“What just happened?” Yonaton’s arm dropped to his side, but his fist still gripped the rock he’d picked up to defend me.
My eyes remained fixed on Shimon’s dagger. “My parents were killed when I was two.”
“Killed? By who?”
“I don’t know. It was during the civil war.” I didn’t look up—I couldn’t bear seeing the pity in his eyes. “All I know is that a stranger left me at my uncle’s house…after. I guess now I know who that was.” I pushed my thumb into the edge of the dagger, not hard enough to draw blood, just enough to distract myself from the dark hole in my chest. “Are we playing again today?”
Yonaton’s shoulders relaxed at the change of subject. “No, the masters gave us the rest of the day to prepare for Shabbat. I know a spring not far from here where we can bathe.”
It was the best answer I could have hoped for. I was in no mood for the slow music we played that morning—it left my mind too free to wander. I tucked Shimon’s blade into my belt, picked up my father’s knife, and followed Yonaton toward the hills at the edge of the valley.
“I’ve never seen a knife like that—what’s it for?”
For Yonaton, who could run home to his mother between sittings, it must have seemed obvious that I knew the purpose of my father’s knife. But there was so much I didn’t know. “I’ve never seen one like it either. My uncle gave it to me the day I left, but he didn’t tell me anything about it. Just that it belonged to my father.”
“Can I hold it?”
It was a natural question, but I still recoiled, weighing the knife in my hand as we walked. It was my father’s—my only inheritance. Yonaton threw the rock in his hand at a distant boulder and was rewarded with the resounding clap of stone on stone. He had good aim and a strong arm; I couldn’t have hit that boulder even if I could have thrown that far. Yonaton hadn’t picked up that rock to throw it at some boulder; he picked it up to defend me from Shimon. I turned the knife around and held it out, handle first.
Yonaton received it with open palms. He ran a finger over the dark, gray edge. “I never knew stone could be so sharp. It looks ancient.” He turned his attention to the insignia on the hilt. “Are these claws?”
“I think so, but I don’t know what they mean.”
“It looks like a small sword.” He swung the broad blade in short, chopping arcs.
I thought back to Shimon’s warning. “But who would get so upset about using a sword to cut a melon?”
Yonaton shrugged and handed back the knife. My chest relaxed as I slipped it back under my tunic, nestling it safely against my thigh.
We reached the foot of the hills and eased down a well-worn path leading into a shaded ravine. The gorge was lined by stunted oak trees, a sure sign of water. A disciple stood by the side of the path, hands extended toward the sky, eyes squeezed shut, tears flowing down his cheeks, mumbling something I couldn’t understand. I forced myself to look away as we passed, fighting the desire to stare at his indecency. Daniel was right; whatever these bnei nevi’im were involved in wasn’t for the likes of me.
Our trail wound through high brush as the ravine walls narrowed around us, ending at a crumbling, white cliff. Clear water bubbled out of a crack at its base and flowed into a pool formed by a cut in the bedrock.
Yonaton stripped quickly and winced as he slipped into the frigid spring. I hung the knife over a branch of an olive tree, laid my tunic over it, and sat down at the edge of the pool. Despite the bright sun and appeal of cold water, I didn’t enter. My mind was fixed on Shimon. He brought me to my uncle. Does he know how my parents died?
“Come in!” A splash of water hit me in the face. Yonaton smacked the surface again, and I raised my hands in a useless attempt to block the spray. I peered down at my attacker, submerged up to his chest, his head still dry. My legs kicked a waterfall down on Yonaton. I soaked myself in the process but no longer cared. Yonaton fought back with the full force of both arms, drenching me. I pushed off the edge of the pool, dove under the water, and pulled my new friend’s legs out from under him.
We were still laughing when we returned to our cave late in the afternoon. Zim stood at the entrance with a polished bronze mirror in one hand, shaping his long hair into a wave with the other. He had changed his tunic of plain wool for one of reddish brown that left watery red marks on his neck—he must have stained it himself with berries. Anything dyed with madder or henna would have been expensive beyond even his wildest dreams. Zim nodded as we walked in, without glancing up from his mirror.
“Have you ever seen a boy with his own mirror before?” Yonaton whispered in my ear.
