The Lamp of Darkness by - (book recommendations website .txt) 📕

outside of festivals and celebrations. For the first time in years, I found myself in the presence of clearly superior musicians in Daniel and Zim, and even Yonaton harmonized beautifully, if quietly, on his halil. I closed my eyes into the rhythm and felt a tingling in my fingertips as they plucked out the melody. I soon left my concerns about the nevi’im behind.

A servant shook each of us roughly by the shoulder the next morning. “Master Uriel requires you.” He stepped out of the cave before I’d even sat up.

I squinted in the sunlight. I’d never slept so far into the morning—nor had I ever stayed up so late. By the time Daniel finally made us go to sleep, the eastern sky had already brightened to a dark gray. All through the night, I was telling myself I’d regret not getting to bed, but the music fixed me there. Guided by Daniel’s nimble nevel and driven by Zim’s rhythms, I discovered sounds in my kinnor that I never knew existed.

Several buckets of water awaited us outside the cave, and we quickly washed our hands and faces. The cold water chased sleep from my eyes. Daylight offered me a chance to see my new home properly. The niche in the wall where I slept seemed carved out for that very purpose. None of the cave walls were smooth like the ones near Levonah; they were all grooved, as if hewn out with iron tools. They couldn’t have been made for the annual gatherings—caves were hardly necessary in the summer, and the grooves had rounded edges, not the sharp lines of freshly cut stone—they looked old. Hundreds of years old, maybe? But who would have gone to so much trouble to carve out caves in the wilderness?

As the others started down the trail, my eyes fell on the outline of my father’s knife beneath my sleeping mat. I wasn’t afraid of anyone taking it—but it didn’t seem right leaving it behind. I took out one of my spare strings and used it to secure the sheath around my waist, under my tunic. Then I ran down toward the valley floor to catch up with the others.

Twelve disciples sat in the shade of a large carob tree, its branches heavy with green pods browning in the early summer heat. Daniel directed us toward a smaller pomegranate tree nearby, where we immediately warmed up. Uriel acknowledged us with a nod, then addressed the disciples.

“Envision your soul like a pool of water. When perfectly still, it reflects what is above. The slightest ripple on the surface, however, distorts the image and destroys any hope for vision. Music helps us quiet the mind and calm the pool.” I grinned at this description, thinking again of the fool who tried to grab the moon, but erased the smile as the prophet faced us. “Daniel, just a simple melody, this is the first trial for many.”

Daniel plucked a slow tune, and the rest of us joined in once we caught the rhythm. I took advantage of the easy pace to practice the holds that Daniel had taught me the night before—my wrists ached from the strange position. The melody barely held my attention. Was it the simplicity of the music, our lack of sleep, or was Zim correct that there was just something special about the night?

If Uriel noticed anything absent, he didn’t show it. He walked among the disciples, correcting their posture and whispering advice. One disciple appeared older than the rest; milky scars mapped his face. He sat upright with legs crossed and eyes closed, swaying gently with the nigun. He listened to Uriel’s whispering, nodded once, then returned to his swaying.

My heavy eyelids kept fighting to close. All the things I normally did to keep myself awake—pacing, talking, even playing faster or harder—would have disturbed the disciples. Only one of the bnei nevi’im appeared to be struggling with sleep himself, even though the disciples had woken at the second watch of the night and were now doing nothing more than listening to our dull music. I recognized him as Elad, the disciple of Yosef’s who’d scratched his nose two days earlier during their training, the one who surmised that I was uncomfortable with the disciples discussing me. Elad’s head drooped forward and jerked back up as he fought off sleep. The rest of the bnei nevi’im indicated through their straight posture and gentle rocking that they somehow remained engaged.

It was a relief when the session finally ended, and we were given a break before the midday meal.

“Do you mind holding my pipe?” Yonaton asked me. “I want to run home; I’m sure my mother’s worried.”

“I don’t mind.” I suspected Yonaton was running home less for his mother’s need than his own.

He handed me his halil. The delicately whittled piece of olive wood seemed out of place in his thick farmer hands. “I’ll be back in time for the meal.”

I watched him go until he passed over the hill, out of sight and wondered how my family was doing in Levonah. Eliav would be out with the sheep; Dahlia would already be baking the midday bread. Did they miss me?

I lay down on my back, enjoying the sun on my face, thinking about what I would tell Dahlia at the end of the gathering. The look of awe in her eyes was the last thing I saw as I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke to Yonaton’s figure standing over me, a melon in his hands. “We’re going to miss the meal.”

“What? Oh, right.” I sat up, stretched my arms above my head, and followed Yonaton down to the eating area.

Bread, cheese and bright green leeks were still laid out on the serving table. Again, one of the servants handed me a prepared dish, but only me, and he offered no explanation as to why he had not done the same for Yonaton. My portion was a bit bigger than the night before but lacked cheese. Did Uriel really feel that I deserved so little, especially when Yonaton was allowed to take as much as he wanted? Well if he objected to my taking more, he’d have to tell me himself. As Yonaton helped himself to everything from the serving table, I took more leeks and laid a big spoonful of cheese over the top. Food in hand, we sat down next to Zim, who was already finishing his meal.

