“Very well. Lev, you are excused from playing for us for the next few days to help Yonaton’s family complete the harvest.”
I grabbed my kinnor and raced toward the farm.
By the third day, the winds whipped across the fields. The family’s cattle bunched on the leeward side of the stone cottage, their great eyes wild.
Yonaton’s father wasn’t complaining—we needed wind for winnowing, and better too much than not enough. Normally, they winnowed on the threshing floor, the highest point on the farm. But this time, we hauled the grain down to a more sheltered area so that the gusts wouldn’t carry away the harvest.
The effort of winnowing more than made up for the ease of riding the threshing sled. The winnowing fork reached above my head. With it, I hoisted the threshed stalks of grain and threw them as high as I could into the air. The wind did the rest; heavy kernels of grain fell to the ground first, while husks and chaff blew further away, where Yonaton’s sisters gathered the debris to use for animal feed and fuel.
Between the back-breaking work and the whistling wind, Yonaton and I gave up trying to talk. When a flash of lightning blazed against the dark skies in the distance, we exchanged a knowing glance and stepped up our pace.
The lightning had barely faded from our vision when Baruch ran over. “Stop winnowing. Gather as much grain as you can. Get it in before it gets wet.” Baruch took the fork, tossing the threshed stalks by himself while the rest of us gathered grain and carried it to shelter. I kept gaping as Baruch worked the grain pile, tirelessly throwing it into the air, getting through twice as much by himself as Yonaton and I had together.
When the first drops fell, only a small mound remained of the grain pile, and most of the winnowed grain was gathered. I didn’t mind working on in the rain, but as the lightning drew nearer, Baruch ordered us all in the house.
I turned around just before entering to see Baruch lingering beside the pile, the winnowing fork on the ground at his feet. We saved most of the harvest, but whatever remained would now be lost. He glared at the dark sky as drops rolled down his cheeks.
“Master, is it true that one must be wealthy to become a prophet?”
Though I couldn’t see my master’s face in the darkness of the cave, I felt his amused smile. “It is true that one always finds wealth with the nevi’im, but it is not essential to us. It is simply part of our Way, as are strength, wisdom, and humility.” He paused as I absorbed his words. “Take care with what you hear from the uninitiated, my son, for even the truth they speak is lacking.”
“How so?”
“Tell me, who is the wealthiest man in the Kingdom?”
“The King, of course.”
“And is the King satisfied with his wealth?”
My first impulse was to say I didn’t know—but I stopped myself. I was familiar enough with my master’s questions to know I wouldn’t be asked anything I couldn’t answer. Was the King satisfied with his wealth? How should I know? I thought back to the choices King Ahav had made in the past year, particularly those that drove us into hiding. By his own admission, they were all made to bring greater prosperity to the land. “No, the King isn’t satisfied.”
“Indeed, whoever can be swayed by wealth does not have enough to become a prophet, yet even a poor man, satisfied with what he has, is wealthy enough.”
“And the other traits, are they as they appear? What about strength, master?”
“The strong man’s will is more powerful than his desires.”
“Wisdom?”
“The wise learn from all.”
“And humility, Master?”
“The humble man knows that all is one. Even we the hunted are not distinct from those who pursue us. We are but two rays emanating from the same sun.”
Rabbi Yishmael said: Do not judge alone, for only the One may judge alone. Do not say ‘accept my view,’ for it is for them to decide, not you.
Pirkei Avot 4:10
13
Jericho
The next two months were the quietest of my life. The ceaseless downpour, at times a drizzle, at times a gusty torrent, dampened my desire to speak. But it wasn’t just my need for conversation that was subdued, the chatter in my head also diminished. I worried less about the future, finding comfort in the fact that I’d chosen a master, letting the burden of deciding both of our paths fall on him.
Yonaton and I stole away to the old musicians’ cave with our instruments whenever he wasn’t busy with the grape harvest. Now that it was just the two of us, I grew almost as familiar with his music as with my own. He harmonized wonderfully but struggled to lead. So I became the leader of our duo, developing over time the sense of when to give him free rein and when he needed shepherding. I pushed myself to play crisper notes, and started to rely on small movements of my head, and especially my eyes, to signal changes in the music.
