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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.
I woke in the darkness, and my groggy state told me it was already late in the day. I heard the prophets’ voices as soon as I stepped into the passage, and they drew me like a light to the main cavern. I recalled Emek HaAsefa, where our voices had filled the valley, echoing from the cliffs when the melodies reached their heights. Now the prophets pitched their voices to remain in the cave, but I felt the power of their motion as they swayed together, moved by the soft nigun on their lips.
The disciples sat in a ring around the prophets in the center, and two of them opened the circle to let me join. The rhythm captured me first. I rocked back and forth in unison with the disciples, my breath deepened, and a calm descended. The faces of the prophets swaying before me were lit by patches of orange sunlight which penetrated the cracks in the cavern wall. The nigun spiraled, rising and falling on itself. The prophets’ voices may be hushed underground, but their wordless song still held its power. As the nigun drew me deeper, the union of our voices squeezed a tear from my eye. I glimpsed the unbound horizon of the prophets in the fading light.
Our unity did not last. As our chant rose to its peak, it shattered when one voice fell away. Yissachar, an elder even among the prophets, sat with his mouth hanging open, as if the nigun still held him. The circle tightened as the prophets leaned toward him, the air thick, as before a storm. Then, like a crack of lightning, the old prophet fell trembling to the ground.
A breath of clean air flowed through the cave. The prophets watched silently in the fading light—the only sound came from Yissachar’s shaking, which came to an end as darkness fell. The old master pushed himself upright, but no one pressed him for an accounting. I could no longer see Yissachar’s worn face in the growing darkness, but I heard him weeping as he spoke. “Oy! May the Holy One wipe the tears from our faces and bring an end to the reproach of our people.” The prophets sighed together. “Our brother Pinchas has survived an attack in the Galil. Many of his disciples were not so fortunate. He fled south with two others. They are hiding in a hollow not far from Mount Gilboa. Blessed be the Righteous Judge.”
“Do they know where we are?” a voice asked in the darkness. “Are they coming to us?”
“I have never seen Pinchas more disturbed in spirit. Prophecy is beyond him. He will not be able to find us.”
“Then the Holy One is calling you to him,” Uriel’s voice cut through the murmur of discussion which filled the cave. “Can you find his hiding place?”
“I saw it clearly.”
“Master Yissachar is no less hunted than they, and well known in this part of the Kingdom,” a disciple called out. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to send another?”
“The Holy One sent the vision to me,” Yissachar replied. “I will fulfill it.”
“That may be so,” Uriel said, “but it does not mean you must go alone. Take Lev with you, if he will consent to go.”
I started at his words. “Me? You need me for your bread.”
Uriel turned toward me. “As I said when you arrived, the prophets eat not from your hands, but from the hand of the Holy One.” He let the rebuke sink in for a moment, and I felt, more than heard, grumbling from some of the disciples. “Only you among us can pass the Queen’s soldiers every day. So too you can serve as a scout or decoy if the master must flee. Will you go?”
Coming from my master’s mouth, this was a command, not a question. “If that is your wish, Master.”
“It is. Come with me now, and I will instruct you on what you must do.”
I saw no need for instruction, as I would be traveling with Yissachar. Nonetheless, I followed my master out of the cave. The sun was long set now, and the moon would not rise until midway through the night, so the only light came from the stars. This was the one time the prophets ever ventured out of hiding, when there was little chance of being caught by stray eyes.
Uriel walked around the olive tree, out onto the terrace and past the budding grape vines. The orchard took less effort than I feared, as the prophets had taken to watering it at night. Once we were away from the entrance, Uriel faced me.
“You would prefer not to go?” he asked.
“There was already not enough bread for Shabbat, Master. If I don’t return tonight, the prophets must go another day without full portions.”
“I am not concerned for the prophets. Sometimes an empty stomach makes room for the heart to grow. Hunger is not yet our greatest threat.” Even in the starlight, I saw my master’s eyes soften as they held mine. “Right now I am more concerned for you.”
“Me?” Had Uriel seen through my half-truths?
“Do you not see the gift I offer by sending you on this journey?”
“Gift, Master?”
“Yes, the gift of forgiveness.”
The darkness hid the flush which rose to my face. “You are saying…that if I go, you will forgive me for my foolishness?”
Uriel’s laughter was the last sound I expected to hear. “I? I have nothing to forgive. Do I not owe you my very life?” The prophet placed his hand on my shoulder. “I am offering you the chance to forgive yourself.”
“For allowing Zim to see me?”
“For that. For Shimon’s murder. Perhaps even for that of your parents. And more which I cannot see.” Uriel leaned close to me, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “You take too much upon your young heart, Lev. Are you the Holy One that you can cup the waters of the seas in your hands? We are all called upon to do what we may, and to trust the Holy One will do the rest.”
“I didn’t do all I could. Being seen by Zim was my fault.”
“You were doing your best—you must never doubt that.”
I shook my head. “My anger drove me out of Ovadia’s house. I brought it on myself.”
“Do you know why you were angry?”
I shrugged, it seemed so obvious. “Because I am doing the work of a servant rather than learning from you.”
“If learning is truly your desire, let me teach you this. To rid yourself of anger, you must first recognize its true cause.” Uriel squeezed my shoulder. “Ask your heart why you are angry.”
We stood in silence for a few moments, but I knew no more than before.
The old prophet sighed. “I see your guilt plainly.”
“I don’t understand, Master.”
“You blame yourself for Shimon’s death, despite doing your best to keep all three of us alive. Your guilt fueled your anger—at yourself. That is what drove you to Zim.”
His words sunk in. Had Shimon safely reached the Cave of Dotan, would I have been so angry at baking bread for the prophets? Had I not been so angry, would I have walked out of Ovadia’s right into the hands of Zim?
“Know
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