I shook my head. “My aunt has one, but she doesn’t look in it this long.”
“If I was your aunt, I wouldn’t either,” Zim said, entering the cave. “You should be more careful if you’re going to talk about me. I may drum loudly, but my hearing is excellent.” My ears grew hot, and Yonaton turned away, but Zim wore the same carefree expression as always. “Laugh if you like, but if you ever want to feed yourself with your music, you should think about getting one yourself.”
“A mirror won’t help our playing,” Yonaton said.
“True, but it will get you more work. All eyes are on the musicians—you get hired for more festivals if you look right.” Though answering Yonaton, Zim held out his mirror to me.
I took the sheet of flat, shiny metal. It had been a long time since I’d seen my reflection, and the mirror was clearer than any pool I’d peeked in. My brown hair was curled from the water, and the hairs on my lip were thicker, like a long shadow under my nose, but I was mostly struck by my eyes. They were light today, the color of bee honey, and seemed older than I felt.
From the valley rose the blast of a ram’s horn, the signal of the coming Shabbat. The three of us headed down to the clearing where we joined Daniel. Like Zim, he had a second tunic for Shabbat, made from finer wool than the one he wore during the week. The food was a measure better than the night before; the vegetables were still barely cooked, but the smell of roasted lamb also filled the clearing. My mouth watered. Aunt Leah prepared meat only for festivals.
Again, a servant handed me a piece of bread and a portion of beet greens that had been set aside for me behind the cooking area, where they had already turned cold. I received no meat, and the amount, though larger for Shabbat, didn’t come close to meeting my appetite. Daniel, Zim, and Yonaton all eyed my food curiously; none of them had rations set aside. I took the bread and piled meat onto it, making sure the servant saw I wouldn’t quietly accept such meager portions. But my greed still seemed small next to Zim’s, who crowded as much lamb on his bread as it would hold, not wasting any space on the vegetables. Daniel pointed out a spot for us closer to the bnei nevi’im than we had sat the night before. As soon as his bottom hit the ground, Zim raised a chunk of lamb to his mouth, but Daniel grabbed his wrist. “On Shabbat, we wait.”
Uriel stood in the middle of the clearing holding a goblet of wine. His voice rose in a chant that spoke of the six days of creation and the day of rest. I was familiar with the words from my uncle’s house, but not with the drawn-out pace of the prophet’s melody. It was hard to concentrate on the words with such savory smells wafting up from the food.
When the blessing was complete, Uriel drained the goblet in a single motion and handed it to a waiting servant. “Now can I eat?” Zim asked Daniel.
“Patience.”
The prophet now held up two loaves of bread, one on top of the other. “The Holy One tested our fathers with manna in the wilderness, giving them each morning enough food for that day, but no more. On the sixth day, they received a second portion for Shabbat. The blessing of Shabbat is that we do not receive; it is the blessing of knowing that we already possess what we require. I bless us all on our quest for holiness to know that the Divine light we seek is already within us.”
Uriel had barely broken the bottom loaf when Zim’s hand starting moving toward his mouth. “Now?”
“Yes.”
My hand hadn’t been poised like Zim’s, but my stomach was just as ready to pounce. The meat was pink and tender, and the vegetables were so well flavored that I almost didn’t mind that they were undercooked. Though I had taken a large portion, I soon went back for more of everything.
I was just finishing my second helping when conversation among the disciples died. Tzadok, the ancient, third master, stood by the fire in the center of the eating area. Zim still ate, but Yonaton and I stood, knowing that when the masters spoke it was time for us to go. Daniel put a hand on each of our shoulders. “On Shabbat we stay.”
Tzadok closed his eyes, filled his chest, and opened his mouth in song. I would never have guessed that such a resonant voice could emerge from so frail a body. The melody was simple and repetitive. Daniel and a number of the disciples joined him immediately, and more of us merged with them as we picked up the nigun, until we all sang together. I closed my eyes, and my body swayed, swept up in the current of the song.
Our voices echoed in the open air of the valley. The melody folded over on itself and amplified the collective energy with each turn. For the first time since coming to the gathering, I felt united with the bnei nevi’im. When Tzadok reached the end, he lifted his voice higher, holding the final note until his breath ran out. His silence brought the song to a close, and quiet settled over the clearing.
