So you’ll be taking out the flock in the morning?”
Now it was my turn to look away. The question had been on my mind the whole journey back. “No,” I said, and my uncle’s eyes shot up to mine. “I’ll go, but only to help Eliav. He leads the flock now.”
“Lev, you know you are no less to me than my own children, don’t you?”
I swallowed, but didn’t reply.
“It’s true that you can’t inherit the land. But your aunt and I have spoken. We want each of you to inherit part of the flock. You needn’t give way to Eliav. You’re the elder and the better shepherd. He should help you.”
My lower jaw trembled, but I had decided my path—there would be no more silly dreams. “No, I’ll help him. Between the prophets and the wedding, I have enough copper to buy seven ewes and two rams in the spring.” Uncle Menachem raised his eyebrows. “I’ll go out with Eliav through the winter, then start a flock of my own.”
Uncle Menachem pulled on his beard. “This is what you want?”
“Yes.” My tone didn’t ring as clearly as I intended.
“Very well. I’ll give you another ram and three ewes from the calves. With that many to start, you should have a strong flock by the time you’re ready to marry.”
I knew he’d want to help, but hadn’t expected such a generous gift. “Thank you, Uncle.”
Uncle Menachem stepped back toward the house, then turned to face me. “You’re sure this is what you want?”
“Yes,” I said with confidence I didn’t feel. “Eliav should take the flock.”
He peered deeply into my eyes. “I meant, are you sure you want to be a shepherd?”
My gaze rose toward the sky, lit by the last rays of the setting sun. The dream of playing in the King’s Court still called to me, but not if it meant bowing to the Baal. “What else would I do?”
Uncle Menachem shrugged. “That morning when you went off with Master Uriel, you didn’t see me. I was working in the olive trees and watched you go. I saw your face and wondered if you’d ever return to this life. You have a lot of your father in you.”
Three mentions of my father in one conversation. Was Uncle Menachem suddenly willing to talk? “Uncle, what really happened to my parents?”
Uncle Menachem sat down next to me on the stone wall of the pen and stared down at his hands. When he spoke, it was just above a whisper.
“The truth? I don’t know most of it. A man came to us in the night with cuts all over his face. Didn’t appear as if anyone had treated his wounds at all. He was carrying you. You just kept screaming. You weren’t hurt, but it looked as if you’d not been fed all day. Leah was nursing when he came. She handed Dahlia to me and nursed you instead. He told me he saw your parents killed. He wouldn’t say any more. I tried to convince him to stay, to eat something and let us care for his wounds. He refused. He just refilled his water skin, took a little food, and left.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice—I hadn’t known that Aunt Leah had nursed me. Menachem rested his hand on my shoulder, then stepped back toward the house. I sat alone with my thoughts as darkness fell.
“Where’s your kinnor?” Eliav asked me the next morning.
“I’m not bringing it.” I held a shepherd’s staff, which I hadn’t carried in over a year. “You’re in charge of the flock now. We’ll do it your way.”
Eliav stared at me with a blank expression, as if unsure whether to be happy about this change or not. With a shrug, he turned his back, unlocked the pen, and let out a sharp “Yah!” that brought the sheep pouring out. I hemmed in the flock with my outstretched staff, and Eliav turned them downhill toward the fields on the back side of the town.
“The rain brought up fresh grasses by the road,” I called from behind the flock. “No one’s grazed there yet.”
Eliav didn’t turn. “The rain brought up grasses everywhere. This way’s closer.”
“But you need to go through Zimmah ben Merari’s field this way. They might eat from the cut grain.”
Eliav stopped, and the sheep bunched up behind him, bleating and snorting. “All the shepherds pass through his field, and no one grazes there, you know that. But if you’d rather go to the road, we can go to the road.”
“It’s your flock—I’ll follow you.”
Eliav spit on the ground, then turned the flock back up toward the road. I took up the rear, keeping the sheep in a tight group with light taps on the hindquarters of the stragglers. Without my kinnor, my mind drifted quickly. How long had it taken Eliav to change my grazing spot? Had he done it the very day I left? And why? Was it because the road was farther or because all the other shepherds went behind the town?
We found good pasture on the slope immediately below the town’s gates. Eliav was more confident now with the flock, but he still stood periodically and rushed at any sheep that threatened to stray.
“Don’t do that!” I shouted when Eliav popped up for the third time. “You’re just as likely to scare them away as bring them back. If you want to tighten up the flock, go past the sheep and just walk back toward the center.
“All right.” Eliav avoided my eyes as he spoke. I didn’t offer any more advice after that.
By the time the sun passed its midpoint, I missed my kinnor. A staff might keep the sheep in line but was a poor tool for occupying heart and mind. I watched puffy clouds drift by in ones and twos, high over our heads. Clouds like these weren’t so unusual this time of year, but they made me think of the coming rains.
I brought my eyes down to earth just in time to notice a rider dressed in violet robes turning up from the King’s Road below. Bile rose in my throat. A priest of the Baal in Levonah?
