“When you find Yosef ben Avner,” Uriel’s voice was soft, but no less commanding, in the dawn light, “tell him we shall meet tomorrow at the junction.”
I peered across the mist rising from the valley, westward toward the ancient walls of Beit El. “How will I find him?”
“Quite easily, I imagine. There is no other like him in the city.”
“But where does he live?”
“He once lived in the weavers’ quarter, but I do not know if he has remained there. I have not entered Beit El in upward of sixty years.”
My head swung back to stare at the prophet. Sixty years? The men in Levonah who reached sixty years ground their food to mash before eating it, yet Uriel still had a full set of teeth. Just how old was he?
The prophet waved at my untouched bread. “Eat. There is no knowing how long you’ll be gone.”
I took a bite of the dry loaf, forcing myself to chew—I shouldn’t fail in my task because of hunger. Uriel walked out to a precipice that cast a shadow over the junction below and sat down on its rocky edge.
“Are you going to sit here alone all day?”
“Probably, though sometimes visitors come to me even in this place.”
I swallowed another bite. “Why haven’t you entered Beit El in sixty years?”
The prophet shifted his eyes to a cloud of dust rising above the road in the distance, and my question evaporated in the morning light. “That looks like a royal messenger riding toward Beit El. If you hurry, you can catch him. There might be news.”
I shoved the last chunk of bread into my mouth, slung my water skin over my shoulder, and raced toward the path. My legs ached from the long march the day before, their stiffness resisting every step. Hoofbeats echoed in the distance, and I pushed myself into a run down the steep, rock-strewn path. This was a mistake. I didn’t notice a cluster of loose pebbles until my foot was upon it. My arms shot out for balance, a weak compensation for fumbled footing. My backside hit the ground first, and I slid down the hard-packed trail until my left knee banged into a boulder.
I glared up at the old man. I was a musician, not a messenger. Why should I have to run after some horse and search out a stranger in a city I didn’t know while he just sat and waited? But the prophet’s eyes were closed, impervious to my anger or the pain in my knee. I got up, rubbed my leg, and limped carefully down the path.
By the time I reached the crossroads, my legs were loose, despite the throbbing in my knee. I was only halfway up the steep incline to the city when the horseman reached the junction below. I pushed myself back into a run, but it was no use. The rider’s tunic, emblazoned with the royal ox, whipped in the air as he thundered past, leaving me coughing in a cloud of dust.
The messenger rounded one of the massive stone towers flanking the entrance to the city and disappeared through its gates. Three ram’s horn blasts echoed over the surrounding hills—a public announcement.
My lungs raging, I pushed onward. This was no longer just about Uriel’s command. A public announcement directly from a royal messenger was something we heard in Levonah only three or four times a year. I rounded the tower and raced through the narrow gateway, past a guard who barely glanced my way. A crowd already surrounded the horseman in the city square, but some of the dignitaries were still making their way from the chambers in the city gate—the announcement wouldn’t start without them. My lungs heaved as I hobbled to a stop and doubled over to get my breath. I had made it in time.
A thin beard shaded the messenger’s cheeks; he couldn’t have seen more than twenty summers. He was covered in dust and sweat traced thin lines down his face. He sat stiffly, chin held high, gazing over the heads of the crowd. When the last of the officials reached the square, he brought a silver tipped ram’s horn to his lips and blew a single blast. “By authority of the great King Ahav!” A hush fell across the square. “It gives His Majesty great pleasure to announce the royal betrothal!”
The rider didn’t flinch, but his horse sidestepped nervously at the crowd’s roar. Still gasping for breath, I added a feeble cheer. Aunt Leah always said, “It’s not good for a man to be alone.” To her, even a king was lacking without a wife. The last time she’d said this, her words came with a sad glance at me.
The messenger cleared his throat and waited for silence. “King Ahav will marry Princess Izevel of Tzidon on the ninth day of the fifth month in the royal capital of Shomron. Let all of Israel come and rejoice!”
I was ready this time and let loose a loud “Hedad!” but my voice was nearly alone. I cut my cry short, feeling the stares of the crowd.