I opened my eyes to see Uriel standing alone, his face illuminated unevenly by the red light of the dwindling fire.
“There was once a man who lived in a kingdom in the middle of the desert.” The prophet spoke softly, but in the stillness of the night, his voice carried across the open ground. “Every morning as he went out to his field and again in the evening when he walked home, this man walked past the King’s palace. Each time he wondered, ‘Why is it that the King has so much while I have so little?’ His envy of the King grew and grew until he was unable to pass the palace without anger.
“The man formed a plan: he would dig a tunnel under the palace, come up inside the treasury, and take a tiny amount for himself. He worked for years on his tunnel, and as his labors grew, so did his desire, until he no longer felt the need to leave the King anything at all. Finally, the tunnel was complete, and he broke through the floor of the palace in the middle of the night. He expected to see piles of gold and gems, but found himself in an empty hallway, just outside the treasury. If he kept on digging, there was a chance he could still access the treasury and escape before dawn. But now that he had broken through the floor, fear struck his heart—he could be discovered at any time, and discovery would cost him his head. So he stepped back into his tunnel and fled the palace with nothing.
“It happened that a second thief, who knew nothing of the first, had formed an identical plan to rob the King and tunneled into the palace on the very same night. Unlike the first, he emerged inside the treasury itself. He saw mountains of gold and streams of jewels, and filled his bags and pockets with treasure. As he was about to leave, he spotted a large ruby in the corner of the treasury, so beautiful that he could not imagine leaving it behind. Lacking any room for it in his bags or pockets, he placed the gem in his mouth.
“The thief lowered his bags into the tunnel and was about to jump in, when he stopped. He spit the gem back into his hand and restored it gently to its place. Then, he emptied his bags and pockets, returned the treasure, and climbed into his tunnel—leaving the palace with nothing.
“The next morning, the two tunnels were discovered. The head of the guards came running to the King. My King, two thieves tunneled into the palace last night.
“The King was shocked. No one had ever broken into his palace before. How much did they take? he asked.
“The guard said, It is unfathomable my King—they didn’t take anything. One thief missed the treasury and left with nothing. The second thief entered the treasury, but we’ve counted the reserves, and nothing is missing.
“The King said, I want to meet these two men. Let it be known that they will not be punished if they come forward.
“Such was the power of the King that both thieves presented themselves at the palace by day’s end. The guards brought the first thief before the King. Explain how it was that you broke into my palace and left with nothing?
“The thief stood shaking before the King and said, I planned to tunnel into the royal treasury, but when I came out I found that I had not dug far enough. I feared that if I ventured further, I would be caught, so I went back into my tunnel and fled.
“The King said, Very well. Had you remained, you might have caused me great loss, but as it transpired, you turned away from the evil. As promised, you will not be punished. I reward your honesty today with your life. You may go.
“Guards then escorted in the second thief. The King turned to him and asked, Explain how it was that you broke into my treasury and left empty-handed.
“The second thief dropped his head. I did intend to rob you, sire. When I emerged inside your treasury, I filled all my bags, my pockets, and even my mouth with your treasure. Then, when I was about to climb into the tunnel and escape, an image of your face came to my mind. You have been a just and generous king to your people. I should be proud to serve such a king. How could I rob you? So I returned all the treasure to its rightful place and left.
“A tear came to the King’s eye. Guard, he called, I want you to take this man into the treasury and let him take anything he wants.”
Uriel paused, staring into the glowing coals. “There are two ways to turn from evil in this world. If we right our way from fear of punishment then, like the first thief, we are forgiven. But there is a higher way—to rectify our deeds out of great love for our King. Then our very sins bring us merit, for the Holy One knows how far along the path of evil we have gone and how great an effort it took to reverse our course. If we return in love, our rectification will be great indeed.”
The prophet rose taller in the dark, his voice loud in the silence. “Some of you are here because you desire the prophets’ power. You want to cry out, to correct the errors of the people, and when your cries are not heard, you will be tempted to coerce. You must remember that the Holy One seeks true service of the heart. To threaten the people, to give them a glimpse of the awesome power of the Holy One, may sway them, but only through fear.
