The Lamp of Darkness - - (best finance books of all time TXT) 📗

“That is not mercy, it is desperation. You think only of yourself, not the child.”

“Then she will die? And my son?”

“So it will be.”

Yoav studied Father’s dying body, his blood raining onto the dry ground. “And what of me? Is my life forfeit for Yochanan’s?”

“Your future is in your own hands. You are a man of strength. Turn your strength inward, conquer your anger, and live.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then your greatest act of valor will be your last. King Tivni will die by your sword, but you will fall as well.”

“Quill,” Father said, his voice raspy. All eyes fell upon the kohen, kneeling in a puddle of his own blood. Uriel retrieved a quill and a scrap of parchment from Balaam’s saddlebag and steadied Father’s hand as well as he could, while Father dipped the quill into the ready pool of red dye at his feet and wrote. “Take,” he gasped, handing the scrap of parchment back to Uriel.

Uriel received the scrap and turned back to Yoav. “Yochanan is dying. Let me take his son to his brethren in Judah.”

Yoav lifted his eyes to Uriel, then turned at the sound of approaching horses. The two soldiers he’d sent after Father’s followers came to a stop behind him. Yoav straightened himself and faced Uriel, the tone of authority returning to his voice. “I have my duty. King Omri allows you to pass, but no one else.”

“Does your duty include killing children, or may he return to his family in Israel?”

Yoav eyed the two soldiers behind him, then turned back to the prophet. “King Omri is just. He does not desire the blood of children. He may return.”

“Shimon, take the child.” Uriel dropped his voice so that Shimon had to bend down to hear him. “Take him to his uncle in Levonah, Menachem ben Yitzchak.” But Uriel didn’t hand me to Shimon, he carried me back to Father. “It is time to say goodbye to your child, Yochanan Hakohen.”

I reached out. Father reached back, not to take me, but to lay his strong hands upon my head. Our eyes met as he blessed me for the last time. He kissed me on the forehead, leaving a small, crimson mark. At the same time, Uriel, whose body shielded me from the three soldiers, tucked the parchment into my garments.

I threw my arms around Father’s neck, not wanting to let go. Even with Uriel still supporting me, my weight was too much for the dying man. The pressure on his chest brought on heaving coughs, each one forcing his eyes closed. “Take him. Don’t let him see me die.”

Uriel tugged, but I screamed, refusing to release my grip on Father’s neck. Uriel pulled my hands apart, drew me away, and cradled me up to Shimon. Shimon placed me straddled on the horse in front of him, but struggled to keep me there as I writhed and screamed, reaching out for Father. “Hold him tighter,” Uriel said. Shimon wrapped a quivering arm around me, pulling me closer into his body, and pinned my arms to my side. “Now ride. He will calm down once we’re out of sight.”

“Wait!” Father called, holding out his knife. “Take this. It is his birthright.”

Uriel passed the knife up to Shimon. I pried one of my arms free and grabbed for it, but Shimon held it out of reach and tucked it into his belt. With a last command from Uriel to “Go!” Shimon kicked the horse, handling the reins in his left hand, my protesting body with his right.

Yoav turned to his two soldiers. “I’m going to follow him, make sure he doesn’t make another try for the border. Wait here until Yochanan dies.”

“And Uriel?” one of the soldiers asked.

“King Omri grants the prophets leave to go where they will.” Yoav kicked his horse to pursue Shimon, but as soon as he was out of sight of the others, he turned his horse and galloped toward Mitzpah.

I scowled, feeling no sympathy for my parents’ murderer. “He got what he deserved.”

Uriel’s cheeks were lined with wet tracks. “What he deserved? Perhaps. But could any of us survive in a world where we receive that which we deserve?”

“Wouldn’t that be justice?”

“Yes, it would. But when the Holy One created the world in strict justice, it could not stand. Where only judgment reigns, creation crumbles.”

“So Yoav lived because there’s no justice?”

“There is justice, but tempered with mercy. We stand on the merit of what could be and are not judged solely by what is.”

My fists clenched. “He killed my parents.”

“Indeed, and I cursed him for it.”

“So where was your mercy then?”

Shimon flinched at the question. This wasn’t the way to address my master, but at the moment I didn’t care.

Uriel held out his hands to me. “You must understand: we are all vessels for the light of the Holy One. As we expand mercy in ourselves, it expands in the world. So too the opposite. As we judge, judgment increases in the world, and we are often the first to endure its strictures.” Uriel dropped his hands and turned back to the fire.

The blaze had collapsed into a pile of glowing embers. In the silence, Uriel’s words held me. During Shimon’s tale, I’d been focused on myself, hardly noticing the prophet’s pain. I assumed Uriel cried for my father, his lost friend. But in the silence that followed, I began to understand.

Ovadia said two nights earlier that it was essential to rescue Uriel. Not because of what he could do, but because of what he’d been through—because of what he’d become. Had this been the transformation? Had Uriel grown from a vessel of strict judgment to one of mercy? Was this the reason that he, alone among the prophets, could heal a nation shattered by Eliyahu’s judgment?

I remembered Uriel’s words from earlier that week. “A curse brings pain without regard to who receives it. It falls upon the guilty and the innocent alike. Even the one who invokes the curse is not spared its destruction.”

Back at Shiloh, sitting with Zim the morning after the festival, I was shocked to learn that Uriel’s son served the Golden Calf his father despised. Didn’t Zim say he left his father’s path ten years ago, exactly when I lost my parents?

“Master?” I trembled. “When you cursed Yoav, were you judged as well?” The prophet’s composure broke as a sob shook his chest. “Indeed.” His head dropped between his knees, and he trembled with grief.

Shimon’s mouth stood agape—he must not have known this part of the story.

“At the same time that Yoav’s wife died, my wife left the world. By then, I had reached Jerusalem and did not know until I returned weeks later. My son was forced to bury his mother alone.”

Comprehension dawned on Shimon’s face. “That is why he left the Way and turned toward the Calf?”

“So he says. As you know, I spent my life traveling among the people. I was often away, and he resented it. He said that burying his mother alone was the final act that compelled him to leave my path. But even he does not know the full truth, that it was my curse that drove him from me.”

“But, Master,” I said, “You’re not from the family of priests that Yeravaum appointed to replace the kohanim, are you?”

Uriel shook his head.

Shimon explained, “This was during the Civil War. Remember what I told you about King Omri. He deliberated on the people’s reaction to each of his decisions. Having the son of the great prophet as his priest would increase his stature in the eyes of the nation and help him achieve the throne. When Omri learned that Master Uriel’s son Gershon had separated from his father, he moved quickly to offer him the position before King Tivni could win his loyalty.”

The prophet’s wail echoed from between his knees. “Three families destroyed on a single day!”