The tight grip on my shoulder woke me, but it was cold rain on my face that forced my eyes open. I lay on my back, squinting dumbly at the clouds hanging just above the mountaintops. Heavy drops pocked the ground, and a fresh wind stirred dust across the clearing.
My head throbbed—I wanted nothing more than to slide back into sleep, rain or no—but Yonaton grabbed my hand and pulled me up. The world tilted as my body came to a sitting position. Bitter bile rose in my throat, bringing with it memories of dancing around the huge bonfire late into the night, whirling until the wine got the better of me. I couldn’t recall lying down.
The rain fell heavier, rousing sleepers all around us. Grunts gave way to groans and curses as farmers staggered to their feet. It wasn’t just the wet awakening that tried them: it was the season. Still mid-summer, the early yoreh rains were not due for another two months. All across the Kingdom, the abundant wheat harvest—blessed by the same late malkosh rains that had destroyed so much of the barley crop—was cut and drying in the fields. If a downpour soaked the grain, it could rot in storage, destroying the year’s harvest.
As this knowledge set in, farmers stared wildly at the looming sky above them. Only one man could help them now, and they moved in a pack toward the sound of drumming which still echoed from the clearing. “Come on.” Yonaton pulled me to my feet. I stumbled behind him over the uneven ground. The motion made my stomach roll but cleared some of the fog from my head.
The mob swelled on the path, and stifled cries of “The yoreh, the yoreh!” filled the air. The strands of gray cloud hanging down from the sky evoked no fear in me, though. I’d never seen rains this early before, but had heard other shepherds call them matnat ro’im, the shepherd’s gift. Even a brief downpour now would bring up grasses in pockets and hollows all around Levonah, perfect grazing to nourish a flock until the winter rains. Farmers might tremble, but to a wise shepherd it was a treasure.
In the clearing, Yambalya and his disciples danced to Zim’s thunderous rhythm, which somehow held strong through the night. Their chanting took on new strength as the crowd flowed back like a tide, and they called out in celebration of Baal’s speedy answer to their prayers. Yambalya’s belly shook with laughter at the panic on the farmers’ faces. He stretched his head back so that raindrops fell into his mouth. “Baal is merciful,” he called out. “He will not destroy your crops. Not yet. This is but a sign. A sign…” he lowered his gaze to the crowd, “…and a test.” The last word came out with a hiss that sent a shudder right through me.
“You will bring in your harvest before Baal unleashes the power of the storm wind.” He pointed his finger at the farmers like a father reprimanding his children. “He who fails to heed Baal’s power and leaves his grain in the field will surely see his harvest rot.”
A circle of cowed Israelites surrounded Yambalya. He raised his muscular arms, and his eyes rolled back into his head. A single drop of blood rolled down one arm from his wrist. As it reached his elbow, he gave a final triumphant shout, and the rain came to an end.
The royal family would continue to celebrate for a full seven days of feasting up at the palace, but the wedding’s end signaled the end of the festivities for all but the highest nobility. Most of the revelers had already planned to leave that day, but now, with Yambalya’s threat ringing in their ears, they ran to gather their belongings and begin their journeys home straight away.
Yonaton and I walked silently toward Ovadia’s house. We were also leaving that day; the court musicians would suffice to play for the week of celebrations, and we were still needed at the gathering. The streets of Shomron were flooded with people, many running past us up the hill and more already heading out.
“You look awful,” Batya said as we crossed the threshold. “You boys get ready to go, and I’ll fix you something.”
When we descended the ladder with our sacks, one of the maidservants poured out two steaming cups of steeped herbs. “Drink that,” Batya said. I took a sip and gagged. “I know it tastes awful, but it will help. You boys should also have something to eat. You have a long journey ahead.”
We had barely begun our meal when Daniel arrived. “Finish up,” he said brusquely. “The donkeys are ready. If we start soon, we might make it back before nightfall.”
“We haven’t been paid,” Yonaton said.
Daniel held up a leather pouch bound with a thong. “Dov came to pay us this morning. I collected for both of you.”