“As nevi’im, we must inspire Israel to rectify their deeds out of love. I wish you all a peaceful Shabbat.”
“Blessed is the One who divides between the sacred and the mundane,” Uriel chanted the following evening at the close of Shabbat, “between light and darkness, between Israel and the nations, between the seventh day and the six days of creating—”
“And between the nevi’im and the musicians,” Zim chortled, just loud enough for the three of us to hear.
I ignored him, gazing up at the stars first breaking through the dark sky. The sun had set some time ago, leaving an inky stain on the western horizon. Uriel lifted the goblet of wine in his hand, sanctifying the end of Shabbat as he had its beginning. When he marked the division between light and darkness, a disciple touched together the wicks of two lamps, merging their flames into one.
“Can we play now?” Zim asked.
“Yes.” Daniel’s voice was strained. “Let’s go back to the cave.”
When he and Zim played music together, they worked off each other beautifully. But instruments were forbidden in Emek HaAsefa on Shabbat and had sat idle the past night and all that day. Throughout the Shabbat day, while I enjoyed the quiet, walking through the valley and playing stones with Yonaton, Zim lay in the cave, his eyes straying again and again to his untouched drum in the corner.
At midday on Shabbat, Daniel had sat with eyes closed, listening. “I love coming to this valley,” he said. “It’s so peaceful. When our music is stilled, you can really hear the song of the world.”
“The world has a song?” I asked.
“Each thing in the world has its own melody. Together their notes rise to form the song of the world.”
Zim, who had said little since the morning meal, rolled over at this. “Call it the noise of the world if you must—what you’re hearing is too much silence. You’re right that there’s beautiful music in the world, and you’ll hear it as soon as I can get my drum.”
Now that Shabbat was finally over, Zim sped up the dark trail and was already seated outside and tapping at his drum when the rest of us reached the cave. I retrieved my kinnor, took my place on one of the boulders, and fell into rhythm with Zim. Yonaton piped in with his halil, but Daniel didn’t come out to join us. Would the tension left over between Daniel and Zim from Shabbat keep them from playing together? The thought had hardly been formed in my mind when Daniel stepped out, nevel in hand.
Zim gave a last roll, and removed his hands from his drum, bringing our brief song to an end. He waved toward Daniel in a gesture that said, “You lead.” Daniel tightened his strings, then struck up the nigun that Tzadok had led us in the night before. He began the song slowly, increasing his pace with each pass through the melody. We played on into the night, not speaking, letting the music reunite us in a way that words could not. On our first night together we’d jumped from melody to melody, but tonight Daniel never strayed from Tzadok’s nigun, increasing the speed and intensity with each round.
It was rare in Levonah that I found the time to play my kinnor without having to keep one eye on my sheep. All I had were those few precious moments after the evening meal each night when I could let myself dive fully into my music. But even those moments were short-lived, as it was never long before my uncle, or exhaustion, called me in for bed. That night in Emek HaAsefa, Daniel drew me deeper into music than I had ever ventured before. We must have passed through the melody a hundred times or more, but it never grew old. Before long, the notes came of their own off the strings, without thought. I felt the notes flow through me, vibrating up through my chest, and saw them behind closed eyes in tones of blue and orange. For the first time, I sensed what the prophets were seeking in our music and why Daniel had said that it could transport me as well.
Well after the moon set, after the ram’s horn sounded to wake the disciples, Daniel finally broke off the nigun. My eyes scanned Zim’s expression, expecting a protest; his energy had only increased as the night went on. No disappointment registered on his face, though. It was only after I lay down, when I heard neither snoring nor tossing from the bedroll next to me, that I realized Zim hadn’t rejoined us in the cave.
Sometime later, a hand shook me awake. “Don’t make a sound. Get dressed and follow me,” Zim whispered in my ear.
I knew how much time had passed only when I stepped out and saw how far the stars had wheeled across the sky—I guessed we were late into the second watch of the night. The hair on my arms stood on end without the comfort of my warm bed. “Why did you wake me?”
