It’s been a while since my last post. I’ve been making some changes, on all kinds of levels. Hopefully, all will bear fruit!

I will return to book-related posts in The Carpenter and The Apprentice Substack in the next week or so, but today I wanted to write a note about surrender and willfulness.

Lately, I've had a host of opportunities to witness my willfulness in action. Sometimes it seems effective. Often, it's just a defense. Fortunately, I have a good sense of humor and faith.

It occurred to me that every generation has its own version of narcissism. Every single one. And it is always destructive.

I wonder what might be possible if we were to surrender that willfulness, whatever its origin or function in our lives, for just one moment. For one simple, shining moment, to truly surrender.

And then, what might be possible, if we shared in that surrender? If, collectively, we surrendered our willfulness-our ideas and judgments and agendas-and simply listened for what comes next.

I can almost feel the earth sighing in relief...

1.
Let your heart be broken
By the beauty of the world,
By the absolute beauty
Of life.

Then it will learn to be
Broken by goodness,
As well as sorrow,
And avoid neither.

2.
We probably had to
Taste the fruit of the
Tree of knowledge,
To begin our evolution,

But we should never
Confuse knowledge with
Understanding.

3.
Duality is no more than
A fabrication of the mind.

It is entirely
Made up.

4.
Not change,
But Love,
Is the only constant.

This poem is inspired by the bird in Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning. And, of course, by Viktor Frankl himself.

A tiny sparrow
Alighted upon the post.

Perched there,
Above the barbed wire. 

Began to sing.

How sweet, the song!

A prison guard
Shot him through the head,

Sending feathers flying—
Bits of bone and wing.

The guard grunted in
Satisfaction.

A prisoner watched,
Expressionless.

“What are you looking at?”
The guard snarled,

Pointing his gun at
The fragile, frozen figure.

The prisoner was silent,
Meeting the guard’s gaze

One set of eyes 
Grey as the gun,

The other reflecting
No color you could name

“What are you looking at?”
The guard again demanded.

the place where
there was a bird
singing

“Bah! That bird
Is good for nothing
It woke me from my sleep!”

today you kill the bird
but tomorrow 
another will take its place

“Then I will 
Kill every one!”

perhaps

but it is God 
who makes the birds

you cannot stop them coming
you cannot silence them all

Lessons Learned

Sadly, the primary lesson I have learned around marketing books is, essentially, “Trust no one.” I’m sure there are reputable, helpful people out there, who are doing real work to support authors. This post is about the ones who are not so credible and may fall more on the manipulative to bordering on criminal end of the spectrum.

Everybody needs to make a living. I get that. But the advent of the internet has opened the door to all kinds of opportunists of ill intent. A new author is easy prey for these folks, and I will freely admit that I have “fallen for it” every time. It has cost me a small fortune monetarily and has been discouraging to alarming at times, as people have accessed information that I did not think was publicly available.

Here are some things to watch for:

• Offers to review your book, for a fee, on social media. Probably most of you would not fall for this, but it has been surprising to me to learn how easily and readily someone can create a social media account that looks legitimate, with lots of wonderful, often non-existent followers. They can then represent themselves as a “super influencer” to folks like me, who are largely ignorant about the use of technology and not hip to the ways you can fake it on social media.

  To be fair, some of these reviews have been beautifully written. Whether or not they are written by a human being or an eloquent AI app is unclear to me. The challenge is that these offers rarely seem to generate actual interest or sales. Their followers tend to comment on the review, not the books. And the reviews that are not so legitimate can set you up for financial or identity-related risks. Please be careful.

• Offers to market your book or promote it via special readers’ groups, book clubs, or on readers’ platforms. I have received multiple offers in each of these three “categories.” Who knows whether or not the people representing themselves as masters of the readers’ platforms are actually able to accomplish what they claim to accomplish. I haven’t ventured far enough to tell at this point. I have read, however, that many are not legitimate or are not as skillful as they represent themselves to be.

  Of equal concern are the fake book clubs and readers’ groups used to beguile a new author. Someone representing the club or group reaches out, claiming to have an extensive, often “powerful” and “engaged” readership who would love to read and dialogue about your book. It sounds wonderful! I would love what I write to inspire that kind of conversation! Even if it doesn’t generate real sales. It’s not about the money; it’s about readership. I’m sure many of you feel the same way.

  Unfortunately, it turns out that most of these book clubs or readers’ groups are not real. If you look them up online, you may come up with a website or meetup group that seems credible. They ask only for a “donation,” or “coffee money,” or other incidental. It seems so harmless. Please do your research before sending any money and do not share digital versions of your books without fully verifying the legitimacy of the organization (see below).

• This one shocked me, though perhaps it shouldn’t have. There are people out there who will commit outright fraud by representing themselves as an editor or other influential figure at an existing, usually recognizable publishing company. These have come to me primarily through direct email. Occasionally, they come through my website. I’m learning some of the indicators of a spam email; however, these individuals can be quite sophisticated. From what I am reading, it seems highly unlikely that you will ever hear directly from an editor.

  Be equally wary about people presenting themselves as literary agents. Again, the email may appear legitimate, and you may find a website for the person if you search them online, but that doesn’t guarantee that they are who they say they are. In either case, it is probably best to contact the actual person or the agency to verify the “offer.”

• Last, but far from least and, to me, most heartbreaking of all are the people who claim to be other authors. I should have been more suspicious of this earlier on, but I fell into the trap, engaging in lots of back and forth about writing, about our books, and about other meaningful and seemingly relevant matters. I will say that some of the comments on the writing have been cogent and helpful, so for that I can be genuinely grateful, even if those comments are generated by AI.

  The exchange is enlightening, engaging. It seems real. Until it becomes clear that there is another agenda. Maybe four or five emails in, there is a subtle or not so subtle introduction of the marketing pitch. It might be along the lines of, “If you ever want to work with an agent, I have one… ” Or, “If you would like some support with your marketing, I would be glad to help …” Or, “I’m curious how you arrived at your (cover design/marketing copy/etc) …”

A final note of caution: On my website, I offered a free digital copy of the first book in my series for folks who subscribed to my newsletter. Unfortunately, there are now copies of my books for sale on eBay, at twice the price. One of those enthusiastic readers simply found a way to use the digital form I sent “her” to print out their own copies of the book.

Aside from the fact that I derive no financial benefit at all from these sales - they are not purchased through my distribution channels and resold - and the sellers are engaging in copyright infringement, I take some consolation in the fact that at least the books are getting out there!

ALLi, the Alliance of Independent Authors, is one resource that may be helpful in tracking some of these activities. I’ve mentioned them before and although I haven’t had time to keep up with it recently, the author exchange there is very informative and supportive. https://www.allianceindependentauthors.org/

I recently learned about a blog called, Writer Beware. In a recent post, the author shed more light on the scams I have mentioned above, as well as the ways AI/Chat bots are being used to generate the content for them. https://writerbeware.blog/

Remember: These challenges are worth mentioning and it is good to avoid them as much as we can, but please do not be disheartened!

We need to write. And we want to share our writing, or share at least some of it. This nonsense is just another stumbling block to overcome in the process. What is important is that we continue to pursue our passion, doing our best to hone our craft, and to share the gifts we receive when we are blessed with a poem or a story or an essay.

Feel free to comment on this post with any insights, information, or experiences you have had, and please share it with any new authors who may find it helpful.

Love and light to all of you

Grace

our belongings for the road ahead, most were silent. We shared a

final meal, mostly in silence, and distributed food, water, and other

resources among us according to need.

Jacob came to me and gave me a small amulet. He had carried

it, he said, since he was a boy. At first, I would not take it, but he

insisted.

“We have made much of Solomon’s accomplishments and the

road that lies ahead of him,” he said, “but we have said little about

you.”

He paused to clear his throat.

“I want you to have this,” he continued, “because you have become

a brother to me. We have shared but a few conversations. Still, I feel

that I know you and you know me. My calling is to continue with the

others, but you will be in my heart, my brother.”

I took the amulet from him and placed it around my neck. It fell

just above the pendant. Jacob smiled.

“Perfect,” he said. “It was meant to be.”

Then he took me in his arms as a true brother and held me close

for a moment. Both of us had tears in our eyes when we pulled apart.

Mihret followed. In her eyes I saw the wisdom of the ages. It was

as if a thousand lifetimes had been lived in those eyes. I wished I had

had more time with her. To know but a little more…

She smiled, understanding my thoughts.

“I, too, wish for more time with you, Danat,” she said. “But in

truth, we are not separate. You can call on me. I will be here.” She

placed her hand on my heart. There was a warmth there, quiet,

steady, and very powerful.

“Thank you,” I said. No other words would come, but then, none

seemed necessary.

Mihret smiled and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “You see. Even without

words.”

Then she, too, pulled me in and held me for a moment. There was

such warmth in her that I could only soften and receive the love she was

offering. I hoped she felt mine in return.

Several of the other men came over and embraced me or pushed

a tool, a weapon, or some other gift into my hand. They asked me to

watch over Solomon, but they also thanked me for my contributions

over the past few months.

Rivkah came and wrapped me in a great embrace that felt as if

I was being held by the earth itself. When she stepped back, she

looked me squarely in the eye, as she always did.

“Remember,” she said, “that no fate is absolute, and nothing can

take away a man’s freedom. No matter what may befall him, if his

soul is free, so then is he.”

Her words resonated deeply within me. I knew that they carried

a portent, but in them there was also hope.

I nodded, and I repeated what she had said to myself: If his soul

is free, so then is he. It would become my guide, my saving grace, this

simple, powerful sentence.

Mikhael gave me a small sword that he had been given by his

grandfather. Again, I felt unworthy of the gift.

“Danat, you have become like a son to me,” he said. I nearly

wept, feeling the sincerity and the depth of that truth. “Carry this

sword and know that the protection of my entire lineage goes with

you. You will never be alone.”

He paused, looking deeply into my eyes before adding, “Never.”

When we embraced, I felt his strength, his fire, and his tenderness.

Aryel was the last to come to me. “Thank you again for saving my

life,” she said. I was about to say that it was nothing more than she would

do for any of us, but she held up her hand, to silence me, so I would listen.

I remained silent.

We looked at each other for a moment, neither knowing what else

to say.

“Go well, Danat,” she said simply. “And know that we are with you.”

Then she embraced me, and I thought my heart would stop

completely. As I held her in that moment, I felt as if nothing else existed—

no land, no people, no sky, and no sun. Only this one woman in this

single moment.

When she pulled away, the world came back into focus. I was at a

loss for words.

“Go well, Aryel,” I murmured.

Then, with more force, I added, “And remember the leader that you

already are.”

We parted ways then. Solomon, Jonah, Asbat, and I traveled north,

while the rest of the group turned west.

I did not allow myself to look back at them. I could not hesitate.

Moving forward, my charge was to protect Solomon, to help him

find his father’s people, and to assist my fellow travelers. In that moment,

it was the only knowledge I needed.

over him.

We buried him at the foot of the hill near a tree. Mihret spoke

the prayers of their people, and we joined her in a song that came

from long ago in her native land. We did not know the language and

could not even approximate the words. But she told us that it was

not necessary. It was enough for her to sing the words. The sound

and the pure intentions of our hearts would carry her husband into

the next world.

It was nearly midmorning by the time we left the camp and our

beloved leader behind. I knew that we would reach the crossroad

that evening. I had seen it in my meditation that morning. This

would be my last day and night with these people.

I prayed that our journey would bring us back to them. But it

did not escape me that there was no mention of my return, only

Solomon’s. I knew that there was a possibility that only he would

rejoin them.

And so, I made a study of each of them as we walked that day. I

wanted to know them so well that they would remain with me as I

traveled. My heart was full of mixed love, peace, sorrow, and longing.

It was a marvel to me still that in our brief time together, these

people had become so significant to me.

I was not without some fear. It had become clearer to me why I

no longer saw the insignia or the flag. I remembered the vague sense

of foreboding I had had when I saw them in that very first vision.

That feeling had returned to me.

The darkness that Solomon had seen on the road to the north was

in the country through which we must pass. It was the nation of the people

who flew that flag. His father’s people lived in the land beyond it.

I believed that Solomon would reach his father’s people. There was

something he had been called there to do. It was not clear that I would

be there with him, though.

I pushed that thought aside and continued to walk. If there was a

trial ahead, I would face it. For now, my focus would be on learning

as much as I could while I still had this community around me, so

I could carry every treasured gift they offered in my heart.

Solomon fell in alongside me as we walked. He seemed to have

something that he wanted to say, but he was hesitant.

I put an arm around his shoulders and said to him playfully, “My

friend Solomon, a great leader already and soon to be even greater.”

He smiled but seemed troubled still.

“Something is in your heart or on your mind,” I observed.

“Please tell me. I am here to carry everything with you, even your

inward troubles.”

Solomon looked up at me. There was sadness in his eyes.

“I saw the land we will pass through again,” he began.

I nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“I saw my father’s land as well,” he said. “It is much brighter.”

He paused. “But I did not see you there.”

I took a deep breath and put a hand on his shoulder, hoping to

reassure him.

“Yes,” I said. “I also saw it that way. But remember that there are

always more possible outcomes than we can see.”

The words were as much for my ears as for his.

Solomon smiled up at me then, a look of mischief in his eyes.

“You sound more like him every day,” he said. “I think the carpenter

has managed to change your mind after all!”

We both chuckled, and our shared decision to focus on the moment

we were in was restorative for both of us. Another gift to treasure.

The day was cooler than the others had been. The sun still burned,

but there was a gentle wind, and we saw clouds over the mountains in

the distance. I thought of the rest of the group, who would travel away

from those clouds and toward the sea. I hoped that the sun would be

kinder and the breezes would follow them.

The children had been bereft with the loss of Bilal. But by midafternoon,

their playfulness began to return. It was a welcome sight for all of us.

We took turns bringing up the rear of the group so we could watch them

tease and frolic as we walked.

How far those little children had traveled, I thought. They had lost

so much, endured such hardships, and walked so many tired, aching

footsteps. That they could rediscover their joy under such circumstances

was all the evidence I needed that what the carpenter had said was true.

There were, indeed, a host of possibilities in any given moment.

We arrived at the crossroads late in the afternoon and decided

to make our camp nearby, to continue on our respective journeys in

the morning.

Our food had grown scarce again, so a few of us went out from

the camp to hunt. Mikhael and most of the men remained behind.

The threat of attack by thieves or other vagabonds remained high,

and we would not leave the women and children unprotected.

Jacob and Jonah joined me. As we approached the hills near the

camp, we spoke softly to one another, but when we neared the area

where we hoped to find some prey, we fell into a companionable

silence.

We, too, were watchful for thieves and others. But we were most

concerned about feeding the group. We saw little at first, but then I

spotted a hare quietly feeding on a small patch of some kind of grass.

I motioned to Jacob and Jonah, who dropped down to the ground

beside me. Jacob rose slowly and began to approach the hare with

uncanny stillness and care. He drew from his belt a small sling and

picked up a rock from the ground near him. Taking aim, he slowly

raised himself up and let the rock fly.

The stone hit its mark, and the hare was stunned. In several swift

steps, Jacob was at its side and slit its throat. He said a prayer of

thanks over it before tying it to his belt. We continued.

We came across two more hares. One managed to escape, but the

other was easily taken. It seemed as if there was no other game about,

until we saw a pair of grouse sheltering beneath a bush. It seemed sad

to me to take them both, but we needed to eat. So, Jonah and I each

pulled out our slings, while Jacob began to circle behind the birds.

On Jonah’s word, we shot. We were rewarded with one clear kill.

The male grouse, however, had been stunned but not killed. He

flapped his wings and scurried about haphazardly. Jacob ran to the poor

bird and ended his torment.

As we made our way back to the camp, we felt the pleasure of being

able to provide for our people and the camaraderie of the hunt. And

because it was done with gratitude and grace, I could feel at peace, in

stark contrast to the way I had felt hunting gazelles with my fellow

soldiers.

That night, the people reminisced about the town we had left

behind. They shared stories full of laughter, as well as stories of love

and loss.

It was good to hear them talk. I watched and listened intently,

hoping to store each memory in my heart for the days to come.

Solomon sat with me, and we both smiled when one of the women in the

group began to share a few stories about him.

She peeked over at him playfully as she told a story about some

mischief he had gotten into with Hakim and a few of the other boys.

Then she grew more serious and told us all about Solomon coming to her

aid when her son became ill with the fever.

Solomon had taken over all her son’s responsibilities and more. He

sat with her son and told him about the events going on in the town,

keeping him connected to the life of the town, even though he was never

to leave his bed. Everyone fell silent as she told the story. Solomon was

only eight years old at the time.

When we went to our blankets that night, our hearts were full.

As we near the close of the first book in the series, The Carpenter and The Apprentice, I wanted to send a brief note on future posts and to invite you all to weigh in on whether or not it would be useful to have a more interactive experience.

After I publish the final chapter of The Carpenter and The Apprentice here (the book is available through Amazon and Barnes & Noble if you want to own a copy), I’ll be posting the odd verse/poem that I was posting before under the general Substack account.

Under the Carpenter and The Apprentice substack, where you’ve been reading the book in serialized format, I’ll be sharaing a couple of posts on the overall arc of the series and perhaps a bit about its genesis. The entire process has been - and continues to be - a gift, at times a challenge, and always a beautiful opportunity to deepen my own understanding of things. Feel free to weigh in on whether that would be interesting to you or not. I think for writers there’s great joy in sharing our process, but that doesn’t mean that readers would enjoy it!

Please also let me know if you would be interested in having an open forum of sorts, in which we might have conversation about specific topics that arise in the novels. You can comment on this post with your reply. Feel free to add a note about any topics that are of particular interest to you!

