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

out front where the four of us had first played. I was surprised at a sudden blossoming of warmth in my chest—like coming home.

Daniel approached the servant with the punctured ear who was cleaning up the cooking area after the evening meal. “Is there anything left? We just returned from Shomron.”

“Yes, Master Uriel had us put aside dishes for each of you.” The servant gestured to a table with three large portions of bread and lentils. A grin curled up my cheeks as I wondered if the prophet had received a vision that Zim wouldn’t be returning with us, or if this was another instinct of his heart.

The servant approached me and spoke quietly, so that I alone could hear. “The portion on the right is for you.” This pattern of food being set aside for me had recurred at every meal since the gathering began. I always received a small portion of the most basic foods, never any meat or cheese. Why I was the only one restricted in what I could eat, I didn’t know, but each time I took my meager portion and rebelliously added anything I wanted. Now the portion set aside for me was no smaller than the other two and even had a helping of cheese. Was Uriel warming to me?

After the evening meal, we walked to our cave in the twilight. “I’ll be back later,” Yonaton said, just as I rolled out my mat. He laid his belongings beside mine. “I promised my mother I’d tell her when we got back.”

“You’re going in the dark?”

Yonaton peered out at the indigo sky. “The moon’s still up, that’ll give me enough light.”

I finished laying out my bedroll and retrieved my kinnor. “Then Daniel and I will just have to start playing without you.”

Daniel chortled. “You can play on your own.” He lay down on his sheepskin mat. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Already?” Yonaton asked.

“I need the sleep if I’m going to make it back to my farm tomorrow.”

I turned to Daniel. “You’re leaving too?”

“I’ve got to get home and bring in my harvest before it rots in the field. You heard Yambalya, this morning’s rain was only a warning. If we fail to heed it, we may not be so blessed in the future. I’m leaving at dawn. Yonaton, if I were you, I’d tell your family to bring in theirs as well.”

The thin veil of confidence that masked Yonaton’s face all afternoon melted, exposing raw fear. Without another word, he ran out of the cave toward home.

Zim’s reaction to Yambalya was one thing—but Daniel? “After all these years playing for the prophets, you’re going to heed the Baal?”

Daniel shook his head. “All these years with the prophets have shown me that all kinds of things are possible.”

“But you refused to bow at the wedding.”

“True, but I also felt the rain on my face this morning.” Daniel folded his arms behind his head. “If Yambalya is wrong and I bring in my crops early, what have I lost? But if he’s right, and I leave them in the fields…” Daniel sighed, put down his head, and closed his eyes.

I rested my kinnor next to my sleeping mat—I didn’t feel like playing alone. I left the cave hoping to catch Yonaton, but he was out of sight—probably halfway home already at the pace he was moving. I made my way down to the valley floor, unsure what I was searching for. All was silent; the servants had finished cleaning up, the disciples were all asleep. I strolled with a heavy step toward the pomegranate tree under which we played, its unripe flower-tipped fruits just visible in the moonlight, and sat down with my back against its smooth and slender trunk. A dark hole opened in my chest, swallowing down the excitement of Shomron and the wedding that had bloomed there. They seemed like a distant memory now. Zim wasn’t coming back, and Daniel was leaving. Would Yonaton be next? Will I have to play on my own for the rest of the gathering?

I had barely sat down when I stood up again—there was no point in staying awake on my own. I returned slowly along the path, its worn track a pale gray in the light of the two-thirds moon. A lone, tall figure strode ahead of me, reaching the musicians’ cave first and stepping inside. I hurried into the cave and almost ran into the man.

“Ah Lev, I was looking for you,” Uriel whispered, resting his hand on my shoulder. “I want to hear about the wedding. Let us go to my cave so that we don’t wake Daniel.”

Uriel led the way back down the path, and I followed behind in silence. Four lamps burned inside his cave, dazzling my eyes as I stepped in from the dark night. I sat opposite Uriel, whose slate-blue eyes fell upon mine, expectant. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say, so I started at the beginning.

“When we got to Shomron, Ovadia told Yonaton and me that we’d be staying with him, not with Daniel and Zim in the musicians’ quarters.” I paused, hoping he would direct me, but he only nodded for me to continue.

As words spilled out, I found myself saying more than I intended, talking about things of no importance. Why would the prophet care about us delivering Ovadia’s messages, or the commoners wrestling the bear? I kept scrutinizing the navi for some sign of what he was after, but was met with a steady gaze that drew the stream of images out of me.

When I finally ran out of words, two of the lamps had burned out—the charcoal smell of their wicks filling the cave. I slumped forward on the stool, exhausted. Uriel stared at me in silence, his face unmoving. The prophet’s gaze felt heavier now that I was no longer speaking, and I dropped my eyes to the table.

“So Queen Izevel and her family all bowed before the Baal?”

A knot clenched in my stomach. “Yes.”

“Then King Ahav bowed?”

