“Darkness is rising upon the land.”
These were the only words the prophet uttered when I told him of the King’s engagement. For the rest of the night, he sat on the precipice, deep in thought. I didn’t even get to tell him about bowing before the Holy One.
We met Yosef and his disciples soon after dawn. The two masters embraced, then led us eastward on the broad road toward Jericho. The disciples and I waited until the masters were far enough ahead to speak without being overheard, then we started off behind. Our route led down the dry wilderness slope that bridged the fertile mountain plateau, where I had spent my entire life, and the Jordan valley below. A herd of gazelles leapt along the ridge, leaving gray tracks on the barren terrain. One stopped to nibble at the dark green leaves of a lone hyssop bush that had fought its way through the rocky soil. Halfway down the slope, we turned north onto a smaller footpath that followed the ridge-line along the edge of the wilderness. A hot wind swirled with dust, and I tasted grit between my teeth. Only the toughest creatures could call this steep, arid land home. Two rough, migrant shepherds clicked their tongues to guide a flock of coarse-haired goats toward a patch of brown grasses growing in a catch-basin between the hills.
This is me in a few years’ time.
At what point had my family made clear this was my future? Was it all at once or only little by little? This was my first time in the true wild, and I saw how the sparse grass and the distant springs made shepherding here strenuous work. At the same time, a quiet serenity rested between the hillsides. Though life here would be hard, my decision to train for prophecy bolstered me. It was the perfect place for learning to hear the words of the Holy One.
My enthusiasm only lasted until mid-day, when we passed a shepherd’s tent. Outside its goatskin walls, the shepherd’s wife sat baking their bread directly on the coals of her fire. She responded to Uriel’s greeting with a ghastly smile, baring toothless gums and stretching the weathered skin of her face. There were no children around the tent—she hardly looked healthy enough to have any. Was her blighted condition a result of the harshness of their lives, or were the prospects of a wilderness shepherd so poor that her husband could marry no better? Either alternative was enough to make me cringe.
Even as the springs came closer together, returning a haze of green to the landscape, I still couldn’t clear that image of the shepherd’s wife from my thoughts. Perhaps I should bring Dahlia here to see the worn woman herself? Then she would abandon her silly dream of following me on my path, and leave me to walk it alone.
I was torn from my thoughts of Dahlia only when Raphael announced, “Welcome to Emek HaAsefa, Lev.” He swept his hands toward a valley nestled between the hills below us, its gently sloping clearing already in shadow.
I spotted black openings along the steep rock face. “Are those caves?”
“Yes. They will be our homes during the gathering.” Raphael stepped off the road onto a trail down to the valley. “And those are just the ones you can see.”
Raphael descended directly to the clearing where white-robed servants were laying out food. I stopped first at the animal pens to find Balaam already in the enclosure, snuffing loudly while eating alongside twenty or more donkeys and three horses. As I retrieved my belongings from the saddlebags, my eyes appraised the horses—had nobles come to the gathering?
In the eating area, I found a table laid out with hot bread, chickpea mash, and beet tops lightly cooked to a bright green. An Israelite indentured servant spooned out food for the disciples, while another baked bread over a clay dome. The servant took one glance at me, and his eyes narrowed. “Are you Lev?” I nodded. “Master Uriel had us set this aside for you.” From behind the cooking area, he retrieved a piece of bread dotted with small amounts of the chickpea and beet tops. After a full day’s march, I had hoped for more food than this. The servant must have caught my expression. “You can take more. I don’t care.” He put down his spoon, with the handle facing toward me, then went to help with the cooking, leaving me to serve myself. I added only a modest amount, remembering my uncle’s resentment at how much the hired workers had eaten during last year’s olive harvest.
Food in hand, I gazed around until I found Raphael, who sat with two other disciples on the gently sloping hillside. The disciples ate in silence, chewing each morsel dozens of times before taking another. When he saw me approach, Raphael swallowed the bite in his mouth to greet me. “Hi Lev, looking for the musicians? They’re sitting over there.” I caught myself before sitting down—did the musicians not eat with the disciples?
I followed Raphael’s gesture and saw three people sitting together in a corner of the field. Their garments immediately caught my eye; they were all dressed in heavy woolen tunics like my own. The whole time we walked together, I hadn’t thought how much my clothes, so hot and itchy in the summer sun, must have made me stand out from my companions, who undoubtedly wore wool only in the wintertime. As I weaved through the disciples, I became intensely aware of my tunic, its dank odor, and how it had been crudely stitched together by Aunt Leah and Dahlia. The linen garments of the bnei nevi’im were doubtless made by master weavers. I kept my gaze ahead on the musicians so I wouldn’t have to meet the eyes of the disciples.
