How did he know my name?
The King’s tower, empty of soldiers during these times of peace, was already casting its shadow across our small farm by the time we returned home in silence. I trudged through my evening chores, my eyes straying like a lost lamb’s to watch my uncle in quiet parley with the imposing stranger. It wasn’t until the branches of the carob tree blackened against the flaming horizon that I pushed myself to work faster. I filled the watering trough and secured the pen as a curtain of darkness was drawn from east to west.
The rocky spring behind our farm was normally dry by early summer, but this year, a trickle of the heavy winter storms remained. Farmers had cursed the late malkosh rains that soaked the barley crop, spoiling most of it before it could be stored, but I felt only gratitude now as the stream of cool water ran over my curly brown hair and down my sweat-salted, lean frame.
It was nearly full dark when I came inside, the evening meal mostly over. Only Uncle Menachem and my younger cousins Dahlia and Eliav remained at the table; Aunt Leah had already taken the three littlest ones up the ladder for bed. My bread steamed; Dahlia must have reheated it on the hearth when she heard me come. I dipped it in salted cheese, chewing quickly because it was so late. The old man was gone, but his presence was felt in the heavy silence of the table. None of us children would ask about him unless Uncle Menachem mentioned him first, and he said nothing. When I finished, Dahlia rose to clean up while Eliav and I remained at the table for our nightly studies.
“And you shall sanctify the fiftieth year,” Uncle Menachem chanted the verse that he too had memorized as a child, “and proclaim freedom in the land for all who dwell in it.” Eliav and I echoed not only the words but also the melody that strung them together like beads on a strand. “It will be a Yovel for you,” my uncle continued, “you shall return each man to his ancestral land, and return each man to his family.”
“It will be a Yovel for you,” we repeated, “…you shall return each man to his ancestral land…” Dahlia, setting the crockery in the alcove, pushed a stubborn, russet curl away from her eyes and coughed, “…and return each man to his family.” The cough was our signal—she had a question.
“Uncle?”
“Yes, Lev?”
The problem was, I never knew exactly what was bothering Dahlia. “When’s the next Yovel?” Silence from the alcove—I guessed right.
Uncle Menachem ran his fingers through his wiry beard, newly streaked with gray. “I asked my father the same question when he taught me this verse.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“That he had never seen a Yovel.”
“Have you seen one?”
“No, Lev.”
I gripped the edge of the table to contain my excitement. “Then the next one must be coming soon!”
Uncle Menachem shifted on his stool, but the coals in the hearth didn’t shed enough light to read his face. “No, Lev. My father had seen more than fifty years when he died. Do not put your hope in the Yovel; it’s not coming. The land will not return.” He rose to his feet though we’d recited just one verse. “That’s enough for tonight; it’s already late.” I sunk my head, avoiding Dahlia’s eyes. “Lev, see that the flock is secure and then get to sleep.”
I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. I ought to know better than to get excited over the Yovel—another stupid daydream. I grabbed my kinnor from its peg by the door on my way out; its broken string dangled dead at my side. The new moon’s tiny sliver had already set, but the summer sky was always clear, and I could pick out shadowy forms by the light of the stars. I tugged first at the gate of the pen, testing that it was well fastened, then skirted the edge of the wall, feeling for fallen stones. There was one faint bleat at the noise, but the flock was settled in for the night.
I lifted a flat rock at the edge of the pen and withdrew a skin pouch from the hole beneath. After a month nestled in cool earth, my new strings were fully cured. I sat on the ground with my back against the pen’s low wall and ran my hand across the top of the kinnor until I found the empty spot, a missing tooth in its eight-stringed grin. I threaded one end of the sheep gut through the hole in the olive wood frame, wound the bottom end around its groove at the base of the kinnor, then tied off the other end around its bone key. I stretched and tuned, stretched and tuned, searching for the right sound to match the other strings. When the eight notes were in harmony, I ran my fingers lightly across all eight strings. The voice of the kinnor rippled out into the night.
This was my favorite time of day, when I could be alone with my music. In these moments, there were no responsibilities and no thoughts. I could follow the flow of the rhythm…and forget about my fate. But the music had barely taken hold when a voice broke my focus.
“You must have questions about today,” Uncle Menachem said, hovering above me in the starlight.
I silenced the strings and stood. “Yes, Uncle.”
“Did you know that old man?”
I thought back to the dread I felt when he first appeared—it seemed rooted in a memory deep within my heart. I reached down for it, but nothing came. “No, Uncle, but he knew my name.”
“His name is Master Uriel.”
I said nothing, certain he came to tell me more than the old man’s name. But why the hesitation?
“He’s a navi.” Uncle Menachem broke up a clump of dried dirt with the toe of his sandal.
I recalled Uriel’s trembling beneath the fig tree, and the couple with their missing item. Was that the spirit of prophecy? Is that how he knew my name?
“Do you know why he’s come?” my uncle asked.
Since I first laid eyes on the old man earlier that day, he’d filled my thoughts. An idea struck me. The thought made no sense, but I couldn’t drive it away: Uriel came to take me from my family. But, my uncle taught me that silence is a fence for wisdom, so I kept my mouth shut and shook my head.
“The nevi’im have called a gathering in Emek HaAsefa, and they need musicians. Master Uriel seeks to hire you.”
“Hire me?” So he did want to take me away. I pictured a hundred men like him, tall and foreboding, trembling in a circle. Why do they need musicians? Do they dance? “How long is the gathering?”
“Two months.”
“Two months?” I hadn’t slept a single night away from home since coming to live with my uncle. “I can’t leave for that long—what about the flock?”
“Eliav can look after them. You were also ten when you first took them out alone.”
My breath came short. “What did you tell him?”
“I won’t refuse a navi, Lev. Not without reason.”
I said nothing. If having me at home wasn’t reason enough, what could I say?
“This will be good for you,” Uncle Menachem said, speaking fast. “It won’t be long until you’re of age, and…” He reached beneath his cloak and pulled out a small pouch, tipping the contents into his hand. “Look here.”
I heard the unmistakable sound as my uncle emptied the pouch: the clink of copper. I reached out, and my fingers found the heap of cold metal—there must have been thirty pieces at least. “Whose are these?”