Thank you all for reading and following the journey. Wishing everyone a joyful Spring. It’s almost here!!!

Love, peace, and harmony to all

Grace

closer to the mountains ahead, both the visions and the knowing

became stronger. When I shared them with Mikhael, he confirmed

what I had seen and learned, adding that more changes were to come.

My visions were vague and primarily impressions of landscape

and towns. I no longer saw the flag or insignia, which was an interesting

change. Mikhael also found this notable. A look of concern crossed his

face briefly as I told him about it.

“You and Solomon will travel north into the mountains,” he said.

I nodded. I had sensed this as well.

He continued, “There will be trials ahead, Danat. For both of you.

Solomon’s trials will be difficult, but he will overcome them.”

Mikhael paused. “Yours will be quite severe.” He looked at me, his

gaze steady and his expression calm.

In his eyes I saw care and concern, but also a bit of fire. In the

carpenter, in Solomon, and in Aryel, the light was more of a quiet

gleaming. In Mikhael it burned with quiet intensity. I wondered about

this difference.

“Yes,” I said. “I did not see, nor do I know, the nature of the challenge.

But I know that it will be—” I paused, searching for the words that had

come through to me. When they returned, I understood why I had not

wanted to recall them. “It will be a ‘test of my very soul.’”

Mikhael nodded, glad that I had been given this much information

at least.

“Such tests are faced by leaders,” he said. “If you prevail, Danat, you

will be a great leader.”

“And if not?” I asked.

“God alone knows the answer to that question,” Mikhael replied. “But

you already knew that,” he added, smiling slightly.

I smiled back.

“Yes,” I admitted, “but it seemed there would be little harm in asking

for your thoughts.”

“No,” Mikhael acknowledged. “No harm. But perhaps an encouragement

of doubt and a misuse of time and energy.”

This I had to concede. I was reminded of the many times I had wasted

both precious resources in my efforts to force an answer where none was

to be found or to check an answer out of uncertainty or insecurity.

My thoughts moved to other decisions I had made too quickly, out of

frustration, impatience, or doubt.

Mikhael fondly put a hand on my shoulder. “I, too, was prone to hasty

choices and actions,” he said.

I looked over at him in surprise. He appeared so deliberate and

measured in his thoughts, words, and deeds.

“Oh yes,” he confirmed. “At your age I was headstrong, and my

decisions were ill-considered. It was my wife who first began to set me

straight.”

He chuckled, then added, “And it was the carpenter who helped

me curb my rash approach and overcome my self-imposed limitations.”

It was the first time Mikhael had spoken so openly, and it was the

first time he had mentioned his wife at all to me. I had been wondering

how he was managing the loss. Outwardly, his focus was on the welfare

of the group, and it never seemed to waver. But what was he feeling

within? I was hesitant to ask a question so private, but he knew, as he

so often did, what was in my thoughts.

“Chaya was a powerful woman with a heart as wide as the sky.

She was a devoted wife, but she had a mind of her own, which was

good for me.” Mikhael smiled.

“She was a loving mother,” he continued. Then he paused, keeping

his gaze on the horizon before us. It was not clear whether he was

searching the horizon for something or using it to steady himself.

Perhaps it was both.

When he resumed the conversation, his voice was subdued. “She

suffered the loss of two children,” he began. “One in childbirth—that

was Hannah—and the other at the age of two years. That was little

Mikhael. He was bitten by a serpent.”

Mikhael’s voice broke slightly. He paused, then added, “Chaya

never forgave herself.”

We walked in silence for a while.

“After that, we were not able to conceive more children. Chaya

blamed herself. I came to believe that it was not meant to be. But

Chaya held such guilt about Mikhael’s death. She thought that she

was being punished for failing to protect him.

“As she worked with the carpenter to understand the nature of

these things—of life and loss, of what is real and lasting and what is

impermanent—she began to find more peace. But the loss of a child,

particularly one so young and so soon after losing another at the very

point of her arrival, was not easily borne.”

He took a deep breath as he walked, letting it out slowly. I knew

that he, too, had suffered these losses. But I did not pursue that topic.

He would tell me more when it was time. We walked a while in silence.

I thought about my own mother. What had she endured losing her

son and then witnessing her daughter’s assault? I wondered if she

suffered still or if she had somehow found peace in the hereafter.

“We will camp there tonight.” Mikhael pointed to a series of

smaller hills ahead. “Then we must bring the group together to discuss

what lies ahead.”

Our conversation turned to more immediate plans, but I was

grateful for this moment with Mikhael, for his trust and his openness

about what was in his heart.

That night at the fire, we discussed the plan Mikhael and I had

begun to formulate. Mikhael told the others that we would soon reach

a point at which decisions would need to be made. Solomon and I would

continue north, he told the group. He and Rivkah would turn west,

toward the sea.

Mikhael had heard—and Rivkah had sensed—that there was a place

in the west, where they would be able to establish a small community and

share some of what we all had learned from the carpenter. They would be

safe there until the war was over. At least they would be safer, there being

no guarantees in times of war.

We all knew that there were dangers ahead on the road to the north.

And although Solomon had seen a lightening of the energies in the land

and in the people beyond the darkness, many were concerned about this.

They had lost so many already. I was not surprised when all but two decided

to join Mikhael and Rivkah.

The two who would remain with Solomon and me were doing so, I

knew, out of a sense of loyalty and a desire to provide protection and

support. There was nothing more for them in this journey.

Jonah was a strong young man who had elected not to go to war.

His father had died early in life, and he would not leave his mother and

younger siblings. Sadly, all but one had perished in a wave of fever that

passed through the town, likely carried by traders who came and went

from all manner of places. The lone survivor, his younger brother, died

fighting at Jonah’s side during the first attack. He had refused to leave

with the other younger children. He was fourteen years of age.

The other man who elected to join us was Asbat. He was older and

walked with a marked limp from a battle wound. He was strong in spirit,

however, and his wiry body was as vital as that of a much younger man.

Asbat had a ready smile and was even-tempered. As I learned more about

him later, I realized that that evenness had been hard-won.

The mood around the fire was solemn after we shared what we

had learned and the plan we had devised. We each said a prayer, and

we drew closer to one another.

Aryel came to sit next to me after the prayer. She, too, had received

information. I could see that it weighed heavily on her mind.

“I am concerned about the four of you traveling alone,” she began.

I was unsure how to respond to this statement.

“As a group of four, we will attract less attention,” I replied. “And

we are guided. All will be well.”

Aryel nodded. She had anticipated this attempt at reassurance.

“I know that you and Solomon will be tested,” she continued.

She looked up at me.

“You have become strong, Danat. Believe in that strength. Listen

within and develop all your senses. What you need to know will become

clear.”

I was grateful for her words of confidence and her support, but I

waited to speak, sensing that there was something else troubling her.

She looked at the fire, seeming to gauge something. Then she

turned to look back at me.

“What we didn’t say to the group, because it is not yet time, is

that there will be a second division.

“Mihret was told of this, and when she shared it with me, I knew

it to be true. When we come to the place where they will form a small

community, I and perhaps a few others will be called to continue on to

the sea.”

Aryel paused. She took a deeper breath. “Mihret heard that I will

lead that group. I did not receive this understanding myself. I know

that there are—barriers—to my seeing it.”

Now it was my turn to provide support.

“Aryel, I see that this feels too large a task to you, but you have

the heart of a lioness. And your mind is clear. You are loved by everyone

here. Those who choose to follow you will be in good hands. And they

will have confidence in that.”

Aryel sighed. “That is kind of you to say,” she said.

“Not kind,” I corrected her. “Accurate.”

I smiled, hoping to win a smile from her. I so wished for her to

feel some ease.

Aryel did smile in response. “Ah, yes,” she teased. “The man of

reason speaks.”

I was happy to bear the brunt of her humor if it provided relief.

She was quiet for a moment, then she turned to me. “The carpenter

came to me last night and reminded me of something that he told me

years ago. I believe it is important for me to remember and for you to

know.”

I nodded for her to continue.

“What he said to me was this: ‘The seeds of unity consciousness

are present in the world, Aryel. Let them grow within you.’”

Aryel paused, then added, “I believe that this is our task, Danat.

Not only to exemplify the teachings we have been given and those we

have learned from this community, but also to grow those seeds within

ourselves and to inspire others to cultivate them within themselves.”

I was quiet, considering this. I recalled my protests that night

with the carpenter. How could these abstractions help in any way? I

had argued. They were impractical. Not real.

But of course, I had protested then. My mind was filled with

fear, and the work to go within, to learn more and to change the way

I viewed the world, seemed too great.

At times, it still seemed too great—both the work required to

change and the fear itself. My mind was far from quiet, my emotions

often intense and unsettled. I was still impatient, still doubtful, and

still prone to defense when I should remain open.

But as I had lived among these people, witnessing their example,

and as the teachings had begun to weave their way into my habitual

patterns of thought, my beliefs about change had begun to shift. It

was beginning to seem possible. It had become, I realized, desirable.

If being among these people could so fundamentally alter my beliefs

about myself, others, and the world at large, perhaps those seeds of

unity consciousness could grow. In a time of war, the probability of that

happening seemed impossibly low, but it was not altogether extinguished.

“When you quiet the mind, Danat, you will see that everything that

we assume to be real is nothing more than a creation of the mind,” the

carpenter had said. His words at the time flew in the face of everything

I knew and believed.

“Go forward without needing to know,” he had continued, undaunted

by my skepticism. “I realize that this will be a great challenge for you.

Your mind will fight it every step of the way. But you must surrender the

need to know, so you may learn and grow.

“What you will discover is that each moment is filled with more

possibilities than the mind can hold. In the emptiness of not knowing are

all the answers that you will ever need.”

I had carried these words with me. And I had been trying, in my

morning quiet time and as I walked in silence, to quiet my mind and to

discover that emptiness, the Source.

Over time, I found that there were moments when I sensed this vast

emptiness. Fleeting moments, to be sure, but they were real.

And what had seemed frightening in concept had in fact brought a

peace such as I had never encountered before. If that kind of peace was

possible, even for a moment, then why not a consciousness embracing

the unity of all?

I turned to Aryel.

“Thank you,” I said. “I needed to hear those words. I will carry them

with me.”

Aryel smiled, and we shared in that moment both the recognition of

the immense tasks before us and the comfort of knowing that we were

not alone.

She sobered then, looking across the fire at Mihret and Bilal.

“He will pass into the next world tonight,” she said sadly. As she

said it, I knew it to be true, and my heart sank.

Solomon was sitting with Bilal. Mihret, next to him, had one

hand on Bilal’s shoulder and one on Solomon’s back as if to support

him. The three were deep in conversation.

Mikhael and Rivkah approached them. They asked Bilal something,

and he nodded. Then Mikhael summoned the group back to the fire.

Once all were gathered there, he spoke.

“My friends, our beloved Bilal will soon pass from this world. He

is ready for this, and he goes not in sorrow but in hope and with love in

his heart.”

A wave of grief passed through all of us. Mikhael paused, allowing

it to settle. Then, he continued.

“Tonight, he will bestow his own pendant on our new leader, young

Solomon. Join me in gathering around these two men, that they may be

surrounded with love and peace through this transition.”

Everyone drew nearer. Bilal whispered something to Mihret, who

nodded, then stood.

“Bilal wishes me to thank all of you. He has learned from you. He

has grown with you. You are forever a part of his heart.”

She bent and gently removed the pendant from Bilal’s neck.

“This pendant now passes to Solomon. May he wear it humbly but

also with pride, knowing that he has earned the right to step into the

role of leader.

“Although he will depart from us soon, I am told that Solomon may

return. And if he does, he will bring with him new wisdom. And hope.

For Solomon will lead us toward a new future.”

Mihret paused, gathering her emotions. We waited in silence out of

respect and love for her and for Bilal.

“Let us give thanks for this beloved man, my husband, Bilal. And let

us give thanks for his successor, Solomon. Peace be to both of them in

their journeys.”

All present bowed their heads, deep in their personal prayer.

When this was done, Mihret raised the pendant over Solomon’s head

and draped it carefully around his shoulders. Bilal was smiling, and I saw

tears trace the lines of his weathered face.

Solomon stood quietly, his head still bowed. His stillness was

powerful, but I sensed a wavering within. It was subtle, but it was there.

At twelve years of age, he was being given both a powerful gift and a

great responsibility.

He shifted ever so slightly and let his gaze fall on his teacher.

Bilal was watching him, and he smiled at Solomon with a love that

transcended words. I saw the boy’s shoulders soften. Then the tears

came.

Tears were flowing everywhere. Silently, the people witnessed

this passing of the wisdom of a lineage. It was profoundly moving.

I, too, wept, openly and without a trace of embarrassment or regret.

ahead continuously and listened closely to every sound around us.

If any of us detected a potential threat, we repositioned ourselves,

maintaining the circle of protection around the group.

But there were moments of quiet every now and again when I

was able to suspend the urgency in my watchfulness. In these brief

pauses, I found myself marveling at the beauty of the landscape and

the changing climate.

There was indeed more vegetation here, just as I had seen in

those early visions. There were the familiar bushes and trees of our

land, but also, as we drew nearer to the hill country and the mountains

beyond, I saw grasses, and plants, and trees unlike those I had

seen before. I marveled at the different forms, colors, and the rugged

bark on some of the trees.

The land itself was still dry, but there were more streams. And

although by day the sun was still punishingly hot, the nights were

quite cool. At times I felt a chill at night that seemed to whisper to

my bones. We were definitely in new territory.

The night air was clear, and it seemed as though the stars had

come alive. At times I thought they were somehow dancing in the

deep blue-black of the heavens above, and I watched closely, trying

to catch them in motion.

Such thoughts were new to me. Fanciful. Imaginative. So much

had changed within me that I barely knew myself any longer. They

were not changes I regretted.

One change that was concerning, however, was how strong and

distracting my feelings for Aryel were becoming. And potentially

dangerous. During the attack I had wanted to protect Aryel first.

But my duty was to the group. I worried that I could not manage

my feelings about her and remain focused enough to fulfill my duties

to the others.

I vowed to spend more time with the men in the group, particularly,

Mikhael. I would focus on continuing to learn the ways of these people

and the teachings of the carpenter. I would work on developing the gift

of knowing that I seemed to have. Mikhael had helped me name it. I

would explore the meaning of the visions I continued to receive.

It was clear that Bilal’s time was drawing near, and my heart

broke as I watched him with Mihret. I also found it beautiful to behold.

Their love, along with the peace, respect, and joy they shared in each

other’s presence, was unlike anything I had witnessed before, even in

my own parents.

I knew that Bilal wanted more time with Solomon. He gave

the young boy his undivided attention despite his visible suffering,

but I sensed there was more he wanted to teach him. I was deeply

moved by the love, patience, and passion with which he was helping

Solomon develop the gift they both shared.

Again, I reflected on the many ways in which the people of this

community were shaping me. And on the increasingly strong bond I

felt with them. Every day, it seemed, I learned from them. Including

things about myself.

In the days leading up to the thieves’ attack and in those that

followed, Mikhael explained to me that each of us possesses multiple

gifts. He said that these include the gifts of sight, hearing, sensing,

and knowing, though he intimated that there are other gifts as well.

In most people, he said, one gift is dominant. But, he added, we

must each continue to cultivate the other ways of knowing, as this

would help us grow and allow us to serve more effectively.

When the strange information began to come to me, I had initially

kept it to myself. I feared that I was losing my mind, as the information

I was receiving was unlike anything I had encountered prior to this

journey.

At night I lay beneath the stars and wondered what was happening

to me. Then one night, the carpenter came to me. I was startled. But

also, somehow, not so surprised.

“Fear and doubt,” he said, “are expressions of the egoic mind. Do

not fight them. Know them, then release them. Recognize them but

give them no power to control you.”

I had believed what he said. But I was unsure that I would be

able to follow his guidance. As information became available, my

mind immediately questioned it, finding fault with every aspect of it

and disparaging this newfound knowing.

Most nights, I simply closed my eyes and prayed for more clarity

the following day. Some days it came, as it had the day we left the

second village.

It became clear to me as we approached the village that although

the people were kind, as the people of the first village in this land had

been, they were also frightened. Seeing the evidence of our attack

aroused something in them.

I did not speak their language, but it had elements of the Persian

I had studied briefly with the masters. I could make out some words,

and from the general context, I was able to deduce, admittedly quite

roughly, what was being said or asked.

There was unrest in the land, in part because of the war in the

south but largely due to internal pressures. Bands of thieves like the

one that attacked us were becoming increasingly common. A sense

of lawlessness had begun to come over the land, and its ruler,

comfortably removed in his mountain palace, was more concerned

about imposing his will and ensuring his own security than he was

about the welfare of his people.

The people of the town feared that providing aid and respite

to us would endanger the town. We understood. We accepted their

gifts of food and water and went on our way quickly.

Solomon was very alert during these exchanges and later

confirmed what I suspected. Several generations before her time,

his mother’s people had moved south from lands where a similar

dialect was spoken. He recognized some of the words and phrases

he heard as like those of his mother’s people. And, he said, some

of the words used by the people of the town were very similar to the

few words of his father’s language that his mother had taught him.

The closer we came to the mountainous lands of his father’s

origins; the more intensely focused and inquisitive Solomon became.

I watched him closely. I had grown fond of this young man, who

continued to surprise me with his wisdom and maturity. And I felt

an increasing sense of responsibility to and for him.

I had learned, in this strange new way of knowing, that I was

somehow pledged to his service and protection. It was not a pledge

with which I had any argument.

As we traveled, Solomon and I periodically ate and walked

together. I learned a bit more about his history and shared more

of my own. He was an attentive listener and an astute observer.