Astride a black mare, the rider made much shorter work of the steep road than I had the day before. Eliav gaped, and I elbowed him so that he wouldn’t stare. I needn’t have bothered—two shepherd boys were beneath the priest’s notice. He approached the gate and addressed the guard loudly in poor Hebrew. “I want Yoel ben Beerah.”
Yoel ben Beerah was the King’s minister in Levonah—what could a priest of the Baal want with him? Without thinking, I motioned to Eliav to watch the sheep and slipped up to the town wall. I crept along the footpath that hugged the wall, stopping in the shadow of the gate where I could hear without being easily seen. Memories of the wedding celebration flooded my mind, and I fought the urge to spit the bitter taste from my mouth.
The guard slouched in the gate but sat up at attention as the priest approached. “Who seeks the King’s officer?”
“A messenger of the Queen.” The priest dismounted in a fluid motion, holding out a scroll in one hand.
The guard shot a skeptical frown at the priest, but when he examined the seal on the scroll, the defiance in his eyes died, his face turned pale, and he bowed his head before answering. “He is here in the gatehouse. I will summon him.”
The guard retreated into the gate, and I was gripped by an internal battle. A voice in my gut screamed to retreat—I had no business with the Baal or the King’s minister—but my curiosity pushed me closer to the gate, yearning to hear what the message contained. Yet, the knife at the priest’s side drew my eyes. My heart pumped only fear—if he was willing to cut his own flesh, what would the priest do if he caught a spying shepherd boy?
Yoel ben Beerah stepped into the gate, trailed by two soldiers. He walked with a deliberate step, examining the priest as he approached. “I am Yoel ben Beerah. You may deliver your message.”
The priest handed over the scroll and Yoel ben Beerah hastily broke the seal and glanced at the contents of the parchment. He scanned the gate plaza around him, causing me to shrink back against the stone wall. “Come, we must discuss this.”
“Lev!” Eliav hissed from below.
I cringed at the sound and scurried down from my perch.
“What were you doing?”
“That’s a priest of the Baal bringing a message to Yoel ben Beerah.”
Eliav’s eyes widened. “How do you know he’s a priest of the Baal?”
“I recognized him from the wedding.”
A smirk played at the corner of Eliav’s mouth, then it turned down into a frown. “You have no business with him, what were you doing? If he had seen you…”
Eliav was right—it was a stupid risk to take. Why did I feel such a strong need to know what they were saying?
“What did he want with Yoel ben Beerah?”
“I don’t know.” I glared at Eliav. “I had to stop listening.”
Eliav gazed up at the clouds. “Do you really think they can bring the rains?”
“Master Uriel says they will come early.”
Eliav grinned. “That’ll be a blessing.”
I leaned away from him. “But what about all the farmers whose crops will be ruined?”
“What about them?” Eliav planted his staff before him and stood. “Let their blood be on their own heads. Yambalya granted them enough time for the harvest, you heard him yourself. It’s only those who don’t listen whose crops will be ruined. And any rain is good for us, right?”
Again Eliav was right—hadn’t I thought like him when I first felt the rains? Yet, now a fury rose within me that I couldn’t explain. Not knowing what to say, I stalked off to gather in a stray ram.
The next day was Shabbat. I passed the time feasting with my family and repeating the stories of my travels, mostly at the request of my younger cousins. On the first day of the week, Eliav again directed the flock toward the fields behind the city. This time I didn’t bother protesting.
After the evening meal, I retrieved my kinnor for the first time since returning home. It was not to “keep the spark inside me alive,” as Daniel had pressed me to do. No, I needed music to smother all those voices rising in my head since my return: my anger at Eliav, my disappointment in Uncle Menachem, my aching desire to be more than a shepherd in the wilderness. I’d made my choice, and my kinnor was my best tool to quiet the tempest within and remain on my path. I leaned against an olive tree opposite the house and gently plucked the strings, trying to replicate the sound of the leaves rustling overhead, imagining myself alone in the wilderness.
“There was no music while you were gone.” Dahlia stood over me, a bowl in her hands. “I brought you some toasted wheat.”
I grabbed a few wheatberries, still warm from roasting, and popped them into my mouth.
Dahlia sat next to me, pulled her dress down over her feet, and rested the bowl in her lap. “Do you want to sing to me?”
“I don’t feel like singing.”
“Want to tell me about the wedding again?”
“No,” I said, louder than I intended.
She pulled away. “Do you want me to go back in?”
“No, you can stay.” We sat silently, listening to the whisper of the leaves and the soft notes of the kinnor. In the distance, there were three heavy thuds, the sound of wood striking wood.
Dahlia broke the silence. “Are you happy to be home?”
I kept on strumming quietly. Had anyone else in the family asked, I would have offered a quick “Yes,” but it was different with Dahlia. “I was when I first got back.”
“You don’t seem happy now.” Again, the thudding sound disturbed the twilight peace, this time closer. “I don’t think my mother expected you to return.”