Two of the musicians were youths, one a thickset boy about my age who sat hunched over his food. The other, a few years older, leaned back on one of his elbows and ran a hand through his wavy hair as he watched me approach. The third musician was a man, younger than my uncle, who sat erect, his narrow beard almost reaching his waist. “Are you Lev?” the man asked. I nodded and sat down next to him. “Excellent, then we’re all gathered. I’m Daniel ben Eliezer, the master musician here. This is Yonaton ben Baruch,” he pointed to the younger boy, “and Zimri ben—”
“Just Zim,” the wavy-haired one interjected, his mouth half full. Juice and vegetables dripped from the bottom of his rolled-up bread, and he ate at a pace that made me wonder how long it had been since his last meal.
Yonaton offered a hesitant smile. Like me, he’d just taken small amounts of each dish, and sat with his flatbread spread out on his lap, the different foods on it not touching. I sat down next to him and bit into my bread, glad for the distraction of food that excused us from conversation.
The first stars appeared in the sky, and the chatter among the disciples died down. All turned their attention toward the serving table where Uriel, Yosef, and a third white-haired sage stood between three torches in a circle of flickering light. “May all who have come be blessed,” Uriel said.
“Many are the paths we have walked to reach this point, and many are the places from which we have come. Together, we seek a true bond with the Holy One, one in which Divine Light will flow to the Nation of Israel, and through us to all of creation. The hour is late, and for many of you the journey has been long; nevertheless, our time is short, our task is great, and our Master is pressing.” He gazed over the crowd of disciples, torchlight glittering in his eyes. “Know too that the reward is great if you pursue the Way with discipline and commitment. We expect nothing less from each of you.”
Uriel stepped back into shadow as Yosef replaced him in the torchlight. “When you are dismissed, you will go directly to sleep. You will be woken in the second watch of the night to begin your training. Remember your dreams; even ordinary dreams are one-sixtieth prophecy. Each night you will discuss your dreams with a master to decipher their—”
“This isn’t for us,” Daniel whispered. “Come, we can speak in the musicians’ cave.”
I stood and reluctantly followed Daniel. I knew that prophecy could come through dreams—Jacob’s vision of the ladder came in a dream—but I had never known that my own dreams might contain prophecy. I longed to hear about unlocking their secrets, but as I followed Daniel away from the eating area, I realized that it didn’t matter much. Yosef said that to decipher your dreams, you needed to remember them. There was only one dream I really wanted to understand, but I could never remember the slightest detail of my old nightmare. Besides, if I ever could remember what the dream contained, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t need a master to help me interpret it—it felt more like an evil memory than a prophecy.
Pale blue light still filled the western horizon, but with the moon only a sliver, the trail was little more than a gray smudge on dark ground. Daniel led us, walking with the comfort of one who knew his way.
“Will they also wake us in the middle of the night?” Zim asked.
“No, they don’t need us until an hour or two after sunrise.”
“Good, because the second watch is when I normally go to sleep.”
Thistles snagged the hem of my tunic as the path narrowed at the foot of the cliff. It wound upwards, in some spots little more than a ledge bound by a sheer drop, widening out as we passed cave openings. We stayed close to Daniel, the darkness forcing us to rely on his position to avoid a deadly misstep.
“Why do you go to sleep so late?” Yonaton asked Zim.
“It’s when I play my best music—there’s a special energy to the night.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Yonaton replied. “In my house, we go to sleep as soon as we can after sunset and wake before dawn. My father says sleep is the body’s reward. I couldn’t get up if I stayed awake playing.”
“That’s why I never rise before the third hour of the day if I can help it.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you royalty?”
Zim laughed, “Why would you say that?”
“Whenever I’m slow out of bed, my uncle tells me that only princes sleep until the third hour of the day.”
“No, I have no noble blood. My father’s a farmer, and so was his. But farming’s not for me. I left home for good a year ago.”
The path flattened out, and we stepped onto a rock ledge at the mouth of the highest cave. The cliff face rose above us into the darkness. Even in the dim light, I saw a circle of boulders out front, surrounding a fire pit dark with charcoal.
