“Our father Abraham was a master stargazer and read in the heavens that he and his wife were never to have children together. But the Holy One raised Abraham above the stars, promising him that they would no longer bind him and his descendants.”
“So the fortunes of Israel don’t lie in the stars?”
“Most of the time our destiny can be seen there as well. But when we choose a higher path, our destiny is ruled directly by the Holy One, bypassing the stars. That is why the prophets avoid their guidance: they do not wish to limit the future to the confines of the present.”
Rabbi Eliezer said: Warm yourself by the fire of the Sages, but beware of their glowing coals lest you get burnt—for their bite is the bite of a fox, their sting is the sting of a scorpion, their hiss is the hiss of a serpent, and all their words are like fiery coals.
Pirkei Avot 2:15
3
Honoring the Calf
“When you find Yosef ben Avner,” Uriel’s voice was soft, but no less commanding, in the dawn light, “tell him we shall meet tomorrow at the junction.”
I peered across the mist rising from the valley, westward toward the ancient walls of Beit El. “How will I find him?”
“Quite easily, I imagine. There is no other like him in the city.”
“But where does he live?”
“He once lived in the weavers’ quarter, but I do not know if he has remained there. I have not entered Beit El in upward of sixty years.”
My head swung back to stare at the prophet. Sixty years? The men in Levonah who reached sixty years ground their food to mash before eating it, yet Uriel still had a full set of teeth. Just how old was he?
The prophet waved at my untouched bread. “Eat. There is no knowing how long you’ll be gone.”
I took a bite of the dry loaf, forcing myself to chew—I shouldn’t fail in my task because of hunger. Uriel walked out to a precipice that cast a shadow over the junction below and sat down on its rocky edge.
“Are you going to sit here alone all day?”
“Probably, though sometimes visitors come to me even in this place.”
I swallowed another bite. “Why haven’t you entered Beit El in sixty years?”
The prophet shifted his eyes to a cloud of dust rising above the road in the distance, and my question evaporated in the morning light. “That looks like a royal messenger riding toward Beit El. If you hurry, you can catch him. There might be news.”
I shoved the last chunk of bread into my mouth, slung my water skin over my shoulder, and raced toward the path. My legs ached from the long march the day before, their stiffness resisting every step. Hoofbeats echoed in the distance, and I pushed myself into a run down the steep, rock-strewn path. This was a mistake. I didn’t notice a cluster of loose pebbles until my foot was upon it. My arms shot out for balance, a weak compensation for fumbled footing. My backside hit the ground first, and I slid down the hard-packed trail until my left knee banged into a boulder.
I glared up at the old man. I was a musician, not a messenger. Why should I have to run after some horse and search out a stranger in a city I didn’t know while he just sat and waited? But the prophet’s eyes were closed, impervious to my anger or the pain in my knee. I got up, rubbed my leg, and limped carefully down the path.
By the time I reached the crossroads, my legs were loose, despite the throbbing in my knee. I was only halfway up the steep incline to the city when the horseman reached the junction below. I pushed myself back into a run, but it was no use. The rider’s tunic, emblazoned with the royal ox, whipped in the air as he thundered past, leaving me coughing in a cloud of dust.
The messenger rounded one of the massive stone towers flanking the entrance to the city and disappeared through its gates. Three ram’s horn blasts echoed over the surrounding hills—a public announcement.
My lungs raging, I pushed onward. This was no longer just about Uriel’s command. A public announcement directly from a royal messenger was something we heard in Levonah only three or four times a year. I rounded the tower and raced through the narrow gateway, past a guard who barely glanced my way. A crowd already surrounded the horseman in the city square, but some of the dignitaries were still making their way from the chambers in the city gate—the announcement wouldn’t start without them. My lungs heaved as I hobbled to a stop and doubled over to get my breath. I had made it in time.
