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.