“I want to show you what I found. Come.” He turned without further explanation, and I was too clouded by sleep to protest. Zim all but ran down the path, and I hurried to keep up, careful not to stumble into the darkness below. It was only when I paused to catch my breath, and the sound of my footfalls ceased, that I heard it: a low, bass hum. “Zim, what’s that sound?”
“You’ve finally heard it? I was beginning to wonder whether you three were deaf or I was crazy. I’ve heard it every night since we’ve arrived, but tonight I finally found the source. Come.”
We reached the valley floor, continued along the base of the cliff and onto a faint trail that rose to the black mouth of a cave. The sound grew deeper, its rhythm vibrating along stone walls. When we stepped inside, the sound reverberated in my bones. The cavern floor sloped steadily down into darkness. Sightless, I kept one hand on the wall and followed Zim’s breathing.
There would come a time when I would grow used to the underground world, but at this moment I was still a child of the sun. As we descended deeper toward the source of the sound, I felt the weight of the rock pressing above me. Had I been alone, I certainly would have fled back to the comfort of the starlight. But I continued after Zim, preferring to tremble in darkness rather than face his scorn.
Salvation came in the form of a dim, yellow light in the distance. It grew brighter as we approached and finally took the shape of a lamp burning in a niche carved into the tunnel wall. Below it was a short drop of less than a body’s length; the lamp was surely there to prevent anyone from falling. Zim climbed down first, then silently showed me where to place my hands and feet. As we moved on, the security of the light tugged at me from behind, but in a few steps, the tunnel turned and once again we were dependent on our hands and feet to see.
I lost count of my footsteps as we descended into the earth, the deep notes expanding as they echoed up to us. As we approached the source, it assumed a layered quality. The complexity was beyond anything but a stringed instrument, no number of voices woven together could accomplish that. Could they? A second light gleamed in the distance, and the tunnel widened out to meet it.
Torches high on the wall lit the floor of the cavern, but its roof remained shrouded in darkness. Flickering light danced over three circles of men swaying in rhythm, mouths pouring out their song. The power of the nigun we sang over Shabbat was in its repetition, in its slowly building pace. This nigun, sung underground, had a fullness that the other one lacked. Somehow, I knew the chant was ancient, each voice a thread in a fabric that stretched back ages. Tones stitched endlessly on themselves, notes braided into sacred layers, building ever more elaborate structures of sound. The song vibrated in harmony with the echoes thrown back by the cave walls, and the torchlight seemed to grow brighter as the intensity built.
I edged toward the swaying men, eager to join them in their song, but Zim grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the shadows, shaking his head. In my desire for the music, I’d forgotten that the prophets wouldn’t welcome intruders. I nodded, and Zim released me. Holding our breath, we crept along the cool and damp wall of the cave, outside the circle of light, and tucked ourselves into a crevice where we could see, but not be seen.
Tzadok again led the nigun, his hands on his knees, his body loose as he rocked forward and back. Even Yosef swayed with the melody, his dark eyes hooded by closed lids, the sharp lines of his face softened by the warm light.
What had saved me from drowning in my grief? Music. What had freed me when my pain was too much to bear? Music. But here I felt a new power: I saw the prophets and their disciples attaining a true unity on the strength of the nigun. I saw that music that flows from the heart can convey a depth of emotion that words cannot.
The song had been steadily building since we entered the cave, and now the momentum came to a head. Their voices rose to a peak in a unity that almost brought me to my knees—then ceased all at once. The silence deep in the earth held me like a newborn child.
The disciples’ clothing rustled as they stood. Once they left the circle of light, we would no longer be hidden. Zim’s voice trembled in my ear, “We have to get out of here.”
We crept back along the wall, moving as quickly as possible without making a sound, and reached the tunnel without mishap, though I couldn’t be sure we’d escaped unnoticed. We scurried faster now, still careful to muffle our footsteps, but taking comfort in being out of view.
The breeze from the cavern’s mouth flowed toward us in a cool stream. I raised my hand to my face, surprised to find a touch of moisture on my cheek, and quickly wiped my eyes. I didn’t risk my first words until we were beneath the stars again. “Warming to the prophets now, are you?”