A thin beard shaded the messenger’s cheeks; he couldn’t have seen more than twenty summers. He was covered in dust and sweat traced thin lines down his face. He sat stiffly, chin held high, gazing over the heads of the crowd. When the last of the officials reached the square, he brought a silver tipped ram’s horn to his lips and blew a single blast. “By authority of the great King Ahav!” A hush fell across the square. “It gives His Majesty great pleasure to announce the royal betrothal!”
The rider didn’t flinch, but his horse sidestepped nervously at the crowd’s roar. Still gasping for breath, I added a feeble cheer. Aunt Leah always said, “It’s not good for a man to be alone.” To her, even a king was lacking without a wife. The last time she’d said this, her words came with a sad glance at me.
The messenger cleared his throat and waited for silence. “King Ahav will marry Princess Izevel of Tzidon on the ninth day of the fifth month in the royal capital of Shomron. Let all of Israel come and rejoice!”
I was ready this time and let loose a loud “Hedad!” but my voice was nearly alone. I cut my cry short, feeling the stares of the crowd.
The messenger lowered his gaze and sneered at the stunned looks on the faces in the crowd. He kicked his mount, swung it around, and was not yet clear of the crowd when he pushed it into a gallop. I still stood bent over, catching my breath, when someone grabbed the back of my tunic and yanked me out of the horse’s way. I tried to thank him, but he was already talking to the man beside him. The thud of hooves was soon drowned out by the babble of voices discussing the news.
I searched the faces of the crowd, seeking a friendly one I could ask for help. I wasn’t sure why news of the King’s engagement would incense the people, but the confused fury written on their faces extinguished my desire to approach any of them. With the messenger gone, now was the time to find out about Yosef ben Avner before the crowd dispersed. I bit my lower lip. I never liked asking for help, especially from strangers. But there was no other choice—I’d just have to pick someone.
“Are you Lev?”
I spun around to meet the smiling eyes of a squat young man, appearing some five years older than me, with a bushy black beard and bent nose. “Yes, I am.”
“Excellent. I am Raphael ben Eshek. Master Yosef sent me to find you. Come, he is waiting.”
A warm glow spread through my chest; finding Yosef had gone far easier than I feared. Without another word, Raphael turned to go, and I hastened to follow, hobbling on my bruised knee. I felt comfortable with Raphael from the first, but as we entered the streets of Beit El, my ease faded. If Yosef knew who I was and where I would be, what else might he know about me? Feeling suddenly exposed, I wrapped my arms across my chest.
Raphael interrupted my thoughts. “How long have you been with Master Uriel?”
At least Raphael didn’t know everything about me. My first instinct was to tell him that I wasn’t really with the prophet, just a musician he’d hired for the gathering, but I swallowed the objection. “Two days.”
“Ahhhhh,” he chuckled. “My first week with my master, half the time I had no idea what was happening.”
I laughed louder than I intended. “That’s how I feel right now.”
Raphael glanced down at my swelling knee and the trail of dried blood that marred my shin. “Is this fresh?”
I nodded.
“We’ll put something on that when we arrive. For now, let me help you.” Raphael thrust his stout arm under mine and supported my limp toward a narrow, stone-paved street that radiated out from the city square.
As my body sank onto his shoulder, I caught a side glance at my new friend. He smelled clean, like a fresh rosemary bush. Could he tell that I had not properly bathed since the last new moon? I inspected his tunic; it was not the rough wool of a servant’s. Who was he exactly? “Are you Yosef’s assistant?”
“No,” Raphael grunted at the burden of my weight, “his disciple.”
“You’re training to become a prophet?” My uncle’s tales of the prophets were among my favorite stories, but I couldn’t recall any that involved training.
“Yes.” Raphael beamed, revealing a set of large, crooked teeth that filled his wide grin. I couldn’t help but smile back; his eyes gleamed like those of my young cousins whenever Aunt Leah treated them to roasted nuts.
“How long have you been with Yosef?”
“Five years.”
“Five years?” I spent only six months going out with my uncle before I was ready to take the flock by myself.
“Oh yes. Prophecy comes only after many years of training—if at all.”
“Have you received prophecy yet?”
