Looking off into the brightening east, Uriel stood at the edge of Uncle Menachem’s land, hands folded over the top of his staff. “Why have you come, Lev?”
I stared up into the prophet’s ancient face, but couldn’t read his eyes; his shaggy brows cast their own shadow. “My uncle told me I was hired…” I held up my kinnor, “…for my music.”
The navi pushed himself to his full height, towering a full head and a half above me. I craned my neck to hold his eyes. “So you are here because you were sent?” His face was unreadable as a stone.
I hitched my sack higher on my shoulder, wishing I could put it on the donkey that waited at his side. I hadn’t asked this old man to tear me from my family—what did he want from me?
“Know, if it is only by your Uncle’s will that you come to join us, then it is my will that you remain here.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the olivewood door of the house. My family’s reactions to my early return flashed through my mind: my aunt’s disappointment, Eliav’s sly grin. Would Dahlia be happy I was back, or think I’d failed?
“You fear being shamed for turning back.” Uriel gave voice to my thoughts. “Do not. Your uncle will be relieved. There is much you can do here to help your family.”
“Are you offering me the choice?” The last word caught in my throat. My family’s rhythms were ruled by routine, and my own life had been shaped by the decisions of others. I had never chosen to come live with my uncle, nor had I sought the life of a shepherd. I may have complained to Dahlia about not having a choice, but I never really expected to be given one.
Uriel’s eyes kindled. “The nevi’im inhabit a world of devotion. Our Way is a path of choice; its servants are not for hire. So tell me now—do you choose to come with me, or are you being sent?”
A breath of eastern wind pushed the dry scent of the olive grove between us, carrying with it a vision of an unknown future. Was it true? Could I choose to let the prophet leave without me? But the breeze died and the illusion faded. My uncle had spoken, and I would not upset my aunt.
I glanced toward the King’s Road in the distance. We wouldn’t move until I told the prophet what he wanted to hear. I drew in a deep breath, drinking in the smell of dew on the leaves of my uncle’s grapevines. This narrow valley held the only life I knew. Straightening my posture to mirror Uriel’s, I peered into the prophet’s eyes and lied. “I choose to come with you.”
Uriel held my gaze, as if he had heard all my thoughts, weighed my words, and knew them to be empty. “So be it,” he said at last. “Put your belongings on Balaam.” The sharp lines of his face relaxed as he stroked the lone, ragged ear of his ancient donkey, whose head sank with a murmur of enjoyment.
When I finished tying down my things, Uriel clicked his tongue and started down the path; his donkey followed without being drawn. The footpath from my uncle’s farm skirted the city walls. When it joined the cart track that zig-zagged down from the town gate, Uriel increased his pace and extended his strides, moving nothing like an old man. The donkey trotted, and I pushed myself to keep up.
I knew every rock and tree along this stretch, the spots where the first shoots showed after the early yoreh rains, and where small pockets of grass could be found even in late summer. We passed my favorite fig tree, the heavy bottoms of its tear-shaped fruits already ripening to a reddish brown. In two months’ time, the fruits would all be gone, the low-hanging ones eaten by other mouths, the higher ones fallen to the ground to rot. My eyes lingered on the shade beneath the leaves, the place where I’d seen Uriel shaken by prophecy the day before.
I felt the prophet’s eyes upon me. “You have a question?”
How did he know? “Yes…” I caught myself before using his name. The couple yesterday called him Master Uriel, so did my uncle—was it disrespectful for me to do so? I could just call him Master, but I was hired to play music, not serve. Grandfather? It worked for the village elders but didn’t seem right for a prophet. Better not to address him at all. “Yesterday, when the couple came to you,” I glanced back at the fig tree, “You used prophecy to find something of theirs?”
“They lost a valuable ring.”
“You find rings?”
Uriel chuckled, slowed his pace, and turned toward me. “You thought navua was only for more important things?”
“Well…yes.”
“I assure you,” Uriel’s eyes no longer laughed, “that ring was immensely important to them.” He turned back toward the road, resuming his driving pace.
The silence felt heavy as I followed behind. I hadn’t meant to say that what he did was unimportant—I was just surprised. I ought to keep silent.
But there was another question I wanted to ask, one that had been on my mind since I woke that morning, and hadn’t my uncle always said that the bashful never learn? I increased my pace until I was back at the old man’s side. “And then you received navua about me?”
The old prophet slowed his pace again and fixed me with a hard gaze. “About you?”
“Yes, about hiring me?”
Uriel’s arrow-straight posture relaxed just slightly, and he again turned his eyes up the road. “No, Lev, I did not receive a navua about hiring you.” “Then why?”
Uriel watched me out of the corner of his eyes. “Why what?”
The tips of my ears grew hot as a faint smile pulled at the edge of his mouth. Was he playing with me? “Why me?”
“What do you mean?”
I took a few more steps in silence, sharpening my question. “I mean, why me? There must be better musicians. I’m just…” My voice trailed off. What was I?
The donkey’s grunts were the only sound as Uriel contemplated the question. “So you want to know what, other than navua, would have driven me to hire a shepherd boy to play for the prophets?”