I marveled at the depth of his abilities, inevitably comparing him

to myself at his age and coming up far short.

In addition to his gift of deep listening and awareness, Solomon

had a profound faith in people that was not merely a reflection of

the innocence of youth. I wondered how he had retained this faith

in the face of the terrible events of his childhood.

Solomon was able to perceive the strength and goodness in each

of the people around him. He was not unaware of their limitations;

he simply placed less emphasis on them.

He was remarkably free of judgment. When I asked him about

this, he shrugged. Yes, the carpenter had taught him about judgment,

he said. I sensed that there was more to be said but did not want to

push him.

Solomon let his gaze move to the land around us as he spoke. I

knew that he was witnessing something from his past, not the landscape.

I remained silent.

“My mother forgave her people for killing my father and banishing

her,” he began. I confess that my mind and emotions protested the idea

of forgiveness in this context. But I kept my mouth shut and tried to

quiet the inner outrage.

“When I was young, I did not understand death or forgiveness,”

he continued. “I accepted what my mother said as if it was a bedtime

tale, like any of the other tales she told me when I couldn’t fall asleep.”

As Solomon reflected on this, he seemed to have compassion

for the child he had been and for his mother. I wondered where this

profound feeling came from. Few of the adults I had known could

hold such compassion.

“We were already enslaved by then. There were many children

without fathers. Mothers alone. It was simply the way of the world

around me. I did not question it.

“As I grew older, though, I began to understand what had happened

to her. And to my father. And to me. Then I questioned everything.”

He paused and drew in a deep breath before continuing.

“By then she was no longer with me to answer my questions.

Only those who had taken me …” His voice trailed off.

Rage coursed through my body thinking of what those men had

done. I forced myself to focus on walking and listening. What had

happened to Solomon was beyond forgiveness. No one could convince

me otherwise. But what he deserved now was my attention, not my

outrage.

Solomon took another, deeper breath. “After those men left me,

whenever I thought about what happened to me, I would become

terrified. I did not sleep at night. I would jump if anyone approached

me and freeze or scream if they touched me.”

He paused. I waited.

“I do not know how long I was with the invaders. I have no feeling

for that time,” he said.

There was a heaviness in these words. It was indescribable, but

very real. I felt it in my own chest, belly, and back. What this boy had

endured would make the strongest man break. His gaze was distant,

focused on the past, but he retained a remarkable sense of presence.

Sensing my assessment and concern, he smiled faintly, as if to reassure

me. It was such a ready response for this young man. Compassion was

simply a part of who he was, not something to be cultivated.

“Rajendra and Amrah were patient,” he continued. “I could see

in their eyes that they were hurt by my having been hurt. I could also

see something else. I did not know what it was until much later.

“It took many, many months for me to be able to sleep at night.

I had dreams so terrifying that I awoke screaming and fighting the

blankets. Amrah or Rajendra would come to me then and would sit

with me, speaking slowly, soothing me. They stayed with me until I

fell back to sleep. Some nights I still have those dreams.”

His voice broke, and he paused again, collecting himself.

“During the day,” he continued, “they fed me and gave me small

jobs to do, to help me remain focused on healing and to let me know

that I was part of their family. Slowly, over time, I began to feel helpful

and strong again. When the memories returned, someone in the

family would come to me and sit with me. If I was able to tolerate

their touch, sometimes they held me.

“Amrah talked to me like my mother had talked to me. Not as

a young child, but as a small person, a person of worth and interest.

Rajendra taught me many things and showed me that I was intelligent

and capable of learning. He showed me how men are supposed

to behave.”

Solomon paused, remembering some of these times with

Rajendra and Amrah. “Hakim and Aryel also took me in,” he said.

“Hakim kept his distance at first. I think it was because he had his

own feelings about what had happened to me. And because he knew

that his parents must help me manage that first.

“But in time, as I became less afraid, he showed me the ways of

boys and young men.”

Solomon’s somber face broke into a small grin.

“Some of those ways were not precisely aligned with the carpenter’s

teachings,” he said. “But Hakim said that as long as they were playful

and brought no harm to another, it was acceptable to try them.”

I was curious about those ways, but I did not want to interrupt

Solomon, so I simply nodded and continued to listen, relieved to see

this glimpse of a more typical experience of boyhood.

“Aryel was also very kind to me,” he said. “She was already showing

signs of being a healer, and she knew things in ways that the others

couldn’t, especially when I was afraid. Aryel always seemed to know

exactly what I was feeling. If the fear was causing my head to feel as

if it would burst, she would gently place her hands there. If it was

making my stomach churn, she would place one hand on my belly and

one on my back, directly behind it. It was very comforting.”

I took a breath to steady myself at the mention of Aryel’s name.

This, I told myself, was infatuation and a distraction. I turned my

attention back to Solomon.

He was watching me and smiled. “You are experiencing a young

man’s challenge,” he said knowingly.

To be so easily seen through by one so young was embarrassing.

I am certain that my face grew flushed, but I could only chuckle and

concede his point.

“But go on,” I urged him. “You and I will be traveling together

for some time. It is good for me to know my traveling companion.”

Solomon smiled at this. It seemed to help him relax and feel

more at ease, which I was grateful for.

“There is not much more to tell,” he said. “Other than meeting

the carpenter and beginning to learn from him.”

“How did you meet him?” I asked, thinking likely it was through

one of the adults in the community.

“He came to visit me when I was tending some sheep for Aaron.

He knew where I was, even though the sheep had wandered.

“He came and sat next to me. Because I had seen him in the

town and he had come to our home to visit several times, he was not

a stranger to me. But I had not spoken directly with him for more

than a few moments. So, I was surprised that he had come so far only

to speak with me.

“I was around nine years of age then. I felt so proud to be entrusted

with the task of watching over my small flock that I could think of little

else. The carpenter understood this, so we spoke mostly about sheep.”

Solomon smiled at the memory. “For one who has traveled so

widely, he did not know much about sheep, I thought. Of course, he

was simply allowing me to demonstrate my knowledge.

“After that, he spoke with Elisheba and Benjamin—by that time

I had moved in with their family. They agreed to allow me to study

with him when I was not needed for other chores or studying.

“At the time, they were unsure about my becoming an apprentice

so young. Benjamin would often accompany me to the carpenter’s

house and stay a while in the early days. When he was certain that

I would be able to manage on my own, he let me go on my own.”

Solomon looked up at me. “They have been very good parents,”

he said. He paused. “When Benjamin did not return, I thought my

heart would never be whole again.”

We walked silently for a while then. Solomon’s grief was palpable.

But his love and gratitude were equally present.

I was struck by the sense of companionship and ease I felt with

this boy. He was certainly wise beyond his years, and I believed that

it was not simply a result of what he had experienced. There was a

quality about Solomon that I could not name.

It was not until I was in prison, reflecting on all that had taken

place and the people with whom I had traveled, that it occurred to

me. As incredible as it seemed, Solomon seemed almost angelic.

We talked more about what he had learned from the carpenter

as we walked, and about how he had discovered that he, too, was

gifted.

Solomon had begun to see things in people and in the land

around him—colors, flows of some kind of energy, symbols, and

sometimes images. This, the carpenter told him, was his gift, and he

would develop it over time. But, the carpenter had said, it was not a

gift to be taken lightly.

Solomon understood this. By the time he mentioned it to the

carpenter, he had had several visions. He had seen colors and symbols

around people, places, plants, and animals. Solomon was frightened

by these visions. He feared they signified some evil—that he

had been possessed or that he was being punished for what had been

done to him.

The carpenter corrected this misunderstanding and began to

teach the boy about what he saw. When Solomon left the carpenter’s

home after sharing his experiences and his fears the first time, he said

that he felt as if he had been awakened from a terrible dream. And he

began to practice seeing.

Hearing Solomon talk about his gift, so far from conventional

understanding that it seemed nearly incomprehensible, made me

wonder more about my own. The carpenter and I had not had time

to discuss it that night before I left him. It appeared that I would

need to learn as I went.

We came to another town later that afternoon. The people were
again kind and generous; however, when they saw our wounds and
Bilal being carried, they were cautious.
        Mikhael was unable to communicate with them, but Danat
seemed to have some familiarity with the language—not enough to
converse easily, but he was able to give and receive some information.
        Solomon appeared to be listening, and I wondered if the language
being spoken might be similar to that of his father. Would his
mother have known a few phrases and taught them to him?
        Like those before them, the townspeople filled our water containers
and gave us food. But they did not invite us to stay with
them. To harbor the killers of thieves in these parts could bring harm
to them, Danat explained to us. We thanked them for sharing their
food and water and went on our way.
        When we camped that night, we chose a spot that could be more
easily protected. Tucked in against the side of a hill, we lit a small fire
and gathered close.
        Danat shared in greater detail what information he had been
able to glean from the people of the town. He and Mikhael had discussed
this, along with other information they had received, and had
devised a plan. They shared the plan with us, emphasizing that any
one of us could contribute to it or request a change.
        Danat had again had a series of visions of the land to the north.
Mikhael and Solomon had had similar visions. Theirs were somewhat
clearer but confirmed what Danat had seen.
        Although Danat’s visions were still unclear, his understanding
of what lay ahead was detailed. As he shared the information with
us, it was clear that its origins were a mystery to him. I saw Mikhael
smile slightly.
        It appeared that Danat’s dominant gift was the gift of direct
knowing, a gift that was less easily understood and differentiated
from the knowing of the mind. This would be a great challenge for
Danat, but I trusted that in time it would become clearer to him.
        In addition to seeing specific features of the land, the towns, and
the people on the road ahead, Solomon had begun to see broader
patterns of energy. With some misgiving, he reported that he
had seen a band of darkness directly to our north. Bilal confirmed
this vision and informed us that there would be a troubled passage
for those who traveled north. I wondered about the distinction he
had made, subtly, with the description “those who traveled north.”
Both he and Solomon saw a return of light, however, beyond the
darkness.
        I had seen Mikhael listening intently to some inner guidance
as he walked ahead of us earlier that afternoon. Before we gathered
around the fire, he walked away from the group and searched the
sky. I knew that he was listening for more. Now that we were gathered,
he began to tell us what he had learned.
        He, too, had seen a dark passage ahead on the road to the north.
And over the past few days, he had received information about a
different land, to the west. Soon, he said, we would reach a place
where decisions would need to be made. Each of us must go within
to consider our choices, Mikhael stated firmly. And none was to be
judged for their decision.
        As the three men shared what they had learned, I knew that I
must tell the people what had come to me. I had not wanted to acknowledge
it—had in fact resisted it, though I was not entirely clear
why.
        It was only when Mihret approached me, her eyes filled with
sadness and understanding, that I knew I could no longer avoid it.
        “You have sensed what I have heard,” she began. I dreaded this
conversation, but I nodded.
        “We will bury Bilal soon,” she acknowledged. I looked into her
eyes, trying to convey to her what my heart felt. She smiled gratefully,
and added, “But not yet. He is teaching Solomon.”
        “Yes,” I said. I longed to reach for her, but I knew that it was not
a time for comfort. For now, Mihret would pour her love, strength,
and attention into her husband and his young charge. And I would
support her in this. She sensed my understanding.
        “Thank you,” she said.
        We stood silently for a moment. Then Mihret took my hand.
        “Our group will divide soon,” she began. She waited for that to
settle before speaking more. “And we will have to separate once more
after that.”
        I was taken aback. I had felt Bilal’s imminent passing, and I had
sensed a division of the group. Both contributed to the feeling of
dread with which I now struggled. But I had not anticipated a second
division.
        My surprise appeared to confirm something to Mihret.
“Mikhael will lead us until the second divide,” she said. “Then,
daughter of my soul, you will lead.” Her eyes glistened as she spoke.
I froze.
        Mihret waited while I tried to take in what she had said. She
nodded, understanding my confusion and what I was feeling.
        “It has been spoken,” she said. “Fear and doubt have prevented
you from knowing this, and these will be your greatest challenge
in the days and weeks ahead. I will help you as I am able, but you
must overcome the fear and the doubt. For you are being called to
lead.”
        I was suddenly overwhelmed by uncertainty, and fear gripped
me by the stomach and throat. It was as if I was again… I pushed the
memory away ferociously. I could not allow it to govern me.
        I knew the division of the group was necessary, though it was not
clear why. And I had sensed that one group would continue north
while the other turned west.
        But I had not picked up on the second division, and certainly
had had no idea that I was to lead. My lack of awareness fueled further
fear, doubt, and confusion. I felt ill-equipped, especially to lead.
        Mihret placed her hand gently on my arm. “Do not fear this,”
she said. “It is more difficult to recognize our own leadership than it
is to see it in another.
        “It is early for you,” she conceded. “As it is for Danat.” I looked
at her, confused.
        “You will see,” she said simply. “Tell me, what did you sense
about the first division of the group?”
        I sighed. “It was not clear,” I began. I took a deep breath to
steady myself and brought my focus to a point on the ground before
me. Then I took another breath and felt the earth beneath my feet.
As I settled, I continued.
        “I sensed that Danat, Solomon, and two others will continue
north. At some point, the rest of us will turn toward the west.”
        “Yes,” Mihret concurred. “Solomon has been called to his father’s
people. He may not remain there, but he must go. Danat agreed to
protect and care for him before he came into this life. It is a pact that
he must fulfill, so he will go as well.
        “Asbat and Jonah will accompany them,” she continued. “This
they will do from the goodness of their hearts, for it has not been
destined.”
        “Will they return to us?” I asked, surprised by the intensity of the
emotions I was feeling.
        “That I do not know,” Mihret said, shaking her head slightly. “I
feel it has not yet been decided. Solomon and Danat will each face
a trial of some kind. For Solomon, the trial will be brief, though
difficult.”
        Mihret paused, then added, “Danat’s trial will be severe.”
        I flinched, and the look in her eyes was sympathetic. “I believe
he will prevail,” she said softly.
        I was relieved to hear this, though I remained deeply concerned.
Three men and a boy traveling alone in this strange land. It did not
seem safe, or wise.
        Mihret understood. “Do not forget that they, too, are gifted.
And Solomon is a leader in his own right,” she said. She motioned
toward Bilal, and I turned to see him in deep, if labored, conversation
with Solomon.
        I turned to Mihret, my sorrow piercing the sense of numbness
I had been trying to wrap around me since the attack. It was clear
now: Bilal was going to pass the pendant to Solomon this night.
That meant that he was ready to depart this world.
        Mihret’s eyes were sorrowful, but they were also filled with pride.
“My husband has been a valiant warrior—a fierce guardian of his
loved ones and of the teachings. He has become a wise and gentle
man as he has grown older, but he never lost that spark.”
        She smiled and was quiet for a moment, reflecting on some cherished
memories that she held deep within her heart. I waited for her
to find her way back to this moment.
        She looked up at me and smiled her thanks for my honoring of
that time.
        “Bilal has grown stronger over the years, not weaker,” she continued.
        “He has been a leader for many, many people in his life. Before
we came to this town, he was a leader for our people. As we traveled,
he became a leader in the communities where we settled. He did not
seek this out. It simply happened that way.”
        Mihret gazed at the land around us and the night sky above.
        “His legacy lives in the earth, in the sun, in the stars. It lives in his
children, and it lives in me. It is alive in this community,” she said,
gesturing toward the group with a loving smile.
        “Bilal has had but one regret,” she continued. “Of all our children,
only Abera took up his own gifts. This has saddened Bilal. But he
knows that each of our children has their own path in life, and now
they have families of their own to care for. So, he released this regret
years ago.
        “In Solomon, however, Bilal has found a fulfillment of his desire
to care for and teach a young person in the visioning ways of
knowing. Now there is one who will carry this gift forward for our
community, and he feels he can have greater peace in passing from
this world.
        “He is ready for this,” Mihret said. She took a deep breath and
stood a bit taller, preparing herself. She smiled tenderly at her beloved.
        “He has no sadness for himself. But he loves us so strongly that
he feels tremendous sadness for us. My husband has known the pain
of loss. Many times.” She paused, and I felt her own grief rising, then
being released.
        “And he knows how keenly it is felt,” she continued. “Even when
one believes in the beauty of the hereafter.
        “Bilal will watch over us for a time, then he will pass into the
light and the peace of the One.”
        I was silent. So much had been said in these few words.
        As Mihret looked over at her beloved, her face was so filled with
love and pride that it nearly took my breath away. There was nothing
more to be said, I knew. But I reached for Mihret’s hand and held it,
communicating in this way what words could not.
        Mikhael summoned us to the fire. As we sat quietly, he and
Danat laid out the plan they had devised. My mind wandered from
time to time, and I knew that I was missing parts of the discussion.
        My mother, seeming to know that I was struggling, sat close to
me, her hand gently resting on my leg. I felt calmed by her touch,
though my heart was filled with sadness, and the fear and doubt
persisted. The days to come would be hard for all of us, I knew. I
prayed I would be up to the tasks ahead of me.

