The Lamp of Darkness by - (most recommended books TXT) 📖

months?” I hadn’t slept a single night away from home since coming to live with my uncle. “I can’t leave for that long—what about the flock?”

“Eliav can look after them. You were also ten when you first took them out alone.”

My breath came short. “What did you tell him?”

“I won’t refuse a navi, Lev. Not without reason.”

I said nothing. If having me at home wasn’t reason enough, what could I say?

“This will be good for you,” Uncle Menachem said, speaking fast. “It won’t be long until you’re of age, and…” He reached beneath his cloak and pulled out a small pouch, tipping the contents into his hand. “Look here.”

I heard the unmistakable sound as my uncle emptied the pouch: the clink of copper. I reached out, and my fingers found the heap of cold metal—there must have been thirty pieces at least. “Whose are these?”

“They’re mine, but I weighed them out according to Master Uriel’s word. You’ll receive the same amount at the end of the gathering.” He dropped the pieces back into the pouch, each one ringing in the dark as it fell.

“So many…”

“Enough for a ram and three ewes, with some left over.” He tightened the leather strap at the top of the pouch, tying it shut. “It’s a shepherd’s inheritance.”

I flinched as the word fell like a stone between us: inheritance. “Uncle, tell me again what happened to my father’s land.”

Uncle Menachem crossed his arms and sighed. “It’s as I’ve told you, Lev. Your inheritance was lost to the King in the civil war. Do not dwell on what is gone. The Yovel is not coming.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “The Land is wide enough for us all if we each find our place.”

I nodded, but knew I had no place. My uncle cared for me like his own, but his land would pass to his sons, not his nephew. I didn’t even know where my father’s fields lay. It had been foolish to get excited about the Yovel—just another futile dream.

“When you return from the gathering, we can start building you a flock of your own.” He held the sealed pouch of copper in the palm of his hand as if weighing it. “If that’s still what you’ll want.”

I strained my eyes to read his expression, but it was too dark. Shepherding was the best path for one without land—my uncle taught me this from earliest memory. “Why wouldn’t I want that?”

“I’m…I’m sure you will,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “You should take that jar of spare strings with you and get to bed. It’s late, and you have a long journey tomorrow.” He squeezed my shoulder—as much affection as my uncle ever showed—and turned back toward the house.

I lifted the flat rock and retrieved the jar again. When I stood straight, I found Dahlia sitting on the wall of the pen, a dark shadow in the moonless night. “So what does the old man want?”

I sat down next to her. “Weren’t you listening?”

“Just tell me.”

“He needs a musician for a gathering.”

“For how long?”

“Two months.”

Dahlia let out a low whistle. “Are you going?”

“Yes.”

“Now you won’t have to stop travelers to tell me stories of the Kingdom. You can see it for yourself.”

I slid along the wall away from Dahlia. “Those are other people’s stories.”

“They don’t have to be.” She touched me gently on the cheek, bringing my eyes to hers. Dahlia was the opposite of her father—almost too affectionate. It was fine when we were kids—we were raised like brother and sister—but we were both nearly of age now. Soon we’d be separated, and all her affection would only make it harder. “What’s bothering you?”

Dahlia would keep pushing me; she always did. “Your father didn’t give me a choice.”

“What did he say?”

I examined my hands so I wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. “He said it would be good for me, but I know what he meant.”

“What?”

I tapped my thumb against the frame of my kinnor, distracting myself enough to keep my voice calm. “That I have to find my place elsewhere because I have no land and can’t inherit from him.”

Dahlia pulled her hair away from her eyes and tucked an obstinate curl behind her ear. “Neither can I.”

“It’s different for you. Your father will marry you to Shelah or someone else with land.”

Dahlia said nothing, just stared out into the darkness, toward the property of our unmarried neighbor, and shuddered. She was younger than me but would come of age first, reaching her twelfth birthday in less than six months. There was no telling how long her father would wait before seeking a match for her.

“I’ll be thirteen in less than a year. Without land, I’ll have no choice but to become a shepherd, following the grasses from pasture to pasture.”

“You won’t have to leave here when you come of age.”

“Not right away, but your father’s already sending me away so I can earn enough copper to start a flock. It won’t be more than three years until it’s too big to keep here.”

“Where will you go then?”

I stared at the hills to the east, black against the stars. “To the edge of the wilderness, away from the villages.”

“That’s so far. When would we see you?”

I shrugged. “A shepherd doesn’t just leave his flock.” That was true, but there were other truths that Dahlia, who clung to her dreams as if they were the morning sun, refused to accept. Even when I did visit, I might not see her, and we’d certainly never be allowed to speak alone like this.

Dahlia tugged her knees to her chest. “You don’t know what will be in three years’ time.”

