For my children: Jonathan, Benjamin, Aaron, Christiana, Bentu—artists, lovers, warrior poets, friends.

Contents

Cover

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

Extras

Prologue

“What is this?” the brute screamed, his entire body shaking. David squinted; his eyes were burning. The sun glinting off Goliath’s armor made him shimmer like a mirage. Shaking his head in disgust, the Philistine turned sideways, ignoring his challenger and directed his wrath at the Israelite soldiers flanked along the northern hills.

It was painfully obvious to David that the giant was seeking to humiliate him.

“Am I not the dread Goliath of Gath? Am I not the Philistine champion?” he roared. His clean-shaven face and sensuous lips were a sharp contrast to his coarse, guttural roar. “What is this litter’s runt you have sent to face me? Do you take me for a nipple-sucking private that you challenge me with this child who looks to be more girl than man?”

David felt his cheeks flush at the hoots of derision cascading down from the enemy troops.

Goliath drew his curved sword and shook it at the army. “Are you making sport of me?” Spittle flew from his mouth. “Look at this weakling you’ve sent against me. Is this what serves as a champion in Israel these days? And his weapons!” He snorted, aiming the tip of his sword at the young shepherd. “He comes with a stick and a stone to try to break my bones!” At this joke the Philistine threw his head back to expel a shrill rasp of laughter. It was like a saw squealing as it cut through resistant wood.

The skin on the back of David’s neck crawled. The Philistine hordes on the incline to David’s right erupted. He whispered the warrior’s prayer, his eyes clenched in fierce concentration. As if he’d heard the petition, Goliath grew still, lowering his sword. He dragged a hairy forearm across his lips, wiping away the spittle.

The back of David’s throat burned. It was that unmistakable stench of black smoke and rancid meat. And this time it was affecting his knees. They were trembling. A wave of panic made the glowing figure swim before his eyes. Only one thing came to mind—the warrior’s prayer. Desperately he whispered, “Lord Sabaoth—Lord of the heavenly hosts—deliver me, for I trust in Your name.” He repeated it several times, trying to quiet his mounting fear.

Goliath was staring at him intently as if measuring him with his eyes.

David’s heart sank. From this distance, eighty paces away, he could make out no crack in the giant’s armor. All hope and confidence left him. He clenched his teeth to keep his jaw from quivering. Gathering his last fragments of courage, he pushed his foot forward, the sling heavy in his left hand.

Leering, Goliath gestured at the shepherd’s rod. “Am I a dog, that you come at me with a toy? Dagon curse your impudence to the abyss! Come to me, and I will give your sweet, young flesh to the birds and the beasts.”

With ease of practice, the Philistine thrust his sword into its scabbard and pulled the spear away from his armor bearer, who was standing in front of him. Goliath widened his stance, thighs and calves bulging. Shifting his left foot forward, he centered his weight on his back foot. He held the weapon horizontally, then tossed it lightly into the air, finding its balance. The weight of its bronze head, almost as large as David’s, made the pole bow deeply as it fell back into his hand. Snorting with satisfaction, the giant motioned insolently for David to approach.

The young shepherd inched forward, sweat running down his back, as he still tried to locate a weakness in the armor.

Unable to restrain his excitement, the giant threw back his head and bellowed.

The sound of hunger and derision turned David’s insides to water. He no longer cared whether the Israelites could see his terror. His breath was coming in gasps. It was suddenly clear—there would be no deliverance. There was no chink in the brute’s armor.

All that was left was to run.

His fingers loosened on the braided thongs, and the stone fell out of the leather pouch. As he turned to escape, Goliath drew back his spear, and a triumphant cry echoed off the valley walls.

And then David felt a hand on his back.

Chapter One

One year earlier

David’s perfect record was shattered. The flock had been attacked by lions, and they had made off with a ewe. For years, he’d been able to boast that he hadn’t lost a single animal. But no longer. And now he was home, bearing his father’s wrath.

Though bent by the years, Jesse was still an imposing figure. He had once been regarded as one of the fleetest of Israel’s runners. There were still traces of the athlete he once had been—wide shoulders and strong legs. It was his back that had betrayed him. But when gouging a merchant—or, at moments like these, when seething with rage—he seemed to grow taller, and his gray eyes shone with dangerous malice.

“You were too scared, so you did what?” His father was incredulous. It was as if David had reported seeing a caravan of camels flying off into the sunset. Jesse was supporting himself with one hand on the stone wall of the sheep pen and with his cane in the other.

David’s eyes stung. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep them clear. He would not give Jesse the satisfaction. Swallowing, he repeated quietly, “I was afraid that the lions would turn and attack me, so I kept hidden.” There was only the barest quaver in his voice.

“You are aware that the responsibility of a shepherd is to protect the flocks?” Jesse asked, jerking his cane toward the sheep. It was more a statement intended to humiliate than a question.

David answered anyway. “Yes, I am aware—Father.”

Jesse caught the note of defiance. His nostrils flared, and he raised his staff threateningly. David met his gaze and lifted his chin.

The old man snorted and lowered his arm, turning away as if the eighteen-year-old did not merit a blow. “So how many of my sheep did you let the predators take?” He was now staring at the flocks, reverting to his habit of looking away from his youngest while talking to him.

“Only one.”

The old man twisted his head around, his eyes blazing. “To you it may be only one”—he struck the pen’s stone wall with his staff—“but to me it means the loss of ten, since, if you recall, it was a ewe that will breed me no more litters.” His voice shook with anger. “You speak like a child, but a shepherd must think like a businessman.” He gave the wall another sharp blow. “You are of age for marriage, yet you are not old enough to be trusted with a handful of sheep.”

David made no response. Since he was twelve he had chased away every animal that had threatened his father’s flocks. Recently he had killed a young lion. Today was the first time he had frozen, and it was only because three predators had attacked at once. They had slunk in while he was dozing, and when he noticed them, they were too close for him to use his sling.

“And here I thought you took such pride in your skill with the sling.”

David tried not to betray how much the jibe hurt. He was nearly at the level of the famed Benjamite slingers who regularly won the intertribal competitions. He could drop a large stone within a handbreadth of a wandering lamb or graze the ear of a stubborn goat. He could knock a crow out of the air or break a marauder’s foreleg.

He was unable to remain silent. “Which of my brothers can claim to have done as well as I? According to Shimeah, by the time Eliab was my age, he had lost nine.”

Jesse ignored his son’s protest. “You will not be going out alone any longer. If one of the others were available, I would keep you home, but they are not. Tomorrow you will be taking the flocks out with Lydea’s boy. Let us see if your courage improves with a companion to watch out for you, even if he is a cripple.” There was grim satisfaction in his father’s voice.

As Jesse started back to his house, David realized that some response was called for. The fifth commandment was clear, and as difficult as it was, he was required to show respect. “I am sorry about the sheep, Father,” he said, managing to pry the words off his tongue. “I will let Lydea know about Jahra.”

Jesse’s back stiffened, but he gave no reply.

David had kept the elation out of his voice. It had been almost a year since Jahra had accompanied him into the hills. They had grown up together, and Jahra was more a brother than a servant. Jesse had bought Lydea and her little boy before David’s birth. She had become David’s wet nurse when his mother, unable to survive the strain of her tenth delivery, had died.

The two had come from Aram. During the raid in which they had been captured, Jahra had lost his own father and received a blow that had robbed him of speech. David’s brothers nicknamed him Buggy for the patch of wrinkled skin resembling a centipede that ran along his temple. Jahra was almost a year older than David, but shortly after David could walk, he’d accepted the servant boy as his personal charge. According to Lydea, it had been David who had patiently taught her boy to take his first awkward steps. Jahra’s right leg and foot were turned slightly inward, so it had taken persistence to teach him to walk. When he did, it was with an odd, sloping gait.

After counting to make sure all the animals were inside, David shut the pen and raced to his friend’s one-room hut on the western edge of their small town. It was behind the houses of his father and older brothers. Like theirs, Jahra’s house was made of stone, but it was considerably smaller, and the thatch roof was not strong enough to stand on. On his sixteenth birthday David had decided to exercise his independence by sleeping and having his meals at Jahra’s house. Jesse never mentioned it and, if anything, seemed relieved.

Although Jesse had seven sons, what he had said was true: David was his only remaining option to care for the sheep. The three oldest, Eliab, Abinadab, and Shimeah, had just left for maneuvers with Saul’s army, while Nethanel, though he hated working the land, was left to take care of the fields. The twins, Raddai and Ozem, who were a few years older than David, were out of town, learning the well-digging trade from Uncle Shephatiah. There had been another son, Boaz, born before the twins, but he had died several years earlier. Jesse’s grandchildren were busy caring for their own parents’ animals and crops.

As he ran past Eliab’s house, David recalled their encounter that morning. The death of the sheep had driven it from his mind, but now it all came back—and with it, the sting of his brother’s taunts.

Saul’s army had been called up for a campaign against the Amalekites to the south. In the early dawn as David was leading the flocks out of their pens, the three eldest were also preparing to leave. Eliab had scowled at him and then jerked his finger, commanding David to come over. Clenching his teeth, David had approached warily. With a meaty arm, Eliab had pulled David close, whispering loudly enough for the others to hear. “When I see the king, I will make sure to ask him if he has need for the services of an undersized shepherd to watch over his animals.”

David had stared back with a hint of a smile. He knew how much his brother hated it.

Snorting through his thick beard, Eliab had poked David in the chest. It felt like being struck by the shaft of a spear. “Let me tell you this, you impudent cur: there is more hope for your little friend’s mother to make it than for you.” He pushed David away so hard that he fell. Eliab guffawed. “Look at you! You don’t stand a chance if you can’t stand on your own two feet.” Abinadab and Shimeah laughed dutifully.

When the sheep and goats had created a buffer between them, David yelled back, “At least I’m smart enough to know the difference between wine and goat urine.” This was a reference to one of David’s favorite memories: he had changed the contents of Eliab’s wine bottle, and his brother had gagged and spit for hours.

Abinadab and Shimeah almost had to wrestle Eliab to the ground to restrain him from charging after David. As the three picked up their packs and made their way down the road, David could make out only one phrase: “Whore’s son!”

That had taken place many hours earlier, but those words again pricked him like sharp nettles. He swore to himself and hoped, not for the first time, that Eliab would not make it back from this battle. As he trotted past the sycamore in front of Lydea’s front door, he could barely make out the dried seedpods that crunched underfoot. Out of habit he patted the tree’s scaly trunk where the pale pinkish inner bark was exposed. In the evening light, the streaks looked like wounds gouged into the wood by the claws of a ravenous beast.

He pushed aside the thick cloth that served as a door and noticed immediately that the table was against the wall under the window across from him. The window was closed since there was no longer need to vent smoke from the fire pit beneath it. Only warm embers remained from the cooking fire. Lydea and Jahra had finished their evening meal. David’s stomach growled with disappointment.

Lydea was scouring out a large bowl and had her back to him. Jahra was sitting cross-legged at his favorite place next to the pit’s warm stones. He was holding a cloth, preparing to dry the bowl when she was finished.

Jahra smiled at David as he entered. As usual, a wet twig poked out from the corner of his mouth. Lydea required him to toss it out before entering the house since, as she had told him countless times, it reminded her of the tip of a mouse tail. Somehow he had sneaked it past her.

David walked up behind her, grinning broadly. “Peace be with you,” he said formally, wrapping his arms around the old woman’s thin shoulders while giving Jahra a shove with his knee, knocking him sideways.

“And with you, you wild boy-goat,” was her reply. After almost twenty years, her speech still had some Aramean carryovers. They always made David smile.

“What did you have to eat?” he asked.

“You guess,” Lydea said.

David stuck his nose into the container, and as he did, Jahra grabbed it and sloshed the greasy contents into David’s face.

“You little swine!” David yelled, blinking his eyes clear.

Jahra jumped to his feet and ran backward to the sleeping area at the room’s opposite corner. One hand was lifted in a sign of surrender and the other was pointing to his open mouth.

It was his typical dramatic ploy, as if his inability to speak granted him immunity.

Realizing he would receive no sympathy, Jahra picked up the sling David had made for him and started twirling it over his head. Lydea threw up her hands as David ducked beneath the whirling thongs and wrestled her son to the ground on top of Jahra’s sleeping mat. David wound up on top, wiping his face on his friend’s chest. When he was finished drying off the dirty water, he let Jahra go.

“You are aware that a sling requires a stone, aren’t you?” David asked, grabbing the sling and pointing at the empty pouch. “It appears that my lessons were not as clear as they needed to be. Next time, we’ll talk about the importance of loading the weapon before using it. Most slingers figure that part out for themselves.”

Jahra yanked the sling back and jabbed David with his elbow.

“Stop it this moment!” Lydea called, her amusement barely concealed behind her strict tone. “David, come here and stop bothering poor Jahra. Something will be broken if you don’t stop making him provoked. I have some bread and fresh cheese left over; if you behave yourself, you might get those currants you like. If not—you can forget all about it.”

David sat down at the rickety table he had made for her a few years earlier. No matter how hard he’d tried, he had not been able to get the legs quite the same length. “I’m no carpenter,” he’d apologized when he brought it into the house, but her gratitude at the relief it gave her back had erased his embarrassment. She acted as if it was the best-made piece of furniture she’d ever seen.

“What happened today?” she asked, her watery eyes filled with concern. “And don’t say to me, ‘Nothing.’ I heard your father’s voice. I could tell he was very upset.”

He let out a sigh as Jahra sat down on the bench next to him. The twig had disappeared. When David finished describing the death of the ewe and his father’s fury, Lydea reached across the table and patted his forearm. “I’m so sorry.”

Jahra gave him a sympathetic look. David smiled awkwardly. Wanting to change the direction of the conversation, he told them about his confrontation with Eliab that morning. He shook his head, remembering his brother’s last words. “Can you believe it? He’s so stupid, it never occurs to him that when he curses me, he is cursing his own mother.”

Lydea’s smile faded. She grabbed the plate in front of David and turned to place it on the simple slab of wood he and Jahra had driven into the wall to make a shelf for her cooking utensils. On it rested one of the oil lamps.

David waited for her to turn around, but she busied herself rearranging the cookery and trimming the lamp’s wick. He had intended it to be a funny story, but retelling it had only made him sad. And it had brought to the surface the question that constantly troubled him. He had asked it countless times before, and though it made him feel foolish, he could not stop from raising it again:

“Why do they hate me?”

She remained quiet. Jahra let out a sympathetic grunt.

Lydea gave her son a look of disapproval. “Eliab is jealous of you.”

“What of?” David was incredulous. This was more than she had ever said.

Lydea picked up the damp bowl she had been washing, then absentmindedly set it on the shelf. She spoke quietly, her back to him. “David, this is what I believe. Down deep, he suspect you are a threat.”

David coughed in disbelief. “Right! I’m the youngest; what possible threat could I be to him? Father thinks the sun rises and sets on his oldest son, and it is obvious he would be much happier if I’d never been born.”

Lydea spun around, the rag clenched in her fist. “Never, ever say that!” The tears in her eyes startled David. “No matter what anyone in your family thinks, you are precious. Don’t pay any attention to what Eliab says. He is a selfish”—she stopped, hunting for the word—“big man-child. His opinion counts for nothing.”

She shut her eyes, let out a deep breath, then continued. “Also, I not want you to take seriously what your father says either.” She placed her old fingers on his. “He has been a good master to me and Jahra, but he is a very proud man. And I am sad for him.” She blinked away the angry tears. “He was given a gift but has …” She looked up at him for help.

“Rejected it?” David suggested.

Her face lit up. “Yes! That is what make me so sad for him.” She bent and kissed him on the head. “And for you.”

“What do you mean?”

She interrupted him with an abrupt wave. Her eyes were again clear and hard. The old woman picked up an ember with a tong, lit the oil lamp, and walked to the corner, where she unrolled her sleeping mat. “It is time for bed. When you boys are ready, I will blow out the light.”

Jahra walked to the opposite side of the house, straightened out their mats, and lay down. David felt dazed. Lydea had revealed more tonight than she ever had. It was only a matter of time before he would discover what she and the others seemed intent on hiding. He was about to lie down next to Jahra when he remembered the message he’d been given.

“Lydea, Father wants Jahra to accompany me into the hills tomorrow.”

Jahra sat up, his eyes wide with excitement.

“Very good. I will prepare food for both of you.” Her voice was thin and tired.

David grinned at his friend, who was shaking his clenched fist in the air. “I told him that I wasn’t sure you could handle it, what with you not knowing how to use a sling properly and all.”

Jahra tossed one of his sandals at him, then rolled over on his back.

“You need to work on your aim,” David said.

“Quiet,” Lydea snapped as she extinguished the lamp.

“Sleep well,” David whispered, closing his eyes. He was asleep within moments. Long before widow Ruth’s rooster crowed at the town’s easternmost border, he dreamed again of the sinister cave and the wolves. It was a nightmare that had been haunting him since he turned sixteen. He awoke with his body shaking and the words of a prayer on his tongue.

Chapter Two

The memory of the wolf’s unsettling grin dissipated as soon as David recalled that he and Jahra would be heading out together.

“Get up. You’re coming with me this morning, remember?” David whispered. “The sooner we get going, the better our chances.” He was holding his tall staff but had not yet found his rod. To conserve oil, Lydea did not keep a lamp burning through the night, so the house was in almost complete darkness. He walked over to the back wall and opened the window.

Jahra blinked his puffy eyes, scratching his head. He looked up at David in confusion, then sat up suddenly as the words sank in. He stretched and let out a high-pitched yawn that made Lydea, wake with a start.

“Can’t you be a little more quiet?” David told him as the old woman straightened her stiff back. Jahra may have been mute, but the sound he made when arising was worse than an angry crow.

As Lydea readied their food, David located the thick stick. It had a round weighted end into which small pieces of iron had been hammered. He slid it into his belt. “Good grass is getting rare, so we need to be the first ones out of town. Abishai knows about this pasture I found. We need to get to it before he does.”

Jahra nodded distractedly, slipping a strap around his neck and adjusting the oblong leather pouch at his waist.

Only a few lights were visible from the quiet houses as David and Jahra led the flock out of Bethlehem. The dark horizon was just beginning to turn gray. They lived on the western edge, so when heading east, they had to pass through the entire village. Each spring, while pasturing the animals on the ridges near their village, David counted the modest square homes. There were eighty-six of them now. He loved gazing down at the little boxlike dwellings with their flat roofs covered with flax, corn, or figs drying in the heat. It made him feel protective, as if he were responsible to look out for the small town.

When they were past his father’s house, David heard the sound of a door closing behind him. He turned to see Mattai hurrying toward them, holding a lamp. He had been Jesse’s servant for so long, he had begun to resemble him. His nose was like the beak of an eagle, and under gray brows, his piercing eyes were set in a permanent frown.

“I bring a message from your father.” He was from Amalek and spoke with the inflection of the south.

“Well, what is it?” David snapped.

Their eyes met for a moment, the servant’s sliding past his as if he were brushing off a gnat. The expression of disapproval was so like his father’s, it made David want to laugh.

“It is market day tomorrow. He wants you to make sure the flocks are ready for auction. ‘First thing,’ Mattai said.”

“Let him know he has nothing to worry about,” David responded, then paused for emphasis. “… now that I have Jahra to accompany me.” He turned to the quiet boy, who’d looked away studiously at the eastern sky as if divining the day’s weather. “Let’s go.”

Several lights shone in the large house ahead. As the sheep and goats passed it, their dull bells clanging, David saw a lamp approach a window, and the outline of Abishai’s curly head.

David waved but said nothing.

The place he had in mind was one of his favorite pastures in the Judean hills. Because of its distance, he went there only at the end of summer, when the grass was beginning to dry out. It was bordered by rocky cliffs and could be entered only by a crack wide enough for the animals to enter three abreast. The narrow passage led to a lush, quiet valley with a stream gentle enough not to scare the skittish sheep. Its entrance was so well disguised that it was hidden from the merchants traveling the caravan route that passed close by.

After a trek of nearly two hours through rugged terrain, they were crossing the hard-packed trail used by traders moving their wares from the south and the east. David led the flock over a rise and down the other side toward a rock wall. He pulled aside a mound of dried brush and prodded the sheep into the winding passageway. The sides were so high and steep that the sun could filter through only indirectly. As they moved forward, the walls seemed to incline as if threatening to crush them. David tightened his grip on the rod at his belt and the staff in his other hand.

When they had made their way through, Jahra looked around in amazement.

“Nice, isn’t it?” David said, bending down to feel the thick grass and pointing with his chin at the little stream that flowed from a rock wall about thirty paces away.

Jahra nodded.

“Now you see why I wanted to hurry.”

The flock dispersed, and David and Jahra sat down, resting their backs against a boulder. It had slid down the side of the cliff so long ago that a bush was growing on top of it. Stretching out their legs, David and Jahra let the warm sun relax their knotted muscles.

David read his friend’s expression as he pointed to their surroundings. “How did I find this beautiful oasis?”

Jahra nodded.

“I never would have, had it not been for Bandit, that little scamp.” Among all the goats, the mischievous two-year-old kid was David’s favorite. He was black as night except for a white circle around one eye and a shock of white hair on top of his head. It gave him a wild, roguish look that contrasted with his soft, innocent eyes.

“He took off, and I tracked him to this place. That’s why I call it Bandit’s Lair.”

Jahra smiled, pulled out his water bag, and took a long drink. He handed it to David, who held it aloft and let the jet of water spurt into the back of his mouth. Knowing Jahra was looking at him, David extended his arm so that the bottle grazed the branches of the bush above him. He pulled his head back, his mouth wide, imitating Eliab. The water splashed over his lips and into his nose, and he began coughing. Jahra chortled so loudly that the flock froze, staring at them with wide eyes.

David tossed the bag at Jahra, who lifted his hand in a gesture of conciliation. Smiling, Jahra slid the strap over his head and picked up the leather pouch that was lying on the ground next to his side. He untied it and pulled out his compact, seven-stringed harp. It was small and light, perfect for long treks into the hills. Before playing the instrument, he had to find a piece of straw to chew. David found it first and handed it to him with a roll of his eyes. Jahra inspected the straw carefully, blew through it, then placed it in the corner of his mouth.

David leaned back on the rock to listen. He could feel the stone’s heat through the back of his head and shoulders. His brothers enjoyed mocking Jahra for his uncoordinated gait, but he more than made up for his impediment with amazing manual dexterity. His fingers ran and skipped over the instrument like a goat leaping up the sides of a mountain.

On their last expedition together, Jahra had convinced David to give the harp a try. But David gave up almost immediately. Though Jahra had been anxious to teach him, David was frustrated by his own awkwardness. The compact instrument, with its close-fitted strings, required perfect placement of thumbs and fingers. It seemed to mock him—and if he could not play perfectly, he would not play at all.

Jahra was in an inventive mood. “I like it,” David said quietly. It was the sound of a mother’s lullaby and evoked the peacefulness of the glen.

David’s eyes were growing heavy. “Are you trying to put me to sleep so you can have the flock all to yourself?” he murmured. Jahra kept playing.

“If you stay alert, I’ll catch a quick nap.”

Jahra nodded and began humming hoarsely to himself, something he did only when feeling especially happy.

Wind ruffled David’s hair, and something stung his face. But it was the thunder that woke him, and, apparently, his sleeping companion as well. Together, they jumped to their feet. Dark clouds were massing overhead. A storm was heading their way, and since it was blowing in from the sea to the west, it would be cold and strong. Jahra avoided David’s angry gaze. He reached for his pouch and quickly shoved the harp into it.

“I’ll count the animals,” David said through pursed lips. He was upset with Jahra but angrier at himself. He should have realized that his friend couldn’t stay awake on his own. “Go up to that cave and make sure we have plenty of dry wood in case we have to stay overnight.”

Please, God, let them all be here, David prayed as he pulled himself up onto the boulder to get a view of the flock. Fortunately, the thunder had not yet driven the animals into an indistinguishable mass, so it was not difficult to get an accurate count.

All 146 sheep and goats were accounted for.

The sky was a foreboding color. There was another peal of thunder, and the sheep began to gather anxiously in the middle of the valley. Preferring the heights, the goats followed Jahra into the cave. Fat drops were falling and the wind was whipping sand and twigs into his face when David finished piling rocks across the valley’s narrow entrance. As he rushed up the hill, the rain began in earnest.

Jahra had gathered enough branches and pieces of wood to last several days. He had even managed to get a small fire going. The goats were huddled together at the back of the cave. Not wanting to ask if Jahra had done so, David went ahead and counted them. All had made it inside.

The two shepherds wrapped their cloaks around themselves and sat on opposite sides of the fire, looking out at the billowing sheets of rain. Thunder echoed inside their enclosure, sounding as if great rocks were being ripped from the sides of the valley.

David heard Jahra riffling through one of the bags but kept staring at the storm. He hoped Jahra wasn’t pulling out his harp. He was in no mood for music. Instead, Jahra came over to him and nudged his shoulder. David turned to see a small parcel in Jahra’s hand. Without looking up, David took it.

Inside was a piece of flatbread, several strands of dried goat meat, and a cake of raisins and dates. The flatbread was cut in two pieces. Between the halves was a paste made of ground lentil, tomato, and onion. It was one of Lydea’s special creations. David took a bite, then another. It was difficult to remain angry while enjoying delicious food.

David looked up to thank Jahra, then jerked back in shock. His friend’s eyes were surrounded by big black circles. His mouth was a long black slit. Jahra pulled back his lips. Small fangs had replaced his teeth. For a moment David was too stunned to move; then he threw his head back and began to laugh.

With a relieved smile, Jahra spit out the twigs, sat next to David, and used his cloak to wipe the charcoal off his face.

“I can’t believe you,” David said when he regained his breath. “Where do you come up with these things?”

Jahra rolled his eyes and shrugged. It was a gesture that could mean just about anything, from infinite understanding to total ignorance. When they had finished eating, David stood and walked to the cave’s mouth. The thunder had stopped, but the rain was still coming down hard.

“We could be in big trouble, you know that?”

Jahra looked at him quizzically.

“Maybe you didn’t hear Mattai’s message as we were leaving. Tomorrow morning is the sheep auction, and I promised we’d have the flock ready. First thing. If this rain doesn’t stop, we won’t be able to start heading back to Bethlehem till tomorrow morning.”

Jahra gave an exaggerated expression of dismay.

“Go ahead and laugh. You want to be the one blamed for missing out on getting the best rates for the sheep?” David turned back to look at the sheets of water outside their cave.

Draping his cloak over his body, Jahra crawled to David and butted him in the leg like a goat.

“Stop it!” David said, laughing and kicking him with his heel.

Jahra butted him again, almost pushing David into the downpour.

“If you do that one more time, I’m going to toss you out of the cave and see how you like the life of a four-footed animal.”

Jahra retreated.

David tossed several larger branches into the fire and sat down to wait out the storm. It took over an hour, and by the time the rain clouds had dispersed, the sun had begun to set.

“Perfect,” David growled, and he sighed heavily. Trying to ease the tension, Jahra stood and thrust out his chest and stomach, stroking his chin like a merchant deciding on the price for an animal.

David threw a stick at him. “Let’s see if you think it’s so funny tomorrow. Now, pull in your belly, and let’s go make sure the flock is safe and accounted for.”

The two shepherds piled stones and brush in a semicircle at one end of the valley, leaving a small opening for the flock to enter. Jahra urged the animals through it while David stood at the entrance and counted. The enclosure was not tall enough to prevent goats from leaping out, but since they would be staying in the cave, David was not concerned.

The 109 sheep were safe for the night.

The sky was alight with stars when the shepherds made their way up to the cave. They laid some wood on the embers, and soon the fire was blazing again. David motioned toward the satchel in the corner. “Why don’t you play one of those old Amorite tunes, the one where you pound on the base with your palm?”

Jahra pulled out the instrument, tuned it thoughtfully, then began plucking the strings with thumb and forefinger. The notes snapped and popped harshly in counterpoint to the crackling of the fire. “Now, that’s really pleasant,” David said. “If you pulled the strings a little harder, maybe you could break them all, one by one.”

The quiet musician ignored the jibe. He exhaled, spread out both hands in front of him, closing and opening his fists, then ran his fingers through his hair, as if preparing for a public performance.

“Get on with it,” David grumbled. “Look, if you’re not in the mood, you can just tell me, you know.”

Jahra set his hands as if ready to play, hesitated, then looked up at David thoughtfully. He grabbed the harp’s side post and lifted it toward David.

“Oh no!” he objected, shaking his head. “You remember the last time I tried. It sounded like I was choking a small animal. It was very clear: you are the musician; I am—most definitely—not.”

Jahra dangled the harp in front of him, urging him to take it. He was smiling, but there was a seriousness in his eyes. It was reproachful and condescending. It made David feel like a child.

David pushed the instrument away. “I know my limitations,” he said, ignoring the disappointment on his friend’s face. Jahra drew back the harp, slipped it into the pouch, then wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down with his back to the fire. David followed suit.

He’d given in several years earlier after Jahra had refused to stop badgering him. It went as poorly as David expected. He had not admitted it, but it had been humiliating and had only reinforced the vow he’d made as a boy. Even now he could feel the shame burn his chest just as it had that night he’d accompanied Raddai and Ozem on an overnight with the sheep.

David loved making up songs, but he’d never shared them with any of his family. Since the two older boys had made their resentment at his presence obvious, he’d started singing, wanting desperately to win their approval. The words had just come into his head as they always did. It was while he was lying on his back, looking up at the star-studded sky:

The heavens are declaring the glory of God.

The sky is proclaiming His wonderful works.[1]

He had sung the first line softly but stopped, wanting to know how the twins would respond. Afraid to look at them, he waited. When they said nothing, he continued, this time a little more loudly:

The sun and the moon and the stars at night,

They sing to each other.

Though their sound can’t be heard,

Their words are heard to the ends of the earth.[2]

He heard an intake of breath and felt a warm glow of pride. David was so happy he’d managed to impress them. As he turned to look at them, Ozem let out a guffaw, and David heard one of them clap the other on the shoulder.

“Can you believe that garbage?” It was Ozem.

“Yeah,” Raddai responded, his voice choking with laughter. “The sun and the stars singing!”

Ozem was up on his elbow, his broad face twisted in an ugly grin. “You’re too stupid to know that if a star does not make a sound, nobody can hear it!”

On his back, his eyes stinging with tears, David had vowed he would never sing or make music for anyone—ever.

The goats in the back of the cave were barely visible when David awoke Jahra early the next morning. “We need to hurry to get to Bethlehem for the auction.” He doubted that the reminder was necessary, but he needed to say something. He handed Jahra the food bag. It was empty. “No breakfast for us.”

Without meeting his eyes, Jahra took it and slung it around his neck, along with the pouch that held his harp.

“Take this as well,” David said, offering him his staff.

Jahra shook his head and led the goats down the hill.

David remained in the mouth of the cave, and as each goat walked past him, he touched it on the head with his thick rod. There were only thirty-six. “One’s missing!” he shouted down at Jahra, who was heading toward the sheep enclosure. He couldn’t understand it. It was impossible for one to have gotten past him while they were sleeping.

“Did you count the goats when we came back from building the pen last night?”

A blush crept up Jahra’s cheeks. David felt a stab of anger mixed with guilt. He wanted to blame his friend, but he couldn’t.

“It was my fault,” he yelled. “I should have barricaded the mouth of the cave before we left. And I know exactly which one escaped.” He walked back to search the recesses of the cave. It was empty.

“Bandit’s taken off,” he called out to Jahra, who was removing the branches from the entrance to the makeshift pen. “I’ll go find him. Don’t wait for me. When you get out of this valley, head straight over the first ridge and across the caravan route. Head west and I will catch up with you.”

Jahra waved to show that he understood.

David made his way around the rim of the valley to a smaller cave on the opposite side. By the time he reached it, Jahra and the flock could no longer be seen.

“Bandit,” he called, keeping the frustration out of his voice.

There was no response. The cave held the musky smell of wet fur and dung. A bear had recently been inside. He walked away. Bandit would never have gone near this place. He glanced around at the walls of the quiet valley, looking for another attractive opening. A movement near the cattails next to the creek caught his eye. It was the spindly legged kid taking a drink.

David opened his pouch, pushed aside the rounded stones, and pulled out his pipe. He gave two whistles—a long low followed by an abrupt high—that called the flock to move to another pasture. Most Bethlehem shepherds made a loud guttural sound, but David preferred the clear notes of the pipe.

Bandit jerked upright when he heard the signal. His little black head bobbed with excitement as he loped toward David. With long strides, David ran down to meet the animal.

“You rascal!” he scolded, bending down to look into the moist brown eyes. “I’ve told you not to wander off like that. We’re in a hurry to get home, and you’re going to make us late.” Bandit nuzzled his fingers, snuffling for a handout. “No food for you. Let that be a lesson. Bad boys go hungry.” David picked up the goat and draped him over his shoulders. “You be still and don’t cause me any more trouble. If you do, I’ll have to tell your mother.”

Bandit was docile and quiet, his head bouncing slightly as David set out to join the rest of the flock. He used the staff in his left hand to push himself forward. He and Bandit were through the passageway and were heading up the rise to the caravan trail when the sound hit them. It was the roar of an angry bear. His knees locked for the briefest moment. He stumbled, but he kept his balance, a cry stuck in his throat. He doubled his speed, racing to the top of the incline. He felt Bandit’s body tense and heard a terrified little bleat as they neared the predator in front of them.

1 Psalm 19:1, author’s paraphrase

2 Psalm 19:2–4, author’s paraphrase

Chapter Three

As he looked down from the hill, David’s attention was drawn to the glistening pool of blood. He almost let out a cry but stopped when he saw the two dead sheep. Ten or so paces away, a bear loomed over Jahra. He was on the ground, looking up at the beast, scrambling backward, trying to evade its open jaws.

David dropped Bandit, threw down his staff, and ran at the bear, his sling whipping next to his body. He screamed, drawing the animal’s attention, and without taking time to aim he let the stone fly. As soon as it left the sling, he knew he’d missed the bear’s forehead. The stone struck its shoulder instead.

The beast threw its head sideways, roaring a challenge. David stopped, fumbling for another stone. He again rushed his swings and this time grazed the bear’s snout. Infuriated, the animal raked Jahra with a huge paw, tossing him into the air.

Forcing himself to slow down, David fit another stone into his sling before moving toward the animal with measured strides. But the angle was wrong. The bear was turned sideways, its fangs clamped on Jahra’s leg. The third stone struck it sharply on its hip. Bellowing in pain, it dropped Jahra’s limb. With a backward glare and a tossing of its massive head, the beast turned and loped up east toward the rocky hills, favoring its left leg.