“Is that why she cried so much when I left?”
“Probably.”
“One of the musicians I met was like that. He left home over a year ago, moving from place to place, playing for weddings and festivals.”
“He didn’t get lonely?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Would you?”
I closed my eyes, picturing myself moving from festival to festival, carrying a mirror like Zim, never spending more than a couple of weeks in any one place. Maybe if Yonaton was with me, it wouldn’t be so bad. “I’d get lonely.”
“I don’t think she saw you becoming some wandering musician.”
“No, she thought I’d stay with Master Uriel.” I clamped my hand on the strings of the kinnor. The music died. Whenever I thought of Uriel now, I saw his cold narrowed eyes after he learned that I’d bowed to the calf.
“Yes,” Dahlia replied, and we sat in silence once again.
Two men crossed Uncle Menachem’s property and approached the house, taking no notice of Dahlia or me in the growing darkness. The man in front raised his staff and banged it three times against the door.
“Who’s there?” my uncle called, anger and worry in his voice. We didn’t get many visitors at night—certainly not ones who knocked so loudly.
“It is Yoel ben Beerah,” the shorter man answered in a voice that carried into the night.
Eliav opened the door, and soft light from the hearth shone from the house, revealing the violet hue of the other man’s robes. Uncle Menachem appeared next to Eliav in the doorway. “Good evening, Yoel ben Beerah. Please come in.”
“There is no need, we want just a word.” His voice was quieter now, but still had the tone of command. “Queen Izevel invites all of Israel to humble ourselves before the Baal prior to the rains so we will be blessed with a bountiful year.”
The priest put a box on the ground, opening a flap in the side facing the house.
“I see the Baal. And I see his servant’s weapon.” My uncle stared at the long knife at the priest’s side. “Are we being forced to bow?” Eliav turned to his father, mouth agape.
“Certainly not. Queen Izevel only invites us. Already tonight several men have declined. If they’re not concerned for their crops, I cannot help them. We are here for your sake.”
The priest fell to his knees in front of the box, stretched out his arms, and pressed his face to the ground. Yoel bowed next to him, supporting himself with his staff until his knees touched the ground, then lay his arms flat.
Dahlia clutched my arm. Would Uncle Menachem bow to the Baal as he did to the Golden Calf?
Uncle Menachem hesitated. Not a sound rose from the priest or the King’s servant. I held my breath as Dahlia’s grip tightened. This was not like the Calf. Even if Uncle Menachem believed bowing to the Calf was bowing to the Holy One, he could claim no confusion here. It was from my uncle’s mouth that I learned the verse, “Do not bow before their gods, do not serve them, do not follow their practices; rather, tear them apart and destroy their monuments.” My uncle’s wavering form filled the door—but Eliav moved first. Turning away from his father, Eliav fell to the ground beside Yoel and stretched himself out in the dirt of the doorway.
Uncle Menachem’s eyes fell on his son.
Dahlia’s nails dug deep into the skin of my arm. I choked back a cry.
My uncle’s knees buckled, as if he was trying to hold up a weight greater than himself. Drawn by Eliav, his shaky knees gave way. Once his knees struck earth, his back curved into the same position that I took before the Golden Calf, with his arms reaching out in servitude, his forehead humbled to the ground.
Yoel stood first, brushing dirt and twigs from his cloak. Uncle Menachem followed, grasping at the doorpost for support. Eliav didn’t lift himself from the dirt until the priest stood and closed the shrine.
“You are a prudent man, Menachem,” Yoel said. “May you receive much blessing for it. Peace to you.”
“And peace unto you, Yoel ben Beerah,” Uncle Menachem replied, without lifting his face.
The priest handed an object to my uncle. “Gift from Queen.” He followed Yoel away into the darkness.
Uncle Menachem stood in the doorway, watching the two men disappear down the path. As he turned back toward the house, his glance paused under the olive tree where Dahlia and I sat. His chin fell to his chest; he stepped inside, and closed the door.
Dahlia’s shuddering form shook mine. “I didn’t think my father would bow.”
“He doesn’t like to be different.”
The moonlight reflected in two lines down her cheeks. “You’re different, but you never seem to mind.”
“If I’m different, it’s not because I mean to be.” I shied away from her tears. “Don’t think it’s easy.”
“If it’s not easy, why’d you come back?”
“Where else was I supposed to go? I told you: I don’t want to be some wandering musician.” I still avoided Dahlia’s gaze, wishing she would dry her eyes.
“You said Master Uriel stayed behind with a few disciples. Why don’t you return and play for them?”
My eyes shot back up to Dahlia’s. “Uriel doesn’t want me!”
The bowl of wheatberries toppled to the ground as Dahlia fled toward the house. I yearned to go after her—I hadn’t meant to shout. But I didn’t move even as she flew in and shut the door fast behind her. Instead, I lifted my eyes to the fluttering leaves of the olive tree and plucked aimlessly at the strings of my kinnor.
