The full moon blazed like a beacon in the western sky when we set out from the cave. Three days had passed in silence, each of us lost in contemplation in some corner of the small cave. For me, the time was spent digesting Shimon’s tale, dwelling on the panic etched on my parents’ faces, the eerie sound of their voices, and the image of their brutal deaths—details I’d never before been able to recall. The rebound of Uriel’s curse upon his own family struck Shimon harder than I would have imagined. He no longer handled or even examined the captured sword while we remained in the cave. Nevertheless, when it was time to depart for our journey toward Dotan, he retrieved the sword and sheathed it around his waist.
Once on the road, we would just be pilgrims traveling home from the festival, but in the hills, we were potential prey. We trekked under cover of night to limit the risk of detection, but the cloudless sky and the moon’s silvery brilliance nevertheless exposed us to prying eyes. There was nothing we could do about that: the festival always fell at the full moon. Uriel scanned the hilltops as we walked. I likewise searched the dark horizon for the outline of a soldier, but saw nothing.
We stopped well before dawn, hiding a stone’s throw from the road in a thick clump of bushes. I lay down, my eyes heavy with drowsiness, my fears of discovery insufficient to hold off sleep.
A steady rumbling woke me; it sounded like the echo of a thunderclap off distant hills. I opened my eyes to sunbeams filtering through the thick branches above. “What’s that noise?”
“Horses,” Uriel replied. “Thirty at least, from the sound of it, being driven hard. The King and his escort.”
“Ovadia will be with them?”
“I expect so. You may go back to sleep; we still have a long wait.”
I sat up and pulled on my tunic. Anticipation had set in; sleep was no longer an option. The rumbling grew louder until the troop of horses thundered past, their dark shapes barely visible through gaps in the leaves.
Other horsemen followed the King’s escort, riding past in ones and twos; then those on donkeys ambled past in small groups. The sun hung mid-sky when a thin stream of hardy farmers, in a hurry to return to their fields, appeared. Before long, the road was thick with travelers, ranging from boys newly of age to old men, who passed by in waves, talking and laughing as they went.
Uriel finally broke our silence. “It is time.”
I crept out of the bushes, then circled around and sat beneath a tree on the roadside, resting my back against its trunk. A group of men passed, and when the last of them disappeared, leaving the road in front of me empty, I ran one hand over the strings of my kinnor.
Uriel and Shimon appeared beside me. Small groups of walkers flowed by as we ate our midday meal, appearing like three travelers stopping for a rest. When a large group of men appeared down the road, Uriel said, “We will let them pass, then join in from behind.”
The sun beat down as we fell into stride with the group. My hair stuck to my forehead and sweat pooled beneath the rolled-up sheepskin slung over my back. Images of the cool spring near my uncle’s house danced in my head, but Levonah was behind us—ahead lay Shomron.
We mingled in at the back of the crowd, moving past the very rear where we might stand out. My eyes flickered to the hilltops above the road, occasionally picking out a soldier stationed on a peak, but my breath remained steady. These were no longer the soldiers we feared—from above they would see nothing strange in this throng returning from Beit El.
The masses moving north on the road thinned throughout the day as men turned off toward home. In the late afternoon, we rounded a bend, and the road dropped into a long decline. We were close to Shomron now, the destination of most of those still walking. We approached a cluster of men stopped ahead, just before the shade of a large carob tree.
“What’s going on up there?” Shimon asked.
Uriel stood to his full height. “Soldiers.”
“Israelite or foreigners?”
“Foreigners.”
I glanced at Shimon, and my heart thumped in my chest. This was the encounter I was dreading. Would he seek conflict with the Queen’s soldiers? I was relieved to see no hunger for battle on his face. His expression was calm, almost serene. Learning of Uriel’s curse rebounding upon himself seemed to have changed Shimon—as if for ten years he’d hungered to hold the prophet’s power to curse, and only now realized its cost. He said, “A roadblock. Should we turn off?”
Uriel nodded toward the sides of the road. “They have soldiers stationed along the hillsides. They will be watching for anyone trying to avoid them. We are better off walking through.”