David could have wept in relief.

He ran to his friend, who was lying on his back, sucking in air through clenched teeth. Dark blood was seeping from the ragged puncture wounds in his right thigh. Something about the blood dripping down Jahra’s leg made David’s insides boil. It released something that shocked him.

The words exploded from him: “I swear to you I will kill that cursed animal!” he promised. As he spoke, a force that was both wild and hungry took over his body. His hands were heavy with a dense, throbbing power.

He had a vague memory of uncorking the horn at his waist. Pouring oil on the wounds. Then tearing cloths to wrap Jahra’s leg. He placed the water bag next to Jahra, said something to him, and sped off over the desert terrain. David jumped from boulder to boulder, his limbs gliding in an effortless dance as he ran, jumped, dodged, and clambered. Though his knees and shins stung from a dozen scratches, his sandaled feet were light. Had he not been so furious, it would have been exhilarating.

When he felt a stitch in his side, he slowed, looking up at the sky, moisture dripping off his hair and into his eyes. He took off his headband and wrung it dry. He was parched and wished momentarily that he’d brought the water bag with him. He wiped the sweat off his face, then took several deep breaths and started off again.

He looked at his feet, kicking up dust as he ran. He was no longer casting a shadow. It was midday.

If the beast doesn’t stop soon, I’ll turn back and get Jahra and the flock home.

Though morning had passed, the ancient words of Moses that he loved came rushing into his mind:

Lord, You have been our refuge age after age.[3]

As he ran, he continued reciting the beloved words he’d memorized after hearing them during the feast days at the tabernacle.

“Relent, Yahweh!” he pled, making the words his own. “Take pity on Your servants!”[4]

Unable to concentrate on the words as his side began to ache, he skipped to his favorite lines:

May the sweetness of the Lord be on us!

Make all we do succeed.[5]

He repeated that last phrase over and over but stopped when he hurdled a bramble bush, and when he landed, his foot slid on a flat stone. He looked down, stopping to catch his breath. On the surface was a wide, dark smear. He had slipped on blood from one of the bear’s paws. Most likely the wound had been caused by a piece of broken shale or a large thorn. He smiled. That would slow the animal down.

He ran to a boulder, reached up to find a grip, and felt something wet. His mouth tightened. Drawing back his hand, he stared at the dark, reddish mud. He brought his fingertips to his nose, smelling the blood and earth. Savage pleasure prickled his spine. Seized by an inexplicable urge, he ran his fingers along the sides of his face, smearing the blood on his cheeks.

Taking in a lungful of air, he pulled himself up. He blinked the sweat from his eyes. The blood was fresh. He was in a more or less flat clearing about three times the size of the pens in Bethlehem. A sling’s throw away was another crest leading higher into the hills. Ten paces to his left, rocks and debris were heaped at the base of a steep incline. A cliff fell away to his right, marking the boundary.

He pulled the rod out of his belt, following the drops of blood directly toward the rocky face in front of him. As he approached, sounds of an animal huffing and lumbering reverberated inside. David leaned in and saw a large opening, the entrance to a narrow tunnel. At the opening was the silhouette of a bear. The animal turned its head, as if gauging the distance between them, and disappeared.

David stepped in cautiously and made his way through the tunnel. He felt as though he were being swallowed by the mountain. Emerging into the light on the other side, he took a step and hit a patch of shale. He bent his knees and spread his arms, allowing his weight to carry him forward. He lost his balance but caught himself with his hand. Shards of stone sliced into his palm as he ground to a halt. Ignoring the sting, he yanked off his headband and wrapped his hand as he continued his pursuit.

The bear, now less than seventy paces away, stopped to look at him, then wheeled around a sharp bend. It was heading back in the direction they had come. David froze. Was it returning to the spot where Jahra lay defenseless? He was now convinced that leaving had been a dreadful mistake.

He was running now as he’d never run before. Chest heaving, David crested a gentle rise and saw the hindquarters of the bear. His pulse quickened; instead of bounding up the hill, the animal had turned left and was going around it.

David leaped over the boulders, heading up the steep hill. If he reached the top before the bear made it around, he would have time to prepare for a kill shot.

Not more than six paces from the top, he heard something that could not have possibly come from his friend’s mouth. It was a cry of horror, rising to an impossible pitch before coming to a brutal halt. David’s legs buckled, and he pitched forward. What followed made no sense. It was the bray of a wounded donkey. For a moment David thought he would vomit. Choking it down, he crawled to the summit. Below him, barely within range of his sling, the bear was savaging a pack animal lying on its stomach, its front legs bent underneath. Its head was facing the dry gorge ten paces away.

Nearby lay the body of an Egyptian trader. The light-skinned man was still wearing a bright-green turban. David looked around frantically. Jahra was nowhere in sight. The goats were scrambling over the side of the streambed, seeking higher elevation, while the sheep, in foolish panic, were clustered in the middle of the shallow streambed.

Snorting impatiently, the bear seized the man in its jaws and with a mighty swing tossed him over its head. The limp form almost landed on the pack animal’s bloody entrails. The turban rolled away, unraveling in the dust.

The beast’s cruelty infuriated David. Without taking his eyes off the bear, he pulled out his sling, fitted a stone into the leather pouch, and began twirling his weapon. He felt the cloth wrapped around his slinging hand, but it was too late to do anything about it. Adjusting his stance, he spun the sling faster.

The leather braids hummed next to his ear. It was an awkward angle; the bear was straddling the merchant’s body, its head hunched beneath its bulky shoulders. David let the stone fly. The projectile struck the animal’s spine. Roaring its outrage, it glanced wildly about, then clamped its teeth over the man’s head.

He was fitting it into the pouch when something moved in the dry gully near the donkey’s carcass. It was a hand—then, a dark patch of hair. David stared as Jahra’s forehead and eyes rose over the edge of the gully. He was lying prone, his face discernible through a thatch of high grass along the bank. The bear was unaware as it snuffled over the trader’s body.

David gestured madly for his friend to lower his head. Suddenly, the hulking animal threw its head up, twisting toward David. Its small eyes trained on its assailant on the hill, it stood on its back legs and opened its mouth. The cavernous mouth with its bared yellow teeth looked twice as large as the beast’s head. David waited, but no sound came. Instead, the bear’s body twitched, jerked, then shuddered violently. It was a strange, vaguely human movement, as if it had been grabbed by the nape of its neck and shaken furiously. Dust flew off its thick hide. Its eyes rolled back in its head … and the animal collapsed.

After several long moments, David began inching his way down the hill. Jahra pulled himself up to a crouch and waved him back. Hands upraised, he signaled for David to stay where he was and use his sling if the bear regained consciousness. David hesitated and nodded as the injured boy hobbled toward him, looping around the motionless animal.

When Jahra finally reached him, David threw his arms around his friend and bit his lip to keep from crying. Tears were mixing with the sweat and dust that streaked the side of Jahra’s face. The scar over his temple throbbed.

They jerked around when they heard a hoarse intake of breath from below. The bear was again standing on its back legs, its baleful, piglike eyes seemed to grow wider; they had turned a bright red. A terrible stench of burned, rotten flesh stung the back of David’s throat. He was breathing in the scent of something ancient and perverse.

Strange twitchings and jerkings were rippling along the bear’s body. Its nostrils were distended, and slaver dripped from its jaws. Out of its open maw arose an unearthly wail. The sound tore through David like a metal-tipped whip. Jahra’s injured leg collapsed beneath him, and he dropped to the ground with a moan. David sank next to him, barely able to breathe. He sensed rather than saw the bear charging up the hill toward them.

David turned to his friend. Jahra’s forehead was pressed into the dirt, his whole body shivering. Both arms were stretched out in front of him, hands elevated, the little finger and second finger splayed apart from the other three. It was the Israelites’ sacred symbol, representing the Hebrew letter shin—for Shaddai, the Lord Almighty. The terrified boy was warding off an evil spell.

A soft murmur poured from Jahra’s lips. It was the most holy prayer a Hebrew could utter. Goose bumps rose on David’s forearm as his mute friend somehow recited the Shemah in sibilant undertones.

“Sh’mh Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai ehad.”

Hear, O Israel: the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.

The words ran together in a continuous cascade of prayer without beginning or end. As their sound enveloped them both, a heavy stillness pressed David to the ground. Something like a hand lifted his head. The bear, fifty paces away, was bounding toward them, its enormous head swinging from side to side. Saliva trailed from the corners of its snout as it approached.

“Shaddai,” Jahra groaned.

David felt a shiver along his back. What Jahra had uttered was the same word that at that moment had burned itself into his own mind. It was one of David’s favorite names for God. It meant “the one who nourishes and the one who destroys.” David loved the paradoxical image of the nourishing breasts of a mother and the destructive power of an earthquake.

With that one weighty word, David’s trance was shattered. He was on his feet, and his first clear sensation was the pressure of the cloth around his hand. Tearing off the bloody rag, he adjusted the cords of his sling. The bear was forty paces away.

David set his feet beneath him and timed the head’s movement, aiming for the spot between the eyes. At thirty paces, he let the stone fly. It catapulted out of the pouch, hitting the animal in the center of the forehead. Immediately the bear stopped, its front legs stiffening, its jaws contorting.

“Die—curse you!” David swore through gritted teeth.

The beast shook its head violently, batting at the air as if warding off David’s words. From its slavering mouth came a thunderous roar, and in its eyes was something he’d never seen in an animal: loathing. Pawing at the ground, and without breaking its stare, the bear launched itself toward him.

3 Psalm 90:1

4 Psalm 90:13

5 Psalm 90:17

Chapter Four

David found himself lying prone as wind whipped about him in a concentrated circle. From inside the tunnel he could make out words. Slowly, insistently, the lilting syllables became clear. They were coming from his mouth:

Adonai ro-i, lo ira ra. Adonai ro-i, lo ira ra. Adonai ro-i …

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall no evil fear. The Lord is my shepherd …

The words gave him strength to lift his face from the dirt.

The bear was less than twenty paces from them, but David was startled to see that the spittle spraying from the bear’s jaws had turned a bright red. Blood was flowing from its nostrils over its curved incisors. Each movement was less coordinated. Low gasps had replaced the rumbling growls. As the bear pushed itself forward, its right leg buckled. Snorting with confusion, it slowed and shook its head wildly. With a wheezing roar, it strode heavily toward them.

When it was within striking distance, the bear stumbled, huffing red clouds from both nostrils. It lifted its head to bellow its triumph, but no sound came. Its jaws gaped open, displaying bloody teeth, then snapped shut. As if overcome by exhaustion, the bear weaved from side to side and suddenly collapsed.

David was staring into the bear’s gory face. Its eyes had rolled back in their sockets. He reached out his arm and placed it around Jahra’s shoulders.

“I thought that was the end of us,” he murmured.

Jahra barely nodded.

They stayed like that for several moments. David was unsure he could stand. He felt as if all his strength had leaked out of him. He could feel his friend’s body trembling. Jahra turned toward him as if to say something. David waited.

“What?” he finally asked, hoping that his friend’s tongue had been permanently loosened. “Can you still…?”

He was interrupted by an odd movement of Jahra’s mouth. There was a quiver at the corner of his lips. It looked as though he was making an attempt to say something. With careful precision, Jahra lifted an eyebrow and gave David a dramatic wink, his upper lip curled oddly, exposing several white teeth. He looked both menacing and deranged at the same time.

A dam burst, and the boys rolled onto their backs, laughing hysterically. Jahra’s laugh sounded like a strangled duck. It made David laugh till tears were rolling down his face. When he had wiped his eyes clear and regained his breath, he finished his question.

“So can you speak now?” He looked over at his friend, who was leaning up on his elbows.

Jahra stuck out his tongue and wiggled it back and forth, shaking his head.

David hid his disappointment with a joke. “Well, I can’t tell you what a relief that is. I couldn’t imagine having to put up with your crazy antics as well as your crazy stories. I’d never get any rest.”

They spent the next few hours gathering the flock. David made Jahra a crutch from a fallen branch so he could limp along next to David. The huddled sheep were a simple matter, but the goats took them several hours. It was not till midafternoon that they were finally heading back to Bethlehem.

“We need to get home as soon as we can so your mother can treat your leg,” David said, noticing that Jahra’s leg was causing him serious discomfort.

Jahra agreed, gritted his teeth, and swung out ahead of him for a few paces until David caught up. “Take it easy, wild man.” David laughed. “We don’t want to get there without the flock.”

In his hurry, Jahra stumbled several times. Once, David had to grab him to keep him from falling into a ravine. The tug sent a current of pain into David’s shoulder and neck. That old injury brought back a bittersweet memory.

When he was eight or nine years old, a scorpion had bitten him on the arm. While rushing to cut out the poison, Lydea had sliced more deeply than she had intended.

“What have I done to you, my beautiful little nazir?” she had moaned in her strongly accented Hebrew. Her fingers had alternately patted and rubbed his hair. He fell asleep in her arms, feeling her bosom tremble as she tried to stifle her sobs.

When he awoke, still in her arms, he had looked up into her tired, reddened eyes and asked, “Lydea, what is a nazir?”

Placing her hand on his head, she smiled and said quietly, “My dear one, in your country, it means one who is a strong leader, a chief.” She bent down to whisper into his ear. “In mine, it is the son of the ruler—the king’s son.”

“What is a king?” he’d murmured, half awake.

“You have heard of Saul, the son of Kish, who lives in Gibeah? Is this not so?”

He had nodded, his eyes fixed on hers.

“Before you were born, Prophet Samuel anointed him king—the chief of your people. And Jonathan, his boy—he is the nazir.” She winked slyly.

He looked into her lined face. “But I’m not—” he had begun.

She’d stopped him with a hand over his mouth. Glancing at the cloth covering the entrance of the stone hut, she shook her head and said, “Oh, but you are, my ahuvee—you are.”

He did not know why, but at these words he had felt the hairs on his forearms prickle.

Jahra’s gasp and soft groan awakened David from his reverie. His friend had almost fallen again. Looking ahead, David realized that Bethlehem was near. His stomach tightened into a knot, one worry chasing all the others away. What will Father say about more dead sheep? And what will he do about missing the auction?

The horizon had turned a pale pink as the sun set over the Great Sea far in the distance. David knew that by the time they arrived, the evening meal would be finished. Though everyone would be inside their homes, sneaking the animals into their pens would be impossible. There was no way to keep nearly the herd of sheep and goats quiet as they approached their pens.

As expected, the clanging and bleating betrayed their presence. The two shepherds were within sight of his father’s house when light from Jesse’s door split the darkness. Jahra squeezed David’s arm reassuringly. When David saw Shimeah, the third-born, silhouetted in the doorway, he sighed with relief. He must have returned to be with his wife, who was about to give birth. Of the gang of six, he was by far the kindest. And there was an occasional sympathy in his eyes.

Holding a small oil lamp, Shimeah approached with quick, compact steps. Barely taller than David, he had begun to develop a paunch since his marriage three years earlier.

“What happened?” he asked, looking over his shoulder. “What took you two so long? Father was expecting you first thing. He is furious about the auction.” David could see several faces peering out of the doorway behind his brother. In the front of them all, David could make out the head of his father.

He steeled himself.

Jesse’s nasally voice cut the darkness. It shook with suppressed anger. “Shimeah, tell me—” Jesse stopped to control his rising indignation. He apparently preferred not to have all his neighbors hear him upbraiding his child. “Why were the flocks not here in time?”

David took note of whom his father was addressing.

“I don’t know, Father,” Shimeah responded. “Let me find out.”

With a flick of his hand, David gestured at Jahra’s leg. “That’s why,” he muttered.

“What?” Shimeah asked, leaning forward.

Jahra hobbled up. Shimeah stuck out his lamp, then drew back slightly at the sight of the bloody cloths. Jahra glanced at David and began to mime the bear’s raking claws and fierce expression.

“Looks like they ran into an animal,” Shimeah shouted at Jesse.

“A bear,” David said.

“And it looks pretty serious,” Shimeah continued.

There was silence as they waited for a response. Jesse seemed to shrink a little in the doorway.

“How are the flocks?” he finally asked.

David smiled grimly. “Good to know he has his priorities in hand,” he murmured, hoping his voice would carry. “Let him know that the bear that almost killed Jahra only managed to take down two of his precious sheep. If you think he cares, you might mention that I risked my life to kill it.”

Shimeah decided to summarize the bad news. “Only two.”

“Did you say two?” David knew there was nothing wrong with his father’s hearing. “So, next time out, will he lose three?”

David was about to spit out his defense when Jahra dropped his hand to his thigh and bent over, moaning.

Jesse’s voice pierced the darkness. “Have David put the flock in their pens, and you take the servant boy to his mother.”

“How are you?” Shimeah whispered, looking at David with a touch of pity and embarrassment.

David shrugged, then turned and headed to the pens, the flock trotting behind him. After making sure the animals were secure, David stalked toward the low, flat hill that ran along the back length of the enclosure. He pulled away a small piece of fence and ducked his head to make it through the low opening that led into a cave where he took the ewes during birthing season. The hideaway was filled with clean straw, and a crevice in the ceiling gave a view of the stars.

This was where he stayed when he wanted to get away from everyone. Kicking a mound of straw into the middle of the cave, he threw himself down and stared up at the stars. One, larger than the others, winked at him. He shoved aside a wooden manger that was crowding his feet. Then, jerking himself onto his side, he threw a cloak over his head and shoulders and closed his eyes. He had, early on, learned the solace of plunging swiftly into the oblivion of sleep.

Chapter Five

Saul’s eyes flew open.

He cursed whoever had awakened him. He had no idea what had disturbed his slumber. Who in his household would dare? After he’d had a clumsy guard flogged for the offense, the word was out: if the king was asleep, you roused him at peril to your life.

Only right, Saul mused, his head slowly coming out of the fog. A king has his burdens and his prerogatives. No commoner could understand the crushing weight a crown imposed; none could appreciate that a king deserved every pleasure that power could offer.

Throwing himself on his back, Saul stared at the ornate canopy over his large bed. He had designed it himself and had recently added an extra mat filled with feathers in hopes of better rest. It had not helped. During these fitful nights, as his mind wandered restlessly, he would always wind up at the beginning. It had been an impossible journey—from farm boy to leader of a young nation. He had gained so much, but at what price?

Once, he had been able to lie down and sleep anywhere, anytime. But those blessed days were long gone. Now the anxiety and fear caused by his increasing vulnerability had robbed him of that. The pain in his head was at times intolerable. He would sometimes get up from his bed, wondering if one of his rivals had driven a spike through his temples.

He had never harbored any grandiose ambitions. He was a simple country boy with simple dreams. Sure, he had been notorious in Benjamin for his unusual height, but this was no blessing. Being the tallest boy in the region had precipitated endless confrontations with other youths anxious to prove themselves stronger. In his early years, his height had robbed him of muscle and coordination. The others would shove him or trip him then run away mocking: “Dak timora, dak timora.” Shriveled palm tree. How he had hated that phrase.

Even now, half a century later, the mention of a palm could make him cringe.

He rolled back onto his side and looked over at where his wife, Ahinoam, slept. When his nightmares had become intolerable, the physicians had prepared a drink so potent that not even the roar of a lion could awaken her. As usual, her back was to him. Have I lost her as well? he wondered.

All he had ever wanted was to take over his father’s spacious olive groves, to marry the young girl whose smile had captivated him, and to raise a big family. Prior to his encounter with that wily prophet, Samuel, his greatest pleasure had been coaxing the plumpest olives from the gnarled gray branches. Afterward it had all changed.

“This is what the Lord has said, and this is what you are going to do.” There had been no discussion. He was not asked his opinion. Instead he’d been manipulated into becoming someone he’d never wanted to be, doing things he’d never imagined, changing in ways he’d never dreamed of.

He had married Ahinoam. That at least had not been taken from him. And she had given him a family, neither large nor small—four sons and two daughters. But the weight and the worry of kingship had stolen from him even the pleasure of these offspring.

Would you do it again? he asked himself.

He was unsure. Power had its advantages. And although its price was steep, he couldn’t imagine walking away. There was something delicious about the fawning of courtiers and commoners alike, who approached him now in fear rather than insolence. Using brute force on those who had once made his life miserable was a royal pleasure not easily surrendered.

And to think it all started with those cursed donkeys.

It had been the spring of his twentieth year. He was anticipating his wedding in six weeks. He should have been preparing their house, but instead he’d wasted nearly four days hunting three asses. Despite his best efforts, he’d been unable to find any clue to their location. He had never been good at finding lost animals; he was a farmer, not a herder.

His father had a modest herd of animals, but the family’s real wealth was in olives. Thanks to Great-grandfather Zeror’s talent for farming and producing shekels out of thin air, the family had been set on a solid financial footing. Their ancestor’s wisdom had become a family motto: “Treat the olives like your mistress, and they will treat you like a lover.” Zeror’s son Abiel and his grandson, Saul’s father, Kish, had inherited a sufficient amount of sagacity to keep expanding the farm. While not the largest in the tribe of Benjamin, they were among the top five.

Though Saul had an aversion to the dim-witted sheep and the willful goats, he felt a particular loathing for the donkeys, which combined the worst qualities of both. They were stubborn, ornery, and adamant in their stupidity. But despite Saul’s protests, his father had given him oversight of the headstrong animals.

“These brutes are no mistresses,” Saul had grumbled. “They’re more like vicious wives. God preserve me from the like.” His father choked with laughter. Saul had always been able to make his father laugh.

The six beasts, though fiercely independent, had apparently agreed among themselves to make Saul’s life miserable. His shin still carried an indentation from a hoof that had nearly broken the bone. He’d returned the favor by grabbing a thick branch and smacking the animal between the eyes.

Saul had cursed the obstinate animals as he and his servant headed northeast from Gibeah, wandering across the border into the hill country of Ephraim, through Shalisha and Shaalim. Eventually they circled back to the district of Zuph, having exhausted their provisions and lost any hope of locating the beasts.

“We should go back,” he’d told Tishri. “Father will now be more worried about me than about those demon-infested animals. If we walk quickly, we can be home by evening.”

The servant had shaken his head. “Ramah is less than an hour from here. That is where that seer—Samuel—resides. Let us go and consult with him. Surely he can tell us where those she-asses have hidden themselves.”

“But we have nothing to pay him with,” he’d protested.

Tishri had drawn a coin from his pouch. “I have a quarter of a shekel of silver. That will be sufficient.”

Saul had agreed. He’d never been confident in issuing commands. At the well near the town gate, two young girls told them that the seer was on his way to the high place to bless a sacrifice for some special feast. Hurrying to find him before the festivities began, Saul and Tishri almost tripped over the grizzled prophet, who was standing alone in the path, resting his weight on a staff. He looked as though he had been waiting for them.

His formidable mane, tied back with a leather thong, hung down to his waist. Judging by the length of his hair, Saul concluded that he must have been a Nazirite since childhood. The stern-faced man looked like a poorly fed lion. Old and lean, but not to be taken lightly.

Saul had seen only two Nazirites before. They were strange, extreme characters, swearing off wine and vinegar and anything made of grapes—including raisins—and refusing to cut their hair. Saul had given them a wide berth. Religious fanaticism had always made him uncomfortable.

Samuel was staring intently at him as Saul and Tishri approached. Saul became increasingly self-conscious the closer they came. He was not good with strangers anyway, and this one was making him feel like a fool. The seer’s watery eyes narrowed as he took in Saul’s height. Saul’s mouth went dry. He knew he would start stammering like a small child if he tried to say anything, so he kept quiet, feeling his cheeks grow red.

Samuel made a wet coughing sound, wiped his mouth, then spoke in a gravelly voice. “Follow me. You will eat with me at the bamah.” He jabbed his staff impatiently toward the top of the hill.

Saul wondered how he should go about asking the seer’s help. As if reading his thoughts, Samuel growled without looking back, “Don’t fret about the asses you’ve been hunting these past three days. They have been found.” Still forging ahead stiffly, the seer then made an odd remark: “You will stay with me, and in the morning I will tell you all that is in your heart.”

Saul was afraid to ask the irritable old man for an explanation. Again Samuel stopped suddenly, and Saul almost stumbled into him. Samuel turned stiffly. His eyebrows were bunched, and his lips were twisted in distaste. His words sent a chill through Saul.

“After all, who is the treasure of all Israel if it is not you and all your father’s house?”

Saul clenched his teeth in dismay. No. No. Not another one! he moaned to himself.

It seemed he had lived his whole life torn between those intent on proving his inferiority and those anxious to weigh him down with their expectations. His height and physique, combined with the curse of an exceptionally handsome face, caused people to look to him for something he did not possess. Every time they got that expression or took that tone, his insides would tighten.

It was innocent enough: “What do you think, Saul? What should we do?” they would ask. But it was those trusting, dependent eyes—the eyes of brainless, needy sheep—that made him want to shake them and scream, “Why are you asking me? I have no idea!”

He never did, but his response was always the same: his face would burn and he would look away, mumbling, “I don’t know.” It made him feel inept and angry. What makes them think I’m their judge? he’d wonder miserably. Though no one had yet said it, he knew they had convinced themselves that God had selected him to join the ranks of Israel’s deliverers.

But he would have none of it. Why can’t they leave me alone? Can’t they see I’m just a farmer?

Wanting to put a halt to any grandiose schemes the old man might be hatching, Saul strode next to Samuel, who was again making his way up the hill, and spluttered, “I’m only a Benjamite. We’re the smallest tribe in Israel, and my family is from the least impressive clan of all.”

There was no indication that the seer had heard a word.

Saul plunged on. “Since there is nothing at all to distinguish us, why have you spoken to me like that?”

Samuel’s expression and his gait told the same story: he was a man intent on ridding himself of an obnoxious duty as quickly as possible.

But during the feast, the seer’s attitude underwent a dramatic change. He became almost charming. But Saul’s embarrassment grew even more acute when the elders set the thigh of the sheep before him. It was the choicest piece, reserved for the guest of honor.

“Enjoy,” Samuel had murmured with an expression either kindly or mocking. Samuel then bent over to whisper, “It has been kept for you for this appointed time.” Saul sensed the villagers’ questioning eyes on him, lifted the piece of mutton with what he hoped was an appreciative gesture, and took a bite. The delicacy was wasted on him. His mouth seemed filled with vinegar.

After the meal, the prophet and his servant led them to an unexpectedly spacious house. “Show them where they will sleep,” Samuel told his servant as he opened the front door. These were the first words he had spoken since offering him the meat hours earlier. Samuel’s servant ushered Saul and Tishri to the roof of the dwelling, where mats, a jug of water, and a clay washing bowl had already been prepared.

It was barely dawn when he was awakened by Tishri’s hand shaking his shoulder.

“The seer is calling for us.”

Saul could just make out Samuel’s rough whisper at the foot of the outer stairs. “Arise quickly, and I shall send you off.”

Saul threw some water on his face, wrapped himself in his cloak, and went to meet Samuel. The seer jerked his staff, indicating that they should follow him. When they were a few paces outside the town gate, Samuel told Saul to let Tishri go on ahead. “As for you,” he said, “stand now that you may hear the word of God.”

Saul steeled himself for some weighty pronouncement. Instead the prophet reached into his pouch and pulled out a delicate cruse. On the thin-necked vessel was etched the ornate, holy letter shin. Saul was too stunned to speak. When Samuel pulled off the topper, Saul’s nostrils were filled with the sweetest scent he had ever smelled. There was a delicious overlay of myrrh and calamus and what he guessed might be cinnamon. The smell was so pungent, it made his head reel. It was the scent on the robes of the head priest who presided over the tabernacle at Bethel. Only those who were from the tribe of Aaron were allowed to be priests.

Has this crazy prophet gotten me confused with a member of the priestly house? Why did I listen to that fool Tishri?

But, rather than objecting, he found himself dutifully bowing his head. Samuel reached up and, with a hand pressing down on Saul’s shoulder, said, “Kneel, chosen of God.”

The hair on Saul’s neck stood up. The unexpected gentleness only increased his consternation. Chosen? That was the precise description he had been evading since childhood. Samuel’s voice changed in tenor; there was a deep timbre that gave his words a solemn weight. All traces of a rasp had disappeared.

“The Lord has anointed you over His inheritance as a prince,” Samuel intoned as if reading from a holy script. The words, together with the pungent oil, rolled onto Saul’s head and down over his shoulders in thick, heavy drops.

A seed of hope sprang to life. Saul sighed with relief. There had been rumors that the elders of the twelve tribes had made a public demand for a king, but the term Samuel had used was nagid—ruler or captain—not melekh—king. Maybe the old man was only indicating that Saul had been chosen for a military position in the new government.

Sweat broke out on Saul’s forehead as he drew a deep breath. As long as he meant only a captain in the army—anything but king.

Samuel then uttered an extended prophecy. Upon Saul’s arrival home, he would find the donkeys returned to his father, but on the way, he would meet three men who would offer him two loaves of bread. Most dramatically, though, he would encounter a band of prophets, the Spirit of God would seize him, and he would experience some kind of spiritual transformation.

Samuel’s voice grew soft, as if all the speaking had exhausted him. Saul had to strain to hear what the prophet would say next. He was scared and confused, hoping for some clear instructions. But that guidance did not come.

“When this occurs, do whatever your hand finds to do, for God is with you.”

Samuel stopped, took a trembling breath, then continued. “After time has passed, go down before me to Gilgal, and look, I shall be coming down to offer burnt offerings and to sacrifice communion offerings. Wait there seven days until I come to you, and I shall tell you what you must do.”

That was it—a bit of direction mixed with a potful of uncertainty.

As Saul had suspected, the prophecies had proved accurate, including, to his chagrin, the embarrassing frenzy. It had overtaken him when he heard the instruments played by the prophets coming down from the high place at Gibeath-Elohim.

He had never experienced anything similar. Something about the beat of the drum and the cymbals quickened his pulse. As the band drew nearer, he heard the infectious sounds of harp, flute, and lyre. The cadences of the singers sent a tingling from the top of his head to his fingers and toes. Something strange and terrifying and huge was boiling up inside him. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. He gasped, the pressure rising up in his chest. His right hand started to tremble, followed by his entire body.

What happened next was unclear. Unintelligible sounds burst from his mouth. He had never been much of a singer, but the sounds felt sweet and lovely and light, like a lover’s song. As the words rose, riding upon a musical, rhythmic chant, he spun and jumped with an abandon he would have thought ridiculous only moments earlier. He’d always been too embarrassed of his height to take pleasure in those exuberant displays reserved for wedding celebrations. Now, however, as he danced among the prophets, his self-consciousness was gone.

He spun with arms extended, facing the sky. It was exhilarating. Though he’d always managed to keep his emotions in check, tears were coursing down his cheeks. At some point, he realized he could no longer feel the ground. Lost in a whirlwind of pleasure and joy, he was spiraling like a dust cloud that has lifted into the air. It might have lasted for hours. It could have lasted a lifetime. But in the end, five simple words dragged him down.

What must I look like?

It stopped as suddenly as it began. He found himself surrounded by eight prophets holding musical instruments. His arms were uplifted, his eyes felt swollen, his throat was raw, as if he’d been crying out at the top of his lungs. His thighs and ankles ached. He felt utterly clean and light as breath. When he looked beyond the circle of musicians, he became aware of the crowd of people who had gathered around the worshippers. They look stunned, as if they’d witnessed some kind of miracle. The heat began creeping up his neck. Scrambling to pick up his cloak, he threw it around his shoulders and shuffled as quickly as he could out of the ring.

Upon his return home, he’d found the donkeys eating lazily in their pen. His father had gone to market without him, so it was his uncle who insisted on hearing all that had transpired. When Saul mentioned the encounter with Samuel, his uncle pressed for details. Saul related the prophet’s predictions but was too timid to say anything about the anointing.

Less than a week later, Samuel had called for a tribal gathering at Mizpah. It seemed ludicrous to Saul now as he looked back on it, but he’d felt so overwhelmed that he tried to hide among the baggage. But he was found out and dragged into the open.

The people were doubly enthused, mistaking his timidity for humility, and began shouting, “Long live the king!” With that phrase all hope for a subordinate role vanished. He had been forced to live a lie, pretending to a competence and a confidence he did not possess.

But that had been a long time ago. Responsibility had been terrifying, but he’d discovered the delights of privilege and the intoxication of power. His fear was no longer exposure but usurpation. That was what robbed him of sleep.

He jerked his head around. The moon was full and as large as the silver platter the northern tribes had given as a coronation gift. Somehow—he could not remember how—he had risen from his bed, walked past the guards, and wandered through the gates that encircled Gibeah. Saul blinked and rubbed his eyes. These episodes were becoming more common. At first he’d begun forgetting important details, including names and events; now he was taking walks at night with no memory of leaving the palace stronghold.

His body was damp with sweat. His chest felt as if he’d been taking in great gulps of air. The branches of the trees were outlined in a menacing silver-blue light. They seemed to be reaching out for him. The road was empty, but he had a terrible certainty that he was being followed. He felt for his sword, then his dagger, but he’d left both next to his bed. He looked at his hands. His skin was the color of a corpse long dead.

He picked up his pace.

The sound of sandals slapping the dirt behind him confirmed his fears. His assailants were keeping pace with him. He was running now. A noose tightened around his neck. The only sound that came was a childish whimper. Rage flooded him. He would not die with the sound of an infant or a terrified woman on his lips as murderous conspirators tried to steal his throne.

He had seen them whispering and skulking about with their hungry eyes fixed on his crown. Once the band had terrified him, but now, with its emeralds and rubies and golden filigree, it drew him with the languorous glances of an Egyptian prostitute. The feel of it was almost erotic. He had come to recognize that constant, ruthless vigilance was the price for preserving the crown for himself and for his firstborn son, Jonathan.

A trickle of sweat ran down his spine. The footsteps were gaining on him. Light glinted off unsheathed swords. Maybe it wasn’t swords. It could be eyes: wolves chasing him down for the kill. His chest was heaving. It had been too long since he’d needed to exert himself. Royal food and indolence had joined the conspiracy, rendering him defenseless.

I … am … the … king! his mind screamed through ragged breaths. I will fight and die like one! He halted in the middle of the road.

The sounds of laughter stung him, engulfing him like a flock of crows. He spun, trying to locate his attackers. He was lying on his back, moaning. Tears running down his cheeks drenched his beard. A grotesque human face was peering hungrily at him, its lower jaw disjointed and protruding. The muscles in the lower part of its face were contracting. Like living clay, its mouth was shifting and sliding, assuming a reptilian shape. Its eyes were now red and hooded, and from the impossibly distended jaw a red tongue darted and wrapped around his crown. He thrust his arms over his head so it could not tear away the golden circlet.

