To Dwell among Cedars Page 15

  Too bad the time of signs and wonders was long over.

  “How many people are we expecting?” asked one of the recent arrivals, a Levite from the southern territory of Simeon, as he peered over the edge at the eight or nine tents that had already been pitched at the foot of the mountain.

  “There can be no way to know,” replied Tuviyah with his palms spread wide. “Perhaps only a few more will travel here, or maybe thousands. But hopefully, with so many years between the last ingathering festivals and now, the people will be desperate to come.”

  “Desperate to come to this blasphemous mountain?” muttered Machlon next to me. We’d situated ourselves at the very back of the gathering, so I doubted anyone overheard him, but I kept an eye on the men in front of us just the same. Drawing too much attention would not be wise.

  “With the Ark in such close proximity,” continued Tuviyah, “we anticipate many will come simply out of curiosity, hoping to catch a glimpse of the vessel itself.”

  “But it won’t be brought down from the heights, will it?” asked another Levite.

  “No,” said Tuviyah. “It is well ensconced up on the mountain, settled in a secret place and not to be moved until the correct time. But just as in the days when it sat at Shiloh, within the Holy of Holies and seen only by the High Priest, its nearness is a reminder of both our history and our future. And we as musicians have the opportunity to bring the people together in a way that has not been done in nearly a decade. With our songs, we will remind them of the beautiful and creative nature of the God we serve.”

  Something that had lain dormant inside me for a long while stirred at Tuviyah’s speech. I well remembered the passion my father and brothers had for their duties at the Mishkan. Some of my most cherished memories as a boy were going up to Shiloh to see them play music during the festivals and lift their voices in worship to the Holy One. I had wanted nothing more than to be just like them one day.

  But the music and lyrics that had once flowed like an ever-present wellspring inside me had slowed to a trickle. Few and far between were the times when unbidden inspiration kept me awake at night, demanding to be woven into song. In fact, it had been at least five years since I’d even had the time or the inclination to create something new. Of far greater necessity than composing songs was my skill in repairing and building instruments, which kept me close to Tuviyah and the other head musicians—connections that my uncle deemed far too precious to neglect for the sake of singing and composing with the other Levites.

  “And who determines which songs we will play?” asked the first man, an edge of derision in his heavily accented voice.

  Tuviyah’s heavy brow creased. “Those of us who served at the Mishkan in the years before the Ark was stolen are well trained in the old songs and the ceremonies that were conducted there.”

  “So the only songs allowed will be the same tired ones sung since Mosheh’s time?” The question from somewhere in the crowd was thick with disdain. “Most of us have not sung those in a generation or more.”

  “I have no doubt that with such talented musicians, the old songs will become fresh again,” said Tuviyah, remaining admirably calm in spite of the rising tension.

  “And what of our own songs?” asked another man, whose brisk tones alluded to heritage in the Kinneret Valley. “Are they not worthy to be lifted up to Yahweh?”

  Tuviyah’s jaw ticked as if he were considering his words carefully before he spoke. “Many of our traditions go back to the time of Eleazar ben Aharon, or before. We must not discount the longevity and value of practices that were set in place by our forefathers.”

  “And yet it is not Eleazar ben Aharon’s descendants who inhabit the seat of High Priest, but Itamar’s,” said another, whose brightly striped and fringed tunic was similar to the style worn by the Philistines. Another man from the territory of Simeon, I guessed. The intermingling there, as well as many of the western border towns, had been so prolific in the days before Samson provoked our enemies that many there counted themselves as much Philistine as they did Hebrew.

  “Will the sacrifices be held?” interjected another voice. “As they were in Shiloh?”

  “Yes,” said Tuviyah. “The kohanim have determined that even though the altar at Shiloh was destroyed, the offerings prescribed by the Torah can be accomplished here on the mountain and an appropriate altar will be built on this ridge for that purpose.”

