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

Rabbi Shimon said: Do not be wicked in your own sight.

Pirkei Avot 2:18

Ascending on foot from the King’s Road to Levonah, I drank in the smell of young shoots sprouting in the valley. Now that I was forced to return to my flock, the farmers’ dread of the rain faded; the prospect of shepherding again was eased by the promise of early pastures. I scanned the hillside for my flock, but it was nowhere to be seen.

I hiked up to the fig tree where I’d met Uriel less than two weeks before, picked a fig that was still green on top, and split its reddish-brown bottom with my fingers. Its flesh wavered before my eyes as thin, white worms fled from the light. I dropped the infested fruit with a shudder and didn’t reach for another.

Every rock and tree on the footpath that hugged the city walls whispered of home, yet the familiar landmarks brought constriction to my throat. A different sun shone on everything I knew, casting it in an unfamiliar light. My uncle’s house appeared smaller than I remembered. Dahlia saw me first, peeking around the mud dome of the oven. “Lev!”

“Lev?” Aunt Leah stepped outside, two-year-old Ruth grasping the back of her skirts. Tears were already on her cheeks as I hurried forward into her embrace.

“Tell us about the man eating the sword again,” six-year-old Shimi asked for the third time.

“As I said, he didn’t exactly eat it.” I dropped my spoonful of lentil stew—everyone else had finished eating, but my bowl was still half full. “He bent his head back like this and held the sword over his head.” I held my spoon over my upturned mouth. “Then he lowered it down his throat.” I lowered the handle until I gagged. “But he kept it going all the way down.”

“How long was the sword?” Eliav asked.

“About this long.” I held my arms out.

“But it must have gone down to his stomach.” Dahlia wrinkled her nose. “And it came out without any blood?”

“Not a drop.”

“I think you should all let Lev eat,” Aunt Leah said. “You can ask him about his adventures tomorrow. He’s home now. Come Ruth, Shimi, Naamah. To sleep.”

The youngest children followed their mother up the ladder as Dahlia cleared the table. Uncle Menachem didn’t recite verses, as was our nightly custom; instead, Eliav went outside to check on the flock, and Uncle Menachem stayed at the table while I finished. He’d passed the meal in silence, hardly taking his eyes off me as he ate.

Eliav returned and climbed the ladder without a word. I wiped the clay bowl with the last of my bread, handed it to Dahlia, then turned toward the door.

“Eliav’s already seen to the sheep,” Uncle Menachem said.

“I know, Uncle.” I walked outside anyway and leaned against the edge of the pen, patting the head of the nearest sheep, which stared up, then pulled away.

“You didn’t mention the rest of the wedding.” My uncle came up behind me.

“I didn’t want to scare them. I wasn’t sure if you even knew.”

“We felt the rain here too, Lev. It didn’t take long to learn the reason why. Everyone’s in a panic to gather in their crops.” Uncle Menachem tugged at the gate of the locked pen, checking that it was secure. “What does Master Uriel say?”

“The rains will come, just as Yambalya promised. He ended the gathering early.”

“That’s why he sent you home?”

“No, Uncle. That’s not why he sent me away.”

“No? What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything. He closed the gathering and told everyone they could go home to bring in the harvest.”

“But if the gathering was closed, it was closed.”

“No, Uncle.” I fought the tremor in my voice. I wanted to understand the truth, and to do that, I needed to tell my uncle everything. “He stayed behind with any disciples wishing to remain.”

“Then it probably wasn’t worth paying a musician for just a few disciples.”

“No, Uncle. He paid me for the entire summer.” One of the sheep crossed the pen to lick my hand. I felt bolstered by the sudden affection. “He sent me away because he’s angry.”

“Angry?”

“On the way to the gathering, Uriel sent me into Beit El to deliver a message. I finished earlier than I expected. I had time, so I went to the altar to bring an offering, but they wouldn’t let me. So I went and bowed to the Holy One. I told him this last night when I returned from the wedding.”

Whatever response I may have expected, it wasn’t the burst of laughter I received. “You told a navi that you bowed to the Golden Calf?”

My face grew hot. “Why not? You taught me that bowing to the calf is bowing to the Holy One. You go every year.”

“Yes, yes I do.” His smile melted, and even in the fading light, I saw a shadow grow in his eyes. “I’m not proud of it. But I go. And I bow.”

“Why wouldn’t you be proud? And if you’re not proud,” I could tell he wanted to look away, but I held his eyes, “then why do you go?”

He sighed, turning aside and resting his arms on the pen. “I didn’t use to. Of course, when I came of age, my father took me. But once I married your aunt, your father wouldn’t hear of it.”

I started at the mention of my father; my uncle almost never spoke of him. “What do you mean?”

“The tale of the calf is a troubled one. Have I ever told you why the Kingdom was split?”

I sensed a story coming and sat down on the wall of the pen, shaking my head.

“When King Solomon died, the tribes called his son Rechavaum to Shechem to crown him King of all Israel. Now King David was a mighty warrior, and the people followed him with all their hearts. His son Solomon was a great builder who set the people to build the Holy One’s Temple and his own palace in Jerusalem. Twenty years of sending people north, thousands at a time, to fell trees and cut stones in the mountains of Tzidon. Twenty years of fathers gone from their families, husbands from their wives, sons from their farms.

“So when Rechavaum came to Shechem, the tribes said to him, ‘Your father placed a heavy yoke upon us. Lighten our burden, and we will serve you as we served him.’ Now it is no small thing to make demands on the honor of a King. Unwilling to answer right away, Rechavaum took three days to consider.

“The elders who sat at Solomon’s feet advised Rechavaum to heed the people. They promised that if the King bent to their will, the people would bow to him all his days. But Rechavaum’s friends, the youth of the palace, did not agree. They told him that it was dangerous to meet demands with weakness. They advised him to say, ‘My little finger is thicker than Solomon’s loins. My father laid a heavy yoke on you, I will add to it. If Solomon beat you with sticks, I will whip you with scorpions.’” Uncle Menachem shook his head with a mirthless laugh.

“Why would they say that?”

“I think they were afraid.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what?”

“Of what the tribes would do. Of having to hold together the Kingdom without King Solomon.” He stroked his beard and sighed. “And when men are afraid, they feel safer if they can make others afraid as well—afraid of them.”

“So he listened to his friends?”

My uncle nodded. “His friends convinced him that the strong hand is the one that holds the whip. But he didn’t count on the strength of the tribe of Ephraim. They killed his tax collector and sent Rechavaum fleeing back to Jerusalem. Only his own tribe of Judah and the small tribe of Binyamin stayed loyal to the House of David. The other tribes chose Yeravaum as their king, and he declared the new Kingdom of Israel, independent from the Kingdom of Judah.”

“But how