The next two months were the quietest of my life. The ceaseless downpour, at times a drizzle, at times a gusty torrent, dampened my desire to speak. But it wasn’t just my need for conversation that was subdued, the chatter in my head also diminished. I worried less about the future, finding comfort in the fact that I’d chosen a master, letting the burden of deciding both of our paths fall on him.
Yonaton and I stole away to the old musicians’ cave with our instruments whenever he wasn’t busy with the grape harvest. Now that it was just the two of us, I grew almost as familiar with his music as with my own. He harmonized wonderfully but struggled to lead. So I became the leader of our duo, developing over time the sense of when to give him free rein and when he needed shepherding. I pushed myself to play crisper notes, and started to rely on small movements of my head, and especially my eyes, to signal changes in the music.
As I grew quiet, other voices emerged around me. I learned to distinguish one birdsong from another, and to discern the direction of the wind by listening to the water dripping off the cave roof. But I wasn’t just becoming more sensitive to sound. Silent languages also revealed themselves. Even though I barely spoke with the disciples, my awareness of their moods heightened; I sculpted my music to their needs, playing softer when their eyes were tight, faster when their heads drooped.
Yet, even as I became more peaceful, tension built in my master. The time for the planned ending of the gathering came and went, yet the prophet didn’t leave the valley to resume traveling. As the Sukkot festival drew near, he became fixated on the rain, standing for hours at a time at the mouth of his cave, observing the windswept clouds churn in the sky. When he wasn’t teaching or searching the skies, he spent most of his time in the darkness at the back of his cave, even taking his meals alone.
On the first night of the weeklong festival of Sukkot, my master stood with me and the three remaining disciples staring out into the gloom while streams cascaded down the cliffs. A flash of lightning illuminated our rickety sukkah getting battered by the wind. A swirling gust rocked its wooden frame to and fro. Rain as hard as hail pelted the few cut palm fronds that remained on top. The navi sighed in disgust and returned to the back of the cave where a table of holiday dishes awaited. “Rain on Sukkot is a curse; you feel like a servant who brings his master a drink, and his master throws it back in his face.” He broke the pitch seal of a wineskin and filled his goblet for the sanctification. “The rains will not stop in time for us to eat in the sukkah tonight. We will celebrate the festival here in the cave instead.”
It wasn’t a warm invitation to a feast. Despite the succulent aroma of roast lamb, my appetite dwindled as I sat down. Apparently, the disciples felt the same way. The meal was brief and silent, and when it was over, most of the food was left on the table to grow cold.
I woke in the middle of the night, heart pounding, sweat beading on my forehead. I knew the signs well—the old nightmare. It had visited me twice since Shiloh, each time depositing in my memory a little bit more, just small details. Once it was a shawl pulled across my back, another time a sword striking a shield. Now I lay still, trying to remember more, knowing that as soon as I moved, the vision would evaporate.
There was a knife, my father’s knife. Also, I felt my master’s presence, as if he was there with me, helping me decipher the clues. Lying in the dark, suspended halfway between sleeping and waking, it struck me; until I first met the navi in Levonah, the nightmare had always been sealed, like a lockbox of memory. But now details were starting to leak out through cracks in its wood.
I sat up and pulled my sheepskin tightly around my shoulders. The dying coals cast a faint glow, enough for me to just make out the curled-up bodies of the disciples. We’d taken to sleeping in the same cave since the rains, as much for company as for warmth. But my master’s bedroll lay empty against the far wall. Where could he have gone? I turned to the mouth of the cave, where he’d sat for weeks watching the rains, but I saw only gray mist creeping up from the valley.
I stepped to the mouth of the cave and shivered in the damp, cold air. The full moon penetrated the clouds enough to emit a dim, silvery light, reflected by the mist that blocked my view of the valley. Unable to see, I closed my eyes and listened—there was a rhythmic splashing coming from somewhere down below. I opened my eyes and peered into the haze, trying to locate the source of the sound. With a sudden gust of wind, the mist parted.
The old navi danced barefoot in a puddle of rain, his steps slapping out a wet rhythm. His linen tunic clung to his skin, and even from my distant vantage point, I felt the raw power in his legs. After weaving several wide circles in the downpour, his feet grew silent. Uriel held his hands out wide, tipped his head back toward the heavens, and shook with laughter. He passed both hands over his face, like a child waking from a dream, and started back toward the cave.