Daniel’s pouch held more copper than I’d ever owned, almost as much as promised for the entire gathering. I tried to look pleased—if Daniel read the disappointment on my face, he’d ask questions. I remembered all too clearly the first night of the gathering when he’d smashed my dream of studying for prophecy. Even if I was deluding myself with thoughts of playing in the King’s court, I wasn’t ready for Daniel to crush this dream as well—certainly not with my head already pounding and my stomach barely holding down my morning bread.
No, if this dream was going to collapse, I wanted to hear it from Dov himself. Only he could tell me if there would be a place for my kinnor or not. I hadn’t seen him since the dancing began the night before, when he still had a smudge of dirt on his forehead from bowing before the Baal. And it wasn’t just him—every one of the court musicians bowed as well. Was that what it would mean to play in the King’s court—bowing before the Baal? Would that be the price of getting Dahlia?
The pounding in my head grew more insistent, in a way that had nothing to do with last night’s wine. Daniel wouldn’t need to smash this dream—it caved in on its own. I hadn’t bowed last night, even when I feared that Yambalya’s men would run their blades through any who refused. I made my choice, and once my stubborn heart decided on a path, it was set. I wouldn’t bow now either, despite the possible rewards.
I took my last bite and rose to follow Daniel, hating myself for falling into another silly dream, but no longer regretting missing Dov. More disappointing was leaving without seeing Ovadia. He was close to both the prophets and the King, the one person I really wanted to ask about the wedding, the Baal, and the rain. But Ovadia was at the palace, and there was no time to find him. We thanked Batya, who handed us a sack of rations for our trip, and hurried out after Daniel.
While we packed the donkeys, Zim strolled over to the house, clutching his drum under one arm. His eyes were glassy, but his smile was wild with joy.
“Hey Zim,” Yonaton called. “Where are your things?”
“They’re still in the musicians’ quarters.”
“You better run and get them. We’re leaving.”
“I’m not coming with you.” Zim took his drum out from under his arm and tapped it gently with his fingertips. “I came to say goodbye.”
“You’re staying for the week of celebrations?” A pang of jealousy cut through me.
“Longer. Yambalya invited me to join him.”
“You’re not coming back to play for the prophets at all?”
“Playing for Yambalya all through the night, I poured all of my body and soul into my drum.” Zim’s eyes had a faraway look. “That’s what devotion should look like.”
I winced at the word devotion. Uriel used the same word to describe the Way of the prophets. I pictured Yambalya drawing his knife across his chest. Is that what devotion looks like to you, Zim?
“We’ll miss you,” Yonaton said.
“I’ll miss you too. But I have a feeling it won’t be for long. You’ve both got talent, and you’re only going to get better. From what I’ve seen, good musicians rarely stay in one place. Unless they decide to marry like Daniel here.” He slapped Daniel on the shoulder.
“So you’ll be moving up to Tzur?” I asked.
Zim shook his head with a grin.
“Isn’t Tzur the capital of Tzidon?”
“It is, but Yambalya isn’t going back. Queen Izevel asked him to stay. She promised to build him a temple right here in Shomron.”
Zim put down his drum and threw one arm around me and the other around Yonaton, drawing us both roughly to his body. He released us, picked up his drum, and stood playing while we rode away.
Beyond the mountains ringing Shomron, the road curved south and flattened out. Daniel tied our donkey to his with a lead rope. “Your eyes are barely open,” he said in response to my protest. “This way you can sleep and let the donkey do the walking.”
The animal’s slow plodding drew me wistfully back to our swift ride to the wedding. On horseback, the journey took less than a day, even with the lightly burdened donkeys following along behind. Now I couldn’t see how Daniel hoped to get us back to the gathering before nightfall. The donkey rocked and swayed as we ambled over the bumpy road, and before long Yonaton’s head slumped forward against my back. I fought to keep my eyes open, but sleep overtook me as well.