I followed my master’s gesture. At first I didn’t spot them—they were not like the lookouts sitting mounted on the hilltops. These watchers were further down, in the shadows, where they could see without being seen.
Shimon’s body tensed as he studied the soldiers bordering the roadside, and his eyes lost their quiet. His hand slipped under his cloak to the hilt of his sword.
I inched closer to him and whispered, “Remember, Master Uriel must reach Dotan.”
Shimon regarded his hand, appearing surprised to find it grasping the sword, as if his battle-hungry instincts had acted of their own accord. He released the hilt and placed his hand on my shoulder instead. “I know the plan.”
We drew closer to the roadblock. Uriel said, “There’s a priest as well.”
“What?” Shimon asked.
“A priest of the Baal. Under the tree.”
I craned my neck to see. Sure enough, I caught a glimpse of violet robes in the shade of the carob tree. One soldier stood on each side of the road, while a third blocked the path in front of the waiting men, forcing them to pass through the shade one at a time. A man in a gray cloak was waved through. He stepped under the tree, approached the priest, then dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground.
“Clever,” Uriel said.
“What’s clever, Master?”
“Izevel is most powerful in Shomron, but many are opposed to her, even there. So, she waited until all the men of the city left for the festival, then placed a Baal on their path home. Now she can see who will bow and who will resist.”
I peered under the tree, trying to glimpse the statue. “We must get through, Master.”
“I will not bow before the Baal.”
“Even to save your life?” The words rung hollow, Uriel placed too little value on his life. I changed tactics, appealing to his sense of mercy instead. “Even to save my life?” This too failed.
“Some things are more precious than life, Lev. We are commanded to choose death rather than bow to strange gods. Even you must be willing to die rather than bow.”
Shimon’s hand sought the hilt of his sword, not absentmindedly as before, but with the same blazing intensity in his eyes as when he first leapt out of the trees to save us the week before. “You see, Lev, I was right to prepare for battle.”
“There are three soldiers ahead and at least five more on the hillsides—you can’t fight them all!”
“Samson killed a thousand in a single battle. You heard Master Uriel, Lev. The spirit I received was the same as Samson’s.”
“You don’t know if you’ll merit that power again.”
“No, I don’t. But even if I don’t, I won’t be fighting alone.”
“There’s not much Uriel or I could do against all these soldiers.”
“It’s not just the three of us. It’s easy to scare the people one at a time, but in their arrogance, they’ve become reckless. The crowd is moving through too slowly. There are fifty men waiting and more coming up behind us. If we resist, we will draw much support—especially if it’s known that we are led by a prophet.”
I wanted to believe him, but recalled the fear on the faces of farmers just like these at the wedding. “But these men aren’t armed. They’ll run at the first sight of blood.”
Uriel shook his head. “It matters not if they are armed. Izevel is seeking to strengthen her support, not to spark a rebellion. Her soldiers will not fight so many, even if they could.”
My mind raced. The Queen ordered her soldiers to hunt down every prophet in the land. Perhaps Uriel could lead the crowd through the roadblock without bloodshed, but the soldiers were sure to notice that no ordinary man was at their head. They were sure to follow him and call others to their aid. Any violence would mean abandoning the plan, and I’d sworn to deliver my master safely to Dotan.
We were close enough now to see the statue, a larger version of the one now resting in my uncle’s house. Cast in bronze, its long helmet ascending toward the sky, a jagged sword raised, ready to strike, it stood perched on a wooden pedestal beneath the tree. Another farmer stepped forward, and he too bowed before the Baal. A thought occurred to me. “Master, if Izevel is afraid of a rebellion, then her soldiers cannot be killing all those who refuse to bow, can they?”
Uriel shook his head. “No, Lev, you must be correct. There are still too many in Israel, even in Shomron, that would refuse.”
“So what happens to them? Are they allowed to pass?”
“Let us watch. There are fifty or more who still stand before us—I would expect at least ten to refuse.”
