To Dwell among Cedars

by Connilyn Cossette

  “Risi! Where are you?” Natan’s voice filtered through the canopy of branches under which Ronen and I had been talking, bringing me back from the wandering path my thoughts had been traveling.

  I flushed, realizing how it might look that we’d been secreting away alone and slipped out from under the tree, doing my best to appear unruffled as I brushed a few stray leaves from my tunic. Hopefully, Ronen would pause before emerging as well.

  Thankfully, Natan’s back was to me as he called my name again, so I slipped around a neighboring tree, coming from an entirely different direction.

  “There you are. Iyov just came to collect me. An oak fell across the main path up from Kiryat-Yearim. With the ground so soft after the rains, he said it just toppled over, roots and all. I need to go help clear it.”

  I put my fists on my hips, peering at him with pursed lips. “I think you are just trying to avoid picking more apples.”

  His brown and green eyes sparkled, the sight causing a small bubble of hope to burst open inside my chest. “It could be,” he said. “I am certainly not brokenhearted to trade my harvesting basket for my ax.”

  I chuckled. “Go on, then. At least I have a few others to help me today. But do not think that you’ve escaped the harvest completely.” I pinned a playful gaze on him.

  “Nor your music lesson,” said Ronen, who’d appeared at my side. He gestured to a leather pack on the ground nearby. “I hefted my lyre all the way up the mountain just so I could teach you a few notes.”

  “Why don’t you teach Risi instead?” said Natan. “She’d probably learn it so fast she’d outshine you in a day or two. It’s her way.”

  An odd statement. He’d never said anything so generous about me before, at least in my hearing. Ronen turned to me with brows raised, and I recognized challenge in his expression. I took all too much pleasure in the teasing grin.

  “I have far too much to do today,” I said, sweeping my hand in a half-circle.

  “No one will perish if you take a few moments to rest,” said Natan. “You work harder than practically anyone else on this mountain.”

  I was stunned. This was the second time my brother had praised me this morning. Had his brief time with Ronen out at the olive grove yesterday had such an effect on him already?

  “I agree,” said Ronen. “I’ll help you finish up the tree you are working on, and then we’ll find some shade, sample a few more of these delicious Naftali apples, and I’ll teach you to play.”

  With a wave, Natan walked off, and I watched him go, noting the way his shoulders did not seem to droop as much as they had before Ronen took an interest in him. How would I ever repay this man for his kindness?

  “All right,” I said, resigning myself for Natan’s sake. “But we cannot waste too much time.” I pointed to the twelve other trees that made up my small apple orchard. “We have all those to harvest before it rains again.” They were finally bearing fruit after years of failing to bloom, following their grafting. They were so prolific, in fact, that some of the boughs dragged on the ground. I could not wait to send basketfuls of this bounty down to the people in Kiryat-Yearim.

  “I am ever at your service,” said Ronen, with a little bow and a palm to his heart. “Let’s finish your tree, and then I’ll show you my most treasured possession.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Ronen

  We sat in the shade of a sprawling oak, and I slid the lyre from the leather satchel that had been specifically crafted by my great-grandfather to replace the one that had disintegrated over time. I unwrapped the thick layers of linen and wool, holding my breath as I briefly inspected the wood to ensure no cracks marred the priceless instrument. Satisfied that it remained intact, I exhaled in relief.

  “This,” I said, as I smoothed my hand over the body of the seven-stringed lyre, “is nearly four hundred years old.”

  Eliora’s eyes went wide as she took in the shine of the well-oiled rosewood on the ancient lyre. “How?” she breathed out in amazement.

  “It has been passed down, generation to generation, since the time of Mosheh. And in fact, if the stories are true, it was actually built during the flight from Egypt.”

  “How is that possible? Wasn’t it too chaotic then, to craft such an instrument? Azuvah told me about the way Pharaoh pursued your people and the crossing of the Red Sea.”