As I grew quiet, other voices emerged around me. I learned to distinguish one birdsong from another, and to discern the direction of the wind by listening to the water dripping off the cave roof. But I wasn’t just becoming more sensitive to sound. Silent languages also revealed themselves. Even though I barely spoke with the disciples, my awareness of their moods heightened; I sculpted my music to their needs, playing softer when their eyes were tight, faster when their heads drooped.
Yet, even as I became more peaceful, tension built in my master. The time for the planned ending of the gathering came and went, yet the prophet didn’t leave the valley to resume traveling. As the Sukkot festival drew near, he became fixated on the rain, standing for hours at a time at the mouth of his cave, observing the windswept clouds churn in the sky. When he wasn’t teaching or searching the skies, he spent most of his time in the darkness at the back of his cave, even taking his meals alone.
On the first night of the weeklong festival of Sukkot, my master stood with me and the three remaining disciples staring out into the gloom while streams cascaded down the cliffs. A flash of lightning illuminated our rickety sukkah getting battered by the wind. A swirling gust rocked its wooden frame to and fro. Rain as hard as hail pelted the few cut palm fronds that remained on top. The navi sighed in disgust and returned to the back of the cave where a table of holiday dishes awaited. “Rain on Sukkot is a curse; you feel like a servant who brings his master a drink, and his master throws it back in his face.” He broke the pitch seal of a wineskin and filled his goblet for the sanctification. “The rains will not stop in time for us to eat in the sukkah tonight. We will celebrate the festival here in the cave instead.”
It wasn’t a warm invitation to a feast. Despite the succulent aroma of roast lamb, my appetite dwindled as I sat down. Apparently, the disciples felt the same way. The meal was brief and silent, and when it was over, most of the food was left on the table to grow cold.
I woke in the middle of the night, heart pounding, sweat beading on my forehead. I knew the signs well—the old nightmare. It had visited me twice since Shiloh, each time depositing in my memory a little bit more, just small details. Once it was a shawl pulled across my back, another time a sword striking a shield. Now I lay still, trying to remember more, knowing that as soon as I moved, the vision would evaporate.
There was a knife, my father’s knife. Also, I felt my master’s presence, as if he was there with me, helping me decipher the clues. Lying in the dark, suspended halfway between sleeping and waking, it struck me; until I first met the navi in Levonah, the nightmare had always been sealed, like a lockbox of memory. But now details were starting to leak out through cracks in its wood.
I sat up and pulled my sheepskin tightly around my shoulders. The dying coals cast a faint glow, enough for me to just make out the curled-up bodies of the disciples. We’d taken to sleeping in the same cave since the rains, as much for company as for warmth. But my master’s bedroll lay empty against the far wall. Where could he have gone? I turned to the mouth of the cave, where he’d sat for weeks watching the rains, but I saw only gray mist creeping up from the valley.
I stepped to the mouth of the cave and shivered in the damp, cold air. The full moon penetrated the clouds enough to emit a dim, silvery light, reflected by the mist that blocked my view of the valley. Unable to see, I closed my eyes and listened—there was a rhythmic splashing coming from somewhere down below. I opened my eyes and peered into the haze, trying to locate the source of the sound. With a sudden gust of wind, the mist parted.
The old navi danced barefoot in a puddle of rain, his steps slapping out a wet rhythm. His linen tunic clung to his skin, and even from my distant vantage point, I felt the raw power in his legs. After weaving several wide circles in the downpour, his feet grew silent. Uriel held his hands out wide, tipped his head back toward the heavens, and shook with laughter. He passed both hands over his face, like a child waking from a dream, and started back toward the cave.
I ducked inside and stirred the coals of the fire back to life. Uriel entered, dripping wet and singing quietly, shivering from the cold. His face shone, and he didn’t stop his song even as he rubbed his hands together over the blaze. His voice woke the disciples, and all gathered together around the fire. “There is no sorrow on Sukkot. It is a time of joy,” Uriel began. “The Presence comes to dwell with us inside the sukkah, just as the bride joins her beloved under the wedding canopy. But such a union is possible only in joy. If we cannot rejoice in the sukkah, we may not enter.” Uriel paused and met the eye of each listener in turn, holding mine the longest. It was a piercing gaze that cut right through to my heart. Did he know I had watched him dance? “But joy is a path to union wherever we sit. So, we shall delight in our festival despite the rains. And perhaps we will merit to enter the sukkah before the holy days end.”