I ducked inside and stirred the coals of the fire back to life. Uriel entered, dripping wet and singing quietly, shivering from the cold. His face shone, and he didn’t stop his song even as he rubbed his hands together over the blaze. His voice woke the disciples, and all gathered together around the fire. “There is no sorrow on Sukkot. It is a time of joy,” Uriel began. “The Presence comes to dwell with us inside the sukkah, just as the bride joins her beloved under the wedding canopy. But such a union is possible only in joy. If we cannot rejoice in the sukkah, we may not enter.” Uriel paused and met the eye of each listener in turn, holding mine the longest. It was a piercing gaze that cut right through to my heart. Did he know I had watched him dance? “But joy is a path to union wherever we sit. So, we shall delight in our festival despite the rains. And perhaps we will merit to enter the sukkah before the holy days end.”
On the fourth day of the festival, a new noise filled the cave. It took me a moment to realize it wasn’t actually a sound at all, but rather the lack of one: the rains had stopped. Outside, the wind blew wisps of dark clouds across the skies far above us, but there was no hiss of falling rain. A stillness pervaded the cool, clean air down below. Two disciples rushed out of the cave, waving for me to follow. When we reached the sukkah, one dropped to his knee, and I climbed onto his shoulders—as the lightest one, the roof was my responsibility. The other disciple handed up the fallen branches one by one, and I laid them across the top, creating a roof thick enough to provide shade but not shelter. When we’d finished, I examined our rebuilt sukkah. The ground was soaked with mud, the walls were battered and barely holding together, and the waterlogged roofing dripped into the interior. Yet, I never felt happier to have a sukkah.
The one remaining servant prepared a feast, serving each of us individually, as he had since I returned. Midway through the meal, Uriel’s hand paused on the way to his mouth. He stood quickly without explanation, exited the sukkah, and strode up the hill that bounded the eastern side of the valley toward the road. The rest of us continued to eat, but our eyes followed the prophet. It wasn’t long until we saw what our master had sensed: a donkey trotting along the hillside.
The navi reached the road just before the rider passed, and he flagged him down. The man stopped, spoke briefly to Uriel, then continued on his way. There was a shadow on my master’s face as he dropped back into the valley, but no trace of it remained by the time he entered the sukkah. He stepped inside and, ignoring his meal, burst into song. The rest of us joined in, but though I knew the tune well, I struggled to harmonize. My master sang a bit too fast.
The break in the rain didn’t last, and we never returned to our sukkah. The eighth day that capped the festival marked the beginning of the rainy season. The ground was already bogged with mud and rain still fell in torrents, but Uriel declared that the prophets had prayed for rain at the end of Sukkot ever since Joshua led our people across the Jordan River, regardless of what the skies held. We gathered at the chilly opening of the cave, wrapped in all our clothing and sheepskin sleeping mats, to hear the prayers of the old prophet as he stood just outside the mouth of the cave, arms wide, calling out in a raw voice.
“Master of the World! For the sake of Abraham our father, who ran to bring water to the tired and thirsty, do not withhold rain from his children.”
A gust of wind stuck Uriel’s drenched tunic to his body and tossed his hair wildly. “For the sake of Rivka our mother, who ran to bring water to a stranger, and watered even his ten camels, do not withhold rain from her children.”
Uriel cried out each petition in turn, rain rolling down his face; at the end of each one, we all shouted, “Amen.”
“Holy One! For the sake of Moses our Teacher, father of the prophets, who stood before you forty days without water, do not withhold rain from his disciples!” The navi stretched his hands upward toward the heavens, and we drew in closer.
He clenched his hands in the frigid air as the winds rose to a howl. “May the rains come as a blessing and not as a curse!”
“Amen!”
“May they come for life and not for death!”
“Amen!”
“May they come for abundance and not for scarcity!”
“Amen!”
“Master of the World! You and only you cause the wind to blow and the rain to fall!”
“Amen!”
When he turned back from the rain, my master’s eyes were aflame. In that moment, I saw the wild dancer in the rain within the old prophet. Uriel pulled two disciples out into the mire and began to dance. The rest of us joined in, finally relishing the drops on our faces. For the first time, they tasted of blessing, not of bitter curse.
No sooner had the sun set that night, marking the close of the festival, than Uriel drew me aside.
“The first day we met, when I was entering Levonah, you were speaking to a boy leading a donkey. Do you recall?”
“Yes, Master.”
“There was an emblem on his saddle bag from the city of Jericho.”
“That was my friend Seguv. His father Hiel is rebuilding the city.”
