“There wasn’t one,” Yonaton replied. “That’s what confused me. But this is it, I’m certain. See, there’s Ovadia’s seal on the lintel.”
The footstool carved into the lintel was indeed the same symbol that he used to seal his messages—I’d delivered enough of them before the wedding to remember. I tried the gate, but it was locked.
Yonaton gripped a crude mallet hanging from the door post, and pounded out three solid blows. I flinched at each strike; they rang too loud in the silence of the twilit street. No one answered. We stared at each other. We’d invested all our energy in reaching Shomron and hadn’t even thought about what to do if Ovadia was away. I shuddered at the thought of sleeping on the cold stone street.
Yonaton swung the mallet once more, knocking louder. We stepped away from the gate, assessing the dark wall. A door opened, then quickly closed again. The gate swung silently outward on its hinges, and Ovadia stepped into the gloom, fastening the gate behind him. “Hello, boys. A bit late for a visit, isn’t it?” He shifted from foot to foot as his eyes darted up and down the dark street.
I opened my mouth to respond, but Ovadia cut me off. “Well then, very good of you to let me know you’re back. Come look for me at the palace in the morning, perhaps we can find work for you again. I recently heard Dov say he could use more musicians for all the banquets. Until tomorrow, then.” Ovadia turned back to the gate.
I leaned in and breathed at his back, “Master Uriel sent us.”
Ovadia whipped around, his eyes shooting up the street again. “Did anyone see you? Were you followed?”
“I don’t think so.”
Ovadia swept Yonaton, Balaam, and me quickly into the courtyard. He closed and bolted the heavy wooden gate, secured it without a sound, coaxed Balaam over to a corner, tied him to a post near a watering trough, and tossed him a pile of straw. He hustled us through the main entrance—I exhaled only when the door of the house was locked behind us.
Lamps burned in the main room where drawn shutters blocked the moonlight. Batya tucked a loose strand of raven hair under her scarf as her husband dropped us onto stools beside the hearth table. She poured out water in clay bowls while Ovadia paced. I gulped down the cool liquid, wiping my grimy lips only after draining the bowl.
Ovadia dropped onto a stool opposite me. “Uriel is still alive?”
I nodded.
“Is he safe?”
I nodded again.
“Where is he?” I opened my mouth to answer, but Ovadia interjected, “How did you get here?”
“He is safe,” I replied. “He sent us to you for help.”
Ovadia popped up and redoubled his pacing. “Help? So many need help. She’s got eyes everywhere, you know!”
Batya offered us two hot loaves of flat bread. I tore off a hunk, cringing at the dark smudge my filthy hands left on the brown bread. I put the bread down and stepped toward the wash-basin.
Batya would not allow Ovadia to question us while we ate. Soon all four of us were seated at the heavy wooden table—even Ovadia’s nerves calmed in the face of warm bread.
I contemplated the changes in Ovadia’s house as I ate. Heavy blankets covered shuttered windows, a strange sight on a windless night. In the shadows, a new oven protruded from the wall on the inside of the house, just opposite the oven in the courtyard. I squeezed the warm bread in my hand—had they been baking at night?
Ovadia managed to hold himself back until the bread was gone, but when Batya rose, saying something about pressed figs, he leaned in close to us. “Where is he?”
I swallowed my last bite. “In a cave a day’s journey from here.”
“Well hidden?”
I nodded. “There’s a tree blocking the entrance; I never would have known it was there.”
“It must be one of Gidon’s caves.”
“Gidon’s caves?”
“Built before Gidon’s rebellion against the Midianites hundreds of years ago. Some, like those at Emek HaAsefa, were strongholds, others hiding places. Uriel has shown me several; no one knows them as well as he does. I’ve never heard of the one you speak of.”
“That doesn’t matter, we can guide you back.”
“Me, leave Shomron, to get a prophet?” Ovadia put his forehead into his hands and snorted. “That’s just what she’s waiting for, an excuse to take off my head.”
I stared at Ovadia—he was our only hope. We couldn’t return to Uriel alone. What would we do then? Sit in the cave until we starved?
“Of course, you have no idea what’s been happening here.” He pulled his stool closer to us and lowered his voice. “The Queen has declared war on the prophets.”
“We know,” I said, an edge to my voice. “We’ve buried the dead.”
The blunt words sank Ovadia into his seat, and he motioned for me to continue. I recounted the events of the last three days, holding nothing back, except Uriel’s revelation about my father—I saw no reason to share this new knowledge. Yonaton leaned in close to me the entire time I spoke, but added nothing. As with our music, he seemed happy to let me lead.
When I finished, Ovadia met his wife’s eyes with a groan. “It is worse than we feared.” He cradled his temples in his palms. “We hoped that her power was limited to Shomron. Further into the hills, the people still love and fear the prophets. I thought they would protect them.”
“The people love the prophets,” Yonaton said, speaking up for the first time, “but they fear the sword.”
Ovadia nodded. “Yet there are worse things than the sword, Yonaton. May you be blessed not to know them.” He rose and faced Batya. “It seems that the fate of these boys is bound up with ours, yes?”
Batya gathered the remains of our meal. “You thought these boys were a tool in your hand. Yet, you see now, we are all tools in the hands of the Holy One.”
I wondered what she meant, but was distracted by the sight of her collecting breadcrumbs from the table. During the wedding, I never saw her clean. “Where are your servants?”
A soft tear ran down her high-boned cheek. “They’re attending to our land.”
Attending to their land? Surely enough men attended Ovadia’s land that he didn’t need the house servants there as well? Perhaps for the harvest, but now? And even so, why should Batya weep over this?
