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?”