The reptile had incredible strength. It was prying his fingers loose with inexorable force. He thrashed against it, wanting to scream, but his mouth felt glued shut. Saul was mesmerized by the amber eyes boring into his, eyes filled with loathing and a poisonous cunning. Though the man’s face was twisted and swollen, Saul recognized it immediately.

It was Jonathan! He had orchestrated this ambush. Saul wanted to vomit, but he began to tremble violently instead. He stared around uncomprehendingly. He was in a room. A broidered cloth spanned the posts above his head. It was familiar. The pillow beneath his head was wet, and a water jug was overturned on the bedcovers. His wife was huddled on the floor, crying, welts on the side of her face. His own hands were around someone’s throat.

Finally completely conscious, he dropped his hands from Jonathan’s neck. Then, with a shuddering breath, he screamed, “Leave my room, all of you! Curse you! Leave me alone! I will not let you have it!”

Chapter Six

Samuel had not slept at all. He was inside his house, trudging stiffly from one side to the other. The floor was hard-packed earth. Thanks to Ginath’s dedication, it was clean and as smooth as polished wood. He took in a painful breath and rested his hand on the rounded stones that made up the walls of his compact home.

He was listening.

The dialogues had begun when he was a homesick little boy serving Eli the high priest in the tabernacle at Shiloh. It was before the Philistine attack that had forced the move to Bethel.

His favorite chore was to walk the perimeter of the rectangular inner court and locate any tears in the linen curtains that hung between the twenty posts on the north and south sides and the ten posts on the east and west sides. He counted his steps each morning: seventy-five paces for each of the long ends and thirty-seven for the short ends. Two hundred and twenty-four paces. When he did find any tears, he was to report them to the embroidery women.

When Eli had begun to lose his sight, Samuel had been given the task of helping the high priest count the money. He had not been told why he had not asked his own sons.

He could remember it as if it had happened last night. It was on his eighth birthday. He and Eli were asleep on their mats in the tent outside the front entrance to the tabernacle court that served as their eating and sleeping quarters. A veil intersected the tent into two separate chambers.

“Samuel,” a Voice had whispered. He’d gotten up immediately to see what Eli wanted. The priest was not one to be kept waiting, and there was a note of urgency that made Samuel’s heart race.

“Here I am, for you called me,” Samuel said.

“I did not call,” the old man replied groggily. “Go back and lie down.”

Once more the Voice had called. Again Samuel had run to Eli’s side. “Go back to bed, my son; you must be dreaming,” Eli said—but this time with less conviction.

The third time, Samuel had tentatively pushed aside the veil and shuffled back to Eli, worried that the priest would lose his temper. When he approached, Eli was wide awake. Propped up on one arm, the old man, who was now almost completely blind, gestured for his servant boy to come closer.

“Samuel, go back and lie down,” he whispered, “and should someone call to you, say this: ‘Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening.’” Eli’s face held a wistful expression. He clutched Samuel’s arm so tightly, it hurt.

This time his name was repeated twice, and he responded as Eli had instructed him. But what the Voice told him so shook him he covered his head with his cloak to muffle his sobs. The next morning, Eli forced him to disclose what he’d been told: Eli and his house would be wiped out. God was going to judge the high priest for refusing to restrain the wicked behavior of his two sons. Samuel had no idea what this meant.

Apparently Eli understood, for his shoulders had slumped and he’d lifted his face to the sky, murmuring weakly, “He is the Lord. What is good in His eyes, let Him do.”

That was almost seven decades ago. Ever since, Samuel had slept lightly, on alert for another summons in the night. Over the long years, the prophet had tried to come to terms with fitful sleep and regular interruptions, accepting it as an occupational hazard. As he crossed into his eighth decade, and as sleep became more fitful, he had become more cantankerous. Losing Siphora, his companion for over fifty years, had not helped.

It was something only his servant understood. Ginath had been a mercy. From the moment he’d joined the household, Ginath had watched over the bereaved old prophet with uncommon solicitude. He moved with alacrity and ignored Samuel’s temper. Also, since he was Ginath was in his middle years, he was a welcome sounding board. Samuel considered him a gift from the Lord to compensate for his wife’s death and for his two lazy, selfish sons, around whom rumors of dishonesty swarmed like gnats.

His boys, Joel and Abijah, had been such disappointments. He had dreamed of passing his prophetic mantle on to them, as well as his role as judge. But their habit of taking bribes from worshippers had disqualified them.

At least his boys were nothing like Eli’s. Hophni and Phineas had been perverse as well as incorrigible. They not only stole the choice meat from the sacrificial pots but also enjoyed illicit relations with the embroidery women.

Samuel grimaced as he straightened his stiff back and turned to pace across to the other side of his house. While there was no question that taking a bribe here or there was an offense, he was hopeful that Joel and Abijah would not be punished as severely as Eli’s boys.

“Lord, have mercy,” he prayed for the thousandth time as he made his turn one pace away from the far wall with its open window. “Do not treat my sons as their sins deserve. Do not cut them or their families off from before You. Remember my service and my devotion to Your name. El Shaddai, leave me a place among Your chosen people for generations to come.”

Ginath raised himself from his pallet and looked toward the horizon. It was too dark to make anything out. In warm weather he slept on the roof under the stars. His head rested against the low wall that ran along its border so he could hear Samuel’s voice through the window beneath it. Ginath was a light sleeper, and when the prophet prayed, his quavering voice would rise with emotion. Samuel was awake, and Ginath had to care for the needs of his master.

The old prophet did not indicate that he’d noticed Ginath’s entrance. Ginath took the lamp to the fireplace at the opposite wall, where another window also stood open, and lit it from one of the embers. He set it on the table near the center of the room and hurried toward Samuel. The Ethiopian had a sense about these things. He knew where all this pondering about disobedient children would lead. This morning, it came sooner than expected. Samuel halted his pacing and pressed his palm over his mouth to stifle a sob. Ginath caught the prophet as his knees buckled and he began toppling to the stone floor.

“Why, O Lord? Why?” Samuel moaned.

Ginath sat him down in the chair next to the fireplace. Samuel put his elbows on his knees and rested his head on both hands, staring at the glowing coals.

“Lord of heaven and earth,” Samuel cried out suddenly, “why should I have lived to see this day? I warned Your people, and they did not listen. They would have a king, You gave them one, and so I anointed him to lead the nation.” He wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his tunic.

Ginath placed several dry sticks on the embers and stirred them into flame.

“They would not have You lead them; they wanted to be like the Gentile nations, so they rejected You and refused to have me serve as their judge. You raised up Saul from the tribe of Benjamin, one who was once small in his own eyes. But now—” Samuel’s voice choked.

Ginath brought a cup of water from the jug in the corner. Samuel emptied it and handed it back.

The Ethiopian set the cup near Samuel’s feet, pulled over a rug, and sat down. “Master?” he said, gently trying to get Samuel’s attention. The old man remained still.

“Master?” he repeated. The prophet’s head turned, and his bushy eyebrows lifted slightly as he focused on Ginath. “Please tell me: What did King Saul do?”

Samuel looked down at his hands clasped tightly in his lap, then lifted them to look out the open window in front of him. His eyes were red and vacant. His weeping had nearly exhausted him. Though worn out with sorrow, his voice was brusque.

“More to the point,” he growled, “is what the Lord said.” He gathered his strength, then continued. “Before their last battle, I said to Saul, ‘Thus says the Lord God of Israel, “I have not forgotten what the Amalekites did in slaughtering My people when I brought them out of Egypt into the land of promise. Now, go and strike down Amalek, and put under the ban everything that he has.”’”

He reached down for the water, but Ginath anticipated him. Samuel took two large swallows, then said, “Let me explain. When our nation was delivered from the hand of Pharaoh, we passed through the land of Amalek. Their raiders ambushed our stragglers—the women with small children struggling to keep up—and killed them all. It was to avenge their deaths that the Lord imposed the ban. Oxen, sheep, camels, and donkeys were to be destroyed, as well as every Amalekite—without exception.”

Samuel looked steadily into the eyes of the Ethiopian, as if defying him to object. “I told Saul that the Lord had commanded the death of every living thing, including the king.” He handed Ginath the cup. “After the battle, the Lord told me that Saul had turned back from Him by refusing to obey His words. And such was the Lord’s grief that He regretted having appointed Saul king. When I arrived to confront Saul, he told me he had fulfilled the word of the Lord!” Samuel shoved loose strands of hair out of his eyes with an impatient hand as if trying to push away a distasteful memory.

“That made me furious! The noise of thousands of animals was almost drowning out his words, yet here he was boasting about his obedience.” Samuel lifted his staff and shook it. “I wanted to club him with this; instead I demanded that he explain their presence. He said that the soldiers had killed most of the animals but had spared some as a sacrifice to God.”

With Ginath’s help Samuel pushed himself up from his chair and resumed pacing. “I asked him why he had not listened to the voice of the Lord. But instead of confessing his sin, he assured me that he had obeyed, since every Amalekite had been placed under the ban. Then, as if mentioning a trifle, he added, ‘All except Agag the king.’”

At this, Samuel hit the wall with his staff.

“This time, I could not help myself; I lifted my stick to him, but one of his guards restrained me.” Samuel grew quiet at the memory. A look crossed his face that Ginath had never seen. It was an expression of confusion, disbelief, amazement.

“I will never forget it,” Samuel continued, his voice growing small. “There was such hurt in Saul’s eyes, as if he were more shocked than I. And then he asked me something that staggered me. ‘What more does your God want?’ Saul asked. ‘Is Lord Sabaoth not a God of war? Does He not command sacrifice? Does He not derive pleasure from the death of His enemies?’” Still holding his staff, the prophet shook his head in disbelief. “I will tell you, Ginath, at that moment I felt sympathy for him. He was like a confused child. Before I could respond, the king was shouting: ‘I obeyed what He commanded and kept only the best sheep to sacrifice to your God at Gilgal. I thought He—and you—would be pleased with that!’”

Wrapping the gnarled fingers of his free hand around Ginath’s wrist, Samuel looked at him with tears in his eyes. “Gilgal is where Saul disobeyed many years ago by making a sacrifice without waiting for me as I had commanded. I suspect he was intending to make up for that act. That saddened me, but it was his next question that broke my heart: ‘Why is not your God pleased with me?’”

Samuel bowed his head but did not let go of Ginath’s arm or the staff. “It was then that the Spirit of the Lord came upon me, and I declared: ‘Is the pleasure of Yahweh in holocausts and sacrifices or in obedience to His voice? Be assured of this, obedience is better than sacrifice, submissiveness better than the fat of rams.’”

The staff slipped out of Samuel’s hand and clattered to the floor. “I grabbed his arm like I am grabbing yours, and I said, ‘Do you not know that defiance is as great a sin as idolatry?’”

Ginath tried once more to lead Samuel back to the chair in front of the fire, but the prophet would not move. “Saul made a weak apology, trying to justify his disobedience, but I would have none of it. The Lord had made His choice.” Samuel’s voice broke, and as tears slid down his cheeks, he said, “I had to deliver the message. I told him that since he had cast off the word of the Lord, the Lord had cast him aside as king.”

The old prophet’s head drooped, and his hand slid off Ginath’s arm. From underneath the great mane of hair came Samuel’s voice. It was weak and thin.

“When I turned to leave, Saul reached for my cloak, and it tore.” He waved his fingers at the folded material on the table. “I knew it was a sign.” This last word was barely decipherable.

“‘This day, the Lord has torn the kingship of Israel away from you,’ I said. ‘He has given it to a fellow Israelite, who is better than you. And what the Lord has said … He will do.’”

Samuel gestured for the cup. He turned it over slowly, spilling the contents onto the hearth. “And now,” he intoned with a weary sadness, “I shall never see Saul again.” He threw the empty vessel and broke it against the blackened stone.

Placing an arm around the prophet, Ginath waited for the old man to compose himself. When Samuel was ready, the Ethiopian led him to the sleeping pallet in the separate room, adjusting the goatskin filled with wool he used for a pillow. Before closing his eyes, Samuel whispered, “I know what you are wondering. And the answer is, I don’t know. The Lord only told me he will be from the tribe of Judah.”

Well past the middle of the night, something interrupted Samuel’s unusually heavy sleep. It was more physical sensation than sound, an inner resonance. Its tones were calm but commanding. It was quite familiar.

But the message was unexpected.

“How long are you going to grieve over Saul, when I have cast him aside as king over Israel? Cease your tears, for I have chosen an Israelite to replace him. You are to fill your horn with oil, and I will show you the man of My choice.”

Pulling himself up with his staff, Samuel stood and looked out at the quiet town through the open window. He spoke out into the still night. “O Lord, now that You have removed Your hand from Saul, why are You appointing another king in his place?”

He waited, and the Voice responded. “I have found a man after my own heart. I will send you to Bethlehem to a man named Jesse the Ephrathite. I have seen among his sons a king. Him I have chosen.”

Samuel was suddenly afraid. He had heard the rumors about Saul’s instability, and now the Lord was commanding him to commit treason. Samuel’s hands were shaking as he closed the shutters.

“Is my service for You at an end? How can I go? Certainly one of Saul’s men will tell him, and he will doubtlessly kill me.”

The Voice was untroubled. “Take a heifer to Bethlehem and tell the elders that you have come to sacrifice. Invite Jesse, and I will indicate to you the one I have chosen.”

Not greatly reassured, the old prophet grumbled out his defeat. “When do I go, Lord?”

“I will tell you when. Now lie down; you are in need of rest.”

As he drifted back to sleep, a question chilled him: What will Saul do when he finds out I’ve anointed his rival?

Chapter Seven

His two boys were running after him. Joel, the oldest, was in the lead, followed by Abijah. Their bare feet raised little dust clouds as they tried to catch him. He turned, waved his staff at them, and smiled. Joel was angry, but the expression on his youngest stung Samuel. In those large brimming eyes, he could read desperation and disappointment.

He waved again, gesturing for them to go back to their mother. He turned and kept walking, his steps light and quick. He was Israel’s judge, heading out on his yearly circuit to visit her major cultic centers. In each, he would mediate disputes, resolve controversies, and reconcile antagonists, while also officiating at sacrifices and ritual feasts. There were also the occasional weddings to bless.

The first leg was the most arduous: a full day’s journey east to Gilgal. After a week, he would head northwest to the tabernacle in Bethel, where he would stay about a month. This was before Saul had it transferred for his own convenience. Samuel’s visit to Bethel always coincided with the Passover, the largest gathering of the year. That festival gave him the opportunity to remind the thousands of worshippers of God’s miraculous deliverance from Egypt. He would then go to Mizpah, a half-day’s walk to the south, and one or two weeks later he would be back at Ramah. In all, he would be gone from his family six to ten weeks.

Leaving his boys and their mother was never pleasant, but it was essential. As God’s prophet, he alone could keep Israel from falling into apostasy. He doted on his boys, but he also loved his role as prophet-judge, and though arbitrating business and family problems could be a headache, there was great satisfaction in the work. This was why he began these tours with an anticipation that overshadowed the twinges of guilt.

The smell of baking bread and herb tea woke him. On another morning, they would have made his mouth water, but not when they intruded upon this particular dream. The regret was so strong, it made his insides burn.

“Are you not feeling well?” Ginath asked, looking into the bedchamber from the open door. Samuel was looking at the light pouring through the open window above him. “I let you sleep late. I thought rest would be so good for you.”

Samuel raised his hand, gesturing Ginath away. He sat up, his head bent, letting the flood of emotion subside. The impact of those images was still strong upon him. What he would not do to go back to those days when his boys wanted nothing more than to be by his side, their little faces lifted expectantly, believing anything he would tell them.

Had I stayed home, would my boys have strayed from the Lord? Were they punishing me?

He blamed his aching joints, but what he would never admit was that his ill humor was brought on more by the pain of regret than by physical discomfort.

“Help me up,” he snapped.

Sitting by the newly made fire, he flicked his hand toward the cup of steaming tea. “Did you put honey in it?”

“Yes, Master. It is just as you like it.”

“Well, then, bring it here before it cools down. If it sits too long, it becomes as palatable as warm urine.” He had decided that regardless of the condition of his stomach, the herb drink might do him some good. It might even jog his memory. There was something he needed to remember, but the only thing on his mind was Abijah’s accusatory face.

Ginath was right; the temperature was perfect. Not hot enough to burn his tongue, but too hot to swallow in large, careless gulps. It forced him to concentrate, turning a simple act into a ritual that calmed and ordered his thoughts. At times, blowing on the steaming liquid could feel like an act of prayer. This morning, as his breath made the steam sway, it brought to mind images from the creation story.

He followed the dancing tendrils of steam. Breath had spiritual power, he knew. There was also spiritual power in dance. Of this, he had been intimately aware in his youth, when he joined the exuberant young men celebrating with abandon—the ecstatic movements could take you into the heavens themselves.

“Here you are,” Ginath said, handing him a slice of bread.

Samuel accepted it without a word. The knot was beginning to untangle. He could not say why, but he knew he needed sustenance. He took another sip. The dancing steam brought to mind the Ruah—the breath or Spirit of Yahweh, who danced over the waters at creation. And this was the key that released the memory.

The Ruah not only created but also anointed men for service. He had rested upon Aaron as priest as well as Bezalel of the tribe of Judah, who had been gifted to make the tabernacle a thing of astounding beauty. Samuel’s experience with Saul had taught him that the Ruah also anointed kings, and this was symbolized by the perfumed oil that represented the Spirit of God. It was this image that reminded Samuel of what the Voice had told him.

His chest grew suddenly tight as it all came back to him. He had been ordered to anoint a member of the tribe of Judah. This man would not be constructing a building but taking over Saul’s kingdom. Samuel’s assignment was to commit treason.

“We are going to be leaving on a trip,” he said gruffly. “I will need all my strength.” He looked at the basket in the corner. “We don’t have any eggs, do we? I could do with two.”

“I will get some,” Ginath responded. “And they will be fried so they are crispy around the edges but soft in the middle.” He added this quickly, before Samuel could remind him of what he already knew.

“Make sure you make some for yourself. I don’t want you fainting along the way. We have a journey ahead of us.”

They left the house about an hour later. Samuel and Ginath rode together on their donkey. The Ethiopian sat in front, holding the reins. It was a warm day, and there was barely a hint of breeze. It promised to be a hot, dry day, not ideal for a long journey on the back of a donkey.

They traveled carefully on the rugged road that meandered through the golden hills covered with dry grass. It had not rained for months, and all the vegetation had turned brown. The better vantage points on their route revealed occasional vistas of higher hills overgrown with fruit trees, olives, and small gray vineyards encircled by quiet fields.

The donkey was old and slow. He took after his master, Ginath thought, but he was extremely sure-footed. He had not stumbled once on the rocks that littered the narrow road winding its way through the bleak hills. Ginath and Samuel waved at groups of travelers on foot and were pushed aside by a caravan of six camels. Fortunately there was enough room to move to the side without falling into the steep ravine.

As much to break the silence as to assist the prophet, after an hour Ginath spoke up. “It is terribly warm today. Would you like some water?”

The prophet grunted his assent and, after taking several swallows, handed the bag to his servant.

“Are we to go to Hebron, then?”

Samuel did not respond.

Ginath sighed, assuming the old prophet was dozing. He jerked the reins. It made no difference to the animal, but it gave him something to do. He hoped it might startle Samuel and provoke some conversation. Hebron was a safe guess since that was always their destination whenever they headed south. The trip took a full day, but as far as Ginath was concerned, it was worth the effort. It was the town where Abraham had built the first altar to Yahweh and was notorious for its abundance of lush fruit trees—Samuel had told him the story about the huge grapes as big as melons that had so amazed Joshua’s spies.

“No,” Samuel said.

Ginath had to think for a moment. Then he remembered what he had asked. “Where to, then?” He was unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“Bethlehem, a village you have never visited. We pass by it whenever we go to Hebron. It is the town near where Jacob buried Rachel.”

“Ah yes, where the pillar stands.” He rolled the town’s name on his tongue. “It means ‘house of bread,’ no?” As a young slave learning the language, Ginath had developed an appreciation for Hebrew.

Samuel grunted affirmation.

Ginath knew there might not be a better moment to get the details he’d wondered about all morning. “Why are we taking this trip? It seems to have made you anxious.”

“Hah!” Samuel barked. “You might say that.” He groaned as he stretched his back. “I suppose you should know. After all, it could mean my death—and yours.”

Ginath’s hands jerked, and the donkey came to a sudden stop. Both Samuel and Ginath nearly toppled to the ground. “No need for that,” Samuel growled, but there was a note of satisfaction in his voice.

“What is going to happen in Bethlehem?”

As if sensing the sudden tension, the donkey began moving forward at a trot. Samuel explained their mission. When he was finished, every bit of excitement had seeped out of Ginath.

“So you have come to anoint the rival of King Saul.” Ginath could not hide the quaver in his own voice.

Samuel said nothing.

“Do you think that is … wise?”

“Of course it’s not!” Samuel exploded. “What do you think has made me so out of sorts?”

Ginath was desperately trying to think of ways to minimize their danger. “But must you complete this mission in front of every person in the village?”

“The instructions were not specific,” Samuel admitted. “God commissioned me to anoint Saul’s successor, but, no, He did not say it had to be done at a public ceremony.” Ginath felt Samuel sit up straighter behind him. “There may be a way to save our skins after all!”

It was late afternoon when they arrived at the gate. The village elders greeted them, inviting them to dismount and refresh themselves with some wine and olives. The elders were gracious, but the surprise visit of the prophet clearly unnerved all of them.

Eventually, Hazzok, the head elder, turned his thin, weathered face toward Samuel. He rubbed his hands nervously as he spoke. “Do you come in peace?”

Samuel smiled reassuringly and gave the agreed-upon explanation.

“A sacrifice?” asked the elder, his eyes widening. “In our small town?” He bowed his head obsequiously. “But why? We are of no consequence in Israel. Have we committed some grave offense against God?” His eyes were lifted warily toward Samuel, darting like a lizard seeking an escape.

“No, no,” said Samuel, sounding almost jovial. “Nothing like that. It is a blessing from Yahweh. He has favored your village as a place to honor Him.” He radiated warmth. Ginath was shocked by the transformation.

“Invite all the men and go to your homes to purify yourselves,” Samuel ordered.

The elders nodded piously and stood. Samuel gestured for Hazzok to remain while the others set off in a tight cluster toward the center of town.

“Make sure that Jesse and all his sons are present,” Samuel told him. “God has given me a special message for them. And I need to deliver it in a quiet location.”

Hazzok thought for a moment, twisting the end of his beard into a tight strand. “Yes, I know of such a place. It is near my house. My servant will show it to you.”

It was evening when Ginath came into Hazzok’s guest chamber. “The altar at the high place is ready, Master,” he alerted Samuel, “and the guests are about to gather.”

The heat of the day had waned, pushed away by a steady breeze that raised the dust and caused their tunics to flap about them as they followed Hazzok’s servant. Before they reached the summit of the high place, the servant pointed to a small stable. The thatched roof was bowed in the middle as if a giant had sat down on top of it. There were holes in the walls where stones had fallen out, and the frame over the entrance was cracked. Double doors had once protected the opening, but now only one remained, swinging crookedly from a single hinge.

“Jesse and his sons are inside,” the servant boy told them. “My master said you will not be interrupted. I will stay on the road to watch.” He rubbed the backs of his hands nervously, as if trying to clean them.

Inside the cool dwelling, Samuel examined the man in front of him. He had strong shoulders, high cheekbones, and a proud nose. His hair was long, thin, and gray, and time had bent his frame. Wild eyebrows framed intelligent eyes set in deep pockets. They had the bright, twitching intensity of a hawk’s. Samuel detected suspicion and cunning.

Jesse took a step forward, bowing his head respectfully.

“The Lord has a special message for one of your sons,” Samuel said, evaluating the six young men standing behind their father. “He has not told me which, only that He will reveal him to me at the appropriate time.”

“You have honored me,” Jesse said, giving Samuel an appraising glance and nodding toward the one who was clearly the eldest.

Though not as tall as Saul, he had the hint of authority that Saul at his age had lacked. Samuel felt certain this was God’s anointed. He was about to motion him forward when the Voice stopped him.

Look not to his appearance and to his lofty stature, for I have cast him aside. Man sees with the eyes, but the Lord sees the heart.

Samuel waved him aside.

The son’s expectant smile dimmed. Ginath, who was standing in the corner near the broken door, nodded grimly to himself.

Jesse then presented his second-born, Abinadab, whom he referred to as Nadab. Samuel rejected him also. Jesse’s remaining sons followed according to age. After each one, Samuel’s response was the same: “This one too the Lord has not chosen.” When they had all been examined and rejected, Samuel looked at Jesse in confusion. At Jesse’s expression of embarrassment, Samuel’s jaw tightened.

“Are you sure these are all your sons?” He stared through the man, who was shifting from one foot to another.

Jesse’s consternation increased, and his stoop became more pronounced. He cleared his throat, then with a weak smile said, “There is the youngest. David. I did not think it necessary to take him away from the flocks.” He bowed ingratiatingly. “He is quite … insignificant.”

“Let Adonai decide that,” Samuel growled. “We shall not begin the feast until he has arrived. Where is he?”

“He should be on his way home. I would expect he is somewhere on the other side of that hill.”

Realizing that Jesse’s failure could be used to help maintain the secrecy of his mission, Samuel dismissed Jesse and his six sons.

“Send Hazzok’s servant to fetch him. You may go to the feast, and I will speak with David privately.”

Half an hour later, a silhouette appeared in the doorway.

As Jesse had said, he was young. He had the type of face that made it difficult to guess his age. Samuel put him somewhere between fifteen and twenty. Now it was his turn to be disappointed. David was shorter than any of his brothers. If he stood next to Saul, he would look exactly like what he was—a child. The Lord must be playing a joke on me, Samuel thought. As he fought to keep his feelings from registering on his face, the Voice confirmed what he had feared.

Arise; anoint him, for this is the one I have chosen.

He froze. How could this boy replace King Saul? Samuel ran his tongue over his dry lips and looked the teenager over more carefully. Like his father, David had the physique of a runner. And he was astonishingly handsome, with striking green eyes. Though he possessed nothing like the swagger of the eldest, he did have a certain confidence about him. There was a hidden strength there.

Without saying a word, he indicated that David should kneel. He took out the cruse he had not touched for three decades and poured several drops of spiced oil over the young man’s head. The fragrance filled the stuffy room.

“May Yahweh bless you and keep you,” he said, intoning the traditional blessing. “May Yahweh let His face shine upon you and be gracious to you. May Yahweh uncover His face to you and bring you peace.” He poured out a few more drops. He inhaled the luscious scent, then exhaled slowly, creating a space for the Ruah to give him the appropriate words. When he spoke, a heavy stillness settled over the room.

May Yahweh answer you in time of trouble,

may the name of the God of Jacob protect you!

May He grant you your heart’s desire,

and crown all your plans with success;

may we shout with joy for your victory,

And plant our banners in the name of our God!

May Yahweh grant all your petitions![6]

As Samuel’s voice rose and fell in a chant, he saw Ginath’s mouth drop open in amazement. He knew why. There was a presence in the stone shelter that was almost frightening.

Some boast of chariots, some of horses,

but you will boast about the name of Yahweh our God;

their confidence crumples and falls,

But you shall stand, and stand firm![7]

Then, as more oil fell on the young man’s head, Samuel spoke the words he had not wanted to utter but could no longer hold back:

Yahweh, save the king,

Answer him when he calls.

Yahweh, save the king![8]

A slight trembling seized David’s body, and he lifted his hands in the air. His head bent forward as if he was about to slump on his face. Instead, he lifted his head and stared up through the broken-down roof overhead. He was smiling through the tears that trickled down his cheeks.

Samuel reached out his hand, and David closed his eyes as the prophet’s fingers traced a symbol on the shepherd’s forehead.

“Rae magnu u’bet Elohim Mashiach phni.”

God our shield, now look on us and be kind to your anointed.[9]

At the word Mashiach, David’s whole body jerked.

Samuel stepped back and pointed toward the high place. “You are to join us for the feast.” He then placed a forefinger over his bearded lips and gave David a threatening glare. “Make sure you do not speak of this with anyone.”

When Samuel, Ginath, and David arrived, about one hundred men were sitting in small groups on the ground. The eight elders were seated nearest to the stone altar. Their faces were washed, their beards were combed, but their eyes were wary. Hazzok’s face was drawn. Samuel joined them, and David sat nearby next to Ginath.

After the surprisingly brief introduction, Samuel rose and stood next to the altar with the wood and pieces of sacrificial meat on top. “When we arrived in your town, your elders were surprised to know that God had sent me to offer sacrifice here.” Hazzok shifted uncomfortably.

“But my dear friends, appearances are not what matters to God. He chooses the great and the small. Size is of no importance to Him.” His eyes drifted to David as he said these words. The grizzled prophet then drew back his shoulders and leaned forward on his staff, wanting to impress each word upon his listeners. “Let me remind you of the words that Moses the prophet spoke to the army before entering Canaan: ‘If Yahweh set His heart on you and chose you, it was not because you outnumbered other people; you were the least of all peoples. It was for love of you and to keep the oath He swore to your fathers that Yahweh brought you out with His mighty hand and redeemed you from the house of slavery, from the power of Pharaoh, king of Egypt.’”

The elders were beginning to smile, and color had returned to Hazzok’s face. Samuel raised his staff, and his voice boomed. “Let us bless this sacrifice and enjoy this feast in honor of the Almighty, who humbles and exalts.” With uplifted hands, he gave thanks over the sacrifice, then took the torch a servant handed him and set fire to the wood.

When the fire had cooked the meat and the selected pieces had been distributed, Ginath tried to encourage David to eat the thick slice that had been handed to him.

“You take it. I’m afraid I have lost my appetite,” he told Ginath. He was giving him back the meat when Ginath saw a hand descend on the boy’s shoulder. It was one of David’s brothers, the one called Nadab. There was a stiff smile on his lips.

“Brother, I’m sorry to have to bother you, but Father says it is time to bring back the sheep.” David looked up at his brother with an expression of confusion. Nadab reached down and pulled him to his feet. David gave him one more glance and trotted down the hill.

When David had gone, Nadab crouched next to Ginath. “He is an unusual boy, isn’t he? You can’t imagine how proud our father is of him.” His smile slid just a bit. “But, poor old man, he wanted to have a private family celebration.” Nadab’s head drooped sadly. “He wished to know the prophet’s message so we could rejoice properly.” He drew closer to Ginath, touching the cloth of his tunic conspiratorially. “David is such a humble lad,” he whispered. “He would never tell us. But it would make our old father so happy.”

Ginath was confused. His master had told him to keep the anointing secret to prevent King Saul from finding out. However, it certainly could not apply to David’s family, especially one that cared for him so much. This would certainly not put Samuel in danger. And it was such a pleasure to share good news.

He looked around carefully, and then, lowering his voice so Nadab had to bend to hear him, he said, “Don’t let anyone outside the family know.” He was just about to divulge everything when he recalled the forefinger over Samuel’s lips and that terrible glare. The image froze his tongue. He swallowed deeply, then added lamely, “David is to be a leader in Saul’s army.”

Nadab’s hand was gripping Ginath’s tunic as if he were about to rip it off his body. Startled, Ginath gave him an anxious look. He thought he detected anger in the man’s face. With a curt nod, Nadab stood and rushed off without saying another word. Ginath watched him leave, relieved that he’d managed to protect his master’s secret.

6 Psalm 20:1, 4–5

7 Psalm 20:7–8, author’s paraphrase

8 Psalm 20:9, author’s paraphrase

9 Psalm 84:9

Chapter Eight

It had been over a week since Samuel’s prayer in the stable, and nothing had changed. Lydea had treated her son’s wound and forbidden him to go on long walks until the gash closed. Each morning David led the sheep out, and each night he brought them home.

There was only one noticeable difference other than that David was once again being left to care for the sheep alone: his father’s attitude toward him. Frequently he would find Jesse staring at him with an unusual intensity. It made him feel awkward—ashamed somehow, as if he’d been disloyal. It could not be due to what Samuel had prayed over him since he had not mentioned it to anyone.

Even if he had wanted to, he did not know what he would say about that strange incident in the stable. One week had passed, and he still felt stunned by it. Although the encounter with Samuel was beginning to feel like a dream, David had noticed some kind of internal change. It was a sensation of warmth and sweetness, as though a pot of honey had spilled and drenched him. Lydea had once described what it felt like when she met her husband and knew she wanted to be his wife. This feeling reminded him of that, except it had nothing to do with a girl.

It was a type of hunger. He wanted to be near God, and at the same time he seemed to feel His presence more tangibly than he ever had before. When he was alone, he found himself in conversations with Him, sharing things he had never dared say to anyone.

And then there was the music.

He had always loved the sound of instruments and voices in song, but now he’d begun hearing melodies in his head, along with snatches of phrases. While counting the flocks, he would find himself listening to cadences and rhythms of words, keeping time with the animals passing under his hand. He had even started writing some of the words down on patches of cloth. When away from Bethlehem, he would madly scribble on the ground to keep from forgetting the songs.

Most surprisingly, he had begun taking Jahra’s harp with him when he went out with the sheep. He simply had to find out if he could pluck the melodies that were flowing within him. While he wasn’t as proficient as Jahra, he’d started seeing results after a week of steady practice. This was the only reason he was glad his friend could not accompany him. It was much easier to experiment and stumble over the strings alone. And it was becoming easier each day. Now he looked forward to the long, quiet hours as an opportunity to play the instrument he was learning to love and slowly master.

On the eighth evening, as he walked to Lydea’s house after the flocks were counted and safe in their pens, he heard the sound of an instrument. He had Jahra’s harp in his hand and wondered what his friend was playing. Stopping so he could listen better, he noted its richly textured sound and realized it was Lydea’s fourteen-string harp. He could not remember the last time he had heard it being played.

As he neared the house, something even more inviting joined the sound: an aroma that made his stomach rumble and his mouth water—garlic, onion, and beans sizzling in olive oil. It made his insides ache. He had not eaten since late morning and had not realized till that moment how hungry he was. There was no denying it; he was famished.

This was no ordinary dish. Lydea was preparing one of her specialties—lentil stew. It surprised him since it was usually reserved for special occasions. Whatever the cause, such a dinner demanded that he bring her some sort of gift.

When he pushed back the door, he was holding a small bouquet of bright wildflowers behind his back. Lydea was kneeling over a simmering pot filled with a reddish brown liquid, ladling crushed tomatoes into it. She was humming happily and smiled at him as he walked in. Jahra was on a stool on the other side of the fire pit, playing his mother’s harp. Too large to hold on his lap, it rested on the floor between his legs. Both hands were strumming the instrument in smooth, rhythmic motions.

