by Shlomo Kalo
THE CHOSEN
By
Shlomo Kalo
Book I: THE YOUTH
© All Rights Reserved
Y D.A.T. Publications POBox 27019,
Jaffa 6127001, Israel
Email: [email protected] www.y-dat.co.il
More about and of Shlomo Kalo here: www.y-dat.com
THE CHOSEN SERIES
Original Hebrew title: HaNivchar (The three books in one volume)
4th Hebrew edition, 2011
3rd English print edition, 2014
First Kindle edition 2015
English translation by Philip Simpson
Cover design: Hagit Shani. Image: kwest/Shutterstock
ISBN: 978-965-7028-50-6
THE CHOSEN print editions are available in English, Hebrew and Korean
No part of this book, except for brief reviews,
may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means electronic, digital or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or by any
storage or retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the Publisher
To the One whose name is Love
Joy and blessing to Rivka, my wife,
who did a sterling job in the work of copying
and her remarks - hit to the point
Preface
This book, based on the Biblical story of Daniel, is not an academic treatise.
The protagonists of the narrative transcend their chronological context, and in them, in the air enveloping them, in their conduct and their speech, there is that which touches on the present and foretells the future.
The solid base, on which the plot is founded and where its developments unfold, is the Spirit. And it is a steadfast source of aesthetic satisfaction, engaged and profound.
Note:
The Scriptural extracts, quoted in italics, are not always complete and are in some instances supplemented, as required by the narrative.
Table of Contents
Preface
Book 1: THE YOUTH
The Road To Anathoth
The Convoy
Naimel
Three Burning Arrows
Taurus Mountains
Naaran
When The Mist Clears
The Gate Opens
The House Of Or-Nego
The Royal Palace
Let All Living Things Praise The Lord
Denur-Shag
The Race
Adelain
Gershon
The Test
The Shrine of Bel
Book 1: THE YOUTH
The Road To Anathoth
He peered, unheeding, through the broad window – the sky high above and a cloud, only the one, as white as snow, drifting across the blue radiance like a thought imbued with a distinctive degree of composure and all of it with but one purpose: to convey pure tranquillity of consciousness, infinite, divine…
“Divine” – is it really so? Perhaps this thought is nothing other than a memory, drawing behind it another memory, and this one, another, and they skim one after the other over the broad surface of consciousness, without touching it, without staining it, without belonging to it and yet, as if acknowledging its sway.
He is sitting in his home in Jerusalem, facing the once opulent gate, so long neglected and not as it was in the past, before the Chaldeans came. Then the opulent gate had been thronged with men and beasts.
A mounted Chaldean patrol passes by in the straight, narrow street. Like most if not all of the Chaldeans, their faces are grim. They are stopping a Jew, grey-haired and with unkempt beard, leaning towards him and asking him something.
The Jew stares up at him, glassily, and their eyes meet. At once it is all clear to him: the Chaldeans are asking about him, looking for him, a Jewish youth who has barely come of age.
A week has passed since the rumour went about that the Chaldeans meant to gather him and his three companions, Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah, and other “children” in Chaldean parlance, scions of the royal family and sons of courtiers, “skilled in all wisdom and knowledge and understanding science, and fit to stand in the palace of the king.” This was a persistent rumour, which did not fade with the passing of the days but grew ever stronger, constantly arising in the conversations of slaves and servitors, in the house and outside it.
And he and his companions are indeed the sons of courtiers, whose fathers used to serve the king as ministers and advisers. They had a teacher of the Torah in common too, who made every effort to explain to them the mysteries of the Scriptures and interpret them properly. He was a simple and humble man, and devout as well, but he lacked the inspiration to crack the shells of things and penetrate to their heart.
Under his tutelage they learned chapters of the Torah by heart, touched lightly on the books of the Prophets, but stopped short of studying the Writings. And they could expect nothing more than this. They were left as they were – thirsty for knowledge, a thirst that was not to be quenched, and used to oppress them, and after the lessons they used to meet together and go through the chapters they had learned and try to interpret in ways other than those of their teacher, or those of the priests engaged in divine service. And sometimes they succeeded and this brought relief to their minds and aroused that quiet pleasure which could be called the pleasure of understanding. At other times they failed in the attempt to interpret something, to break through the superficial, verbal cover of the holy verses, and the outcome then was dejection and disappointment, which accompanied them for days and sometimes even weeks.