The messenger lowered his gaze and sneered at the stunned looks on the faces in the crowd. He kicked his mount, swung it around, and was not yet clear of the crowd when he pushed it into a gallop. I still stood bent over, catching my breath, when someone grabbed the back of my tunic and yanked me out of the horse’s way. I tried to thank him, but he was already talking to the man beside him. The thud of hooves was soon drowned out by the babble of voices discussing the news.
I searched the faces of the crowd, seeking a friendly one I could ask for help. I wasn’t sure why news of the King’s engagement would incense the people, but the confused fury written on their faces extinguished my desire to approach any of them. With the messenger gone, now was the time to find out about Yosef ben Avner before the crowd dispersed. I bit my lower lip. I never liked asking for help, especially from strangers. But there was no other choice—I’d just have to pick someone.
“Are you Lev?”
I spun around to meet the smiling eyes of a squat young man, appearing some five years older than me, with a bushy black beard and bent nose. “Yes, I am.”
“Excellent. I am Raphael ben Eshek. Master Yosef sent me to find you. Come, he is waiting.”
A warm glow spread through my chest; finding Yosef had gone far easier than I feared. Without another word, Raphael turned to go, and I hastened to follow, hobbling on my bruised knee. I felt comfortable with Raphael from the first, but as we entered the streets of Beit El, my ease faded. If Yosef knew who I was and where I would be, what else might he know about me? Feeling suddenly exposed, I wrapped my arms across my chest.
Raphael interrupted my thoughts. “How long have you been with Master Uriel?”
At least Raphael didn’t know everything about me. My first instinct was to tell him that I wasn’t really with the prophet, just a musician he’d hired for the gathering, but I swallowed the objection. “Two days.”
“Ahhhhh,” he chuckled. “My first week with my master, half the time I had no idea what was happening.”
I laughed louder than I intended. “That’s how I feel right now.”
Raphael glanced down at my swelling knee and the trail of dried blood that marred my shin. “Is this fresh?”
I nodded.
“We’ll put something on that when we arrive. For now, let me help you.” Raphael thrust his stout arm under mine and supported my limp toward a narrow, stone-paved street that radiated out from the city square.
As my body sank onto his shoulder, I caught a side glance at my new friend. He smelled clean, like a fresh rosemary bush. Could he tell that I had not properly bathed since the last new moon? I inspected his tunic; it was not the rough wool of a servant’s. Who was he exactly? “Are you Yosef’s assistant?”
“No,” Raphael grunted at the burden of my weight, “his disciple.”
“You’re training to become a prophet?” My uncle’s tales of the prophets were among my favorite stories, but I couldn’t recall any that involved training.
“Yes.” Raphael beamed, revealing a set of large, crooked teeth that filled his wide grin. I couldn’t help but smile back; his eyes gleamed like those of my young cousins whenever Aunt Leah treated them to roasted nuts.
“How long have you been with Yosef?”
“Five years.”
“Five years?” I spent only six months going out with my uncle before I was ready to take the flock by myself.
“Oh yes. Prophecy comes only after many years of training—if at all.”
“Have you received prophecy yet?”
“No, I’m still counted among the bnei nevi’im, not the nevi’im.”
We stopped in front of a flat-roofed house made from chiseled stone, its street side broken only by a plain wooden door. The door swung outward, and an old man stepped into the street, his coal black eyes fixed unblinking on my face. I turned away from the intensity of his gaze and inspected him out of the corner of my eye. His gray hair and beard were darker and better groomed than Uriel’s. The bright white of his linen robes contrasted with the raven black totafot boxes bound to his arm and forehead. Uriel had also worn totafot in the early morning but removed them before eating.
“Welcome Lev ben Yochanan, I am Yosef ben Avner. I am aware of Uriel’s instructions to you; nonetheless, speak your message and fulfill your master’s command.”