  “I don’t know. But the legend that has been passed along with the lyre is that one of my distant Levite ancestors made this for the woman he married, an Egyptian.”

  It had been years since I’d thought of the way my father had told me stories of the Great Exodus, his knack for describing detail so enthralling that I could envision myself traveling along with the slaves of Egypt, cowering with the Red Sea at my back, my tongue clinging to the roof of my mouth while standing before the bitter waters at Meribah, and falling to my knees before the shekinah that engulfed the Mountain of Adonai in flames and swirling smoke of every color.

  “An Egyptian?” Eliora repeated, studying my face so closely that I wondered whether she was searching for distant echoes of Egypt in the shape of my face. My mother had told me many times that there was a regal cut to my cheekbones that whispered of my father’s ancient heritage.

  “Indeed. The woman was a slave who went with the Hebrews when they escaped after the night of firstborn deaths. She turned her back on her Pharaoh and her gods to follow Mosheh, and therefore Yahweh, into the desert.”

  “What inspired her to do that?”

  “Many of the details of who they were and how they came to be joined along the way have been lost, along with their names, but this remains as a lasting testament to his love for her.” I slid my fingers over the goat-gut strings. As an instrument builder myself, I knew the mastery involved in designing one that had lasted so long. My forefather had known his craft well, and even now the detail was exquisite.

  “Look here,” I said, my finger tracing down the length of one arm of the lyre. “Time has softened the once sharp etchings, and after so many years of oiling and polishing, most of the paint that once covered the surface is gone, but you can still see the original design.”

  On the body of the instrument there were two birds, swallows with their beaks parted in song, and down both arms of the instrument were long vines entwined with lotus blooms. About half of the lotus flowers retained blue paint in their deepest grooves, and one of the sparrows looked to have once been painted black or brown, perhaps with hints of yellow and red. I could imagine how vibrant it all must have been when the artist had only just completed the masterpiece.

  Eliora scooted closer to examine the instrument. The sweet apple fragrance of her breath filled the space between us, and my pulse reacted to her nearness.

  I’d chosen to stay when Natan left, knowing that the decision was born purely of the desire to be close to her for just a little while longer. Listening to her explain about grafting wild branches had been fascinating enough, but when she connected the process to her own adoption into Elazar’s family and being joined to the established root of Avraham, I’d realized just how ensnared I was by everything about her. The temptation to collapse the remaining distance between us now and see if she might allow me to taste her lips was undeniable. However, I did not want to frighten her. This quiet moment alone—no family, no mission, no Ark—was too precious to endanger.

  So, for now, and if only for today, I would pretend that I was here in Kiryat-Yearim solely for her. Pretend that when I left, she wouldn’t still be here on the mountain, mourning my betrayal. Pretend that the declaration of love carved into this lyre was made by my own hands and not those of my distant forefather.

  “May I?” she asked, her fingers hovering over the lyre.

  “Of course,” I said, then shifted the instrument to her lap with the same care as I might transfer a newborn babe to her arms—a thought I forced away as suddenly as it came to me. She would be a mother someday, and a perfect one at that, but there was no use in imaginin
g a future for the two of us that would never be.

  With gentle reverence, Eliora’s finger barely touched the silken surface, one that I had spent many hours polishing with a soft oiled cloth to maintain its sheen. “Why bring it with you,” she asked, “when it surely would be safer at your home in Beit El?”

  “It was always my father’s greatest joy to play this lyre during worship at the Mishkan.” I paused to take a deep breath and swallow the pain of the memories. “Even if I am not playing with the others during the ceremony, I just could not leave it behind. Besides, when it is not with me, it is kept under guard with the rest of the priceless instruments we brought with us.”

  Perhaps it had been foolish to bring it all the way here to Kiryat-Yearim when my job was to maintain the Levitical instruments, not play them. And my true purpose here had nothing at all to do with music, but the compulsion to keep it with me had been too overwhelming to ignore.

