To Dwell among Cedars Read online

  “You’ll see,” I replied. “I found this spot only a year or so after I came to the mountain. The forest has grown since then, the leaves fuller and the trees taller, but the view is unparalleled.”

  We finished our climb in silence, Ronen keeping pace with me, and then as I perched on my usual branch and he stood on the one almost directly below me, his long arm wrapped around the trunk so that his head was a handspan from my knee, I pointed to the west. “There, do you see the strip of blue along the horizon? In that gap between the hills?”

  “I do. Is that the sea?”

  “It is. Sometimes it’s almost like I can hear the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks near Ashdod,” I said. “And the creak of the boats bobbing up and down in the port.”

  He was silent, wordlessly urging me to continue.

  “My people have been seafarers for as long as anyone remembers,” I said. “Even before we left our homeland in Caphtor to come here. Our boats are built like none other, with birds adorning both the prow and the stern. Once, just before my brother was born, my father took me on a voyage. Not a far one—only up the coast to Acco to pick up a shipment of purple dye and fine cloth. But I will never forget the way my stomach pitched and roiled when the wind picked up and blew us a small bit off-course.”

  My father had been so gentle, pulling me close and whispering assurances to me that day. The last day, in fact, that he’d ever shown such tenderness, since only a few months later he disappeared for the first time. The disquieting memory reminded me why I’d brought Ronen up here in the first place.

  “But as lovely as the sight of the sea is, especially when the sun sets that patch of blue aflame, that is not why I come here.”

  “It’s not?” He shifted his perch and peered up at me, the breeze fingering the dark hair that had slipped from the knot at the back of his neck. I’d been drawn to this man eight years ago, when he was not that much older than Natan was now and I was nothing more than a terrified Philistine girl. But nothing had prepared me for the strong attraction that had only deepened since he’d reappeared in my life.

  Spending this last hour with him had done nothing to dispel that draw either. His singing voice had only become richer and more soul-stirring since the last time I’d heard it, and the way his fingers drew music from that ancient lyre had been nothing less than awe-inspiring. I’d been so captivated as he sang that I’d found myself leaning closer and closer, helpless to take my eyes away from his beautiful mouth. I’d barely managed to pull back before he opened his eyes and nearly caught me a handbreadth away.

  It was evident from the way he’d pulled that first lament from the hollow heart of the lyre that his own was still grieving the loss of his family. I’d felt a kinship with Ronen from the first time he’d mentioned losing his father to death and his mother to a new marriage, and I felt it only more deeply now that he’d given me a glimpse into how much he’d adored his older brothers as well. I could not imagine losing Gershom, Iyov, Yonah, or Shai to death—let alone my precious Natan. And even though there was something about Ronen’s cousin Machlon that made me apprehensive, I was glad that at least he’d had someone to walk beside him in the place where his brothers should have been.

  I realized that instead of finishing my thought, I’d been staring at him, all the reasons I’d had for arguing against the idea of marriage suddenly seeming insignificant. He’d come to my rescue a number of times, been extraordinarily kind to Natan, and understood what it was like to be grafted into a new family. And in addition to being remarkably talented, he made me feel like a new fountain of hope had broken through the protective layer I’d built around my heart.

  Pulse thumping so hard Ronen likely could see it fluttering in my throat, I broke the eye contact and had to remind myself what I’d been about to show him. With a deep breath to collect myself before I spoke, I lifted my hand to gesture south.

  “You’ll have to look closely,” I said, proud that my voice did not warble. “As I said, the leaf cover up here has grown thicker and the trees much taller since I found this place. But there is a grove of six cedars on that ridge. Do you see them? They stand taller than the rest.”

  “I do,” he said, shifting close enough that his shoulder now rested against my leg, sending my heartbeat into a dangerous gallop. “They must be very old from the reach of their branches.”