It came suddenly, from both sides. Moving stealthily as wolves, the
enemy made their way down the side of the hills. We pretended not
to notice. I marveled at the ability of the men to maintain that stance
and the women to keep the children engaged as if nothing untoward
was happening.
        But as the thieves drew nearer, each woman checked her weapon,
still concealed but now ready to be pulled out immediately. They
gathered the children close to them as if they were going to play a
game.
        They had been practicing this “game” since we left the last town.
The children followed along as if it was simply another practice.
Women handed their blankets and belongings to the older children,
who pulled them up on their backs, making them appear ghoulish.
The little ones pretended to cower as the older ones loomed over
them in mock attack.
        The blankets and belongings that were part of a grotesque body
in play provided protection should they be attacked. The young ones
would fall to the ground, with the older children sheltering them,
while the mothers fought off the attackers.
        It had saddened me to see this necessary tactic practiced, but I
appreciated it now. Everyone was disciplined. Everyone was orderly.
No one panicked.
        The thieves were upon us in an instant, but we were prepared. In
the melee, I saw one move to seize the bag of belongings carried by
one of the older boys, a sword ready to take off the boy’s head or arm,
whichever was in the way. I was upon the assailant before he reached
the boy, taking him to the ground in one move.
        I heard a cry behind me and turned with sword in hand but saw
only the body of another thief fall. I glanced up to see my father,
sword in hand, turning to face the next attacker.
        My body shifted instinctually to the right, and I turned to face
an attack from that side. He moved to strike, but I was faster, catching
his arm with my sword as he lunged. I pulled a dagger from his
belt with my other hand and thrust the blade into his stomach. My
own stomach heaved in response.
        Around me was chaos. I heard the guttural roars of the thieves
and shouts of warning from some of our people. There were sounds
of metal on metal, cries of agony, and bodies falling to the ground.
The air was filled with the smell of fear, and blood, and dust.
        As suddenly as it had begun, the battle was over. Several of us
had been injured, but no one was killed. We had been well prepared.
And, I believe, we had been watched over.
        Thirteen thieves in all lay dead or dying among us. Mikhael motioned
to the women to remove the children, who were huddled together
in tears, some shaking in horror still.
        Those mothers who had fought hastily cleaned their weapons
and sheathed them as the others gathered the children and moved
them away from the bloody scene. They formed a circle around the
children, and the older children joined them, keeping their own
backs turned from the horrific sight.
        Mikhael nodded to two of our men. They signaled understanding
and moved toward two thieves who lay dying. Amir and Esau
knelt at their sides, their faces grim. I could feel their pain. None of
this was our desire. Killing flew in the face of everything we believed.
But to protect our loved ones, it had become necessary.
        No matter the pain inflicted upon us, we could not leave a man
to die a slow, agonizing death. A quick glance at their injuries revealed
that this was the only outcome likely.
        The thieves shouted epithets at them, but our men would not
yield to anger or thoughts of vengeance. It was only mercy that compelled
them to slit their throats, saying a prayer as they did so. The
bodies of the other thieves were carried to the side of the road.
        I stood slowly, feeling my mother’s arm around my waist. The
first attacker had managed to cut my upper arm when I fell on him,
and the wound was bleeding profusely. My mother walked me to
the side of the road and tore off the hem of her dress, tying it tightly
around my arm above the wound. Then she used her scarf to staunch
the blood.
        My father, the side of his face bleeding, was at my side immediately
and went to work to tighten the tourniquet and check the
wound, pausing occasionally to wipe away the blood when it trickled
into his eyes, but otherwise ignoring his own injury.
        My mother had already retrieved the needle and gut from his
bag. He cleaned the wound and began to stitch it. He moved quickly,
knowing that there were others to whom he would need to attend. I
looked around me as he worked.
        My mother had moved to the back of the group, where Solomon
and Bilal had been walking. I was afraid to look back, recalling the
look in Mihret’s eyes and the feeling I had had about Bilal. Instead,
I scanned the group, taking in the needs of those who were injured
and listing them off for my father as he worked.
        When at last I did look in Bilal’s direction, I could see only
Mihret’s back bent over his body and Solomon’s small frame, kneeling
beside Mihret. As I watched, he pulled from her bag a small jar
of ointment. Then he handed it to her.
        They were working on Bilal. That meant that he had not perished.
I sensed he was gravely injured, but I could not allow myself
to know more at the time. I was too close to overwhelm as the shock
began to wear off and flashes of what had happened before mixed
with the images from what had just occurred.
        Pause. Breathe. Return to the present moment, I reminded
myself.
        I shifted my focus and continued to assess the injuries to the
others of our group. Drawing on what was familiar was helpful. My
father had trained me to manage my emotions while tending to others.
The carpenter had trained me to be aware of and manage my
internal responses under all circumstances.
        Mikhael had been injured on his left side. I later learned that
one of the thieves had come from behind to run him through with
a sword but that Mikhael had been able to parry, so the sword penetrated
only the outer layers of flesh. His attacker now lay dead at
the side of the road, where Mikhael had dragged his body before
standing to attend to his own wound. Several other men had been
wounded, some seriously, and two of the women were being tended
to by others.
        We had triumphed. But the mood was not celebratory. None of
us wanted to take the life of another. With every attack, the weight
on our hearts had grown heavier. Now it was so burdensome that
some began to question the wisdom of carrying on.
        I made myself turn back toward Bilal. He, too, had been run
through with a sword, but he had not been as prepared as Mikhael.
The attacker had come from behind and thrust his weapon into
Bilal’s back, near the base of his ribs.
        My father was with him now, and his face was grave as he examined
the wound. He cleaned it. Then, with my mother’s help, he
began to try to repair what he could. The way he was working let me
know that the wound was deep, which meant that vital organs may
have been damaged. My heart sank.
        Bilal had nothing to ease the pain other than his own discipline.
He closed his eyes, and although he could not stop his face from
grimacing at times, I knew that what he was enduring calmly and in
silence would make another man writhe in pain and cry out.
        Mihret sat next to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other
holding his hand. Her face was calm, but I could feel her heart
pounding. And I felt her quiet it. She would not allow the fear and
pain to overcome her. Instead, she called on the stillness of presence.
Mihret was with Bilal in every part of her being.
        My heart broke at the sight. There was so much love between
them and so much still to be learned from these two elders. I prayed
that Bilal would survive to continue to teach us and light our
way.
        Solomon had stayed by Bilal’s side and now would not leave
him, though Danat had approached him and suggested this. Mihret
did not question Solomon’s presence or tell him to move.
        Danat moved away toward a small group of trees. I wondered
what he was thinking but could not keep my eyes away from Bilal. I
prayed with all my heart.
        We knew that we could not wait there. While my father and
mother continued to work on Bilal, the rest of us began to gather
our belongings and redistribute them according to who would be
able to carry them, given the impact of the wounds on some of the
strongest men.
        Danat returned to the group carrying two long branches he had
chopped from the trees. He laid them down and used his own blanket
and that of one of the other men to fashion a bed. He and the
other man cut holes in the corners and sides of the blanket, then cut
sections of rope from a larger bundle one of the women had been
carrying. These they wove through the holes in the blanket and tied
around the branches.
        They had fashioned a pallet on which to carry Bilal.
        When it came time to move, two men took up the pallet. It
was clear that Danat wished that he could bear the weight, but his
shoulder and arm were not yet healed and had been reinjured when
he fought off the thieves. I could tell from the way his arm hung
at his side that the shoulder had been dislocated again, but he said
nothing.
        As we began to move, Solomon walked on one side of Bilal and
Mihret walked on the other. Their silence was a vigil. We all joined
it as we followed them, letting Bilal lead the way, possibly for the last
time.

The following day brought winds that were filled with biting, stinging
sand and dried our throats even more than they had been.
        We pulled our scarves over our faces, leaving only our eyes open to
the world around us, and we kept moving.
        We had decided to travel as a single group, now that the number
of other refugees appeared to be dwindling. There were very few
people on the road, and it was comforting to be surrounded by the
group. We walked closely, the men on the outside, shielding the
women and children as much as possible.
        There could be no talking, singing, or praying with the wind and
sand constantly upon us. The hours seemed to merge into a single,
extended moment, like a dream that would not end.
        Mikhael, aware of the distress we were feeling and ever alert for
points of respite, was the first to see the small hills in the distance.
He had us pause, and in a brief lull in the wind, he pointed to them.
        “Those are the foothills,” he said. He had seen these in his own
vision two nights before.
        “We have a distance to travel still, but that first end is in sight.”
        I wondered what he meant by “first end,” but there could be no
further conversation as the winds picked up again.
        We huddled together and got what rest we could, sheltering 
ourselves with our blankets and taking sparing sips of water and small
bites of food. Despite our best efforts, the dust and sand seemed to
penetrate everything. Still, as we huddled together in silence, we were
encouraged by the sight of the land ahead.
        We came upon a town late the following morning, and it seemed
as if our fortunes might turn. The people were generous. Seeing our
wretched condition and hearing the brief version of our story, they
took pity on us.
        They were not a gentle or soft people by any means. Although
their town was somewhat sheltered by trees and low rises in the land
around it, and fed by a small stream and several wells, it was nevertheless
lacking in many other resources. They had to work hard to maintain 
their home in the harsh climate.
        But even with this relative scarcity, they shared their bread and
the meat of their lambs and goats with us. The women showed us
how to prepare a stew with some of the ground vegetables and roots
they had cultivated and told us where to find these as we traveled
through the land ahead.
        The men sat in consultation with Mikhael and several of the
other men. They warned them that as we approached the hills, where
there were more resources, we would likely encounter thieves and
other dangerous types. The people of the town had chosen to live
in this more desolate area in part because of the presence of those
types closer to the towns ahead. They advised that we continue to
travel together, rather than separating, even though it would attract
attention.
        “More eyes and ears will be better,” one of the men said to
Mikhael. “You will need to keep watch always.”
        We set out the next morning, thanking the people for their 
generosity. Several of the women pressed loaves of bread and dried 
fruit and meat into our hands.
        “Go with God,” they said. I wondered about their god, as it was
clear that it was not the same as ours, though my mother said that it
was similar to that of her own people.
        She had spent several hours deep in conversation with a few of
the women. I assumed that they were talking about gathering and
preparing food, but I realized when my mother shared that insight
that their talks had included spiritual matters. I felt relieved to know
that my mother’s passion was persisting despite her grief.
        The children, having had a good night’s rest and plenty to eat,
were more themselves, and they waved happily at the other children
and the adults of the town as we left. Although the people of the town 
smiled as they sent us off, I could see the misgiving on their faces, 
and I wondered what lay ahead.
        We traveled the rest of the day in peace, passing only a few traders
and isolated travelers along the way. Most of them were pleasant or at 
least neutral in their greetings, but a few studied our group more closely 
than seemed natural. I caught Mikhael’s eye after passing one such 
group and knew that he had the same feeling as I had had.
        When we paused to rest shortly afterward, Mikhael called several
of the men to him. They, too, had sensed danger. Danat’s attention
to detail proved to be valuable here, as he had observed them as
closely as they had us. He saw what the men in the other group had
been taking in, and it confirmed our suspicions.
        “They counted every weapon,” he said, “even though all are concealed.
And they took note of the number of women and children.”
        He said this last softly, obviously hoping none of us would hear.
Fortunately, most of the women and children were seated slightly at
a distance and did not appear to have heard him. But Mihret’s gaze
met mine, and I knew that she, too, had heard this appraisal.
        Danat said that the strangers had also paid close attention to our
possessions and seemed particularly interested in the loom and several
of the tools the men had brought with them. This was encouraging,
he said, insofar as it implied that they might be more interested in 
stealing from us than causing further harm. But, he added, it was clear 
that they had assessed whom to strike first and how to minimize harm 
to themselves.
        I could see that the other men were impressed by Danat’s quick
assessment and his ability to track so many details at one time. They 
developed a plan, and when we gathered our belongings and prepared 
to leave, the men took up strategic points around the group.
        I approached my father. Ever since the attack, he had insisted
that I not carry a weapon. “You must focus on healing,” he had said.
“You will need all your strength for walking.” This last he’d added to
soften the message. My mother agreed with him.
        He was not wrong: walking did take every ounce of strength
and determination I had left. But with such a clear threat present, I
would not settle for a place at the center of the group.
        “A small sword,” I insisted. “They saw that I had no weapon
before, so they will not suspect that I am armed. And it will be more
easily concealed.”
        This had been my father’s concern—that an enemy might see
that I was armed and attack me first as the most vulnerable of
those armed. He was also concerned about the thieves’ other possible
intentions.
        In many of the peoples around us, a woman bearing arms or
doing anything normally considered the work of men would be seen
as a direct threat both to their authority and to the edicts through
which they maintained it. Punishment would be swift, severe, and
made very public. So, it was likely that any of the women in our
group who was found bearing a weapon would be struck first, to
send a message. I understood the risk.
        Help came from a surprising source. Danat had been standing
nearby and overheard my request. He was reluctant to intervene, I
could tell, but something prompted him to speak up.
        “She will be safer with the sword,” he said to my father. To his
credit, he held his ground when my father turned on him in a rare
moment of anger.
        “This is not your concern,” my father said sharply.
        Danat paused but a moment before replying. “Respectfully, it is
of concern to all of us. We can ill afford to lose even one fighter. And
Aryel is a leader.”
        My father had attempted to use this very argument when he
pleaded with me not to stay behind to fight with Yuhannan.
        Danat continued, “I, too, have had a vision of the lands ahead.
They are not welcoming. Aryel is visibly wounded,” he said. “And
she is young and ..."
        He paused, searching for the best way to convey such a delicate
matter. In the end, he decided not to name it but to allow it to remain
implicit. “It is best that she has the means to defend herself if 
necessary.”
        Reason won, as my father conceded Danat’s points. “But,” he
said, as he handed me one of the smaller swords, which could be
concealed beneath my tunic, “use it only if absolutely necessary.”
        I nodded, keeping my smile to myself so as not to embarrass
him. It was rare that my father lost an argument, and although he
was not a prideful man, much had already been taken from him.
        I met Danat’s eyes briefly and saw that he agreed with my father
that I must only fight if it was necessary. I gave a slight nod, though
I had no intention of holding back if we were attacked.
        My brother had trained me to fight. I had often been his sparring 
partner in practice, and he had spared no detail in his instruction. I
knew that in many ways I was better trained than most of the men.
Hakim had taught me well, and I would honor that teaching.
        It was my one way to give back to him a small part of what he had
given me and perhaps to redeem at least part of what I had lost.
The thought of a possible attack did stir memories of the previous
battle and what occurred afterward, and I was more uneasy than I 
would have liked to have been. I tried to quiet my mind by thinking 
of what I had learned from both Hakim and the carpenter in this 
regard.
        As my thoughts turned to the carpenter, I felt his presence. We
knew that he was no longer with us in body, but he had made himself
known here and there to several of us. We had no doubt as to the 
truth of our experiences and were grateful for his continued
guidance.
        Now he offered me strength and calm through his presence. No
words were needed. I took a deep breath and set out.
        There was no attack that day and none that night. We added to
our watch regardless, knowing that we were at a disadvantage due to
our lack of familiarity with the land around us.
        The following morning, people were slightly more at ease. The
dawn brought a sense of hope, and the wind was calm. We gathered
our belongings and set out along the road. Shortly after leaving,
however, I felt a powerful jolt of energy up my spine. My head shot
up, and I saw that Mikhael, Danat, and Bilal had also experienced it.
        My father, ever attuned to me, instantly reached for his sword,
but my mother drew near and gently laid her hand on his arm. They
needed no words for this communication. It was clear that she was
telling him to stand down and follow Mikhael’s lead.
        The children, sensitive to even the slightest change in the group
by now, became restless and slightly agitated. Mothers soothed them,
and Bilal walked among them calmly, settling their emotions and energy
with his presence and his smile. What they did not see was his
simultaneous awareness of the land around us.
        Bilal was strong in the gift of sight. Like the rest of us, he had
visions, but he could also detect things that we could not see—colors,
images, and energy flows that were not apparent to the eye. I saw
that he was watching a ridge to our east closely. The road approached
it up ahead.
        I also noticed that Solomon was watching the same ridge. He
had begun to exhibit signs of having dominance in the gift of sight
as well. It seemed that this was developing quickly in him. I watched
as he drew alongside Bilal, acting as naturally as he could. The two of
them fell back a bit to speak.
        Ahead of us, Mikhael and two of the stronger men were scanning
the road and the surrounding environment. Mihret walked near the 
center of the group, her head tilted slightly. I knew that she was 
listening.
        Mihret’s dominant gift was that of hearing. She was being given 
information about what was coming. I saw her glance back at Bilal, 
a look of concern on her face. He sensed her concern and looked up 
at her, smiling with a calmness that was so profound that even in this 
heightened state of alertness, my body relaxed a bit just seeing it.
        Mihret, however, was not so easily soothed. She gave him a 
long look, full of spousal direction, and I could tell that he received 
her message as he nodded slightly, still smiling, and gently dropped 
his hand to his sword. He was prepared, he was telling her.
        Mihret noticed that I was watching them. In her eyes I saw a
flash of pain before she smiled at me to reassure me. Remember the
teachings, she said to me with that look.
        I followed her guidance. Go within. Find your knowing. Be at
peace. Taking two deep breaths, I tried to allow my own gift to begin
speaking to me.
        It was a challenge. One of the most painful effects of the attack
had been the disruption of my ability to draw on my gift—the gift
of knowing through feeling. I sensed things both through my body
and in the energy flows within and around me. But my body had
been violated, and this violation overwhelmed my ability to access
my knowing.
        I felt my father draw near.
        “The two that wind around the center and the center itself,” he
prompted, reminding me of the three primary energy flows in the
body. According to the wisdom traditions of his people, there was a 
central channel through which one accessed higher realms and could
experience connection to all. Winding back and forth around this 
central channel were two subordinate channels. Balancing these enabled 
one to open the central channel farther and to remain steady on the earth.
        He had sensed what was happening, and now he was reminding me
of one of our earliest teachings from his people. When my brother and I
were younger, my father shared with us some of their wisdom, which 
included understanding of the energy pathways within the physical and 
subtle bodies. He had guided us in learning how to feel, understand, and 
balance them.
        That teaching returned to me now, and as I followed his guidance,
my unease settled. The urge to fight, to scream, or to run madly straight 
into the danger began to subside. And gradually, my knowing returned. 
With it came the understanding that had driven my fear and anger to 
the surface. I looked up at my father.
        “They are nearby,” I said. “And they have dark intentions.”
        He nodded. “They must not suspect that we are aware,” he said.
He smiled at me with deep love, though in his eyes was an abiding
concern for me.
        “Yes,” I said. I smiled back at him. Then I began to speak to the
woman next to me. I conveyed the message about the dangers ahead
but acted as if we were talking about some small affair of the heart.
        Something made me glance over to the east. Danat was walking
on that side of the group, and he was watching me. I realized that
he had not missed a thing. He let his eyes move easily, as if out of
curiosity, not concern, from me, to Mihret, to Bilal and Solomon, to
the front of the group, and then to the land around him, including
the ridge that Bilal had been watching.
        I was impressed by how unobtrusively Danat was able to scan the
group. I sensed that he was taking in every person’s position, assessing
their vulnerabilities, and exploring options for their protection.
        When he had come up with a plan, he made his way toward the
front of the group, appearing to be at ease as he conversed with the
people he passed. They in turn seemed to smile and nod as if simply
commenting on the day.
        What he had said, however, was no simple pleasantry. After he
had passed, I saw each person appear to shift either their position or
their weapon ever so subtly. Danat was preparing them.
        He made his way to Mikhael’s side, and the two pretended to
share a laugh about some small matter. I knew, however, that in that
outwardly bantering exchange, a complete plan for defense was being
shared. I felt reassured temporarily, but then the sensations in my
spine became more acute.
        I knew not to look at the hills from which the attack was going
to come, but I could feel the presence of the enemy—somewhere
between twelve and fifteen of them. They were restless, aggressive,
and filled with greed like a pack of feral dogs, only lacking even that
much order.
        I glanced back at Rivkah. Her gaze met my eyes briefly, and I
knew that she, too, was aware. Like mine, Rivkah’s gift was strongest
in felt knowing. She let her hand fall to the hilt of a large dagger she
kept concealed within her bag. She told me she was prepared, and
she bid me to focus now. We were all connected, she reminded me.
No need to engage directly now.
        I followed her advice, ever grateful for that steady wisdom on
which I had come to lean more and more over the years. She had
helped me refine my gift while continuing to strengthen the others.
Only time and practice could bring out its true abilities. The practice
continued.
        As we approached the narrowing of the land on either side of the
road, I felt the danger rise. I knew that the others did as well. Though
we remained outwardly calm, we were bracing for the attack.