In my mind, I saw the King’s hesitation give way before his bride’s coaxing. “Yes.”

“Then the people bowed as well?”

“Many of them.”

“And Ovadia?”

“I looked for him, but he had gone.”

“Then in the morning, there was rain?”

“Yes.”

“The people were afraid, and in their fear, they turned to the priest of the Baal.”

This wasn’t a question, but I still answered, “Yes.”

Uriel’s gaze rose to the ceiling of the cave. “The lamp of darkness is burning brightly once again,” he said, more to himself than to me. The creases on his face deepened in the unsteady light. “May the Holy One protect Israel.”

The prophet suddenly seemed so old and frail. “The lamp of darkness?”

Uriel didn’t answer, as though unaware that I’d spoken. He stood quickly, knocking over his stool as he rose. He lowered himself onto a reed mat on the floor, his feet before him, his knees bent to his chest. “I would like you to play for me. We may need to end the gathering early.”

“Why?”

“As you said, the rains might be coming. Whoever leaves his crops in the fields risks ruin. Many of our disciples are farmers. We cannot cause them to suffer such losses.”

I thought back to what Yonaton said on our journey back to the valley. “But can’t the prophets stop the rains?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t do so.”

“Why not?” I couldn’t keep the challenge out of my voice. The image of panicked farmers gathering around Yambalya rose in my mind, and the taste of bile returned to my tongue. It was strange—I had cared little for their panic that morning; I was even looking forward to the early rains. But I must have swallowed some of Yonaton’s fear on the ride back to the gathering. Was the prophet also afraid of the Baal?

“If we stop the rains, it will only bring the people to fear us more than Yambalya,” Uriel said with resignation. “It becomes a battle of one fear over another.”

“Isn’t that what you want, that the people should fear the Holy One more than the Baal?”

“No! A true turning to the Holy One is the end of fear, not a step down its path.”

“So none of the prophets will do anything to stop this?”

The old navi hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

I heard Uriel’s uncertainty. Did this mean not all the prophets agreed with him? Was there still a chance to stop the rains? Perhaps if Uriel knew, if he really understood how much fear the threat of rain was causing, he’d decide that closing the gathering early wasn’t enough—that this was a time to stand up to Yambalya. I had held back only one detail of our journey, one that I left out so as not to embarrass a friend. But even that would be worth it if it could make Uriel comprehend the humiliation of the people… and hold off the rains.

“When we were riding home from the gathering, Yonaton cried. That’s how scared he was that his father would refuse to listen to Yambalya and their harvest would be lost.” I flushed as I spoke, horrified to think of Yonaton’s embarrassment if he ever found out. “Without the wheat harvest, they don’t have enough grain to get through the winter. They’re not the only ones.”

Uriel slipped out of the position he’d assumed in readiness for prophecy, crossing his legs so he could sit up on the reed mat to face me. “And you feel that Yonaton’s tears show what?”

“They show suffering. They show fear.”

“And weakness?”

I didn’t want to call Yonaton weak, but Uriel was right—in that moment riding together, that’s exactly what I thought. “Yes.”

“You have much to learn about strength, Lev. Would you consider the constipated man strong?” Uriel fixed me with a penetrating glance. Could he see that I, who cried so much as a child, had blocked my heart, and not cried for over five years? “Yonaton’s tears are not a weakness—they’re his greatest strength. Indeed, if all of Israel could cry out as Yonaton has, we would have nothing to fear from Yambalya.” Uriel stretched his long legs before him again, rubbing the underside of his thigh. “Now, if you could please play for me.”

I swallowed, my body tense. How would tears hurt Yambalya? The more our tears flowed, the deeper he’d laugh. He’d brush them aside as easily as he had the glare of the old, bent man the night before. But the time for discussion had passed. I needed to play, which posed a different problem. “I don’t have my kinnor.”

“I’m sure you will manage.”

I surveyed the cave, hoping to find something to make music with. Lacking anything better, I drummed on the table. Tension flowed out through my hands with every beat against the heavy wood, and soon a rhythm took hold. I opened my mouth in song, weaving deep vocal tones into the beat. It wasn’t the best music I ever made, but it seemed to work. By the time the third lamp burned out, Uriel trembled with the spirit of prophecy.

I stopped drumming. In the silence, an image of Yambalya rose in my mind, his taut skin covered in scars and sweat, drawing his knife across his chest, showing all of Israel that he didn’t fear spilling his own blood. Next, I saw farmers’ faces as the rain fell upon the celebrations, and heard Yambalya’s deep laughter at their terror. Then I observed Uriel, old and gray, trembling in a heap on the floor. It was easy to guess which of the two the people would follow.

Uriel pushed himself to a sitting position, his face ashen, the creases in his face like knife cuts in the light of the remaining lamp. “The rains are indeed coming.” He stretched out a hand for me to help him to his feet. His palm felt rough, like the scales of the fish at