“Yes, I know that Hiel of Beit El is rebuilding the city; I wanted to know if your friend was his son.” Uriel sighed, and his body again appeared as it had before the festival: heavy, as if every movement was an effort. “I’m sorry to tell you that Seguv died six days ago.”
Hot tears stung my eyes—they came so easily now. “Is that what the rider told you?”
“Yes, he was on his way to bring tidings to the King.”
Seguv told me the King had invested heavily in the rebuilding of the city—of course he would want to know that Hiel had lost another son. But I cared little now about the King or Jericho. My thoughts were on the warm smile, the friendly face that always stopped to greet me whenever he passed through Levonah, bringing the wider world into the small circle of my life. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand, “Why did you wait to tell me?”
“Sukkot is a time of joy.”
Blood rushed to my face. That’s all he had to say? He knew I’d lost a friend and held it back for…joy? “You should have told me,” I nearly spat out the words.
“I know it feels that way.”
Uriel’s words only made me angrier. “Joy isn’t always the right feeling. We need to feel other things, too.”
“Not on Sukkot. Don’t think joy is so simple—I’m not talking about the empty celebrations of fools. Real joy takes work, inside and out—more than any other emotion.”
I avoided his gaze, but the navi pressed his point. “On Sukkot, we attach ourselves to the Presence, which we can do only in a state of joy. We choose to rejoice even when we don’t feel joyous. That’s why there is no mourning on Sukkot. The mourning period for Seguv will begin now and last for one week. His family will receive anyone wishing to visit.”
Uriel paused, but I remained silent. “If you like, you may go.”
Now my eyes met his. “You said we would begin traveling immediately after Sukkot.”
“True. But I will wait for your return. The loss of a friend is a deep wound, and it must be mourned if it’s to heal.” Uriel let out another long sigh. “There is no time to go and return before Shabbat. If you go, leave early on the first day of the week. You may take Balaam to hasten your journey. You can let me know your decision in the morning.”
I walked to the back of the cave and unrolled my sleeping mat. I removed my tunic, laid down, and pulled it over me, not up to my neck as I normally did, but up over my head. Thoughts of death were nothing new to me, but this was different. I knew Seguv; I never knew my parents.
With Seguv there was no lockbox of memories—they all seemed to rise to the surface of my mind at once: Seguv and his brothers laughing as they led their donkey into Levonah; Seguv holding out the afarsimon oil; Seguv standing in the throne room, presenting the oil to King Ahav; Seguv lying on his back, his eyes dark and vacant.
Lying in the darkness, hidden under my tunic, I felt the pain of my open heart. Tears came, and I didn’t hold them back. They streaked my face with loss. The disciples could hear me sobbing, but I didn’t care. My tunic wasn’t over my head to hide me from the disciples, it was to hide them from me. I couldn’t bear to see pity in their eyes.
When my eyes finally went dry, I pulled the tunic down and saw that all the others were asleep. The ache in my chest answered my master’s offer. I would go to Jericho to mourn my friend.
I reached Jericho on the second day of my journey. In better conditions, I could have made it in one day, but muddy and washed-out roads made for an uneasy ride. I spent the night in a cave so shallow that it was really just a crevice, barely sheltered from the winds and relentless rain, unable to light a fire for lack of dry tinder. As I shivered through the night, I wondered if my decision to go had been rash—I was traveling farther than I’d ever gone, to pay respects to people I’d never met, on the death of a friend I saw only a few times a year. Yet, the emptiness I felt when I pictured Seguv’s smiling eyes pushed me forward.
On the morning of the second day, I descended into the great valley of the Jordan River, where the ruins of Jericho lay just north of the Salt Sea. Halfway down the mountains, the air grew lighter, the clouds thinned, and the rain dwindled to a light mist that barely reached the ground. I descended further onto dry roads, and the sunlight glittered off streams of water running down the mountainsides. At the base of the mountains, the road flattened and passed through a grove of tall date palms, where a dozen camels—animals rarely seen in the cooler mountain plateau—grazed in their shade. There were also rows of newly planted trees whose species I didn’t recognize. These must be the balm trees Seguv told me about, the source of the afarsimon oil, the justification for rebuilding the destroyed city despite the costs.
