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

side of the fig tree, swaying gently with his eyes closed. The heavy gray eyebrows, broad forehead, and deep wrinkles mapping his weathered face signaled nothing but calm. He held his staff as if it were an extension of his hand, a sure sign that he had walked many a path. Even at some distance, he appeared so very tall.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I hadn’t seen the old man step off the road, nor heard any bleating from the flock. Where had he come from, and why was he standing there? Travelers walked quickly, their eyes on the road, rarely returning greetings with more than a glance and a nod. Even the ones I could persuade to share stories of their travels departed before the final words of their tales left their lips. But this white-haired stranger just stood there, swaying. The pricking in my back intensified. Had he stopped to listen to the music? I silenced the strings with the palm of my hand.

The old man stopped swaying and locked his gray-blue eyes onto mine. My chest tightened, shortening my breath. I saw no danger, but the ominous feeling built, like an old memory trying to force itself to the surface. My gaze escaped his hold and found a nearby ewe gnawing a clump of thistle from its wool. I knelt beside the creature and worked at the thistle until the old man stepped back toward the road.

He had left easily enough, but the tight fist in my stomach remained. I just knew that he would return—and return he did. By the time the old man emerged from the town gates, the sun was edging down in the west. He was followed close at heels by a young couple from town. His gaze found the flock first, then narrowed in on me. Our eyes met, and even from a distance I knew: he was coming for me.

The couple remained behind as he scaled the rise up to me. I knew neither of them well, but I would never forget their wedding a month before. The bride’s father hired me to perform, the first payment I ever received for playing my kinnor. They stood beneath their wedding canopy, nervous, joyous energy on their faces. Now they stood like stone markers at the edge of the road, huddled and still, waiting.

The sleeve of the old man’s linen cloak whispered as he gestured at the trunk of the fig tree, silently indicating his intention to join me. My stomach clenched in dread, but this was common land—I could hardly protest. My fingers kept on with their melody as if moving of their own volition. A cold unease filled me.

He sat down slowly but smoothly—not like the old men of Levonah, whose knees creaked and faces groaned when they lowered themselves to the ground. Once settled, he took a long and penetrating look at me—as if judging my merit. He then nodded in my direction, silently commanding me to go on with the music. Were it not for the couple watching from below and my strange disquiet, I might have thought he sought out the shade for a late afternoon nap. His head sank between his bent knees. He was perfectly still.

A butterfly came to rest on his motionless elbow, extending and retracting its black and orange wings. I played on in the still air, waiting for a sign from him, not knowing how long I played or even why. The butterfly took flight in a flash of fiery orange as the old man shuddered and a charge filled the air. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. He trembled for what seemed an age. Was he in some small fit? Should I stop playing? My fingers kept plucking the strings of their own accord while my thoughts spiraled, like dust blown in an eddy. My fingernail caught on a string of my kinnor, slicing it in two.

Just as abruptly as the shuddering began, the old man stilled again. The back that seemed bent over in an impossible curve slowly straightened. Without a word, the stranger unfolded from his position to an impressive height. He raised his aged hand and crooked a finger toward the couple. “Come.”

The young man and woman rushed up the slope to meet him. “It rolled behind the wine barrel at the back of the house,” he said to them. “There it still lies—dirty, but perfectly safe.”

The woman put a hand to her chest; a giddy smile brushed her lips. Her husband said, “Now I know you are truly a Seer.” The old man responded with a silent nod. “Shall we escort you back to the city?”

“I remain here with the boy. Go in peace with the blessings of the Holy One.”

“Peace and blessings upon you, Master Uriel.” The young man took his wife’s hand and scampered back toward Levonah

The old man turned his blue-gray eyes on mine, then shifted his gaze to my hands on my kinnor. “It’s time to water the sheep and pen them in for the evening. I will come home with you, Lev. I need to speak with your uncle.”

How did he know my name?

The King’s tower, empty of soldiers during these times of peace, was already casting its shadow across our small farm by the time we returned home in silence. I trudged through my evening chores, my eyes straying like a lost lamb’s to watch my uncle in quiet parley with the imposing stranger. It wasn’t until the branches of the carob tree blackened against the flaming horizon that I pushed myself to work faster. I filled the watering trough and secured the pen as a curtain of darkness was drawn from east to west.

The rocky spring behind our farm was normally dry by early summer, but this year, a trickle of the heavy winter storms remained. Farmers had cursed the late malkosh rains that soaked the barley crop, spoiling most of it before it could be stored, but I felt only gratitude now as the stream of cool water ran over my curly brown hair and down my sweat-salted, lean frame.