“Then how do you eat?” Yonaton asked.
“My music.” Zim retrieved a drum from inside the cave, sat down on one of the boulders, and gently tapped the taut hide with his fingertips. Though hardly focused on his drumming, his sense of rhythm was excellent. “I’ve found enough work between weddings and festivals.”
“What kind of festivals?”
“All kinds. The best is coming up at the full moon in Shiloh—I never miss it.”
I swung my kinnor off my shoulder and straddled one of the boulders. “But you’ll still be here then, won’t you?”
“When Master Yosef hired me I told him I’d come only if I could still play Shiloh.”
“How about you, Daniel? Is that what you do too?” Yonaton asked.
“Me?” Daniel chuckled as he sat down, clutching his nevel, a standup harp twice the size of my kinnor. “No, I have a wife and three daughters; I can’t be running around to festivals all the time. It’s only while my wheat is drying that I can devote myself to music.”
“Isn’t it hard being away from your family?” Yonaton asked.
“Sure it’s hard, but my nevel is easier to work than my land, and copper doesn’t spoil.” Daniel began to pick out notes and tighten strings.
Zim cocked his head toward Yonaton, “First time away from home?”
Yonaton nodded, “I’ve never even slept away before.”
“How far did you come?” I asked.
“Not far. We live just on the other side of that hill.”
“So why not go home at night?”
“My father told me I can’t expect the prophets to send someone round to the farm every time they need me. Still, it’s nice to know I can run home if I need to, and my sisters said they’d visit.” Yonaton pulled a halil, a wooden fife two handbreadths long, from his belt. “How about you, Lev? Do you play festivals or do you also work your father’s land?”
I plucked the strings of my kinnor, feeling their eyes but not looking up. “My father’s dead. My mother too. I shepherd my uncle’s flock.”
My words killed the conversation. I knew this moment, having experienced it so many times in the past—the awkward quiet, the eyes turning away. Zim filled the silence with his drumming, increasing his pace and power. Daniel joined in, picking up Zim’s beat, with crisp plucks against the long strings of his nevel, the notes reverberating into the cool evening air. Only Yonaton remained silent. My eyes were dry—I learned long ago that tears would neither bring back my parents nor water the flock—but I was surprised to see that Yonaton’s reflected more of the night sky than my dry eyes ever could. I smiled and raised my kinnor, indicating that there was no more to say. Yonaton wiped his eyes across his sleeve, smiled back, and raised his halil to his lips.
The stars were already bright in the sky when I saw twinkling lights ascend the trail toward the caves. “What are those lights?”
“Lamps,” Daniel said. “The disciples are going to sleep.”
“And they carry their own lamps?” At my uncle’s house, lamps were reserved for holy times—olive oil was too precious to burn during the week.
The disciples reached their caves, and the lights went out. “I’m glad I’m not one of them,” Zim said.
My hand dropped from the strings of my kinnor, and I stared across at Zim. “Is it really so hard to go to sleep early?”
Zim laughed and leaned into his drum. His right hand tapped out higher-pitched notes on the drum’s edge as his left palm pounded the center with a booming bass.
And then it suddenly occurred to me: there could be only one explanation for his lack of interest. “You’ve never seen them taken by prophecy, have you?”
Zim met my eyes without breaking his rhythm. “No. Have you?”
“Yes.” That one word was enough to silence Zim and draw the stares of Daniel and Yonaton, but I wasn’t done. “When you see it, you’ll understand—”
“Don’t envy the prophets, Lev.” Daniel let his hands rest on his nevel and our song unraveled—only Zim kept up the beat.
I turned on Daniel, “What’s not to envy?”
Daniel sighed, “Theirs is a path that will lead you nowhere.”
“Why nowhere?” Yonaton asked. “Look at the masters—”
“Yes, Yonaton, look at the masters. Take Master Uriel. Where do you think he’ll be come harvest time when our backs are bent with labor? Out in the fields with us?” Zim snorted, and Daniel turned to me. “Can you imagine him chasing your sheep over the hillsides?”
He leaned over his nevel to press his point. “I’ve been playing here for twelve years. The first day, there’s always a musician or two who dreams of becoming a prophet; but soon enough they learn that’s all they are—dreams. And you’ll learn too.”
I recalled my last conversation with Dahlia, how she said that there was no telling where my future would lead. “But even dreams can come true—can’t they?”