The dry air of Jericho drew the wetness from my clothes, and I was grateful to be spared meeting Seguv’s parents stinking of soaked wool. No guard sat at the newly erected gates to direct me, but I had no trouble finding Hiel’s house. It was the largest one and stood at the highest point in the city—much as the King’s palace towered over Shomron. I tied Balaam to an olive tree out front, its trunk thick and gnarled, a remnant of the great city destroyed hundreds of years before. Before passing the threshold, I filled my lungs with clean air before entering a house tainted with death.
I took in the whole room with one glance. A middle-aged couple sat on the floor, barefoot, their clothing torn and their heads dusted with the ashes of mourning. Four men sat opposite them, but no one spoke. I paused at the threshold, then stepped as softly as I could to an empty stool, not wanting to disturb the stillness.
Sitting down among people I didn’t know, I wondered again if I should have come. I wanted to give comfort, but it was not my place to break the silence—and what would I say, anyway? The couple on the floor must be Hiel and his wife, but where was Onan, Seguv’s older brother? Could he have died as well?
I realized I was staring and turned my attention to the other guests. Two of the men, wearing dirty work clothes, resembled each other so much, they must have been brothers. A third sat rigidly in his chair. His posture and spotless linen tunic reminded me of the scribes in the throne room of the King. The fourth sat in the corner, eyes on the floor. Whatever he was staring at must have been absorbing, for he didn’t stir at all when I entered. His whole appearance bespoke nobility. His hair and beard were trim and neat. He wore a thick belt made of sheep hide— something I’d never seen, even when visiting Shomron. Despite the heat, a vivid crimson mantle was wrapped tightly about his shoulders.
“Were you a friend of Seguv’s?” Hiel asked me.
I stole my eyes from the nobleman in the corner. “Yes sir, I was.”
A hungry expression entered Hiel’s eyes. “How did you know him?”
“I live in Levonah. He came up to sell dates.”
“You came all the way from Levonah?”
“No sir, I was in Emek HaAsefa when I heard.”
The nobleman with the mantle snapped up his head and examined me. I could feel the heat of his gaze, his black eyes glowing like coals in the heart of a fire.
Hiel also sat up straighter at the mention of Emek HaAsefa. “Are you of the bnei nevi’im?”
I gave a weak smile, then thought better of it. “No, sir, I am a musician.”
“Oh, you are that shepherd boy that…that Seguv spoke of.” My smile almost broke through again when I heard that Seguv spoke about me, but Hiel’s voice cracked on his son’s name.
“Did he…I mean, were you…” Hiel was foundering.
Without warning, the nobleman with the fiery eyes rose to his feet, drawing Hiel’s attention. “Are you leaving?”
The nobleman motioned with his chin toward the entrance. In the doorway, flanked by two guards, stood King Ahav himself. The other guests and I immediately jumped to our feet. Hiel and his wife attempted to rise from the floor, but Ahav stopped them with a gesture.
“No need to get up, my dear Hiel. The mourner needn’t stand before the King. I was broken-hearted when the news reached me.” The King pulled my vacated stool toward himself and sat down. “You may wait outside,” he said to his two guards. I wasn’t sure if I should leave as well, but followed the lead of the other guests and continued to stand respectfully.
The King ignored our presence, his attention fixed on Hiel. “I blame myself, of course.”
Hiel’s hand rose in protest. “You must not, my King. I knew the risks involved. The dangers of the waters here are well known. I was proud to take on the mission of rebuilding a great city in Israel. Our losses have been tragic, that is true. But we hold you blameless.”
King Ahav dropped his eyes and fingered the tassel on his belt, replying quietly, “I’m not talking about the waters. I’m speaking of the curse.”
Hiel’s eyes grew wide. “My Lord, I thought you did not believe in the curse.”
“Well, I didn’t. It seemed so ridiculous. Just a story told to children and the ignorant to frighten them away. But now that it has come true, can we continue to deny it?”
“What curse?” I slapped my hand over my mouth, but the question had already leapt out. One didn’t just speak in front of the King—certainly not to interrupt such an intimate conversation.
The King turned to me, and for the second time that day I had the impression that I was being examined. But while the nobleman’s gaze penetrated to the heart, the King seemed to be weighing my value. “You look familiar,” he said at last.
I dropped my hand from my mouth but didn’t reply.
King Ahav’s eyes held me. “You may speak.”
“Thank you, my King.” I bowed my head, avoiding looking him in the eye. “I am a musician. I played at the King’s wedding.”
“Ah yes, I remember.” Ahav leaned back with the satisfied smile of one who has made a good purchase. “Yes, the curse. When Joshua conquered Jericho over five hundred years ago, he declared, ‘Cursed is the man who will rise up and build this city Jericho. With his oldest son he will lay the foundations, with his youngest son he will erect its gates.’”
