THE CHOSEN : The Youth: Historical Fiction (The Chosen Trilogy Book 1)

by Shlomo Kalo

  And if indeed they were late returning, the clear mountain air turning blue and cold, and the stars rising one after another in the firmament of the sky, the minister Naimel used to climb to the top of the hill near their home, standing there like a statue and looking out towards the forest in the valley, shrouded by night, from which they were expected to appear.

  And when they emerged from amid the last of the trees, Naimel would remain motionless, watching them as they approached. In those few, unique moments he could tell how deep was the minister’s relief at seeing them – at seeing him in particular.

  How he longed to please his father! How he delighted in his approval! He would urge on his piebald pony that did not know the meaning of fatigue, breaking into a proud and impetuous gallop and stopping right at his father’s feet, then dismount with an agile, majestic leap, all youthful high spirits, stand before him and pronounce a blessing:

  “Blessed be the day that has passed and the evening that has taken its place, by the grace of God!”

  For a moment the minister Naimel would focus on him his clear, percipient eyes, and in that split-second he sensed the strange, intoxicating vibration, of something that is beyond human comprehension, beyond the love of a father for his son, beyond everything that people are assiduous in defining, devoting to it all their wondrous songs and emotional anthems.

  “Praise be to God on High!” exclaimed the tall, statuesque patrician, always careful to hurt no one and fearing no man, and his whole being one single desire – to know the holy will of his God and perform it thoroughly. And then Naimel would approach her, pronounce the same benediction for her and say softly, as if it were an afterthought:

  “Supper is served – in the hall,” – meaning that her parents had been invited to dine with them that evening. And as all took their seats at the long, heavy table, there was something in the atmosphere that could be called a spirit of limitless harmony, a unity of fellowship that is the power whereby the world was created and the virtue whereby it continues to exist, the grace whereby anyone trying to undermine its foundations and destroy it will be subdued and utterly defeated.

  The two families dined at their ease, as the servants set out the victuals on the table, in their minds that sense of unbounded admiration which fills the heart with the will to do everything that is possible – and more, for the sake of the object of it. And the only one capable of inspiring this kind of admiration was none other than his father, the dauntless minister Naimel.

  He sensed this very same overwhelming flood of admiration, the same readiness to sacrifice everything for the sake of its object – in Adelain’s eyes.

  “You I strive to please my Father in Heaven and my God, and You alone! For it is You that serves as a bridge between me and my fellowmen, and without You and without Your love we are nothing but strangers to one another, dry fallen leaves, tossed by the wind!”

  Those evenings when they returned from riding in the fields and the forest, the valleys and the rocky summits, on paths unknown to the map-maker, wading through surging rivers, those youthful evenings when they dined with their parents, it was clear to all present, parents and children alike, that in the fullness of time the two families would be united, and he and she would perpetuate the holy tradition of those who love God. It was plain and self-evident to both the families, to him and to her and to all their relatives, and no one needed to raise the subject or debate it from any angle whatsoever, and it was superfluous to ask or to answer questions about it. Everyone was sure this was the holy will of God, and His will would be done.

  And this filled his heart with joy and inspired him with confidence – feelings that she shared, as did their parents and all their acquaintances.

  “Is this not a commitment?” he asked himself and answered with another question: “Is the connection of the hand to the body a commitment of the hand to be connected to it?”

  He laughed softly, a laugh that was all purity and freedom.

  “If the idea ever appeals to you,” Adelain began, her tone gentle and submissive – “come riding with me! There are fine horses in our stables, and bareback riding in the early morning on a sturdy young pony is a pleasure – to the steed, his rider and the whole world!”

  “Riding is indeed a pleasure,” he agreed – “but these days, I have obligations to the King.”

  “I think the King will gladly agree to whatever you ask!” – she expressed her firm conviction. “He loves horses and admires good horsemanship!”

  “Nevertheless,” he persisted, “I have to study and prepare myself for the King’s examination.”

  “If it ever does take your fancy…” and before she finished her sentence he completed it for her:

  “I’ll remember!”

  “I could sit here for fifty years at least!” she admitted, and her words were sincere – overwhelmingly, painfully so.

  “If that is God’s will!” he commented, not referring to her words.

  “I am the handmaid of God!” she declared warmly and in a quaking voice she added: “Your God, that is, and your God will do with me as He pleases!” And suddenly she tensed and exclaimed: “The minister Or-Nego is waiting for us! He’ll be worried sick, wondering where we are!”

  “Let’s go and calm his fears and soothe his anxiety!” he urged playfully, rising from his seat and stepping forward.

  He did not notice her white hand, searching for his hand and left hanging in the air.

  Or-Nego was sitting on a bench opposite the entry door to the young men’s lodgings, perusing some tablets borrowed from the library.

  They saw him from some distance away, as the footpath descended gently towards that low and extensive building in which the young foreigners were quartered.

  “As regards my father’s attitude towards you,” – for some reason Adelain was whispering, leaning towards him slightly so that the fragrance of her breath assailed his nostrils – “it’s rather complicated: enthusiastic on the one hand, servile on the other. He holds you in the highest possible esteem, and his admiration for you is measureless! I don’t think that here, within the far-flung boundaries of Babylon you will find a single person… or just one perhaps,” – she corrected herself – “who would worship you as my father worships you. He would be ready, as the local saying has it, to put both his hands in the fire for you!”

