“My kinnor?”
“Your music is pure and beautiful. It cleared away many barriers.”
The road from Levonah dropped into a broad valley where it met the King’s Road. An expanse of vineyards flowed into the distance all around the crossroads, on land owned by one of the noble families of Shomron, the Kingdom’s capital, and worked by farmers from the village. As we turned south, I recalled the stories my uncle told me about the prophets. Beauty was rarely involved.
“You are confused,” Uriel said. “Your uncle told me you learn the stories of our Fathers. Tell me, after Joseph’s brothers sold him into slavery, how did they deceive their father Jacob?”
“They dipped Joseph’s coat in the blood of a goat. Jacob thought Joseph was killed by a wild beast.”
“Good, I see you know the story.”
Every boy in Israel probably knew that story, but I still stepped lighter with the praise. I plucked a fennel blossom from its tall stalk off the side of the road and squeezed its seeds into my hand.
“Now, do you understand it?”
My hand paused on the way to my mouth.
“Jacob was a navi and a wealthy man. Shouldn’t he have known his sons were lying to him? Couldn’t the Holy One tell him where Joseph was held in Egypt? Why didn’t he go down and redeem him from slavery?”
I stopped walking. I’d known this story most of my life—at least I thought I did. “I don’t know.”
Uriel continued in silence. I followed but didn’t push myself to keep up, drifting further behind as I chewed on his question. I popped the fennel seeds into my mouth, savoring their pungent flavor. How could I know why Jacob didn’t ask the Holy One—and what did that have to do with my music? I focused on Uriel’s back as if the answer lay somewhere between his shoulder blades.
My uncle told me that Jacob mourned his son every day he was gone as if he’d died that very morning. That’s why the story stuck in my mind. I knew the darkness of grieving, like a black hole in my chest. What was left to me of my parents? A memory of lavender wafting from Mother’s hair, the weight of Father’s broad and heavy hands on my forehead—every shard of memory was shrouded with longing. Had Jacob felt that way for twenty-two years? I tore ahead, slowing only when I drew even with the elderly prophet. “Was it his grief?”
Uriel slowed his pace without turning his head. “Are you asking me a question or giving me an answer?” The prophet has no interest in making things easy for me.
A hot breeze drove a parched thornbush across the road. Where had the vineyards gone? We’d already crossed into wilder country, without my noticing. I inhaled deeply and replied in a clear voice. “Jacob couldn’t receive prophecy because he was mourning the loss of Joseph.”
Uriel smiled, the first show of warmth I felt from him that day. “Indeed. Sadness seals the heart. Only in joy can it receive.”
The road sank between low, terraced hills that blocked any breeze, and sweat ran down my neck as a white sun burned directly overhead. Ahead, a man sliced the last of his wheat, grabbing handfuls of stalks with his left hand and hacking at their bases with a curved iron blade. A young woman collected the cut wheat, laying it flat to dry. As soon as she caught sight of us, the woman dropped her stalks to the ground and smoothed her skirt. Her swollen belly nearly overwhelmed her narrow frame as she carefully picked her way down the uneven ground to the road. She bowed her head low. “Master Uriel, won’t you turn aside and eat a meal from your maidservant?”
I felt a rush of affection for her. The handful of almonds we ate at mid-morning were long gone, the hour for the midday meal had passed, and even my aching legs were protesting their hunger. Yet the prophet had shown no signs of slowing. He nodded to her request, and I sighed as we stepped into the slim shade of a carob tree by the side of the road. The woman weaved her way back to her husband, whispering and gesturing off into the distance. He dropped his sheaves to the ground and ran through the fields.
She returned and led us across the furrowed field to a poor dwelling tucked into the shadow of the hills. Its mud brick walls marked them as among the humblest of Israel, but the roof was freshly thatched, and a jasmine bush near the door gave off a welcoming scent. We entered a tight, dark room, the entirety of their home. She seated us at a low table, poured a small bowl of wine into a pitcher, filled the rest with water, and placed it before us with two clay cups.
“Thank you, Milcah.” Uriel poured for the two of us. She brought out freshly salted cheese, then quickly patted dough into two cakes and placed them directly on the coals in the hearth.
Soon after the bread was done, the husband returned leading a donkey carrying a second woman, who looked like Milcah but with a slight body and pinched face. Milcah’s husband helped her off the donkey, and she stepped into the house, walking directly to the prophet.
“Peace unto you, Master Uriel.” Her eyes were resolute. “I have come for another blessing.”
Uriel laid down his bread and swallowed the bit in his mouth. “Another, Rumah? Has the first brought what you sought?”
“Of course not!” Blood drained from her face and her eyes burned.
“Why then do you ask for another?”
Her shrill cry pierced the small room. “Any fool can look at the two of us and see why.” She turned to Milcah, the fire in her eyes departing as they fell on her, and soon they brimmed with tears. “My sister and I received the same blessing from you nine months ago. Now here she is with her belly between her teeth, and I’m just as I was, but for being older.”
Uriel’s only response was a slight nod, and her anger flared again.
“Why? Why her and not me? She’d been married for two years when we came to you, I for almost ten. People say you can work miracles. Why didn’t your blessing work for me?”
“It is not truly my blessing, but that of the Holy One.”
“What does that mean?” Rumah’s voice cracked. “I told my pain to you. It was you who promised me a child. Of course the Holy One is the source of life, but you are a navi.”
“I never promised you a child.” Uriel rose from his stool, his thick, gray hair brushing the smoke-blackened rafters of the low roof. He peered down at Rumah, small and frail but unshrinking in his shadow. “There are three keys that the Holy One does not surrender to any servant, even the nevi’im: the key to the womb, the key to the grave, and the key to the heavens. Without them, there can be no birth, no resurrection, no rain. Even our father Jacob turned away our mother Rachel when she wept before him, demanding a child. And despite what you may have heard, my power is as nothing compared to Jacob’s.” His fist clenched around the handle of his staff. “I say his words to you now, ‘Am I in the place of the Holy One who has withheld the fruit of your womb?’”
Even in the dim light, I recoiled at the hard glint in Uriel’s eyes. His words shattered Rumah’s anger into tears, and she wept into her empty hands.
“So then you can do nothing?” She cried out. “I am lost?”
“No blessing is in vain,” he replied, his voice softer now, “but the blessing alone may not be enough.”
“But the Holy One heard my sister’s cry.” Rumah glanced in Milcah’s direction and wheeled back, stung by what she saw. “Why does she merit and not me?”
“It is not always a question of merit. Many things can block the channels of blessing. Perhaps your desires lead you astray, and you have not come into this world for the children you wish to bear. And perhaps you yourself are closed to the blessing which is ready to be born into your life. When I left here last, what did you do?”
“You know exactly what I did. I went to my husband—what else would I do to conceive?”
Uriel turned to Milcah, “And what did you do?”
“I also went to my husband.” Milcah took the pitcher and added more wine to Uriel’s almost full cup, her neck flushing as she spoke. “I’m not sure what else you mean?”