It was nearly full dark when I came inside, the evening meal mostly over. Only Uncle Menachem and my younger cousins Dahlia and Eliav remained at the table; Aunt Leah had already taken the three littlest ones up the ladder for bed. My bread steamed; Dahlia must have reheated it on the hearth when she heard me come. I dipped it in salted cheese, chewing quickly because it was so late. The old man was gone, but his presence was felt in the heavy silence of the table. None of us children would ask about him unless Uncle Menachem mentioned him first, and he said nothing. When I finished, Dahlia rose to clean up while Eliav and I remained at the table for our nightly studies.

“And you shall sanctify the fiftieth year,” Uncle Menachem chanted the verse that he too had memorized as a child, “and proclaim freedom in the land for all who dwell in it.” Eliav and I echoed not only the words but also the melody that strung them together like beads on a strand. “It will be a Yovel for you,” my uncle continued, “you shall return each man to his ancestral land, and return each man to his family.”

“It will be a Yovel for you,” we repeated, “…you shall return each man to his ancestral land…” Dahlia, setting the crockery in the alcove, pushed a stubborn, russet curl away from her eyes and coughed, “…and return each man to his family.” The cough was our signal—she had a question.

“Uncle?”

“Yes, Lev?”

The problem was, I never knew exactly what was bothering Dahlia. “When’s the next Yovel?” Silence from the alcove—I guessed right.

Uncle Menachem ran his fingers through his wiry beard, newly streaked with gray. “I asked my father the same question when he taught me this verse.”

“And what did he tell you?”

“That he had never seen a Yovel.”

“Have you seen one?”

“No, Lev.”

I gripped the edge of the table to contain my excitement. “Then the next one must be coming soon!”

Uncle Menachem shifted on his stool, but the coals in the hearth didn’t shed enough light to read his face. “No, Lev. My father had seen more than fifty years when he died. Do not put your hope in the Yovel; it’s not coming. The land will not return.” He rose to his feet though we’d recited just one verse. “That’s enough for tonight; it’s already late.” I sunk my head, avoiding Dahlia’s eyes. “Lev, see that the flock is secure and then get to sleep.”

I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. I ought to know better than to get excited over the Yovel—another stupid daydream. I grabbed my kinnor from its peg by the door on my way out; its broken string dangled dead at my side. The new moon’s tiny sliver had already set, but the summer sky was always clear, and I could pick out shadowy forms by the light of the stars. I tugged first at the gate of the pen, testing that it was well fastened, then skirted the edge of the wall, feeling for fallen stones. There was one faint bleat at the noise, but the flock was settled in for the night.

I lifted a flat rock at the edge of the pen and withdrew a skin pouch from the hole beneath. After a month nestled in cool earth, my new strings were fully cured. I sat on the ground with my back against the pen’s low wall and ran my hand across the top of the kinnor until I found the empty spot, a missing tooth in its eight-stringed grin. I threaded one end of the sheep gut through the hole in the olive wood frame, wound the bottom end around its groove at the base of the kinnor, then tied off the other end around its bone key. I stretched and tuned, stretched and tuned, searching for the right sound to match the other strings. When the eight notes were in harmony, I ran my fingers lightly across all eight strings. The voice of the kinnor rippled out into the night.

This was my favorite time of day, when I could be alone with my music. In these moments, there were no responsibilities and no thoughts. I could follow the flow of the rhythm…and forget about my fate. But the music had barely taken hold when a voice broke my focus.

“You must have questions about today,” Uncle Menachem said, hovering above me in the starlight.

I silenced the strings and stood. “Yes, Uncle.”

“Did you know that old man?”

I thought back to the dread I felt when he first appeared—it seemed rooted in a memory deep within my heart. I reached down for it, but nothing came. “No, Uncle, but he knew my name.”

“His name is Master Uriel.”

I said nothing, certain he came to tell me more than the old man’s name. But why the hesitation?

“He’s a navi.” Uncle Menachem broke up a clump of dried dirt with the toe of his sandal.

I recalled Uriel’s trembling beneath the fig tree, and the couple with their missing item. Was that the spirit of prophecy? Is that how he knew my name?

“Do you know why he’s come?” my uncle asked.

Since I first laid eyes on the old man earlier that day, he’d filled my thoughts. An idea struck me. The thought made no sense, but I couldn’t drive it away: Uriel came to take me from my family. But, my uncle taught me that silence is a fence for wisdom, so I kept my mouth shut and shook my head.

“The nevi’im have called a gathering in Emek HaAsefa, and they need musicians. Master Uriel seeks to hire you.”

“Hire me?” So he did want to take me away. I pictured a hundred men like him, tall and foreboding, trembling in a circle. Why do they need musicians? Do they dance? “How long is the gathering?”

“Two months.”

“Two