CHAPTER 1

For Chana,

whose patience

was tried

many a time

by my six years of writing,

but who stuck by me

anyway

with undying support.

It wouldn’t have happened without you.

Acknowledgements

As a reader, I always marveled at how many people were mentioned in the acknowledgements of books. After all, writing a book seems like such a lone undertaking. As a writer, I’m struck by the huge number of people who played a role in making this book come about. First of all, both Mike and I want to thank our wives Chana and Karen for supporting us throughout. My son Aryeh Lev, with his love of stories and desire to deepen his understanding, was a constant source of motivation. And of course our parents, without whom, none of this would have happened.

The origins of this book go back to when I was learning the books of the early prophets with Rabbi Aaron Liebowitz and studying the inner workings of prophecy with Rabbi Yaakov Moshe Pupko, both at Sulam Yaakov in Jerusalem. Most of this book was written within the walls of Sulam Yaakov, and I’d like to acknowledge the entire crew there, specifically Rabbi Daniel Kohn, whose teachings have been crucial to the development of our understanding of many key points in the book, and David Swidler, whose encyclopedic mind filled in many a random fact.

I’d like to thank Barnea Levi Selavan of Foundation Stone for helping us understand the historical context, Yigal Levin of Bar Ilan University for helping us identify the ancient city of Levonah, and Shoshana Harrari of Harrari Harps for teaching us about Biblical instruments.

Thank you to our editors, Shifrah Devorah Witt, who edited an early draft of the book, and Rebbetzin Yehudis Golshevsky who edited the final two drafts.

I’m incredibly indebted to the dozens of readers who offered comments, corrections, and direction over the years. I can’t come close to mentioning them all. But I have to give special mention to: Rabbi Joshua Weisberg, Chaya Lester, Eliezer Israel, Michelle Cahn, Leia Weil, Beth Shapiro, Hadas and Gidon Melmed, Moshe Newman, David Shaffer, Jen Bell Hillel, Rachel Winner, Rabbi David Sperling, Rabbi David Fink, Eitan Press, Josh Fleet, Diana Maryon, and my uncle Sam Firestone.

Thank you all.

Two quick notes before you start reading:

1) We’ve created an introductory video for anyone who would like more background regarding the world you’re about to enter, available at TheAgeofProphecy.com/video.

This video can be viewed at any time. It’s not necessary to watch it before beginning. You’ll also find both written and video notes on the website providing sources for ideas discussed in the book and deeper insights into key concepts.

2) We are constantly striving to improve the quality of our work as well as the readers’ experience. The current publishing revolution not only provides authors previously unknown flexibility, but also allows readers to play a prominent role in the writing process. Accordingly, we’ve put a feedback form on our site at TheAgeofProphecy.com/feedback.

If there is a specific element for which you’d like us to provide an explanatory video, or if there’s a passage that you find confusing, or if you find (heaven forbid) a typo, please let us know.

Hillel said: If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And when I am for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?

Pirkei Avot 1:14

1

A Shepherd’s Inheritance

578 Years After the Exodus

The day before I was taken from my home, I grazed my uncle’s flock on a hillside overlooking the gates of Levonah. Sheltered from the early summer heat beneath a gnarled fig tree, I strummed my kinnor, the small harp that was my only valuable possession, while keeping one eye on the sheep and the other on the travelers approaching the town gates for market day.

This was before the breakout of war, when anyone could safely walk the King’s Road, regardless of their loyalties. Few travelers spared a glance for the young shepherd boy, and none stopped to talk until Seguv stepped off the shimmering road in early afternoon, leading his donkey up to my perch on the hillside. Seguv was only a few years older than me and spent half his time traveling the Kingdom with his brothers, selling their father’s dates from their estate along the Jordan River. They came to Levonah three or four times a year, but that day was the first time I ever saw Seguv alone. He approached me with a bounce in his step that told of news.

The sheep bleated—strangers spooked them. Seguv barely noticed. He untied one of his saddlebags and rummaged through a thick cushion of flax until he produced a tiny clay bottle. Its dust-colored exterior disguised the treasure within. His eyes sparkled.

“Is that it?” I asked, my eyes reaching toward the vial.

Seguv nodded.

I leapt to my feet. “Put just a drop my hands. I want to feel it.”

With a sly grin, he pulled the flask away. “A drop of this is worth more than one of your reeking sheep, and it would be worth my head if the King found out. I’ll let you smell it only.”

I reached out to take the bottle, but Seguv tightened his grip. Only when I dropped my hands, did he uncork it and hold it under my nose. The essence flooded my senses, overwhelming the smell of dry grass and stone with the sweetness of wildflowers. I closed my eyes and inhaled. Deeper notes of the scent—mineral, earth, spice—unfolded just as Seguv pulled the flask away. A hot breeze carried the sheep odor back under the tree, and I opened my eyes, confused. “If it’s so precious, why are you carrying it?”

Seguv’s eyes widened, “My father wants the first batch to go directly to the King.”

“But why are you taking it?” The roads were safe, and had been ever since the last civil war ended, years ago. Even so, who would send a kingly tribute with a boy selling dates, even if he was of age?

I could tell from the way he smiled, with his tongue flitting between his teeth, that he was waiting for me to ask. “It’s early.” He raised his thick, dark eyebrows. “This is the first batch of afarsimon oil ever produced in the Kingdom. The King isn’t even expecting a crop this year. My father says there’s no better time for my first appearance in Court.”

Only the most important men in Levonah ever went to the King’s Court—I’d never heard of a fourteen-year-old going to Court on his own. But of course, no family in Levonah was as prominent as Seguv’s was. “So that’s why you’re making the trip alone?”