One after another the soldiers waved the men forward. Some bowed quickly, falling to their knees and touching their foreheads to the ground, others hesitated, then bent at the waist, like the men in Jericho bowing before the King. Yet, each and every one of them humbled himself in some way before passing through the shade of the carob tree. The soldiers on the sides of the road barely watched as the travelers passed through.
Hardly ten men now stood between us and the tree, though the newcomers behind us continued to maintain the crowd’s size. Shimon’s eyes darted back and forth between Uriel and the soldiers. “If we’re going to fight, we need to warn the men. Are we agreed?”
Shimon was right. If we were going to act, it must be now. My throat constricted and sweat ran down my forehead. I trusted Uriel’s instincts—there was no sign that the soldiers were killing those who refused to bow. If they were, where were the bodies? But no one refused, so I couldn’t know for sure. My vow to Ovadia rang in my mind. There was only one chance to prevent the violence that would ruin our plan.
“I’ll go.”
“What?” Shimon started.
“I’ll go to the head of the line. I’ll refuse to bow. If they let me through, you follow with Uriel. If they…if not, then fight.”
“Wait, Lev, I don’t think—”
But I didn’t wait to hear what Shimon thought. My small size allowed me to slip easily through the crowd. A few men peered at me in annoyance—probably impatient to get through the roadblock and make it home—but perhaps because of my youth, no one stopped me.
The soldier at the front put out his arm, blocking me from advancing until the man under the tree passed. Like all the others, he too bowed down before the Baal.
The soldier’s arm dropped, and I stepped forward.
My eyes were on the priest, but my thoughts were on the soldiers.
The priest approached. “Bow. Then go on.”
I stood silent and still, holding my arms tight so they wouldn’t tremble.
The priest insisted, “You bow. Do it now, then go.”
I held my breath steady, stared back at the priest, but didn’t move.
The priest moved closer. “You not bow? Baal angry. Curse the rain.”
My mouth filled with a metallic tang. One knee trembled, and I dug my toe into the dirt to still it. One of the soldiers turned to watch me now. But still I didn’t move.
The priest leaned in and spoke in a whisper. “Don’t bow. Just pick up and go.” He rotated his body, positioning himself between me and the waiting crowd. He dropped a copper piece on the ground before the statue.
A laugh bubbled up from my belly—I swallowed it back with effort. Uriel was right; not all the men ahead of us were willing to bow. That’s why they were only allowed through one at a time. Most men, seeing those ahead of them bow, would bow as well. Those who refused just had to pick a piece of copper off the ground. Those behind—who were not watching closely enough to see the precious metal—would think they were bowing from the waist, just enough to humble themselves.
“Pick up. You keep copper.”
Questions flashed through my mind as I peered at the shiny metal. Hardly anyone among the men returning from the festival of the Golden Calf would refuse to pick up the copper. But what about those who refused to give even the impression of bowing? Was that the real point of the roadblock? The Queen’s soldiers had already attacked the gathering places of the prophets. Now that the faithful were scattered, there was no way to distinguish them from the rest of the people. Was the roadblock intended to weed out the most devout? To find the prophets and disciples hidden among the commoners?
What about Shimon and Uriel? Would they pick up the copper to save their lives?
One of the soldiers stepped in toward me—I had delayed for too long. I could pick up the metal and get past the Baal, but needed to do it in a way that Shimon and Uriel would realize I wasn’t bowing. I stepped to the side, then bent down and picked up the copper. Anyone watching closely would see that I wasn’t even facing the Baal, but it was enough—the priest waved me through.
Once out of the shade of the carob tree, I turned around to watch. Neither the soldiers nor the priest paid me any mind—to them, I was just a boy waiting for his father to pass through.
The next man scowled at me as he bowed, annoyed at me for jumping ahead of him and then passing so slowly.
Easy as it was to pass through the roadblock, would Shimon still refuse? Shimon objected to even walking among those returning from Beit El—would he be willing to give the impression that he’d bowed to the Baal? If it was just his life, I was certain that he would rather fight than pick up the copper. But would he do it to protect Uriel? I caught Shimon’s eye and gave him the slightest of nods, the most communication I could risk with the soldiers so close. But Shimon just glared back, his eyes resolute.