It was one thing for Raphael to assume that I was Uriel’s servant, but it was another for Yosef, a prophet, to call him my master. I wanted to protest, but thought better of it—I could already see that Yosef wasn’t someone to argue with. “The time has come for the gathering.” My voice sounded hollow. “Master Uriel has informed the others. He will await you at the junction in the morning.”
“Very good. We will be there.” Yosef continued to bore into my eyes, even as I turned away. I tried to catch a glimpse of what was happening inside the prophet’s house, in vain.
“Raphael, I see that Lev’s knee needs care. In my quarters, you will find clean fabric and ointment in the remedy box next to my mat.”
Raphael entered the house, and Yosef turned back to me. “You would like to observe my disciples.” He had the same unnerving practice as Uriel of telling me what I was thinking. “They are engaged in training now, and it is not desirable to disturb them.” His eyes flickered over me from head to toe. “Yet, there is a way you can help my disciples. Then you may enter and enhance, rather than disturb.”
Curious though I was to see what was going on inside, Yosef’s piercing eyes made me glad I had a ready excuse. “My kinnor is with Master Uriel.”
“No matter, you will not need it.”
Raphael returned with a cloth and a bowl of water and bent down to clean the wound. He opened a small clay jar filled with some evil-smelling substance. I clenched my teeth when the herbs touched my knee, but the sting lasted only a moment. A layer of yellowish ointment coated the wound, which I could suddenly barely feel. I eyed the wooden doorway narrowly and asked Yosef, “What else would I do?”
“You will see a stool in the middle of the room.” Yosef nodded to Raphael, who entered the house, closing the door behind him. “All you must do is walk in and sit down.”
“That’s it?”
“That is all.”
I had no more excuses to give Yosef, and it did seem a small price to satisfy my curiosity, yet my tongue turned pasty as I stepped toward the door. How could sitting on a stool help the disciples in their training unless they were to do something to me while I sat defenseless?
My moist palm took hold of the iron door handle. A floor of beaten earth met my footfalls inside, where the room was heavy with quiet. Eight disciples were ranged along the walls, each seated on a reed mat, legs folded, eyes closed. An alcove high in the wall contained over a hundred scrolls, far more than I’d ever seen, many brown and cracking with age. In the middle of the room sat the sole piece of furniture, an empty stool.
I limped quietly to my place, and sat down, my knee protesting. No one reacted to my entrance. Other than one disciple who scratched his nose, no sound or movement disturbed their rhythmic breathing. Yosef leaned against the doorframe and watched.
I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly hot and itchy. I couldn’t see that they were acting upon me in any way, but these were not ordinary men; they were bnei nevi’im, disciples of the prophets. Uriel and Yosef both knew things about me without being told, sensing my thoughts as if they were spoken aloud. Is that what the disciples were doing now, reading my thoughts? Would I even know it if they were? I fought the desire to press my hands over my ears as if to block the way to my mind, knowing how useless such a move would be.
I had agreed to help, but my thoughts were my own. My forehead creased as I tried to empty my mind. It didn’t work. Memories came pouring in on me, the very ones I least wanted to share: Dahlia surprising me while I bathed at the spring; almost losing the flock in a thunderstorm; the feel of Mother’s hair on my cheek. Sweat beaded on my forehead, but my failed efforts only proved I couldn’t clear my mind by force. My kinnor provided my only refuge from thought, but it was far away. Silence pressed down on me. My kinnor. The kinnor channeled my music, but it wasn’t the source of it. Closing my eyes, I reached for a nigun to play in my mind. A melody whispered in my ears, and my shoulders relaxed. Thought and memory faded as my fingers worked strings they couldn’t feel, plucking the notes sharper in my mind than I ever did with my hands.
Yosef finally broke the silence. “What can you tell me about our guest?” The disciples turned toward their teacher, eyes still closed. I blushed, hoping no one would mention the incident with Dahlia at the spring. One replied, “He is a boy, Master.”
“Why do you say so?”
“His footsteps. It took him eight steps to get from the door to the chair. It takes me five or six. Also, his steps were soft, lighter than a man’s, but not hesitant like a woman’s would be on entering.”