“Not this one. It’s as King Solomon said: Wisdom is good with an inheritance.”
I winced at the word inheritance. “What does that mean?”
“It means that it doesn’t matter how wise or holy you are, Lev, you’ll never become a navi. Look at the bnei nevi’im: servants prepare their food, they light lamps to walk back to their caves—some even arrived on their own horses. They don’t dress like you. They don’t smell like you.” Zim chortled. Yonaton quietly sniffed his tunic. “Most of the disciples study for years before receiving navua, if they receive it at all. Who do you think watches their farms or their flocks while they’re searching for the Holy One?”
I shrugged.
“You have to be rich to become a prophet; there’s never been one that wasn’t. As far as I can tell, it’s part of their Way.”
I opened my mouth to respond but shut it again. What could I say? Uncle Menachem always told me that the smart man learns from his mistakes, but I never seemed to. When would I stop falling into the trap of clinging to dreams that could never come true? I was like the fool in Eliav’s favorite story, the one who sat by a pool of still water, the moon reflected in its surface. Such a beautiful stone, he thought, if he could only get it for himself, he’d be a rich man. But when he grabbed for it, his hands plunged into the cold water and the moon disappeared. He cursed himself for his stupidity, but when the water calmed, the moon reappeared, and he thought that perhaps this time he’d be lucky.
Daniel watched me closely. “Don’t look like that. You have a surer path open to you.”
“What’s that?” I asked, daring him to tout the joys of shepherding.
“The nevi’im use your music to lift themselves beyond this world. You may not reach prophecy, but it can uplift you as well. You just need to learn to play properly—start with this.” Daniel leaned his nevel against the boulder, came around behind me, and laid his hands over mine. He pulled my left hand further down the front of my kinnor and placed it in an unfamiliar hold. He twisted the angle of my plucking hand, my right. I didn’t like the feel of his hands on mine—after what he just told me I would have preferred to be left alone—but I didn’t fight him. “Grip it like this, firm up your left hand, but loosen your right. Now listen.” Daniel plucked the highest string, and the kinnor let out a crisp, clear note.
“It feels awkward.”
“You’re used to doing it wrong. Give it time—you’ll bring out the full voice of your kinnor. It’s a fine, fine instrument.”
Yonaton pulled his halil away from his lips. “They don’t smell like us?” Daniel laughed, “Sniff one tomorrow. They’re obsessed with purity. Most bathe at least once a day.” He returned to his nevel and picked up the melody again. “The way I see it, how much do they really have to tie them to this world? That must be why they can rise above it so easily.”
“It’s not so easy,” Zim said, drumming now with his fingertips so as not to drown out his voice. “They need us.”
“Just the disciples—the masters don’t need musicians.”
“But Master Uriel did.” I sat straighter now that I knew something that Daniel didn’t. “The day we met, he came to me for my music. That’s how I was hired.”
Daniel inclined his head to the side and stared at me again, then turned his eyes away and shrugged. “I’ve never seen a master use a musician before.”
Zim waved off our words with the back of his hand. “Enough of this. We may not be prophets, but we know what we need.” He stepped up his playing, and the rest of us followed his lead, bringing the conversation to an end.
The music indeed was unlike any I’d ever played. Few in Levonah had the time or patience to play instruments outside of festivals and celebrations. For the first time in years, I found myself in the presence of clearly superior musicians in Daniel and Zim, and even Yonaton harmonized beautifully, if quietly, on his halil. I closed my eyes into the rhythm and felt a tingling in my fingertips as they plucked out the melody. I soon left my concerns about the nevi’im behind.
A servant shook each of us roughly by the shoulder the next morning. “Master Uriel requires you.” He stepped out of the cave before I’d even sat up.
I squinted in the sunlight. I’d never slept so far into the morning—nor had I ever stayed up so late. By the time Daniel finally made us go to sleep, the eastern sky had already brightened to a dark gray. All through the night, I was telling myself I’d regret not getting to bed, but the music fixed me there. Guided by Daniel’s nimble nevel and driven by Zim’s rhythms, I discovered sounds in my kinnor that I never knew existed.
Several buckets of water awaited us outside the cave, and we quickly washed our hands and faces. The cold water chased sleep from my eyes. Daylight offered me a chance to see my new home properly. The niche in the wall where I slept seemed carved out for that very purpose. None of the cave walls were smooth like the ones near Levonah; they were all grooved, as if hewn out with iron tools. They couldn’t have been made for the annual gatherings—caves were hardly necessary in the summer, and the grooves had rounded edges, not the sharp lines of freshly cut stone—they looked old. Hundreds of years old, maybe? But who would have gone to so much trouble to carve out caves in the wilderness?