I nodded.
“That is a wise question, and thus deserves a response.” Uriel stopped and faced me. “My heart told me.”
His heart? Those blue-gray eyes scanned mine as I thought about his answer. I started walking again so I could drop my eyes. “You didn’t want to…” I scratched the back of my sweaty neck, “…check?”
“I have learned never to use prophecy to question my heart.”
“But prophecy—”
“An open heart knows more than you realize. At times its intuition is more valuable than prophecy. There is no faster way to dull its voice than to doubt it.”
Even if he was right, what did it matter? How many times had I watched the distant hills, dreaming of a mother who would never return? How many times had I questioned my uncle about land that would never be mine? I learned long ago that an open heart could also betray. “Isn’t prophecy more powerful than intuition? Your heart couldn’t have found that lost ring, could it?”
Uriel combed his long fingers through his thick gray hair. “True, it could not. Yet, my heart is mine to know, while prophecy is not at my command. Yesterday I was unable to receive navua until I heard your kinnor.”
“My kinnor?”
“Your music is pure and beautiful. It cleared away many barriers.”
The road from Levonah dropped into a broad valley where it met the King’s Road. An expanse of vineyards flowed into the distance all around the crossroads, on land owned by one of the noble families of Shomron, the Kingdom’s capital, and worked by farmers from the village. As we turned south, I recalled the stories my uncle told me about the prophets. Beauty was rarely involved.
“You are confused,” Uriel said. “Your uncle told me you learn the stories of our Fathers. Tell me, after Joseph’s brothers sold him into slavery, how did they deceive their father Jacob?”
“They dipped Joseph’s coat in the blood of a goat. Jacob thought Joseph was killed by a wild beast.”
“Good, I see you know the story.”
Every boy in Israel probably knew that story, but I still stepped lighter with the praise. I plucked a fennel blossom from its tall stalk off the side of the road and squeezed its seeds into my hand.
“Now, do you understand it?”
My hand paused on the way to my mouth.
“Jacob was a navi and a wealthy man. Shouldn’t he have known his sons were lying to him? Couldn’t the Holy One tell him where Joseph was held in Egypt? Why didn’t he go down and redeem him from slavery?”
I stopped walking. I’d known this story most of my life—at least I thought I did. “I don’t know.”
Uriel continued in silence. I followed but didn’t push myself to keep up, drifting further behind as I chewed on his question. I popped the fennel seeds into my mouth, savoring their pungent flavor. How could I know why Jacob didn’t ask the Holy One—and what did that have to do with my music? I focused on Uriel’s back as if the answer lay somewhere between his shoulder blades.
My uncle told me that Jacob mourned his son every day he was gone as if he’d died that very morning. That’s why the story stuck in my mind. I knew the darkness of grieving, like a black hole in my chest. What was left to me of my parents? A memory of lavender wafting from Mother’s hair, the weight of Father’s broad and heavy hands on my forehead—every shard of memory was shrouded with longing. Had Jacob felt that way for twenty-two years? I tore ahead, slowing only when I drew even with the elderly prophet. “Was it his grief?”
Uriel slowed his pace without turning his head. “Are you asking me a question or giving me an answer?” The prophet has no interest in making things easy for me.
A hot breeze drove a parched thornbush across the road. Where had the vineyards gone? We’d already crossed into wilder country, without my noticing. I inhaled deeply and replied in a clear voice. “Jacob couldn’t receive prophecy because he was mourning the loss of Joseph.”
Uriel smiled, the first show of warmth I felt from him that day. “Indeed. Sadness seals the heart. Only in joy can it receive.”
The road sank between low, terraced hills that blocked any breeze, and sweat ran down my neck as a white sun burned directly overhead. Ahead, a man sliced the last of his wheat, grabbing handfuls of stalks with his left hand and hacking at their bases with a curved iron blade. A young woman collected the cut wheat, laying it flat to dry. As soon as she caught sight of us, the woman dropped her stalks to the ground and smoothed her skirt. Her swollen belly nearly overwhelmed her narrow frame as she carefully picked her way down the uneven ground to the road. She bowed her head low. “Master Uriel, won’t you turn aside and eat a meal from your maidservant?”
I felt a rush of affection for her. The handful of almonds we ate at mid-morning were long gone, the hour for the midday meal had passed, and even my aching legs were protesting their hunger. Yet the prophet had shown no signs of slowing. He nodded to her request, and I sighed as we stepped into the slim shade of a carob tree by the side of the road. The woman weaved her way back to her husband, whispering and gesturing off into the distance. He dropped his sheaves to the ground and ran through the fields.
She returned and led us across the furrowed field to a poor dwelling tucked into the shadow of the hills. Its mud brick walls marked them as among the humblest of Israel, but the roof was freshly thatched, and a jasmine bush near the door gave off a welcoming scent. We entered a tight, dark room, the entirety of their home. She seated us at a low table, poured a small bowl of wine into a pitcher, filled the rest with water, and placed it before us with two clay cups.