“But slightly uneven,” the disciple next to him added, “as if he’s walking with a limp.” I touched my left knee, still aching from the fall that morning.
Yosef was not yet satisfied. “What else?”
“He’s a musician, Master.”
“Interesting. Why do you say so Nadav?”
“He’s tapping his feet.” I peered down; I hadn’t realized my feet were tapping out the melody in my head.
“Do only musicians tap their feet?”
“No, I even do it myself sometimes.” The disciple cocked his head to the side. “But there’s something different about the way he taps, the rhythm is more…complex…than when I do it.”
“I see.” Yosef’s voice gave nothing away, but he was smiling. “What else?”
The navi’s eyes swept back and forth across the disciples, but no one responded. Finally, the one who scratched his nose earlier said, “He’s uncomfortable with us speaking about him.”
“What tells you this, Elad?”
“When Nadav described him tapping his feet, he stopped, and he’s breathing faster than he was before.” Instantly my cheeks grew hot.
“Very perceptive.”
This was my first experience with using the ears to see, and I was amazed at how much the disciples were able to learn just by listening. Yet, within half a year, the skills of these disciples would seem basic to me. When one enters a place that light cannot penetrate, his ears become his eyes. I would learn to hear the difference between a wall and a doorway and to distinguish the footstep of friend from enemy.
“The time has come to take mercy on our guest who has provided an opportunity for so much insight. Open your eyes and greet Lev, a musician that Master Uriel has hired to play for us during the gathering.” Yosef smiled at Nadav, the one who had guessed I was a musician, and from the look of gratitude on his face, I gathered that a smile from Yosef was a rare reward.
“I must ask you to excuse us now, Lev. We will meet again tomorrow at the junction.”
The sun was approaching its midpoint in the sky when I left Yosef’s house. I walked back, barely thinking about where I was going, mulling over everything I’d seen and heard. In all the stories my uncle had taught me, the Holy One simply chose the prophet—there was never any mention of disciples or training. Yet, Raphael said that all prophets, every single one of them, had trained. Some could have learned from other prophets, as Raphael was learning from Yosef, but what about the others? Abraham and Moses had been alone, cut off from any other prophets—where could they have trained?
Unbidden, an image rose in my mind of sitting on the ground in our sukkah, listening to Uncle Menachem tell the stories of the prophets. This was my favorite time of year, after the grape harvest, when we moved outside for the seven-day festival, sheltered only by a roof of fallen branches. During Sukkot, we worked as little as possible, spending our time inside the sukkah, singing, feasting on a roasted ram, and telling stories. I couldn’t remember having my nightmare even once while sleeping inside the fragile walls of the sukkah.
These days, most men considered shepherds little better than illiterate thieves, respecting no man’s boundaries, and ignorant of the ways of Israel. But on each night of Sukkot, Uncle Menachem told the story of one of the seven shepherds of Israel: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aharon, Joseph and David. It always seemed strange that our greatest leaders came from a trade so widely despised, but I never thought to question how they became prophets. In the stories the Holy One simply addressed them—that was all.
I turned the stories over in my mind as I wound through the streets of Beit El. It couldn’t just be coincidence that they were all shepherds—could they have trained for prophecy while in the wilderness with their flocks?
As my mind wandered, my feet led me back to the gate of Beit El. I stopped just inside the heavy wooden doors, realizing that Uriel would not look for me much before sundown. I had time for myself, a rarity in Levonah. I turned my head up and sniffed—the scent of roasting meat hung in the air. I immediately knew where I wanted to go; I just needed to get there.
I hurried back to the main square and spotted a farmer drawing a lamb up a wide thoroughfare. I crossed the square to follow, and the enticing aroma of sizzling fat and meat thickened as I left the open plaza. I was on the right trail.
