“They’re mine, but I weighed them out according to Master Uriel’s word. You’ll receive the same amount at the end of the gathering.” He dropped the pieces back into the pouch, each one ringing in the dark as it fell.
“So many…”
“Enough for a ram and three ewes, with some left over.” He tightened the leather strap at the top of the pouch, tying it shut. “It’s a shepherd’s inheritance.”
I flinched as the word fell like a stone between us: inheritance. “Uncle, tell me again what happened to my father’s land.”
Uncle Menachem crossed his arms and sighed. “It’s as I’ve told you, Lev. Your inheritance was lost to the King in the civil war. Do not dwell on what is gone. The Yovel is not coming.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “The Land is wide enough for us all if we each find our place.”
I nodded, but knew I had no place. My uncle cared for me like his own, but his land would pass to his sons, not his nephew. I didn’t even know where my father’s fields lay. It had been foolish to get excited about the Yovel—just another futile dream.
“When you return from the gathering, we can start building you a flock of your own.” He held the sealed pouch of copper in the palm of his hand as if weighing it. “If that’s still what you’ll want.”
I strained my eyes to read his expression, but it was too dark. Shepherding was the best path for one without land—my uncle taught me this from earliest memory. “Why wouldn’t I want that?”
“I’m…I’m sure you will,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “You should take that jar of spare strings with you and get to bed. It’s late, and you have a long journey tomorrow.” He squeezed my shoulder—as much affection as my uncle ever showed—and turned back toward the house.
I lifted the flat rock and retrieved the jar again. When I stood straight, I found Dahlia sitting on the wall of the pen, a dark shadow in the moonless night. “So what does the old man want?”
I sat down next to her. “Weren’t you listening?”
“Just tell me.”
“He needs a musician for a gathering.”
“For how long?”
“Two months.”
Dahlia let out a low whistle. “Are you going?”
“Yes.”
“Now you won’t have to stop travelers to tell me stories of the Kingdom. You can see it for yourself.”
I slid along the wall away from Dahlia. “Those are other people’s stories.”
“They don’t have to be.” She touched me gently on the cheek, bringing my eyes to hers. Dahlia was the opposite of her father—almost too affectionate. It was fine when we were kids—we were raised like brother and sister—but we were both nearly of age now. Soon we’d be separated, and all her affection would only make it harder. “What’s bothering you?”
Dahlia would keep pushing me; she always did. “Your father didn’t give me a choice.”
“What did he say?”
I examined my hands so I wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. “He said it would be good for me, but I know what he meant.”
“What?”
I tapped my thumb against the frame of my kinnor, distracting myself enough to keep my voice calm. “That I have to find my place elsewhere because I have no land and can’t inherit from him.”
Dahlia pulled her hair away from her eyes and tucked an obstinate curl behind her ear. “Neither can I.”
“It’s different for you. Your father will marry you to Shelah or someone else with land.”
Dahlia said nothing, just stared out into the darkness, toward the property of our unmarried neighbor, and shuddered. She was younger than me but would come of age first, reaching her twelfth birthday in less than six months. There was no telling how long her father would wait before seeking a match for her.
“I’ll be thirteen in less than a year. Without land, I’ll have no choice but to become a shepherd, following the grasses from pasture to pasture.”
“You won’t have to leave here when you come of age.”
“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—”