David stood behind Lydea, peering around her shoulder to get a closer look at the pot. “Yaya”—it was what he always called her when attempting to wheedle some favor out of her—“I can sympathize with Esau.” He bent over and sniffed dramatically. “If Rebecca’s stew was anything like yours, I can see why he was willing to sell his birthright for it.”

She was about to jab at him with her spoon when he pulled out the flowers. Her expression softened, but she did not lower her weapon. “Put them in that jar,” she said, pointing at a clay vessel on the shelf behind her. “And don’t think I will let you taste it. You wait patiently like Jahra.”

He unslung the bag holding Jahra’s harp, laid it on his sleeping mat, then walked over to the shelf to place the bouquet in the crude, hand-painted vase. He went over to the water pot, filled it with water, and set the vase on the table in the center of the room.

He sat down on the floor next to his friend, who cocked a knowing eyebrow in his direction but kept playing. His instrument had seven double strings strung on a traditional frame a cubit and a half long. Its top was nearly twice as long as its base and was a full handbreadth taller than the harp David had been practicing on. The tune Jahra was playing was new yet oddly familiar, and though it was melancholy, Lydea was smiling as she hummed.

At the end of the stanza, Jahra stopped and was about to set the harp down when David waved him on. “Keep playing,” he said, ruffling his hair. “It’s nicer than the sound of bleating sheep and goats I’ve had to listen to all day—though just barely.” Lydea clucked her tongue reproachfully and waved her spoon at him with feigned indignation.

Jahra resumed playing. His fingers were light and fluid and confident. David envied them. In time, he told himself. In time.

“Don’t make fun. This is my most favorite song,” Lydea said, her eyes closed and her voice lilting, as if her words were part of the song. “I tell you this, young, clever man: if you ruin it, you will get no stew.”

Jahra kept playing but taunted David by crossing his eyes at him and blowing out his cheeks.

“I don’t know how I put you two up,” Lydea huffed impatiently. “I mean, put up with you two.” David walked over to her and kissed the top of her head as she bent to put more wood on the fire.

“Because you are our favorite woman in the world, and your singing melts our hearts,” he cooed.

“Bah!” she said, pushing him away. “Try your fancy talk on the innocent girls with not much experience with pretty boys and their smooth tongues. Now you sit down,” she ordered, “and let me finish the cooking.” She walked to the table and began chopping potatoes and carrots.

David sat on the floor next to Jahra’s stool. His back was resting against the warm wall next to the fire pit. Lydea began to hum again, and Jahra joined her in a much lower register. Some songs had this odd effect on his mute friend. Jahra’s voice was husky, a perfect counterpoint to Lydea’s and to the crisp clarity of the strings.

David listened with eyes closed. The song brought to mind impossibly lovely girls with long dark hair and thick lashes. Slowly these images faded, replaced by a graceful beauty—elegant neck with proud, erect posture. She moved like a dancer. She swayed toward him, then began to turn away. Something in the slant of her shoulders and the angle of her body made him want to reach out and stop her. There was an ache in his chest.

He tried to grasp her arm, which she held out from her body, but he could not move. As she lowered her arm, she pierced him with sorrowful green eyes filled with tears. They were the color of the emeralds on the high priest’s ephod. The girl lifted a slim hand in a motion of dismissal or farewell. His throat tightened, and his chest burned as she moved away.

The tang of ground lemon peel brought David back. Lydea was bent over the table, finalizing the component of the recipe on which, according to her, the entire dish depended. Her back was to him, so she did not notice David quickly wipe moisture from his face.

“Can I help with the lemons?” he finally managed to say over the lump in his throat.

She lowered her head and nodded, making room for him at the table.

Gratefully, he stood next to her, cutting the yellow fruit into even sections and squeezing the juice into the grated rind. Taking the bowl from his hands, Lydea let her fingers rest on David’s for a moment. But she said nothing. She broke pieces of dark spinach leaves into the bowl, sprinkling in salt, pepper, and some spices, and poured it all into the simmering pot.

Jahra’s music had not so much ended as petered out. He stood the harp on the floor next to the wall and dragged his stool toward them.

“Go get the cheese,” Lydea told Jahra. “Also the bowls. And you,” she said to David, “wash the lemon from your hands and sit.” While he cleaned his hands, Jahra placed three clay dishes on the table along with a small plate with goat cheese. David uncovered a larger platter with flat loaves of bread, positioned it in the center next to the vase, and sat down.

When Jahra drew up to the table across from him, he made a point of jiggling it, as if testing to see if it was about to collapse. Briefly forgetting his friend’s injury, David aimed a kick at his shin. But Jahra had slid his legs to the side. Lydea’s eyes flashed, and the boys turned into statues as she spooned out the reddish stew with its small round beans, bits of bright orange and red, and tendrils of green. They reached for the cheese at the same time. Usually, David would have made a point of grabbing it away, but this time he let Jahra take it and crumble pieces into his bowl. It was the cheese that turned the delicious concoction into something unforgettable.

Jahra was making a production out of the whole process, putting the bowl up to his face to breathe in the aroma, then crumbling the cheese into miniscule grains, as if he were portioning gold dust into his dish. David could barely restrain himself from pulling the white chunk out of his friend’s hands. He pursed his lips impatiently, but when he noticed the corners of Jahra’s mouth twitch, he lunged and tugged the cheese from his fingers.

“David!” Lydea scolded. “I think maybe you were born in a cave and grew up with wolves!”

David was too busy breaking small pieces of cheese into his bowl to answer. When he lifted his spoon to his mouth, Lydea interrupted him. “David!” she said in a shocked voice. “The prayer of blessing!”

He dropped his hand, letting the spoon rest on the edge of the bowl. Without looking at Jahra, who had nudged him with his good foot, David let out a breath and gave thanks. “Blessed are You, God, O Lord God of the universe, who brings forth the bread from the earth and who creates the fruit of the ground. Amen.”

Both boys picked up their spoons, which were dripping with cream-colored strands, and shoved them into their mouths. “Ahhh,” David sighed, savoring the stew. There was no further conversation until they had emptied their bowls. “Mama Lydea,” David groaned, “nothing can compare with this. Now I will have to kill myself—but only after another serving.”

Jahra also let out a moan, which sounded more like a growl, his face a parody of David’s. He swayed in his seat, his palm on his forehead as if he were ready to faint.

“You boys!” Lydea said, filling their bowls again. “I think I am with two crazy people.” They looked up at her, trying to appear chagrined, and began shoveling the food into their mouths.

When David finished, he wiped his bowl with a piece of flatbread and leaned back on his bench, his head resting against the wall. “Thank you, Yaya. That was the best stew I’ve ever eaten.”

Jahra sniffed.

This is what David always said, and he always meant it. Lydea nodded curtly. “If you do not mind your manners, maybe you will not have more.” She stood up to take the bowls to the large bowl she used to clean dishes. “And do not be leaning on the bench. You will make the legs bad.”

When the plates were cleaned, David leaned over, resting his elbows on the table. “Mama Lydea?” He had been holding the question in for what felt like an age. She was folding the cloth she had used to wipe the table. Lydea stopped, and her fingers froze.

“Did my mother have green eyes?”

Jahra pulled his bench away from the table and began tuning the strings of Lydea’s harp with unusual concentration. Hunched over the instrument, he seemed to be listening intently as he plucked each string repeatedly, twisting the knobs with exquisite care. Looking at his friend, David wondered for the first time whether Jahra knew more about his birth than he did.

David’s glance shifted back to Lydea. She was staring at the spray of yellow, white, and blue flowers on the table. The rag in her hand was now being twisted into a rope. Her face and eyes were hollow.

“Why can’t you tell me?” he asked.

She did not answer.

“Mama Lydea, you said that someday Father would tell me, but you know that will never happen.” He put his hands over hers. Her fingers continued working the rag, as if disconnected from her. She was fixated on the small bouquet but seemed to be remembering something long past.

“I must know about her,” he said through clenched teeth. His hands closed hard, and the movement grew still. “All I have been told is that she died giving me birth. That’s it, nothing more. And my brothers act as if it were my fault.”

He felt her hand shake.

“Was it?” he whispered, his voice cracking.

It looked as though she were trying to speak but could not. Her eyes brimmed, and David saw her bite her lower lip to keep the tears at bay. One escaped and ran down her lined, brown cheek. She looked up at him and softly uttered one word.

“No.”

Something seemed to melt inside David’s chest. His mouth felt parched. He wished he could stand and get some water, but his legs felt too weak. The last time David had seen Lydea cry was when she had cut the poison out of his arm. That had been almost ten years ago. He waited, growing impatient, but she said nothing further. Jahra leaned over the tall instrument he was holding and quietly began to play the tune David had heard when he entered the house. But this time the tempo was slower, transforming the song into a lament.

David kept quiet, afraid that one wrong question would ruin the moment. Finally Lydea spoke. “She was a beauty. And, yes, she had green eyes. Similar to yours.” Her voice caught. “They were so beautiful, you can’t imagine it. I think that is what your father”—she paused, considering her words carefully—“noticed first.”

David waited, searching her eyes, willing her to continue. She shook her head. “I have said to you as much as I can—perhaps too much.”

“No! You’ve barely said anything.” Desperation was rising within him.

She shook her head again, more emphatically. “I must keep my word.”

“Why? Did he make you promise?”

Her head was still shaking, but now with sadness. “I had not a choice.” The words were barely audible.

David struck the table with the flat of his hand. The vase tipped, spilling water and flowers, and began rolling off the side. Reaching out, Jahra stopped it, then set it next to his bench.

“You’ve seen and heard him,” David said. “He barely speaks to me. Father hates me.” The emotion swelling inside him constricted his words, making him sound like a child. He stopped, waiting for the pressure to ease. Then he spit out the accusation that had been building up inside him for months. “Why do you bother keeping his secrets?”

She raised herself to her full height and stared directly at him. There was steel in her eyes. “Because of respect. He is your father. And because—” She bit off the end of her sentence.

“I know. I know. You made a vow.”

She looked away, her head drooping as a dirge flowed sadly from her son’s harp. All the strength seemed to have drained out of her. Another tear fell on the tabletop. There was much more, David could tell, but she had revealed all she intended to.

Jahra’s song was becoming louder, more rhythmic and insistent. Something in the tune captivated David’s attention. He recognized it somehow, though he was sure he’d never heard it before. To his surprise, he found himself choking up, and his eyes began to sting.

Lydea was watching him intently, deep lines etched along her face. She walked to the corner where she kept her clothes along with her few special treasures. She pulled out a leather satchel inside a rough box. Untying the cords, she opened it and pulled out a lovely, fragile ten-stringed instrument. He had seen something like it only once before—at the marriage of Sarai, the only daughter of Bethlehem’s chief elder. It bore a vague resemblance to Jahra’s harp with its smooth, flat base, except it was about half the size, and its elegant arms were bowed outward.

“It is a lyre—called a kinnor,” she explained, sitting down next to him. Instead of holding it horizontally in front of her like Jahra’s harp, she cradled it in her lap like an infant.

She strummed the ten strings. They produced a tone that was high and sweet. While Jahra’s harp soothed, this lyre could pierce your heart. She waited a few beats, then plucked a few notes that harmonized beautifully with Jahra’s melody. “I played this when you were a baby. If you were crying it would make you stop.”

“Maybe it will work again,” he said with a sheepish smile, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He almost asked why she had stopped playing it, but something told him that would be one question too many.

She adjusted the position of the lyre, then began to play. As she did, her body swayed gently like the flame of a candle.

Jahra’s melody remained in the forefront at first, but when the music slowed, the kinnor took the lead, its high notes dominating and Jahra’s receding. They alternated like this for several measures. The instruments seemed to be speaking to each other, sharing a story of sorrow and loss, echoed back and forth in lower, then higher registers, as if consoling each other. Jahra and his mother hummed in unison as they strung together their wistful musical story.

As the wordless dialogue moved toward its conclusion, its speed increased. Jahra’s fingers strummed madly, and Lydea was plucking the strings with both hands. The music built in intensity and volume; there was a crescendo of racing fingers, and then all came to a sudden, almost heartbreaking stop.

David’s jaw ached. He had been biting down, resisting the emotions pooling inside him. The unexpected quiet was both a pain and a relief. Blinking back tears, he stole a quick look at Jahra and saw him give his mother a brief nod. Jahra tapped three times on the hollow base of his instrument, and Lydea began to sing.

David remembered listening to her lullabies when he was much younger, but that was a long time ago. He had never appreciated how good her voice was. There was not a trace of the amateur’s self-consciousness. It was the voice of an assured performer. Her timing and pitch were perfect. Each musical phrase ended masterfully in that wild yet controlled ululating glide that conveyed sorrow and joy at the same moment. Her tone was husky, like her son’s, but higher, cleaner, exhilarating.

The words she sang were perfectly suited for the rhythmic scaffolding Jahra had constructed. After each phrase, Lydea would grow quiet as her son thumped softly on his resonating instrument. After several beats, her singing continued.

Yahweh, why do You stand aside,

why hide from us now that times are hard?

The poor are devoured by the pride of the wicked.

We are caught in the wiles that the other has devised.

Peering and prying for the unfortunate,

lurking unseen like a lion in his hide.

Questing of eye, he stoops, he crouches,

and the unfortunate wretch falls into his power.

Rise, Yahweh, God raise Your hand,

do not forget the poor! Do not forget me!

You Yourself have seen my distress and my grief,

You watch and You take them into Your hands.[10]

The words were sad, but there was no quaver in her voice. Her eyes were lifted as she sang; they were clear and hard as crystal.

Break the power of the wicked, of the evil man,

seek out his wickedness till there is none to be found!

Yahweh is King for ever and ever.

Those who are cruel and proud are doomed to vanish.

Yahweh, You listen to the cries of the humble,

You bring strength to their hearts, You grant them a hearing,

judging in favor of the fatherless and the exploited,

so that the oppressor may strike fear no longer.

Yahweh, You listen to the wants of the humble,

You bring strength to their hearts,

judging in favor of the fatherless and the exploited,

so that the earthborn man may strike fear no longer,

may strike fear no more,

may strike fear no more.[11]

By the end of the song, David no longer cared. Tears had pooled on the tabletop in front of him. When he had wiped his eyes clear, Lydea was standing in front of him. Her eyes were still distant, holding on to a memory she would not share but could not forget. He was surprised to also see anger etched along the corners of her eyes and at the edges of her mouth.

“That was your mother’s favorite song,” she said.

It came as no surprise; somehow he had already known. Though he knew the answer, he still needed to ask. “Did she write it?”

She did not seem to have heard him. He looked away from her to Jahra, who caught his eye and nodded. Then, as if remembering where she was, Lydea looked at the lyre in her lap and held it out to him. After clearing her throat, she whispered, “This was hers.” She drew in a deep, unsteady breath. “She gave it to me to give to her child.” She ran her fingertips along one polished side. “Her father made it. When she played and sang, he would tell her that she could make demons weep.” She laid it in his hands. “I was going to give it to you when you left home. But I think now that it is the right time.”

He looked up at her, filled with questions. Lydea patted his hair. “I will keep it here for you. Whenever you want to play it, it will be waiting for you.”

He could not stop himself. The question had torn holes in him for so long. He had to know the answer. “Yaya. What really happened to her? All I know is that she died when I was born, but I know there is more you are not telling me.”

Her voice faltered, but her response was firm. “It is enough. That I cannot say to you.” She took the kinnor, walked to the opposite end of the room, and put the instrument back inside the box. Then she lay down on her pallet and pulled her cloak over her. “Remember to blow out the lamp,” she said, gesturing to the window ledge.

When darkness had engulfed the room, he lay staring up into the blackness. In the fire pit two small embers had not yet died out. He thought about those arresting eyes he had seen, bright with tears.

He fell asleep with a hollow of sadness in his chest.

10 Psalm 10:1–2, 9, 12–14, author’s paraphrase

11 Psalm 10:15–18, author’s paraphrase

Chapter Nine

Early the next morning, after a quick breakfast, David and Jahra were checking on the sheep and goats. David heard a gate slam, and he groaned when he saw Nethanel storming toward them, trying to avoid the piles of fresh dung.

David steeled himself.

As usual, Nethanel’s hair hung in a fastidious braid the length of his back. It reminded David of a limp adder. The wooden hoe hung behind his back from a leather strap. He carried it like a weapon of war, which in a sense it was, since he kept it almost as sharp as a sword.

“Father wants you to take food to the … and Shimeah’s boys …” he muttered, his words growing more unintelligible the longer he spoke. David almost laughed. The fourth sibling in the pecking order dragged a load of resentment everywhere he went, and the angrier he became, the more incomprehensible his speech.

Nethanel stood poised, waiting for David to request clarification. Unwilling to take the bait, David turned away and bent down to examine a goat’s hind leg. Jahra followed his lead, running his hand over the perfectly fine limb.

“Well?” came a gruff demand behind them.

Not looking up, David nodded.

Whenever the oldest three were on extended maneuvers, as they had been for the past week, Jesse would send food for them. This is what most families did to keep hungry soldiers from pillaging local farmers. It also was the best method of obtaining updates on the campaign and the welfare of those fighting. Since his sons were fighting Philistines, apparently, Jesse wanted David to take provisions to them while Shimeah’s two sons would take care of the flocks while he was gone.

Suppressing his annoyance, David responded, “Tell Father I will do as he said.” David looked over at Jahra, who had made a strange sound. He was staring into the animal’s mouth as if he’d never seen a goat’s tongue before. Without turning to look at Nethanel, David added, “And tell him I will be on my way as soon as Mattai brings me the food.”

As his brother was walking away, David yelled after him, enunciating each word with exaggerated care, “And thank you for delivering the message so clearly.” Nethanel’s only response was to jerk his head in exasperation. With each careful step, the long, oiled strand of hair snaked angrily above his narrow hips.

Jahra’s elbow knocked David sideways. He was able to steady himself, but only by thrusting his hand into a pile of fresh goat droppings. He tried to wipe it off on Jahra’s tunic, but Jahra had jumped up, anticipating the move, and placed a large sheep between them. David picked up several hardened pieces of dung and hurled them. When Jahra dodged, bending over to grab some more dung to retaliate, David saw him favoring his right leg.

“Truce!” he yelled. He knew that if the battle escalated, Jahra would forget himself and reinjure his leg.

“Get your things ready,” David said. He had decided to impose on Nethanel’s message the meaning he wanted. “You’re coming with me.”

If this violated his father’s wishes, he would blame the incompetent messenger. There could be no parental recourse, since Nethanel’s slurred speech was a family joke. In any event, when dealing with his father, David avoided asking permission at all costs. If he was wrong, he would simply offer an apology and be done with it.

“Is it okay?” David asked him, pointing at Jahra’s right ankle.

Jahra spun around, then crossed his left leg over his right, resting his full weight on the one leg. He flapped his arms, imitating a stork standing erect on a brown leg.

David waved him off, shaking his head as he walked toward the gate. “Make sure you have Lydea prepare enough food for three days, in case the army has moved,” he ordered. The last time the army had battled the Philistines, he’d spent an entire day searching aimlessly until he’d been told that the army had pursued their enemy north to Aijalon. That trip, which he’d expected to last two days, had taken four.

Behind him came the crisp snap of leather against leather as sandaled feet struck each other. This was followed by an explosive military growl. David did not need to turn his head to know that his friend was imitating a soldier saluting his commander.

“You’re hopeless,” he said, laughing. “I’ll fill the water bag, but for that, clever one, you get to carry it.”

When he returned from the well, he picked up the food satchel Mattai had left at the base of the sycamore. Inside the house Lydea had finished wrapping pieces of cloth around the food she had prepared. These he placed into the large satchel. Jahra adjusted the straps holding the harp and the bloated water bag so that they crisscrossed his chest. He swaggered as if he were a fierce warrior laden with weapons of war.

“Watch out for each other,” she told them, looking pointedly at David, who nodded dutifully and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “And you be careful. No running like a wild goat,” she admonished her son as they walked out the door. They both gave her a hug, and David had to hurry to catch Jahra, who had set off ahead of him, flicking his walking staff jauntily.

It was midmorning by the time they were on the north fork, heading toward Gibeah of Saul. According to the last reports, that was the location of Jonathan’s division. The prince had chosen David’s cousin Manoah as one of his commanders, so this was where David’s brothers were likely posted. Rumor had it that the bulk of the force was half a day’s march north in Migron, near Michmash, the Benjamite town the Philistines had recently captured.

Soon they were climbing the narrow uphill path that skirted the valley of Hinnom, which bordered the fortified city of Jebus to the north and west. This stronghold sat smugly on its five hills, one of which was the mount where the patriarch Abraham had offered Isaac. The tribe of Judah had taken it over during Joshua’s conquest, but a few centuries later the Jebusites had wrested the city back. This emblem of his tribe’s defeat rankled David each time he passed by it on the way to Nob to make sacrifice with his family.

“There is that cursed Jebusite city!” he muttered. “Instead of going after the Philistines, King Saul should have first destroyed those arrogant Canaanites.”

Jahra spit on the ground in affirmation. Sliding the water bag off his back and on to the road, he walked to a ravine and picked up a rock. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he spit on it, then launched it up the hill with a growl of disgust.

“That’s the spirit!” David said, slapping his friend on the shoulder. He slipped a stone from his pouch into his sling. “Look at this. Watch how a real warrior does it.”

Standing in the middle of the road, he spun the sling next to his body, then let the stone fly. It reached almost halfway to the summit and bounced off a boulder, loosening a shower of dirt and gravel that fell back down at them.

Laughing, Jahra stepped aside, then picked up another rock and threw it.

“Watch yourself, or you’re going to start a landslide,” David said, grinning at his friend’s insulting gestures. With a chuckle, he added, “It’s too bad you and I aren’t army commanders. We’d show those Canaanites a thing or two.” He glanced up at the position of the sun. “We’d better get moving.”

Jahra reached down for the water bag, but David was quicker. He slung it on his own back, leaving one of the food bags on the ground for Jahra, who’d been trying to cover up an occasional limp. Jahra protested, raising his thick walking staff over his head. David feinted, bent down, and threw dust in his face. Spluttering and wiping his eyes, Jahra lowered his weapon.

“Yes, I know you are a deadly fighter,” David assured him. “But it’s my turn now.” He forged ahead with a swagger. “A good leader never asks his men to do what he won’t do himself. You carry our supplies.”

As they walked out of the valley, David looked back, admiring the location of the enemy city, which was protected by the rugged, steep terrain. “The Jebusites would be a tough fight, but when King Saul conquered them, he could make it an excellent fortress.” He shrugged. “At least that’s what I would do.”

By early afternoon, they had arrived at Gibeah, Saul’s birthplace. It was an acceptable stronghold but much less formidable than that of the Jebusites since its elevation was far less imposing. After walking around the closest hills, they found no sign of Jonathan’s division. They approached the guard posted outside the large wooden gate, the town’s only entrance.

“We are looking for Jonathan’s army,” David said. The soldier was stout and hairy. The ends of his bushy beard and long curly hair were tied with greasy leather thongs.

“And what business is that of yours?” was the gravelly response. Jahra wrinkled his face. A strong smell of urine was emanating from the bushes nearby.

David opened the bag and showed the guard its contents. “We are bringing food for my brothers. Perhaps you know them: Eliab, Abinadab—he goes by Nadab—and Shimeah. They are from Bethlehem.”

The guard shook his head. “Never ’eard of ’em.” It was obvious that he came from one of the tribes in the north, perhaps Zebulun or Naphtali near the Sea of Galilee. They had the most pronounced accents of all the twelve tribes. They were also known as the most fiercely independent. Several of Saul’s mighty men came from that warlike region.

The guard looked at them suspiciously. “Where did you say you were from?”

“Bethlehem. A little town in Judah. They are with Commander Manoah’s division.”

“Yep, him I know, of course.” The guard scratched his whiskers pensively, loosening the knot at the tip of his beard. “Seems like they had a lick o’ trouble with one of ’em cap’ns. He lost his commishun. Word was, he was a hothead and kinda liked pushin’ his weight around some. And come to think on it, his name mighta been Elee-yab.”

David smiled apologetically. “Well, there you’ve described my brother perfectly.” He reached into the bag. “Here’s one of my father’s cheeses.” He handed him the smallest. “It is said that our cheese is as good as our fighters.”

“Thankee kindly,” the guard said, giving him a broad wink as the white brick disappeared in his dirty fist. “I will let on that the army headed off yesterdee for Michmash. Go by way of Ray-ma,” he said, mispronouncing the name of Samuel’s hometown, Ramah, less than one hour’s walk north. “That’s where that ornery prophet lives,” the guard continued. “But then head east through them hills quick-like, or you may run into a passel of Philistines.” He laughed uproariously, pointing at the sling’s leather braids. “Maybe you’ll get to find out what a little boy’s toy does against a company of brass heads.” He winked again, taking a huge bite of cheese.

David looked at him coolly. “Thank you for the information. I will let Commander Manoah know what a great help you’ve been. Who should I say directed us?”

The guard took a moment to swallow the sticky mouthful. “Just tell him it was Meesha, General Abner’s cousin. He knows me.” He gave them a mock salute. “And thank you. The cheese was good. But nothin’ like they make back in Nazareth.”

Jahra grimaced and made gagging sounds.

“Get on with you,” the guard barked, “or I’ll treat you to a taste of my spear’s shaft!” He spit at the ground. “What do uppity Judites know about good home cookin’ anyway …”

The sun was at its peak, and since they had not yet eaten, when they were out of sight of the walled city they began scouting for some shade. “Let’s sit under those Abraham oaks,” David said, pointing at a copse of trees with small, prickly leaves. Mount Hebron, where Abraham had built an altar in honor of God’s promise to give him the land of Canaan, was covered with them. That was where the name had come from.

Jahra stretched out his legs, wiggling his right ankle carefully. David heard him catch his breath. After untying the water skin, David handed it to him. Jahra lifted it overhead and drank deeply, letting the water splash off his face and head. David did the same.

When they were done eating, Jahra began to push himself off the ground. “Stay down,” David told him. He undid Jahra’s right sandal but could not help chuckling at his friend’s aggrieved expression, which was a perfect imitation of Nethanel’s.

“All you need is a braid down to your butt,” David said. Though he was smiling, the color of Jahra’s ankle disturbed him. It looked bruised. “Did you twist your ankle?”

Jahra shook his head vigorously.

David took the strip of oiled cloths from the bread they’d eaten and wrapped it around the swollen ankle. Jahra closed his eyes and set his mouth in a grim line. He was no longer playacting. When the cloth was knotted and the sandal’s thongs rewrapped, David pulled Jahra to his feet.

Jahra gave an exaggerated bow, then lifted his staff overhead with both arms, swung his hips, and pranced like a dancing girl. He was a bit cautious, but his mobility seemed to have improved.

“You smell like spoiled cheese,” David told him, “and your dancing is making me sick.”

As they turned east from Ramah, they began to encounter injured soldiers returning home to have their wounds treated. Most carried wooden farm implements, symbols of their subjugation to the Philistines, who refused to allow the Israelites their own smithies. It made David’s blood boil to see this shameful equipment; yet at the same time it also made him proud. It required a special kind of courage to take on an enemy sheathed in bronze and armed with glittering weapons of steel while holding only rakes, hoes, scythes, and ox goads.

From these limping, bandaged soldiers they learned that Michmash, which Saul’s army had captured several days earlier, had been retaken and was again a Philistine base camp. Their enemies had made Geba, on the opposite ridge, an outpost from which raiders were launching incursions throughout the surrounding area.

“Where is Jonathan’s division encamped?” asked David.

“They joined the main army at Gilgal,” answered a soldier, shifting his makeshift crutch to the other arm. “They marched together. Saul, with the main force, took a position at Migron, south of Michmash, while Jonathan circled around and is camped in the foothills between Geba and Gibeah.”

“We just came from there this morning and did not see any troops. How is it possible for us to have missed an entire division?” David asked.

The crippled soldier was suddenly unable to meet David’s eyes.

Another warrior stepped forward. He was tall and bony with a mop of curly black hair. It not only covered his head but also ran over his arms and legs. He looked like a bear on the verge of starvation. David wondered why he was not with the fighters. His only injury was a bloody bruise on his forehead.

“It was a bad business,” the soldier said. He stopped himself and extended his hand. “Oh, by the way, I am Eliam ben Ahithophel the Gilonite, Eli for short.” Despite his gaunt appearance, he had the booming voice of a much larger man.

“The majority broke ranks when they saw the chariots,” Eli continued. “Most of the army had never seen them before. Too many ran for me to count.” Clucking his tongue, he shook his head sadly. “Bad business.”

David was stunned. Saul’s soldiers running away? He was unable to take in the image of Israelite warriors deserting the field of battle.

“How many were there?” he asked.

He had meant how many soldiers remained to Saul but Eli misunderstood the question. “I lost track after two hundred chariots.” He turned toward the cart. “Micaia will know, though. He has a gift with numbers.”

“Mika!” he yelled, directing his question at a wiry soldier who had lost his left hand. He was sitting on the end of the cart, staring at the ground, his legs dangling listlessly. “How many chariots were there?”

“I counted nearly a thousand, Captain,” he said after a few moments. “It is the largest force the Philistines have ever sent against us. I think they mean to wipe us out once and for all.”

“What I meant was, how many soldiers are yet with Saul and Jonathan?” David said.

Eli looked over at Mika, who responded, “I think around six hundred, give or take. But most are with Saul.”

“No wonder we were able to pass by Jonathan’s troops without seeing them,” David muttered.

Captain Eli went over to consult quietly with the soldiers, then walked back. “My men have agreed that I need only accompany them to Gibeah. After I have them situated, I will be returning to join the force.” He pointed to a stand of palm trees. “If you want to wait for me there, I will return and take you to where the army is camped. It should be around sundown.”

“Thank you—Captain,” David said. “It will be safer to come with you. We would hate to be mistaken for Philistines.”

“No chance of that,” the man said, laughing as the cart pulled away. “I have yet to see a Philistine without a metal pot on his head, holding a slingshot.”

They were resting beneath a palm tree several paces back from the road when they heard screaming, the clanging of metal and shrieks of panic in the distance. It was the sound of an army in full retreat. David’s heart sank. The Philistines must have overwhelmed the Israelites.

“It can’t be!” he spit out, unwilling to believe that the army of Israel had been defeated by uncircumcised Philistines.

Slowly, as if a storm were building, the noise of routed troops was joined by an unusual sensation. The ground began to tremble. David had only experienced one earthquake; it was the most horrifying thing he had ever been through. It was like being caught in a thunderstorm erupting from the earth. This was similar, except that there was more of a rhythm to it.

Jahra’s tender ankle made it impossible for them to race to safety. The thunder beneath them was intensifying. Whatever was coming, it was not a horde of Israelite soldiers. David looked around desperately, then noticed dead palm branches at their feet. They hastily gathered them into a large pile and wormed themselves underneath. By now they could make out the thudding of hooves and the creaking of wood and metal, along with the cracking of whips and cries of terror. For some reason, Philistine chariots were racing toward them. They would soon be roaring down on top of them.

Chapter Ten

Earlier that day, about the time David and Jahra were launching their ineffective attack on the Jebusite stronghold, Jonathan’s shield bearer was watching the prince stamp around his tent, his eyes darting about like those of a captive falcon.

“I don’t know what the king is thinking, but I have had enough of waiting. He may keep doing nothing as those foreigners go on stealing our crops and using our women, but I cannot.”

Jonathan’s sunburned face was lean and hard. His brows were bunched over hazel eyes that were bright with anger. He had dark brown hair tied back in a tail that came down to the middle of his back. Although Jonathan was not as tall as his father, he was still one of the tallest men in Israel.

“Bring me my sword,” he commanded. “If Father had fortified Michmash like I told him,” Jonathan said, turning so Asa could strap on his weapon, “those dogs would never have been able to retake it and turn Geba into a launching point for their raiders.” He gestured upward with his arm, nearly striking Asa’s forehead.

As Asa was adjusting the leather belt around Jonathan’s waist, he asked, “My prince, did not the king make it clear that your division was to stay in Gibeah until he ordered an attack?” Asa spoke boldly, as he’d been commanded. The prince had made it clear: “Yours is not the role of a courtier, bending the truth to flatter royal ears. I have enough of those double tongues. When they are done speaking, I have no idea what they have said.”

“That order was given almost two weeks ago,” Jonathan fumed. He started pacing around the tent again, sliding his sword up and down in its scabbard as he spoke, the ringing of metal against metal underscoring his frustration. He and his father were among the few in the army who had iron swords.

Asa walked over to the sleeping area and began rolling up the mats and folding the prince’s clothes.

“The longer he waits, the stronger their position becomes, and the bolder and more aggressive their assaults.” The ringing grew louder as Jonathan’s voice became more emphatic. “Soon nothing will be able to keep them from taking Gibeah.”

“Maybe that’s his plan,” Asa muttered, placing the folded clothes in a basket.

Jonathan stared at his servant. “To be left without an army?” he asked incredulously.

“No. To provoke an attack on Gibeah. That would convince those who fled to defend the king’s city.”

“My father is devious, but not that devious. Nor would he take that big a risk.” Jonathan slammed the sword back into the scabbard. “If he would have left my division on Michmash, this would not have been necessary.”

“But if King Saul learns that you did not obey him, he will become so angry that—”

Jonathan cut him off. “Yes, he will undoubtedly become furious. But what of it? He is mad with rage most days, and when he is not, he is as passive as an old woman.”

Asa put his finger to his lips, warning the prince to watch his words.

Jonathan ignored him. “At least I will have acted instead of sitting in my tent like a cowed pup as foreigners run rampant throughout Benjamin.”

Asa sighed. “Very well. I will do as you say, my prince.”

Jonathan smiled grimly. “We will wait a few hours. When the heat is beginning to rise, it will be perfect.”

A few hours later, Jonathan pushed himself off his mat. “It’s time.” He gestured toward the corner. “And bring an extra bow. Leave the large shield behind; it will only get in your way. The mageen will do.”

Asa was puzzled but did as ordered. He was accustomed to the weight of the leather shield that protected the prince’s chest and groin area. The small round shield Jonathan wanted was only for close quarters combat. Before Asa slipped the extra bow across his back, he squeezed four more arrows into his quiver. It now held sixteen. He hung the mageen from his belt.

The small band of soldiers who remained with Jonathan were dozing in the shade of several large trees about fifteen paces away. Asa understood the prince’s frustration; the army’s inactivity had made them lax in their discipline. Only one guard was on lookout, but even he was half asleep, resting his weight on the butt of his spear.

