The Lamp of Darkness, - [any book recommendations txt] 📗

Naftali?” I asked, feigning interest.

Peleh took the bait. “You know Naftali.” He received the first stack of bread from me and passed it to Sadya behind him. “When our father Jacob died, his twelve sons brought his body back from Egypt to lay him with his fathers in the Cave of Machpelah. When they arrived at the mouth of the cave, they found Jacob’s brother Esau blocking the way. He claimed that there was only one grave left, and as the firstborn, it belonged to him.”

My uncle had taught me the stories of our fathers. “Didn’t Esau sell his birthright to his brother?”

“Precisely.” For a moment, we were teacher and student, not fellow fugitives. “Naftali was the fastest of the brothers, so he ran back to Egypt to retrieve the deed showing the grave belonged to Jacob.”

“They left Jacob unburied long enough for Naftali to go all the way to Egypt and back?”

“No!” Peleh’s enthusiasm took the bite out of his instant response. “Hushim ben Dan was deaf and could not understand Esau’s words, but he saw his grandfather’s body lying dishonored while the brothers argued. He took a club and with one mighty blow sent Esau’s head flying into the cave behind him.”

I handed Peleh the very last of the bread. “No man can hit another hard enough to knock off his head.”

Peleh placed his hands on the last stack of bread but didn’t take it from my grasp. “You must learn to understand the stories of the prophets. Esau’s wisdom merited an eternal place amongst our forefathers, and so his head was allowed to be buried in the cave. But he never learned to control his cravings. Whatever his body desired, he gave it, be it for good or ill. His wisdom failed to purify his body, and thus it was left to rot by the roadside.”

Peleh raised an eyebrow and turned back into the cave. Did he guess that my craving for freedom had led me astray? I grabbed the donkey’s lead rope and hurried back to the city. I had no time to spare for stories.

Back at Ovadia’s, I slipped past Batya’s silence and up the ladder into my room. I threw my few belongings onto the straw bed and rolled them into my sleeping mat. The sun descended over the palace outside in an orange haze. I would miss this room.

I hid my father’s knife under the straw of the bed. A Kohen’s knife was sure to raise uncomfortable questions if anyone saw it in the musicians’ quarters. I grasped my bedroll under my arm, took my kinnor, and slipped down the ladder.

“Where are you going?” Batya demanded, breaking her silence.

I hung my head. “I was seen.”

“By whom?”

“Another musician.” I decided to leave out the part of him playing for Yambalya. “He invited me to stay in the musicians’ quarters, and I had no excuse to give him.”

“And the bread?”

“I’ll come every day. Whenever I can.”

Batya groaned, followed me to the gate, and locked it behind me.

The houses near Ovadia’s were all built from cut stone, but further down the hillside they shifted to uncut stone, and then to mud brick. The alleyways grew narrower and the stench stronger as I descended into the poorer part of the city. These streets were already in shadow, and I stepped carefully to avoid the puddles of rank water which dotted the road.

I could not remember precisely how to get to the musicians’ quarters, but I wasn’t too worried. Finding Zim was only difficult when he slept. The pounding of his drum drew me like a beacon. Hearing Zim’s rhythms made my fingers tingle in anticipation.

The door to the musicians’ quarters was open to capture the last light of the day. All three musicians were there, though only Zim was playing. One sat whittling a halil, and the other lay with his tunic over his face.

Zim rounded off his playing with three loud blows. At this sign, even the one lying down sat up and uncovered his eyes. “This is Lev. He just arrived in Shomron, and he’s going to be staying with us. Lev, this is Betzalel and Avihud.”

Neither seemed bothered, or even terribly interested, that another musician was joining their ranks. I found an empty corner and lay out my sleeping mat, feeling the bumps of the floor through the thin sheepskin.

“Come, we’re late as it is,” Zim said. We cut over to the main road, crowded now with those rushing to get in or out before the closing of the gates. As we climbed back up the hill, my nose caught the scent of roasting meat. Wherever the smell was coming from, I certainly hoped that’s where we were headed.

Zim turned off the road right where we’d met earlier in the day, and I saw the source of the smell: an entire bull hung over a giant fire pit. My appetite was suddenly gone, and I paused at the edge of the Temple grounds. “Zim, you said we were playing a banquet tonight?”

“We are. In honor of Mot, sent by King Ethbaal himself to see the progress of the Temple.”

“Who is he? An aid to the King?”