As the others started down the trail, my eyes fell on the outline of my father’s knife beneath my sleeping mat. I wasn’t afraid of anyone taking it—but it didn’t seem right leaving it behind. I took out one of my spare strings and used it to secure the sheath around my waist, under my tunic. Then I ran down toward the valley floor to catch up with the others.
Twelve disciples sat in the shade of a large carob tree, its branches heavy with green pods browning in the early summer heat. Daniel directed us toward a smaller pomegranate tree nearby, where we immediately warmed up. Uriel acknowledged us with a nod, then addressed the disciples.
“Envision your soul like a pool of water. When perfectly still, it reflects what is above. The slightest ripple on the surface, however, distorts the image and destroys any hope for vision. Music helps us quiet the mind and calm the pool.” I grinned at this description, thinking again of the fool who tried to grab the moon, but erased the smile as the prophet faced us. “Daniel, just a simple melody, this is the first trial for many.”
Daniel plucked a slow tune, and the rest of us joined in once we caught the rhythm. I took advantage of the easy pace to practice the holds that Daniel had taught me the night before—my wrists ached from the strange position. The melody barely held my attention. Was it the simplicity of the music, our lack of sleep, or was Zim correct that there was just something special about the night?
If Uriel noticed anything absent, he didn’t show it. He walked among the disciples, correcting their posture and whispering advice. One disciple appeared older than the rest; milky scars mapped his face. He sat upright with legs crossed and eyes closed, swaying gently with the nigun. He listened to Uriel’s whispering, nodded once, then returned to his swaying.
My heavy eyelids kept fighting to close. All the things I normally did to keep myself awake—pacing, talking, even playing faster or harder—would have disturbed the disciples. Only one of the bnei nevi’im appeared to be struggling with sleep himself, even though the disciples had woken at the second watch of the night and were now doing nothing more than listening to our dull music. I recognized him as Elad, the disciple of Yosef’s who’d scratched his nose two days earlier during their training, the one who surmised that I was uncomfortable with the disciples discussing me. Elad’s head drooped forward and jerked back up as he fought off sleep. The rest of the bnei nevi’im indicated through their straight posture and gentle rocking that they somehow remained engaged.
It was a relief when the session finally ended, and we were given a break before the midday meal.
“Do you mind holding my pipe?” Yonaton asked me. “I want to run home; I’m sure my mother’s worried.”
“I don’t mind.” I suspected Yonaton was running home less for his mother’s need than his own.
He handed me his halil. The delicately whittled piece of olive wood seemed out of place in his thick farmer hands. “I’ll be back in time for the meal.”
I watched him go until he passed over the hill, out of sight and wondered how my family was doing in Levonah. Eliav would be out with the sheep; Dahlia would already be baking the midday bread. Did they miss me?
I lay down on my back, enjoying the sun on my face, thinking about what I would tell Dahlia at the end of the gathering. The look of awe in her eyes was the last thing I saw as I drifted off to sleep.
I awoke to Yonaton’s figure standing over me, a melon in his hands. “We’re going to miss the meal.”
“What? Oh, right.” I sat up, stretched my arms above my head, and followed Yonaton down to the eating area.
Bread, cheese and bright green leeks were still laid out on the serving table. Again, one of the servants handed me a prepared dish, but only me, and he offered no explanation as to why he had not done the same for Yonaton. My portion was a bit bigger than the night before but lacked cheese. Did Uriel really feel that I deserved so little, especially when Yonaton was allowed to take as much as he wanted? Well if he objected to my taking more, he’d have to tell me himself. As Yonaton helped himself to everything from the serving table, I took more leeks and laid a big spoonful of cheese over the top. Food in hand, we sat down next to Zim, who was already finishing his meal.
“So that was prophecy?” Yonaton asked, dipping his bread in the runny cheese.
I shook my head and fought back a smile. “No one there received navua. It looks more like this—” I put down my bread, leaned over, and trembled the way Uriel had done. Two passing disciples flashed me cold stares.
“Whoa,” Yonaton’s eyes grew wide. “So what do we do when it happens?”
“We keep playing, right?” Zim said through a mouthful of bread. “If they need us for prophecy, we have to keep going.”