Hiel and his wife both started to wail. I shrank back against the wall—I shouldn’t have asked.
The King turned back to the couple on the floor. “It’s so strange that the curse would come true,” he said, a tone of pleading in his voice, but their sobbing only grew louder. “Who would imagine that the curse of the disciple would materialize, when the words of his master failed?”
“And what does that mean?” The air in the room pulsed as the nobleman with the fiery eyes stepped forward, his frame expanding as he stalked out of his corner toward the King. The hard tone of his voice sounded familiar. I’d heard such a tone once before—from Yambalya.
The King snickered. “Come Eliyahu, you know the story better than I. Moses pronounced a curse on the people that if they worship idols, there will be no rain. Go on, recite it for us.”
Eliyahu’s nostrils flared as Ahav waved a hand for him to speak, but he did not argue with a command from the King. He drew his mantle tightly around him and declared: “Guard yourselves, lest you turn your hearts and serve other gods and bow down to them.” Eliyahu’s voice shook with rage. “Then the wrath of the Holy One will blaze against you. The heavens will be restrained, there will be no rain, the ground will not give its abundance, and you will be lost from upon the good land the Holy One gave you.”
I’d known these verses from the Torah since I was a young boy, but this was the first time they made me tremble.
The King appeared unmoved. “You see,” he faced the bereaved couple, “it makes no sense that this curse would come upon you, my dear Hiel. Look around you. The people seek the Baal more every day, yet in my entire life, I never remember the rain being so plentiful. So why should the curse of Joshua cause your family so much misery, when the curse of his teacher Moses has foundered?”
Eliyahu stepped closer to the King. He would have towered over Ahav even if the King hadn’t been sitting. Had the guards been in the room, they surely would have removed Eliyahu to a respectful distance—but they were outside. For the first time, the King shrank as he stared up into Eliyahu’s fiery gaze.
I could barely breathe—the air grew heavy, like a gathering storm. Eliyahu’s voice was barely above a whisper. “As the Holy One, the Lord of Israel, before whom I stand, lives…there will be no dew nor rain during these years except by my word.”
A shudder ran down my back. No one moved as Eliyahu locked eyes with the King. The silence pressed down upon us all. Then Eliyahu spun and strode out of the room, his mantle flying behind him like a banner of war.
Both guards rushed in. They couldn’t have heard his declaration but must have been alarmed by the fury on Eliyahu’s face. “Is everything well, my King?”
“Fine,” the King rasped. Clearing his throat loudly, he shook himself and added in a commanding tone, “You may continue to wait for me outside.”
The guards bowed and left, and the King turned back to Hiel and his wife. “Always been unyielding, Eliyahu has. He’s quite wise, really, but once he gets an idea into his head, there’s no reasoning with him.”
“Well, he has certainly gone too far this time,” Hiel said, no longer crying.
“Nonsense, he’s harmless enough. With people like that, it is best to just let them be.”
An awkward silence descended on the room.
“And how is the King finding married life?” Hiel asked.
“Ah.” Ahav’s posture relaxed with the change of subject. “Izevel has been doing wonderful things with the palace. For my father it was a symbol, you know, and for me it’s just a home. But she insists that a palace should be a place of devotion. She brought down a beautiful Ashera tree all the way from Tzur to plant at the gates. Are you men leaving?” The two brothers had stepped forward, and the King gestured them ahead, pausing to allow them to take their leave of Hiel and his wife.
I thought this was a good opportunity to slip out as well, and stepped forward once the brothers turned to leave. I leaned down toward Hiel and his wife and repeated the line Uriel made me memorize before I left. “May the Holy One comfort you among the mourners of Israel.”
Hiel and his wife both lowered their heads. I bowed to the King the way the farmers had, and respectfully backed out of the open door.
I peered up the mountain trail once outside the city gates. The return trip would be more strenuous than the downhill journey had been. A roof of black clouds hid the mountain tops, and I hoped the impending rain wouldn’t prolong my ride. The distance from my master suddenly felt daunting.
I kicked Balaam into a trot, and we were soon back among the date palms again. The patchwork shade upon the ground made the field a blend of light and darkness. As I watched the trunks flow by, a flash of red caught my eye. Eliyahu’s mantle was crumpled at the base of one of the trees. Its owner lay beside it, head between his knees, gripped by the spirit of prophecy.