“Stand at attention, soldier!” Jonathan said, keeping his voice low so as not to draw too much attention.

The guard’s head jerked up, his bleary eyes blinking rapidly.

“Do not let me catch you sleeping on guard duty again.” Jonathan strode past him, taking advantage of the soldier’s embarrassment.

“But … the king commanded—” the guard protested.

“He ordered me out on a special mission to spy out the enemy garrison,” Jonathan said with a freezing look. “You are not to speak of this to anyone. Am I clear?”

“Yes, my prince,” came the reply.

As the guard saluted them, his eyes sprung open in alarm. “Oh, my prince,” he began, his voice trembling, “King Saul also ordered that—”

Jonathan swung around to face him, slashing his finger in a silent but imperious command. “That is enough!” The guard bit down on his words, but his eyes were pleading.

Jonathan marched off, Asa several paces behind. The armor bearer had hesitated, wondering if he should have the guard relay the king’s command to him. He decided not to invite trouble.

The sun was high overhead. And there was only the barest breeze to soften the unrelenting heat. The two raiders took pains to keep in the shadows of the boulders and dart behind the tree trunks that dotted the slope heading down into the ravine. This was the dividing line that separated the troops of Israel from the Philistine outpost. Two rocky promontories stood next to each other. One looked like a thorn and was called Seneh. The other had slabs of shale that reflected the sun; its name was Bozez, “the Shining One.” Geba sat atop this latter elevation. At the base of the hills was a dense forest that stretched to the sacred city of Bethel less than half a day’s walk to the north.

Jonathan pointed at the leather bottle around Asa’s neck. “Drink some water,” he told him. “Pour some on your head, too. When we start the climb, we are only bringing our weapons. Everything else stays here.”

Asa took several swallows and retied his damp headband around his head. Jonathan did the same, then grasped Asa’s forearm. “We are going to cross over to the camp of these uncircumcised Philistines. Perhaps the Lord will act for us, for nothing holds Him back from deliverance. It matters not whether by many or by few.” He was staring directly into Asa’s eyes.

The shield bearer looked up at the prince. Something in the prince’s face made Asa’s pulse race. His eyes gleamed with a wild exultation that made Asa want to throw himself at the enemy fortifications.

“Do whatever your heart inclines, my prince,” he managed to say. “Here I am with you. My heart is as yours.”

Jonathan gripped his arm more tightly. “When we reach the top, we’ll reveal ourselves to these dogs. If they say, ‘Stand still until we get to you,’ we’ll wait and not go any higher. But if they tell us to come up to them, that will be the sign that the Lord has given them into our hand.”

Asa nodded, adjusted his quiver, and tied his belt so that the ends of the two bows fit snugly underneath and would not interfere with his climb. It turned out to be unnecessary, for the slope was not as demanding as it appeared from below, and the trees provided strategic cover. Nevertheless, due to the heat, their tunics were drenched when they made it to a flat open space. Emerging from behind the trees, they were in full view of the Philistine garrison perched a sling’s throw above them. They shouted, Jonathan’s sword glinting in the sun as he waved it over his head.

A Philistine guard looked their way, then turned to call over his shoulder. “Wake up! You won’t believe what I’m seeing,” the man shouted, his words slurred.

Soon there were about twenty soldiers jeering and laughing at the sweaty Hebrews from the summit of Bozez. Jonathan nudged Asa. “Because of the heat, they have removed their armor.”

“Thanks be to God,” responded his servant.

“Yes, but let us hear what they say first.”

One of the Philistines cried out, “Did you filthy Israelites slither out of the holes you were hiding in?” His only piece of armor was a bronze helmet pushed back on his head.

“Are you soldiers or rats?” another hollered.

“They are dirty cockroaches,” shouted a rotund soldier. He was holding a leather bottle. The Philistines sounded as if they had all been wakened from a drunken sleep.

“Come on up!” yelled a bald Philistine with a great black beard down to his waist. “We will be happy to teach you a lesson.” He had his own bottle, which he lifted above his head, allowing a dark stream to pour into his mouth.

Asa looked at Jonathan, and they both nodded.

“Follow me,” Jonathan said, grabbing Asa’s arm to stop him from climbing ahead of him.

“Not so, my prince. It is my place to protect you.”

“The Lord will protect me,” Jonathan said. “Today He has given the Philistines over to the army of Israel.”

Asa let Jonathan pass.

The foliage hid them from the Philistines, who could be heard laughing and yelling. At times they grew quiet; Asa assumed they were passing around bags of wine. Despite the thick trees, the climb up the craggy tooth was more difficult than the one Asa and Jonathan had just completed. The shale made the footing treacherous, forcing them to grab at branches and trunks, but with great caution lest a sound alert their enemies. By inching carefully from tree to tree, the two were able to work their way around to the camp’s eastern flank without being noticed.

“Cowards! Are you too afraid to show yourselves?” one of the Philistines cried out.

“Maybe they’ve run back to their holes,” came the retort.

“Here, give me that,” one of them yelled.

“Let’s see what they make of this,” another shouted, laughing. This was followed by the sound of a boulder crashing through bushes, striking tree trunks on its way to the ravine.

Jonathan turned and smiled at Asa. The rock was slamming into obstacles far from where they were crouched. Moments later they had reached the top. They were now at the top of Geba’s eastern lip. They kept their heads lowered but could easily hear the sound of the rocks the Philistines were tossing down the opposite slope.

Asa undid his belt, pulled the bows over his head, and gave one to Jonathan. He withdrew five arrows before handing the quiver to the prince. The two slowly raised their heads, staring through a stand of thistles behind the jeering soldiers about sixty paces away. The entire squad was bunched along the western rim. No more than twenty paces away, weapons were stacked in piles, along with helmets, breastplates, and shields.

The two warriors pulled themselves over the ridge. It was flat and had virtually no vegetation except for a few squat thorn bushes scattered on the narrow plateau. Jonathan stood up slowly and prepared his bow while Asa crouched and drove four of his arrows into the ground in front of him.

Jonathan felt a tingling of excitement and joy. Waves of heat were cascading through his body. Then the heat dissipated, and he felt a sudden calm. Letting out a slow breath, he looked at Asa’s upturned face, gave a quick nod, and the two released their arrows.

The raucous yelling of the drunken Philistines hid the gasps of two soldiers whose backs had been pierced. Two more bodies followed them over the edge before the dazed soldiers turned to face their attackers. Their bellows of anger and shock did not drown out the scream of another whose neck was pierced. Then the bald Philistine sank to his knees and fell on his face, with Jonathan’s third arrow through his chest.

“Don’t stop until they are all dead,” said Jonathan, readying his bow. “El Shaddai is fighting for us.”

“Yahweh is great and greatly to be praised,” Asa responded.

Another soldier dropped with a groan as Jonathan’s arrow pierced his stomach. The Philistine with the helmet was thrown backward as Asa’s arrow pierced an eye socket.

By this point, the remaining Philistines had managed to overcome their confusion and were rushing at their assailants. They still greatly outnumbered the two Hebrews.

“Give me cover,” the prince yelled, throwing the quiver at his shield bearer. Jonathan dropped the bow and ran toward the weapons, intent on reaching them before the Philistines did. One of them stumbled and fell, an arrow protruding from his chest. Another dropped before Jonathan reached the pile. He grabbed a spear that was standing like a lonely sentinel and threw it at the soldier in the lead. Still too fogged with wine, the Philistine was unable to sidestep quickly enough and dropped as if he’d run into a wall.

Jonathan picked up another spear and the helmet lying next to it. He jammed the helmet over his head. A smooth-skinned soldier with a narrow, feminine face raced toward him, swinging a mace. The prince parried the blow with the spear’s shaft and struck him in the face with its bronze-covered end. He heard a groan but did not wait to see the damage he had caused.

Running toward a javelin stuck in the ground, he grabbed it and flung it with such force that it went completely through a Philistine who was swinging a wide sword. Remembering his own sword, Jonathan yanked it out of his belt. Around him were shrieks of pain and angry roars as Asa’s arrows kept finding their marks, then all grew silent as Jonathan’s sword began tracing looping arcs overhead.

A surge of power raced up his back and through his chest and arms. He knew his mouth was open and that he was in full warrior cry, but he did not hear a sound. One swing, and a bald head was nearly sliced off a body; another, and a thick arm was severed. One more, but this time a shock of pain raced up his arm. His hand felt as if it had been broken. The blade had bounced back in his hands, having struck a bronze helmet on the head of a mercenary with a braided beard. An arrow from Asa’s bow took that soldier down as he was readying to launch his axe.

Hearing Asa’s cry and sensing an attack from behind, Jonathan spun to his right, ducked as a mace sliced past him, and twisted to drive his sword into the chest of a tall warrior swinging a sword. Another arrow found its mark in the shoulder of a Philistine aiming a bow at him. A second arrow brought that soldier to his knees. The last two soldiers had seen enough and were running toward the crevice that led to the main encampment at Michmash.

Jonathan pulled a javelin out of the hand of a dead Philistine and launched it into the air. It flew in a deadly arc, penetrating the lower back of the farthest runner. No arrow struck the second Philistine, who threw himself down, tumbling out of sight. Jonathan turned to see why Asa had failed to bring down the last soldier.

Several things registered at once: Asa on his knees, his head and body bowed, a javelin through his chest keeping him from falling on his face; his empty quiver; and the Philistine with the girl’s face coming toward him, swinging a war club, blood streaming from his nose, an arrow in his neck. Jonathan did not have time even to raise his arm, nor did he feel the blow that plunged him into the dark.

Chapter Eleven

When the fleeing soldier reported the decimation of the outpost, an uproar ensued. It was shameful to hear about two Israelites defeating a squad of soldiers, but what struck widespread terror was Jonathan’s war cry. The Canaanites were accustomed to the traditional “Rak Chazak!” which the Hebrews had used for generations. That was an exhortation to bravery, but Jonathan had been screaming something terrible: “Yahweh Sabaoth Immanuel! The Lord of heavenly hosts is with us!” And it turned their bowels to water.

The mercenaries from Egypt and Amalek were the first to panic. The significance of the phrase struck them with the ferocity of a sandstorm. Their eyes grew large, and they began to shriek as if stung by scorpions. In their haste, most forgot to grab their gear. Their terror quickly spread to the Philistine troops. Screaming, they threw themselves onto their chariots, most without buckling themselves in, and raced down the southern road toward Aijalon and the Philistine territory.

The unmistakable sounds of a routed army could easily be heard by the Israelites camped nearby. Saul immediately ordered General Abner, Saul’s second-in-command, to order a pursuit of the fleeing enemy. There were to be no captives; all stragglers were to be put to the sword. Ecstatic at the chance to finally join combat, the six hundred Hebrew soldiers raced to engage their dispirited opponents.

It was the thunder of a thousand chariots rushing to escape the wrath of Israel’s God, with ten times that number of soldiers on foot, that drove David and Jahra into the thickets.

David lost count of the number of two-wheeled vehicles that raced past him and Jahra. The horses’ sides ran with bloody sweat as the terrified drivers flayed them. Many chariots flipped over on the curve heading west toward Philistia. The soldiers who were not strapped in were flung into the air and lay moaning on the rocks that had shattered their bodies. Those who had fastened their harnesses were crushed under the weight of the rolling chariots.

As the numbers increased, the road became choked with men crying out in terror. The congestion was worse at the curve, where overturned chariots created a bottleneck. Hundreds made their way past by jumping over shrubs and rocks bordering the road. But the majority were struggling insanely, trying to force their way through.

David had to battle an irrational impulse to join the shrieking men running into the hills. His only recourse was to bite down hard and press his fists over his ears to deaden the noise that pulled at him. But this was not enough to drown out a high-pitched cry that sliced through the babble of voices like an axe. It raised goose bumps on the back of his neck. He peered through the dead fronds and saw the roiling mass of competing bodies contract and expand like a living organism. Then suddenly came the glitter of raised weapons. Knives and spears were raining down death. Archers grabbed arrows from their quivers and drove them into the faces of those swinging swords at them. Many fell dead, stabbed from behind, clutching the neck of the soldier they had just battered to death.

Then, as if responding to a signal, the writhing mass fragmented. Small groups of soldiers broke free and veered off the road. The massacre had taken only a few minutes, and just as fast, the mob dispersed. Eventually the screams died down, and the quiet was broken only by the occasional oath of a runner sliding away into the hills.

It had taken all of David’s strength to restrain himself from rushing into the orgy of killing. It was horrible yet somehow irresistible. When he was sure that the enemies had fled, he sat up. Jahra seemed unwilling to get up. David was pulling branches off his friend’s inert form when loud cries interrupted him. The soldiers were heading in their direction.

Jahra let out a groan.

David’s terror lessened when he realized that a squad of Hebrews was approaching. He wanted to jump to his feet, wave his arms, and race toward the men. But some part of him resisted. And his right arm was snagged on something. Looking down, he saw Jahra’s hand on his wrist. David let himself be pulled back down. He felt the cool dirt on his face again as Jahra quickly covered his back with palm leaves.

The oncoming men were gripped by their own kind of insanity. Some were shrieking and brandishing Philistine weapons. Their faces bore the dangerous expression of famished beasts. Jahra’s grip tightened and his eyes burned into David’s. They were wild with apprehension.

“There’s one!” the fleetest of foot shouted hoarsely, running toward the site of the massacre. David sucked in his breath. “And there’s another!” the man cried. He jumped over a chariot, its driver twisted grotesquely underneath, and kicked at a stack of bodies. Swinging his sword over his head, he screamed, “Let’s have some sport!” The response was a gleeful roar.

A band of at least thirty Hebrews flew past their hideout. Several clusters peeled away, slowing only to thrust their weapons into the bodies in their path. “We’ll teach these filthy dogs a lesson!” yelled the soldier in the lead.

The mob swarmed toward the pile at the curve of the road, howling with anticipation. David sucked in his breath. The men’s giddy excitement both sickened and frightened him. Peering through the foliage, he could make out a huddle of Hebrews hacking with swords. Another group was striking with javelin and spears. They were pummeling, thrusting, and slashing, in the grip of some wild frenzy.

“This one’s alive!” a voice cried out. His excitement made him sound like a girl playing hide-and-seek.

“Move aside!” roared one of the men, pushing past the Israelites in his path. In his hand was a bronze sword stained red to the handle. His face and chest were streaked with blood, as was the border of his tunic.

Shoving the last Hebrew out of the way, he took a position over the wounded Philistine. He spread his legs wide and lifted the weapon above his head. There was a pleading cry, rising with intensity, then silence as the sword slashed down. The mob screamed in delight as their leader brought up the head, swinging it around. Those splattered with the blood laughed uproariously.

While this was taking place, several soldiers were slicing strips of meat from a fallen horse. The soldier waving the severed head yelled at them, “Men, remember the king’s oath. Whoever eats before evening will be killed.”

“Curse that old woman,” one yelled back. “We’re famished.”

“Why should we bother obeying that crazy fool?” another said, laughing. “Come tomorrow, he’ll forget all about it.”

A third soldier responded, chewing as he spoke. “We need our strength to chase these dogs back to their kennels.” He drew his sleeve across his mouth and lifted a wet slice. “Captain, come join us. The meat is excellent.”

Hesitating for only a moment, the officer strode over and grabbed the meat. “Who ever heard of a king refusing to let his fighting men eat?” he said, taking a mouthful. “Ahhh. That is good.” He smacked his lips and gave them a wink. “The freshest meat we’ve had in weeks.” He looked down at the soldiers gorging themselves on the raw flesh. “Give me another,” he commanded. “But this stays between us, understood? You tell nobody.”

After a while, he wiped his mouth and barked, “You’ve had enough. Let’s find us more Philistines, hopefully some with a bit more fight in them.” Laughing, the men cleaned off their hands on the horse’s hide and began loping toward enemy territory.

David and Jahra did not move for a long while. David’s hands and knees were trembling. He let out several shaky breaths, trying to expel the images from his mind. He heard Jahra let out a shuddering moan of his own. David reached out and patted his friend’s shoulder. Jahra’s eyes were red and watery.

Shaking off his disgust and tired of their inactivity, David whispered, “Let’s make camp. It’s going to be dark soon. I have my doubts that Captain Eli will be coming tonight. And anyway, I need to find a tree so I can do my business.”

His friend gave a weak grin but nodded emphatically.

Dusk had come by the time they cleaned up, organized their campsite, and made a small fire. Only a ribbon of rose remained to light the horizon.

“You hungry?” David asked as he settled in front of the flames, resting his back against a low ledge. Jahra responded by rubbing his stomach.

“Should I go and cut some nice, juicy strips off that horse?” David asked.

Jahra looked at him, aghast. Lifting his hand, he moved his fingers to imitate the prancing legs of a horse. Then he pointed at his fingertips.

“I know. I know.” David laughed. “Don’t get your loincloth tied into a knot. I know perfectly well that they don’t have cloven feet. I’m the Hebrew, after all.”

Jahra bent his head slightly, touched his chest, and moved his hand in elegant little circles in front of him, making a sign of exaggerated respect. Then he opened the food bag.

When their meal of goat cheese, pickled olives, and bread was done, David took a long drink from the water bag, laid it down, and leaned on his elbow, facing the fire. “Fresh meat would have been better.”

Jahra, on his back, did not look at him. He simply lifted his hand and pranced his fingers in David’s direction.

“Yes. Unclean. Not to mention raw.” He threw a stone at the reclining figure. “It may surprise you to know that I’m aware of the kosher laws. Still, a nicely roasted flank would have been much more satisfying.”

Jahra shook his head and reached for the leather pouch lying between them. Jahra untied the knot and drew out his harp. David threw a few more sticks onto the fire and lay back against the ledge. Jahra plucked the strings, adjusted the tension, and ran his hand over them. The sound reverberated in their mini amphitheater.

He was composing a new song and began cautiously, feeling his way toward a refrain. Experimenting with different notes, he quickly found a tune he liked. Oddly, despite what they had witnessed, the song was filled with a subdued joy. It was a song to dance to.

David’s legs were drawn up against his chest. Impulsively he grabbed two chunks of wood and began striking them against each other in time with the music. Dissatisfied, he tossed them into the fire. Sparks leaped up into the dark night like a host of twirling fireflies. What was needed was the percussive sound of cymbals. Reaching down, he yanked two of the largest stones out of his pouch. The crisp clacking was perfect. His right hand held steady as with his left he struck the rat-a-tat-tat of a drumbeat that provided a jaunty counterpoint to the song’s martial rhythm.

As he rapped out the beat he began hearing the music of other instruments in his head. There was the trill of a flute, like a darting swallow, and a shofar trumpeting three shattering notes, followed by a group of harps, lyres, and other stringed instruments. There was also a wind instrument with a low, breathy timbre he could not identify.

He did not know at what point he began to sing, but on their own, words began to flow. It was as if another singer had taken over his body and was moving his tongue and mouth. Lyrics poured effortlessly out of him. He sang without giving his vow a thought.

Sing to Yahweh a new song

for He has performed marvels,

His own right hand, His holy arm,

gives Him the power to save.

Yahweh has displayed His power;

has revealed His righteousness to the nations.[12]

David grew quiet, listening to the military cadence of a score of drums in unison. There was the thunder of thousands of feet—an army on the march, but in perfect coordination. They drove the song and lyrics forward exultantly.

Sing to Yahweh, sing to the music of harps,

and to the sound of many instruments;

to the sound of trumpet and horn

acclaim Yahweh the King!

Let the sea thunder and all that it holds,

and the world, with all who live in it;

let all the rivers clap their hands

and the mountains shout for joy,

at the presence of Yahweh, for He comes

to judge the earth,

to judge the world with righteousness

and all the nations with strictest justice.

Acclaim Yahweh, all the earth;

burst into shouts of joy!

Acclaim Yahweh, all the earth,

acclaim Yahweh the King![13]

On the last phrase, a clapping sound joined the other instruments he was hearing. Jahra’s fingers froze. It continued, slowly, methodically as if in derision. With a rush of shame that was instantly transformed into terror, David realized that it was coming from the trees behind them.

He jerked around and raised his head to peer over the ledge. Less than thirty paces away, firelight glinted off the bronze of a Philistine helmet and the hilt of a sword. The soldier was huge, easily twice as tall as a normal-sized man. David gasped as if ice water had been poured on his head. They had been ambushed by one of the Gittites! All David knew of them was that they were noted for extraordinary height and were rumored to enjoy human flesh.

As dread tightened its hold on him, David heard a quiet nicker and the swish of a long tail. The Philistine was not a giant after all, but a soldier mounted on a horse so dark as to be nearly invisible in the dim light. Behind the bronze nosepiece, David could just make out a swarthy face. The man must be an African mercenary. According to David’s brothers, they were even more brutal than the Philistines.

As the soldier nudged his horse forward, David saw that the African’s lips were set in a fierce, angry line.

12 Psalm 98:1–2

13 Psalm 98:5–9, author’s paraphrase

Chapter Twelve

David’s left hand moved toward the sling at his side. He did not need to open the pouch, since he already had two flat stones ready in his palm. The braided leather thong caught against his tunic bunched around his belt. He gave two quick tugs, and it slid out. He located the supple leather cradle and fitted the stone into it with fingers slick with sweat. His breathing grew more rapid as he prepared to launch himself to his feet.

“Hands out in front,” barked the soldier in perfect Hebrew, walking toward them on his horse. Each step caused him to weave slightly. David was stunned by the man’s speech. He sounded like he could have been raised in Bethlehem.

David felt fingers on his calf. Jahra tapped him three times. David indicated that he understood. On the count of three, they leaped to their feet. Jahra had a stick in one hand and his harp in the other. He gave the strings a violent swipe. At the same moment David began twirling the sling. Startled by the noise, the horse threw his head up and skittered backward. David sent the stone flying at the mercenary. Oddly, before it struck him, he had already begun sliding off his mount.

He landed on the ground with a thud, and the animal reared and bolted into the darkness. When the Philistine made no move to get up, David hurdled the low ledge and ran toward the figure, yanking the sword from its oversized sheath. The mercenary’s face was half hidden by the bronze helmet that sat at a crooked angle. Holding the weapon overhead, David kicked the helmeted head. The lips moved, but no sound came. Jahra had hobbled up next to David. Keeping his distance from the body, he gestured to the dent on the right side of the helmet. David slid the point of the sword under its nosepiece and gave a sharp twist.

The helmet spun off.

The man’s face was dark—but with dried blood. The soldier was no African; neither was he a Canaanite. They were looking at an Israelite, his long, curly hair matted with sweat and blood. A braid was draped across his lower jaw. It was tipped with a golden clasp that looked like an eagle in flight. David was sure he’d seen it before. Again using the sword, he carefully flicked the braid aside. That was when his knees almost gave out.

Lying at their feet was Jonathan, the king’s son and his brothers’ senior commander. He had seen him from a distance on several occasions when he’d brought them food.

“Lord, have mercy on us!” The prayer burst from David’s mouth. Turning to Jahra, David hissed, “This is the prince!” Jahra gasped and took a step back. Kneeling, David placed his fingers on the prince’s wrist, then stood and grabbed one of his arms. “Hurry! We need to drag him to the fire.”

Like his father, Jonathan was tall and strongly built. They could barely move him.

“Harder!” David urged.

They pulled again, and Jahra moaned as his leg buckled. He stumbled and fell to a sitting position. Motioning for Jahra to wait, David unbuckled the Philistine armor, taking off the chest piece, the greaves, and the heavy leather belt. They were now just able to drag the prince down to their camp. They quickly folded their cloaks and laid Jonathan’s head on the makeshift pillow. By the time they were done, Jahra was gasping, and sweat was running down his cheeks.

David unplugged the water bottle, wet a cloth, and began cleaning away the blood, but Jahra nudged him aside. He took the cloth from David and began wiping the prince’s face and beard, then poured water carefully over Jonathan’s forehead, letting it run back into his hair. With gentle fingers, Jahra pulled back the strands of hair to see where the blow had landed. The prince had been struck over his right ear, leaving a vicious gash and a dark welt. Jahra dabbed it with the damp cloth. As he did, Jonathan groaned and twisted his neck, but he did not open his eyes.

“How serious is it?” David whispered.

Jahra shook his head tentatively, but his eyes were hopeful. Jahra had inherited his mother’s ability to treat wounds and intuit their seriousness. Apparently the prince’s injury was not life threatening.

“Good. Good,” David murmured, beginning to breathe a little easier. “May Yahweh be praised!”

Jahra gestured to the sound of nickering behind them. Apparently the skittish horse had returned. David looked over his shoulder and noticed a leather wine bag slung over the saddle. He ran to grab it. Jahra tore a length from the Philistine cloak Jonathan had been wearing and had David drench it with wine. He patted the wound with the wet cloth. At this, Jonathan grimaced, his nostrils flaring. David helped lift the prince’s head as Jahra wrapped the wet bandage around it. When they finished, the prince let out a groan and opened his eyes.

“Who are you?’ he rasped. Before they had time to answer, he whispered again. “Do you have any water?”

There was a glint of humor in his dark eyes. “I know you have more than enough wine.” His lips cracked in a weak smile as he caught his breath. “You may have caused me to swear it off forever.” He had a crooked grin that made David think that were Jonathan not the heir to the throne, they might have become friends.

David clambered to his feet, grabbed the water bag, and unplugged it. He held it up so the prince could drink from it. Jonathan pushed himself into a sitting position and waved the bag closer. “Give it to me,” he croaked. Lifting it over his head, Jonathan let the stream flow into his mouth. It splattered over his neck and chest. After several deep draughts, he handed it back.

“That’s better,” he said. “I may have been foolish enough to get knocked over the head—and fall off my horse—but I am still capable of giving myself a drink.”

He looked pointedly at David and then at Jahra. “So, do you plan on answering my question, or is your intent to keep your identities secret?”

David’s tongue felt like a slab of dried mutton. The question hung in the air. Jonathan’s eyes narrowed. “You are not deserters, are you?” he asked, his hand feeling for his weapon. His tone was cool but as sharp as a dagger.

“No. No, my prince,” David responded, finally finding his voice. It quavered like that of a girl. It was mortifying.

“Here, take a drink,” the prince said, holding out the bag with a half smile. “Sounds like you need it.”

Jonathan looked at Jahra. “How about you? What name do you go by?”

“He does not speak, my prince,” David told him, choking a little on the water he’d not quite been able to swallow. “His name is Jahra, and mine is David. My prince—”

“Jonathan,” the prince interrupted, waving his hand. “My name is Jonathan. While we share this solitary refuge, you may use my given name. It will make conversation much easier.”

David murmured his agreement.

Jonathan continued, “If you are not deserters, what brings you here into the middle of this battle? You would not be spying for our enemies, would you?” Before David could answer, Jonathan laughed. “Take a breath, young man, and tell me your story.”

David let the panic subside and related their mission.

“Yes, I know the three sons of Jesse,” Jonathan said. “They are under the command of Manoah. The oldest is Eliab, is he not?”

David nodded, growing tense.

“He has a certain reputation,” the prince added.

David felt his face flush.

“Do you favor him?” the prince asked, but he interrupted before David could respond. “Don’t answer. A temper is neither good nor bad. It is a necessary tool for a warrior, but one must know when and how to use it to advantage.”

David swallowed the defensive words he’d been about to utter.

“I know a thing or two about hot tempers,” the prince said, his voice sounding distant. He grew quiet and stared pensively at the fire.

David could not think of a way to break the uncomfortable silence. His thoughts were as jumbled as an overturned beehive.

Finally the prince spoke again. “And that brings to mind the song I heard you singing. It was beautiful.” He lifted himself up on one elbow. “Where did it come from?”

“It just came to me, my prin—ah, Jonathan.”

“You never sang it before?” He looked at David curiously.

David nodded, his cheeks hot.

“So I take it that you are a minstrel. Have you many other songs?” Jonathan was looking at him with strange intensity. It made the skin of David’s neck itch.

“No, I have no other songs. I am simply a shepherd.”

“A mere sheep herder? The last thing I remember thinking before exiting my horse was that you were one of our expert Benjamite slingers.”

Jahra’s muffled chortle startled the prince, who looked at him in surprise. David shot Jahra a warning glance, but on seeing the amusement in the boy’s face, the prince threw back his head and joined him in laughter. He stopped with a grunt, running a hand over his temple. He slowly laid his head back on the cloaks.

“You have me at your mercy. You may ask me anything, even up to half my kingdom, for your promise that you will not mention that unprofessional descent. If the men found out, I would have to live with it till my dying day.”

David and Jahra nodded solemnly. “You can trust us; we will say nothing,” David said, unsure whether to treat the remark as a joke.

They sat in awkward silence.

Jonathan looked at the boys. “What? No request from your prince?” He leaned back with a groan. “Good. In any event, I extorted your promise on false pretenses, not having any kingdom at my disposal.” He winked at them. “It is all my father’s until such time as he has passed.”

He sat up, looking around. “Where is that wine bag? We need something more substantial than water to formalize our agreement.” David handed it over, and they each took drinks from the bag. Jonathan passed it around several times. David was accustomed to drinking wine mixed with water; drinking it straight was making his head spin.

The prince slid back down on his mat, letting out a contented sigh. “I hate to say it—and I will deny it if you ever repeat it—but those uncircumcised Philistines know what to do with grapes.”

While they were passing the bag around, David had thought of a reasonably intelligent question. “Prince Jonathan,” he began, “what caused the Philistine army to panic? It was as if they had lost their minds.”

“You saw this yourselves?”

David nodded, then turned to point behind him. “Over there, at the bend in the road.” He described the carnage they had witnessed. He was growing more confident the more he spoke and was about to relate what the Israelites had done but decided against it. The words of a Galilean fisherman came to mind: “The fish is caught because he opened his mouth one time too many.” David closed his.

“That is unusual,” Jonathan muttered, staring into the sky. Reaching for the wine bag, he took a thoughtful drink. “I wonder.” He stopped himself. “Come to think of it, there was that one Philistine who managed to avoid Asa’s arrow.”

The hairs on David’s arms bristled. There was a war story coming. David’s fingers were drumming on the ground excitedly by the time Jonathan was ready to continue.

“This is a three-stick story,” Jonathan said, and David hurried to throw more wood on the fire.

Jonathan leaned back against the ledge and gingerly kneaded his bandaged head as he recounted how he and his shield bearer, Asa, had attacked the Philistine outpost.

“How many troops were stationed there?” David asked.

“I was not sure at the time. But as it turned out, there must have been nearly two dozen.”

“And you decided to attack it alone?”

“Not quite,” Jonathan said, laughing. He explained how they had baited the hook to see whether Yahweh would support their assault. “When they told us to climb up to fight them, I knew that the Lord Sabaoth had given them over to us.”

David’s eyes stung with pride.

Jonathan’s voice grew soft. “Sadly, one of them got to Asa. There was not a better archer in all the land. He would not have been killed had he not emptied his quiver.”

“But what routed their army?”

Jonathan did not respond. He only looked at David with his eyebrows raised.

David recalled his own almost uncontrollable impulse to throw himself into the frenzy. “You mean? Oh, that’s what I … what caused …”

“Of course. Don’t you remember what Moses told the armies as they prepared to enter Canaan?” The timbre of Jonathan’s voice changed as he recited the incident. “‘The Lord shall send hornets in front of you to drive the Hivite and Canaanite and Hittite from your presence. He shall spread panic ahead of you and throw all your enemies into confusion.’”

Jonathan glanced at the young men and spread out his hands. “How do you think the Lord managed that in Joshua’s day? By sending buzzing insects to frighten trained warriors?” He sniffed dismissively. “The God who sent His wind to part the Red Sea and drown the Egyptians can send a nameless terror to drive men out of their minds.”

David and Jahra nodded, encouraging the prince to continue.

“Which reminds me,” Jonathan said, looking at David again with that strange expression. “I think my father could benefit from your music.” He yawned, pushing himself carefully away from the ledge and lying down on the cloaks. “I am a good judge of such things, and there is something in your music that could do him a great service. The God who can drive men mad can also heal from madness.”

Jonathan seemed to sense David’s bewilderment. “God gave you that victory song. And let me tell you, I’ve heard some of the best at Gibeah. Musicians are drawn there like flies to carrion. Your song was unlike any of theirs. He who inspired those words of triumph can just as easily give you words to comfort—even to heal.”

He turned on his side, facing the boys as they huddled by the fire. “Where are your cloaks?” he asked. He looked around, then patted the material underneath his head. “No. No,” he said, pulling at them so he could hand them back. “I appreciate it very much, my young friends, but I shall not allow you to freeze on my account. My own cloak will suffice.”

The boys were about to lie down when Jonathan spoke again. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but with all this talking, I forgot how little I’ve had to eat. The honey I ate this afternoon after I came down from the Philistine stronghold gave me just enough strength to make it to your camp. And as you saw, it was barely enough for that.”

David reached over, grabbed the food bag lying next to him, and handed it to the prince. Jahra made a loud coughing sound, and David looked at him. He was shaking his head and jabbing his finger at the road.

David was confused. “What?” he asked, but then the words of the Hebrew captain came to him. “Stop, my prince!” David exclaimed, making a grab for the bag the prince was opening. Jonathan looked up, annoyed.

“Your father made the troops swear that death would come to any soldier who ate food today.”

Jonathan stared at him in surprise. “Are you saying that he forbade the army from taking sustenance this entire day? How did he expect them to be able to drive our enemy into the ocean?” He dropped his head into his hands.

“Oh no,” he moaned. “Today my father has stirred up trouble for the land. How much better it would have been had he allowed the men to refresh themselves; then they would have been able to make a complete end of these rabid dogs.” He took the bag from David. “Well, I have already eaten once this day, so what worse evil could come to me by eating again? If Father wishes to kill me for some honey and a piece of bread and cheese, then so be it.”

Chapter Thirteen

David awoke early to a slightly nauseating odor and the words of a song floating through his mind. He wrinkled his nose, thinking an animal had died near their camp. Then he recalled the bodies lying a stone’s throw away. He did not want to think about what it would be like at midday. They would have to leave before the worst of it.

While he could ignore the smell, he could not disregard an overwhelming impulse. He glanced at his companions; a whistling sound was coming from the prince’s direction. David got quietly to his feet, draping his cloak, damp with dew, around his shoulders.

He walked around Jahra’s bed and saw the strap from the leather pouch underneath his feet. When he pulled at it, he heard a muffled groan. Before straightening up, he lifted the corner of the cloak, and his heart dropped into his stomach. The swelling had moved past Jahra’s ankle, and an angry purplish welt extended up his leg. It did not seem possible that it had been caused by the mauling weeks ago, but whatever the cause, Jahra needed immediate help. David decided to let them both rest one more hour before he returned to pack up.