“Hmm?” Seguv was hardly listening; his attention was focused on packing his precious cargo deep into its flax nest in his saddlebag.

“Is that why you’re making the trip without your brothers? To win the favor of the Court?”

“Oh.” Seguv closed the saddlebag, his hands fumbling with the straps. “I forgot you didn’t know.” His breath seeped out of him. “We lost Aviram a few months ago, and now Onan is too sick to travel.”

Aviram’s laughing face rose in my mind. Gone? I couldn’t help but ask, “What happened?”

Seguv’s teary eyes rose to meet mine. “It’s the waters in Jericho.” His chest swelled and collapsed in short bursts. “Many have died from them, but father says it won’t stop the rebuilding.”

Seguv tied off the last strap of the saddlebag as a fiery gust blew off the hillside, rustling the broad, handlike leaves of the fig tree. I wanted to comfort him but feared saying the wrong thing. Who knew better than me how easily a misplaced word could hurt? I reached instead for my kinnor—music had soothed my own heart so many times. I lowered my eyelids and quieted my mind. A slow breath filled my chest, and my fingertips found a nigun. I plucked the notes gently, passing through the simple melody a few times, and then opened my eyes—it was all I could offer.

The music filled the emptiness between us, its notes softening the silence under the tree. Seguv’s head dropped forward as one, two droplets darkened the dry soil at his feet. With a hitch in his breath, he mumbled, “Thank you,” and picked his way down the slope, drawing his donkey toward the town’s gate.

“Go in peace,” I called after him, then added, too quietly for him to hear, “and may the Holy One protect you from the waters of Jericho.”

I closed my eyes back into the melody, playing it louder now. Although it was impossible, I hoped that Seguv could feel the song even in Levonah and that it would bring him comfort there. Like a river, the notes flowed from my kinnor as my fingers swirled across the strings. The repetitive melody and the heat of the day settled down on me, on the road, on the sheep—like a dream.

I was still playing, when a feeling came upon me, a tingling across my back. I had felt this same pricking of warning two moons earlier when a lion stalked the flock in the early morning. Had I responded right away with sling and stones, I might have fought her off. But I had dismissed the feeling—the sheep were quiet. When the lion pounced, I was too late to keep her from making off with one of the lambs.

My back tensed up with the certain knowledge that something was behind me, but I didn’t open my eyes or stop playing. The first moment of facing danger was the most important. If only I could identify the threat, I’d gain some advantage. It couldn’t be a lion this time—lions almost never hunt at midday. And one wouldn’t come this close to the road, certainly not on market day.

I opened my eyes and spun quickly around, hoping to at least catch whatever it was by surprise. There was something there…someone there. I almost laughed when I saw that it was just an old man standing on the other side of the fig tree, swaying gently with his eyes closed. The heavy gray eyebrows, broad forehead, and deep wrinkles mapping his weathered face signaled nothing but calm. He held his staff as if it were an extension of his hand, a sure sign that he had walked many a path. Even at some distance, he appeared so very tall.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I hadn’t seen the old man step off the road, nor heard any bleating from the flock. Where had he come from, and why was he standing there? Travelers walked quickly, their eyes on the road, rarely returning greetings with more than a glance and a nod. Even the ones I could persuade to share stories of their travels departed before the final words of their tales left their lips. But this white-haired stranger just stood there, swaying. The pricking in my back intensified. Had he stopped to listen to the music? I silenced the strings with the palm of my hand.

The old man stopped swaying and locked his gray-blue eyes onto mine. My chest tightened, shortening my breath. I saw no danger, but the ominous feeling built, like an old memory trying to force itself to the surface. My gaze escaped his hold and found a nearby ewe gnawing a clump of thistle from its wool. I knelt beside the creature and worked at the thistle until the old man stepped back toward the road.

He had left easily enough, but the tight fist in my stomach remained. I just knew that he would return—and return he did. By the time the old man emerged from the town gates, the sun was edging down in the west. He was followed close at heels by a young couple from town. His gaze found the flock first, then narrowed in on me. Our eyes met, and even from a distance I knew: he was coming for me.

The couple remained behind as he scaled the rise up to me. I knew neither of them well, but I would never forget their wedding a month before. The bride’s father hired me to perform, the first payment I ever received for playing my kinnor. They stood beneath their wedding canopy, nervous, joyous energy on their faces. Now they stood like stone markers at the edge of the road, huddled and still, waiting.

The sleeve of the old man’s linen cloak whispered as he gestured at the trunk of the fig tree, silently indicating his intention to join me. My stomach clenched in dread, but this was common land—I could hardly protest. My fingers kept on with their melody as if moving of their own volition. A cold unease filled me.

He sat down slowly but smoothly—not like the old men of Levonah, whose knees creaked and faces groaned when they lowered themselves to the ground. Once settled, he took a long and penetrating look at me—as if judging my merit. He then nodded in my direction, silently commanding me to go on with the music. Were it not for the couple watching from below and my strange disquiet, I might have thought he sought out the shade for a late afternoon nap. His head sank between his bent knees. He was perfectly still.

A butterfly came to rest on his motionless elbow, extending and retracting its black and orange wings. I played on in the still air, waiting for a sign from him, not knowing how long I played or even why. The butterfly took flight in a flash of fiery orange as the old man shuddered and a charge filled the air. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. He trembled for what seemed an age. Was he in some small fit? Should I stop playing? My fingers kept plucking the strings of their own accord while my thoughts spiraled, like dust blown in an eddy. My fingernail caught on a string of my kinnor, slicing it in two.

Just as abruptly as the shuddering began, the old man stilled again. The back that seemed bent over in an impossible curve slowly straightened. Without a word, the stranger unfolded from his position to an impressive height. He raised his aged hand and crooked a finger toward the couple. “Come.”

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