That night, I sat next to Danat as we all settled in near the fire. He
looked up at me in surprise when I approached, and the flush in his
cheeks was unmistakable. I pretended not to notice, acknowledging
that his feelings made me uncomfortable too, though not for the
same reasons.
        “I want to thank you,” I began.
        I hesitated. It was difficult, but I knew that this was important.
Danat still felt like an outsider. And for all his outward intellectual
arrogance, his vulnerability was evident. It could not have been easy
for him to find himself in a position where none of his sources of
security or thoughts about his value in the world were important or
available any longer. I could at least acknowledge this one gift.
        He looked even more surprised by my words, and I could not
help but smile. Men in their vulnerability could be so guileless.
        “When you found me and helped me,” I continued, my own
discomfort now increasing, “you asked my permission before you
put your hands on me to help me rise.”
        Saying the words brought up dizzying sensations and emotions.
I paused, taking several deep breaths to calm myself before continuing.
        Danat was silent. I felt his concern and his respect, which made
this both easier and more difficult.
        “That was very important,” I said. I could not bring myself to
look at him, but at least the words were out.
        Danat was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke.
        “It was the least I could do,” he said softly. We both sat in silence
for a few moments.
        “Are you healing?” he asked. I knew that he was not referring to
my physical injuries.
        “In body, yes,” I replied. I wanted to leave, to do anything other
than talk about these things. But I made myself continue for both
our sakes.
        “Otherwise, no,” I said. “Not yet. It will come.” I said those
words as much for myself as for Danat.
        I could feel his eyes on me, and he seemed to sense that this was
too much. He looked at the fire and sat quietly with me.
        “Do you have more questions?” I asked after a while.
        He hesitated. “I’m not sure that now is a good time for questions,”
he said.
        “It may help us both,” I replied, realizing that there was more
truth to that than I had thought.
        Danat hesitated. He seemed to be weighing something. Then
he spoke.
        “In that case,” he said with the slightest chuckle, “I always have
questions.”
        The sound of that chuckle surprised me. It was so different from
his exterior. Like the vulnerability I had seen in his surprise, it spoke
of something more tempered within. There was in it a warmth and
humor that reminded me of someone. It was the carpenter, I realized.
        I wondered if the carpenter had at one time been like Danat—
strong in his convictions, convinced of his “rightness,” and needing
to learn humility, while also, beneath all that, possessing a gentleness
of heart. If that were the case, then it would certainly explain why
the carpenter had seen what none of us had seen in Danat at first,
namely, the heart of a true teacher and leader.
        I smiled and turned to look at Danat. “Then ask them,” I said.
        He met my gaze briefly, then looked away. He was still at odds
with his feelings about me. I knew he would withhold them out of
respect as much as out of fear of feeling them. I thought his parents
must have raised him well, then realized that I was attributing
this strength to the teaching of others. Perhaps some of that wisdom
came from Danat himself.
        “You said that your father came from the Far East, like the carpenter,”
he began. “Did they know of each other before they met? Was that 
one of the reasons your father came to this town?”
        “No,” I replied. “It was a surprise for each of them to find a fellow 
countryman. They came from very different parts of their homeland.”
        I recalled my father’s tales of this place and could not help but
smile a little, feeling again the draw of it—the mystery, and the
magic.
        “It is a vast country, my father tells me. So many different regions.
There are mountains so high that they touch the very heavens. There 
are great plains, and forests without end, and the coastline is longer 
than can be imagined.
        “In the land of my father, there are places where the trees are so
plentiful that their leaves allow only scattered rays of the sun to reach
the ground below. Plants and flowers grow everywhere, and there are
magnificent animals, some as deadly as they are beautiful.
        “In that land there are many sages and spiritual adepts,” I added.
        My father had told me about these wise men, but it was my
mother who was most drawn to them. She had absorbed almost every
word of the four small texts my father had brought with him from his 
land. These introduced her to ideas about the world and spiritual 
matters that were entirely new to her. My father would sometimes 
joke that she loved those texts more than she loved him.
        Describing my father’s homeland to Danat made me recall how
enchanted I had been as a child when my father told us the stories
of his childhood and the land in which he had grown to be a young
man.
        “My father and the carpenter were from different regions, but
they still shared some aspects of culture. I was not there when they
met, but my mother tells me that it was like two old friends finding
each other after many years.”
        “So, the carpenter was one of those sages?” Danat asked.
        “I believe that he studied with them—for many years, it seems.
He was given to the sages as a small child by his parents, who had
too many children and could not feed him. The carpenter tells this
story with no regret or sorrow for himself, though with compassion
for his parents.
        “He himself is grateful for this outcome, he has said, because it
set him on his true path. Beyond that, he has been reticent about
his origins."
        “And your father?” Danat wondered. “What was his family like?”
        “His family was prosperous,” I replied. “His own father was a
merchant, and he was able to provide well for the family from his
trade. His mother was gentle and kind, my father says, but could be
very strict. When I would complain about my mother’s strictness, he
would always have a story for me about his own mother being twice
as strict.”
        I paused a moment, thinking of some of those memories. It still
saddened me to acknowledge that I would never know these distant
grandparents.
        Danat sensed my sadness and grew concerned. “Would it be best
for us to stop talking?” he asked.
        “No, no,” I said. “I was just thinking about the relatives I will
never meet. It saddens me, but I can continue.”
        I returned to less emotional matters. 
        “My father’s father was wealthy and could provide an education 
for the boys in the family. Unfortunately, in that culture girls received 
very little formal education.
        “My father was the second son, his older brother being three
years his senior. He had one other brother and two sisters. Although
he was the second boy, he was the brightest of all the children, and
his father was very proud of his ability to learn.
        “It was his father who sent him to study medicine, a fact for
which his mother never forgave him. She blamed medicine—and
her husband—for taking her son away from her.”
        I remembered my father’s smile as he told me this. We had been
talking about our shared passion for the work. The memory filled my
heart with a warmth that I had forgotten. Feeling that warmth, and
remembering my father’s description of his mother, I could not help
but smile myself.
        “Although she was never educated, my father’s mother was highly
intelligent. No one could match her in an argument, he told me,
and people rarely tried, as she had a fiery temperament as well. He
said that in many ways I reminded him of her.
        “My father studied medicine with local physicians,” I continued,
“and later moved to a great city on the northern coast to continue
his studies. Over time he developed a name for himself and had his
own small practice.
        “He was quite young when he did this, and he said that he still
had a great deal to learn. My mother tells me what he would not—that 
he learned so quickly that many of his teachers could not keep up with 
his desire for more education.”
        Danat was listening attentively, and I could see him drawing 
parallels, as well as contrasts, as we spoke.
        “His family lived in a smaller city to the south, also on the sea.
Because it, too, was a port, my father was exposed to other cultures
from an early age. He had been intrigued about these unusual people
and places as a child, and when he went to study and practice in the
larger city, he began to hear more about the different ways of practicing
medicine from some of the traders who crossed the sea.
        “In time, he grew restless. He had mastered the local knowledge
and techniques of healing, along with the physical and spiritual practices
for maintaining health. But he wanted to learn more. And so, when a 
boat came in from the land of the two great rivers, as they called it, 
he decided to follow this call. He joined the crew as it was preparing 
to return to its homeland.
        “My father felt a mix of sadness and excitement as he boarded
that boat. He was leaving his family and his own home behind. But
he was entering a new world, one that he hoped would be filled with
new learning and understanding.”
        He had looked wistful when he told us about that day. I felt a 
child’s sense of loss hearing the story, but I was more filled with
excitement and imagined wonders. When I grew older and began to
mourn this unknown family myself, I understood his sadness better.
        “Where did your father go first?” Danat asked. I could tell that
he was picturing the maps he had seen, trying to envision the route
my father had taken.
        “He said that he was at sea for many, many days. He does not
remember much of this time because he was so ill that he thought he
would perish. He lay in misery on a wretched blanket in a corner of
the hold beneath the deck, praying the end would come.
        “Fortunately, one of the crewmen on the boat took pity on him
and gave him water and a hard, dry bread that helped prevent the
retching that was weakening him by the hour. This crewman checked
on him regularly, and when he came, he told my father of the places
they would see once the boat passed through the narrow passage between
the great sea and the smaller one. His tales of the wonders of the lands 
beyond were what kept my father’s spirit alive.
        “They landed at last, and my father, once recovered, was thrilled
that he had made the trip. He learned everything he could about the
language, the culture, and the medical practices that were employed by 
the healers there. They were in many ways very different from his own.”
        “How long did he stay there?” Danat inquired.
        “He said he was there for several years, studying and practicing
medicine with two different physicians. Then he met a physician
from Assyria who told him of even more wisdom that could be gleaned 
there. So, he set out for that land, traveling in a caravan and paying 
his way by providing his services as he went.
        “After studying there for three more years, he traveled south,
where he met my mother. He came to her village at the request of
one of the headmen, whose own child was ill. This headman had
learned of him through tales of his healing that had spread even to
some of the more remote villages.”
        “How did he come to meet your mother?” Danat was following
the story intently, and I knew that he appreciated its broadness but
clearly wanted more details. It was simply the way his mind worked.
By then I was beginning to grow tired, however, and I could not
summon more detail than what I had given.
        “That is a longer story,” I said. I tried to lighten his disappointment
with a promise.
        “The story of my father’s journey and my parents’ meeting is a
good one, like that of Mihret and Bilal. I think you would enjoy hearing 
them tell it. I will ask them to share it with you. I think it will inspire 
you,” I added.
        Danat looked at me quizzically.
        “It provides further evidence of the ways in which destiny moves
in our lives, as well as the ways we are drawn to one another. You may 
feel less unusual,” I added.
        He looked at me. By then he was no longer surprised by my awareness 
of his inner life, but it still perplexed him.
        “You all seem to know one another’s thoughts and feelings,” he said. 
He was not bitter or resentful, but his sense of isolation was strong.
        “You will do the same in time,” I said.
        “There have been several things that you have known without
being told,” I explained, seeing the confusion persisting. I prayed that 
he would realize without my having to say as much that I was referring 
to his understanding of what had happened to me.
        He looked up at me. He did understand. And he knew not to say 
more.
        I smiled gratefully. “You see. And you will continue to know more.”
        I felt empathy for his hungry mind and his desire to feel more
settled with what he had experienced.
        “You have been given a great deal of information over a short
period of time,” I said. “Much of this information requires that you
let go of what you thought you knew.
        “And your injuries are still healing, which causes distraction.”
I added, hoping to provide encouragement, “I am glad to see you
practicing the morning moment of silence, though.
        “As your mind settles and your body heals, this understanding
will come more readily to you. Give yourself time.” I paused, thinking
of my own training with the carpenter with a mix of gratitude, longing, 
and grief. I took a breath to ease the unsettled emotions.
        “Perhaps this desert plain will be helpful,” I considered, as much
for my own benefit as for Danat’s. “It has felt tortuous at times, but it 
may be that having nothing but the empty land before us and the sky 
above will prompt more inner growth.”
        We had been able to fill our water containers in the town we had
passed through before stopping for the night, but as predicted, there
had been no food to spare. Our stores were diminishing, and hunger
was adding to the inner strain we experienced as we traveled through
that vast emptiness.
        Danat looked up at the sky above, which was not empty now, but 
filled with stars. Following his gaze, I felt peace. It eased the strange, 
inner frenzy that the emptiness of the desert had begun to inspire. I 
was grateful to Danat for redirecting my attention.
        “Some nights,” he said, “I wonder about those stars—how they are 
made, why they shine so brightly, and why they seem to move across 
the sky as the days pass.”
        We were silent awhile, gazing up at the stars. Then Danat looked
over at me again. I felt uncomfortable under his quiet scrutiny and
thought it was because I could feel the welling up of emotion in him.
        “You must rest,” he said. 
        He paused, then added. “Thank you for speaking with me tonight.”
        It was such a formal expression of gratitude that I almost laughed,
but I could see that he was entirely serious, so I contained my laughter
and smiled instead.
        “It is good for us to talk,” I said. “We need to know each other
to be able to lead together.”
        Danat moved as if to speak but decided against it. He simply
nodded.
        “Good night,” I said, rising stiffly. Danat rose quickly, if awkwardly;
his own leg and hip were still not fully healed. He tried to help me to 
my feet, but I shook my head. 
        “I can manage.”
        To his credit, he nodded and stepped back, allowing me my dignity,
even though I stumbled a bit with the pain.
        “Good night,” he said simply. And we retired to our separate
blankets.