“I’d no idea they had music like this.” Zim shook his head. “Imagine having such power and keeping it hidden underground!”
We increased our pace now that we were out of the total blackness of the cave. “What else should they do with it?”
“What else? You heard Uriel on Shabbat: the prophets must uplift the people. So, what do they do? They travel the land teaching the Law. If they want to inspire, they should bring their music out into the daylight!”
“It looks as if they don’t agree with you.”
“Of course they don’t, and the more fools they are. They don’t know how to use what they have—but we can.” Zim’s face glowed in the starlight.
“We work for them.”
“Just for the gathering. In two months, we’ll be free.”
“Free? Once the gathering ends, I have to go home.”
Zim led the way up the narrow trail crossing the cliff face. “You mean to your uncle’s? And how long will that last? I heard you talking to Yonaton yesterday.”
I scratched the back of my neck. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I told you, you have to be careful what you say around me.” Zim grabbed my arm and yanked me away from the edge of a precipice. “You have three years left at most in your uncle’s house. Then what will you do? Wander alone through the wilderness, dreaming only of green grasses and fresh water for your flock?”
The words stung, and I hung my head. “What choice do I have?”
“Fool, you have your kinnor! If we spent our nights in this cave, learning the ancient nigunim of the prophets, think what it would do for us. We could go anywhere—even to Shomron to play for the King.”
“The King?” Zim was clearly repeating some fantasy of his.
He stopped in his tracks and faced me. “Yes, the King! Why not? Come with me.”
Suddenly, I understood why Zim had handed me his mirror the other day, even while speaking to Yonaton. It was the same reason that he woke me alone to hear the prophets’ chant. I was the one with no future. I could go anywhere and hardly be missed. And two wandering musicians would be better than one; we could keep each other company, perhaps even find more work. As we reached our quarters, I was glad for an excuse to break off the conversation. “I don’t know, Zim.”
Zim appeared ready to say more, but Daniel rolled over in his sleep, and he held back.
I dropped exhausted onto my sleeping skin, eager for sleep. But neither of us got what we wanted. Zim never did make it back to the chanting cave, nor did I get a good night’s rest.
The stars were fading when I next opened my eyes, my mind still cloudy from lack of sleep. I didn’t know what woke me a second time before the sun, but there was a simple solution to such a problem. I wrapped myself more tightly and turned away from the dim light at the cave’s opening.
As I drifted back toward sleep, my mind floated on the tide of birdsong rising from the valley below. The first trills and whistles were rhythmic enough to be a nigun, the blending together of so many voices strangely reminiscent of the song in the chanting cave. The world began to fade back into a sweet swirl of sound and light when I felt a hand on my back. I rolled over and saw Daniel’s lanky body silhouetted by a pre-dawn glow. I stared up with blinking eyes and cocked my head to the side in an unspoken question. He put a finger to his lips and beckoned me to follow. I slipped my tunic over my head, wondering for the second time that night why I was leaving my warm nest behind.
Out now in the open air, the birdsong grew expansive. I hugged my arms to my chest, stepped out into the lightening morning, and inhaled the fresh scent of dew. Daniel hurried along one of the trails and turned to wave me on without a word. I kept my eyes on my feet and tried hard not to stumble as I sped down after Daniel. What could be so pressing at this hour?
At first, I thought Daniel was bringing me back to the chanting cave, but then he left the path and slowed his pace, stepping through the tall yellow grass, heavy with dew. “What are we doing here?”
He put a finger back to his lips. A few paces on, he stopped, dropped to his knees, and crawled on the ground, his eyes fixed on a single point. I followed behind, my tired eyes registering only a blur of brown and yellow. Gradually I gained focus; there, on a stalk of wild barley, sat a grasshopper, its green body muted to dark gray in the morning light. I turned to Daniel and mouthed, “What are we doing here?”
Daniel put a hand to his ear and pointed to the grasshopper. I closed my eyes to listen. The birdsong of the morning was so strong that it overwhelmed the high-pitched chirps of the tiny creature. I leaned in closer, focusing on its piping, steadily blocking out all other sounds. As the rest of the world receded, I sensed deeper rhythms and more tones in the grasshopper’s calls. I felt a gentle touch on my back and brought my eyes up to Daniel’s. “Why are we here so early?”