  “They are. From what my grandfather said, the Gibeonites who first settled this town named it Kiryat Ba’al in honor of their primary god. Some of their elders traveled north all the way to Sidon and collected saplings from an ancient cedar forest that, by their legends, had been sown by the gods at the beginning of time. They brought those trees here and planted a circular grove around the high place that was dedicated to the deities they revered.”

  “But why should ancient cedar trees, especially ones meant for such detestable purposes, give you a sense of peace?”

  “It’s not the trees,” I said, “although their presence is a good reminder of the reason why I am here on this mountain. It’s the tent that sits at the center of their circle.” I lowered my hand, pointing at the barest hint of brown and black that could be sighted through the branches. “And the golden box that resides within it.”

  A strangled gasp came from Ronen’s lips, and his face paled.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, remembering he would be aware of the boundaries preventing anyone from getting too close. “We are plenty far enough away. I’ve climbed this tree a thousand times over the years. Nothing has ever happened to me, other than a few splinters.”

  I did not mention that being able to see the resting place of the Ark with my own eyes gave me such a deep sense of security that I rarely went more than a day or two without coming up here, just to remind myself that I had no need to fear, that it was still there and had not been moved away.

  “Have you seen it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Not since that day,” I said, my cheeks heating, “when you carried me up the mountain on your back. My grandfather had the Ark put inside his own home until an appropriate covering could be prepared and a worthy platform built where, long ago, pagan worship was conducted on the high place.”

  “Why?” asked Ronen, a sharp edge to his voice. “Why would he put our most holy object on such defiled ground?”

  “He’d cleansed that place long ago, when he first came to this mountain and my father was young. Instead of a place of horrific sacrifices and disgusting rites, that ridge became a place where he would go alone to worship the One True God. It was bathed in the outpouring of his heart to Yahweh and consecrated by the words of Torah he recited aloud to keep his memory of the sacred truths fresh. But most of all, the reason he placed the Ark there was because of me.”

  Confusion swept over his features.

  “You see, Azuvah, the Hebrew slave who raised Natan and me, said only one thing the night that we fled Ashdod, just before she was murdered by my cousin because she refused to allow him to sell me to be used in the temple of Dagon.”

  His mouth went slack, and I knew he had questions, but I continued. “Knowing that she would not be able to follow us out the window, Azuvah told me that I must follow the Ark, without turning from the path, until it rested beneath the cedars and I was sheltered in perfect peace. The night you found me and I told Abinidab what she’d said, he knew exactly what Yahweh wanted: for the Ark to be taken to Kiryat-Yearim and to be placed within that grove of ancient cedars.”

  I turned my eyes back toward the place where only a glimpse of the tent could be seen through the trees. When I’d first found this place, I’d been able to see the entire outline of the shelter, woven with the finest wool and underlined with treated hides to ensure that the precious treasure would not be touched by the near-constant rains that characterized this time of year.

  “Why did Abinidab not keep it in his house?” Ronen asked. “Where it would be more protected?”

  “In addition to the
words he took as a prophecy, he felt that it was too dangerous to live in such close proximity to the Ark—especially after what happened to the Levites of Beth Shemesh. So, he charged my father with guarding over it out here, where the trees themselves surround the tent with protection from the elements and the thick underbrush keeps its location hidden. Even the Levites who are consecrated to guard the tent itself are told to take a different route every time they approach, so their feet do not press a path into the ground.”

  “Does your father know that you come here? To this tree?”

  I shook my head. “He knows I spend most of my time in the gardens, and that I enjoy my time alone there among the plants and flowers, but this is my own holy sanctuary where I come to speak to the God who led me to this mountain and to the shelter of peace and safety that is my family’s household. You . . .” I paused, my voice dropping into a near-whisper as embarrassment rolled over me like a wave. “You are the only person I’ve ever shared this secret place with.”

  Ronen did not respond, his eyes latched on the tent, and I cursed myself for revealing too much. He was probably overwhelmed by the torrent of revealing words that had gushed from my mouth—or annoyed by my obvious affection for him.