  She held out the lyre to me. “Will you play me something?”

  A discordant pang hit my chest, and I lifted my palms. “No, I’m here to teach you.”

  She looked stricken by my refusal. “But why not?”

  “It has been a long time,” I said, scrambling for an excuse. “My fingers have lost their calluses.”

  “Please,” she said, the arch of her delicate brows pleading. “I remember the song you sang at Beth Shemesh about the shepherd boy and the stars. It was so lovely. I . . .” She paused, her lashes fluttering. “Whenever I’ve thought of you since then, I always imagined you playing music and singing. . . .” Her voice dissipated as a flush of pink rose on her cheeks.

  My chest expanded with almost painful swiftness. She’d thought of me over these years? Held on to the words of a song that I could not even remember myself?

  When she pressed the lyre into my hands a second time, I did not refuse. How could I after such a revelation, especially when she was looking at me with such wide-eyed anticipation?

  I was not lying when I said that it had been a long time since I’d played with any frequency. I taught the younger Levites, of course, demonstrating correct techniques or musical patterns, and strumming various chords to ensure that strings were properly adjusted whenever I was conducting repairs, but taking the time to simply lose myself in the interplay of notes and words . . . it had been years. My palms began to sweat as I fiddled with the knobs drilled into the crossbar for a few moments, plucking strings and tuning them to my satisfaction, while I wondered if my rusty skills would compare to whatever she’d built up in her mind.

  Left without any further excuse for delay, I strummed my fingers across all seven strings, the action so evocative of memories of my father that I knew exactly which song I would play for her—one he’d composed when I was just a boy and that I’d begged to hear nearly every evening.

  Although I did not sing as I played, the words moved through my mind like the unwinding of a scroll. Many of the songs the Levites had sung in the Mishkan had been written by my father, his adoration of Yahweh so consuming that lyrics extolling his greatness poured from his soul like a constant stream. In fact, part of the reason I’d avoided joining in the practices for the Yom Teruah ceremony was because it hurt too much.

  But as I played for Eliora, the edges weren’t as jagged as they’d been in the past. Instead of focusing on the loss of my father, I concentrated on the melody he’d created, letting my fingers pull the beauty from the lyre purely for the sake of pleasing her.

  When the last note trembled away, I realized that I’d closed my eyes at some point, my hands knowing their duty even after all this time, and I lifted my gaze to find Eliora’s palm over her mouth and tears on her cheeks.

  “Ronen . . .” she whispered.

  Overcome by her reaction, I gave in to the compulsion to share the truth with her. “My father wrote it.”

  She nodded slowly, seeming to understand every emotion such a simple statement stirred within me, then lifted a gentle smile that was like a healing balm over the raw places in my heart. “Play me another. One you wrote.”

  I could deny her nothing.

  This time I pushed aside my trepidations and sang as well, letting my voice fill in the gaps where my fingers were inadequate and finding a fresh burst of inspiration from the presence of the green-eyed woman at my side to add another few lines about Yahweh’s glory illuminating the canopy of leaves above us. By the time I finished, all the sorrow dredged up by the first song had been laid to rest, and my fingers itched to continue. A compulsion I’d not experienced in a very, very long time.

  “Yahweh has given you a gift like nothing I’ve ever heard,” she said. “How can you have gone so long without using it? If I could play like you, or sing like that, I would never stop lifting my voice to the Most High.”

  The answer was a complicated one. I’d never consciously stopped playing, or even creating new songs, but over time the desire had simply withered away. The longer I’d lived with Abiram and his family, and the more entangled I’d gotten with his plans for the Ark and the priesthood, the less compelled I’d felt to indulge in such pursuits.

  “Were your brothers songwriters too?” she asked, then flinched, no doubt realizing that such a question might reopen wounds.