The road climbed gently, the stone pavers underfoot polished by the steps of countless feet. Flights of two or three stairs occasionally broke its smooth incline. Before long, we had walked enough to cross all of Levonah twice, yet we weren’t even at the center of the city. Of course, Levonah was little more than a farming village compared to the Holy City of Beit El, where Jacob—one of the seven shepherds himself—had built an altar a thousand years before. The street broadened into a marketplace. Open storefronts lined the sides, and freestanding stalls ran down the middle. The man leading the lamb disappeared into the crowd, but it no longer mattered—I had arrived.
The familiar animal odor of earth, blood and manure filled the air, and sheep bleated from a storefront on my right. I stepped in, seeing that the store opened out to a pen in the back, where lambs lapped water from a trough. “How much for one of those?” I asked, though I knew I didn’t have enough copper to buy one.
The burly shopkeeper eyed my dirty tunic. “The lambs start at three shekel silver, the rams go up to eight.”
“Eight shekel silver? We get only half of that for a ram that size.”
“A shepherd on your first trip to Beit El, eh? The sheep you sell are for eating; it doesn’t matter if they have a bad eye or walk with a limp. Mine have no flaws. If you get any big ones in your flock like that, bring them to me. I’ll give you a lot more than you’ll get from the slaughterers.”
A rhythmic cooing rose from dozens of holes carved into the wall. “How much for a dove?”
“I can give you a good one for half a shekel.” He pulled a small iron weight from a pocket of his smock and put it on one end of a scale. On the second pan, I dropped a few copper pieces, my earnings from the wedding earlier in the summer. Just as my fourth copper piece landed on the pan, it sank, bobbing up and down until it came level with the iron. It was most of what I owned, but I couldn’t miss this chance—plus a hefty sum awaited me at the end of the gathering. An image of Dahlia floated into my mind, her nose crinkling with envy when she heard I’d gone to Beit El a year early.
The shopkeeper stepped onto a short ladder, untied the reed cover over one of the holes, slipped both hands in, and deftly pulled out a dove. It struggled, then relaxed in his grip. “Hold it like this, with both hands over its wings.” He passed me the brown bird streaked with its purple feather-tips. “You don’t want it to fly away.” I gripped it the way I was shown. The small body squirmed in my hands, its heart beat wildly. Its feathers barely contained the bird’s fine bones; I felt as though they’d crack if I squeezed too tightly.
“Hold it firm,” he chided me. “If you let it struggle, it might get hurt. A pity to waste your copper on an unfit offering.”
I tightened my grip and the bird relaxed. “What do I do now?”
“Take it to the altar. Follow the crowd uphill toward the smoke.” Unable to contain my excitement, I snorted out a laugh. The shopkeeper’s eyes narrowed, and his beefy hand clapped onto my shoulder. “Wait, I forgot to ask. You’re of age, are you not?”
I shook my head. “Not for another year.”
He wrapped his big hands around mine, taking control of the passive dove and shaking his head with a half-smile. “I should’ve asked first. You can’t make an offering until you’re of age. I’ll not have you sin on my account.” He stepped up the ladder and returned the bird carefully to its hole, then placed my coppers back in my empty hand.
A stone rose in my throat. “Is there nothing I can do?”
“Go and bow before the Holy One. Anyone can do that.”
I stepped out of the shop and continued up the center of the marketplace, picturing Eliav laughing at me if he ever heard about the dove—I’d have to tell Dahlia when we were alone. As the street rose, the scent of incense overpowered the musky reek of sheep. Once I cleared the last of the stalls, the clamor of the caged animals faded and a new sound caught my ear. Floating above the hum of the crowd was a song unlike any I’d ever heard. The precision and delicacy of notes weaving into one another bespoke exceptional skill and countless hours of practice. I closed my eyes and filtered out the noise of the marketplace to better focus on the music. An elbow in my back broke my concentration as a thickset farmer stumbled against me and cursed. I’d chosen a poor spot to stop and gawk.
Slipping through the crowd, I sought the source of the music. The street leveled, opening out into a large square. Across the plaza, I found what I was looking for: seven musicians standing on a wooden platform, brilliant red robes falling to their feet. In the open air of the plaza, the incense was no longer just fragrant; it was intoxicating. Music floated on a cloud of cinnamon, clove, and myrrh, filling the open square.