“Thank you, Milcah.” Uriel poured for the two of us. She brought out freshly salted cheese, then quickly patted dough into two cakes and placed them directly on the coals in the hearth.
Soon after the bread was done, the husband returned leading a donkey carrying a second woman, who looked like Milcah but with a slight body and pinched face. Milcah’s husband helped her off the donkey, and she stepped into the house, walking directly to the prophet.
“Peace unto you, Master Uriel.” Her eyes were resolute. “I have come for another blessing.”
Uriel laid down his bread and swallowed the bit in his mouth. “Another, Rumah? Has the first brought what you sought?”
“Of course not!” Blood drained from her face and her eyes burned.
“Why then do you ask for another?”
Her shrill cry pierced the small room. “Any fool can look at the two of us and see why.” She turned to Milcah, the fire in her eyes departing as they fell on her, and soon they brimmed with tears. “My sister and I received the same blessing from you nine months ago. Now here she is with her belly between her teeth, and I’m just as I was, but for being older.”
Uriel’s only response was a slight nod, and her anger flared again.
“Why? Why her and not me? She’d been married for two years when we came to you, I for almost ten. People say you can work miracles. Why didn’t your blessing work for me?”
“It is not truly my blessing, but that of the Holy One.”
“What does that mean?” Rumah’s voice cracked. “I told my pain to you. It was you who promised me a child. Of course the Holy One is the source of life, but you are a navi.”
“I never promised you a child.” Uriel rose from his stool, his thick, gray hair brushing the smoke-blackened rafters of the low roof. He peered down at Rumah, small and frail but unshrinking in his shadow. “There are three keys that the Holy One does not surrender to any servant, even the nevi’im: the key to the womb, the key to the grave, and the key to the heavens. Without them, there can be no birth, no resurrection, no rain. Even our father Jacob turned away our mother Rachel when she wept before him, demanding a child. And despite what you may have heard, my power is as nothing compared to Jacob’s.” His fist clenched around the handle of his staff. “I say his words to you now, ‘Am I in the place of the Holy One who has withheld the fruit of your womb?’”
Even in the dim light, I recoiled at the hard glint in Uriel’s eyes. His words shattered Rumah’s anger into tears, and she wept into her empty hands.
“So then you can do nothing?” She cried out. “I am lost?”
“No blessing is in vain,” he replied, his voice softer now, “but the blessing alone may not be enough.”
“But the Holy One heard my sister’s cry.” Rumah glanced in Milcah’s direction and wheeled back, stung by what she saw. “Why does she merit and not me?”
“It is not always a question of merit. Many things can block the channels of blessing. Perhaps your desires lead you astray, and you have not come into this world for the children you wish to bear. And perhaps you yourself are closed to the blessing which is ready to be born into your life. When I left here last, what did you do?”
“You know exactly what I did. I went to my husband—what else would I do to conceive?”
Uriel turned to Milcah, “And what did you do?”
“I also went to my husband.” Milcah took the pitcher and added more wine to Uriel’s almost full cup, her neck flushing as she spoke. “I’m not sure what else you mean?”
“I mean, when did you start preparing for the baby?”
“Well, it’s silly.” Pink blotches rose from her neck to her cheeks as she reached for a loosely woven fabric of heavy wool. “The next day I started weaving this blanket. At first, my husband laughed at me, but then he started building that cradle.”
“Yes, that is right.” Uriel smiled as he contemplated the woven basket next to their reed sleeping mats.
The older sister pursed her lips and glared at the blanket. “You’re not suggesting that if I wove a blanket, I would have conceived too, are you?”
“Of course not. The blanket itself was insignificant, as was the cradle. Your sister’s conviction made her a fitting vessel.” Rumah’s mouth was a thin line, and her eyes darted back and forth between the blanket and Uriel. “Milcah acted as if the blessing was already fulfilled. She created a space in her heart for the blessing to rest, allowing it to bear fruit.” Rumah’s hands unclenched as her eyes settled on his face. “Do you remember what you thought when you left me last?”
“I do.” She bent her head with a short laugh. “I even remember talking to my husband when I got home. He asked me, ‘Do you think it will work?’ I told him, ‘Who can tell? Milcah thinks it will. What harm could there be in going along?’” Her eyes rose back to Uriel’s, filled with a new light. “So if I believe, it will work?”
“I cannot promise you that. As I said, the key of birth is beyond my grasp.” Uriel’s words extinguished the light in her eyes, but his face remained radiant.
“And if it fails? If there is no child?”
I knew the look in her eyes well; I imagine such a look also brightened my eyes whenever my hopes rose. Despite the misery I’d suffered from dashed hopes, despite all the dangers, I wanted Uriel to keep her hope alive. Milcah turned away from her sister, as I held my breath.
“Then you have a choice. You can embrace your present state, receiving it as the will of the Holy One, and seeing it as an opportunity for growth in this world. Or you can struggle against it. But know now that your struggle will not succeed. I cannot say that joy in this decree will provide what you desire, but bitterness certainly dries up the wellsprings of blessing.”
