King Solomon and the Shamir, Part One
In the days when Solomon was king in Jerusalem, there came a time when he wished to build the Temple—not just any temple, but the Temple, holy and splendid, crafted with peace and purpose. He had the cedar, the gold, the wisdom, and the spreadsheets (on parchment), but there was one small hitch: he could not use iron tools on the sacred stones.
And that’s when his advisors brought him the most inconvenient footnote in the history of sacred construction.
“Sire,” said one trembling scribe, “there’s a… thing. A worm. A worm that glows. A worm that cuts stone. It is known as the shamir.”
Solomon leaned forward. “A worm. That cuts stone.”
“Yes,” said the scribe. “Very cute, apparently.”
“And where,” Solomon asked with the patient tone of a man used to miracles but just barely, “might one obtain such a worm?”
“From Asmodeus, the king of demons,” said the scribe, who then immediately faked a coughing fit and vanished into a scroll closet.
And that’s when his advisors brought him the most inconvenient footnote in the history of sacred construction.
“Sire,” said one trembling scribe, “there’s a… thing. A worm. A worm that glows. A worm that cuts stone. It is known as the shamir.”
Solomon leaned forward. “A worm. That cuts stone.”
“Yes,” said the scribe. “Very cute, apparently.”
“And where,” Solomon asked with the patient tone of a man used to miracles but just barely, “might one obtain such a worm?”
“From Asmodeus, the king of demons,” said the scribe, who then immediately faked a coughing fit and vanished into a scroll closet.
Let us say only this: Benaiah ben Jehoiada, Solomon’s most trusted soldier and part-time problem solver, did indeed capture Asmodeus. There was wine involved, and divine chains, and a great deal of complaining.
When Asmodeus was brought to Solomon, he was already three parts drunk, two parts annoyed, and one part embarrassed by the situation.
“You didn’t ask nicely,” he muttered.
Solomon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want trouble. I want the shamir. Where is it?”
“The shamir?” Asmodeus stretched. “Oh, I don’t have it. God gave it to Rahab, the angel of the sea. He’s the one who passed it on to the hoopoe.”
Solomon blinked. “...The bird?”
“Yes,” said Asmodeus, reclining and conjuring a snack. “Enjoy that quest. I’m going back to bed.”
When Asmodeus was brought to Solomon, he was already three parts drunk, two parts annoyed, and one part embarrassed by the situation.
“You didn’t ask nicely,” he muttered.
Solomon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want trouble. I want the shamir. Where is it?”
“The shamir?” Asmodeus stretched. “Oh, I don’t have it. God gave it to Rahab, the angel of the sea. He’s the one who passed it on to the hoopoe.”
Solomon blinked. “...The bird?”
“Yes,” said Asmodeus, reclining and conjuring a snack. “Enjoy that quest. I’m going back to bed.”
Far from Jerusalem, where the sea met the cliffs in a crash of salt and splendor, lived a hoopoe named Zephirah.
Zephirah was a hoopoe of many talents: nest architect, single mother of five squawking chicks, and the world’s most reluctant carrier of an ancient divine artifact. She had found the shamir one spring morning while pecking for snails and had mistaken it for a shiny bug.
Imagine her surprise when it glowed and then split a rock in half.
“Well,” Zephirah had said, tucking the wriggly glowing worm into her feathers, “that’s convenient.”
She had since used the shamir to dig out the coziest seaside nest in history. Her neighbors were jealous. The seagulls gossiped.
And the shamir? The shamir was delighted. Its name was Zingy.
Zingy was no ordinary worm. Zingy had the face of an angelic bean, sparkly black eyes the size of a mustard seed, and cheeks that somehow glowed. It made gentle humming noises when it was happy. It sparkled when praised. It occasionally did somersaults in joy.
Zingy loved nothing more than being helpful and beloved.
Zephirah was a hoopoe of many talents: nest architect, single mother of five squawking chicks, and the world’s most reluctant carrier of an ancient divine artifact. She had found the shamir one spring morning while pecking for snails and had mistaken it for a shiny bug.
Imagine her surprise when it glowed and then split a rock in half.
“Well,” Zephirah had said, tucking the wriggly glowing worm into her feathers, “that’s convenient.”
She had since used the shamir to dig out the coziest seaside nest in history. Her neighbors were jealous. The seagulls gossiped.
And the shamir? The shamir was delighted. Its name was Zingy.
Zingy was no ordinary worm. Zingy had the face of an angelic bean, sparkly black eyes the size of a mustard seed, and cheeks that somehow glowed. It made gentle humming noises when it was happy. It sparkled when praised. It occasionally did somersaults in joy.
Zingy loved nothing more than being helpful and beloved.
Zephirah was having a peaceful afternoon (her chicks were finally asleep) when her peace was shattered by the approach of far too many people.