Carrying the harp in his hand, David made his way into the woods. He followed the path the prince’s horse had taken a day earlier. It took him to a small glen with several moss-covered rocks in the center. He sat down on the largest, running his fingers through the green carpet beneath him. He took out the harp and held it in his lap. His left forefinger plucked awkwardly at a string. He was catching hints of a tune and needed to find where it was hiding inside this unfamiliar instrument. His fingers had yet to catch up to the music that, since Samuel’s anointing, had begun bubbling up inside him. Despite his ineptness, he felt an odd excitement, like the buzzing of insects under his fingertips.

He struggled for a while, searching for the right union of notes and rhythm and finally found one combination that he wanted, then another. His excitement was building into a tentative joy. The song began to fit together, awkwardly at first, then more smoothly. It was simple, childish even, but it was lovely and pure and fit perfectly with the words of supplication with which he’d awakened.

Yahweh, let my words come to Your ears,

spare a thought for my sighs.

Listen to my cry for help,

my King and my God!

I sing this prayer to You, Yahweh,

For at daybreak You listen for my voice

and at dawn I hold myself in readiness for You.

I watch for You.[14]

The horizon was now streaked with red and gold and slivers of purple. David’s eyes glistened, and his throat tightened as it brought to mind his friend’s painful injury. The words of supplication rose on their own:

Yahweh, do not punish us in Your rage

or reprove us in the heat of anger.

Take pity on us, Yahweh, on those who have no strength left.

Bring healing to the bones that are in torment.

Yahweh, how long will You be?[15]

Swallowing hard, he grew still and allowed the song’s ending to take shape, like a figure emerging from the fog.

There is joy for all who take shelter in You,

endless shouts of joy!

Since You protect the weak, they exult in You,

those who love Your name.

Yahweh, it is You who bless the virtuous;

Your favor is like a shield covering them.

You are a shield that protects the upright of heart.

God the righteous judge,

slow to show His anger.

A God who is always enraged by those who refuse to repent.

I give thanks to Yahweh for His righteousness,

I sing praise to the name of the Most High.[16]

There was a moment of silence as David caught his breath, flexing his left hand, unused to the strange exertions on the harp. He pulled up the cloak that had slid off his shoulders, and as he did, he saw Jonathan leaning against a tree trunk behind him. David felt his face grow warm.

“I see it did not take long,” the prince said, walking toward him.

David looked at him inquisitively.

“To weave another song out of nothing.”

The harp felt suddenly heavy and awkward in his hands. He shrugged. “It was not much.” He was afraid to meet the prince’s eyes. “It was so … simple, a child’s song. Jahra could have done much better.”

“Maybe so,” Jonathan said, sitting next to him. “But to me it was perfect.” He reached down to his belt and pulled out a dagger.

David stiffened. Word of the king’s erratic behavior and cruelty had filtered throughout Judah. Perhaps Jonathan was as unstable as his father.

“Relax,” Jonathan said, laughing. “I don’t know what you have heard about the royal family, but we are not given to cold-blooded murder—not all of us, at least. And we have not killed a musician yet, that I know of. Though perhaps we should have.”

He held the hilt out to David. “Let me be the first to present you with a gift for your gift,” he said, his face growing serious. “If I am any judge, this will not be the last.”

David took the knife, feeling foolish. It was obvious that he had little skill with the harp. He stared at the elegant weapon with its ebony handle and thin, dangerous blade. Resting on his palm, it made his calloused fingers look thick and ugly. The prince was merely being kind. Despite this, a warm glow spread through him. He felt stupid and naive but could not help also feeling a little proud.

“How old are you?” Jonathan asked.

“Nineteen,” David said, straightening his back. He could tell, taking a quick glance, that his head barely reached Jonathan’s shoulder.

“I guessed you to be about the same age as my little sister.”

“What is her name?”

“Michal.” Jonathan seemed to be examining David’s reaction as he said the word.

David tried to meet his eye and show only polite interest.

“Like you, she is quite spirited,” Jonathan said. “Father favors her over Merab, who is several years her senior.” He laughed ruefully. “We all agree that Michal is a bit spoiled. She can get Father to do anything she wants.”

David wanted to find out more but could not think of the right questions to ask. He racked his mind for an oblique inquiry, then blurted out in a flash of inspiration, “Do you resemble each other?”

Jonathan turned his head, his eyebrows arched. He smiled slightly.

David groaned inside and kept his eyes fixed on the dagger in his hand.

“As it happens,” the prince responded, “she is much prettier and considerably shorter.” He pushed up the bandage on his head, which was slipping down over one eye. “Let me put it this way: she is what is known in our area as a head turner.” He looked David over appraisingly. “I would guess that she is just a bit taller than you, though. That is the burden my sisters carry, which of course they blame—and rightfully so—on our father. Merab is convinced that it is the sole reason for her lack of suitors.” His voice grew thoughtful. “I know better.”

David could not hold back the question. “If I may ask, what is the problem?”

Jonathan looked around the glen, as if searching for lurking spies. “They are terrified of my father, afraid that at any moment he might go into a frenzy, and that they will feel the sharp end of his spear.”

David felt a wave of defensiveness. “Certainly they are not put off by King Saul’s temper?” he said. “I would think anyone would be honored to be near him.” He hesitated, then pressed forward. “I certainly would be.”

“Bravo!” Jonathan exclaimed, clapping David on the back. “A faithful subject. I salute you.” There was a trace of sarcasm in the prince’s voice and a hardness in his eyes. “My father will love you.”

David’s eyes narrowed.

Jonathan said, “What is it? Does the idea shock you?”

David decided to ask about something else that had been troubling him. “What will happen to you when you see him?”

Jonathan nodded. “You mean about the curse? I have no idea. It depends on the mood of the moment. If he is in full battle cry, then I imagine I will lose my head. Or he may impale me instead.”

Hearing these words made David’s head spin. His world seemed to be shifting sideways. He was in the middle of something much bigger than he was, something that in dark, mysterious ways might be extremely hazardous.

“But you are his son. You don’t really think he would carry out the oath against you?”

Jonathan only gave him a sidelong glance. “We shall see, my friend. We shall see. You may still get to witness the most violent mood swings in the kingdom.” Turning toward David, he lowered his voice. “I am afraid my father is very sick. His rages are so terrible, he has become a danger to himself as well as to his family, and to the entire—” Jonathan stopped himself, swearing under his breath.

“But you were not even aware of the oath,” David protested, “and your victory over the Philistine garrison will certainly give him reason to forgive you.”

Jonathan barked a mirthless laugh. “It could just as well have the opposite effect. He’s become suspicious of everyone—and that includes me. When the blackness is fully upon him, he is convinced we all are conspiring to steal the throne.” He fingered the lump on his temple. “I think Michal is the only one he fully trusts.” Jonathan’s voice thickened. “You would think a father would be proud, wouldn’t you? But not him.” He let out a slow breath. “I stopped caring a long time ago about what he thought of me.”

“I understand,” David murmured, tracing his fingertip over the design on the dagger’s handle.

Jonathan’s gaze changed focus and turned toward David, as if he were seeing him for the first time. David looked up, and their eyes locked. Jonathan rested a hand on his shoulder. “What I did at Geba, I did for me and for the army. It had nothing to do with pleasing that frightened old man.” He let out a shaky breath. “Sometimes I feel sorry for him. He seems to be in such great pain, and when it is over, he looks almost … ashamed.” The muscles along his jawline throbbed. “But at other times, I think I would like to—” He stopped, staring at his clenched fists.

Needing to keep his hands busy, David slid the dagger into his belt and waited for the prince to continue.

When he resumed, there was concern in Jonathan’s voice. “This talk of illness reminds me. Your friend—Jahra, isn’t it?—is not doing well. He needs a physician. We need to take him to Ahimelech. He is with the army.”

“Is he the high priest who serves at the tabernacle?” David asked.

“Yes.” Jonathan shook his head in disgust. “It’s gotten so bad with my father that he won’t set foot outside of Gibeah without bringing Ahimelech and his ephod along for divination.” He flicked his hands in frustration. “Regardless, the priest is adept at medicine. He will know how to treat the injury.”

“Thank you, my prince,” David said, impetuously scrambling to his feet. Embarrassed that he’d forgotten about his friend, he began jogging toward their camp.

Jonathan caught up to him as they came out of the woods. “Jahra will ride with me on my horse.” The friendly warmth had been replaced with a note of command. “You are a runner and can keep pace beside us.” The look on his face was that of one preparing to face a death sentence.

David could not believe King Saul would harm his son, but something had shifted beneath him. He no longer knew what to expect from the man who’d been his childhood hero.

14 Psalm 5:1–3

15 Psalm 6:1–3, author’s paraphrase

16 Psalm 5:11–12; 7:10, 17, author’s paraphrase

Chapter Fourteen

Jahra was sitting up when they arrived. His face was a little flushed, but his spirits seemed high. The long rest had been good for him. He had used the time alone to wrap his leg. David felt his forehead. It was still warm. “Sit there while we break camp,” David ordered.

By the time they were ready to leave, it was no longer possible to ignore the sound of the buzzing flies. Fortunately a breeze was blowing the smell away from them.

“It should not take long,” Jonathan assured David, who was standing next to the horse’s flank after helping Jahra find his seat behind the prince. “Without food, the army could not have gotten beyond Aijalon. We should arrive in the late afternoon.”

They headed west, skirting the bottleneck. The dried grass beaten down by thousands of feet resembled the aftermath of an animal stampede. On low branches were long strips of cloth hanging like colorful banners. It took a few moments for David to realize they were the remains of turbans torn from the heads of fleeing mercenaries. As David and his companions passed by, Jahra pulled the strips loose and placed them in a pile between him and the prince.

Winding back to the road leading to the Philistine cities, they heard stamping and whinnying. A small herd of horses was massed in the road ahead. Some still had wide eyes, having not yet recovered from the frenzied rout. They all trailed bridles with the characteristic brass Philistine rings. A muscled bay with jet-black mane and a black sock on her left hind leg was standing a few paces away from the others. She stared at them with quiet, intelligent eyes.

David opened the food sack and pulled out their remaining loaf. The bay widened her nostrils, tossed her head, and began moving toward him. Walking carefully toward her, he held out his hand in front of him, his palm open. She stopped an arm’s length away, then lowered her head, stretched forward, and with dainty lips took the bread from him. When she had finished, she made no objection as he leaped onto the padded saddle on her back.

“Excellent! You won’t be slowing down the pace any longer,” Jonathan said. “Now it should take us only a few hours.” He looked ahead, as if visualizing their route. “We will pass by Kiriath Jearim first and then, heading west, should make contact with the army soon thereafter.”

“I’ve always wanted to go there to at least be near the ark,” David said, finding his balance on the trotting horse.

“So have I,” Jonathan responded. “Each time I’ve asked for permission to visit, Father’s answer is always the same: ‘We are professional fighting men, not sightseers.’ And when he moved the tabernacle he would never explain why he did not order the ark to be returned to the holy place.”

“I’m sure he had good reasons,” David said defensively.

Jonathan merely shrugged.

“My father certainly appreciated it when the tabernacle was moved,” David went on. “It cut our travel time in half. He hates traveling outside of Judah. For him, traveling into Benjamin to make sacrifice was almost an act of disloyalty.”

Jahra turned sideways and gave David a broad smile.

“For years I assumed the ark was inside,” David said. “I even went up to the high priest to ask him about it. I remember looking at his big white turban and thinking he was wearing a cloud on his head.”

Both Jonathan and Jahra laughed.

“I asked him whether it was possible to see the ark, and he explained that it was far away in a town near the border of Dan and Benjamin, being cared for by Eleazar, the son of a rich man named Abinadab.”

“I have met him,” Jonathan said. “He’s been to Gibeah several times. He takes his role as keeper of the ark very seriously, certainly much more seriously than my father does.”

“I’ve heard different stories about how the ark wound up in Kiriath,” David said. “Do you know what actually happened?”

Before answering, Jonathan unstopped the water bottle hanging from his saddle, took a drink, then handed it to Jahra. When Jahra was finished, he passed it to David. “After the army’s defeat at the battle of Ebenezer,” Jonathan said, “the Philistines captured the ark and destroyed Shiloh. They carried it back with them to Ashdod and displayed it inside Dagon’s temple.”

“A merchant told me Dagon was the most ridiculous idol he’d ever seen,” David added. “He said it was huge and had the face of an angry fish.”

Jonathan nodded. “Well, those uncircumcised fools thought they had humiliated the God of Israel, but the next morning they found Dagon facedown in front of the ark.”

David hooted with delight.

“They set it back up,” Jonathan continued, “but when they returned the following day, their fish-god was on the ground again, this time with its head broken off.”

“And his hands, too,” David added.

“That’s the way I heard it. They were broken off at the wrists across the temple’s threshold,” Jonathan agreed. “Ever since, those who enter to worship are still required to step over the threshold.” He pressed his fingertips to his forehead in disbelief. “They don’t seem to have realized that Yahweh exposed Dagon as an impotent fraud.”

“Is it true that the capture of the ark was the reason why your father became king?” David asked.

Jonathan took a moment to answer. “Something like that. The Philistines put it in a cart and let oxen take it out of their territory. The elders had a meeting with Samuel in Abinadab’s field, where the oxen had decided to stop. It was there that they told Samuel they did not want his sons to become judges. So I think it was their mistrust, combined with shame at their defeat, that prompted them to demand a king.”

The prince grew quiet. Staring into the distance, he said, “If I ever become king, I will bring the ark to Nob.”

“If you do, maybe you can give me permission to take a look at it,” David said, smiling at the thought.

“You are aware that it is dangerous, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” David responded. He could not help showing off his knowledge to the older man. “But the Lord struck down those seventy men because they looked inside. I would be happy just to look from a distance.”

David had been so intent on his conversation with the prince that he had not been paying attention to his friend. “Jahra!” he shouted, noticing that he was sliding sideways off the saddle. Kicking his mare forward, he reached out his hand to steady him.

Jahra’s head jerked up, and he instinctively grabbed Jonathan’s waist. His face was covered in sweat. David was going to suggest another drink, but it was clear that the bag was empty.

“How much farther to Kiriath?” David yelled, his hand on his friend’s back. Jahra’s skin was burning.

“Not far,” Jonathan responded.

“Let’s stop there to get some water.”

Jonathan did not object. They urged their horses forward and soon found themselves approaching the outskirts of the town that housed the ark of the covenant. It was a collection of no more than thirty houses. Large flat fields with ripening wheat in straight rows spread out around the homes. But what caught David’s eye was the large, hide-covered tent that loomed in the field farthest away. It stood alone on a small rise like an immense square mushroom.

As they drew closer, they saw scores of canopies and tents, with hundreds of soldiers milling about the empty field.

“It looks like I overestimated the army’s progress,” Jonathan said. Then, looking around at the tents, he growled, “The army has also grown considerably since last I saw it. A routed enemy inspires amazing courage among those lacking the stomach for battle.” He spit in disgust. “Let’s go find the physician.”

David thrust his heel into his horse’s flank, blocking the prince’s way. Jonathan pulled back on the reins, annoyance on his face.

“My prince, no one need know,” David said in a low voice, looking into the indignant eyes. “Jahra and I will not say a word. You have our oath.”

Understanding his meaning, Jonathan’s expression softened. “My thanks to you, friend. But it cannot be kept hidden. The ephod,” the prince muttered, pressing his heels into his horse’s side and brushing past the bay. “It reveals what is concealed.”

A soldier guarding the perimeter of the camp scrambled to his feet when he saw the prince approach. He had a florid, bulbous nose and cheeks that looked as if they had been burned by the sun. David saw his foot nudge a wine bag under a Philistine shield. Saluting, he lifted his spear out of the way to let Jonathan and David proceed.

“Is Ahimelech the priest in his tent?” Jonathan snapped as they rode past.

“No, my prince,” the soldier answered, bleary eyes bulging. “He is taking care of the wounded over there.” He gestured toward a large willow tree about thirty paces from the tent that held the ark. Over a dozen soldiers were reclining on beds beneath it.

“There!” Jonathan yelled, pointing at a man wearing a white tunic and the traditional rounded turban on his head. “Hold on,” he told Jahra as he and David launched into a canter.

Ahimelech was a stooped man with a graying beard that flowed over his priestly vestment. Next to him was a slim young man with a carefully trimmed beard. He was dressed in a robe that was impossibly white. He noticed them first and drew back as the prince approached.

The priest was hunched over, looking at a wound, and so was startled when the prince called out his name. His eyes grew large, and he nervously adjusted his turban as the prince reined in his horse and jumped down in front of him. Pushing a soldier off a cloak, Jonathan lifted Jahra from the horse and laid him on it.

“He needs water immediately,” Jonathan told the priest. “He also has a serious wound. Treat him.”

“Yes, my prince. It will be my pleasure,” murmured the man in oiled tones, giving the prince an odd look. His hands were rubbing the folds of his linen tunic nervously.

David detected a hint of guilt on the priest’s face.

“May Yahweh be praised that He kept you safe,” Ahimelech said, speaking with his eyes averted. “We all expected the worst.” Lifting his gaze a little, he gestured at the cloth around Jonathan’s head. “May I be allowed to look at your injury?”

Jonathan waved him away, already walking toward his father’s tent. “Get someone to take care of our horses,” he ordered. “David, you come with me; I want to introduce you to my father.”

David’s breath left him momentarily.

The king’s guards recognized Jonathan from a distance. As he approached, they stood at rigid attention. Before he was upon them, the door flap snapped open, and General Abner burst out. David had seen him on several occasions when he’d brought his brothers food from home. He strode toward them, his stocky body rolling from side to side—a stout vessel breaking through swells.

“My prince,” he hailed, “welcome back.” His voice was hearty, but the pleasure in it did not rise to his eyes. He grabbed Jonathan’s forearm; then he looked at David, and his expression hardened. “You stay here!” He barged ahead, pointing Jonathan toward a tent.

Jonathan ignored him. “He is coming with me.” He waved for David to follow them, ignoring the general’s protests.

Abner snapped something at his guards, who saluted and opened the door into what David assumed were the general’s quarters. When they were inside, Abner spun and looked pointedly at them. Jonathan cut him off. “Abner, this is David; he is the cousin of Manoah and the brother of Eliab, from Bethlehem.” He placed his hand on David’s shoulder. “If it were not for him, I would not be here.”

David was disappointed by Abner’s response. He nodded distractedly and grunted; then, as if needing time to weigh his words, he turned and walked to a carved chair on which hung a belt and sword. He touched the worn leather meditatively and fastened it around his waist. With his back toward them, he took a wide stance, his arms crossed behind him. Something in his posture was disconcerting. David met Jonathan’s eyes. The prince merely nodded inscrutably.

The temperature inside the tent seemed to have dipped precipitously. David saw Jonathan spread his feet a bit wider and stiffen as Abner did a sudden about-face. There was no pleasure in his countenance, and the lines along his cheeks had deepened. He had reached some decision and was ready to execute it.

Looking directly at the prince, Abner spoke in tones drained of emotion. “My prince, the king has ordered your arrest.” He unclasped his arms and without any attempt at concealment rested his right hand on the hilt of his sword. “In the event of your return, I was instructed to place you under guard immediately.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, placing his hand on his own sword.

“I would not recommend that, my prince,” growled the general. “My men await my signal.”

If the prince’s eyes had been spears, Abner would have been pinned to the tent’s center post. “Is this about my father’s foolish oath?”

Abner nodded uncomfortably. “This morning, he had the priest make sacrifice and consult the ephod. He wanted assurance about pursuing the Philistines into their territory. When there was no response, Ahimelech consulted the Urim and Thummim. The Urim fell on you.”

Jonathan’s knuckles whitened on the sword hilt.

“Your father was enraged. He swore in front of the army that you were doomed to die.” Abner’s nostrils flared. “I am—very sorry, Prince Jonathan.”

At that moment, a cluster of spear points burst into the tent, followed by five guards. Jonathan did not move. Out of the corners of his eyes, David saw that the weapons were trained on Jonathan’s back.

Chapter Fifteen

With his eyes fixed on Abner, Jonathan spoke in measured tones to the guards behind him. “Matathiah, Uzza, Oded, lower your weapons immediately, or you and your general will not leave this tent alive.”

David’s body went numb. He thought he was defenseless until he remembered the knife Jonathan had given him that morning. His hands twitched, and his back felt the sharp prick of iron.

Jonathan waited, his right hand as still as death. Abner finally gave the slightest of nods, followed by the sound of wooden shafts striking packed dirt. Jonathan did not change his grip, nor the tension in his back and shoulders. Then, slowly expelling his breath, Jonathan let his hands fall to his sides. Abner did not follow suit. His eyes remained wary.

“Do not fear, General,” Jonathan said, spreading his hands in front of him. With his right hand open and extended, Jonathan carefully reached across with his left, grasped his sword, and pulled it out. “You may have my sword,” he said, presenting it to the general, its blade flat on his open palms. “I hold no ill will. I know you are obeying orders—insane though they be.”

David saw a look of shame whisk across the general’s face. “Thank you, my prince,” Abner muttered, his eyes trained on the sword. “I am only doing my duty.”

Jonathan’s next words took them all by surprise. “Abner, you and I know that my father is not well.” The general stiffened and drew back, seeming to grow taller. “I am not asking an old soldier like you to be disloyal. But you and I know his dark moods have placed you, as well as members of my family, in difficulty. This is just one of them, though it may be the worst yet.”

The general’s tension seemed to ease a little. “Yes, my prince,” he agreed in a voice so low that David could barely hear it. “He has not been at his best.”

Jonathan continued. “And you and I both know that, despite what the physicians have done, his condition shows no sign of improving.”

Abner said nothing, but there was agreement in his eyes.

“Ahimelech told me something very interesting. He said that he had heard that music inspired by Yahweh could bring light into the bleakest darkness and could even dispel demons.”

Abner made a noncommittal sound.

“I have found such music,” Jonathan said, stepping over to David and placing his hand on his shoulder. “He has the gift. It is remarkable. He saved my life, and I would not be surprised if with it, he is able to save my father’s as well.”

David felt his face grow pale with dismay.

Jonathan went on. “If I am … well, unable to tell Mother myself, I want you to present David to her. His gift may yet bring peace to a family that has had none for a long time.”

When Jonathan finished, the general strode past him, and Jonathan turned to follow. “You stay here!” Abner growled to his guards. Unsure what to do, David followed several steps behind the prince.

At the entrance to Saul’s tent, Jonathan turned and gripped David’s arm. He did not say anything, but David knew he was to accompany them inside.

“Tell Sisha we are here,” Abner ordered one of the soldiers guarding the spacious tent.

Within moments, the soldier had returned with a man David guessed was Saul’s manservant. Though bent slightly with age, he carried himself with great dignity. He was almost as tall as the prince but was so gaunt his face resembled that of a cadaver. Sisha bowed at the waist, and as the prince stepped forward, he touched Sisha’s shoulder affectionately. The servant placed his right hand over his long gray beard, sliding it down to its tip, then gestured for them to follow him.

David was surprised at the simplicity of the tent. There were a few benches and tables and several racks of armor along the walls. He slowed as he walked past a chest piece made of embossed leather and studded with iron and ornamental brass fittings. The chest piece was huge; it would cover him from his neck to his ankles. But the bronze sword was what caught his eye. His fingers itched to touch the polished metal.

He turned to see Sisha push back a linen curtain on a wooden rod. Behind it lay the king reclining on a pile of ornate pillows. He was dressed in a gown of embroidered silk dyed an unusual purple that changed colors when he moved. The light from oil lamps made it glisten like the skin of an adder.

“Welcome back—my son!” the king boomed. There was a tone of mockery in the greeting that made David’s back tingle. When Saul shifted his position, it was like the uncoiling of a viper. The hairs on David’s neck and forearms began to prickle. Saul was large and ponderous, but even lying down he exuded a raw, unsettling power.

He waved at a chair nearby. “Sit.”

“I prefer to receive my sentence on my feet,” Jonathan responded through tight lips.

The king ignored his son’s insolence. “I see you managed to survive your little escapade, though I take it your armor bearer was not as fortunate. Have you brought with you his replacement?” His eyes moved to David.

“No, this young man saved my life. His name is David.”

“You recall that I ordered the troops not to engage the enemy?” Saul continued as if Jonathan had not spoken. He slouched back farther into his pillows, his body at rest but his eyes the dangerous slits of a predator.

Jonathan nodded, drawing himself to attention.

In a singsong voice, the king said, “I did not hear your response.”

“Yes, my king, you ordered the army not to do anything.”

Saul’s eyes narrowed even further. They seemed to glow with a reddish light. It reminded David of the bear’s when it had charged him. The prickling sensation was growing more intense, and he was beginning to feel nauseated. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face.

“You were ever the sarcastic one, angling for the army’s favor.” With difficulty, the king lifted himself from the pillows. Sisha leaped forward to help him to his seat. Saul leaned on the offered arm, then shoved it away when he dropped into the chair. He clamped his eyes shut, pressing his fingertips against the sides of his face and rubbing them in small circles.

When Saul looked up, there was a smirk on his face, and his eyes were slightly crossed. There was something so unsettling in them, David wanted to run out of the tent.

“You’ve been trying to turn them away from me.” Saul’s voice had changed timbre; it was higher and filled with menace. “Your ploy nearly succeeded, but I discovered your henchmen and had them executed.”

Jonathan looked at him in shock.

“Oh, don’t play the innocent. I know everything. I see everything—thanks to the ephod.” Saul let out a guffaw that slid into an eerie wail. Jonathan glanced at David, his eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly.

“It disclosed that you and your men brought a curse on yourselves by disobeying my command,” Saul said after regaining his breath. “Before I had them put to death, they confessed to eating the meat of horses.” He leaned toward them secretively. “One of them—after a bit of encouragement—said you ordered them to do so.”

The smile on Saul’s face grew more sly, the tone of his voice more confidential. “So you see, they twice deserved to die—once for violating my command, and once for disobeying God.” The king leaned back in his chair, appraising Jonathan. “As do you, my heroic son.”

Jonathan’s face was dark with suppressed rage. “I ate only one mouthful of honey,” he protested. “I did not disobey God’s law.”

Without hesitating, Saul responded, “Well, you disobeyed mine, which is much the same thing.” His eyes flared with crazed intelligence. “Fortunately for me, Yahweh is still on my side, and the Urim exposed your betrayal.” His face was painful to look at. “And so you, too, must die.” His smile was cut short as he winced. Massaging his temples and looking at the floor, he tossed his hand in the guards’ direction, ordering them to take Jonathan away.

“Since he is a member of the royal family, use the rope instead,” Saul commanded.

The prince gave no resistance as the guards grabbed his arms and pushed him out of the tent. Abner followed a few steps behind. David was behind him. The guards marched Jonathan across the length of the field to an oak tree that stood next to a large rock. It was covered with the blood of Ahimelech’s sacrifice.

“Stand over there, away from the tree,” Abner instructed David. The general took his place next to Jonathan in front of the thick trunk.

The men who had been scattered about leisurely were now approaching. Many were pointing and gesticulating angrily. The army’s calm had been replaced with a mounting sense of outrage.

“Go find a rope!” Abner shouted at one of the guards. His face was a mask of anger and frustration.

“But, General, there is the one we used last night,” the guard blustered, kicking at a pile of rope next to the trunk.

Abner swung his sword at him, almost slashing open his throat. “Get a new one, you fool! And alert the troops about what is taking place. I want every soldier here present and accounted for.”

“General, what’s going on?” asked the first to arrive.

“Shut your mouth. I’ll tell you when I’m ready,” Abner barked. He said nothing further until they were surrounded by over a thousand men muttering and growling to one another.

Abner lifted his hand imperiously. All eyes were fixed on him. “The king has ordered the death of Jonathan.”

There was an intake of breath, a chilling silence, and then an explosion of questions drowned out by yells of incredulity. There now was a simmering of rebellion in the air. To David’s surprise, Abner did not answer. He merely stood with his hands clasped behind his back and an inscrutable expression on his face. David was close enough to see the muscle along his jaw throbbing.

Jonathan also stood silently, his back to the tree, staring with a cold fury across the field at the royal standard above the king’s tent. Beneath the banner, several servants were assisting Saul as he mounted his horse.

In the roil of angry bodies, David noticed Shimeah staring at him in dismay. Eliab was nearby, listening in on a conversation between Manoah and someone David could not see. The crowd parted to make way for the general, who had left Jonathan while David’s attention was diverted.

“Here comes the lapdog with the rope,” someone yelled. The guard jogged up to Abner, cradling a thick cord in his arms, looking around with apprehension.

“We should string him up!” the angry voice yelled. There was a loud rumble of assent.

Abner jerked his finger, indicating that the rope should be dropped at the base of the tree. The guard obeyed and slunk into the crowd. The general raised his hand to silence the men when he saw King Saul approaching. Silence descended as the king’s horse, with regal flicks of his hooves, broke through the crowd. Saul positioned himself between the oak and the prince.

At that moment, a voice cut through the silence. “General Abner, what is the charge?” David recognized it as that of Commander Manoah.

“Violating the king’s oath,” the general answered. “Jonathan disobeyed the prohibition against eating before the Philistines were driven off our land.”

There was a menacing murmur from the crowd.

“What did he eat?” Manoah inquired.

“A mouthful of honey.”

“Only a mouthful?”

The murmur became a rumble.

“May this never be,” several voices yelled at once. One louder than the others pierced the babble: “God forbid that Jonathan, through whom the Lord worked this great deliverance, should die for a bite of honey!”

A thousand soldiers waved their arms, screaming support for their champion. David looked up to see the king’s reaction. Saul had undergone some kind of transformation; his eyes were much clearer than they had been moments before. He sat heavily on his nervous horse, exuding the dignified authority that had so impressed David the first time he’d seen him. For the briefest moment their eyes met, and David thought he could detect relief mingled with shame.

The king lifted his hand. He held it aloft till the noise ceased.

“My son is a hero!” he shouted. “Through him the Lord worked a great and momentous victory.”

The crowd roared its approval.

“I have decided to cancel his sentence. This day will be marked not by death but rejoicing.” Saul thrust his hand into the air to quiet the jubilant soldiers. “I forgive my son for his indiscretion and grant complete clemency. The prince acted not in rebellion but courage, loyalty, and love for our nation.”

The soldiers rushed at Jonathan, picked him up on their shoulders, and, cheering, carried him back to their encampment. The king sat on his steed, his back bent as if he were sinking under a formidable weight.

David felt a hand on his arm. It was his cousin Manoah. “That turned out well, don’t you think?” Smiling slyly, Manoah added, “Let it not be said that we Judites lack power of persuasion. The day will come when we will be recognized as the most powerful tribe in Israel.” He gave David a calculating look. “I have heard rumors that there is a member of our tribe who also has recently distinguished himself.”

David shrugged. “Jahra and I stumbled on the prince in the woods. All we did was give him some food and water.”

“Cousin, you will learn that heroism can be as much about luck as anything else. Being in the right place at the right time can make one as much a hero as can courage. And what is more, from what I see”—he leaned toward David conspiratorially—“you have made yourself an ally some would kill for.”

David was confused. He had known Manoah only as a fighter and an affable cousin; he had not realized that he might also be adept at intrigue. He gave him a halfhearted smile. Underneath, the ground again felt very slippery. At that, he remembered his friend’s bandaged leg and pulled his arm free. “I need to find out how Jahra is doing,” he said, only too anxious to get away.

Manoah nodded, touching two fingers to his forehead in a humorous salute and waving him on. “We shall speak more of this later.”

When David arrived at the willow next to the large tent, he noticed the young man who’d been assisting Ahimelech. He was adjusting a wet rag on Jahra’s forehead. Beside him was a bowl filled with water the color of amber.

“How is he?” David asked, dropping on his knees beside them. Jahra opened his eyes and gave David a wan smile.

“His fever has lessened, thanks be to God,” said the young man. “My master told me to give him the best of care. I gave him some herbs to drink to help with the fever. I also put fresh wrappings on his leg, with a honey poultice.”

David nodded gratefully. “His name is Jahra, by the way; mine is David.”

“I am Adriel of Meholah.” He emphasized his place of birth as if it held some significance. It meant nothing to David. “I heard what you both did for the prince.” Adriel’s words were as precise and measured as his pointed black beard. “And that you were given an audience with the king.” His smile was wide, but there was a contradictory coolness in the words. David was surprised to notice a sharpness along the corners of Adriel’s dark, glittering eyes. He reminded David of a bantam rooster preparing to strike. “The queen mother will be very grateful,” Adriel continued, showing more of his white teeth. “It would have simply destroyed her if the prince had died. And, it goes without saying, his younger sister as well.” A possessiveness had crept into his voice. “Had the Philistines killed him, I fear what she might have done. Members of the royal family are highly sensitive, you understand.” His expression made it clear he was sure that David did not understand.

“Do you mean Michal?” David asked sharply, riled by the young man’s condescension.

“Why, yes,” he responded, giving David a sharp look. “I ordered a messenger to deliver the good news to Princess Michal.” He licked his lips, then continued. “I am the royal physician’s chief assistant and am responsible for the welfare of the extended family. I have treated her on not a few occasions, and she has been very grateful for my help.” He looked coolly at David, stroking his beard lightly. His attention was diverted when Jahra moaned. He took another rag from the bowl beside him, wrung it out, and replaced the one on Jahra’s forehead.

“I only want what is best for her,” Adriel said, touching his chest lightly as though emphasizing the depth of his concern. There was hostility lurking beneath the careful words. It was becoming clear. Ahimelech’s assistant was not bragging as much as issuing a warning.

Adriel rose to his feet and plucked pieces of grass from his tunic. “I have done all I can here,” he said. “Your friend should continue to improve, but if he does not, you are to alert me immediately. I will be staying in the tent next to the king’s.”

“Thank you for your help. We are very grateful.” David looked down at Jahra, who was nodding in appreciation. “He looks much better already.”

When Adriel had walked away, David felt Jahra’s forehead. It was much cooler, and fever no longer glowed in his eyes. His smile was broad and genuine.

“You had me worried,” David said. “But looks like you’re going to be just fine. Thankfully you’re as tough as an old donkey.” He lay on his back next to his friend and closed his eyes. He felt drained.

Jahra poked him in the ribs. David looked at him. His friend was pointing toward the tree where the hanging had almost occurred.

“So you heard the commotion?”

Jahra nodded vigorously.

He laid his head back and began telling Jahra what happened to the prince. At some point before completing the story, exhausted, he fell asleep.

And at some point the nightmare came.