I awoke to a shaking, like a tremor at my back. Opening my eyes, I saw steep-sloped mountains surrounding us. Daniel trotted confidently, singing quietly to himself as our donkey followed close behind. What woke me was Yonaton weeping quietly against my back. I lifted my head, but he immediately choked off his soft cry.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Yonaton sat up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
“You can tell me.” I twisted on the donkey’s back so I could catch Yonaton’s eyes over my shoulder. Tears—as if they’ll help anything. The Holy One knows I cried plenty when I was younger. But the tears never did me any good—I was no better off when they stopped flowing than when they started. Aunt Leah cried often, and I always found it hard to look at her when she did. Dahlia mostly stopped a few years ago at the same time I did. She learned quickly that tears were the fastest way to lose my interest.
On that first night of the gathering, Zim and Daniel both turned away at the mention of my parents’ deaths. But Yonaton hadn’t looked away; his eyes had actually teared, even though mine remained dry. I forced myself to hold Yonaton’s eyes. He hadn’t looked away then, and I would stay with him now. “What is it?”
Yonaton hesitated, but only for a moment. He’s no orphan; trust comes more easily to him. “It’s my father. I know what he’s like. He won’t gather in his grain early. He’ll say it’s betrayal to fear the Baal. What if our harvest is ruined? We don’t have enough stored to get us through winter.”
“You think Yambalya can make the rains come early?”
Yonaton gazed up at the dark patches of clouds moving across the summer sky. “What if he can?” he said softly.
I didn’t know what to say—I was a shepherd, not a farmer. I was about as far from sharing the farmers’ worries about the early rains as Yambalya; I looked forward to them. I was no more concerned about the yoreh spoiling wheat than I had been a few months earlier when the malkosh ruined so much barley. The late rains made grazing easier this summer than in summers past. The early rains would do the same: replenish grasses, keep the flock healthier, and make my life easier.
But Yonaton’s pain struck me in an unfamiliar way. A few months ago, it was the farmers who suffered when the barley spoiled. This morning, it was the farmers who would suffer if the rain soaked the wheat. It was easy to bear the pain of farmers I didn’t know—especially when they had land and I had none—but it was much harder to gaze into the teary eyes of a friend. Did his father really fear the Holy One so much that he would let his family starve? Were there many more like him in Israel? Still not finding any words, I reached back and squeezed Yonaton’s hand.
By early afternoon, the clouds burned off, leaving the sky a bright blue. The sun baked the moisture from the ground and Yonaton’s melancholy dissipated with the clouds. “You know, I think the wheat will be fine,” he said. “The prophets look out for Israel. They wouldn’t let Yambalya destroy the harvest of whoever doesn’t fear the Baal.”
Yonaton’s new attitude sounded forced to my ears, perhaps covering up for the shame of having shown his fear. Either way, I breathed more easily, relieved I no longer had to console a weepy friend.
We left the mountains south of Shomron behind and rode through the massive brown hills I knew so well. When we passed the turnoff to Levonah, I searched the road leading toward the gate, hoping to catch sight of my flock on the hills. The land was quiet and empty.
We ate the midday meal under a carob tree just past Levonah. “We’re making good time,” Daniel said. “With a little luck, we’ll arrive before dark.”
“But when I came with Master Uriel it took us two days from here,” I said. “We were walking, but we weren’t moving much slower than we are now.”
“You went through Beit El. Our path will be more direct.”
Yonaton swallowed the bread in his mouth. “Then why did Ovadia take us on the Beit El road?”
“Our way is too rough for horses. But the donkeys can make it if we lead them.”
After the meal, we continued south on the King’s Road for a short stretch, then Daniel turned the donkeys onto a narrow path that climbed up a broken hillside before the road to Shiloh. Once over the ridge-line, the path dropped into a gully, and we dismounted to lead the donkeys down the descent. We picked our way down a series of ridges and valleys, dropping ever lower, the hillsides gradually shifting to lighter shades of brown as the vegetation thinned, finally taking on the yellow tone of the hills around Emek HaAsefa. Daniel was right; this way was far shorter than the road through Beit El. I recalled how my legs ached from walking those first days with Uriel. He couldn’t have led us that way just to alert Master Yosef; a simple messenger could have done that.
When I asked Daniel, he laughed. “How many people have we passed on this path?”