How his words haunted me now. I felt that I had, in fact, allowed
those things to be taken from me. My mind reasoned that I had
fought as a warrior and that I was healing, but still I felt that all that
had made me a warrior, a healer, and a woman had been taken from
me. Everything that I was had been broken. And I had allowed it.
        I went through the motions of prayer. I pulled forth what 
compassion, strength, and endurance I could. I accepted my father’s 
respect and his healing of my body. I allowed my mother to comfort
my turbulent thoughts and emotions. But my heart, though still
beating, was closed.
        All this haunted me as much as the experience of the attack itself.
I realized, as I walked alongside Rivkah and Mihret, that each of us had
had to endure great trials and had experienced a numbing of one form 
or another. Even Danat was beginning to face this in himself. I had the 
sense that there was some importance to this, but I could not say what 
it was.
        Rivkah felt everything that passed through me. Those of us who
wore the pendant seemed to do this with ease. Others were similarly
attuned, though at times with less immediacy and clarity.
        I thought of Yuhannan, who had heard Danat’s second call the
day of the battle when I had not, and I faltered. My grief and guilt
over the loss of Yuhannan and the others was also overwhelming at
times.
        Rivkah said nothing, but she reached for my hand and held it as
we walked. I felt her strength and her courage. I felt her compassion.
Silently, I thanked her.
        I turned my thoughts to Bet, Yuhannan’s wife. Although she was
surrounded by people who loved her, and although she and her child
would be well cared for, Bet was alone in ways each of us understood
but could not change.
       I had been watching her, grateful for the love and compassion
she was being shown by Marta in particular. I felt helpless in the face
of her grief, and I felt guilty for surviving the battle that her husband
had not. This, too, haunted me at night.
        As I walked, I challenged myself to focus on compassion for my
fellow travelers and for those who had gone before us, rather than 
allowing helplessness and guilt to overcome me. Compassion
restored me.
        The day grew hotter, and the empty plain that stretched before
us brought on an unnamable fear in all of us. I gave thanks for my
community. Were any of us alone in that wasteland, I was sure we
might go mad. Even with the carpenter’s training.
        We silently drew nearer to one another as if proximity might
shield us from the expanse of the unknown before us and the brutal
heat from above. Prayers were whispered or softly sung.
        The children had stopped dancing and playing. They tucked
themselves into their parents’ presence as if to wrap themselves
against the fearful landscape.
        Our throats were dry, but we dared not drink much. Mikhael
had seen in a vision that there was a settlement approximately one
day’s journey to the north. We hoped to find water there. Our stores
were too meagre to risk running out of water in the meantime.
        Water in this land was even more precious than in our own. We
knew better than to hope for food or other resources from the towns
we passed through, but we prayed that the water supply would be
plentiful enough for us to refill our containers. In most towns it had
been, and the water had been shared, if at times begrudgingly.
        One could understand the resentment. There were so many 
refugees along the road, all of us needing water, needing rest, and 
needing sustenance—all of us journeying to an unknown destination,
wondering where we would find safety and the resources needed to
live.
        For the people of the towns, we were a burden, a drain on their
own resources. Some were kind, but none was welcoming. Some
were overtly hostile, so we had learned to send two men ahead of
the group to assess the receptivity of the townspeople. There had
been days when we had passed straight through a town, barely even
making eye contact.
        It was further evidence of what war can do to a people well beyond
the battlefield.
        My leg was beginning to heal, though it was still weak. I relied
on the cane my father had fashioned from the branch of a small,
twisted tree. Looking down at the cane as I walked, I felt a fondness
for it, though initially I had resented it.
        When he had given it to me, it had seemed too stark, too physical a
reflection of the broken, twisted parts of myself. It was as bent and ugly
and disfigured as I was. I could barely bring myself to pick it up during
the first days of travel.
        But as I walked, I learned to look at the cane differently. I recalled
Lilia’s words about the desert rose.
        Yes, Lilia, I said silently, I will be strong. I will be resilient. I will
endeavor to be wise.
        But I could never feel beautiful again. I would not want to, even
if I thought it possible.
        I thought of my brother. He had called me a warrior. I had
fought, yes, and I had exacted my own toll on the enemy. But would
he still think of me as a warrior if he knew what the two soldiers had
been able to do to me?
        My heart, though closed, knew the answer. It was as if Hakim
himself had called down from the heavens to respond. But my mind
and my emotions could not allow it. And my body still carried every
sensation from that experience, as if it had been burned into the
very fibers of my being.
        I turned my thoughts to the road ahead, taking several deep
breaths to find myself again. Rivkah had come closer, but she knew
not to touch me in those moments. I would have startled and
possibly attacked before I could even become aware of what I was
doing.
        This had happened only once before, when I lay by the fire in the
caves. I had been in and out of a sleep filled with nightmares. It was
my father’s touch that elicited my violent response.
        He had gently placed his hand on my shoulder to awaken me so
he could give me more medicine to control the fever. He had done
this so many times since I was a child that to him it must have felt
like a natural gesture.
        But it startled me, and that was enough to strike the spark within.
In one swift, unpredictable, frenzied motion, I screamed and pushed 
him away from me.
        When I realized where I was and what I had done, I looked at
him in horror. His eyes were equally full of horror—and worse. There 
was a sorrow within my father now that I knew would never leave him.
        I apologized profusely, but he merely shook his head.
        “No, my daughter,” he said. “The mistake was mine. I should
have known better than to touch you.”
        His voice broke then. All the rage, sorrow, and regret that he
had kept inside to prevent me from suffering further was present in
that break. Both of us were frozen for a moment. Then he took a
deep breath.
        “From now on, I will awaken you with my voice,” he said. “And
I will make sure that no one approaches you without your knowing
and permission.”
        I could only nod and take the medicine and the herbal tea. But
when I lay back down, I felt that I had become a monster. And the
nightmares got worse.
        As my thoughts returned to that incident with my father, I 
realized that Danat had known almost immediately what had happened
to me when he found me that day. He had said not a word, but he had
made a point of asking my permission to lift me up.
        At the time I thought it was out of some kind of politeness he had
been raised with. Now I saw what I had not seen at the time. Danat 
did, in fact, have the knowing within.
        We stopped to rest when we came to a small group of rocks and
bushes near the road. Our feet were cracked and burning, the heat
penetrating even through our sandals. Our bodies were stiff and sore,
and our minds were fatigued by the endless challenges.
        My leg throbbed, and the wound in my chest seemed to be sucking
what moisture I had out of me, as if it had allowed the desert air to
penetrate to my very core. The pain was acute, but this dryness was 
worse.
        My father checked the wound at each stop, and my mother made
up an herbal poultice for both the chest and the leg. When my father
had checked the wounds, she applied the poultice to the wounds, 
replacing the bandages firmly but with tenderness. I knew it was her 
way of healing me: offering a safer touch, a soothing one.
        I was grateful, but I could not tell her that it seemed that I was
beyond feeling safe again and that I would never be at ease with
physical contact. The swelling in my throat had gone down, but
those words would not come. They were too close—too close by
far—to the attack itself.
        When we set out again, my mother walked alongside me, and
my father took up the other side. They had always allowed me my
freedom. But they also knew when to draw near, often before I did.
When I was younger, I resented it at times. I felt as if they were 
protecting me too much. I would argue that they treated me differently
from my brother.
        My father would smile and nod his head. “Yes, my dear daughter.
We do treat you differently. Because you are different. Even if you 
were a boy, we would treat you differently.”
        “But that is not respectful!” I cried, always grateful when I could
use the carpenter’s teachings to my advantage. To his credit, my father
continued to smile and did not balk.
        “Ah, but it is respectful,” he said. “If I were to treat you exactly as
I treat your brother, I would not be respecting your uniqueness.”
        “Well, I’m not uniquely weak!” I retorted. And both my parents
had to turn away to try to hide their laughter. I thought I had the upper 
hand. “In fact," I added, "I am stronger than you know!”
        With that I had raced outside and tried to pick up one of the heavy
buckets filled with water. I was around eight years of age then, and the 
bucket proved to be more than I could carry. But my parents feigned 
surprise and delight over my burgeoning strength, which soothed my
bright young ego, at least temporarily.
        Now, as they walked silently alongside me, I knew that they were
not there because I was weak, regardless of what I believed about myself.
They were there because sometimes, still, they knew me better than 
I knew myself.

In the days following the attack—especially at night—I drew on the
presence of Joab even more frequently, praying that my doing so was
not keeping his spirit from its destination. I knew that souls often remain
close at hand for a time following their death, out of love and a
desire to comfort loved ones left behind. Some also linger for a time
in distress, unable to allow the passage into the next realm because of
the circumstances of their death or events in their lives leading up to
it that were unresolved.
        The latter, we called ghosts. The loving souls, we called angels,
though they were not the same as the celestial beings. They were our
own beloved angels.
        For now, Joab was my angel, and I knew that he was Rivkah’s
angel as well. She and I shared this comfort without words, each
knowing how he continued to make our hearts full when we needed
that strength and grace.
        That night as I lay beneath the stars, I felt Joab’s presence draw
near. Something was shifting, and I sensed that he was getting ready
to leave. My heart was full—and broken—at the thought.
        “I know you must go,” I whispered. “I do not wish to hold you
back. Nor does your mother.”
        I paused. If I spoke the truth, would it bind him? But he already
knew the truth. “And, yes, I do wish you would stay a bit longer.
Until the worst of these nightmares leaves me.”
        I waited for an answer. My heart filled with tenderness. He
would stay awhile, he said. Tears filled my eyes, making the stars
appear blurry and soft. I pulled the blanket around me and fell into
a more peaceful sleep, thanking him as I drifted off.
        The next morning, we arose before daybreak. I was tired from
having had so little sleep, but I was more refreshed. There had been
fewer nightmares.
        We decided to keep the groups as they were. As I watched Danat,
Solomon, and Mikhael walking ahead of us, I could not help but
smile: three generations of male leaders, each with his own wounds
and vulnerability and each with his own strength. Danat would grow
well in his place between Mikhael and Solomon, nurtured by each
of them and in turn learning how to nurture and support a younger
person.
        Lilia had been my charge. The thought of her still brought tears
to my eyes, though they were now tears of love and gratitude more
than of sorrow.
        Like Solomon, she had been born with gifts more advanced than
many of us. And like Solomon, she was a thoughtful child. But Lilia
had been raised with love and in a safe and secure home. Solomon
had been raised with love, but he’d had it torn away from him—
along with any sense of safety he might have known.
        Allowed to thrive in the comfort and security of her family’s love,
Lilia’s heart was pure and full of joy, a gift that she shared freely. She
was the light of our town.
        The carpenter began to apprentice her shortly after he began to
work with Solomon. Eventually he met with them together, and he
invited me to join them at times. He said that it was important for
these young people to have the direct support of those of us who
wore the pendant.
        Lilia was close to all of us, but she was particularly close to me,
being so much nearer to her in age. Sometimes Lilia, Mihret, Rivkah,
and I would spend time together, allowing the wisdom of women to
nurture and sustain each of us. Those times were very important to
my growth and the development of my understanding on all levels.
        When Lilia and her family were captured by the invaders on their
way to the market in a neighboring town, our entire town grieved.
It was early in the war, and we had no idea then what the invaders
were capable of doing.
        We prayed and kept vigil for their release for weeks, until we
heard from a trader passing through that they had been slain.
Someone from the town had been out with his sheep when he came
upon the remains. Lilia’s family’s bodies had been mutilated and left
for the vultures and jackals to feed on.
        The news was devastating to all of us. We shifted to a silent vigil,
each of us praying inwardly that their souls might be at peace. I
could not shake the images I had constructed from the story of her
death from my mind. My nights were tormented by them. I would
be bereft and possibly tormented still had Lilia herself not visited me
on the third night of that vigil.
        She appeared before me, just as she had been—light of spirit and
full of love and joy. She was smiling. “Do not mourn me, Sister,” she
said. She had insisted on the title, which merged love and playful
connection with respect. “I am at peace.”
        My heart filled.
        “Carry this with you,” she added, extending her hand toward
me. In her palm was a tiny desert rose.
        “It is like you,” she explained. “Beautiful and resilient and wise.
It will remind you of who you are when you forget.”
        As I gazed at the tiny rose, I felt it take root and bloom within
my heart. When I looked up, Lilia was gone.
        That was the last time I saw her. Later, Rivkah told me that Lilia
had come to her that night too. She told Rivkah that souls can find
peace when they leave, no matter how terrible the circumstances
of their deaths. Lilia knew then what Rivkah could not—that she
would lose the two people on earth most precious to her.
        When Joab was killed, I reminded Rivkah of what Lilia had said.
She needed no reminder; she had recalled the young girl’s words even
though the throes of grief were still upon her. I grieved with her and
kept Lilia’s words in my heart for both of us.
        Our town gathered around Rivkah and Shimon often during that
time. I, too, drew on that collective support. Only Rivkah, Shimon,
and the carpenter knew the depth of my feelings for Joab, but everyone
suspected as much. They folded me into their love as well.
        When Shimon died, Rivkah and I again recalled Lilia’s words
and found some peace in them.
        Rivkah’s grief was profound, though it was complicated by the
demands of leadership. After my own attack, she walked with me, silent
but holding my hand in comfort. I felt the deep strength within
her alongside her own continued mourning. We had learned to be
present with both.
        At night, Joab’s presence held me in a way that protected me
from the nightmares. I knew that I would need to develop my own
strength and that I would need to walk through the nightmares on
my own if I wanted to reclaim the woman I had lost that day.
        Still, I was grateful for the comfort and the sense of safety that
came from Joab’s presence. I placed my hands over the tiny desert
rose in my heart, drawing inspiration and comfort from both precious
spirits.
        The morning after that conversation with Danat, I set out to
walk with Rivkah and Mihret. It was reassuring to be with them.
As if I was reclaiming at least that much of what had been normal
before the assault.
        I stayed closer to my parents in the first days after the attack. I
knew that it was helpful to them to care for me, and I was grateful
for their love and assistance. I could feel their grief—both the grief
about what had happened to me and their continued mourning of
my brother.
        Unlike Lilia, Hakim had not come to us with a message after he
died. But each of us felt his presence shortly after he was killed in
battle. My mother felt him first, then my father and me. As heartbroken
as we were, we were not surprised to have his death confirmed
three days later. That time felt like walking through a never-ending
sandstorm.
        I knew that my parents had sensed that I survived the battle.
Still, they had waited in dread for me to appear to them as Hakim
had done when he died.
        Each had pleaded with me that day, asking me to reconsider my
decision to join Yuhannan and the others. But I knew that was where
I was meant to be. Although my parents’ distress was gut-wrenching,
I could not yield.
        I apologized to them for causing still more sorrow, and as I
watched them leave with the others, I tried to fix the image of each
of their faces in my mind.
        Yuhannan had also struggled, watching his beloved Bet leave. We
stood side by side, not speaking but feeling each other’s internal conflict
and grief, as well as our shared sense of duty. I grieved his loss
deeply, but I knew that Bet was truly devastated by it.
        After the attack, my mother was able to tolerate talking with me
about it, though I could not bring myself to speak of it in detail. It
was still too close, and I did not want to burden her with the impressions
it had left on me, though I suspected that she sensed them.
        It was important to acknowledge what had happened, to resist
the instinctual shame that made me want to remain silent, but it
was overwhelming at times. And I knew that it was something from
which I would not heal fully for many years to come, if at all.
        My father could not speak of it. I knew that this was partly out
of respect for me. That was important to both of us. But I also understood
that he was still struggling with his own emotions about what had 
happened.
        There was no need for talk between us anyway. As my mother
had often said, I was the feminine version of my father—headstrong
and clear, she said. Intelligent in the ways of the world as well as
in the ways of the spirit. I reminded her that the latter was equally
her gift to me. As was the wisdom of her heart. She smiled but said
no more.
        It brought comfort to recall these moments with my parents as
we walked. There was a sense of normalcy in the memories, as well
as continuity with the past that seemed to have been ripped away
from us.
        I had begun working with my father when I was Solomon’s age.
Naturally curious about the body and how it heals, I gravitated toward
him at night as he read his books and shared his stories of the
day with my mother.
        During the day I would often ask to follow him when he went
to a home to tend to the ill. If I had studies or other responsibilities
of my own that day, he would firmly decline, but if those were complete,
he nearly always allowed me to accompany him.
        As I watched him work, I was less interested in the injury or illness
than I was in the way the body responded to it. My father said that this 
was the mark of the healer.
        “Do not be daunted or impressed by what is broken,” he said.
“Be impressed only by what is possible. Stay humble in the face of this 
so you can be taught by all with whom you work.
        “I will teach you for a time,” he continued, lighting my heart
with joy. Then he added, “Perhaps someday masters of medicine 
will teach you.” 
        This was unheard of at the time, so it was doubly exhilarating to 
think that not only might I be taught by my father, but also that I might
be one of the first women of our people to study medicine.
        “But,” he added, looking into my eyes to be sure that I was attending
fully to what he had to say, “remember that the people themselves will 
teach you far more than any book or master. Learn to listen to the body
and believe what people tell you. It will be your greatest strength as a 
healer."
        Over the years, I accompanied my father more and more often. At 
night, I studied his notebooks. I began to learn about the body. About
its structure and the functions of its various parts. I learned about its 
diseases. I learned about its vulnerabilities. But I also learned about the 
subtler aspects of the body—those that cannot be seen.
        My father had come from the Far East, where a very different
type of medicine was practiced. Bringing with him knowledge of the 
ways energy flows or is blocked within the subtle bodies and the physical 
body, as well as practices and cures to heal this, he was able to combine 
wisdom and learning in ways that no other physician I knew of could do.
        He had also brought with him herbs and medicines from his
homeland. His supply of these exotic remedies was exhausted long before 
I was born, but he would tell me about them. I dreamed of the bark, 
the flowers, the leaves, and the stems of the strange plants and trees 
he described to me. It was enthralling.
        True to his commitment to continual growth, my father reached
out to local healers as he traveled, to learn more about the herbs and 
medicines they used. He wove this knowledge into his practice, noting
that the plants and medicines were teaching him as well.
        In many of the places where he had traveled, he was met with scorn 
and derision. In some, he was reviled as a heretic or agent of evil and 
was immediately expelled. For a time, he resumed a more traditional 
practice, but—as he would later explain, first to my mother and then 
to my brother and me—when one is called to do something, there can 
be no rest until that calling is fulfilled.
        My mother understood this, though her calling was less outwardly
apparent. Because I shared that calling with my father, I, too, had no 
need of further explanation. My brother, however, wrestled with it. 
For a time, it created a sense of separation for him as if he alone had 
no calling, no purpose.
        But when the country was invaded, Hakim went to my parents
and told them that he now knew what he was called to do. The look
of devastation on their faces that day has stayed with me through the
years.
        My own heart broke as well. But we had yet to witness the full
extent of the war’s ravaging toll, so I clung to hope and faith in my
strong, resilient brother. At least initially.
        My parents questioned him at length. I could see that my mother
wanted to plead with him to reconsider, though she did not want to 
burden him with her own feelings. Hakim held strongly to his 
commitment, and in time my parents, recognizing the depth of that
conviction, could only accept his decision and love him for it.
        Hakim was the first among us to join the army. Perhaps we should 
not have been surprised by his calling, in light of the roles he had 
played in our family and in the town, as well as the physical strength
he had been so diligently developing. But we were.
        My brother had always been a protector. Fiercely loyal and at times 
somewhat overbearing, he had sheltered me from harm through the 
years. He was quick to respond when any of his friends or family
members were challenged, and he developed his physical strength
and abilities with a dedication that was striking for one his age.
        In those early days of the war, everything that we had come to
know was shaken. Some things were nearly undone. Many of the
men felt a profound internal conflict between the very real desire and
duty to protect their families and their homeland, and the equally
powerful commitment they had made to maintain peace.
        When he left that day, Hakim held me close. It was such a fierce
embrace that I could barely breathe. But I did not want it to stop.
He was my guardian, my guide, my companion in mischief. And he
was my friend.
        I knew then what my parents could not allow: he would not
return to us. My heart broke. I could not stop the tears, and I did
not bother to try.
        When he stepped back, he wiped my tears with his hand gently
and looked directly into my eyes.
        “Aryel," he said, "you are a warrior. And you are a healer. Soon you will be
a woman. Let no one take any of that from you.”