Three more men passed through the roadblock, two dropping quickly to the ground, the third bending to pick up the offered metal. Shimon drifted ahead of Uriel, placing several men between them. When he reached the front of the line, my hands clenched. A farmer under the carob tree pressed his head to the ground, begging loudly for Baal not to withhold the rains. When he rose, Shimon stepped forward.
The soldier on the far side of the road looked up as Shimon approached—his scars distinguished him from the crowd even without the fresh wounds. The Tzidonian’s nostrils flared as if smelling him for blood. Four of his comrades had failed to return from duty the week before. Was he on the lookout for their killer?
Shimon stepped up to the priest.
“You bow. Then go on.”
Shimon’s voice was calm, yet pitched to carry. “The people of Israel do not bow to the Baal.”
A murmur rose from the edge of the waiting pack. One of the soldiers left his post at the side of the road and stepped into the circle of shade under the tree. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and black dots marched in a tight pattern across his cheeks, becoming jagged lines at his throat before disappearing into his tunic. I’d heard rumors of the coastal people’s tattoos, but had never seen them before. The ink gave his face a bestial look.
Shimon met the soldier’s gaze.
With a rustle of violet robes, the priest waved the soldier back. He retreated, but kept his eyes on Shimon. The priest leaned close and whispered, dropping a piece of copper to the ground. Shimon peered at the metal, but didn’t move.
I wanted to scream at him to take it. I bit my lower lip until I tasted blood. How stupid I’d been. An old man and a boy would have passed through easily. Shimon had no desire to hide. He’d accompanied us only to help Uriel reach safety. And yet with his scarred face and unyielding nature, he was our greatest danger. Once Uriel had agreed to join the crowd returning from Beit El, the time had come to part ways. I should have confronted him, even without Yonaton. What would happen to my master if Shimon refused?
The soldier stepped forward once more, this time loosening his sword in its sheath. The priest again waved him away, but the soldier retreated just halfway. The priest pulled another piece of metal from his pocket, this time silver. He didn’t just drop the silver on the ground, but rolled it to where Shimon could pick it up without even bending in the Baal’s direction.
I tried to catch his eye, but Shimon glared at the idol. Don’t look at the statue Shimon. Just pick up the silver and move on.
Shimon turned from the Baal. For a moment, he locked eyes with the soldier, whose sword was now half drawn. Then he broke eye contact and bent down to pick up the silver.
As Shimon bent over, his cloak parted in front. The hilt of his sword peeked out between the fabric, revealing the cedar tree emblem engraved on the handle. The priest was no longer watching, but the tattooed soldier was.
The soldier leapt forward and drew his sword in a smooth motion. Shimon grabbed for his own weapon, but in his bent position was slower than his enemy. The sword flashed in an executioner’s cut. Shimon threw out his empty left hand to block the blow, but bone is no match for metal. His arm shattered, just like the soldier’s sword in our last battle. The tattooed soldier aimed another blow and Shimon fell limp to the ground.
My teeth sliced my lip—I must not scream. I swallowed to hold back the tears. Shimon was beyond my help. I must save my master.
The priest ran forward, screaming in his guttural tongue. He slapped the soldier’s face and gestured wildly at the men waiting to get through the roadblock. But he was no longer in charge.
The tattooed soldier called to his comrades lining the hillsides flanking the road. They were eight in all, and the tattooed one seemed to be their leader. He pointed to Shimon’s body, and another soldier ran forward, grabbed Shimon’s arms, and dragged him to the side of the road.
They may have been heavily outnumbered, but the Tzidonians were the only ones armed. They bunched together under the carob tree, backs to the trunk, ready to defend themselves.
Though shock and anger flashed across the faces of the Israelite men, their fear prevailed. No outcry cut through the stillness of the rolling hills at Shimon’s murder; no one advanced to attack. The only serene face was Uriel’s.
Seeing that they were unchallenged, the soldiers broke their defensive position. The tattooed soldier pushed the priest back toward the Baal. Then he screamed at the man in front of the line, “Come. You bow now!”