The cave is familiar. It is cool and dark. The deeper he walks, the cooler it becomes. He is naked, of course. He is alone, except for the wolves that pursue him, though he cannot see them. The skin on his back crawls, the dread worse than actual sight. He keeps moving forward, compelled by an inner necessity. His feet slide on the greasy film covering the stones. The tunnel narrows; he feels his chest constrict. He can hear the padding of feet; they are at his heels.

His pace quickens.

The walls press in upon him. He stoops to keep his head from hitting the ceiling as his elbows scrape against the sides. His heart in his throat, he bursts into the room. It is still and dark. Gnarled talons of wet stone rise up from the uneven floor and reach down from the glistening ceiling. They are grasping for him. The thudding of his heart and the hollow echo of drops falling into shallow, dead ponds drown out the sound of the hungry predators.

Amber eyes leer at him. Narrow faces with gray snouts smile, exposing sharp, wet fangs. The eyes are fixed on his unclothed body. The beasts amble forward silently. There is a mocking humor in their eyes that makes him feel unclean.

That is when he sees her. The female saunters into the shaft of bluish light that transects the cavern. A thrill of horror scurries through him as she approaches. There is a coquettish sway to her body. Her eyes burn into his. In their depths is an allure that terrifies him. Unhurried, she reaches out gently to paw him. He can see the tip of her red tongue between grinning lips. The taste of acrid black smoke fills his mouth, and his whole body begins to shake.

Chapter Sixteen

“David! David!” His eyes opened. Shimeah was above him, motioning for him to get up. It was evening, but the sun had not yet set.

“The prince wants to see you—and Jahra, too, since he is over whatever was ailing him.” Shimeah gestured toward Jahra, who was leaning on a crutch and had a twig in his mouth, maneuvering it with practiced movements of his tongue and lip. The sight of it was all the proof David needed to know his friend had recovered. His hair had been brushed, and he wore a tunic David had never seen before.

“Come on, we have been celebrating for hours,” Shimeah said, pulling him to his feet. “You made quite an impression, little brother.” The warmth in his voice sounded a little forced.

David’s head was foggy, and he was having trouble dragging his thoughts free of that forbidding cave.

“I suggest you clean up and comb those twigs out of your hair. You will be meeting the king after all.” Shimeah gave a hollow laugh. A cold shiver froze David’s insides, and the memory of the nightmare vanished. He bent down to thrust his hands into a bowl of water on the ground, then ran wet fingers through his matted hair.

Shimeah adjusted his own tunic, pulling it down so that it lay flat over his portly stomach. He sighed, then cocked his eyebrow at his brother. “Rumor has it that in attendance will be a certain raven-haired member of the royal family, who also wishes to make your acquaintance.”

As David prepared to leave, Jahra held up a forefinger, then began riffling through his pile of cloth. Motioning for David to turn around, he tied his hair back with a green strip. Then he wrapped a wide red and yellow cloth around his waist. Nodding approvingly, Jahra picked up his crutch and pointed toward the noisy crowd.

“Wait,” David barked as Jahra was preparing to lead the way. “Look at me.”

Jahra turned with a questioning look.

David reached out and pulled the wet twig from his friend’s mouth and threw it away. “That’s better. Now you won’t look like you just fell off an ox cart.”

A cacophony of voices pummeled them as they approached the campfires that filled the grounds and were scattered haphazardly around a dais in the center. Soldiers were shouting, singing, and laughing. Loud voices held sway, recounting daring exploits.

The raucous men took no notice of them as they approached the table of honor. The aroma of roasting goat and sheep filled the air, mingling with garlic, olive oil, and bread baking in the coals. The smells reminded David that his last meal had been only a simple breakfast hastily eaten early that morning.

The crackling flames and sounds of popping fat dripping onto the wood lent a peaceful, companionable atmosphere to the celebration. He looked around enviously at the soldiers’ brash, comfortable camaraderie and imagined what it must feel like to be able to swagger up to a spit, make a coarse joke, and slice off a piece of sizzling meat as the other men grumbled good-naturedly. The image made his chest feel as hollow as a dried ram’s horn. He was suddenly glad that he had not caught sight of his other brothers.

Tall torches set on pikes blazed around the makeshift platform where the royals and senior staff sat at a long table. At the center of the table was King Saul with General Abner to his left. They were lifting bronze mugs, shouting out slurred toasts toward the six commanders sitting to Abner’s left. Two of them were tall and looked like they could be Jonathan’s brothers. But the only one David recognized was his cousin Manoah.

Jonathan was to the king’s right. He was turned away from his father, his attention taken by a beautiful girl seated next to him. Her black hair was woven in a thick braid that was wrapped tightly around her head. It glistened in the torchlight like an ebony crown. Next to her was Adriel, who wore a tunic that seemed to glow in the light of the torches. His eyes—dark, brooding caverns—were trained on David, and his hand rested strategically on the back of Michal’s chair. Next to him sat Ahimelech and several other men David had not yet seen. One was wearing a wide purple turban. David suspected that this was Eleazar, the guardian of the ark.

Behind them, a cluster of servants stood around a fire, over which the remains of an ox revolved on a spit. Strips of grilled meat hung from the skeleton, curling and turning black at the tips. David wanted nothing more than to rip them off and shove them into his mouth. He had to tear his eyes away from the carcass. Sisha was bustling about, peering at the plates laden with meat and grilled vegetables. He was also making sure that the soot and charred edges were removed from the steaming loaves of bread being taken from the coals.

Shimeah and David halted several paces from the dais. Jahra was two paces behind. They stood awkwardly, waiting to be recognized.

David’s attention was drawn back to the girl leaning in toward Jonathan. She had her older brother’s chin, lips, and fine nose. Her eyes had more of an almond shape, the corners slanting upward, and her hair was darker, but the resemblance was undeniable—this was Michal. She was looking up at the prince, as if savoring every word. As she listened, her expression alternated between horror and delight.

When Jonathan turned to pick up his cup, he noticed David and gave him a wide grin. He whispered something to his sister, and she leaned her head back, laughing. David felt his cheeks growing warm and wished he were back in the Judean hills, alone with his sheep. But though he felt foolish, he could not keep from staring at the girl. Her glistening hair and soft lips aroused in him dangerous desires.

Jonathan lifted his hand toward David, indicating that he should wait. When David looked back at Michal, she was looking at him. David felt the breath squeeze from his lungs. It was like being startled awake from a dream in which he’d been falling. But it came with a stab of pain, as if he’d torn open a wound.

Her dark eyes with their heavy dark lashes widened slightly, and her lips parted. For the briefest moment, she looked surprised, as if she’d seen someone she had not expected. It was a look of recognition and … something that seemed like relief.

David felt a tug on his tunic. “Look down, you idiot!” Shimeah commanded in a sibilant whisper. “If he sees you gaping at his daughter, King Saul will run a stake through you and roast you slowly over the coals.”

David ignored him. Heat went through his chest, to his stomach and lower. Strangely, despite his physical reaction, the embarrassment faded, leaving him with confused feelings of weakness and longing and power.

Michal’s lips twitched, but instead of a smile there was a flash of dismay, followed by the tilt of her head as she shoved herself away from the table. David was stunned. Then he saw Adriel reach out to right the cup of wine he’d knocked over in front of her. He offered profuse apologies as the maidservants hurriedly wiped off the table. Adriel gave him a quick glance before nervously peering at the king. Saul and Jonathan were speaking to each other and took no notice.

Shimeah shook his head in a quick gesture of warning. “Do not say a word until the prince speaks to us.”

Saul turned his watery eyes toward the three standing in front of him. He blinked several times as if trying to bring them into focus. “You may approach,” he finally growled after what felt like an eternity. With two jabs of his index finger, he indicated that he meant David and Jahra. He dismissed Shimeah with a wave.

David took a few steps forward, his heart pounding. He felt the absurd need to run off so he could relieve his bladder. When they were within arm’s length of the table, the king unexpectedly addressed Jahra. “How is your leg, young man?” His smile was a little crooked, and his words slid over themselves as if coated in oil. His smile wavered as he waited for the quiet young man to reply.

Jonathan leaned over and spoke something into his ear.

The king swallowed hard, looking past Jahra, who was nodding vigorously. “Well, then,” the king continued, the lines between his eyes more pronounced. “I’m sure you will be fine.” He smiled tightly, trying to cover his embarrassment. Cautiously, Saul placed both hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet. He leaned toward David, weaving a little. “So you are the young man who saved the life of the prince.”

David craned his neck to meet the king’s eyes, feeling like he was staring up at one of the Gittites.

“No, my king. I was …” David’s protest was interrupted by the flick of impatient fingers.

The king tilted a little, then quickly dropped his hand to the table. “My son told me that you are modest to a fault. You are too young to know that when fame comes, you grab her with both hands.” He again smiled, but now with a look of cool appraisal. “She’s like a filly, unpredictable and fickle. You never know how long she will stay by your side.” He motioned David closer. Then, gathering himself, he reached down with his right hand. David raised his, and the king grabbed his forearm.

King Saul pulled David toward him, the stoop of his broad shoulders even more pronounced. Sweat broke out on David’s forehead. “I am grateful to you for saving the life of my son,” the king whispered, his face very close, his breath smelling of wine and garlic. He stared into David’s eyes with disturbing intensity. Saul’s hand gripped more tightly. “You have performed a great service to your nation. And you have the king’s gratitude.” He now looked more like a genial grandfather patting his favorite on the head. David felt the king’s weight shift again as he released his arm and dropped into his seat with a grunt. David looked toward Michal, but she and Jonathan were again talking to each other. Adriel was the only one at the table who was still staring at him.

David returned the king’s gaze, surprised at how calm he had become. This king he had expected to be a formidable terror seemed less threatening than his own father. “It was my privilege,” he said, drawing back his shoulders and straightening himself. “I would do anything for you—and the prince.” Then lowering his eyes he added, “I am your humble servant, my king.”

Saul pursed his lips as if weighing the words. He looked at the nearest clump of soldiers, whose faces were outlined by firelight, and gave David a tight smile. His face had taken on the crafty look of a merchant who has bested a gullible buyer. “That being the case, I take it that you and your friend won’t mind playing us that song you composed after the Philistines’ defeat.”

David’s jaw dropped, and his insides turned to ice. Once again he felt the hot prickling of shame spread over his cheeks. The mortification nearly gagged him.

“The prince tells me that it was the most moving victory song he has ever heard.” Saul gestured at his men. “If Jonathan is correct, it is the ideal way to help us commemorate our triumph.” He pointed at some men in colorful tunics near the dais who were quietly strumming their instruments. “The music we were treated to earlier was quite forgettable.”

David racked his mind for some way to avoid this public humiliation, but there was no escape. Without waiting for a response, the king barked an order at Abner. “Tell the men to be quiet.”

David prayed that a deep hole would swallow him as it had done to Korah when he rebelled against Moses hundreds of years earlier. He was very grateful for the headband Jahra had given him. It was keeping the sweat from dripping into his eyes.

The general stood and, with a voice that sliced through the noise, demanded silence. As Abner shouted again, Jahra gestured at the group of men in bright-colored clothes and made a strumming motion with his hand. Then, pointing at himself, he repeated the motion.

After a moment of confusion, one of the musicians walked over. Strips of yellow and blue silk were hanging from his shoulders, and his turban glowed as if stitched with gold thread. He handed Jahra an ornate fourteen-stringed harp, along with a piece of polished bone. David heard him refer to it as a plectrum, a tool for use in strumming the instrument.

As the soldiers grew quiet, a nervous stillness tightened over them like a noose. Though the king was still a figure to be revered, it seemed nobody was certain what to expect from their leader, who’d begun exhibiting dangerous signs of instability.

When they were all staring at the dais, the king stood and began to speak. “Today is a day of rejoicing, for the God of Israel has given us a great triumph!” There were scattered shouts of agreement. “This day, those uncircumcised Philistines”—some of the soldiers leaped up, cheering—“felt the full weight of our fury.” The entire army was now on its feet, roaring its approval.

He waited, then gestured for them to sit. “There have been many acts of bravery on this historic day, but one stands above the rest.” The king halted the shouting with a wave. “My son Jonathan, with his shield bearer, confronted the garrison on Geba and defeated it. Two brave Hebrews against twenty Philistines—and look what happened!” He gave his audience a few moments to respond, then again quieted the soldiers.

“That will be an exploit which will live on in the annals of courage.” Saul stopped, wanting to put special emphasis on his next words. “Let that be an example to all of you.” His voice hardened as he glared at the crowd filled with returned deserters. “As my son so aptly said, the God of Israel is able to save by many or by a few.” The response was now scattered and less effusive. “Let that be a lesson as well.” Here and there, hoarse shouts of affirmation broke out.

“The victory did not come without cost. Not only was my son’s armor bearer killed, but he almost lost his life as well. However, he was rescued by this young man from Bethlehem in Judah and his servant.” The Judite soldiers jumped to their feet, waving their fists and shouting out their approval.

Saul waited for quiet. “It was the prince’s desire to introduce them to you.”

Jonathan got up, walked around the table, stepped off the platform, and stood between David and Jahra, one arm around each of their shoulders. “First of all, thanks be to God, who delivered us from the hand of those who hate us and who delivered me from death.”

David was no longer listening. He was rehearsing lyrics from the songs he’d recently composed. He was desperately afraid that he would forget the words and look like a fool in front of Michal and the army.

“Had it not been for these two, I would not have survived,” the prince continued. David kept reviewing the lyrics as Jonathan described their encounter, overly dramatizing it for the sake of the audience. They hooted and laughed as he described the rock—“bigger than my fist”—that knocked him off his horse. David barely heard. Along his left thigh, his fingers were working out the chords of the second song.

“So when I thought about the songs I’d heard,” the prince was concluding, “I knew they were a gift, a blessing. And I knew they needed to be shared with all who fought on this brave day.” He looked down as his voice caught. “And in honor of Asa, who not only carried my armor but also was a good friend.”

When the cheering died down, Jonathan spoke to Sisha, who had the servants take the chairs off the platform and arrange them in a row facing the dais. The soldiers crowded forward, gathering in a large mass behind the line of chairs. When the prince had sat down next to Michal, he nodded at one of Michal’s servant girls. She came up to David, holding the kinnor bag as carefully as if it were the prince’s baby boy. Jonathan gave David a wink.

While the audience readied itself, David took Jahra’s crutch, laid it on the dais, and helped his friend sit on the edge of the platform. When Jahra was ready, David handed him the ornate harp, took the lyre out of the bag, and sat next to him. They ran their fingers over their instruments. Both were in perfect tune.

David leaned over to whisper some instructions to Jahra. He would sing, and Jahra would play; when David felt more confident, he would begin accompanying his friend on the kinnor. When their shoulders touched, he was startled by how warm Jahra’s skin felt. Jahra’s eyes were bloodshot and shone with the heat radiating through his body, but their calm mantled David with confidence.

Keeping his attention on the soldiers behind the row of seated dignitaries, David uttered a desperate prayer for help. He had decided that it would not be wise to look any lower lest he make eye contact with Michal and discover that his mind had gone blank.

“This is the song that came to us the evening of our enemy’s defeat,” he said while Jahra picked a few meditative notes. “I am no musician, nor really much of a singer. My friend Jahra is the one with the talent. He came up with the music.” He licked his dry lips, trying to smile. “So, if it were not for the prince, I would never be doing this.” He smiled nervously as the crowd laughed with appreciation.

“Well, here it is.”

Jahra began strumming the chords of joy and triumph. David grew still and let the words come. His husky voice was soft but grew louder as the intensity of the music overcame him.

Sing Yahweh a new song

for He has performed marvels,

His own right hand, His holy arm

Gives Him power to save.[17]

As he sang, again he could hear the percussion throbbing, the pipes and flutes flying high and free, complemented by trumpets and the blast of horns. There was the clashing of cymbal-swords, the crying out of stringed and woody voices. There was also a solemn, droning bass that shook his insides. The only thing he could compare it to was the deep, sustained note of a massive shofar.

Somewhere in the middle of the song, he realized that he was not only singing but accompanying Jahra on his instrument as well. He did not want to think about what he was doing. He let the music sweep him away. He had no clear consciousness of the words; they simply came. He could not hear them, and yet he could hear all of them. It was somehow him and yet not him. It was as if he were the instrument.

He felt himself floating and could see Jahra bent over his instrument, sweat dripping off his forehead. And for the rest of David’s life, every time he would recall that moment, he would swear there was light dancing around his friend, a glowing that resembled wings—and a solitary flame over his head.

The song ended joyfully with the words of the refrain.

Sing to Yahweh,

sing to the music of harps,

and to the sound of many instruments.[18]

When the last notes danced away into the night, the crowd made no sound. David glanced apprehensively at his friend. Jahra shrugged. David noticed the plectrum lying on the rough slats, picked it up, and plucked the strings of the kinnor. The sound seemed to jump out of his instrument, piercing the crisp night air. David strummed more cautiously, trying to recall the notes of the song he had played in the glen. His fingers felt clumsy, and the plectrum added some difficulty, but it suited the simple melody perfectly.

Jahra joined in, his harp following David’s melody in a lower register. After a stanza, David began to sing. His first line was identical to the one he had composed in the quiet glen:

Yahweh, let my words come to Your ears,

spare a thought for my sighs.

Listen to my cry for help,

My King and my God!

I sing this prayer to You, Yahweh.[19]

Before he could begin the second phrase, new, fresh ideas surged into him. There was a moment of exquisite tension when he felt himself stepping onto a rope stretched taut over a deep canyon. He swallowed hard, and at that moment Jahra hit a chord that was strange and discordant—and then modulated it, beginning a new melody line that was powerful yet foreboding. The lyrics that flowed from David fit perfectly.

Why this uproar among the nations?

Why this impotent muttering of pagans—

kings on earth rising in revolt,

princes plotting against Yahweh and His chosen one:

“Now let us break their fetters!

Now let us throw off their yoke!”[20]

The song was pouring out of him like winter’s wine.

The One whose throne is in heaven sits laughing,

Yahweh derides them.

Then angrily addresses them,

in a rage He strikes them with panic.[21]

At this, the soldiers howled with pleasure.

Jahra’s hands began beating out a rhythm. It was the premonition of thunder. David heard that familiar drumming of a thousand feet, dancers stamping in concert, and sang out:

You hack all my enemies to the cheekbone,

You break the teeth of the wicked.

From Yahweh, rescue.

On Your people, blessing!

Rise, Yahweh!

Save me, my God!

Rise, Yahweh!

Save me, my God!

Earthly rulers, be warned:

serve Yahweh, fear Him.

Tremble and kiss His feet,

or He will be angry and you will perish,

for His anger is very quick to blaze.

Happy all who take shelter in Him!

Happy all who take shelter in Him![22]

The last phrases were louder than the ones preceding them. By the final one, David was almost shouting.

Happy are all who take shelter in Him!

The soldiers were jumping, thrusting their arms in the air. The commanders in the front row had joined them, pounding their hands together. Jonathan was standing with his arms upraised. King Saul sat with his head in his hands. Michal stood staring up at David, frozen, tears pouring down her cheeks.

17 Psalm 98:1

18 Psalm 98:5

19 Psalm 5:1–3, author’s paraphrase

20 Psalm 2:1–3, author’s paraphrase

21 Psalm 2:4–5

22 Psalm 3:7–8; 2:10–12, author’s paraphrase

Chapter Seventeen

The acclaim was gratifying and confusing. While a part of David enjoyed it, another part felt ashamed—as if he were being praised for someone else’s triumph. The longer it lasted, the more uncomfortable he became. Suddenly, all he wanted was to disappear among the men and be forgotten.

He was halfway to his feet when he heard something that made him freeze. Jahra had strummed an emphatic introduction on his harp, and everyone sat down as if on command. The soldiers were drawing their cloaks around themselves as the evening grew cooler.

A few simple notes followed, these more quiet and thoughtful. It sounded like Jahra was strumming a lullaby—a song that a mother might play to soothe a restless child. David closed his eyes as he let the notes carry him away.

His eyes flew open when he heard his friend begin to sing. And the words were the same ones David had heard as the ravenous bear charged up the hill toward them.

“Adonai ro-i, lo ira ra.”

The Lord is my shepherd; no evil shall I fear.

He was sure he had not spoken them aloud. Did Jahra hear them as well?

Jahra repeated the lyrical phrase several times, his unused voice awkward yet quickly becoming more resonant, its roughness an interesting contrast to the tender tune. His body swayed with the rhythm. Not content with the introductory rhyme, he began again.

“Adonai ro-i, lo-ehsar.”

Yahweh is my shepherd; I lack nothing.[23]

His confidence increasing with each word, Jahra sang out a child’s song of comfort and confidence. Stillness blanketed the encampment. Crackling fires lent support to the words of a song that was causing more than one man to wipe his cheeks.

“Bin-ot desheh yarbitzayni.”

In meadows of green grass He lets me lie.

“Al may m’nuchot y’nahalayni.”

To the waters of repose He leads me.

“Nafshi y’shovayv.”

There He revives my soul.[24]

Jahra ran a pensive hand over the fourteen strings, waiting for the next phrase to come. In the quiet interlude, David felt the song bubble out:

“Yanchayni v’ma-g’lay tzedek …”

He guides me by paths of virtue …

“… l’ma-an sh’mo.”

… for the sake of His name.[25]

Without missing a beat, Jahra continued the thought:

“Gam ki aylaych b’gay tzalmaves …”

Though I pass through the valley of death …

“…lo ira ra ki atah imadi.”

… I fear no harm, for You are beside me.

“Shivt’cha umish-antecha, haymah y’nachamuni.”

Your rod and staff are there to hearten me.[26]

Jahra’s pace was slowing. He was taking longer pauses between words, as if he were running out of breath. David did not want to look at his friend, afraid he might lose his composure. Unexpectedly, he felt tears stinging his eyes.

Jahra grew quiet, still strumming. David realized that his friend was waiting for him. A few measures, and the next stanza took shape. He sang, dredging hope from the depths of his own experience.

“Ta-aroch l’fanai shulchan …”

You prepare a table before me …

“… neged tzor’roy.”

… under the eyes of my enemies.[27]

As soon as David finished, Jahra inserted another phrase.

“Dishantah vashemen roshi.”

You anoint my head with oil.

“Kosi r’vayah.”

My cup brims over.[28]

David’s stomach clenched at the words. Is Jahra singing about what Samuel did in the stable? But how would he know? Without moving his head, out of the corner of his eye David could see Saul’s head bowed and his chest moving rhythmically. He let out a sigh of relief. Mercifully, the king seemed to have been overtaken by the wine.

Jahra’s notes were growing so faint, David was forced to glance toward his friend. He choked down a cry of dismay. Jahra’s face was the color of slate and covered with a sheen of sweat. The look in his eyes was that of someone seeing far off into the distance.

Before David could say anything, Jahra’s gaze cleared; he took in a deep breath and began to sing again. This time, his mouth and tongue no longer seemed to be cooperating. The words were labored, but his friend was determined to finish the haunting song. His voice was raw, but the words were so lovely, they made David’s chest ache with longing.

“Ach tov vachesed yird’funi …”

Ah, how goodness and kindness pursue me …

“… kol y’may chayoy.”

… every day of my life.

“v’shavti b’vayt Adonai…”

My home, the house of Yahweh …

“… l’orecha yamim.”

… as long as I live.

“L’orecha … yamim.”

As … long … as … I … live.[29]

Jahra pushed out the last five words, repeating them with what sounded like defiance. David squeezed his eyes shut against the tears forcing their way out. The last note was trembling in the air when he heard a discordant twang and a thud. He twisted in time to grab his friend and keep him from sliding off the platform.

Jonathan was the first to move. He ran to David, pulling the inert body from his arms. “Adriel, stay with Michal!” he ordered. “And, Ahimelech, bring Eleazar with you. Now!”

Disoriented, David clambered off the dais and ran after the prince, who was heading to the large tent that housed the ark. The guards pulled the flap back, revealing a room that had been converted into the prince’s bedchamber. Jonathan laid Jahra on his mat as carefully as if he had been his own child. Light was coming from oil lamps on tables flanking the entrance. Through the partition in front of them, David saw a flickering light. Behind it he could make out a lit sconce and prisms of light reflecting off a metallic surface at the far end.

Jahra’s face and chest were drenched with sweat. His mouth was slightly open and his lips were slack, but his chest was moving. From behind David came the sound of approaching feet.

“Hurry!” Jonathan shouted. “There is not much time.”

Ahimelech, Saul’s physician, entered holding on to the arm of the wiry man with the purple headdress. He reminded David of a falcon with his sharp nose and sparkling dark eyes. His tunic and headdress were the same color as the curtain that divided the tent. Ahimelech leaned heavily on him as he knelt beside Jahra.

“Eleazar, bring water and a cup,” the physician said, feeling his patient’s forehead, throat, and wrist. Shaking his head, he lifted one of Jahra’s eyelids. Clucking his tongue softly, he took the bowl and from a bag in his tunic shook powder into the water, stirring it with his finger. Holding Jahra’s head in the crook of his arm, he pried the boy’s lips open further and dribbled the liquid into his mouth.

“Drink. Drink,” he murmured, massaging the boy’s throat.

After a few moments, Jahra coughed, but his eyes remained shut.

“We need to take a look at his leg,” Ahimelech said, unwrapping the bandage.

David’s stomach lurched when he saw the distended flesh. The right ankle was more than twice its normal size, and the swelling had streaks of yellow and purple extending to his knee. Just looking at it made David want to groan.

Eleazar pointed at the ugly red scar visible on Jahra’s upper thigh. “Did an animal do this?”

David nodded numbly. “A bear.”

Eleazar adjusted his turban, squinted his eyes, and bent down to look more carefully at the old wound. He traced a line down from it to the swollen angle, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

Ahimelech forced a few more mouthfuls of the liquid into his patient, then placed a piece of wood between Jahra’s teeth. “He can bite down on it if he wakes,” he explained to Eleazar, who had taken off his headdress so he could observe more carefully.

From another bag, the physician pulled out some white cloths and placed them in the bowl. He then drew a silver knife from its sheath. It was no wider than David’s forefinger and looked razor sharp. “You may wish to move away a few paces,” Ahimelech told the prince. “Sometimes the flow can be rather strong.” Not knowing what to expect, Jonathan and David took a quick step back.

“Eleazar, you hold the cloth above my knife.” The guardian of the ark knelt beside him, pushing his hair behind his ears so as not to obscure his vision. He was peering intently at the blade, his eyes wide. With careful precision, Ahimelech set its tip at an angle in the middle of the swollen ankle, then with the palm of his other hand drove it deep into the flesh. Jahra screamed around the piece of wood as a yellowish-red fluid spurted from the wound, drenching the cloth held over it. There was a foul odor, and David felt his knees grow weak. His ears buzzed, and all went black.

A slap on the cheek awakened him.

“Here, drink this,” Jonathan ordered, putting a cup to his lips. It smelled of wine and pepper. The liquid burned his throat and took his breath away. A warm glow spread through his body. Before he could speak, he heard Jahra groaning nearby.

“He’s much better,” the prince whispered.

David pulled himself into a sitting position and slid next to his friend. Ahimelech was standing by Jahra’s side. Jahra’s eyes were open, and his color had improved significantly.

“He is greatly improved,” the physician said. “But what he most needs is sleep.” Then he turned toward Jonathan, who was sitting in a chair behind him. “My prince, the king said that when we were done, you were to join the senior staff.” Ahimelech was fingering his tunic nervously. “He said you were needed to help plan tomorrow’s strategy.”

Jonathan looked at him sharply, then turned to David. “Jahra can sleep here tonight. Stay with him. My servants will bring another mat.” He pointed at one of the tables next to the entrance. “There is food and drink if either of you want some.”

As the priest started to exit the tent, Jonathan snapped his fingers to halt him. “Ahimelech, give David the bag; Jahra may need more.” The priest handed the bag of powder to Eleazar, who stumbled in his hurry to bring it to David.

“Five pinches of medicine is all he will need,” he said, handing it to David. Then he whispered, “I wanted to thank you for your songs this evening.” He stared through the translucent curtain at the light on the other side. “Prince Jonathan is right. The Spirit of the Lord sings through you.” His eyes were red when they met David’s. “I have longed for something like it my whole life.”

Before he could explain, Jonathan barked, “Come! Let him rest!” Eleazar nodded apologetically and followed the prince out.

When the flap closed, there was no sound in the tent except for the sound of Jahra’s slow, shallow breaths. The medicine he’d swallowed had taken effect. Reaching for the bowl and not seeing a rag, David yanked off his striped belt, thrust it into the water, and began mopping Jahra’s forehead. During the lonely nights on the Judean hillside, David had composed various prayers. He had repeated them to himself so many times he’d memorized them. He now prayed one of his favorites.

Yahweh, hear my voice as I cry!

Pity me! Answer me!

My heart has said of You,

“Seek His face.”

Yahweh, I do seek Your face;

do not hide Your face from me.[30]

Usually, this prayer was for his own needs; tonight he was including Jahra.

Do not repulse Your servants in anger;

you are our help.

Never leave us, never desert us,

God, our Savior!

If our father and mother desert us,

Yahweh, You will care for us still.[31]

He looked up at the shimmering glow visible through the azure sheet in front of him. He knelt facing the ark and assumed the posture of surrender: arms upraised, hands open, palms out. His throat thickened, and he was barely able to get out words he had never prayed before.

Hear my voice, which I raise in petition, as I cry to You for help,

as I raise my hands, Yahweh, toward Your Holy of Holies.[32]

He was quiet for several long moments. He heard the tent flap open and the sound of a servant unrolling a mat behind him. Jahra stirred and let out a whimper that turned into a sigh. The flap closed quietly as the servant left. There was quiet, and then another sigh escaped from Jahra. David turned to look at his friend. Jahra’s eyes were open and locked on his. They were wide and clear. The lines on his face were gone. His pain seemed to have evaporated.

David’s heart leaped, and grateful words burst from him as he bowed his head toward the ark.

I bless You, Yahweh, for You have heard my petition.

You are my strength, my shield; my heart puts its trust in You.

You have been our helper,

causing flesh to bloom again.

You are the strength of Your people,

a saving fortress for the ones you choose.

Shepherd us; carry us forever and ever.[33]

Jahra was still staring at him when he finished the prayer. His lips were moving. David leaned over so he could hear. Jahra grasped the loose end of the green cloth that was still wrapped around David’s head and drew his friend’s face close to his. Only a handbreadth separated them.

“Da-vid,” he whispered.

David nodded numbly. “Yes, it’s me, Jahra.”

A trace of annoyance crossed his friend’s face. “You are Dah-veed!”

David again nodded, uncomprehending.

“Dah-veed,” Jahra murmured. “You are Dah-veed.” He was stressing each syllable.

It struck David like a thunderclap. Jahra was not repeating his name; he was emphasizing its meaning. You are beloved. Jahra pulled David’s face closer and kissed him on the forehead. “Dah-veed,” he whispered, releasing the cloth and closing his eyes.

David kissed Jahra’s forehead, holding back sobs that were threatening to overwhelm him. He lay down on the mat next to his friend, draping his arm over him, feeling his chest rise and fall for many minutes.

He awoke with a start. Something had soaked through the arm of his tunic. His fingers were in a puddle of liquid. He lifted them to his nose. They smelled of wine and pepper. Next to his thigh was an overturned cup. He could not remember where he was. Above him were pieces of stitched goatskins. Across the room, next to the door flap, was a table with a lamp emitting a faltering light; on it was a jar holding burning sticks of incense. His head cleared a little, and he turned to see how his friend was doing. The mat was gone.

He was alone.

Feeling weak and dizzy, he sat up and called out his friend’s name.

He heard the creaking of wood as someone shifted position on a bench outside the tent. There were soft footsteps and the scrape of leather as the tent door was pushed aside. He saw long dark hair bordering a face in the shadow of the entrance. The person lifted a lamp. It was Michal. Her eyes were pools of sadness.

“I am so, so sorry,” she whispered. “Jahra is dead.”

23 Psalm 23:1

24 Psalm 23:2–3

25 Psalm 23:3

26 Psalm 23:4, author’s paraphrase

27 Psalms 23:5

28 Psalm 23:5

29 Psalm 23:6

30 Psalm 27:7–9a

31 Psalm 27:9b–10, author’s paraphrase

32 Psalm 28:2, author’s paraphrase

33 Psalm 28:6–9, author’s paraphrase

Chapter Eighteen

Michal took a tentative step into the tent but then moved back. He was a young man, they were alone, it was night, and he was inside the tent housing the ark. From the doorway she was forced to watch impotently as doubt turned to disbelief and then to a furious anger.

“No! No!” he cried in a shocked, strangled voice, his eyes darting around the empty tent. It was a tiny word spoken in a small voice.

Michal began to explain, but the wildness of his gaze made it obvious David was not listening. He tried to stand but couldn’t. Despite the prohibitions, she moved one step toward him. Suddenly his eyes fixed on her. “Where have you taken him?” he screamed. “Where is he?”

Her face went pale, and she backed out of the entryway. She had seen this look before on the face of her father, and it terrified her. “Your brother Eliab … and Adriel … took him when it was clear that … he was going … It would have made the tent … unclean …” A blush of embarrassment rose to her cheeks, but the words were defiant. “That is why I am not allowed to enter. No woman is.”

David leaped to his feet, pushed through the entrance, and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Why didn’t they wake me?” he yelled, shaking her.

“I’m not sure,” she gasped, trying to break free from his hands. “Maybe your brother wanted to protect you. All I know is that he told Adriel it would serve no purpose. They took his body to ready it for your return to Bethlehem.” Tears were forming in her eyes. “I’m sorry, that’s all I was told.”

David let her go, then sank to his knees, his fists pressed to his forehead. She could still feel where he had squeezed her so hard she had nearly cried in pain. There was murder in his eyes when he had done so. It was so much like her father it staggered her.

David’s head and back were bowed, and his hair hung damp and loose, hiding his face like a mourning veil. He looked undone. She wondered if she should leave but could not bear the thought of letting him grieve alone.

“Why did He not listen to me?” David groaned.

Michal knelt on the hard ground. She could have touched him but held back. She was confused. “He couldn’t; he was too sick,” she said. She drew closer, lifted her hand, then drew it back. “It all happened very quickly.” He stared past her, and she suddenly realized he had not meant Jahra.

“Why did Yahweh let him die?” The sorrow in his voice pierced her. “He was my friend.” He grew quiet, slumped forward a bit more. It seemed as if he were shrinking into himself. While she had waited for David to awaken, she had been rehearsing words of comfort, but now nothing came. Finally, he looked up, turning toward her as if readying an accusation. But his face slackened as his eyes grew distant. “Why would He take away the only friend I ever had?”