Fire blazed in my chest. “You think I’ll inherit my father’s land? Your father already told me it won’t be returned—I don’t even know where it is. What will be different in three years?”

“I…” Dahlia’s eyes glistened in the starlight. “I don’t know, but when you come home—”

“What’s going to change when I come home?”

“Well, if the Yovel isn’t coming—”

“If the Yovel isn’t coming, my land will never be returned.”

Dahlia shook her head. “If the Yovel isn’t coming, then any land you buy will be yours forever.”

I gave a bitter laugh. “Do you know how many years I’d have to herd a flock just to buy a small piece of rocky hillside? It’s better not to dream at all.”

“Is it?” Dahlia also had a fire in her—we were of the same stock, after all. “This morning you thought you were stuck in Levonah, and tomorrow you’re leaving with the old man. You never know what can happen.”

“His name is Master Uriel.” I pictured his piercing eyes. Blood rushed to my face at the mention of the prophet, and I was glad for the cover of darkness. “There’s something strange about him.”

“He’s a navi. My mother told me.”

The memory of him saying my name on the hillside brought a fresh dread down my spine. My voice faded. “There’s something more.”

“I knew it!” Dahlia lowered her voice and leaned in. “Your eyes were so dark when you came home.” That was the annoying part about Dahlia: she could always tell my moods so easily. She said my amber eyes darkened to match my thoughts. How could I explain my unease when I first saw the navi?

I kept my voice low. “Your father knows more than he says.”

Dahlia sighed and lay down on the broad, stone wall of the pen. “The stars are bright tonight.”

“What do you think he’s hiding?”

“Look at the stars, Lev. Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Why don’t you answer me?”

“I’m trying to.” Dahlia pushed me lightly with her bare foot. “Look at the stars. Whatever’s going to happen is already written there. It doesn’t matter what Father’s hiding; he didn’t give you a choice.”

I pushed her foot away but turned my eyes upwards. “No, he didn’t.”

“Try to remember everything you see at the gathering. I want to hear all about it when you get back—it’ll give me something to look forward to.”

I woke to the drumming of my heart and shot upright. My forehead was clammy with sweat, my breath came fast, and I choked back a scream. Waking from the dream was like a sudden burst to the surface after being submerged in dark waters. It was the old dream, I could feel it, even as it evaporated from my mind before I could grab hold of it. How long had it been since the last time? A month? There was a time when it had been with me night after night, when I was a little boy, alone in the dark, learning not to cry out and wake the others.

I pulled my tunic over my head in the faint dawn light—today wasn’t a day to dwell on dreams. I arranged my few belongings on my sheepskin sleeping mat: the extra strings, my pouch. Together with my kinnor, sandals, and tunic, this was all I owned. I started rolling them in a bundle when something heavy dropped on the mat.

“This was your father’s knife,” Uncle Menachem whispered, trying not to wake the younger children. “I intended to give it to you when you came of age, but it may serve you well on your journey.”

My fingers trembled as I picked up the knife. The stone of the handle felt smooth in my hand. I brought the knife up to the high, square window that offered the only light in the loft. A worn ox-hide sheath pulled off with a tug, revealing a blade that was flint rather than iron, a full two handbreadths long. I’d never seen one like it. A copper inlay decorated the hilt; the worn design resembled two claws with three toes each, the inner toe of each claw gently touching.

A lump blocked my throat. My father had held this knife.

“Lev…” My uncle sounded far away, but there was a quiver to his voice that got my attention. “The nevi’im are the chief servants of the Holy One. They mean only good; I believe that.” I was confused by the mixture of emotions I saw on his face: love, loss, reluctance, even a touch of fear. Twice he looked as if he was about to say more, then he turned to go so quickly that I had no chance to respond.

I sheathed the knife, added it to the pile on the mat, rolled it up, and tied it together. I descended the ladder to find Aunt Leah standing at the hearth. “Sit down and eat before you go,” she said. There was a plate on the table with cheese and my special bread. Ever since I could remember, she had set aside the first piece of bread baked each day for me.

“Thank you, Aunt Leah.” I washed my hands and sat down without meeting her gaze. I ate quickly, mostly as an excuse to keep my attention on my food. She sat opposite me, and other than rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands, my aunt didn’t budge, just sat watching me, expectant. There was no use putting it off; she wasn’t going to let me leave without talking. Without looking up, I said, “You don’t want me going, do you, Aunt Leah?”

Tears ran down her cheeks, and she forced a half smile. “Yes, I do.”

My eyes rose up to meet hers. “You do?”

“I do.” She wiped the tears with her palm. “Menachem said you were too young, but I told him you were ready.”

So, my uncle hadn’t wanted me going—that explained the reluctance. “If you want me to go, then why are you crying?”

She smiled as two