“He was Yambalya’s teacher in the ways of Baal.”

Zim waved me on, but I didn’t budge. The Tzidonian soldiers hunted the prophets in the name of the Baal. “I shouldn’t play tonight,” I blurted out.

“Why not?”

Had I known earlier that Zim wanted me to play for the Baal, I could have thought of some excuse. Again, I found myself unprepared. “Yambalya didn’t like my playing at the wedding.”

“He prefers drums for a festival to Baal, but this is a banquet. He’s expecting you.”

I tried again, adding a shred more truth as I lowered my voice. “Yambalya scared me at the wedding.”

Zim laughed. “He scared a lot of people. He wanted to make an impression. But only priests will be attending tonight. They won’t be cutting any flesh but the bull’s.”

If I really wanted to get out of playing I could plead my loyalty to the Holy One. There were still enough people left in the Kingdom who rejected the Baal that such a response on its own might not raise any suspicions. But Zim knew my connection to the prophets. I told him I’d returned to Uriel after Shiloh, and that I’d sought out Ovadia when arriving in Shomron. If I revealed myself as a believer, would he guess I was still involved with the prophets? If he told Yambalya his suspicions, could the priest and his spies follow my trail back to Ovadia? I couldn’t take that chance.

“Play tonight,” Zim said, “and if you don’t like it, I promise I’ll never bring you to play for Yambalya again.”

I nodded and followed him to the hillside above the roasting pit. Zim went for a piece of meat. I took advantage of the moment alone to tighten the strings on my kinnor. If Zim heard it now, he’d wonder why I hadn’t been playing. Certainly, he would never go this many weeks, or even a day, without his drum.

Zim returned with a piece of bread wrapped around a hunk of meat. “It’s still a little raw,” he said, “but you’ll want to eat before we play as it’s just the two of us tonight. Not sure we’ll get a break.”

It had been over a month since I’d tasted meat, and my mouth watered at the smell. Yet, Yambalya cared nothing for our laws of the clean and unclean. My stomach growled as I shook my head.

“You don’t want meat?” Zim’s eyebrows went up as a bit of juice ran down his chin.

“I don’t like it so raw,” I lied.

“Alright, but there’s no promise any will be left by the time we get a break.”

I got myself a piece of dry bread, the only thing I felt safe eating. I soon went back for a second piece and was halfway through it when Yambalya nodded in our direction. Zim shoved his third helping into his mouth, filling it to capacity to leave his hands free to drum. I did the same with my bread and picked up my kinnor.

My fingers, raw from grinding flour, felt awkward on the strings. My initial playing drew a puzzled look from Zim. He had played with me enough to know something was wrong.

Once I found the rhythm, I relaxed into the flow of the music. I broke off to retune my kinnor. The sound was good, but not quite perfect. The strings had too much give, falling out of tune too quickly after weeks of not being played. Once the sound rang out clearly, I fell back into rhythm with Zim.

The two of us had played together so many times that there was no need to watch him. I played with eyes closed, hearing from the subtle shifts in his drumming when a transition was coming. We moved from melody to melody as if we’d rehearsed.

Zim’s drumming always grew louder as the night wore on, so when I heard him soften his strokes, I opened my eyes. Over sixty violet robed priests stood in two lines, with Yambalya towering over them all. Four torchbearers approached, surrounding a short man whose bald head reflected the torchlight. His robes were frayed at the collar and sleeves, as if worn for many years, their dye so dark that they appeared black.

Yambalya fell to his knees, bowing before his master. Mot smiled down at his disciple, displaying several missing teeth and deep wrinkles at the eyes. He touched Yambalya on the head, and the giant of a man rose, standing so tall above his teacher that Mot’s head barely reached Yambalya’s chest. Though Mot was the elder and perhaps the wiser, it was easy to see how Yambalya ascended to the rank of High Priest. He commanded fear and respect his elderly master could not.

Yambalya led Mot through the foundations of the new temple. The priest’s small eyes darted around, taking in each detail, his face glowing with pleasure.

After the inspection, Yambalya brought his master to the fire pit. He pried open the mouth of the roasted bull, drew his knife, and cut out the tongue to present to his honored guest.

This was the signal for the feast to begin. The smell of roasting meat filled the air as the junior priests pressed forward to receive choice portions. Zim increased the intensity of his beat, and I followed his lead. I was a horrible baker, an adequate hand in my uncle’s orchard, and a good shepherd. But in my heart, I was a musician.