  “Under whose authority was this decision made?” said the man from the south, above the murmur of opinions that rose all around. “Ahituv? He is as much an interloper as his father, Pinchas, and his grandfather, Eli.”

  “This is not the time to discuss such matters,” said Tuviyah, lifting his hands in supplication as the chatter intensified. “Ahituv is the acting High Priest, and we will leave any succession decisions to the elders of the kohanim. We are here only to perform our duty as musicians, nothing more.”

  However, his plea went unheeded, and soon arguments shifted from the priestly lineage into a heated discussion between those calling for a king to drive out the Philistines, those who touted Samuel’s leadership as sufficient, and others who felt a peaceful compromise with our enemies was the wisest course of action.

  “Adding to our numbers will be even easier than I thought,” said my cousin, a note of delighted anticipation in his voice as he leaned closer to me. He gestured toward the brightly garbed men from Simeon’s tribe with a subtle tilt of his bearded chin. “My father will be pleased.”

  Abiram would not be coming to Kiryat-Yearim himself, but instead would be waiting for us at Nob. But a number of priests who would be prepared ritually to carry the golden box on their shoulders and a small contingent of Levites who would serve as both our help in securing the Ark and as an armed guard during the midnight journey would arrive a couple of days before Yom Teruah as well. “No one wants a civil war,” Abiram had told me, “but we will not take any chances.”

  Although most of Abiram’s reasons for carrying out this plan resonated with me, the idea of Levites lifting swords against their brethren had caused my stomach to churn uneasily when he’d laid out his plans shortly after word of Abinidab’s death reached Beit El. But I’d pressed those whispers of doubt aside, reminding myself that it was not my place to question my uncle, a man who was devoted in every way to Yahweh and far above reproach. Not to mention that I would never be able to repay him for taking me into his home when I had nowhere else to go.

  To my surprise, Machlon added his voice to the rising tumult. “Why are these people hiding the Ark from us anyhow?” He’d spoken only just loud enough for the men in front of us to overhear, but the sly remark hit its target nonetheless.

  “A very good question,” replied someone else. “How do we know they even have it anymore?”

  Within moments Machlon’s seemingly innocent question had been multiplied tenfold, and Tuviyah lost complete control of the men he was supposed to be leading in joint worship. When Machlon chuckled under his breath, obviously enjoying the upheaval he’d fomented, the murky feeling of uncertainly in my gut returned.

  I had only vague recollections of Elazar and Abinidab, but after the way the two old women in the market had spoken of their generosity with the people of Kiryat-Yearim, along with Elazar’s willingness to adopt two orphaned Philistines, it made me question some of the more vehement claims my uncle had made about their nefarious motives.

  It seemed to me that if Elazar meant to set himself up as some proxy High Priest, like Abiram accused, he would not hide the Ark away in a secret place; he would display it proudly and demand tribute for its protection in order to line his purse with silver. But so far, I’d not seen any indication that he was profiting from his association with the Ark. In fact, although the compound had doubled in the last eight years to accommodate the growing family and the Levites, Elazar’s home itself remained as humble as it had been back then.

  “Is this necessary?” I whispered, unsettled by the gleam of satisf
action in Machlon’s eyes as he observed the increasingly heated volley of words. “Won’t stirring these men up do more harm than good? Perhaps even bring undue attention?”

  Machlon’s gaze snapped to me, but his voice remained quiet. “I am no fool, Ronen. I know what I am doing. You just focus on the girl.”

  The reminder was in no way subtle. There was a distinctive bite to his words that I’d rarely heard from my cousin and closest friend. My hackles rose.

  “I’ve not forgotten my mission,” I responded. “In fact, I’ve discovered when and where to find her alone.”

  His brows went high, all sharp edges instantly smoothed away. “Have you?”

  I nodded but remained quiet on the subject, wary even amongst the clamor that someone might overhear talk of Eliora’s garden and her daily ritual there.

