“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.

Rabbi Akiva said: All that will be is already known, yet one still has the power to choose.

Pirkei Avot 3:19

6

The Rogue Vision

It began as a halting vibration in Raphael’s hand, like the twitch of a heavy sleeper. I exhaled to relax my chest muscles, a technique Daniel had shown me the night before. I sucked my breath in quickly as Raphael’s back arched and his forehead extended upward, drawn by an invisible cord. Zim increased his pace, reaching for the power of our nighttime sessions. I pushed myself to keep up with the raw blasts of rhythm pouring off his drum.

The invisible cord snapped, and Raphael slumped forward, motionless. A tremor crept up his arms, meeting at the base of his neck. His head snapped up, and convulsions overran his slack body like a powerful tide. This was more than I’d seen when Uriel received navua outside of Levonah.

Yonaton stopped playing and stood mouth agape. He caught my eye with an expression that said, “Now I see what you mean.” He quickly returned his halil to his lips, blushing at having stopped playing. But the music was hardly necessary; Raphael could no longer hear it. The other disciples broke out of their meditations, some as dumbstruck as the musicians, and watched the first storm of prophecy since the gathering began.

Raphael’s arms gave a final jolt. The tension slowly returned to his body, and he pushed himself into a sitting position, his eyes wide and unfocused. Only when his gaze fell on Uriel did he really seem to return to us. “I saw the King’s servant.”

“Ovadia?” Uriel asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes.”

“What was he doing?”

Raphael’s forehead creased and his eyes narrowed. “He is coming.” Raphael closed his eyes and rocked gently. “And there was a voice.”

“A voice? What did it say?”

“Heed his request.”

Uriel’s forehead tightened. “Who should heed his request?”

“You should, Master.”

“Me?” Uriel pulled the collar of his tunic away from his throat. “Was there anything more?”

“That’s all I heard.”

In the heavy silence that followed Raphael’s announcement, hoofbeats thudded faintly in the distance. The tremor grew to a rumble, indicating steeds driven hard. Four chestnut horses, with one rider apiece, turned off the road at the head of the valley and descended toward the clearing. Yosef and Tzadok emerged from their caves to join Uriel, and they stood like a wall, awaiting the arrival of the riders.

Three soldiers reined in their horses at a distance, their flanks heaving from the sprint into the valley. The fourth rider approached the masters, his eyes scanning the area rapidly as he dismounted, pausing briefly when his gaze fell on the musicians. He had thick red hair, ruddy skin, and was dressed like no servant I’d ever seen. He wore an embroidered blue tunic adorned with silver, a leather belt studded with copper, and a short sword at his hip. A beam of sunlight glinted off a seal hanging from his neck. I knew from watching Yoel ben Beerah in Levonah that the King’s men wore seals around their necks—but I’d never seen one that reflected the sun.

He embraced each of the masters, holding Uriel longer than the other two. “Is there a place we can speak?”

“Let us go to my cave,” Uriel said. “You are hungry after your journey, Ovadia?”

“I’ll eat when you eat; I never have much appetite after a hard ride.” There was a nasal tone to his speech—was the servant of the King not of Israel?

Uriel’s eyes fell on me, and I felt the same sense of foreboding as when we first met. “Lev, please bring us wine.”

I laid down my kinnor and ran to the cooking area where fires burned in three large, earthen hearths. I approached a harried servant sweating over the midday meal. “I need a wine skin.”

The cook’s lip rose in a sneer. “If the musicians desire wine, they’ll just have to wait.” He turned back abruptly.

Observing his profile, I wondered what he had done to become an indentured servant. Normally, such men were debt slaves, thieves sold by the court into servitude for up to six years to pay back double what they’d stolen. Why would the prophets surround themselves with such people? “It’s not for us, it’s for the masters and an emissary from the King.”

“Ah, you should have said so.” The sneer disappeared, and the servant retrieved a skin and four clay cups.

I ran to Uriel’s cave and found the prophets and their guest seated around a low table. “So Ovadia,” Uriel said, “To what do we owe your visit?”

“Let us wait until we’re alone.” Yosef nodded in my direction.