“None.”
“There’s your answer.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think Master Uriel does when he’s not at the gathering?”
I had never given any thought to the prophet’s life before. “Return home to his family?”
Daniel shook his head. “He travels the land. People go to him for prophecy, for advice, for blessings, for judgment of their disputes. It’s not his way to seek the shortest path.”
I thought back to Zim’s comment at the wedding—if I wasn’t careful, I’d wind up holy and alone like Uriel. Did he not have a family?
The sun dipped below the hills, casting a pink and orange glow across the sky as we descended into Emek HaAsefa. As the caves high on the hillsides came into view, my eye sought out our cave, the highest of them all, with its rock ledge out front where the four of us had first played. I was surprised at a sudden blossoming of warmth in my chest—like coming home.
Daniel approached the servant with the punctured ear who was cleaning up the cooking area after the evening meal. “Is there anything left? We just returned from Shomron.”
“Yes, Master Uriel had us put aside dishes for each of you.” The servant gestured to a table with three large portions of bread and lentils. A grin curled up my cheeks as I wondered if the prophet had received a vision that Zim wouldn’t be returning with us, or if this was another instinct of his heart.
The servant approached me and spoke quietly, so that I alone could hear. “The portion on the right is for you.” This pattern of food being set aside for me had recurred at every meal since the gathering began. I always received a small portion of the most basic foods, never any meat or cheese. Why I was the only one restricted in what I could eat, I didn’t know, but each time I took my meager portion and rebelliously added anything I wanted. Now the portion set aside for me was no smaller than the other two and even had a helping of cheese. Was Uriel warming to me?
After the evening meal, we walked to our cave in the twilight. “I’ll be back later,” Yonaton said, just as I rolled out my mat. He laid his belongings beside mine. “I promised my mother I’d tell her when we got back.”
“You’re going in the dark?”
Yonaton peered out at the indigo sky. “The moon’s still up, that’ll give me enough light.”
I finished laying out my bedroll and retrieved my kinnor. “Then Daniel and I will just have to start playing without you.”
Daniel chortled. “You can play on your own.” He lay down on his sheepskin mat. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Already?” Yonaton asked.
“I need the sleep if I’m going to make it back to my farm tomorrow.”
I turned to Daniel. “You’re leaving too?”
“I’ve got to get home and bring in my harvest before it rots in the field. You heard Yambalya, this morning’s rain was only a warning. If we fail to heed it, we may not be so blessed in the future. I’m leaving at dawn. Yonaton, if I were you, I’d tell your family to bring in theirs as well.”
The thin veil of confidence that masked Yonaton’s face all afternoon melted, exposing raw fear. Without another word, he ran out of the cave toward home.
Zim’s reaction to Yambalya was one thing—but Daniel? “After all these years playing for the prophets, you’re going to heed the Baal?”
Daniel shook his head. “All these years with the prophets have shown me that all kinds of things are possible.”
“But you refused to bow at the wedding.”
“True, but I also felt the rain on my face this morning.” Daniel folded his arms behind his head. “If Yambalya is wrong and I bring in my crops early, what have I lost? But if he’s right, and I leave them in the fields…” Daniel sighed, put down his head, and closed his eyes.
I rested my kinnor next to my sleeping mat—I didn’t feel like playing alone. I left the cave hoping to catch Yonaton, but he was out of sight—probably halfway home already at the pace he was moving. I made my way down to the valley floor, unsure what I was searching for. All was silent; the servants had finished cleaning up, the disciples were all asleep. I strolled with a heavy step toward the pomegranate tree under which we played, its unripe flower-tipped fruits just visible in the moonlight, and sat down with my back against its smooth and slender trunk. A dark hole opened in my chest, swallowing down the excitement of Shomron and the wedding that had bloomed there. They seemed like a distant memory now. Zim wasn’t coming back, and Daniel was leaving. Would Yonaton be next? Will I have to play on my own for the rest of the gathering?