  But I answered without hesitation. “No. The eldest, Yehud, was a leader of the percussionists. He loved banging on drums.” I smiled, remembering how he used to pound away during celebrations until sweat coated his face and the dancers could barely keep up with his rhythms. “And Michael was the one who taught me instrument building, a skill he’d learned directly from our grandfather. He could play many instruments with dexterity but had little interest in performing.”

  “So you alone followed in the footsteps of your father,” she said. “He must have been so proud.”

  The stark realization landed on me like a boulder from the sky. No. He would not be proud. I’d not spent the last eight years crafting new songs to praise Yahweh as he had, nor lifting my voice in worship. I’d done little more than my duty with woodworking tools and teaching Levite boys simple tunes, but my entire focus lately had been to rescue the Ark from the clutches of Elazar. A plan I knew deep in my gut my father would abhor.

  He’d respected his older brother and never spoke an unkind word against him, but he did not believe that Itamar’s descendants had stolen the priesthood. He felt Eli had been granted the seat of High Priest for a specific reason and that if the honor was to pass back to the line of Eleazar ben Aharon, it would be at a time of Yahweh’s choosing, not Abiram’s.

  Something of the turmoil inside me must have shown on my face. Eliora reached out a hand and placed it on my wrist. “Play more. I want to hear another.”

  Needing the distraction, and desperate to please her, I complied. Then I followed up the lively tune about Yosef’s triumphs in Egypt with a ridiculous one about four goats repeatedly slipping away from a shepherdess. Her laughter chased the remainder of my shadows away.

  “Music fills your soul,” she said as my fingers strummed a gentle melody. “You must not neglect it anymore, Ronen.”

  She was right. The passion that I’d once had for singing and playing used to be so fervent, so all-encompassing. But over the years, I’d allowed layers of pain and bitterness to snuff out the joy and then gradually shifted all my focus to Abiram’s plan instead. Until one afternoon with Eliora brought it gushing back to the surface.

  “I cannot write beautiful songs like you, but I have a place that fills me up in much the same way.” Her words were soft and hesitant. “I go there when my spirit is troubled.”

  Intrigued, I cut off my playing to study her face. “Your garden?”

  “Well, yes. My garden is a comfort to me.” She bit her bottom lip as if considering whether to reveal more. “But there is a quiet place I go to talk to Adonai.”

  “Show me,” I challenged, enticed by the idea of knowing more of her.

  “Oh . . . I couldn’t,” she stammered. Back at the orcha
rd, a few townspeople had appeared with their own baskets to fill. Natan and Iyov must have finally cleared the tree from the path. “It’s very . . . high. And we have work to do.”

  I gave her my most enticing smile. If this was my last day with her, I’d steal every moment I could. “Come, show me. I promise to keep your secret.”

  Succumbing with a shy smile that made me want to lean forward and press my lips to her poor bruised cheek, she stood up before I could fall prey to the instinct. Then, to my astonishment, she slipped off her sandals, darted around the side of the very tree we’d been sitting under, and reached for the lowest branch. After a sly glance at me that had me bounding to my feet and removing my own sandals, she placed her bare sole on the trunk and began climbing.

  Twenty-Nine

  Eliora

  I pulled myself onto a higher branch, the bark pressing into the skin of my palms and the sharp smell of sap soothing in its familiarity. I still could hear the voices of the townspeople who’d come to harvest from my apple trees, but the sound was merely a distant murmur below.

  “How far do we go?” asked Ronen, who’d taken another route up the tree and was nearly even with me as I climbed the sprawling oak that towered above all the others around it.

  “Just a few more branches,” I said, then found myself grinning at him. “Unless this is too high for you. You are welcome to stay where you are.”

  His eyes narrowed at my tease, and he reached for the next limb. “When I found a trembling little waif behind that wall all those years ago, I never imagined she might one day be the death of me.”

  I laughed and stretched my foot to the next branch, boosting myself upward.

  “Why this tree?” he asked. “What makes it different from any other in this forest?”