The man dropped to the ground, his eyes avoiding the blood-stained earth. The priest reasserted himself and waved the soldiers back to their positions. One soldier returned to the front of the crowd; the others remained clumped under the carob tree.
Another man stepped forward. Uriel stood next in line.
This farmer groveled in the dirt before the Baal. A soldier grew impatient and kicked his hip. The farmer didn’t need a second urging to move on; he jumped to his feet and ran toward the open road. Uriel approached.
The prophet stepped up to the priest.
“You bow. Then go on.”
Uriel’s face had none of Shimon’s defiance—it was radiant, his eyes distant, heedless of the priest.
The priest stepped closer to whisper in Uriel’s ear, and dropped a copper to the ground.
The smile on Uriel’s face stretched as he bent his head forward. My heart leapt—he was bending down to pick up the copper! But Uriel merely brought his chin to his chest and held it there.
At first, I didn’t understand what my master was doing. I could barely contain the urge to scream, “Take it! Take it!”
Then I understood.
The prophet would neither bow nor pick up the copper. He wouldn’t fight or resist. He was offering the back of his neck to the sword. Uriel would give up his life quietly, a martyr before a mass of witnesses. His death would be a symbol of the brutality of the Baal and the Queen. Just as he desired.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Why hadn’t I let Shimon fight? He was already armed and surrounded by fifty men. The priest’s reaction showed that the soldiers’ presence was intended to evoke fear, not to kill. Would they have melted away before an organized resistance?
And Shimon may have received the Divine spirit again—then nothing could have stood before him. But now he lay dead on the side of the road, because he listened to me, while Uriel stood with his neck exposed, awaiting a similar fate.
The tattooed soldier remained by his post at the side of the road, but had still not sheathed his sword. Another group of pilgrims reached the roadblock, swelling the number of Israelites observing the scene to more than sixty men.
I reached under my tunic and gripped the handle of my father’s knife. If I fight, will I receive the same spirit Shimon had? If I’m determined to succeed, will the Holy One give me the strength to battle these foreigners?
The tattooed soldier advanced toward Uriel. The priest stepped between them, pointing back toward the side of the road. The soldier pushed him out of the way.
I loosened my blade in its sheath, my fingers whitening on the hilt. If I was going to act, the time was now.
A surge of energy tingled through my muscles. As I drew the blade from under my tunic, Zim’s voice rose in my heart. “Remember, if you believe it, it’s true.”
The soldier raised his sword above Uriel.
I sheathed my knife and ran forward screaming, “Grandfather, Grandfather!”
The soldier’s arm stopped.
I grabbed Uriel’s hand, placing myself between my master and the sword.
“He’s not right in the head,” I begged the soldier, loud enough for all the Israelite men to hear.
A shadow of doubt dimmed the tattooed soldier’s eyes.
“He’d bow to your sandal if you wanted him to, but we’d never get him up off the ground.”
“He bow.” The soldier swept his arm across the waiting crowd. “They all bow.”
“He’s just an old man,” I insisted.
Murmurs of protest rose from the waiting men. They watched Shimon die, but were now starting to rouse themselves. A tall farmer at the front of the line shoved his chest against the arm of the soldier holding him back. “Let the old man go through!”
I turned to the priest. “Could my grandfather have one of those pieces of copper? It would mean so much to him.”
The priest stepped forward, pushing the tattooed soldier back. “Go,” he said. “Don’t bow, just go.” The priest thrust a piece of copper into my hand and pushed the two of us through.
Uriel allowed me to guide him out of the shade of the carob tree, past the remaining soldiers. The radiance departed from his face. He said nothing as we fled, just walked on in silence.
As the roadblock shrank into the distance behind us, the reality of our situation settled in. My success sealed our fate: we were heading into hiding. We’d live in the darkness of the cave until redemption came.
Shimon’s scarred face hung above me. He’d saved my life, stood by my father when no one else had, and followed me to his death. Had I been wrong to fight him? Or if I had given in, would Uriel and I now lie beside him?