  The wind picked up, ruffling his hair again, and in the distance, I saw the flap of the tent part and for the space of only a heartbeat the sunlight reached inside and glinted against gold. He turned back to look up at me and, to my horror, all the earlier levity in his expression had been washed away by the overflow of my foolish heart.

  “We should go back down,” he said abruptly. “I promised I would help you finish those trees, and I have a few other things to attend to before evening falls.”

  “Of course. I should not have . . .” I stammered, then gave up attempting to smooth over my humiliation as I began my descent from the place that had always been my respite from tumultuous emotions before today.

  Once we were on the ground, Ronen picked up the satchel containing his precious lyre, slipped it over his shoulder, and walked back toward the garden, taking his lovely music and any absurd notions I’d briefly entertained with him.

  After one last glance over my shoulder in the direction of the cedar grove to remind myself that this mountain was indeed where I belonged for the rest of my days, I followed, my mind already back on my apple trees and all the work I had left to do before the sun went down. Ronen would leave soon, and eventually the memory of him and his beautiful voice would fade, but today, my family and the people of Kiryat-Yearim were counting on me.

  Thirty

  Ronen

  I strode off the ridge where the Levitical musicians had assembled to rehearse for Yom Teruah. A thunderstorm was building in the west, and Tuviyah had sent us to get the instruments under cover. Already the wind had picked up, but my own lyre was well protected by layers of oiled hide within my pack. I’d split away from the others and taken a roundabout path, needing to compose myself before heading back down to camp. A little cool rain might even do me some good. Finding a boulder to perch on that overlooked the valley, I heaved a sigh and scrubbed at my face.

  I had not felt so alive in years. Everything around me seemed brighter and fresher, and my blood was still singing after fully immersing myself in worship alongside my Levitical brethren for the very first time.

  And it was all thanks to Eliora.

  Although I’d still been reeling from her revelation—and what to do with the knowledge—the moment I’d returned to camp after finishing the apple harvest, I’d sought out Tuviyah.

  I thought perhaps he might turn me away, saying I’d waited too long to be included with the other lyre players during the ceremony tomorrow night. But instead, he’d accepted my offer with tears in his eyes.

  “I understood your grief, Ronen,” he’d said, “I loved your father like a brother. But I always knew one day you’d allow the music to flow again. It is too much a part of you to keep hidden. He would be so pleased.”

  And this morning, the music had indeed flowed from me. Although arguments over song selections, struggles over which instruments should lead, and quarrels over lyrics due to vastly divergent tribal dialects had led more than a few Levites from other territories to pack up their instruments and leave the mountain. But those who remained seemed to truly want to worship. Perhaps Tuviyah had performed a miracle after all.

  I knew the songs we were playing. Those that weren’t ancient had been composed by my own father, so instead of worrying about notes or timing, I’d closed my eyes and let the sounds of a hundred voices lifted in praise envelop me. I pressed into the words of adoration and supplication and found myself marveling over Yahweh’s goodness as I did so. My abba had once told me how when he was deep in the throes of composing a song he felt a sense of oneness with the Creator of words and music itself, and somehow today, in the midst of a hundred Levite voices with his words on my lips, I’d felt that same sense of wonder.

  However, the moment I’d seen Machlon peering at me from the other side of the choir, a frown on his face as he pounded out a simple rhythm on a hand drum, the euphoria brought on by my renewed passion for worship had been tarnished a small measure.

  Even though the words had been heavy on my tongue for the past few days, I still had not told him what Eliora had revealed. Each time I’d been close to sharing what I’d discovered, feeling guilt-ridden for withholding the very information I’d been sent to uncover, I saw her face. I heard the depth of compassion in her voice as she empathized with my grief. I saw the trust in her beautiful green eyes as she revealed her secret place to me and poured out her heart. And my resolve failed, over and over.