Solomon had not come alone. There were scribes, guards, sages, one harpist who insisted on narrating the journey musically, and Benaiah, who had brought snacks.
The king climbed the cliff to her nest, robes swishing regally.
Zephirah tilted her head and stared at him.
Solomon bowed. “O great and noble hoopoe—”
Zephirah squawked loudly and held up a wing. “No. Don’t start.”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re about to ask for the worm.”
“…Yes.”
“I knew it,” she muttered. “They always do. ‘Oh Zephirah, you're the chosen vessel, you’re the steward of the sacred sparkle bug.’ Do they offer me fish? No. Do they bring snacks for the kids? No. Do they consider the emotional burden of being the only hoopoe with a worm that cuts granite? Absolutely not.”
“I—” Solomon began.
Zephirah turned her back. “You can’t have him.”
From beneath her wing, Zingy peeked out. It blinked up at Solomon, sparkled politely, and smiled.
Solomon’s mouth opened slightly. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I know,” Zephirah said. “You think it’s easy raising chicks with a divine squishmallow glowing in your armpit?”
Back at the encampment, Solomon held a council.
“She won’t give up the shamir,” he said, pacing.
“Have you considered asking again?” Benaiah offered. “With more snacks?”
“We’re not bribing a hoopoe.”
“Why not?”
“…Fine.”
Solomon had not come alone. There were scribes, guards, sages, one harpist who insisted on narrating the journey musically, and Benaiah, who had brought snacks.
The king climbed the cliff to her nest, robes swishing regally.
Zephirah tilted her head and stared at him.
Solomon bowed. “O great and noble hoopoe—”
Zephirah squawked loudly and held up a wing. “No. Don’t start.”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re about to ask for the worm.”
“…Yes.”
“I knew it,” she muttered. “They always do. ‘Oh Zephirah, you're the chosen vessel, you’re the steward of the sacred sparkle bug.’ Do they offer me fish? No. Do they bring snacks for the kids? No. Do they consider the emotional burden of being the only hoopoe with a worm that cuts granite? Absolutely not.”
“I—” Solomon began.
Zephirah turned her back. “You can’t have him.”
From beneath her wing, Zingy peeked out. It blinked up at Solomon, sparkled politely, and smiled.
Solomon’s mouth opened slightly. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I know,” Zephirah said. “You think it’s easy raising chicks with a divine squishmallow glowing in your armpit?”
Back at the encampment, Solomon held a council.
“She won’t give up the shamir,” he said, pacing.
“Have you considered asking again?” Benaiah offered. “With more snacks?”
“We’re not bribing a hoopoe.”
“Why not?”
“…Fine.”
The next day, Solomon returned to Zephirah’s nest with figs, sardines, and a very flattering poem written in Classical Bird.
Zephirah accepted the offerings, read the poem, rolled her eyes, and said: “Still no.”
Solomon returned to camp.
Benaiah raised an eyebrow. “Time for the trap!”
Zephirah accepted the offerings, read the poem, rolled her eyes, and said: “Still no.”
Solomon returned to camp.
Benaiah raised an eyebrow. “Time for the trap!”
It was a simple plan.
When Zephirah left the nest to stretch her wings, Benaiah and two scribes gently placed a clear dome of glass over the nest.
Inside, Zingy blinked. Then looked up.
“Oh no,” he squeaked.
When Zephirah returned, she froze mid-flight.
“Really?” she said, staring at the glass. “Really?”
“Just for a little while,” Solomon called from below. “Then you can have him back. You can even keep the snacks.”
Zephirah groaned. “Zingy, honey? Can you do the sparkle thing?”
Zingy glowed. His little cheeks lit up like emerald fireflies. His eyes narrowed in concentration.
The glass cracked.
The glass shimmered.
Divine sparkles swirled like a golden tornado.
And then--BOOM. The glass shattered in a perfect starburst, not a shard touching the chicks.
Zingy did a proud wiggle-dance.
Zephirah sighed. “Show-off.”
When Zephirah left the nest to stretch her wings, Benaiah and two scribes gently placed a clear dome of glass over the nest.
Inside, Zingy blinked. Then looked up.
“Oh no,” he squeaked.
When Zephirah returned, she froze mid-flight.
“Really?” she said, staring at the glass. “Really?”
“Just for a little while,” Solomon called from below. “Then you can have him back. You can even keep the snacks.”
Zephirah groaned. “Zingy, honey? Can you do the sparkle thing?”
Zingy glowed. His little cheeks lit up like emerald fireflies. His eyes narrowed in concentration.
The glass cracked.
The glass shimmered.
Divine sparkles swirled like a golden tornado.
And then--BOOM. The glass shattered in a perfect starburst, not a shard touching the chicks.
Zingy did a proud wiggle-dance.
Zephirah sighed. “Show-off.”
