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.”
Rabbi Elazar HaKapar said: Envy, desire, and the pursuit of honor remove a person from the world.
Pirkei Avot 4:28
5
The Song of the World
“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.