And how many others suffered a similar fate? Tzadok was gone, Shimon was gone. The enemy had attacked the known gathering places of the prophets. Had they struck Beit El? It was one thing to kill prophets in the remote wilderness, but had they become so bold as to strike in the middle of that city? What about Yosef and Raphael? Were they even still alive?
I thought about Eliyahu—pursued more than any of us. I’d never seen drought myself, but the elders of Levonah spoke of its terrible suffering. How many dry seasons would it take for the people to stand up to the tyranny of Queen Izevel?
Then Dahlia’s face rose in my mind, tight russet curls clustered around her smiling hazel eyes. Would she already be married by the time I came out of hiding, those curls forever tucked under a scarf in the way of married women?
As the sky darkened, the number of people on the road continued to thin. The nearly full moon rose above the horizon as we reached the hills ringing Shomron. Still silent, my master pointed toward a small path that turned off the road and wound through a sloping valley. We pressed on through fields and clumps of trees until the moon was directly overhead and we reached an orchard on a steeply terraced hillside. Saplings leaned at odd angles and the scent of freshly dug soil hung in the air. The hillside rose to a cliff above us.
The trail swung to the right at the base of the hill, and Uriel paused before the first terrace. I couldn’t see any markings, but my master found what he was searching for. He climbed upward, feet crunching in the dried earth. We wove back and forth across the terraces, climbing steadily higher, until we reached an old olive tree, its roots wrapped around a boulder at the base of a cliff. Uriel stepped behind it, disappearing from view. I followed, slipping sideways through a crack in the cliff wall.
Darkness engulfed us. I crept forward, my fingers brushing the stone walls that squeezed steadily inward. Without warning, I stumbled, nearly falling. The echo of my footsteps reverberated in an open space.
A flame emerged in the distance. It grew from an orange glow to a yellow point, revealing itself as a lamp. A man with a short gray beard smiled when he saw Uriel and placed a finger to his lips. The lamp illuminated a three-way junction. The lamp-bearer turned to the right, and we followed.
We descended a broad passageway, the floor smooth underfoot. Every now and then I felt a draft from the side as we passed openings in the darkness. Once I heard snoring and once the sound of deep and slow chanting. I paused to listen to the complex rhythm until our guide waved me forward.
I quickly lost track of direction. I’d never been in so intricate a cave before, with so many caverns and passageways. Ovadia was fortunate to find such a place to hide the prophets. Was this another one of those caves carved out in the time of Gidon?
Our guide stepped into an empty chamber, and Uriel had to duck to avoid striking his head on the cavern roof. The lamp bearer touched the flame of his lamp to another that sat in a niche cut into the wall, igniting it. Then he bowed to Uriel and stepped back into the darkness.
I surveyed the chamber in the wavering light: my new home. The events of a week had uprooted everything I knew. There would be no sunshine in the cave, no Yonaton, no Dahlia. Yet I was still alive, which was more than could be said for Shimon or Tzadok.
Drained from the journey, I laid out my sleeping mat. Uriel knelt down in front of the lamp and contemplated the flame with unblinking eyes.
Despite my exhaustion, I dared to break the silence we’d maintained since the roadblock. “What do you see, Master?”
“All things above are reflected below. So it is with the Lamp of Darkness, reflected in the flame.”
“You see darkness in the flame?”
“Look closely at the center. Darkness surrounds the wick, consuming it, emitting no light.”
I moved closer to examine the flame.
“That is the shadow of the lamp of darkness. Beneath the blackness is a thin layer of sapphire, the color of the Throne of Glory, on which the Holy One sits. The darkness appears greater than the blue, but does not dim its brilliance.”
The flame filled my vision. At first, the blue jumped and faded, but as I concentrated, it grew in depth and radiance. “Master, the darkness makes the blue seem even brighter.”
“Indeed. So it is with our world. No amount of darkness can destroy the light, no matter how deep the darkness grows.”
Uriel sighed. “The order of the world has flipped. Once, light dwelled above and shadows filled the caves. Now darkness will reign over the land and light will retreat underground.”
My master turned away from the lamp to face me and fire reflected in his bright eyes. “It appears, Lev ben Yochanan HaKohen, we have the time to begin your education after all.”