  “Excellent,” he said, a grin growing on his face as he nudged me with his elbow and leaned in close again. “Just think, cousin, when this is all over, you and I will be lauded for our part in this. If only your father and brothers were here to see what you are doing. Honoring their memory by making things right.” He gripped my shoulder affectionately. “They would be so proud of you.”

  He was right. I may not be comfortable with Machlon’s tactics, and perhaps Abiram had exaggerated Elazar’s conceit, but when the priesthood was restored to its rightful heirs, the Ark stood once again in the holy sanctuary, and my family had been returned to me, how we got there would not make any difference.

  Whether or not the thought of pursuing Eliora under false pretenses made my skin crawl, I knew my mission. And tomorrow morning I would seek her out and do my duty.

  Eighteen

  Eliora

  I wrapped my hand around a frothy clump of stalks, enjoying the cool familiarity of the soil on my fingers as I drew a purple-and-white treasure from its secret place. Such a gift, I thought, as I lifted the turnip high and shook the dirt from its wispy roots. I inhaled its earthy scent, tinged with the hint of natural spice. This turnip was at least twice the size of any other down in the valley.

  With my knee-high basket now overflowing with creamy white carrots, parsnips, onions, and a variety of herbs and roots, I stood and brushed the dirt from my tunic, making certain my headscarf was still wrapped tightly around my head before pushing back a few wayward tendrils. Although most of the townspeople did not come to the garden this early in the morning, I always kept my hair bound, unsettled by the scrutiny of those outside my family.

  Having already collected more than enough produce and herbs to bring to Rina for the stew she planned to prepare for Shabbat, I determined that my flowers had been neglected long enough. Leaving the basket on the ground to retrieve later, since it would take all my strength to heft it back to the house, I made my way toward the other end of the terrace, the place I’d rather be more than anywhere else. And today, after Natan had returned from Kesalon even more sullen and belligerent, I ached to take solace amidst their vibrant beauty.

  A sharp curve in the mountain’s terrain secreted my varicolored treasures, tucking them away from damaging windstorms. The indulgent mixture of fragrances beckoned me forward, drawing me into the lush forest of blooms, vines, and greens like the crook of a lover’s finger.

  There was no place on the earth like this one, I was certain of it. And the profusion of colors that greeted me today was particularly brilliant beneath the golden spill of sunrise over the eastern hills.

  Pausing at the center of the flower garden, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, peace washing over me as I thanked the Creator for designing a sort of beauty that not only delighted my eyes and nose but that I could pull deeply into my lungs. The chirrup of myriad birds alighting in the trees mingled with the sensory feast, making me wish I could carry this quiet moment with me throughout the day.

  If only Natan was drawn to this place like I was. He needed something to quiet his soul and to drain whatever poison had settled itself in his veins. All my hopes that he might reconnect with my father and brothers during the trip to Kesalon were dashed when Natan refused to speak to anyone during the evening meal and then snapped at our mother when she dared to ask him for help carrying a heavy jug of wine.

  When I questioned my father about what had happened while they were gone, his weary sigh told it all. Natan had rebuilt the wall without complaint and took part in the shearing, but had refused any attempt at conversation until my father and brothers gave up trying.

  This morning, as I slipped out of the house, I overheard my parents whispering together on their bed about what could be done to tame his volatile ways before someone got hurt. I could not help but wonder, for the hundredth time, if they regretted taking us in all those years ago. Perhaps if they’d known Natan would bring such chaos into their peaceful home, they might have made a different decision.

  Sighing under the weight of such burdensome thoughts, I surveyed the weeds that had sprung up over the past few days, frowning at the insidious shoots of green that threatened to choke out the ones I’d worked so hard to nurture. Eyeing a particularly thick patch of weeds between two clumps of marigolds, I knelt to begin the never-ending task of pulling the invasive sprouts from around the flowers, so familiar with each variety of plant that it was simple to discern which did not belong. If only I could tend the rocky soil in Natan’s heart in the same manner, cull the thorns and weeds that seemed to choke out any peace or joy that dared lift to the surface.

