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

My arms shot out for balance, a weak compensation for fumbled footing. My backside hit the ground first, and I slid down the hard-packed trail until my left knee banged into a boulder.

I glared up at the old man. I was a musician, not a messenger. Why should I have to run after some horse and search out a stranger in a city I didn’t know while he just sat and waited? But the prophet’s eyes were closed, impervious to my anger or the pain in my knee. I got up, rubbed my leg, and limped carefully down the path.

By the time I reached the crossroads, my legs were loose, despite the throbbing in my knee. I was only halfway up the steep incline to the city when the horseman reached the junction below. I pushed myself back into a run, but it was no use. The rider’s tunic, emblazoned with the royal ox, whipped in the air as he thundered past, leaving me coughing in a cloud of dust.

The messenger rounded one of the massive stone towers flanking the entrance to the city and disappeared through its gates. Three ram’s horn blasts echoed over the surrounding hills—a public announcement.

My lungs raging, I pushed onward. This was no longer just about Uriel’s command. A public announcement directly from a royal messenger was something we heard in Levonah only three or four times a year. I rounded the tower and raced through the narrow gateway, past a guard who barely glanced my way. A crowd already surrounded the horseman in the city square, but some of the dignitaries were still making their way from the chambers in the city gate—the announcement wouldn’t start without them. My lungs heaved as I hobbled to a stop and doubled over to get my breath. I had made it in time.

A thin beard shaded the messenger’s cheeks; he couldn’t have seen more than twenty summers. He was covered in dust and sweat traced thin lines down his face. He sat stiffly, chin held high, gazing over the heads of the crowd. When the last of the officials reached the square, he brought a silver tipped ram’s horn to his lips and blew a single blast. “By authority of the great King Ahav!” A hush fell across the square. “It gives His Majesty great pleasure to announce the royal betrothal!”

The rider didn’t flinch, but his horse sidestepped nervously at the crowd’s roar. Still gasping for breath, I added a feeble cheer. Aunt Leah always said, “It’s not good for a man to be alone.” To her, even a king was lacking without a wife. The last time she’d said this, her words came with a sad glance at me.

The messenger cleared his throat and waited for silence. “King Ahav will marry Princess Izevel of Tzidon on the ninth day of the fifth month in the royal capital of Shomron. Let all of Israel come and rejoice!”

I was ready this time and let loose a loud “Hedad!” but my voice was nearly alone. I cut my cry short, feeling the stares of the crowd.

The messenger lowered his gaze and sneered at the stunned looks on the faces in the crowd. He kicked his mount, swung it around, and was not yet clear of the crowd when he pushed it into a gallop. I still stood bent over, catching my breath, when someone grabbed the back of my tunic and yanked me out of the horse’s way. I tried to thank him, but he was already talking to the man beside him. The thud of hooves was soon drowned out by the babble of voices discussing the news.

I searched the faces of the crowd, seeking a friendly one I could ask for help. I wasn’t sure why news of the King’s engagement would incense the people, but the confused fury written on their faces extinguished my desire to approach any of them. With the messenger gone, now was the time to find out about Yosef ben Avner before the crowd dispersed. I bit my lower lip. I never liked asking for help, especially from strangers. But there was no other choice—I’d just have to pick someone.

“Are you Lev?”

I spun around to meet the smiling eyes of a squat young man, appearing some five years older than me, with a bushy black beard and bent nose. “Yes, I am.”

“Excellent. I am Raphael ben Eshek. Master Yosef sent me to find you. Come, he is waiting.”

A warm glow spread through my chest; finding Yosef had gone far easier than I feared. Without another word, Raphael turned to go, and I hastened to follow, hobbling on my bruised knee. I felt comfortable with Raphael from the first, but as we entered the streets of Beit El, my ease faded. If Yosef knew who I was and where I would be, what else might he know about me? Feeling suddenly exposed, I wrapped my arms across my chest.

Raphael interrupted my thoughts. “How long have you been with Master Uriel?”

At least Raphael didn’t know everything about me. My first instinct was to tell him that I wasn’t really with the prophet, just a musician he’d hired for the gathering, but I swallowed the objection. “Two days.”

“Ahhhhh,” he chuckled. “My first week with my master, half the time I had no idea what was happening.”

I laughed louder than I intended. “That’s how I feel right now.”

Raphael glanced down at my swelling knee and the trail of dried blood that marred my shin. “Is this fresh?”

I nodded.

“We’ll put something on that when we arrive. For now, let me help you.” Raphael thrust his stout arm under mine and supported my limp toward a narrow, stone-paved street that radiated out from the city square.

As my body sank onto his shoulder, I caught a side glance at my new friend. He smelled clean, like a fresh rosemary bush. Could he tell that I had not properly bathed since the last new moon? I inspected his tunic; it was not the rough wool of a servant’s. Who was he exactly? “Are you Yosef’s assistant?”