The cry of a frightened sheep tore my attention from the melody. With the instincts of a shepherd, I sought out the distressed animal, but the thick cloud of smoke billowing up from the incense altar obscured my sight.
There was another sharp bleat, cut short by a grunt, and I spotted the lamb. Its blood flowed out in jets into a stone bowl held ready to receive it. The creature’s body sagged, lifeless, as a barefoot priest robed in white hoisted it on his shoulders and carried it up a ramp to the altar. A second priest lifted the bowl of blood and splashed it in a stiff-armed arc across the base of the altar.
Just beyond the bloodstain, a tall banner fell from the horns of the altar to its base, displaying the royal ox of the House of King Omri. As I stared, the cloth billowed out in the breeze, revealing a crack in the stone hidden beneath. The fissure ran almost the entire height of the altar, with a thin trail of ash surfacing from its depths.
Uriel’s words from the morning before came back to me: The prophets live in a world of devotion; the places they go are reached only by choice. I hadn’t really chosen to follow the old prophet; I only told him what he wanted to hear. But it was my choice to come to the altar and bow down before the Holy One.
I crossed the square and ascended to a platform of massive stone blocks towering over the plaza. A second platform stood above the first. Four limestone pillars supported a roof of woven reeds shading the sacred object: The Golden Calf.
The Calf wasn’t as immense as I’d imagined. Its eyes would barely have reached my knees, but the burnished gold reflected the sun as brightly as a mirror. Its expression was exactly that of a real calf wishing to nurse, and even from where I stood I could see the texture of its hide.
I always expected my first trip to Beit El would be with my uncle, during the annual pilgrimage, and now my pride at coming on my own was tempered by not knowing what to do. My face grew hot as I avoided the gaze of the priests guarding the Golden Calf. A gray-haired man ascended next to me. From the corner of my eye, I watched him stand for a moment, gazing up into the Calf’s eyes. He lowered his knees onto the chiseled stone. I copied him, wincing as my wound hit the ground.
I felt the Calf’s eyes watching over me, over all the faithful of Israel, as it had for generations. How many prayers had it heard?
This was my chance to speak directly to the Holy One. I recalled my earliest memories of prayer, of how I would cry out for my mother to come back. I wasn’t sure how long that went on, probably for years, until one day Uncle Menachem took me aside and explained that wasn’t the way prayer worked. “We don’t pray for the impossible,” he said, “and we don’t pray to change what already is. But we can pray for things that haven’t happened yet, like strong rains, a good harvest, or that the flock should be safe.”
So for years, I did just that; I prayed that the flock would be safe from lions and wolves, and in the two years I led the flock, I had lost only three lambs. But now, standing before the Holy One, with the flock so far away, the words sounded hollow to my heart. This was my chance to pray for what I really wanted. Not the return of my parents or the inheritance of my land—it was still forbidden to pray for the impossible.
Yet, how quickly our visions of what is possible can change. At the last new moon, I would have said that I was destined to become nothing more than a lowly shepherd. Perhaps Dahlia was right, perhaps circumstances could change, even for me. After all, here I was, just a few days later, bowing down in Beit El. If the altar of the Holy One, the holiest place in the Kingdom, could have a crack, then could I, with all of my flaws, also attain holiness?
Raphael said that his master had put him on the path to prophecy five years ago. When I asked Uriel yesterday why he had taken me for the gathering, he said it was for my music. But there was something he was holding back—I was sure of it. Could this be it? Had he brought me to the gathering so that I could catch a glimpse of a different future? Had he put me on the path to prophecy without my even knowing it?
This was finally something meaningful to pray for, a path of devotion to something greater than just my sheep or my stomach. If it was my fate to become a shepherd in the wilderness, then I wanted to be like the seven shepherds of Israel, a shepherd-prophet.
My fellow worshiper was already stretched out on the flagstones, arms extended before his head, legs trailing out behind him. I copied his position, placing my palms flat before me. Lowering my forehead to the cold stone, my hands trembled at my first act of devotion.
