Yambalya led Mot through the foundations of the new temple. The priest’s small eyes darted around, taking in each detail, his face glowing with pleasure.
After the inspection, Yambalya brought his master to the fire pit. He pried open the mouth of the roasted bull, drew his knife, and cut out the tongue to present to his honored guest.
This was the signal for the feast to begin. The smell of roasting meat filled the air as the junior priests pressed forward to receive choice portions. Zim increased the intensity of his beat, and I followed his lead. I was a horrible baker, an adequate hand in my uncle’s orchard, and a good shepherd. But in my heart, I was a musician.
The way of fools is right in their own eyes, but the wise accept advice.
Proverbs 12:15
3
The Prophet Finder
The following morning, my back hurt from sleeping on the floor. I missed Ovadia’s straw bed. My eyes were heavy from playing until the moon set, but I dragged myself upright. The prophets would go hungry if I didn’t.
By the time I arrived at Ovadia’s, sunlight brightened the tops of the city walls. Batya must have woken long ago to light the ovens. That was my job. I gave four hard raps at the gate and one soft one. The peephole opened first, then the heavy, wooden door swung on its leather hinges. Batya filled the entrance, one hand holding the gate half open, the other planted on her hip. “You’re here to help?”
I swallowed. “If you’ll have me.”
“You know we need to make enough for two days?”
Obviously, I knew there would be no baking on Shabbat, but I bit back my reply. “I should have come earlier.”
She stepped aside, giving me room enough to pass. She secured the gate and followed me into the house.
I scanned the kitchen with faint hope. “Ovadia isn’t here, is he?”
“No.” The word hung in the air. “He left you a message.”
My eyes jumped to Batya’s.
“You must remain where you are.”
If Ovadia saw no way out of the musicians’ quarters, I was stuck.
“Go back to grinding.” Batya crouched to stoke the coals in the indoor oven. “Do it outside today.”
Why was I suddenly allowed to labor outside? Was it safer on the eve of Shabbat when everyone baked additional bread? Or did Batya no longer want me present?
I quickly hauled the grindstones to the courtyard. I needed to make up for lost time.
“All hail Lev, bearer of the staff of life,” Peleh called out in mock salute as I arrived outside the cave. It was less than an hour to sunset.
“We’ll take the bread and bring water for the donkey,” Sadya said. “You can go to your master.”
They went to work unloading the saddlebags, and I slipped past them into the cave. Peleh’s voice carried as I stepped into the darkness. “So little, Sadya? This is a Shabbat feast for neither man nor beast.”
Sadya slapped him on the arm. “Hush.”
Even if I’d ground by the light of the moon, we would have struggled to make bread for the prophets for two days. With me spending the night playing before the Baal, the amount fell far short.
I felt my way through the cave to my master’s sleeping quarters. He was not there, though an oil lamp flickered in its niche. I was arranging my sleeping mat when Uriel appeared, his hair glistening wet in the lamplight. “Ah, Lev,” he greeted me. “If you hurry, there is still time to wash for Shabbat.”
“Wash, Master? Where?” The prophets would not risk leaving the cave to clean themselves for Shabbat, would they?
“Remember, our ancestors dug out this cave long ago, back in the time of Gidon. When they hid from the Midianites water was as precious to them as it is to us now. A spring runs through the lower reaches of the caverns. Our hands are idle here, and lest they learn to eat the bread of laziness, we have set the disciples to work deepening its channel into a cistern. Soon it will be fit for proper immersion, but even now its waters flow sweet and cool. Go to them.”
Flour, dirt, and sweat clung to my body. I must have smelled little better than the donkey, but I did not rush to take Uriel’s offer. “No thank you, Master.”
His eyebrows rose at my refusal, and he examined my face in the flickering light. “There is a shadow in your eyes, Lev. What has happened?”
I looked away. “Zim saw me on the streets of Shomron.” Once I forced out the first words, the rest came easier. “I had to move into the musicians’ quarters so he wouldn’t be suspicious. Then last night, to keep up the disguise, I had to play for the…,” the next word wouldn’t come—I couldn’t tell Uriel the truth, “…for a banquet in honor of one of King Ethbaal’s ministers. Now there is not enough bread for Shabbat.” Peleh’s words still echoed in my head.
Uriel took my shoulders and turned me toward him. “The prophets eat from the hand of the Holy One, no matter who labors to bake their bread. Do not let this trouble your heart. We will eat, be satisfied, and bless the Holy One for all we have. Is there anything else?”
There was so much more to say. I hadn’t mentioned my anger, which led me to wander and get caught, nor that I had played before the Baal, but not all things could be said, even to Uriel. “No, Master.”
The prophet’s eyes seemed to narrow as he held mine, but it may have been a trick of the light. “It is well,” was all he said.
“Have you nothing more to say, Master?”
“Go wash for Shabbat,” he replied. “Hurry now, there’s not much time.”
Uriel spoke to me no more over Shabbat, though in truth, I gave him little chance. My stomach churned as I watched the prophets ration the bread that night, breaking the loaves between them. My neck burned as I received two whole pieces, for mine was the Kohen’s portion which no one else would eat. I retreated to Uriel’s cavern and chewed my bread in the dark so I would not have to eat in front of all those hungry eyes, then collapsed onto my sleeping mat.