“No,” Raphael grunted at the burden of my weight, “his disciple.”

“You’re training to become a prophet?” My uncle’s tales of the prophets were among my favorite stories, but I couldn’t recall any that involved training.

“Yes.” Raphael beamed, revealing a set of large, crooked teeth that filled his wide grin. I couldn’t help but smile back; his eyes gleamed like those of my young cousins whenever Aunt Leah treated them to roasted nuts.

“How long have you been with Yosef?”

“Five years.”

“Five years?” I spent only six months going out with my uncle before I was ready to take the flock by myself.

“Oh yes. Prophecy comes only after many years of training—if at all.”

“Have you received prophecy yet?”

“No, I’m still counted among the bnei nevi’im, not the nevi’im.”

We stopped in front of a flat-roofed house made from chiseled stone, its street side broken only by a plain wooden door. The door swung outward, and an old man stepped into the street, his coal black eyes fixed unblinking on my face. I turned away from the intensity of his gaze and inspected him out of the corner of my eye. His gray hair and beard were darker and better groomed than Uriel’s. The bright white of his linen robes contrasted with the raven black totafot boxes bound to his arm and forehead. Uriel had also worn totafot in the early morning but removed them before eating.

“Welcome Lev ben Yochanan, I am Yosef ben Avner. I am aware of Uriel’s instructions to you; nonetheless, speak your message and fulfill your master’s command.”

It was one thing for Raphael to assume that I was Uriel’s servant, but it was another for Yosef, a prophet, to call him my master. I wanted to protest, but thought better of it—I could already see that Yosef wasn’t someone to argue with. “The time has come for the gathering.” My voice sounded hollow. “Master Uriel has informed the others. He will await you at the junction in the morning.”

“Very good. We will be there.” Yosef continued to bore into my eyes, even as I turned away. I tried to catch a glimpse of what was happening inside the prophet’s house, in vain.

“Raphael, I see that Lev’s knee needs care. In my quarters, you will find clean fabric and ointment in the remedy box next to my mat.”

Raphael entered the house, and Yosef turned back to me. “You would like to observe my disciples.” He had the same unnerving practice as Uriel of telling me what I was thinking. “They are engaged in training now, and it is not desirable to disturb them.” His eyes flickered over me from head to toe. “Yet, there is a way you can help my disciples. Then you may enter and enhance, rather than disturb.”

Curious though I was to see what was going on inside, Yosef’s piercing eyes made me glad I had a ready excuse. “My kinnor is with Master Uriel.”

“No matter, you will not need it.”

Raphael returned with a cloth and a bowl of water and bent down to clean the wound. He opened a small clay jar filled with some evil-smelling substance. I clenched my teeth when the herbs touched my knee, but the sting lasted only a moment. A layer of yellowish ointment coated the wound, which I could suddenly barely feel. I eyed the wooden doorway narrowly and asked Yosef, “What else would I do?”

“You will see a stool in the middle of the room.” Yosef nodded to Raphael, who entered the house, closing the door behind him. “All you must do is walk in and sit down.”

“That’s it?”

“That is all.”

I had no more excuses to give Yosef, and it did seem a small price to satisfy my curiosity, yet my tongue turned pasty as I stepped toward the door. How could sitting on a stool help the disciples in their training unless they were to do something to me while I sat defenseless?

My moist palm took hold of the iron door handle. A floor of beaten earth met my footfalls inside, where the room was heavy with quiet. Eight disciples were ranged along the walls, each seated on a reed mat, legs folded, eyes closed. An alcove high in the wall contained over a hundred scrolls, far more than I’d ever seen, many brown and cracking with age. In the middle of the room sat the sole piece of furniture, an empty stool.

I limped quietly to my place, and sat down, my knee protesting. No one reacted to my entrance. Other than one disciple who scratched his nose, no sound or movement disturbed their rhythmic breathing. Yosef leaned against the doorframe and watched.

I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly hot and itchy. I couldn’t see that they were acting upon me in any way, but these were not ordinary men; they were bnei nevi’im, disciples of the prophets. Uriel and Yosef both knew things about me without being told, sensing my thoughts as if they were spoken aloud. Is that what the disciples were doing now, reading my thoughts? Would I even know it if they were? I fought the desire to press my hands over my ears as if to block the way to my mind, knowing how useless such a move would be.

I had agreed to help, but my thoughts were my own. My forehead creased as I tried to empty my mind. It didn’t work. Memories came pouring in on me, the very ones I least wanted to share: Dahlia surprising me while I bathed at the spring; almost losing the flock in a thunderstorm; the feel of Mother’s hair on my cheek. Sweat beaded on my forehead, but my failed efforts only proved I couldn’t clear my mind by force. My kinnor provided my only refuge from thought, but it was far away. Silence pressed down on me. My kinnor. The kinnor channeled my music, but it wasn’t the source of it. Closing my eyes, I reached for a nigun to