“Not right away, but your father’s already sending me away so I can earn enough copper to start a flock. It won’t be more than three years until it’s too big to keep here.”

“Where will you go then?”

I stared at the hills to the east, black against the stars. “To the edge of the wilderness, away from the villages.”

“That’s so far. When would we see you?”

I shrugged. “A shepherd doesn’t just leave his flock.” That was true, but there were other truths that Dahlia, who clung to her dreams as if they were the morning sun, refused to accept. Even when I did visit, I might not see her, and we’d certainly never be allowed to speak alone like this.

Dahlia tugged her knees to her chest. “You don’t know what will be in three years’ time.”

Fire blazed in my chest. “You think I’ll inherit my father’s land? Your father already told me it won’t be returned—I don’t even know where it is. What will be different in three years?”

“I…” Dahlia’s eyes glistened in the starlight. “I don’t know, but when you come home—”

“What’s going to change when I come home?”

“Well, if the Yovel isn’t coming—”

“If the Yovel isn’t coming, my land will never be returned.”

Dahlia shook her head. “If the Yovel isn’t coming, then any land you buy will be yours forever.”

I gave a bitter laugh. “Do you know how many years I’d have to herd a flock just to buy a small piece of rocky hillside? It’s better not to dream at all.”

“Is it?” Dahlia also had a fire in her—we were of the same stock, after all. “This morning you thought you were stuck in Levonah, and tomorrow you’re leaving with the old man. You never know what can happen.”

“His name is Master Uriel.” I pictured his piercing eyes. Blood rushed to my face at the mention of the prophet, and I was glad for the cover of darkness. “There’s something strange about him.”

“He’s a navi. My mother told me.”

The memory of him saying my name on the hillside brought a fresh dread down my spine. My voice faded. “There’s something more.”

“I knew it!” Dahlia lowered her voice and leaned in. “Your eyes were so dark when you came home.” That was the annoying part about Dahlia: she could always tell my moods so easily. She said my amber eyes darkened to match my thoughts. How could I explain my unease when I first saw the navi?

I kept my voice low. “Your father knows more than he says.”

Dahlia sighed and lay down on the broad, stone wall of the pen. “The stars are bright tonight.”

“What do you think he’s hiding?”

“Look at the stars, Lev. Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Why don’t you answer me?”

“I’m trying to.” Dahlia pushed me lightly with her bare foot. “Look at the stars. Whatever’s going to happen is already written there. It doesn’t matter what Father’s hiding; he didn’t give you a choice.”

I pushed her foot away but turned my eyes upwards. “No, he didn’t.”

“Try to remember everything you see at the gathering. I want to hear all about it when you get back—it’ll give me something to look forward to.”

I woke to the drumming of my heart and shot upright. My forehead was clammy with sweat, my breath came fast, and I choked back a scream. Waking from the dream was like a sudden burst to the surface after being submerged in dark waters. It was the old dream, I could feel it, even as it evaporated from my mind before I could grab hold of it. How long had it been since the last time? A month? There was a time when it had been with me night after night, when I was a little boy, alone in the dark, learning not to cry out and wake the others.

I pulled my tunic over my head in the faint dawn light—today wasn’t a day to dwell on dreams. I arranged my few belongings on my sheepskin sleeping mat: the extra strings, my pouch. Together with my kinnor, sandals, and tunic, this was all I owned. I started rolling them in a bundle when something heavy dropped on the mat.

“This was your father’s knife,” Uncle Menachem whispered, trying not to wake the younger children. “I intended to give it to you when you came of age, but it may serve you well on your journey.”

My fingers trembled as I picked up the knife. The stone of the handle felt smooth in my hand. I brought the knife up to the high, square window that offered the only light in the loft. A worn ox-hide sheath pulled off with a tug, revealing a blade that was flint rather than iron, a full two handbreadths long. I’d never seen one like it. A copper inlay decorated the hilt; the worn design resembled two claws with three toes each, the inner toe of each claw gently touching.

A lump blocked my throat. My father had held this knife.

“Lev…” My uncle sounded far away, but there was a quiver to his voice that got my attention. “The nevi’im are the chief servants of the Holy One. They mean only good; I believe that.” I was confused by the mixture of emotions I saw on his face: love, loss, reluctance, even a touch of fear. Twice he looked as if he was about to say more, then he turned to go so quickly that I had no chance to respond.

I sheathed the knife, added it to the pile on the mat, rolled it up, and tied it together. I descended the ladder to find Aunt Leah standing at the hearth. “Sit down and eat before you go,” she said. There was a plate on the table with cheese and my special bread. Ever since I could remember, she had set aside the first piece of bread baked each day for me.

“Thank you, Aunt Leah.” I washed my hands and sat down without meeting her gaze. I ate quickly, mostly as an excuse to keep my attention on my food. She sat opposite me, and other than rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands, my aunt didn’t budge, just sat watching me, expectant. There was no use putting it off; she wasn’t going to let me leave without talking. Without looking up, I said, “You don’t want me going, do you, Aunt Leah?”

Tears ran down her cheeks, and she forced a half smile. “Yes, I do.”

My eyes rose up to meet hers. “You do?”

“I do.” She wiped the tears with her palm. “Menachem said you were too young, but I told him you were ready.”

So, my uncle hadn’t wanted me going—that explained the reluctance. “If you want me to go, then why are you crying?”

She smiled as two more tears spilled over her cheeks. “Hasn’t your uncle taught you that more than the lamb wants to suck, the ewe wants to give milk?”

Why was she suddenly talking about the flock?

Aunt Leah laughed, releasing more tears. “You don’t understand now, but when you’re blessed with children, you will. You’re my sister’s son, but you know you’re the same to me as one of my own, don’t you Lev?”

A wet stinging filled my eyes—I hoped my aunt didn’t notice. “Yes, Aunt Leah.”

“And no matter what happens, you’ll always have a home here.”

I nodded—no words would come.

There was a soft knock.

My aunt rose and opened the door. Uriel stood with his back to us, leaving us the space to say goodbye. Aunt Leah held me in a tight embrace, her quiet crying so loud in my ear, her tears wetting my face. I took a final glance at my home over her shoulder as I hugged her back, my eyes open and dry. Though I was destined to return, I always remembered this as the moment I left home for good.

Shimon ben Azai said: Do not despise any person, and do not dismiss any thing, for there is no one who does not have his hour, and no thing that does not have its place.

Pirkei Avot 4:3

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