  Moving my attention to the north, where I had a fairly clear view of the place where her gardens were terraced on the mountainside, I searched for that oak tree we’d climbed. Just before she’d inadvertently spilled her secret in our hidden perch among those branches, I’d been wondering if there would ever be a way that Elazar might consider a potential match between myself and his daughter, regardless of my uncle’s opinion on the matter. But the moment she revealed the truth, I was reminded how futile such thoughts were, because I was in Kiryat-Yearim not just for the festival. I was there to lie, to steal, and to betray the woman who had given me back my love of music through nothing more than a listening ear and a few gentle words.

  In spite of the way my heart had soared during the rehearsal earlier, I was teetering over an abyss. On one side were my obligations to my uncle and my cousin, along with my desire for my mother and siblings to come home. And on the other, a woman I’d come to care for deeply in spite of everything and whose warm and welcoming family I’d secretly found myself wishing could be my own by marriage—yet another betrayal of my uncle’s trust in me.

  I shifted my seat on the rock and fixed my eyes near the summit of the mountain, in the place where Eliora had inadvertently delivered the Ark directly into my hands. Although I could not see the tops of the cedar trees from this distance, blending as they did with the rest of the thick woods, I was certain that were I in her garden I’d be able to walk straight to them. With only a few words I would accomplish my part of the mission and could leave the rest in the hands of the priests whose job it was to carry the Ark away. My uncle would be satisfied, my cousin would be proud, and events would be set in motion that would bring about justice for my father and brothers and open the way for the rest of my family to return.

  And I would leave behind a woman who never would know how close I’d been to choosing her instead.

  As if my divided thoughts had conjured him, Machlon appeared at my side.

  “There you are,” he said. “I thought I saw you wander off this way after the rehearsal ended. We need to go meet with the others.”

  “Who? Osher and Shelah?”

  “Yes, and a few more I’ve recruited over the past few days. Now that we have more men to help during the mission, we’ll need to adjust our strategy.”

  “How many more?” I asked.


  “A dozen or so, perhaps more,” he replied. “The musicians from Simeon and a few others who are disillusioned with the leadership in Kiryat-Yearim.”

  “And you trust these men?”

  “We have a common goal,” he said, his lips hardening into a flat line. “My father entrusted this mission to me, Ronen. I won’t jeopardize it by placing my trust in an unworthy man.”

  Again, that disquieting roiling in my stomach returned, making me feel like I was balancing on the edge of a cliff with a boulder in each hand.

  “No matter who is part of this, we must make certain the plan remains the same,” I said. “We tie and gag the guards while we move the Ark. No one gets hurt.”

  “Of course not,” he said, with a dismissive swipe of his palm.

  “Because after what happened to Eliora—”

  “And Osher feels terrible for that,” he said, his tone sincere as he placed his hand on my shoulder. “It was an accident. She was simply in their path at the wrong moment.”

  I had to admit that after hearing Eliora’s account of the night, it seemed it had only been unfortunate timing, but I still did not fully trust Osher or Shelah to remain levelheaded if plans went awry.

  “Speaking of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Machlon said, his face brightening suddenly, “do you remember just after you came to live with us and we snuck out of the house to follow my older brothers to that wedding banquet?”

  “Of course.” I laughed, remembering how stealthy we’d imagined ourselves, sneaking about in the shadows along the road. “Getting caught only an hour out of Beit El and being sent back by your irate brothers was certainly not among our finer moments.”

  “Too true,” he said, his brown eyes crinkling as he shook his head. “But you remember, don’t you, that I took the blame that day. Insisted it was entirely my idea to tag along with them.”

  “I do.”

  I’d been terrified of what Abiram might do when we’d shuffled back in the door with our tails tucked, since it had only been a few weeks since my mother had left me behind. But even though I’d been equally responsible for the ill-fated excursion, and just as curious about the banquet Machlon’s older brothers had been invited to by friendly Amorites in a neighboring village, Machlon had insisted that he’d practically dragged me with him and accepted the punishment for both of us that day.