THE CHOSEN : The Prophet: Historical Fiction (The Chosen Trilogy Book 2) by Kalo Shlomo

Author:Kalo, Shlomo [Kalo, Shlomo]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: DAT Publicaiotns
Published: 2015-05-19T04:00:00+00:00

Nejeen

With the onset of spring a wind from the east descends upon Babylon, gusting strongly day and night without respite, bearing on its wings grey dust from the roads and sand from the desert. People try to protect themselves from it by sealing the shutters of their homes and veiling their faces.

One such morning, when the east wind was beginning to subside, and the sky was peering through gaps in the swirling clouds of dust, he rose from his bed with a feeling of light-heartedness and merriment, bathed and dressed and went out to the broad veranda of his house, all awash with flowers, a rich tapestry of colours. He sat on a chair beside the oblong table, covered by a blue cloth with silver trim.

He knew the source of his exhilaration: she was coming.

How would she look? And what of the future relations between them? And the joy in his heart swelled and grew ever stronger, until it was no longer to be easily controlled or suppressed.

“My Father in Heaven, my God, what is the nature of this joy that fills my heart and thrills every fibre of my being? Is this joy pure? Are You the source of it? Does it have another source?”

“No my son! This joy arises and emanates from the fountains of my light, and it will not divert you from the way! Delight in it and bless it!”

The household slave was trying to attract his attention as he paced back and forth among the vases on the veranda, moving them this way and that, and when he finally succeeded and he looked back at him with a questioning glance, he bowed to him and informed him that Denur-Shag was asking permission to enter.

He broke off from his meditations and asked the slave to hurry and admit Denur-Shag to the house.

A few moments later, his former teacher was standing before him, trying to dissuade him from rising to meet him and to shake his hand.

“You shouldn’t deprive us of the pleasure of prostrating ourselves before a person of exceptional authority!” he commented, adding in typical style: “Not that the exceptional is something that I care for particularly, but where persons of authority are concerned, it is the routine that repels – and I’m talking about smells here. Authority trapped in a frame of routine gives off a familiar smell, quite pungent and very similar, if not identical, to the smell that assails your nostrils in the vicinity of a slaughterhouse. In agriculture, for example, routine works wonders, and it’s a boon to the farmer, to the land and to all of humanity, and its smell is clean. However, the routine that I like best of all is the routine of family life, paved as it is with petty disasters and delights.”

He signalled to the slave, and he brought in figs, nuts and dates, an Egyptian jug made of the finest glass and containing honey-water, and matching goblets. The foodstuffs were served on small dishes that

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