  As I worked, memories of my sweet Lukio and his raspy laughter arose in my mind. One moment in particular stood out from the rest. After a few hours of playing together on the beach and digging for shells, he’d wrapped his spindly arms around me and told me he loved me most in all the world. I missed the sound of his laughter and the sight of amusement in his mismatched eyes and could not help but feel responsible for the loss of both.

  Unable to contain the sorrow that I’d pressed down deep for the past few days, I bent my head to pray. When I’d first come to Kiryat-Yearim, my mother had told me that Yahweh would listen even to a Philistine if my heart was fixed on him, so I allowed my sorrows to flow quietly from my lips and my tears to spill down my cheeks.

  When I’d exhausted my well of desperate entreaties to the Most High, I used the edge of my headscarf to wipe my eyes and delved back into my weeding. The sun was already far too high in the sky, and I needed to return with my goods and help with meal preparation. I could no longer wallow in my hurt over Natan.

  I was so caught up in yanking a particularly well-entrenched thistle and whispering threats at it for encroaching on my beautiful garden, that it wasn’t until I sat back on my haunches and swiped a palm across my brow that I noticed I was not alone. I let out a little bleat of surprised confusion when I saw Ronen standing a few paces away and bounded to my feet.

  My free hand went immediately to my headscarf, ensuring it was still secure as my face flamed. How long had he been watching me?

  “I did not mean to startle you,” he said, palms uplifted. He remained where he was, but his eyes traveled from me to my flower garden, causing a flutter of unease in my stomach as he surveyed the work of my hands. Thank Adonai that Ronen had not arrived earlier to find me salting the soil with my tears. I could not imagine the humiliation of knowing he’d seen me in such a state.

  “This place is . . .” His voice disappeared as he stepped forward, taking in one of the long-limbed explosions of vines that I’d twined around a tripod of sticks and now cascaded in a waterfall of spiky pink blossoms.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said as he leaned forward to smell the flowers, his eyelids dropping closed as he inhaled their delicate fragrance.

  My heart was still galloping from the suddenness of his appearance, but his obvious appreciation of my cherished garden helped soothe a small measure of my agitation at being caught by surprise.

  “How did you make all this?” He waved a hand at the groupings of flowers that I’d lined along the terrace. Those that s
eemed to need more sunlight were at the front and those that thrived in partial shade nearer to the trees—distinctions I’d made by trial and error over the years.

  I shrugged, turning my face toward my flowers to avoid his scrutiny and praying he did not notice that my eyes were swollen and likely tinged with red. “I was told that some of the local flowers grew better up here on the mountain than down in the valley, their blooms larger and stalks taller. So I asked my father if I could use a small portion of the terrace to cultivate flowers instead of vegetables. None of us expected them to grow so prolifically. Over time, I’ve expanded the flower garden to almost five times its original size.”

  “It is like a paradise here,” he said, making me wonder what exactly he’d been told about my garden. He bent to brush his fingers over the blue petals of another cluster of blooms that bobbed and swayed in the breeze. “I’ve never seen this variety before. What is it called?”

  “I do not know,” I replied. “That is one someone brought me.”

  “From where?”

  “Somewhere to the east. A few travelers who came to visit my father heard of my gardens, and now they bring me seeds, or even seedlings in some cases, whenever they trade in the area. Some have thrived, taking well to the soil here and the amount of rain the terraces retain, but others have barely sprouted, or withered the moment their shoots reach above the surface.”

  “The rumor is that your hands are blessed,” he said, with a curious tilt to his chin.

  I knew of these speculations—had been told by my sisters of whispers down in Kiryat-Yearim of some divine favor bestowed upon my ministrations—but the truth had nothing to do with me. I was only the keeper of the gardens, the one who took pleasure in removing the weeds that threatened their health, the one who ensured each plant was receiving its share of the rain and not being shaded by another. It was not my hands that made this garden what it was, but the golden chest that resided two-thousand cubits away in a grove of stately cedar trees.