I grabbed a few wheatberries, still warm from roasting, and popped them into my mouth.

Dahlia sat next to me, pulled her dress down over her feet, and rested the bowl in her lap. “Do you want to sing to me?”

“I don’t feel like singing.”

“Want to tell me about the wedding again?”

“No,” I said, louder than I intended.

She pulled away. “Do you want me to go back in?”

“No, you can stay.” We sat silently, listening to the whisper of the leaves and the soft notes of the kinnor. In the distance, there were three heavy thuds, the sound of wood striking wood.

Dahlia broke the silence. “Are you happy to be home?”

I kept on strumming quietly. Had anyone else in the family asked, I would have offered a quick “Yes,” but it was different with Dahlia. “I was when I first got back.”

“You don’t seem happy now.” Again, the thudding sound disturbed the twilight peace, this time closer. “I don’t think my mother expected you to return.”

“Is that why she cried so much when I left?”

“Probably.”

“One of the musicians I met was like that. He left home over a year ago, moving from place to place, playing for weddings and festivals.”

“He didn’t get lonely?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Would you?”

I closed my eyes, picturing myself moving from festival to festival, carrying a mirror like Zim, never spending more than a couple of weeks in any one place. Maybe if Yonaton was with me, it wouldn’t be so bad. “I’d get lonely.”

“I don’t think she saw you becoming some wandering musician.”

“No, she thought I’d stay with Master Uriel.” I clamped my hand on the strings of the kinnor. The music died. Whenever I thought of Uriel now, I saw his cold narrowed eyes after he learned that I’d bowed to the calf.

“Yes,” Dahlia replied, and we sat in silence once again.

Two men crossed Uncle Menachem’s property and approached the house, taking no notice of Dahlia or me in the growing darkness. The man in front raised his staff and banged it three times against the door.

“Who’s there?” my uncle called, anger and worry in his voice. We didn’t get many visitors at night—certainly not ones who knocked so loudly.

“It is Yoel ben Beerah,” the shorter man answered in a voice that carried into the night.

Eliav opened the door, and soft light from the hearth shone from the house, revealing the violet hue of the other man’s robes. Uncle Menachem appeared next to Eliav in the doorway. “Good evening, Yoel ben Beerah. Please come in.”

“There is no need, we want just a word.” His voice was quieter now, but still had the tone of command. “Queen Izevel invites all of Israel to humble ourselves before the Baal prior to the rains so we will be blessed with a bountiful year.”

The priest put a box on the ground, opening a flap in the side facing the house.

“I see the Baal. And I see his servant’s weapon.” My uncle stared at the long knife at the priest’s side. “Are we being forced to bow?” Eliav turned to his father, mouth agape.

“Certainly not. Queen Izevel only invites us. Already tonight several men have declined. If they’re not concerned for their crops, I cannot help them. We are here for your sake.”

The priest fell to his knees in front of the box, stretched out his arms, and pressed his face to the ground. Yoel bowed next to him, supporting himself with his staff until his knees touched the ground, then lay his arms flat.

Dahlia clutched my arm. Would Uncle Menachem bow to the Baal as he did to the Golden Calf?

Uncle Menachem hesitated. Not a sound rose from the priest or the King’s servant. I held my breath as Dahlia’s grip tightened. This was not like the Calf. Even if Uncle Menachem believed bowing to the Calf was bowing to the Holy One, he could claim no confusion here. It was from my uncle’s mouth that I learned the verse, “Do not bow before their gods, do not serve them, do not follow their practices; rather, tear them apart and destroy their monuments.” My uncle’s wavering form filled the door—but Eliav moved first. Turning away from his father, Eliav fell to the ground beside Yoel and stretched himself out in the dirt of the doorway.

Uncle Menachem’s eyes fell on his son.

Dahlia’s nails dug deep into the skin of my arm. I choked back a cry.

My uncle’s knees buckled, as if he was trying to hold up a weight greater than himself. Drawn by Eliav, his shaky knees gave way. Once his knees struck earth, his back curved into the same position that I took before the Golden Calf, with his arms reaching out in servitude, his forehead humbled to the ground.

Yoel stood first, brushing dirt and twigs from his cloak. Uncle Menachem followed, grasping at the doorpost for support. Eliav didn’t lift himself from the dirt until the priest stood and closed the shrine.

“You are a prudent man, Menachem,” Yoel said. “May you receive much blessing for it. Peace to you.”

“And peace unto you, Yoel ben Beerah,” Uncle Menachem replied, without lifting his face.

The priest handed an object to my uncle. “Gift from Queen.” He followed Yoel away into the darkness.

Uncle Menachem stood in the doorway, watching the two men disappear down the path. As he turned back toward the house, his glance paused under the olive tree where Dahlia and I sat. His chin fell to his chest; he stepped inside, and closed the door.

Dahlia’s shuddering form shook mine. “I didn’t think my father would bow.”