I could see that Danat was working hard to understand what he
was experiencing and witnessing around him. It was also clear that
despite the fatigue so evident on his face and in his body, his mind
would not rest without some explanation that might quiet the habitual
skepticism with which he had protected himself, likely for
many years.
        I hoped that hearing our story, which might have more in it that
seemed “reasonable,” would settle some of his questions. I, too, was
tired from our travels, and my wounds—both internal and external—
were pulling my attention away from the conversation. I tried
to be present. And brief.
        “I was seven years old when my family and I moved to our town,”
I began. “We came here in part because my father wished to practice
medicine his way—a way that was not fully accepted in some places.
        “In his homeland, he had been trained in one form of healing.
 Then he traveled west to learn the medicine that is practiced here.
Along the way he studied with other practitioners, always broadening
his practice to include their approaches when what he learned
proved to be safe and effective. My father was—and is—always open
to different schools of thought.
        “He had heard from a fellow physician who was traveling through
our land that there were people in this area who would be receptive
to such an approach. This was the initial spark for our move to the
area.
        “My mother had her own reasons for feeling drawn to our town.
She is a very spiritual person and was raised in a devoutly faithful
household. She was deeply committed to their religious beliefs and
practices; however, my mother was always curious about other ways
of knowing and believing as well. Like my father, she always wanted
to learn more.
        “In her explorations, my mother heard that there was a ‘prophet’
in our town, who seemed to have developed a following there. She
was curious about him, so she proposed to my father that we come
to this town to see what it might hold for each of us. My father was
more than willing.”
        I smiled, thinking of the stories my mother had told me about
her love for my father and how they had challenged and strengthened
each other through the years. I must have drifted a bit because
Danat coughed politely to call me back.
        “They called the carpenter a prophet then?” he asked. He was
thinking of the possible implications of the title and wondering how
someone with such a title could go as unnoticed as our carpenter did.
        “He does not refer to himself as a prophet,” I replied. “And he
has insisted that none of us think of him in that way. When visitors
came in search of a prophet, he told them to return to their towns
and say that they found none.”
        I was tiring quickly, and the memories of the attack, always 
hovering at the edges of my awareness, threatened to overwhelm me
again. I knew that I needed to retire. But as I looked over at Danat to
explain this and suggest that we talk again the following day, I could
see that his own ghosts were haunting him still.
        I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and allowed compassion
to carry me. Its healing always extended to both parties. This night
was no exception. I found my body, mind, and emotions settling as
I continued.
        “As for the name, the carpenter told us that he is a simple man—a
carpenter with no need for specific identification beyond that. His
own teacher referred to himself as a poet, and his teacher’s teacher
was simply a stonemason. It is a practice.”
        “But does that not give too much weight to the identity of a man
being in his work?” Danat asked.
        I felt an inward smile. It was good to see Danat wrestling with
what he likely had been taught about the problems of pride in intelligence
and attachment to the idea of being a scholar.
        “In some ways it might,” I conceded. “But it is more a placeholder
for the carpenter. It’s simply a way of addressing or referring
to him, bearing no more significance than that.”
        “I see,” he said, though I could tell it was not fully clear to him
yet. “If humility is so important then, and if all people are endowed
with unique gifts and abilities,”—a lesson the carpenter would have
been sure to drive home— “then why would there be a need for anyone
to carry a pendant or to lead?”
        I, too, had asked this question in the beginning. I shared this,
hoping it would ease some of the awkwardness between us. Danat
was clearly struggling with his feelings about me, as well as the newness
and enormity of the lessons the carpenter had distilled into a
single evening.
        “I asked that question as well,” I replied. “What the carpenter
told me was that leadership as we know it is a need that we will ultimately
transcend. But as a people, we are still growing.
        “He said that in many ways we are in our infancy. So, we still
need teachers and leaders. But where the teachings are strong, as
in our town, you will see that leadership is loosely held and freely
shared when the need for different strengths or gifts arises. We all
teach one another.
        “So, perhaps we are more than infants,” I added. Danat looked
at me closely, studying what was behind the comment. I smiled.
        “I would say we are at least coming of age, perhaps even nearing
young adulthood.”
        Recognizing the playfulness in my remarks, he smiled, and some
of the tension in his furrowed brow eased. But the lightness in his
heart that accompanied this unsettled him. To avoid the discomfort,
he continued to ask questions.
        “I am still curious about how the carpenter came here, how he
came to have such influence over everyone in this town.” Doubt had
returned, to protect him from the fluttering emotions and the sense
of knowing that he was beginning to feel.
        “I am told that the carpenter is from far to the east of here,” I
replied. “As is my father’s family.”
        Danat’s eyebrows raised in question. Where is your father from?
And how is it that so many of us have fathers who have traveled? he
wanted to ask.
        It was an interesting question, but I chose to address his question
about the carpenter and leave our shared history for another time.
Both of us were tired, and it seemed that it was the question he most
needed to have answered if he were to be able to rest that night.
        “After he left his teacher, the carpenter traveled west, guided by
an inner knowing that he had cultivated in his study and practice
with the teacher. That inner knowing grew stronger as he traveled,
as will our own.”
        Danat remained skeptical about this, but each seed planted was
important.
        “Everywhere he went, the carpenter learned the practices and
beliefs of the people there. Some he adopted; some he did not. He
continued to apply his own teacher’s lessons as well. In that way, he,
like us, was destined to serve as both teacher and lifelong student.”
        Danat nodded, appreciating the congruence. “Why did he settle
in your town?” he asked, hoping not to sound disrespectful but not
understanding the appeal of the small town.
        His opinion was so obvious that I could not help but laugh.
        “When I was younger, I asked the same question,” I reassured
him, though in fact my opinion had not been quite so severe as his
own. “The answer is complicated, and the full truth of it will not
sound reasonable to you now. But if you allow yourself time to consider
it and observe the lands we travel through closely, it will begin
to become clearer.
        “The land around our town is sacred. The carpenter told us that
he was called to our town by the land itself. He built his home at
the exact spot that he saw, when he was called. Once he found it, he
knew that this would be the place where he would remain until the
time of his death.”
        “He was called …” Danat’s voice trailed off. “Is there actually
something—some treasure—buried there?”
        I hesitated. The answer was far too complex for one evening’s
conversation. Especially this evening, when we both were tired and
wounded. And Danat needed more experience with the carpenter’s
teachings and time to learn to read the land, to begin to understand
the answer to his question. But I could address it at the level of his
wondering about the reported treasure that the thieves and the invaders
had been seeking.
        “You could say that, though it is not a treasure of gold or jewels
or the like,” I replied. He seemed confused. “This is something that
will take time and more experience fully to come to light for you. We
can revisit the topic as we travel.”
        Seeing that I had determined to end the conversation about this
subject there, Danat shifted to one last pressing question. “How did
he come to have such influence?” he asked again.
        “At first, he did not,” I told him. “People went about their lives
as usual. They thought him a bit unusual but allowed that he was
considerate and seemed to have a certain wisdom about him. He was
helpful when help was needed, but otherwise he was quiet.”
        I let my mind wander to that hot afternoon shortly after we
arrived in town, when Rivkah told my parents the story of the carpenter’s
arrival and his early days in the town. I was fascinated, even as a child, 
by the mysterious man who had no name other than “the carpenter.”
        Pulling my attention back to the moment, I continued.
        “For several months the townspeople lived peacefully with the
newcomer and kept their questions to themselves. Then one day,
when the carpenter came to purchase supplies from Shimon—the
shopkeeper you met and Rivkah’s husband—they struck up a conversation.
This became a series of conversations, and soon Rivkah
joined the two men.
        “Once she had heard the carpenter speak, she knew that the wisdom
he was sharing was important, and she began to invite others to
come hear the carpenter and ask their own questions.”
        I paused. It was important to share this point.
        “Even then, the people were teaching one another. As they asked
their questions, everyone contributed to what has become a shared
understanding of his words.”
        “I see,” he said, though the idea of this collaborative development
of understanding was unfamiliar to him. I watched as he decided
to put this matter away for later consideration.
        “How long ago did the carpenter come to your town?”
        “It was several years before we came to the town,” I replied.
“Perhaps twenty years ago.”
        I could see that there were still many questions in his mind, but
the need for sleep was growing stronger for both of us.
        “We will talk again,” I said to him. “For now, we must rest. We
are both healing still, and this land is harsh. We will need all our
strength tomorrow.”
        He was startled, then seemed embarrassed.
        He recognized my pain and was considerate of my continued
internal distress. It was good that he was able to recognize these
things. In time he would be more attuned, requiring less thought
for the process.
        “Of course!” he said. “You must rest. And—” 
        He paused. In that moment he seemed like a young boy, uncertain 
and shy. “I hope you sleep well” was all he could say. I knew he meant
more than that.
        “Thank you,” I said. “And I wish the same for you.”
        We went to our separate blankets. As I lay there beneath the
stars, I reflected on the conversation and on the way our lives had
come together.
        Then my thoughts turned, as they so often did, to Joab. Danat
had accurately suspected that he had captured my heart. As I looked
up at the stars, I wondered if he was still with us, watching over his
parents and his beloved community.
        The warmth in my heart told me that he was.