“The birdsong is loudest before sunrise.”
“But doesn’t that make it harder to hear the grasshopper?”
“You think I woke you to listen to a grasshopper? To hear the song of the world you need to hear everything—the grasshopper and the birds.”
I closed my eyes and leaned back in, listening without filtering out the birdsong. But I couldn’t hold the two sounds at once—the song of the birds was so powerful, the chirps of the grasshopper insignificant. I gave up and got back to my feet. “Why’d you bring me here?”
“I told you, to hear the song of the world.”
“Why didn’t you wake the others?”
“Not everyone can hear it. Look at Zim, he has no interest in listening to birdsong or the sound of the wind blowing through the trees.”
“And why not Yonaton?”
Daniel placed a hand on my shoulder. “Yonaton will be a farmer. His time is better spent learning to sow than learning to listen.”
“You think I’m different because I can play music while watching my sheep?”
Daniel shook his head. “Yonaton’s an only son, just like I was. He has no choice but to inherit his father’s farm and care for his parents when they grow old. You have a choice.”
I snorted, “The choice to be a landless orphan?”
“The choice to pursue your music.”
Daniel must have overheard the end of my conversation with Zim earlier. “So you also think I should leave my sheep to play festivals and weddings with Zim?”
Again, Daniel shook his head. “That’s a desolate life. Besides, to play festivals and weddings you don’t need to hear the song of the world.”
“Then what?”
“I saw your face the other night when we were speaking about the prophets. It’s not only in the summer that they need musicians. One who can hear the song of the world could play for them all year round.”
“I couldn’t hear the cricket and the birds together. I’m not even sure what I’m listening for.” I once again thought how similar the birdsong was to the nigun from the chanting cave. Was that the secret? Were the nigunim of the prophets somehow connected to the song of the world?
“It takes practice, but you can learn. I already hear the song of the sheep in your music—it’s subtle, but it’s there.”
“Sheep sing?” The bird-calls sounded like a song, but the bleating of my sheep—that was music?
Daniel started back across the meadow toward the path. “I heard a story many years ago from my master, who played before the prophets for forty years, and who first taught me to hear the song of the world. When King David finished writing the Psalms, he said to the Holy One, ‘Is there any creature in this world that sings more songs and praises than I?’ A frog came and said, ‘Do not become proud David. I sing more songs and praises than you do.’”
“The frog could talk?”
“It’s a story. But after hearing the frog, David set out to discover the songs and praises of other creatures. How he understood them I don’t know, but he wrote their meanings down in a scroll.” Daniel studied my face. “You find this hard to accept?”
“I’ve never heard any praises from my sheep.”
“Neither have I. But we can hear the rhythms of the animals, and we can help the bnei nevi’im hear them too. Listening to the world is one of their tools, it helps them find their Way.”
“I thought we play to bring them joy?”
“True, but joy is only one thing we can do for them.” Daniel stretched his arms up over his head in a yawn.
“So are the songs we play part of the song of the world?”
Daniel paused at the cave mouth. “I don’t know if we sing in the song of the world. You’d have to ask one of the masters that.”
I lay down and spread my tunic over me. As I settled in, the bulge of my father’s knife beneath my mat dug into my spine. It seemed that everyone had an opinion on my future. I hadn’t always liked what my uncle taught me, but I always believed it: that without land I had one choice—to become a shepherd. Since arriving at the gathering, new paths had opened before me, but did they hold any greater promise?
Zim wanted me as a companion; we’d wander from place to place, looking for enough work to feed ourselves. A desolate life Daniel called it. Daniel thought I should learn to hear the song of the world and play before the prophets. Perhaps that was a little better: I wouldn’t have to move so much and it would be easier to build a family. But even if I could hear the song, wouldn’t I be just like the grasshopper, whose chirps were drowned out before the powerful birdsong? Was that my destiny—to become the servant of prophecy, playing a part no one would notice?
As a shepherd, at least I could be my own master, have my own flock, and my own successes. One last thought floated through my mind as I drifted back to sleep: my uncle had chosen wisely.
