Uriel slipped out of the position he’d assumed in readiness for prophecy, crossing his legs so he could sit up on the reed mat to face me. “And you feel that Yonaton’s tears show what?”
“They show suffering. They show fear.”
“And weakness?”
I didn’t want to call Yonaton weak, but Uriel was right—in that moment riding together, that’s exactly what I thought. “Yes.”
“You have much to learn about strength, Lev. Would you consider the constipated man strong?” Uriel fixed me with a penetrating glance. Could he see that I, who cried so much as a child, had blocked my heart, and not cried for over five years? “Yonaton’s tears are not a weakness—they’re his greatest strength. Indeed, if all of Israel could cry out as Yonaton has, we would have nothing to fear from Yambalya.” Uriel stretched his long legs before him again, rubbing the underside of his thigh. “Now, if you could please play for me.”
I swallowed, my body tense. How would tears hurt Yambalya? The more our tears flowed, the deeper he’d laugh. He’d brush them aside as easily as he had the glare of the old, bent man the night before. But the time for discussion had passed. I needed to play, which posed a different problem. “I don’t have my kinnor.”
“I’m sure you will manage.”
I surveyed the cave, hoping to find something to make music with. Lacking anything better, I drummed on the table. Tension flowed out through my hands with every beat against the heavy wood, and soon a rhythm took hold. I opened my mouth in song, weaving deep vocal tones into the beat. It wasn’t the best music I ever made, but it seemed to work. By the time the third lamp burned out, Uriel trembled with the spirit of prophecy.
I stopped drumming. In the silence, an image of Yambalya rose in my mind, his taut skin covered in scars and sweat, drawing his knife across his chest, showing all of Israel that he didn’t fear spilling his own blood. Next, I saw farmers’ faces as the rain fell upon the celebrations, and heard Yambalya’s deep laughter at their terror. Then I observed Uriel, old and gray, trembling in a heap on the floor. It was easy to guess which of the two the people would follow.
Uriel pushed himself to a sitting position, his face ashen, the creases in his face like knife cuts in the light of the remaining lamp. “The rains are indeed coming.” He stretched out a hand for me to help him to his feet. His palm felt rough, like the scales of the fish at the wedding. I overestimated his weight and pulled harder than necessary, causing him to stumble. The prophet regained his balance and smoothed his tunic. “I must speak to the other masters about ending the gathering early.”
“You really won’t do anything to stop the rains?”
“I will not.” Uriel placed both hands on my shoulders this time, holding my eyes in his. “There is no greater blessing than peace, Lev. Peace is so great that for its sake the Holy One overlooks our failures, even the people bowing to strange gods. But once peace is broken, there is little left but judgment. In a time of judgment, our sins are recalled and accounted for. The devastation may be great indeed. You are too young to remember the wars that ravaged this kingdom not so long ago. Believe me; it is nothing we want to return to.”
Uriel took several steps toward the entrance, then turned back to face me. “I know your words come from your courage as much as from your youth. This courage will serve you well. Indeed, it already has. It was no small thing refusing to humble yourself before the Baal.”
I stood straighter. “No, I did not bow.” Uriel nodded and stepped toward the entrance. I added proudly, “I’ve bowed only before the Holy One.”
The old navi’s brow furrowed as he half-turned back to me. “You bowed to the Holy One?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “In Beit El. When you sent me to Master Yosef, I also visited the altar. I wanted to make an offering,” I added with a sigh, “but I’m still too young.”
Uriel turned to face me fully, his eyes narrowed. “But you bowed?”
“Yes.”
A tremor passed through me as the prophet’s glare pinned me, helpless. My earlier thoughts of Uriel as a weak, old man disappeared. In his suddenly hard eyes, I sensed an untold strength within his aged body. That strength, boiling with anger, now concentrated itself on me. I felt as I had the night before, watching Yambalya, knife in hand, glaring at those who refused to bow—anticipating a strike.
Finally, he turned away and stepped toward the cave entrance, his body sinking back into weariness. “You may sleep now.”
The rasp of hide against stone woke me from an uneasy sleep. I opened my eyes to see Daniel rolling up his sheepskin mat in the gleam of an early morning sun. I dressed quietly so as not to wake Yonaton, stepped out of the cave, and sat on one of the boulders where the four of us first played music together. Clouds colored the eastern sky with shades of watered wine as Daniel emerged, his nevel in one hand, a sack slung over his shoulder. “I’ll see you next year?” he asked.
I pictured Uriel’s expression from the night before. Would the prophet even want me back? “I don’t know.”
“Return if you can.” Daniel hitched his sack higher. “But even if you don’t make it back, even if you have only your sheep for an audience, never stop playing your kinnor.”
I didn’t need anyone to tell me to keep playing music; it was the one thing that brought me joy that I could carry with me wherever I would go in the wild. But Daniel’s eyes were suddenly hard, and his beard stiffened on his chest. I had seen him this serious only once before, two nights ago when he refused to bow to the Baal. It was this that made me ask, “Why not?’
Daniel rubbed a hand along the wooden frame of his nevel and stared out over the valley. “Twelve years ago, my master told me the same thing I told you, that I could stay with the prophets, playing for them year-round, just as he did.”
“But you didn’t want to?”
“I did.” His head dropped as he spoke. “I stayed with them for over a year.”
“Why did you leave?”
“My father was getting old—he could no longer handle the farm by himself. One day he fell and injured his leg. I had to go back—I had responsibilities. My master was disappointed, but he understood. Before I left, he told me what I’ve just told you, that I must never stop playing.”
“Why not?”
Daniel lifted his head and caught my eye. “The power of music surged inside me. Every power a person has must be expressed, otherwise, it decays, and decay is a small death. The Holy One forbids us to resign ourselves to death.”
“So that’s why you return?”
“Yes, every summer, even though I now have a family of my own and my responsibilities have only grown.”
Uriel’s stern countenance again rose in my mind’s eye. I felt even more certain that he wouldn’t want me back. “So even if I can’t return—”
“Even if you can’t return, you must continue to play. Never let this spark inside you die. But I believe you will return. You didn’t receive a kinnor like that to play it alone in the wilderness.”
My hand slipped to my side where my kinnor normally hung, feeling only empty air. “What do you mean?”
“The workmanship is unmistakable. It’s prophet-made.”
“Prophet-made? But I got it from my uncle.”
Daniel’s beard quivered as he shook his head once. “That kinnor was made by no local craftsman. I don’t know how it reached your hands, but I doubt whoever gave it to you aspired for you to play before sheep.”