When we reached the trees, everyone sank to the ground in exhaustion.
Thirst assailed us, but we were restrained as we drank from our stores. 
We were unsure where we would find our next source of water.
        After a brief rest, a few of the women and older children went
in search of roots and other possible sources of food and water. They
returned with a meager supply, but we each took our share with
gratitude and savored the scant moisture and sustenance contained
within the roots.
        As the sun began its descent, we resumed our walking. The children,
despite the rest, were visibly fatigued. I wished that I could carry one 
of them, as the stronger men and women did, and inwardly cursed 
my injured arm and shoulder.
        I began to observe the people around me more closely. I knew
only a few of their stories. Those that I had heard revealed to me how
little I still knew of them and how much greater was what could be
known.
        I longed to learn more, but as we walked, there was a silence
among us that seemed sacred. It was as if each person, regardless of
age, was deeply in communion with something. Perhaps this communion
was with grief, sorrow, and longing as much as it was with reverence.
        Somehow, the distinction did not matter. It was all sacred. I was 
moved by the determination in the people of this community, as present 
in the children as it was in the adults. It was different from the mix of 
bitterness, loss, and stubborn will to survive that I had seen in the faces 
of so many throughout my travels. This was a quieter, more settled 
persistence. 
        Again, I saw the influence of the carpenter. I sensed that there 
was something important for me to understand in this way of moving 
in the world, but I could not grasp it.
        Every now and again someone would falter, or one of the people
carrying the children would pause and set the child down for a moment.
Without fail, someone else would draw alongside the person or stop 
to stay with them as they took a brief break.
        Grateful smiles were exchanged. Sometimes an adjustment was
made—a larger child exchanged for a smaller one, or an arm gently
slipped around the waist of an older person who was beginning to tire. 
These moments of recognition and respite were as natural as breathing. 
No effort or thought was required. There was no hesitation. And there 
was no shame or diminishment of those receiving assistance.
        For an entire community to behave in this way was unusual to
me, and I wondered how this had come to be. Was it all the work
of the carpenter, or was there something different about the people
themselves?
        When we gathered the groups together that night to share food
and drink and to see what adjustments might be made for the following
day’s travel, I found myself sitting next to Aryel. In truth, I had been 
thinking about her off and on throughout the day, so my joining her 
was less a matter of happenstance than I wanted to believe. I wanted 
to ask her about the pendants, I told myself. But I had also found myself 
increasingly drawn to her for other reasons—reasons I did not want to 
acknowledge, even to myself.
        I withdrew the pendant from beneath my tunic. “What does the 
pendant really signify?” I asked her. She looked over at me thoughtfully.
        I continued, the flutter of emotions within me causing me to keep 
talking rather than waiting long enough for a reply.
        “It seems that everyone in this community is familiar with the
carpenter’s teachings. Why do only two of us wear the pendants?”
        Aryel removed her own pendant and shared it with me. It was
carved of a lighter wood and bore the image of a lion, though the symbols 
were the same.
        “We are not the only people wearing pendants,” she replied. “In each 
generation, two leaders are chosen. Mikhael wears the pendant. And Rivkah, 
the wife of the shopkeeper. That is Rivkah.”
        She pointed to a middle-aged woman who was resting with a young 
family and helping to care for the small children. I had noticed her only 
briefly on our journey thus far and had no idea whom she called family, 
as she seemed to move among the group without any specific ties. 
Knowing now the reason for this, I felt saddened.
        “Had they no children?” I asked Aryel, who knew, without my naming 
them, to whom I referred.
        “They had one son,” she replied sadly. “He was killed in battle. He was 
a strong, proud man.” Aryel’s gaze dropped to the ground. I could feel the 
impact of the loss on her as well.
        “I—I am sorry,” I offered lamely, battling my own disappointment,
which was more surprising to me than it should have been, as I tried 
to console her.
        Aryel looked up at me directly. Her expression was hard for me to 
read. I could see that she was keeping her thoughts and feelings to 
herself, and I respected that. When she saw that I would not pry
further, her expression softened slightly.
        “What were we chosen for? And why?” I asked, hoping to find safer 
ground for both of us and wondering if Aryel would be able to tell me 
more than what the carpenter had told me about the responsibilities
of the pendant wearer.
        “Each generation has a different task,” she replied. “You and I—
the younger generation—are the explorers. That is the word the carpenter
used when he explained this to me.”
        I nodded, recalling the carpenter’s brief mention of the traveling
and teaching that were to come for me.
        Aryel continued, “Our task is to take the teachings out into the
world—not to teach them ourselves, but to live in accordance with 
the teachings among others. We are to be living examples in the
world.
        “We will continue to learn as we go. Our exploring includes not
just the lands we see but also their people. In turn, we will share through 
our own thoughts, words, and deeds what we have learned thus far.”
        “And the other generations?” I asked. “What are their tasks?”
        “Mikhael and Rivkah’s generation are the community builders.
They bring people together, strengthen ties, and show through their
own thoughts, words, and actions how to live the teachings in community.
And of course, they too are still learning.”
        Aryel smiled playfully at me. She knew how married I had been
to the idea that knowledge is a finite thing, something that could be
possessed and required no further refinement or adjustment once it
was owned. A flush of embarrassment lit my face, but I could not
argue with the accuracy of her perception.
        “Our elder leaders are Bilal and Mihret.” She gestured toward a
darker-skinned couple seated together across the fire from where we
sat. “They are the ones who will share the teachings directly. They,
like the rest of us, will continue to learn and to live in accordance
with the teachings. But they will be the ones to pass the wisdom on
to the next generations.”
        I looked over at the older couple. Mihret was a strikingly beautiful
woman with exotic features that I guessed might be common
to those in the southern region of Abyssinia. She seemed to carry a
certain fire within despite her age. As I gazed at her, she looked up
and smiled, as if aware of our conversation, and I recognized in her
eyes the light I had seen in Solomon and Aryel.
        Beside Mihret, her husband appeared less striking, though he
seemed to have his own inner fire. I had noticed Bilal early on, as
he had demonstrated strength and endurance that I would not have
expected of one of his age.
        Like the others in this community, Bilal carried himself with
quiet dignity. But there was also a warmth and gentle humor in
this man, and his smile could disarm even the most guarded. The
younger children loved to walk with him, and he would readily play
along with whatever magical tale they presented to him, whether he
was the hero or the villain.
        I considered what Aryel had said about the generational roles of
the pendant wearers. It seemed to me that all cultures I had encountered
or learned about shared the same or similar roles and responsibilities
for the generations within them.
        “These generational tasks are the same for many peoples,” Aryel
responded to my thoughts. “As is much that is at the heart of the
teachings the carpenter has shared with us.
        “What is different are the ideas people have about the Source of
life, the specific practices to follow, and our relationship to the world
and what lies beyond.
        “In our community, we have many who follow different religious
paths. Each is free to honor and worship according to their faith.
This is accepted by all.”
        I let my gaze wander over the group of people gathered there.
I had noticed that they seemed to observe different faiths, quietly
offering their respective prayers and making homage each according
to his or her practice. It was not entirely unusual in this part of the
world; however, religious conflict was also prevalent. The peace and
mutual respect in this community was noteworthy.
        I looked up at Aryel. “Truth be told,” I said, “I do not understand
why I have been chosen to carry the pendant. I am not clear
on the teachings. I have no faith of my own—at least, not one
that I have retained. I am not from this town, and although I feel
drawn to everyone in this community, I do not know how I belong
here.”
        Aryel returned my gaze. In the dim light of the fire, it was not
easy to read the expression on her face, but it seemed to hold a mix
of compassion and uncertainty.
        “I cannot answer these questions either,” she acknowledged. “I
trust that it may become clear in time.”
        She paused, seeming to consider her response further. “The carpenter
chose you as his apprentice. Sometimes the reason for his choice is not 
readily seen. But you returned to us to warn us of danger, and you 
fought alongside our people in the first battle. You were guided to find 
me, saving my life, and you have been helping Elisheba and her family as 
we travel.
        “We recognize that you are a man between worlds at this time,
but these actions have demonstrated to us that you have been called
to our community for a higher purpose. We accept that.”
        A man between worlds. The words haunted me with their truth.
They articulated something I had felt most of my life, as if I lived
partly in the world in which I moved and breathed and partly somewhere
else—a place I could not see, hear, or feel and could not even
imagine, much as I tried.
        Aryel sat quietly as I wrestled with my questions and the memories
that continued to surface.
        After a while, she continued, “In each generation there is one
male and one female who carry the pendant. One represents the masculine
expression of wisdom, and the other represents the feminine.”
        I nodded, recalling our first conversation about the pendants,
but wanting to know more.
        Aryel continued. “I am told that there have been occasions where
two men or two women carried the pendant. In these cases, there is
always still one who possesses a more masculine wisdom and one
who is more feminine in the way the wisdom is held.”
        I thought about this for a moment, wondering if the shopkeeper’s
son was to have worn the pendant before I came along. Aryel
read my thoughts again.
        “No one had been chosen before you came,” she said, simply.
        We sat awhile in silence. I wanted to ask Aryel how she had
learned that she had been chosen, but I sensed that we were not close
enough yet for this inquiry.
        “As for your origins,” Aryel said, seeming to sense my discomfort
and continuing to address the other questions I had asked, “not all
the people of this community are from our town. Many of us have
origins in other places—some of them quite distant, like with you.”
She looked at me directly.
        I was surprised. She had stated an obvious truth that I had come
to overlook. I had always assumed my birthright because I had been
born in this land; however, like Solomon, half my blood came from
a distant land. My skin was also paler, and my features were different
from those of my peers, my eyes set wider apart and my jaw slightly
squarer.
        My pale skin and features came from my father, though I did not
have his blue-green eyes. Those eyes could seem like a beautiful oasis
when he was calm, but when he was stern, they were as ominous as
the sky when a storm is gathering.
        My brother, while strongly built like my father, took after my
mother in terms of his coloring and features. My sister alone had the
blue-green eyes of my father, though in every other way she resembled
my mother.
        Each of us, in our own way, was a child who belonged half to
the culture in which we lived and half to another about which we
knew relatively little. What we did know was that my father’s family
were builders, farmers, and tradesmen from lands far to the north
and west. “Beyond the sea,” he had said to us when we were younger
and curious.
        Like me, he had been singled out as a scholar, and he was sent
away to study with some of the highest scholars in the land. But he
chose a path of learning that was more practical than scholarly when
he met my mother.
        My father had traveled to this land to study with a master who
lived in one of the larger cities by the sea. He met my mother when he
was breaking from his studies to explore the countryside on his own.
He told us that when he met her, he knew immediately that his
destiny was to be by her side. He left his path of study and became
her husband, feeling some loss but no regret about leaving his scholarly
life—and his family of origin—behind. This became a bone of
contention between us when I argued with him about being sent
away to pursue a path of study myself.
        Of his own family, my father rarely spoke. When he did, it was
brief and with a tension in his voice that persuaded us not to press
for more. I never knew whether it was sadness or some other feeling
that caused that tension.
        My father did tell us that his father was an engineer, very skilled
at designing buildings and large structures. His mother was a seamstress
who had also learned to read, unlike most of the women in their land. 
She could consume a book in half the time it would take him or his 
father, he had said, not without pride.
        He had two younger brothers and three sisters, one of whom was
older than him and two who were much younger. Of his siblings, he
said only that they were each unique and that he did not know the
young ones well.
        I wondered how I had lost that curiosity about my father and
his origins. How had I not pressed to know more about this side of
my heritage? Was it simply my anger and resentment at being forced
to follow the path that he himself had abandoned that caused me to
close that inquiry?
        Prior to meeting the carpenter, I would not have thought that
anger and resentment could have such power. I now realized that
they could—and often did.
        I assumed that my parents spoke little of my father’s heritage to
protect us in some way, though I had not heard anyone speak of my
father’s people with acrimony. In fact, I realized, I had not heard anyone
speak of my father’s people at all. He had slipped into the culture
quietly and established a place for himself there, close enough to the
rest of the people in important ways that the difference was minimized
over time.
        For now, at least, the questions about my father’s people and why
I had not pushed to know more would remain unanswered. I returned 
to the subject at hand, wondering why I had been chosen, evidently 
in the masculine role. I felt unsure of myself in this role, particularly 
as I sat alongside one who seemed so clear, who had fought bravely 
and powerfully, and who seemed in many ways stronger than I.
        Reading my thoughts yet again, Aryel said, “The pendant is
given not to one who is physically powerful, though that may also
be a strength that the person possesses. It is given to those who
demonstrate an ability to understand, apply, and someday share the
teachings.
        “I am strong in body and mind,” she continued. “But I carry
the teachings as a woman. Your mind and the way you approach the
teachings is masculine.”
        I noticed that she did not refer to my physical stature and was
grateful, if somewhat chagrined.
        Thinking of wisdom as being predominantly masculine or feminine
was new to me. The carpenter had certainly implied that I was
too aggressive, too defensive, and too self-interested in the use of
my mind. Were these qualities imbalances of the mind or aspects of
masculine wisdom that needed to be refined?
        Aryel was watching me. “Masculine wisdom is not uniform in its
manifestation,” she said. “Neither is feminine wisdom. And it is not
the same as egoic mind, which is tied to ideas of self and all the fears
and attachments that come with that.”
        “So, self-interest, greed, defensiveness, aggression—these are not
strictly masculine, but egoic?” I asked.
        “Yes, that is my understanding,” Aryel replied. “We all experience
those challenges. Though I will say that one does tend to see those 
qualities more forcefully exhibited in men than in women these days.” 
She smiled, a playful look in her eyes.
        I smiled somewhat ruefully in response. “Especially in this time
of war,” I said. We both sobered.
        Aryel continued. “Yes, especially in war, which is a kind of madness
of its own.”
        We sat in silence. I was still confused and curious about the difference
between masculine and feminine wisdom.
        “Is the experience of Oneness different for men and women?”
I asked.
        Aryel considered this. “That I do not know. I imagine it is different
for every person.”
        She sensed my confusion, and she endeavored to clarify further,
from a more personal and pragmatic perspective.
        “When I hear those with masculine wisdom share these teachings,
they are more direct, more, perhaps, precise. As if they are aiming an arrow 
at truth or shining a beam of light on it.
        “Feminine wisdom is more like the sunrise, illuminating everything,
but more gradually. The light is diffuse, not so focused. It is often experienced 
as a whole understanding and involves seeing the entire landscape simultaneously, rather than in parts. It can be experienced through feeling or sensing things.”
        I sat with this. I was beginning to understand the difference, but
I could tell that it was only that—a beginning.
        “Each of us has both masculine and feminine wisdom within us,” Aryel 
continued, “though one is usually predominant. Achieving balance between 
them is the work of a lifetime.”
        This I could understand. Balance in all areas of my life seemed to require 
work that was well beyond my current capacity.
        “This is why there must always be balance with the pendants,” Aryel 
concluded. “There must be both masculine and feminine carriers of the pendant. 
Both are important. Neither is superior to the other.”
        She paused, gazing into the fire. I wondered what she was thinking 
about. And I wondered how she seemed able to know my thoughts so easily, 
whereas I remained ignorant of hers.
        Aryel seemed to sense my discomfort. She continued to share her
understanding. “Inner balance between the masculine and feminine becomes 
stronger in those who have lived many years, particularly those who have 
cultivated wisdom.
        “Observe Bilal,” she continued, motioning toward the elder man. 
“He and Mihret each carry the pendant. Although one appears very masculine 
and the other very feminine, as you come to know them, you will see that Bilal’s wisdom is at times more inclusive and felt, whereas Mihret can be quite direct, 
with clear, sometimes very strong ideas about things. It was not always so.”
        I was curious about this couple—where they had come from, where their 
children were, and how they had come to live in this small town.
        “Bilal and Mihret come from a distant land,” Aryel said. “They found each 
other through strange circumstances, though later they came to see their 
meeting as more destined than strange. Their story is a long one, and 
beautiful. It would be good for you to hear it directly from them.”
        I nodded but wanted to know at least some of their story. I felt a 
desire to place them in some kind of context, to understand who they 
were and how they had come to take their place in this community.
        “How long have they been here?” I asked.
        “I am not sure,” Aryel replied. “They were here when my family 
came, and they had been living in the town for quite some time, I believe.”
        “How did they come to live in this land? And did they have children?”
        Aryel smiled. “I see that you have not yet mastered the art of patience,” 
she said. But she did respond to my questions.
        “They had seven children altogether,” Aryel told me. “Two were lost 
in their homeland when a terrible fever came over their people. The other 
five survived, though one was significantly weakened by the illness.
        “Mihret had a vision that the couple must leave their home and travel 
north, following the great river that was to the north and west of where 
they lived. Bilal had had similar thoughts, though he had reservations 
about the civilizations to the north.
        “When their youngest, the one who was still weak from the fever,
told them of a dream he had had in which the family traveled to a great 
river, they decided that they had been blessed with guidance from their 
ancestors and should follow it. So, they packed up their children and 
their few belongings and left their home and families to begin their 
journey.
        “They encountered many things along the way, some inspiring and 
some terrible. One child was killed in an attack by a tribe to the north. 
Bilal was nearly killed protecting her, but he fought off the attackers. 
Mihret was able to load him onto their wagon and get the rest of the 
family to safety.
        “They settled for some years in the city where the great river they
followed meets the sea. Two of their children married and stayed there 
to raise families of their own. One accompanied them north to our land. 
He married and settled in towns to the west of our town. I met him once. 
The resemblance to his parents in all ways is striking.”
        “And the one who was weakened by the fever?” I asked. “Did he 
survive?”
        “Yes,” Aryel replied, smiling again. “He survived. And he became
a physician. He, too, lives in the port at the end of the great river. He is 
known throughout the land for his expertise in treating fevers.”
        I smiled as well. It was comforting to know that some goodness
had come of the family’s plight.
        I remained curious and admittedly still unclear about the differences
between masculine and feminine wisdom.
        “You said that we all possess both masculine and feminine wisdom,
though one may be predominant,” I said. “Can you tell me more about 

this?”
        When I reflected upon the conversation later, I was struck by the absence
of shame in acknowledging my ignorance. I had simply wanted to understand. 
Perhaps I truly was growing.
        Aryel paused, collecting her thoughts. “Our aim is to be able to
recognize and to balance the masculine and feminine within ourselves.
When this balance is present, we find greater clarity, peace, and strength.
        “Our bodies will remain male or female, but we can learn to draw 
on the strengths of both masculine and feminine in our hearts, in our 
thoughts, and in our approaches to life.
        “The carpenter has mastered the integration of masculine and
feminine in all aspects of his life. This is one of the teachings he has
demonstrated to us through example.”
        I nodded in understanding, knowing that I still barely grasped the 
meaning, and then only with my mind. I was beginning to accept the 
premise that true understanding would come only with time and 
consistent practice.
        Still, two questions refused to go unanswered.
        “How did one man come to have such influence over everyone in
your town?” I asked. “And why do you not refer to him by a name?”
        “Ah.” Aryel smiled. “The cynic returns.” She chuckled. Although
there was no malice in her tone, I bristled at the remark.
        She merely laughed and patted my hand. “It will take time to
come to terms with all of this,” she said. “Many are skeptical in the
beginning. Perhaps it will help to hear our story.”

It was indeed a long walk. We had come to the barren plains that
stretched between the hills of our own countryside and the distant
mountains. Here and there were clumps of scrub bushes and small
trees, wizened and bent by the dry wind and the sun. Beyond that,
the land was truly desolate.
       We filled everything that could possibly contain water from the
stream alongside which we had made camp. The scouts had been
guided there the evening before by a small flock of birds. I thought
of the hare, the gazelles, and the hawks, and I gave thanks to the
creatures of the land for their many gifts.
       We continued to look for signs of water and hunted where there
was game to be found. Whenever a life was taken, the hunter bent
over the body in prayer, giving thanks to the creature for the life it
gave us. These moments of prayer, for me, were also moments of
learning—about the people, about myself, and about the ways our
lives were interwoven with those of the creatures around us.
       “All things are connected,” the carpenter had said. “You and I,
these figs, this water, the tree from which came the wood for this
table, the sun, the moon, the stars—all that we see and many things
that we do not see.
       “When you quiet your mind, you will begin to know this connection,”
he continued. “Learning to know Oneness, allowing yourself to become 
absorbed within it, and living in such a way as to honor that Oneness: 
this is the path we are on.”
       It had sounded so simple. Attainable. But like so much of what
he had taught me that night, living with it proved to be a more
complicated, elusive matter. The old habits of doubt, discouragement,
and constant, critical self-evaluation hounded me like a pack of hyenas.
       My mind argued its case. All this was nothing more than a collective
illusion, it asserted. The carpenter had used beguiling language to
subordinate the intellect and encourage a following.
       As the days became hotter and drier, more exhausting, and more
tedious, my doubt and frustration seemed to feed upon this idea.
       It must have been apparent in my demeanor. One afternoon I felt
Mikhael’s presence come up alongside me. I was staring at the road
ahead, seeing nothing, so blinded was I by my miserable thoughts.
       “The heat is strong,” he observed simply.
       “Yes,” I grumbled, not caring to engage further. My thoughts
were too compelling, it seemed.
       “But not as strong as the heat of anger, despair, and doubt,”
he added.
       I faltered, then resumed my admittedly angry gait.
       Mikhael was silent, leaving me to my thoughts for a while. But
he stayed with me.
       At last, he spoke. “Ah,” he said, his voice full of love and appreciation,
“a hawk. No, as I observe its flight, I see it is an eagle.”
       He paused to watch the bird. Despite my misgivings, I stopped
with him. It was indeed an eagle, flying high in wide circles above
the plain.
       “What do you suppose the eagle is telling us?” Mikhael asked.
       By his tone I knew the question was intended to be instructive, and
I felt a flash of resentment.
       But his stillness gave me pause. He focused on the eagle with a
reverence that was so genuine that I had to yield my pride.
       “See the world through the eagle’s eyes,” he prompted.
       I began to protest but stopped myself. I looked up into the sky 
and watched the eagle in its seemingly effortless flight. My breath 
began to slow. I imagined the world from the great bird’s perspective.
       “Do not use your mind to see it,” Mikhael said. “Use your heart.”
       I looked up at him in mixed frustration and confusion. He
smiled and continued to gaze at the bird.
       I looked back up into the sky, and the carpenter’s words again
returned to my thoughts.
       “To see with the heart will take time,” he had said, “and a great
deal of patience. Even when you have experienced it a few times, you
will find that the old habits will continue to assert themselves. You
will fall back into thinking and not seeing.
       “But,” he added, “once you begin to see with the heart, you will
find that you do not truly wish to see any other way.”
       The heat of my anger and doubt began to ease. I felt the dry
breeze on my face. As I focused on the breeze, it was as if it carried
me with it up into the air.
       I was lifted high into winds that flowed like rivers in the sky.
I soared, floated, and soared again. With the smallest movement of my 
wings, I could turn in long, languid circles, surveying the world below.
       I saw our band of travelers. I saw the road. I noticed other travelers
on the road, ahead of and behind us, and I took in the vast expanse of 
that arid plain.
       I saw the misty blue and purple mountains in the distance to the
north, and the familiar hills to the south. From above I delighted in
the small streams, glittering like tiny strands of silver in the sunlight,
the scattered patches of trees and shrubs, and the nimble flight of a
herd of gazelles.
       It was beautiful.
       I felt my breath ease as I returned to my body. It had been brief,
this experience, but it had been—literally—uplifting.
       I saw Mikhael’s smile out of the corner of my eye and turned to
face him.
       “Thank you,” I said. There was no need to say more.
       He merely nodded. “We will rest in the shade of that scrub,” he
said, indicating a small group of trees at a distance from the road.
The trees were not near, but the distance seemed small. My mind
tried to persuade me that it was because there was an end in sight.
       But I knew that the reason the distance seemed so much smaller now
had nothing to do with the destination itself.

Dear America

Like many, I have watched in silent or not so silent dismay as our system of government is being challenged and in some places, dismantled. 

I believe there are things in our culture that are facilitating this process, and these are things over which we actually have some immediate control. 

It seems that we have commodified our core values, at great cost to ourselves, our loved ones, our communities, our country, and our planet. And, aside from the sheer wrong-headedness of that, it has paved the way for some horrifying developments. 

Truth is not a commodity, to be claimed, possessed, or defined by one person, group, party, or government. But we seem to be pretending, or maybe even believing, that it is.
Peace is not a trinket, to be trivialized, bought and sold, given freely to some but not extended to others. But we seem to have forgotten how to live in it.
Justice is not a plaque to be handed out to those who have somehow earned it in the eyes of those in power but denied to others. But we appear to be beholden to those who are claiming it as theirs.
Harmony is not a card or boutique gift to be shared among friends. But we seem to be afraid to extend it beyond our circles.

Each of these ideals is something that is conceived, expressed, and given life through the dedicated actions of people. 

Each is a gift. A privilege. And a responsibility.

We all carry that responsibility. And we carry it together. We are responsible to and for one another and for the healthy functioning of our institutions and government. 

Each of us has unique gifts that we can bring to the challenges we face. It is time to bring them. Whoever we are, wherever we are, but especially those of us in a position of privilege relative to others, it is time for us to take on this responsibility. 

Let us be guided in this by our true conscience, not by rhetoric, fear, or ideas. Let us be guided by what is in our deeper, truer understanding. By our wise and compassionate hearts. 

Let us come together for one purpose: Unity. 

Let’s find a way to stand together, in the face of what appear to be insurmountable divisions. Together, let us live out these values.

Peace is possible. It is being lived in our country, even amid the chaos. See the Walk for Peace, if you don’t believe me.
Harmony is the way of creation; division is the no more than the fallout of ego.
Love is eternal. It is far, far greater than fear.
Unity is our true destiny. 

We’ll all need to overcome obstacles within and obstacles without, to do this. We’ll need to be guided by love, peace, harmony, and hope, not fear, rage, worry, or despair. To be directed by compassion and courage, not self-righteousness, self-interest, or self-indulgence. 

Love will lead the way, but we must remove all the barriers that we have created.

That is possible.