Besides the teacher of Torah, he had another tutor, a man from the islands in the north who bore the strange name of “Theodoros”, a man broad of face and broad of shoulder, fair-haired and fair-skinned, who at first did not understand even a syllable of the Holy Tongue. Theodoros came into their household by chance. One of those days, before the Chaldeans laid siege to the capital city, his father was riding through the bustling market when he saw three Jews manhandling a stranger and trying to overpower him, while he made every effort to free himself from their grasp. His father approached the assailants and asked them what sin the man had committed, and why were they so eager to detain him. They explained to him that the man had the audacity to enter the Sanctuary, thus defiling it since he was not one of the sons of Israel or of Judah, but an uncircumcised gentile, a pagan in every respect and deserving death by stoning. His father reminded them as if by the way, that there is no prohibition on a gentile visiting the Sanctuary, as it is said in the Torah that all nations shall worship the Lord, and the voice of anyone who prays to Him will be heard. The Jews were embarrassed, as their ignorance of the Scriptures was revealed for all to see. And then his father offered them three gold shekels, one for each of the assailants, in exchange for the man’s release. They agreed, let the stranger go and held out shaking hands to accept the promised shekels, grabbed them while they were still in the air and made off in haste.
The stranger expressed his gratitude to his father who had saved him from his attackers with gestures of hands and body. His father tried speaking to him in Aramaic, Egyptian and Chaldee, but in vain – the man’s language was not like any of these. His father took his leave of him and turned to go his way, but the stranger ran after him, clutching at the reins and pleading, with descriptive gestures of the hands and bodily gyrations, to be allowed to accompany his deliverer, if the latter had no objection. And so the fair-haired and fair-skinned one entered their household, first as a guest, then as a servant and final
ly as a tutor.
With surprising ease Theodoros became fluent in spoken Hebrew and Aramaic and even learned some Egyptian expressions which were common in the patois of the street. He came from a distant state, over the seas, called Athens, and the inhabitants of this Athens are devoted above all else to reason, trying to explain all phenomena by means of reason, and trusting in reason to an extraordinary degree, sometimes even more than they trust in their deity, or rather, deities – a whole pantheon of gods and goddesses, who invariably raised a tolerant smile to his lips, on hearing of their festivities and their rivalries, their liaisons and their escapades.
Theodoros taught him moderation, and clarity of tongue, and some physical exercises too, to strengthen the muscles and hone the body’s systems, and a particular form of calculation, based on the dimensions of areas and shapes of all kinds, called “geometry” in the Greek language, and since there was nothing in these things to undermine his faith in God, they were gladly accepted and he showed himself an accomplished pupil. Finally, Theodoros converted, underwent circumcision and became “Doroz”.
The Chaldean officer climbs the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the empty void of the tall, ornate house, the house of a minister of state and senior adviser to the king. A moment more and he will knock on the heavy door… and here comes the knocking, a sound speaking authority on one side, and striking terror on the other.
One of the slaves opens the door, and on hearing what the officer has to say, calls the young man’s mother. After a short conversation, he is summoned to his own chamber, where the Chaldean is waiting for him. Sure enough, he is required to accompany him and go down with him to Babylon, where he is to be trained to serve the great king, Nebuchadnezzar.
One request he has, and one alone – that he be given time, half a day, to go to Anathoth, which is not far away. He is eager to obtain blessing for his journey from a man of Anathoth whom he has never met but of whom he has heard well, to prostrate himself before him on the ground and to see with his own eyes the prophet of God, the like of whom appears only once in a generation, or perhaps in many generations.
The officer can accompany him if he so desires, or send men to escort him.
The Chaldean warrior hears him out in silence, his head bowed. Then he raises his gloomy, indignant gaze and studies him from head to foot. There is bitterness in his eyes and it is clear that his posting to desolate Jerusalem is not to his taste.
Two of his soldiers will escort him, and he must return no later than midday, before the sun reaches its highest point in the sky. The three of them descend into the gloom of the cavernous, almost empty stable. The Chaldeans mount their small, pampered ponies, which are quartered here, while he takes the last horse left to the family after the persistent predations of the Chaldeans. A black mare which only a year ago used to delight all who saw her with her powerful frame, her proud and noble bearing. And now, for want of food, she is just a ghost, a pitiable skeleton.
The road to Anathoth. A steep ascent, which in the past the mare used to devour in one leap, with a whinny of delight, rejoicing in her strength, but now she needs twice and fourfold the time, as she pants heavily and drags herself along on tottering legs. He would not have ridden her at all had he not known that the exercise would be good for her, and his young body not too heavy a burden for her. The Chaldeans, accompanying him on their agile, piebald ponies, often have to pause and wait for him to catch up. They are tight-lipped and taciturn, displaying patience amounting to indifference – an attitude sometimes reminiscent of gravediggers.
The ride reaches its highest point, the ascent over, the tedious climb at an end. At their feet, somewhere, the low, white houses of Anathoth, huddled together like a flock of sheep, are turning gold in the rising sun. A fertile valley, with orchards and fields – but the crops have been harvested prematurely and now the ground is barren and black, a bare expanse in which the eye can find no point to focus on, but would grow weary in the attempt, skimming along the sharp line of the horizon, soaring aloft into the clear, and never-changing sky, as it always has been and ever shall be.