I had barely sat down when I stood up again—there was no point in staying awake on my own. I returned slowly along the path, its worn track a pale gray in the light of the two-thirds moon. A lone, tall figure strode ahead of me, reaching the musicians’ cave first and stepping inside. I hurried into the cave and almost ran into the man.
“Ah Lev, I was looking for you,” Uriel whispered, resting his hand on my shoulder. “I want to hear about the wedding. Let us go to my cave so that we don’t wake Daniel.”
Uriel led the way back down the path, and I followed behind in silence. Four lamps burned inside his cave, dazzling my eyes as I stepped in from the dark night. I sat opposite Uriel, whose slate-blue eyes fell upon mine, expectant. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say, so I started at the beginning.
“When we got to Shomron, Ovadia told Yonaton and me that we’d be staying with him, not with Daniel and Zim in the musicians’ quarters.” I paused, hoping he would direct me, but he only nodded for me to continue.
As words spilled out, I found myself saying more than I intended, talking about things of no importance. Why would the prophet care about us delivering Ovadia’s messages, or the commoners wrestling the bear? I kept scrutinizing the navi for some sign of what he was after, but was met with a steady gaze that drew the stream of images out of me.
When I finally ran out of words, two of the lamps had burned out—the charcoal smell of their wicks filling the cave. I slumped forward on the stool, exhausted. Uriel stared at me in silence, his face unmoving. The prophet’s gaze felt heavier now that I was no longer speaking, and I dropped my eyes to the table.
“So Queen Izevel and her family all bowed before the Baal?”
A knot clenched in my stomach. “Yes.”
“Then King Ahav bowed?”
In my mind, I saw the King’s hesitation give way before his bride’s coaxing. “Yes.”
“Then the people bowed as well?”
“Many of them.”
“And Ovadia?”
“I looked for him, but he had gone.”
“Then in the morning, there was rain?”
“Yes.”
“The people were afraid, and in their fear, they turned to the priest of the Baal.”
This wasn’t a question, but I still answered, “Yes.”
Uriel’s gaze rose to the ceiling of the cave. “The lamp of darkness is burning brightly once again,” he said, more to himself than to me. The creases on his face deepened in the unsteady light. “May the Holy One protect Israel.”
The prophet suddenly seemed so old and frail. “The lamp of darkness?”
Uriel didn’t answer, as though unaware that I’d spoken. He stood quickly, knocking over his stool as he rose. He lowered himself onto a reed mat on the floor, his feet before him, his knees bent to his chest. “I would like you to play for me. We may need to end the gathering early.”
“Why?”
“As you said, the rains might be coming. Whoever leaves his crops in the fields risks ruin. Many of our disciples are farmers. We cannot cause them to suffer such losses.”
I thought back to what Yonaton said on our journey back to the valley. “But can’t the prophets stop the rains?”
“Even if I could, I wouldn’t do so.”
“Why not?” I couldn’t keep the challenge out of my voice. The image of panicked farmers gathering around Yambalya rose in my mind, and the taste of bile returned to my tongue. It was strange—I had cared little for their panic that morning; I was even looking forward to the early rains. But I must have swallowed some of Yonaton’s fear on the ride back to the gathering. Was the prophet also afraid of the Baal?
“If we stop the rains, it will only bring the people to fear us more than Yambalya,” Uriel said with resignation. “It becomes a battle of one fear over another.”
“Isn’t that what you want, that the people should fear the Holy One more than the Baal?”
“No! A true turning to the Holy One is the end of fear, not a step down its path.”
“So none of the prophets will do anything to stop this?”
The old navi hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
I heard Uriel’s uncertainty. Did this mean not all the prophets agreed with him? Was there still a chance to stop the rains? Perhaps if Uriel knew, if he really understood how much fear the threat of rain was causing, he’d decide that closing the gathering early wasn’t enough—that this was a time to stand up to Yambalya. I had held back only one detail of our journey, one that I left out so as not to embarrass a friend. But even that would be worth it if it could make Uriel comprehend the humiliation of the people… and hold off the rains.