“So that was prophecy?” Yonaton asked, dipping his bread in the runny cheese.

I shook my head and fought back a smile. “No one there received navua. It looks more like this—” I put down my bread, leaned over, and trembled the way Uriel had done. Two passing disciples flashed me cold stares.

“Whoa,” Yonaton’s eyes grew wide. “So what do we do when it happens?”

“We keep playing, right?” Zim said through a mouthful of bread. “If they need us for prophecy, we have to keep going.”

“I don’t think it matters. When Uriel had navua, it didn’t seem as if he’d notice anything, really.”

“So he was completely vulnerable?” Zim asked. “Anyone could just come over and slit his throat?”

I recoiled at the brutish question. “I guess so.”

“But he’s a prophet,” Yonaton said. “He can see things no one else can. He would know if he’s in danger.”

“You think?” Zim asked. “From what I’ve heard, prophets see only really important things.”

“But if someone wanted to hurt him, that would be really important to him—don’t you think, Lev?”

“It would be.” I tried to sound confident but felt shaken. Zim might actually be right: Uriel had seemed completely removed from this world while receiving prophecy. But if Uriel was vulnerable, it seemed best not to share that information. “Besides, prophets see things all the time that aren’t so important; they just don’t tell stories about them. I saw Uriel find a lost ring.”

Zim stood up to leave, his remaining bread still piled high with more leeks than Yonaton and I had taken together. “You’re not finishing your meal?” Yonaton asked.

“These are almost raw.” Zim pointed to the leeks. “They’ve got all these servants, why don’t they cook their food?” He walked off toward our cave, shaking his head.

The two of us were the last to finish eating. When we were done, Yonaton hefted his melon. “You want to split this with me?”

“Sure.”

Yonaton took the fruit over to a large rock and lifted it over his head.

“Wait, no need to smash it, I’ve got a knife.” I reached under my tunic and pulled out my father’s knife. I cut off two pieces, then thrust the knife back into the melon.

Yonaton bit into his slice, and his eyes caught the inlaid handle sticking out from the fruit. “Where did you get that knife? I’ve never seen one like it.”

I turned away, wishing I hadn’t brought it out. “This is a great melon. Did you grow it?”

“It’s from my own plot.” Yonaton grinned as wide as the melon slice. “I just saw it was ripe when I went home.”

“Where did you get that?” We both jumped at the rumble of the deep voice behind us. We turned to see the disciple with the scars pointing at the melon. The three of us were now alone in the clearing.

“From my family’s farm on the other side of the hill. Cut yourself off a slice if you like.”

“Not the melon, boy. The knife.” He plucked it out of the fruit and held it up before his eyes. The flint blade absorbed the sun’s light instead of reflecting it.

My mouth went dry as I held out my hand to take it back. “It was my father’s. Now it’s mine. Give it here.”

The man ignored my outstretched hand. “Your father’s you say?” His eyes moved from the knife to me, his scars knotting as he spoke. “And what’s your name?” The exposed blade in his hand made the simple question a threat.

“Lev.”

“Lev ben?”

There was something about him I didn’t trust. “Lev ben Menachem,” I lied. “And yours?”

His scars stretched as he let out a harsh laugh. “Shimon ben Naftali. Very wise to use your uncle’s name, Lev ben Yochanan.” He took a step toward me, holding my blade in his left hand, and pulling a dagger from his belt with his right. I was defenseless.

Yonaton jumped to his feet, snatched a rock from the ground, and cocked his arm back, ready to throw at the first sign of attack.

I stood paralyzed, hand still extended, gaping at this stranger who knew my father’s name.

Shimon ignored both our reactions, his eyes returning to my knife as he turned his small dagger around and offered me the hilt. “Take this.”

I reached out and took the weapon—though if we were going to fight, I’d rather have my knife back. But Shimon simply wiped my knife clean on the hem of his tunic and laid it down next to the melon. He bent down, facing me eye to eye. “Never let anyone see this knife. The danger it brings is very real.” His words mystified me, but I saw truth in his eyes. “Besides, this is not a tool for cutting fruit. It has only one purpose and should be used for nothing else. If you want to cut melon, use that one.” He pointed to the dagger in my hand. “You can keep it. I’ve got another.”

Without another word, Shimon turned and headed down the hill, in the opposite direction from where the disciples were gathering. I examined the bronze weapon in my hand. Its value was equal to two sheep at least, probably three. Even if the disciples were rich, surely they didn’t just give away such valuable gifts for nothing? My eyes moved to my father’s knife, still moist from the melon. It didn’t look dangerous—what was he afraid of? But I had a more pressing question. “Wait!” I shouted at Shimon’s back. “How did you know my name?”

Shimon didn’t break his stride down the trail, only turned