  “Your father is a warm-hearted man and from the start he came into the world only to long for God and to yearn for Him, and I have no doubt that he’s a man of faith and his faith is true and he loves God, and in the end he will worship his God with all his heart and all his might, and all his soul and all his mind!”

  “It seems it is as you say,” – she answered him, surprised and impressed for some reason, and skipping half a pace ahead of him, she turned to face him and studied his eyes with that strange gaze of hers, a blend of utter self-negation and submissiveness bordering on the abject.

  “Aren’t you cold?” he asked, pointing to her light clothing.

  “If you’re not cold,” she retorted, pointing in her turn at his clothing, which was also on the light side – “why should I be?”

  He smiled and asked instead of answering:

  “Are all your seasons in this country as pleasant and as warm as this?”

  “As a general rule – yes!” she answered him and added with dignity: “Were it not for the Euphrates and the Tigris, the whole of our land would be nothing but desert, a sea of sand, an arid waste, a haunt of buzzards and vultures but not of human beings!”

  “It is a blessing from God, and we may suppose that many Babylonians believe in Him!”

  “Many indeed,” she retorted – “but those of true faith are very few!”

  They approached Or-Nego, still engrossed in his tablets.

  Or-Nego recognised their footsteps, light as they were, and he laid aside his tablets, turned his head and when he saw them, rose to his feet and took a step towards them, unable to conceal his excitement. His
tanned, sincere features glowed with a rapture that could be neither repressed nor blunted, and he almost spread his arms to embrace them but thought better of it at the last moment. He stood his ground and tried, not without some effort, to assume an expression of dignity and restraint.

  “You disappeared!” he exclaimed, and that unalloyed, radiant happiness sparkled once again in his eyes and swept across his face with its fringe of soft, chestnut-brown beard. “I wasn’t worried!” he declared, adding: “As far as I’m concerned, you could have come back at sunset! I found something very interesting to read,” he explained – “about horses and methods of training them. Our ancient patriarchs are of the opinion that it was the horse that first approached mankind, and not the other way round… God sent him to Adam to console him in his dejection following his departure from the Garden of Eden! An astonishing notion and a very interesting one,” he declared. “Speaking for myself, I have no doubt it’s the truth!”

  “Bearing in mind that God is love,” he commented after a vigorous handshake, “it naturally follows that He would seek to console mankind, the same mankind that rebelled against Him and defied Him, cast doubt on His truth and no longer wanted to stay in His company!”

  “Is that the way you people interpret that ancient story of the departure from Eden?” Or-Nego asked with great interest, and Adelain turned to him again and fixed on him her subservient eyes, blind to all her surroundings save him.

  “Not all of us,” he retorted.

  “A minority then?” – Or-Nego asked with a note of mild regret; the interpretation that he had just heard from the young man appealed to him much more than the official, institutional version, which spoke of expulsion and not of voluntary departure.

  “A minority,” he agreed.

  “Very few earn His grace, to see the truth in the Holy Spirit!” declared Or-Nego.

  He did not respond.

  “With his permission,” Or-Nego resumed, “let us go to his room. I have something to give him and Adelain, my daughter, also has a modest gift for him.”

  “I wish we could converse in a less formal style!” he insisted.

  “If that is your explicit preference, then so be it!” – Or-Nego smiled broadly once again, picked up the bundle of tablets and strode towards the door of the accommodation building. He was wearing a robe of pale grey fabric with a deep fringe of gold braid. Over the robe he wore a long, light tunic of well tanned leather, the colour of honey, and from the belt of his robe hung a curved sword in a black scabbard. The hilt of the sword was solid silver, the pommel a big red stone. His shoes were of leather, the same colour as the tunic, and laced with a triple golden thread.

  Hananiah was waiting for him in his room, but seeing Or-Nego arriving with his daughter, he acknowledged them with a bow and left.

  “This scroll was given to me by a fellow officer who happened to be in the lower tannery works on the Euphrates!” – Or-Nego held out a small scroll, tied with a thread of straw.

  He took the scroll, crossed the room to the window overlooking the royal gardens, untied the thread, opened the scroll and read:

  In the name of God, make haste my most merciful master and rescue me from this accursed place, where I spend my days in backbreaking labour, toiling at a trade for which I have no aptitude! I acknowledge, it is for my arrogance and deceit that the Lord is punishing me and this is why I have fallen into this dark place of slavery, where the regime is harsh and the punishments grievous, where the spirit is deranged and the body wearied beyond endurance, both by the hard labour, and by the whips and scourges of overseers who delight in our pain. In the name of the Lord our God, help me, my young master!

  In utter dejection, the eternally grateful, Gershon.

  As he rolled the scroll again, a grim look on his face, Or-Nego commented:

  “My friend is obliged to return to these places tomorrow, and he will perform any errand that you may ask of him!”

  “Can he take a reply to the writer of this scroll, and a few coins?”

  “By all means!”