“When we were riding home from the gathering, Yonaton cried. That’s how scared he was that his father would refuse to listen to Yambalya and their harvest would be lost.” I flushed as I spoke, horrified to think of Yonaton’s embarrassment if he ever found out. “Without the wheat harvest, they don’t have enough grain to get through the winter. They’re not the only ones.”
Uriel slipped out of the position he’d assumed in readiness for prophecy, crossing his legs so he could sit up on the reed mat to face me. “And you feel that Yonaton’s tears show what?”
“They show suffering. They show fear.”
“And weakness?”
I didn’t want to call Yonaton weak, but Uriel was right—in that moment riding together, that’s exactly what I thought. “Yes.”
“You have much to learn about strength, Lev. Would you consider the constipated man strong?” Uriel fixed me with a penetrating glance. Could he see that I, who cried so much as a child, had blocked my heart, and not cried for over five years? “Yonaton’s tears are not a weakness—they’re his greatest strength. Indeed, if all of Israel could cry out as Yonaton has, we would have nothing to fear from Yambalya.” Uriel stretched his long legs before him again, rubbing the underside of his thigh. “Now, if you could please play for me.”
I swallowed, my body tense. How would tears hurt Yambalya? The more our tears flowed, the deeper he’d laugh. He’d brush them aside as easily as he had the glare of the old, bent man the night before. But the time for discussion had passed. I needed to play, which posed a different problem. “I don’t have my kinnor.”
“I’m sure you will manage.”
I surveyed the cave, hoping to find something to make music with. Lacking anything better, I drummed on the table. Tension flowed out through my hands with every beat against the heavy wood, and soon a rhythm took hold. I opened my mouth in song, weaving deep vocal tones into the beat. It wasn’t the best music I ever made, but it seemed to work. By the time the third lamp burned out, Uriel trembled with the spirit of prophecy.
I stopped drumming. In the silence, an image of Yambalya rose in my mind, his taut skin covered in scars and sweat, drawing his knife across his chest, showing all of Israel that he didn’t fear spilling his own blood. Next, I saw farmers’ faces as the rain fell upon the celebrations, and heard Yambalya’s deep laughter at their terror. Then I observed Uriel, old and gray, trembling in a heap on the floor. It was easy to guess which of the two the people would follow.
Uriel pushed himself to a sitting position, his face ashen, the creases in his face like knife cuts in the light of the remaining lamp. “The rains are indeed coming.” He stretched out a hand for me to help him to his feet. His palm felt rough, like the scales of the fish at the wedding. I overestimated his weight and pulled harder than necessary, causing him to stumble. The prophet regained his balance and smoothed his tunic. “I must speak to the other masters about ending the gathering early.”
“You really won’t do anything to stop the rains?”
“I will not.” Uriel placed both hands on my shoulders this time, holding my eyes in his. “There is no greater blessing than peace, Lev. Peace is so great that for its sake the Holy One overlooks our failures, even the people bowing to strange gods. But once peace is broken, there is little left but judgment. In a time of judgment, our sins are recalled and accounted for. The devastation may be great indeed. You are too young to remember the wars that ravaged this kingdom not so long ago. Believe me; it is nothing we want to return to.”
Uriel took several steps toward the entrance, then turned back to face me. “I know your words come from your courage as much as from your youth. This courage will serve you well. Indeed, it already has. It was no small thing refusing to humble yourself before the Baal.”
I stood straighter. “No, I did not bow.” Uriel nodded and stepped toward the entrance. I added proudly, “I’ve bowed only before the Holy One.”
The old navi’s brow furrowed as he half-turned back to me. “You bowed to the Holy One?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “In Beit El. When you sent me to Master Yosef, I also visited the altar. I wanted to make an offering,” I added with a sigh, “but I’m still too young.”
Uriel turned to face me fully, his eyes narrowed. “But you bowed?”
“Yes.”
A tremor passed through me as the prophet’s glare pinned me, helpless. My earlier thoughts of Uriel as a weak, old man disappeared. In his suddenly hard eyes, I sensed an untold strength within his aged body. That strength, boiling with anger, now concentrated itself on me. I felt as I had the night before, watching Yambalya, knife in hand, glaring at those who refused to bow—anticipating a strike.