The mare has gained more confidence, treading slowly, cautiously, inspecting every stone that she encounters on her way. The path itself is a dust path, without any more ascents in the offing. It seems the mare has sufficient strength to cope with the descent.
This grove is well known to him and has been precious to him since the dawn of his childhood. There used to be rare birds here, and nightingales sang on fine summer evenings. But it was not the rare birds or the nightingales that drew him here, to this grove. He loved the fresh raspberries that grew there in abundance, the bushes giving of their bounty in the summer. He could fill a whole sack with them and amaze the other members of the household. The fragrant raspberry, young and sweet, its colour the colour of new Jerusalem wine. There were other varieties of woodland berries, and mushrooms in the autumn, and tall nut trees. They had just passed one of them, trunk standing erect and proud as a king. Indeed, its broad foliage was reminiscent of a crown.
This grove is implanted in his memory as a kind of ancient song about the girl, Nejeen, and about himself. Nejeen, daughter of Gamliel. Her father used to serve as an advisor to the king. A tall man, wrapped up in himself, of wise words which he was in no hurry to express, and only on rare occasions did a smile of astonishing brightness pass across his face, radiating over all those in his company a vibrant and delicious sense of fellowship, blended with respect and appreciation.
Often the two families, his and that of the king’s advisor Gamliel, used to be the guests of one another. And he enjoyed listening to the words of his father the minister and of Gamliel, words of importance, each one pronounced precisely, and being surprised, a surprise which made his heart beat faster, by Gamliel’s smile, which broadened his thin lips and lit up his eyes, whenever his youngest daughter Nejeen passed amid the assembled company for some reason or another. Thanks to her father, Nejeen was one of the very few of the daughters of Judah who could read and write, and she delved deep into the Scriptures, and long passages from the anthems of King David, gathered together in the Book of Psalms, she knew by heart. But much as she loved the psalms of David, she was entranced most of all by the Song of Songs of Solomon. Yes, she was truly excited when she quoted a verse or two from the Song of Songs, her rosy lips quivering, the pure gaze of her eyes revealing their depths, eyes a vivid shade of blue.
As if it was something obvious in itself the two of them used to meet here, in this grove, so grim today, perhaps – because of the presence of the Chaldeans, with their stern faces. And just a year ago it was so different – its air enchanted and all of it – like a legend of antiquity, tuneful, mysterious.
Sometimes they met with other members of the family in their home, the house of the minister Naimel. All of a sudden, his father and her father would decide to move from the parlour to one of the spacious rooms in the interior of the house, and it was a sign to all of them that their conversation was no longer public property, and the members of the two families used to disperse, his mother and her mother going to the kitchen, while he and Nejeen made their way down to the courtyard – an extensive courtyard with a fountain in the middle and rare flowers of luscious colours at its fringes.
In their conversation he would refer to the Book of Genesis, and the mysteries yet to be solved by those who take everything that is written at face value. She listened to him in silence, with close attention, her whole being in thrall. She quoted a verse from the Song of Songs which matched perfectly the words spoken by him and was as if summoned by itself. In the limpid air of a blue evening, the words sounded as if they stood in their own right, with images that lived and enchanted the imagination, and it seemed to him in these miraculous moments that he had found what he sought and did not know existed. And then he recited before her, in a voice that had not yet matured, the voice of a ten year child, the lines that came after and she looked up at him and poured into his eyes all the
purity stored in the depths of hers, setting the heart a-quiver and infusing him with prodigious strength from an unknown source.
For a long moment they were both silent, a moment that grew longer still, and thousands of years perished in the blinking of an eye, and everything faded and disappeared, never to return.
Then his name was called. Once, twice. This was his tutor, reminding him that the time for study had arrived. Before parting from her he said:
“I’m very fond of the grove on the hill, on the way to Anathoth, there isn’t a day that I don’t visit it. Farewell!” And he ran as if he had sprouted wings to his good-natured tutor, who had been waiting for him a long time and hadn’t dared disturb him.
Thereafter they used to meet in the grove on the hill, on the road leading down to Anathoth, a grove that seemed to them like a dense forest holding a secret, all of it sheer delight, enlivening the soul and cleansing it of all mundane dross.
And there were days of harvest too, and both the families had fields to the south of the wall, on the road to Jericho, and he and Nejeen were there with the reapers, listening to the sounds of their song soaring to the heavens, in harmony, making the hot air quiver, responding to their call and bringing them pitchers of water from the well by the wayside, whose waters are always cool, always refreshing, and earning hearty thanks and fulsome benedictions. And fine evenings, when the skies draw close to the earth in tenderness, as a lover is close to his beloved, and kiss her rosy fringes, they used to lie supine at the feet of the giant haystacks, staring up in silence at the plethora of great stars, sparkling above them and so close it seemed you could stretch out your hand, and a star would slide into your palm, living and lustrous, and bringing with it its other world, serene and pure.