  He took a pen and wrote on a parchment scroll:

  Patience! God never abandons one who turns to Him in humility of heart, as it is written: The Lord is near to all who call upon Him, who call upon Him in truth. Enclosed are a few shekels. God bless you!

  He signed his name, added the date, rolled and tied the scroll, took the purse which the King had ordered he be given after the race, and gave the scroll and the purse to Or-Nego.

  “I shall be grateful if your friend can give these to the man who entrusted the scroll to him.”

  “I foresee no difficulty there!” Or-Nego replied. “The writer of the scroll was sure he was going to have an answer, and he told my friend he would be waiting.”

  “And thank you again, Or-Nego. Thank you and thank your friend!”

  “It was the very least I could do!” the officer retorted, sounding surprised and almost offended. “As for the race yesterday,” – his voice shook with emotion that he was unable to restrain – “for as long as I can remember I never expected to see anything like it! In my mind there’s not the slightest doubt that God has showered His favours on you!”

  “If only I were worthy of it!” he replied rather wistfully.

  “I shall return these tablets to the librarian and come back to collect Adelain – if that is agreeable to the pair of you!”

  “Most agreeable!” declared Adelain with feeling, adding: “I’m not sure that our hearts can stand much more happiness than what has already been granted us today. So hurry back, my lord and father!”

  “I shall see you shortly!” – the officer bowed low, and he returned his bow.

  “And here is the modest gift that my Lord and father was kind enough to mention,” – she turned to him after Or-Nego had left the room, took out a small package, untied the ribbon and opened it before him.

  On the soft fabric, coloured deep blue, with running horses embroidered in gold thread, the work of a skilled craftsman, lay a pair of stirrups made of solid gold.

  “These are the stirrups that I received the year that I came of age. They have brought me joy and happiness, as they symbolise my freedom and my independence, and if you consent to accept them, then this joy and happiness will go far beyond the joy and happiness that are the lot of humankind!” Her voice trembled with emotion, her eyes fixed despairingly on his, pleading with him to accept the gift, and not send her away disappointed.

  He understood at once that his refusal to accept would hurt her deeply, and hurt her father too, the good and the loyal Or-Nego.

  “They look so perfect in their design, and your joy and your happiness are reflected in every smallest particle of them. All that is left for me is to thank you for the gift and promise you it will be put to good use.”

  “Take care of them, Belteshazzar!” she cried, her lips contorted. She was on the point of breaking down completely, and her efforts to control the tremor of her treacherous voice and the impending tears were to no avail. She abandoned the attempt and tears filled her lovely eyes and streamed down her high-boned, alabaster cheeks, until he was compelled to offer her a clean linen cloth that was meant to be a head-covering.

  She wiped away her tears, wiped again, then folded the cloth, put it to her breast and held it there a long time, silent, eyes staring at the floor, and finally said:

  “And this I shall take with me!” – and without another word she kissed his hand and ran from the room, calling from outside: “I shall meet my father on the way. Peace be with you Belteshazzar, my master!”

  Gershon

  He looked for Denur-Shag and found him, as he expected, in the hall of the library, where he was studying a tattered and crumbled scroll dealing with the rules of sowing and harvest in ancient Ur of the Chaldees.

  “I have something to ask you,” he announced after the customary exchange of felicitations.

  “You mean to ask me,” Denur-Shag deduced astutely – “if I am able a
nd willing to turn aside from this important research that I am conducting into the ways of my forebears who by chance – not an altogether happy one – were your forebears too, and give my attention to whatever you have to say!

  “It is worth knowing,” – Denur-Shag leaned back in his chair with its upholstery of deer-skin stuffed with straw – “that the patriarch of your extraordinary nation was a Chaldean, like me and all my compatriots, from the fish-sellers in the Sunday market to King Nebuchadnezzar himself, the valiant and the wise, conqueror of the world. But in him, in that ancestor of your exceptional race, some change came about and his ears, unlike the ears of those I have mentioned, myself included, were opened. And he heard the Voice. Yes, the Voice of God. No other voice exists to be heard! All other voices are just incoherent babble, a variety of illusion, issuing from the lips of those who are engrossed in their dream, from which they are not easily awakened, a dream that is all too often a nightmare!

  “He succeeded anyway, the patriarch of your peculiar race, in waking from the nightmare and hearing the Voice. And the Voice did not commend him for the ability that he demonstrated to awaken from that dreadful dream, since in the final analysis, such an awakening comes only through the explicit grace of the One whose Voice it is. Did you not know this?” – Denur-Shag asked for his corroboration and he nodded his assent, surprised and inexplicably happy to the very roots of his soul.

  “A holy truth!” cried Denur-Shag, holding a finger up before his face to emphasise his words, and adding with all the earnest weight that he could muster, like a lecturer addressing an audience thirsty for knowledge:

  “Without His emphatic mercies and His explicit grace, all the dreamers of this dream, innumerable as they are, would be swept into the maw of a certain volcano, known in your language, the so-called ‘Holy Tongue’ – as ‘Gehenna’ or ‘deepest Sheol’ or even ‘Tofta’ if Aramaic expressions are acceptable.