Finally, he turned away and stepped toward the cave entrance, his body sinking back into weariness. “You may sleep now.”
The rasp of hide against stone woke me from an uneasy sleep. I opened my eyes to see Daniel rolling up his sheepskin mat in the gleam of an early morning sun. I dressed quietly so as not to wake Yonaton, stepped out of the cave, and sat on one of the boulders where the four of us first played music together. Clouds colored the eastern sky with shades of watered wine as Daniel emerged, his nevel in one hand, a sack slung over his shoulder. “I’ll see you next year?” he asked.
I pictured Uriel’s expression from the night before. Would the prophet even want me back? “I don’t know.”
“Return if you can.” Daniel hitched his sack higher. “But even if you don’t make it back, even if you have only your sheep for an audience, never stop playing your kinnor.”
I didn’t need anyone to tell me to keep playing music; it was the one thing that brought me joy that I could carry with me wherever I would go in the wild. But Daniel’s eyes were suddenly hard, and his beard stiffened on his chest. I had seen him this serious only once before, two nights ago when he refused to bow to the Baal. It was this that made me ask, “Why not?’
Daniel rubbed a hand along the wooden frame of his nevel and stared out over the valley. “Twelve years ago, my master told me the same thing I told you, that I could stay with the prophets, playing for them year-round, just as he did.”
“But you didn’t want to?”
“I did.” His head dropped as he spoke. “I stayed with them for over a year.”
“Why did you leave?”
“My father was getting old—he could no longer handle the farm by himself. One day he fell and injured his leg. I had to go back—I had responsibilities. My master was disappointed, but he understood. Before I left, he told me what I’ve just told you, that I must never stop playing.”
“Why not?”
Daniel lifted his head and caught my eye. “The power of music surged inside me. Every power a person has must be expressed, otherwise, it decays, and decay is a small death. The Holy One forbids us to resign ourselves to death.”
“So that’s why you return?”
“Yes, every summer, even though I now have a family of my own and my responsibilities have only grown.”
Uriel’s stern countenance again rose in my mind’s eye. I felt even more certain that he wouldn’t want me back. “So even if I can’t return—”
“Even if you can’t return, you must continue to play. Never let this spark inside you die. But I believe you will return. You didn’t receive a kinnor like that to play it alone in the wilderness.”
My hand slipped to my side where my kinnor normally hung, feeling only empty air. “What do you mean?”
“The workmanship is unmistakable. It’s prophet-made.”
“Prophet-made? But I got it from my uncle.”
Daniel’s beard quivered as he shook his head once. “That kinnor was made by no local craftsman. I don’t know how it reached your hands, but I doubt whoever gave it to you aspired for you to play before sheep.”
“What do you mean ‘whoever?’ I told you my uncle gave it to me.”
Daniel allowed himself a half smile. “I see. And your uncle is quite the musician, is he?”
My head cocked to the side. “No, I’ve never seen him play.”
“A collector then? Your uncle has many fine craftsman-made objects lying about the house that he has no need for?” Daniel didn’t bother keeping the scoffing tone from his voice now, and I allowed myself to smirk along with him—we both knew I didn’t come from nobility.
“Admit it, Lev,” Daniel’s tone grew serious again, “even if you did receive that kinnor from your uncle, there’s more to the story than you know. When a prophet’s treasure winds up in one’s hands, it’s rarely happenstance. If you ever learn more, let me know; I always appreciate a good story. But now, I must start for home before the sun gets any higher—I have much work ahead of me.” Daniel raised a hand in farewell and turned down the trail.
I stepped into the cave and retrieved my kinnor, and examined it in the growing daylight. I ran my fingertips along the olive wood frame, as if seeing for the first time the smoothness of its surface, the precision of the carving, and the flawless joints. Truly, there was nothing in my uncle’s house that approached the fineness of it. I’d been so fixated on everything I lacked, I failed to notice all those years I held a treasure.
Yonaton stepped out of the cave into the brightening day, his arms raised in a yawn. “Has Daniel gone?”
“Yes, he’s just left for home.”
