Tikun: Fixing.

Totafot: Also known as Tefillin or Phylacteries.

Yoreh: The early rains.

Yovel: The fiftieth year, called Jubilee year in English.

About the Authors Dave Mason Mike Feuer

Dave and Mike have led bizarrely parallel lives. Born just four days apart, they both grew up in secular, Jewish, suburban communities, then found their way to Colorado College. Despite having friends, interests, and even one class in common, they remained complete strangers. Dave then backpacked through over a dozen countries including Syria, China, and Cuba, while Mike lived in the woods for two years, immersed in wilderness therapy with at-risk youth.

Later, both turned their attention to the environment. Dave went to NYU Law and subsequently became a litigator for the Natural Resources Defense Council (NRDC). Mike studied desert agriculture and water resource management, but ultimately found his calling as a teacher.

Fifteen years after first becoming classmates, the two finally met as part of a core group formed to create a new kind of Torah study institution in Jerusalem, called Sulam Yaakov. There, they became study partners, close friends, and both became ordained as Orthodox Rabbis. Dave was blown away by his studies about the inner workings of prophecy, and was surprised at how little exposure he had to this crucial part of his tradition. He decided to create The Age of Prophecy to bring this world to light for others like himself.

Mike joined the project initially as a research assistant, bringing an expertise in the terrain, history, and stories of the Bible to the book. His deep involvement earned him contributing author status, though Mike prefers the term creative co-conspirator.

Professionally, Dave is a businessman, social entrepreneur, and business strategist. He and his wife Chana live in the eclectic Nachlaot neighborhood of Jerusalem, where they homeschool their son, Aryeh Lev.

Mike lives with his family outside of Jerusalem, at the edge of the Judean wilderness.

Prologue

The Priest’s Mistake

“Rise, Yambalya, and report,” Izevel commanded the giant of a man bowed before her.

The priest rose to his full height. Though he stood a few steps below the two thrones, he towered over the young queen. “The men of Shomron journeyed to honor their god, yet they bent their knees to Baal upon their return.”

Izevel leaned toward her priest. “How did you do it?”

“It was simple, my Queen. The men made the annual pilgrimage to bow before their beloved Golden Calf in Beit El. When they returned home, they found their way blocked by Baal.”

Izevel gave him a sideways glance. “What of the King?”

Yambalya’s eyes flashed over King Ahav’s empty throne. “The King’s escort was long past when we brought Baal onto the road.”

Izevel’s long fingers gripped the arms of her throne. The great oaken chair with the cedar emblem had been made for the visit of her father, King Ethbaal of Tzidon. Months later, the throne remained,now the seat of his sixteen-year-old daughter, Izevel, the Queen of Israel. “Did any resist bowing?”

“Indeed, for those already loyal to Baal did not journey to the Calf at all.”

“How did you handle the stubborn?”

Yambalya laughed. “The people of Israel are sheep. If the men in front of them bow, they bow as well.”

The Queen relaxed her grip and leaned back in the overlarge throne. “Did none cause any trouble?”

“The tale grows even better, my Queen.” A grin played at the corner of Yambalya’s mouth. “Come,” he called.

Two men stepped from the shadows. Like Yambalya, the younger one wore the deep violet robes of the priests of Baal. The other wore a soldiers’ tunic embroidered with the cedar tree of Tzidon. The soldier bowed before the Queen, holding out a sword for her inspection. “We took this from one of the men at the roadblock, my Queen.” He spoke without lifting his face.

Izevel reached out and took the weapon. She fingered the cedar tree emblem carved into the hilt. “This belonged to one of my soldiers?”

“It did, my Queen. To one of the four who never returned from…” his eyes flickered to her face and returned to the floor, “…from dealing with the prophets.”

Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the sword. “Was the man who carried it a prophet?”

“He looked like no prophet I’ve ever seen. He had the face of a soldier, covered in scars.”

Her hand closed on the sword’s hilt. “You killed him?”

“The ground has already swallowed his blood, my Queen.” The soldier bent his head to the side, pointing to a tattooed pattern of dots stretching down his neck and extending below his tunic. He touched an inflamed area on his neck, a newly printed black splotch at its core.“This one is for him.” The soldier met her eyes. “And so may all of her majesty’s enemies perish.”

“Excellent.” Izevel gave him a cold smile. “One man did not kill four of my soldiers on his own. Had he no companions?”

The soldier shot a glance at the young priest standing at Yambalya’s side, then returned his gaze to Izevel. “On this point, we disagree, my Queen.”

“What is this?” Izevel eyed the young priest. “Explain.”

The young priest bowed low as he stepped from behind Yambalya’s protective shadow. “An old man passed soon after your soldiers killed the one with the scars.”

“An old man?” Yambalya’s eyes shot to his priest. “What old man?”

“He was too old to bow,” the priest said to his master, “but he caused no other trouble.”

The soldier scoffed. “If he was strong enough to walk from Beit El, he was strong enough to bow.”

“He was old and confused,” the priest said. “His grandson made that clear.”

“What grandson?” Izevel’s eyes darted back and forth between the speakers.

“There was a boy who passed before the one with the scars,” the young priest said.

“If the grandfather was merely confused,” the soldier said, “why did his grandson not pass through with him? Why separate himself?”

“You forced the people to pass through one at a time.” The priest’s voice rose to meet the soldier’s. “They separated in the crowd.”

The soldier shook his head. “He did not look confused to me. He exposed his neck to the sword. He wanted us to strike him down.”

“Why would a man do that?” Izevel’s eyes narrowed.

The soldier only shrugged, but Yambalya offered an answer.“Israel venerates mercy, the virtue of the weak. The prophets think showing the people we do not share their love of weakness will rouse them against us.”

“So he was a prophet?” The Queen turned her full gaze on the young priest.

He shrank back. “I cannot be certain, my Queen.”