“I don’t think it matters. When Uriel had navua, it didn’t seem as if he’d notice anything, really.”
“So he was completely vulnerable?” Zim asked. “Anyone could just come over and slit his throat?”
I recoiled at the brutish question. “I guess so.”
“But he’s a prophet,” Yonaton said. “He can see things no one else can. He would know if he’s in danger.”
“You think?” Zim asked. “From what I’ve heard, prophets see only really important things.”
“But if someone wanted to hurt him, that would be really important to him—don’t you think, Lev?”
“It would be.” I tried to sound confident but felt shaken. Zim might actually be right: Uriel had seemed completely removed from this world while receiving prophecy. But if Uriel was vulnerable, it seemed best not to share that information. “Besides, prophets see things all the time that aren’t so important; they just don’t tell stories about them. I saw Uriel find a lost ring.”
Zim stood up to leave, his remaining bread still piled high with more leeks than Yonaton and I had taken together. “You’re not finishing your meal?” Yonaton asked.
“These are almost raw.” Zim pointed to the leeks. “They’ve got all these servants, why don’t they cook their food?” He walked off toward our cave, shaking his head.
The two of us were the last to finish eating. When we were done, Yonaton hefted his melon. “You want to split this with me?”
“Sure.”
Yonaton took the fruit over to a large rock and lifted it over his head.
“Wait, no need to smash it, I’ve got a knife.” I reached under my tunic and pulled out my father’s knife. I cut off two pieces, then thrust the knife back into the melon.
Yonaton bit into his slice, and his eyes caught the inlaid handle sticking out from the fruit. “Where did you get that knife? I’ve never seen one like it.”
I turned away, wishing I hadn’t brought it out. “This is a great melon. Did you grow it?”
“It’s from my own plot.” Yonaton grinned as wide as the melon slice. “I just saw it was ripe when I went home.”
“Where did you get that?” We both jumped at the rumble of the deep voice behind us. We turned to see the disciple with the scars pointing at the melon. The three of us were now alone in the clearing.
“From my family’s farm on the other side of the hill. Cut yourself off a slice if you like.”
“Not the melon, boy. The knife.” He plucked it out of the fruit and held it up before his eyes. The flint blade absorbed the sun’s light instead of reflecting it.
My mouth went dry as I held out my hand to take it back. “It was my father’s. Now it’s mine. Give it here.”
The man ignored my outstretched hand. “Your father’s you say?” His eyes moved from the knife to me, his scars knotting as he spoke. “And what’s your name?” The exposed blade in his hand made the simple question a threat.
“Lev.”
“Lev ben?”
There was something about him I didn’t trust. “Lev ben Menachem,” I lied. “And yours?”
His scars stretched as he let out a harsh laugh. “Shimon ben Naftali. Very wise to use your uncle’s name, Lev ben Yochanan.” He took a step toward me, holding my blade in his left hand, and pulling a dagger from his belt with his right. I was defenseless.
Yonaton jumped to his feet, snatched a rock from the ground, and cocked his arm back, ready to throw at the first sign of attack.
I stood paralyzed, hand still extended, gaping at this stranger who knew my father’s name.
Shimon ignored both our reactions, his eyes returning to my knife as he turned his small dagger around and offered me the hilt. “Take this.”
I reached out and took the weapon—though if we were going to fight, I’d rather have my knife back. But Shimon simply wiped my knife clean on the hem of his tunic and laid it down next to the melon. He bent down, facing me eye to eye. “Never let anyone see this knife. The danger it brings is very real.” His words mystified me, but I saw truth in his eyes. “Besides, this is not a tool for cutting fruit. It has only one purpose and should be used for nothing else. If you want to cut melon, use that one.” He pointed to the dagger in my hand. “You can keep it. I’ve got another.”
Without another word, Shimon turned and headed down the hill, in the opposite direction from where the disciples were gathering. I examined the bronze weapon in my hand. Its value was equal to two sheep at least, probably three. Even if the disciples were rich, surely they didn’t just give away such valuable gifts for nothing? My eyes moved to my father’s knife, still moist from the melon. It didn’t look dangerous—what was he afraid of? But I had a more pressing question. “Wait!” I shouted at Shimon’s back. “How did you know my name?”
Shimon didn’t break his stride down the trail, only turned his head to reply over his shoulder. “I brought you to your uncle.”