“Too bad, I would have liked to say goodbye.”
“How are things with your family?”
“Not good. My father refuses to take in the harvest—he got angry that I even suggested it.”
“He might change his mind now. Master Uriel saw last night that the rains are going to come early.”
“Oh?” Yonaton’s shoulders relaxed, and a smile brightened his face. “If a navi says so, that will be enough for my father.”
“They’re serving the morning meal in the clearing if you want to go.”
“Sounds good.” Yonaton stretched his arms above his head again. “We’ve never made it to the morning meal here before.”
The sun was rising over the eastern hills, and the disciples were already sitting in the field eating by the time we joined them. One of the cooks handed me a small piece of bread, a single dried fig, and twelve kernels of toasted grain from where it had been set aside in the cooking area. The portion was the smallest I’d ever received. Was this a further sign of Uriel’s displeasure? I stepped forward to help myself to more of everything, and again none of the servants protested. Both Yonaton and I took much larger portions than we had on the first night of the gathering. This made me think of Zim, though neither of us could compete with his appetite. I felt suddenly lonely despite Yonaton’s presence.
Silence fell over the disciples, and we all shifted our attention to the center of the eating area where the three masters now stood. “We have received word,” Uriel began. “The rains will indeed come early this year. The gathering will come to a close so that disciples can return home and attend to their harvests.” There was a barely audible sigh from the bnei nevi’im—had they already heard what had happened at the wedding?
Uriel and Tzadok both appeared calm, their faces serene as they met the searching gazes of the disciples. Yosef scowled at the ground.
Uriel continued, “I will remain here with any wishing to stay and continue training. To those who are leaving, may you be blessed with an early and abundant harvest. You are now free to go.”
Most of the disciples hastened to prepare for the trip home. Yonaton and I turned our attention to our meal and were soon among the only ones in the clearing.
A tall disciple named Tuvia approached me. “Master Uriel asked me to escort you back to your uncle’s. I need to ride past Levonah on my way back home.”
“But I’m not a farmer. I don’t need to go back for the harvest.”
“Then speak to Master Uriel—but do it quickly, because I need to go. He also asked me to give you these.” He handed each of us a pouch of copper.
Yonaton turned his pouch over in his hand and examined the contents. “This is how much we were supposed to receive for the entire gathering, but we haven’t even played for a week.”
I poured out my pouch and counted as well. Yonaton was right—the entire summer’s wages were there.
Tuvia gazed up at a small cloud in the otherwise clear sky. “I’m just the messenger. Speak to Master Uriel if you want, but you’ll need to do it quickly.”
Uriel was on the far side of the clearing talking to Yosef, his back to us. He wouldn’t have arranged a ride home and paid full wages for the entire summer if he wanted me to stay. “I’ll get my things.”
Tuvia nodded. “I’ll wait for you at the top of the hill.”
“Master Uriel might not realize that you’re not needed for the harvest,” Yonaton said. “Maybe you should speak to him.”
“He knows.” I avoided his eyes. “If he’s sending me home, he doesn’t want…” I swallowed, “He doesn’t need me.” I didn’t understand why bowing to the Holy One would anger Uriel, but I had no desire to talk about it—not even with Yonaton. “We should go pack.”
Neither of us spoke as we gathered our few possessions and descended the trail back to the clearing. Yonaton kicked rocks along the ground. I searched for the right words—saying goodbye to Yonaton felt different than parting from Zim or Daniel. But words were never my strength. I stepped forward and embraced my friend. When I let go, I offered Yonaton a weak smile and turned up the hill.
Tuvia was waiting for me at the top, mounted on a horse. “Tie your things down and climb up.”
“How do I get on?” I asked as I strapped my rolled-up sleeping mat on top of his belongings. My only other time on a horse, I used a boulder to climb on behind Ovadia.
“Place your foot in that strap there, and give me your hand. No, your other foot.” Tuvia pulled, and I brought my leg over the horse. “Now hold on.” I wrapped my arms around Tuvia, and with a kick to the horse’s flank we started off toward the road. By the time I thought to glance back, I saw nothing but the hills behind us.