Michal leaned forward. They were only a few handbreadths apart. She could feel his breath and caught the faint earthiness of his scent. His eyes were the color of jade and looked just as hard. He turned away from her to look in the direction of the ark. “Why would He do that to me?”

Not knowing how to comfort him, she reached out again and rested her hand on his arm.

David’s voice was raw. “I was sure the priest had cured him.” He turned to look in the direction of the ark. “If he was going to die anyway, why make him better?”

Michal looked helplessly at his bowed back, trying to reassure him by squeezing his arm.

“Why offer hope, only to pull it away?” he choked.

Michal could not help herself. Without knowing how, she found herself with her arms around his waist, her cheek pressed against his back. She felt each quiver and sharp intake of breath as sorrow overtook him.

The only man Michal had embraced since becoming a woman was her brother. Adriel had tried to reach for her a few times, but she had rebuffed him. But here she was, holding a young man she barely knew, her head resting on him as if they were the closest of friends, or quite a bit more.

When she had first set eyes on him, shivers had run along her skin. She had felt an attraction she’d never felt for anyone. His eyes were beautiful, and in them was an alluring strength of purpose—a secret—that drew her. But when he began to sing, she had felt herself trembling. It was frightening and incredibly exciting. As the music poured out of him, she imagined caressing him, but it had not been like this. There was no excitement now—only a deep, impotent sadness.

She raised her head and looked at the strands of curly hair lying damp against his neck. Wanting desperately to soothe him, she unclasped her hands and, with one arm still encircling his waist, began stroking his hair. David’s breath caught, and his sobbing stopped. She felt his breath quicken. Softly she kissed the back of his head. She could feel his heart pounding against her chest. It was racing like that of a rabbit caught in a trap.

The speed with which it happened stunned her. One moment her face was against his back—the next, he had turned toward her, his arms around her and his lips on hers. There was something almost ferocious in his movement. A liquid heat raced through her body as he pressed his mouth against hers. She felt dizzy, felt herself falling into his arms. They tightened around her. Her mouth opened to him, and the ground seemed to be reeling beneath her. He pressed his lips harder against hers and then, strangely, stiffened and pulled away from her.

Michal drew back in bewilderment and alarm as David stared at her with the look of someone who has seen a spirit. She felt the blood rush to her face. With a burst of shame, she realized what had happened. Surely it was her immodesty. It must have shocked him, and, worse, coming only hours after the death of his best friend.

She sat up quickly, pushing strands of hair from her face and running her hands down the front of her gown. She stood up on unsteady legs. Trying to bring her breathing under control, she said, “I am so sorry. I don’t know what …” She did not dare meet his eyes. She wanted to run but couldn’t. “Please forgive me,” she said, her voice catching. She had to make him see that she was not like those women who offered their bodies to men, but she was too humiliated. A sob choked her, and with tears running from her eyes she ran off into the darkness.

David had wanted to interrupt Michal’s apology. It was he, not she, who needed to explain. He had almost jumped to his feet. Though he ached to hold her again, another part of him was strangely relieved. He had been sliding down a tunnel that felt oddly familiar and yet terrifyingly unknown. Conscious thought had been replaced with aching intoxication. And then as her mouth opened, in one awful moment, he had seen the leering face and the knowing, powerful eyes that haunted his nightmares. Eyes that wanted to possess him. The shock had driven the breath from him.

He stumbled back into the tent and fell facedown on his mat. Though the room was still empty, he had the sense that somebody was standing next to him. He rested his weight on his elbows as he peered into the dim recesses of the small room. The only objects near him were the overturned cup and the long strip of green cloth that Jahra had tied around his forehead. It was lying on the hard-packed earth; one end was underneath the curtain that hung over the room housing the ark. It was like an emerald snake trying to escape.

Jahra had been fascinated with snakes. Something about the long, slithering reptiles intrigued him. He could study them for hours, poking them with sticks, watching their flickering tongues, their sinuous movements, their threatening, defensive behavior. David had wondered if he envied their smooth, supple grace. He had lost track of the times he’d awakened to an unwelcome visitor under his cloak. His warnings had made no impact. Jahra’s delight was so infectious it would eventually cause David to laugh till tears came.

A sad certainty overtook David. There would never be anyone with whom he would feel so comfortable, with whom he could laugh with such abandon. He felt as though a hole had been carved into his chest. He felt empty and somehow very old. Reaching out, he began drawing the strip toward him. As he wrapped it around his hand, he remembered his friend pulling the strips of cloths off the branches in the woods. Even though Jahra was so sick he could barely stay on the horse, he was collecting cloths to help others.

The sob tore loose from David’s chest.

“Why?” he cried out. He clenched his teeth, fighting back the pain that threatened to engulf him—and unexpectedly found himself on his feet, his hands clenched onto the purple curtain as if wanting to tear it from the ceiling. He was arrested by the sight of finely embroidered images. They were cherubim, the angelic guardians who stood as sentinels in the presence of Yahweh. He took a step back and could now make out dozens of these mighty, two-winged beings that could look in two directions at once.

The light bleeding through the cloth woven from strands of red, purple, and blue linen was the color of pomegranate wine. He could now also make out more clearly the bright metal box in the back of the room. A thrill of danger and excitement raced through him. Every Jew was aware of the instructions given to Aaron and his sons. Only the high priest was allowed to enter the Holiest Place to stand before the ark of the covenant, and only once per year, after a careful ritual of preparation. Any divergence from these strict guidelines would result in death.

He hesitated. Did the law still apply even though the ark was no longer in the tabernacle? Anger surged through him, and he pushed the curtain aside. So what if I die? He took Jahra; He might as well take me, too. But before He does, I want Him to tell me why.

It was as if he were standing on the bottom of a deep lake. Quiet was pressing down on him, and the pressure hurt his ears. The sconce hanging from the pole in the middle of the room held a torch. Above it was an inverted translucent bowl that circled the pole so as to reflect the light downward. It was crafted ingeniously so as to scatter prisms of light around the room. The flame flickered gently, although there was no air moving in the still, rectangular chamber. Flecks of light glowed and danced like fireflies, teasing the outlines of the chest about ten paces away.

Sliding the torch free and holding it in front of him, David moved forward. He sensed his feet moving, but he could not feel the floor beneath him. As he approached the ark, he felt the hairs on his arm move, as if someone had blown a soft breath at him. It felt playful, like a practical joke. He almost expected Jahra to jump out of the corner and try to frighten him.

The flame in his hand stopped wavering.

He could feel the pressure in his chest building. It was becoming harder to take a breath. His skin prickled, and he sensed he was being watched. Cold dread settled down over him. He wanted to scream, but his mouth would not cooperate. There were no words, of that he was sure, but he knew a Voice had spoken. Strangely, it felt like an invitation to play. He felt like a newborn lamb feeling the first wild urge to gambol about an open field.

Yet his body remained rooted, his eyes trained on the sacred object two paces in front of him. The words throbbed silently inside him: Kadosh. Kadosh. Kadosh.

Holy. Holy. Holy.

The words reverberated with a solemn, anthemic pulse. His hands were raised, his fingers splayed, inclined toward the seat on which Yahweh had once dwelt.

The simple, gold-plated box rested on top of a sturdy table also plated with gold. Four polished rings affixed under each corner of the ark made it seem to hover over its surface. For a moment, David felt disappointed. He’d not realized how small it was. Standing on end, it would barely reach his chest. Yet while its size was unimpressive, its cover was so beautiful, it frightened him.

On it sat two golden cherubim. They each had two faces; with one they looked at each other, and with the other they stared down in worship. They were as tall as David’s outstretched arm. Their wings swept forward in an elegant upward curve of gold feathers that shadowed the throne beneath them, their tips almost touching. This was the canopy under which, in days of old, the shekinah—Yahweh’s glorious presence—would manifest.

They gazed downward and forward with a ferocity of love and devotion that melted something hard and cold inside him. His chest burned with the intensity of a blue flame.

David reached out his hand, under the power of something beyond himself. As he was about to touch one of the carved figures, there was a sudden movement beneath their wings. His heart jumped into his throat as a frenzy of feathers burst into his face. He cried out, his arm jerking up to protect his eyes, and he dropped the torch. Twisting his head away, he lost his balance and fell backward on the ground, his heart hammering in his ears.

Something flew at him, and he cried out again, wrapping his arms around his face. He lay still, anticipating unimaginable pain, the wetness of blood, and then an awful slide into darkness. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. His breath came in short gasps. No blow fell. He waited, terrified. Finally, there was another sound. It was the flapping of wings and the chirping of baby birds. Incredulous, he peered out from underneath a lifted elbow and saw a sparrow standing beneath the cherubim’s wings. She was looking into a nest she had built on the throne of mercy.

He was about to let out an angry oath when he remembered where he was. Embarrassed, he pulled himself to his feet and smoothed his tunic. When he straightened, a prickling sensation along his neck raced over the top of his head. It felt like his hair was standing on end. The torch he had dropped had not fallen to the ground. It was floating exactly where he had let go of it. It was swaying in small, graceful arcs, as if suspended from an invisible cord. As the arcs grew smaller, a figure began to materialize in front of the ark.

It was King Saul!

As the figure lifted his arm, a shimmering light poured off him in waves. Immediately David recognized his mistake. It was not the king. He was about the same height and had a thick beard, but there the resemblance ended. His hair was a crystalline white, and his robes were of the same color. There was such a condensed majesty in the angel’s bearing that David felt as though he were disintegrating. The purity in his eyes was so ferocious that David’s legs gave way as if scythed out from under him. He was on his knees, his forehead pressed to the ground.

A hand lifted his head. He found himself looking into eyes that were a light golden brown. In them was the distilled intensity of a love that lacked all hint of human affection. It made him gasp. His vision blurred, and he was suddenly as light as one of the motes of dust twirling in the room.

He could sense he was being sifted like grain in a sieve. In the angel’s face David saw an expression of joy and of certainty, as if he knew the greatest, most incredible secret in the universe. But it was almost coy. The look seemed to say, Just wait, and you will see! It is too amazing. It is too grand and glorious and astounding! But I can’t tell you what it is … yet.

The feeling entered him like a mischievous trickle of water. At first he mistook it for fear, but then he realized it was delight flowing into relief. Weights that had pressed on him like an iron yoke, bands of shame and guilt, and that cauldron of burning rage were extinguished. The eyes had not left him. David was never sure afterward, but he thought for the briefest moment that an eyelid had closed ever so slowly. It reminded him of Jahra and his wily, dramatic winks.

David was overcome. Throwing his head back, he laughed and laughed. Rivers rolled over him and through him. When he grew still, he sensed dense, mighty words shaping around him and inside him. Then, to his amazement, they took the form of a banner unrolling in glowing letters above him.

I proclaim Yahweh’s decree.

He tells this to you: “You are My son,

today I have become your father.”

Ask and I will give you the nations for your heritage,

the ends of the earth for your domain.

With iron scepter you will break them,

shatter them like a potter’s ware.

You are My son;

Today I have become your father.[34]

David was swimming in something warm and comforting. He’d never experienced anything like it. Was this what it felt like to be loved, to be chosen and favored? For the first time, the reality of what had transpired in the stable with Samuel became real.

When he lifted his head, the angel was gone, but everything inside the sacred chamber had changed. The pressure was gone; sheets of light illumined every recess of the room. The cherubim had enlarged into massive shapes and were towering over him. The ark seemed to be roiling and swaying in undulating currents of fire. The cherubim’s eyes were locked on him.

He could not look away.

They appeared to lift their wings slightly, and his body followed. He was off the ground and beginning to spin. His arms were stretched out; his hands rested on warriors’ shoulders, and their muscular hands were resting on his. He was in a circle. There could have been three with him, but he could not be sure. He was caught up in a rhythm of movement that was ecstatic and sublime and timeless.

Speed increasing.

A chanting, a thudding of feet, yet a sense of floating.

Laughter.

Joy.

Fire.

Rumbling and pounding now of thousands in perfect rhythm, in perfect unity. It sounded like war. It felt like victory. It was the release and the ravenous embrace of an unflinching, holy love. His chest ached with the terrible thrill of it.

An abandon of wild, fluid movement.

Ecstasy.

Spinning, arms wide, then extended, then no movement, as if in the stilled center of a cyclone, everything circling as he remained stationary. He was drinking in light and sound.

Then a voice broke through. It came from far away. It was harsh, and even though he could not decipher the words, they stung. The spinning ceased, and he was lying on his back on the ground. It struck him with a jolt. It was the grating voice of his oldest brother, Eliab.

“How … dare … you!” Eliab’s voice shook with fury. “Are you mad? Do you now think yourself a priest as well as a king?” His voice burst out in explosive gusts. “Two stupid songs … and you make sport … in front of the ark? You arrogant … filthy … dog!”

He could see Eliab’s dark face twisted into a grimace of fury through the opening in the blue curtain. “Get out! You are leaving immediately,” he roared.

David’s feet were again touching the ground as he made his way toward his brother. He felt his arm gripped by a hand intent on breaking bone. His brother yanked him through the curtain and dragged him out of the tent. Eliab stood in front of him, outlined by the torch that stood sentinel outside the entrance. David stared down at Eliab’s clenched fists. The ground was rolling. He braced himself to receive the blow. It did not seem to matter a great deal.

He could not tell how long he stood there, swaying. Eliab was speaking, pointing toward a horse tethered to a tent peg. “The prince wants you to take the boy to his mother.” Eliab was trying to whisper to avoid waking the soldiers in the tents around them. “Leave now, before I make you sorry you were ever born.”

David heard the words, but they seemed to be staggering toward him through a long tunnel. He blinked, trying to clear his head. He was surprised to find he was not angry. What did he feel? It was not altogether clear. He still seemed to be floating. Then the realization hit him, and his mouth dropped open in amazement.

I never asked the angel about Jahra! He found this so amusing, he almost laughed out loud.

34 Psalm 2:7–9, author’s paraphrase

Chapter Nineteen

It was not until David was halfway home that the fog in his head began to lift. Though the events inside the sacred chamber remained blurred, he was beginning to remember what happened after Eliab left.

Adriel had led David to his bay mare and pointed to the large bundle strapped to its back. It was Jahra’s body wrapped in animal hides. Then he showed David a parcel that was strapped to the saddle and said it was a gift from Jonathan. David had been too disoriented to ask why it was necessary to leave at night.

As his head began to clear and the dawn lit the sky, his spirits dropped. With every nudge of the bundle against his lower back, he became more despondent. Inside the holy chamber, his sorrow had melted away, but with each jolting stride his sorrow pierced him like a jagged splinter. When the sun had crept fully over the distant hills, he realized he should be nearing the fork in the road that led south toward Bethlehem. The sound of growling and jaws snapping woke him from his disoriented lethargy.

Around the curve just ahead of them, he heard a rumbling and the tearing of flesh. His head jerked up. He’d forgotten about the mass of soldiers who had slaughtered one another two days earlier. He pulled back on the reins. It was at that moment that the lion sprang, and so rather than driving its claws into David’s body, it landed on the bundle of skins behind him. Terrified, the bay reared, neighing loudly, tossing David to the ground. The lion’s weight tore the bundle from the back of the horse, which fled bucking and whinnying up the hill.

David leaped to his feet. The lion was several paces away, trying to tear through the hides. There was a terrible ferocity to the lion’s savagery, as if more than hunger was driving it. The acrid smell stung David’s throat, but his mind was clear. He was too close to sling a stone, but it could still serve an unconventional purpose. He grabbed a rock twice as big as his fist and thrust it into the leather pouch.

Growling, the lion continued chewing and raking his claws on the roll of leather. David ran toward it, his sling thrumming in heavy circles overhead. As the animal lifted his tawny head to face him, David adjusted the sling’s trajectory and slammed the rock against the lion’s skull. The lion fell to its side, blood streaming from its nostrils.

David sensed an aura of malevolence. He whirled to see the lion’s mate charging at him, its fangs bared, its face contorted into a mask of hatred. He barely had time to yank Jonathan’s knife from his belt as the animal leaped, driving him to the ground. The weight of the lion’s body and the hard-packed ground knocked the wind out of him. There was pain in his shoulders where claws dug into his skin. His hands and chest were wet. Warm, viscous liquid was pouring down his sides, and he could feel it pooling alongside him.

He was floating once again. And again he could have laughed. This was a strange kind of irony. A few hours earlier, he’d heard words he’d been longing for his whole life. They were a banner of divine favor, but now here he was, with his chest torn open, a wild animal savaging his body as he slowly bled to death.

If this was how Yahweh treated His sons, one might prefer to remain a stranger.

David’s left hand was cramping. It was clenched in a fist, bent at an odd angle, crushed between his chest and the lion’s. Surprisingly, the beast was not moving. In fact, it had not shifted its weight since landing on top of him. His fingers could feel blood as well as the polished hilt of the knife.

The muscled body twitched several times, and David felt liquid flow over his hips. It felt more like warm water. He rolled sideways, shoving the limp animal off his chest, and kicked free of its large back legs. The beast lay on its back, blood still flowing around the knife hilt sticking out of its chest. A snarl was frozen on its face, exposing its two curved teeth.

David ran his hands down the front of his soaked tunic and felt no wounds. Although he was covered in blood, most was not his own. The puncture wounds on his shoulders had bled a little but did not seem serious. He ran to examine the bundle of hides. There were several long tears and a flap where the lion had ripped loose a triangle of leather, but that was as far as the violation had progressed.

Falling on his knees next to his friend’s body, David whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. Then, unable to stand it any longer, he tore off his soiled belt and clothes. As he tossed them to the ground, he heard a familiar whinny. At the top of the hill stood his mare. She was shaking her head; her ears were erect, and her tail was switching nervously. Despite her skittishness, it was not difficult to coax her back. She seemed to want to be near him.

When he had stroked away the last of the bay’s anxiety, he pulled the water bag from the saddle and poured it over his head, letting the blood and urine run off onto the road. Opening the burlap bag, he found a packet of clothes. He untied the packet and took out a belt and an elegant yellow tunic. The tunic’s only affectation was an intricately embroidered collar stitched with gold thread. It was the most beautiful piece of clothing David had ever touched. It seemed to flow over his body. He strapped on Jonathan’s wide leather belt with its empty sheath.

He nodded grimly, placed a foot on the tawny carcass, gripped the bloody handle with both hands, and tugged the dagger free. It slid easily from the lion’s chest. Some more water and a corner of his old tunic were sufficient to clean it off before he placed it into its leather compartment. After letting the bay drink, he opened the food sack. The tension from the attack had begun to dissipate, and he was feeling weak with hunger.

He was disappointed. All he could find were three large husks of bread and some chewy strands of goat meat. The stale food tasted like an insult. But it was all he had, so after giving some to his horse, he climbed onto her back and ate the remainder as they made their wide circuit around the bend. He kept away from the road as long as he could hear buzzing, snarling, or growling. By late morning, he was on his way south, away from Gibeah, home of the beautiful young woman he had managed to offend. A blush crept up his cheeks as he recalled what he’d done. There was no question that he had ruined any chance he might have had.

An hour later, before the midday meal and as the day’s heat was becoming oppressive, he was riding into Bethlehem. Villagers waved at him as he passed them. The women muttered among themselves, pointing at his tunic and then at the bundle strapped behind him. Some called out for news about the army, but he did not respond. He waved and kept going. If he answered one question, he would have to answer a hundred, and his first priority was to bring Jahra to his mother. In any event, the last thing he wanted was to talk about his friend’s death.

He jumped off in front of Lydea’s stone dwelling and tied his horse to the sycamore. It was late summer, and there were only a handful of shriveled clusters of yellow fruit left. He was gathering himself to enter the door when it was flung open. Lydea was racing toward him, her hair in disarray. She looked as if she had not slept for days.

“Where is he?” she cried, grabbing David’s arms.

David looked down at her mutely, glancing over his shoulder at the back of his horse.

She collapsed and began to sob. She uttered only one word, a moan stretched out with the agony of a shattered heart: “Nooo!”

He bent down and wrapped his arms around her. From her mouth came that one incredulous cry. As he held her, David swore at himself for failing to take Jahra’s body down when he’d arrived.

Wanting to get her away from the neighbors’ inquisitive ears, he lifted her to her feet and walked her back inside, his arm tight around her waist to keep her from falling. He sat next to her on the bench she had shared with Jahra as they played and sang together. There was an empty cup on the table. David took it to the water pitcher in the corner, filled it, and set it in front of her.

Gradually her sobbing ended, and she grew quiet. She sat staring at the wilting flowers he had brought to her just a few days earlier. It felt like a year. The silence in the house was so heavy it hurt his ears. Needing to do something, David went to the water bucket and took a drink from the ladle. Her bleak voice interrupted him.

“How did it happen?”

How much should I tell? he asked himself desperately.

Before he could answer, she continued. “I dreamed it last night. I saw him lying in a room with beautiful curtains. He was bathed in a purple light—the color of royalty.” Her eyes pooled with tears, but she kept speaking. “Two golden cherubim, one at his head and the other at his feet, were standing over him.” Her voice had become nearly inaudible. “Their swords were held out as if they were saluting him.” She swallowed hard. In her eyes was a glint, either of rage or resignation. “That’s when I knew I would not be seeing my son again.”

David took his seat next to her. She was still staring at the drooping centerpiece. “I never thanked you for them,” she said. She placed her veined hands on his cheeks and pressed her lips, wet with tears, to his forehead.

He did not think he could speak. He bit his lower lip to keep it from quivering. Letting out a shaky breath, he began to tell her the story. Somewhere toward the end, he heard one of the twins calling Lydea’s name, then his horse whinnying, the sounds of running feet, and voices crying out the news of Jahra’s death. With the shouting, the entire town would soon be alerted. They had very little time before the house would be filled with the wails of mourning women.

He finished hurriedly. Lydea leaned her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. He felt her push down a sob, and she sighed deeply. “The last song he played, was it the one about the Lord being his shepherd?”

The question stunned him. He could not have answered even if he’d wanted to.

“And did he sing it too?” she murmured.

Still unable to speak, he nodded, a tear running down his face.

“Jahra sang it for me, too, while he was waiting for his leg …” Her voice broke, and David tightened his grip around her shoulders. Her lips trembled, but she steeled herself and went on. “It was only once, but I am so glad. I know now it was a special gift for good-bye.”

From the narrow streets of Bethlehem could be heard the sound of high-pitched voices crying in sorrow. Lydea looked up at the door, and David knew what he needed to do. He walked quickly out to his horse, cut the thick strands from the bundle, and brought it inside. When the wailing women walked into the dim room, Jahra’s body was lying with a sheet over it on a bed of animal skins.

The keening was too much for David to bear. He had to leave the room and go to the quiet of his cave. Later that afternoon, Joab, his sister Zeruiah’s youngest, came to get him. He was one year younger than David but several hands taller. He had broad shoulders and powerful hands from working with his father as a stonemason.

“The elders have come,” said the muscular young man. “They said you can help bury Jahra.” He bit his lip nervously, unable to meet David’s eyes. He had a sling in his belt made from woven reeds. It was in the same position that David carried his.

David followed Joab to the burial ground at the outskirts of the village. A large crowd was gathered under some nut trees. Several of his brothers’ wives were there, along with most of the village women. They were still wailing loudly. The shrill sound cut him like knives. Lydea was on the ground, her head resting on Jahra’s bound body. He was encased in damp cloths that gave off a pungent, spicy smell. Around Lydea’s head and shoulders was draped a torn sackcloth bag.

David was going to join the four grave diggers who were pounding picks into the ground, but Lydea pulled him down next to her. She leaned her head on his shoulder but did not say a word. As the hole deepened, the sounds of mourning were replaced by the music of a flute.

When the hole was dug, Hazzok, the head elder, lifted his hands to quiet the gathering and prayed the kaddish, the ancient prayer for the dead: “God, filled with mercy, dwelling in the heavens’ heights, bring proper rest beneath the wings of your shekinah, amid the ranks of the holy and the pure, illuminating like the brilliance of the skies the soul of our beloved and our blameless who went to his eternal place of rest. May You who are the source of mercy shelter him beneath Your wings eternally, and bind his soul among the living, that he may rest in peace. And let us say: amen.”

The words of the prayer had stuck in the back of David’s throat, and he remained mute as the crowd repeated the Shemah seven times. Still unable to speak, he helped place the body in the grave, filled the hole with earth, and covered it with stones. He walked back to the house, holding Lydea as the villagers followed to eat the food the women had prepared.

Three days of mourning passed, during which Lydea had remained silent. Unwilling to leave her alone, David had not gone out with the flocks. The morning of the third day, when he awoke he found her sitting staring at the kinnor bag in the center of the table.

He was trying to get a fire going when she spoke. “I can’t wait to see him again.” Startled, he dropped the flint on the floor. He turned to look at her. She sat staring out the window at the sycamore.

“Are you sure you will?” he asked. He was not so much interested in her answer as in keeping her talking.

“I have no doubt,” she responded.

“How can you be sure?” Most of the teachers he’d heard were unsure that there was such a thing as an afterlife.

She closed her eyes, as if arranging her thoughts. “Because of Job who lived in Uz, where I was born. I told you his story when you and Jahra were little ones.”

“Was he the rich man who lost all his children and all his money and became very sick?”

She nodded and sighed. “You both so much loved to hear it …”

“I’d forgotten. Our favorite part was when Job lets his stupid friends really have it.”

A sad smile flitted over her lips.

“When you got to that part, you would stand up with your hands made into fists and look very upset. Remember?” He was speaking excitedly, trying to deflect her sadness.

She rewarded him with a wan smile.

“That’s when we would beg to hear what Job told them.”

Lydea bit her lip as she kept her gaze fixed on the tree outside the window. “Yes,” she said. “Then I would say to you his words: ‘This I know—my Avenger lives, and after my awakening, He will place me close to Him. And in my flesh I shall look on God.’” Her last words were almost a whisper.

David reached past the kinnor and laid his hand on her arm. He could not remember it ever feeling so frail. She seemed lost in her memory. “I would shake my finger like you were Job’s friends. You and my Jahra would laugh so very hard you could not stop.” Her voice quavered as a tear slid down her cheek.

She wiped a hand across her face. “Job was a very wise man who knew God. I think he was right. After death, we shall see God, and each other.”

“Do you want more water?” David asked, gesturing to the empty cup.

“I need to say to you something,” she said, ignoring his question.

“What is it?” he asked, suddenly apprehensive.

“Your grandfather made this,” she said, staring at the pouch in front of her.

“Which one?” he asked incredulously, thinking of the tough men of business on both sides of his family.

“No. Not them.” She was silent for a few moments. When she spoke again, her voice was soft but firm. “Before I explain, I must ask forgiveness of you. I know you wanted to know these things for a long time, and perhaps I think now I should have told you, but … I—I was afraid.” She lifted her hand to keep him from interrupting. “You will understand after I finish.”

Lydea smoothed her dress in a nervous gesture; then, as if she needed to occupy her hands, she took a rag out of her pocket and began twisting it. “I did not tell you the truth—not all of it. But before I do, you will promise me something.”

“What?” was all he could manage to say.

“You must swear not to return an evil for an evil.” She stared at him. “If you do not, then I cannot go on.”

He had no other recourse but to comply. “I promise.”

“Say the words,” she prodded.

“I will not seek revenge because of what you are about to tell me.”

She looked at him hard for several long moments, then began to speak. “I knew your mother, and she died giving you birth, that is true. She was fifteen years of age, and her name was Shohanna. I called her Anna Lydea.” Her voice quavered momentarily. “She was my daughter.”

He gaped at her, feeling the color drain from his face. She hurried on. “My husband was killed by the Assyrians who captured us. When Jesse became my master, Anna was fourteen and I was with child—with Jahra. He was born a year before you.”

David wasn’t listening. “Fourteen?” he asked, thinking of the ages of his brothers. “So did my father have two wives? What happened to—”

She raised her hand again. “Anna was the most beautiful girl in Judah. She had eyes the same color as you, and she was also a wonderful singer. In the evening, she would play the kinnor, and we would sing together for hours. In Luz, our family was very famous. My father’s—your great-grandfather’s—instruments sold in Babylon and Persia. This kinnor was a special gift for your mother,” she said, looking at the bag in front of them. “So, David, you can be proud—in you is the blood of great musicians.”

David was still trying to make sense of Lydea’s words. “I don’t understand. When did my father marry her?”

“He didn’t,” she snapped, twisting the rag into a knot. She stopped David’s question with a glare and a fierce shake of her head.

“Anna loved to sing, but how she loved dancing so much. Whenever she did, her eyes would shine like … like … precious stones. It was a gift—a gift from God. My grandmother also had it. It could make people cry. Anyway, after the twins were born, Jesse’s wife became very sad. She was not a strong woman. During the feast to celebrate their circumcision, one of your brothers asked Anna to dance for them.”

She smoothed out the rag and spread it carefully in front of her, as if covering a stain. “I did not want her to. It was special, only for the family, but I had no choice. So I played, and she danced.” David heard her take in several quavering breaths. “From that moment, your father wanted my Anna.” She lifted her face to David. “I thought I could protect her.” The shame David read there made him want to retch. “I was wrong.” She was staring at the square cloth, her words brittle. “Eventually, he came into the house and forced her. A month later she told me she was with his child.”

A black fury flooded him. He grabbed the kinnor bag and threw it across the room. There was a snap and a muffled twang as it bounced into the air and dropped to the ground. He jumped up and kicked it as hard as he could, screaming, “Curse him!”

Lydea gave him a stricken look but remained quiet, waiting for him to sit down.

With a thrust of his forearm, David wiped his eyes. He wanted to tear something apart. He wanted to choke the life out of his father. Instead, he dropped back down on the bench. A groan broke from him as his head fell forward on top of his arms.

Lydea cleared her throat, tried to speak, and cleared it again. “So, almost a year after Jahra, you were born. Anna was too young and small-boned. It was very difficult for her. She died a few days later.” Pain was now etched along the sides of her face. “Jesse’s wife knew everything and began to spread lies, saying Anna tempted him. She told everybody so many lies, and one night she left and nobody found her again.”

David lifted his head, understanding beginning to dawn on him. “But why couldn’t you tell me?” He felt a pang of dread, then asked, “Did my father threaten you?”

She parceled each word out as if wanting to prevent another outburst. “Yes—he said we could stay here—only as long as I did not say to you anything about your mother. If I did—he would send me and Jahra away.”

“And now that Jahra is dead, you no longer care.” It was a statement, not a question.

She did not bother to nod. Instead she stood, walked slowly toward the far wall, bent over, and picked up the kinnor bag. She untied the string at the bag’s mouth, exposing its polished base, and brought it back to the table. “Look at its bottom,” she said.

Listlessly David drew it to him and turned it upside down.

“You see those letters?”

They were obvious now that she had drawn his attention to them. He traced his finger over the shin and the lamed.

“They are your mother’s initials. Your grandfather carved them. He gave it to her when she turned fourteen years.”

Something stirred inside him.

Lydea rested her fingertips on the letters, as if giving a blessing, then tied the bag shut. “It was your mother’s; now it is yours. Whenever you hold it, remember her.” She looked intently at him. “And Da-veed”—she emphasized each syllable, as Jahra had done—“remember also that—that you are—loved.” There was an almost frightening intensity in her eyes. “And do not forget the promise to me. No matter what, Jesse is still your father.”

She grew quiet. When she spoke again, her voice had taken on the edge it assumed when she was about to assign him an unpleasant task. “I know you wish to be alone, but you need to do something for me. When you were gone, I also made a promise. You know Joab wants to learn to use the sling.” She rushed through his protest. “I told him that when you came back, you would do this thing. I made a promise.” He started to protest again, but she waved it away. “Do it for me, please. For your grandmother.”

He did not know what to say. This was the last thing he wanted to do.

Lydea leaned toward him, resting her weight on the table. She seemed to have aged several years. She motioned for him to stand by her. Walking around the table, he put his arm on her shoulder. She turned toward him. “Remember your name,” she said. Then, pulling his face toward her, she pressed her lips to his forehead and repeated, “Remember your name, my precious nazir.” Her words enfolded him like a prayer shawl.

David did not move. He had to ask the one question that had been hammering at him since the secret had been revealed. Lydea grew very still. Her eyes were begging him not to ask, but he had to know. When he was certain he could speak, he choked out the words. “Did my mother want me?”

She did not answer.

The fear was like a vise squeezing his heart. “Did she give me my name?”

Her eyes widened slightly. She was about to speak but stiffened, her mouth a thin, defensive line as she gestured toward the door. “That is enough for one day. Find Joab. I must lie down and rest.” There was sorrow in her voice that she could not keep from her eyes. “If you will not do it for me, do it for your mother who gave you birth.”

Chapter Twenty

Lydea, of course, had been right. Giving his sister’s youngest instruction in the use of the sling was an ideal distraction from the rage that wanted to consume him. From the beginning David had been brusque, almost harsh with the young man. He did not hide his displeasure at the task imposed on him nor his impatience with the novice’s typical mistakes. But Joab’s fierce tenacity and refusal to be put off by his teacher’s irritability slowly won David over. What Joab lacked in talent he made up for with a dogged persistence that was impressive. He listened intently, accepted correction, and followed through on the instructions received.

His size and bulk had also put David off. It was due to a prejudice he knew he needed to overcome. David was usually one of the shortest in any group of boys, and he resented it. Plus, he tended to equate size with arrogance and Eliab’s nauseating swagger. Zeruiah’s son was strongly built across his shoulders and chest, having developed thick muscles lifting and hauling rocks for his father. This bulk was actually a detriment to the art of slinging, however. The best slingers were lithe and supple like David. They could easily outdistance those who relied on strength rather than speed and technique. But, though Joab would never achieve champion status, he could become proficient. That much was obvious to David.

Though old enough to marry, Joab did not seem likely to find a mate very easily. An accident splitting stone had cut his face severely. When it healed, the scar made his left eyelid and his upper lip droop just a little. It was enough to make him appear as though he lacked full mental faculties, but David had observed him measuring and meticulously cutting stone and knew better.

David had Joab set up small pyramids of stones at various distances away from the flat spot where he was standing. First with him behind and then standing beside his left side, he demonstrated the overhand and side-body techniques. Not surprisingly, Joab opted for the traditional overhead. It took less care and generated more power. After two hours he was hitting the pyramids half of the time.

“I need to go take care of my horse,” David told Joab. “Keep practicing until you can hit them at least eight times in a row.”

“Thanks for the help, David,” Joab said. “My goal is to be able to knock the top stone off. Like you can.”

“Good luck,” David said. “That will take a lot of work.”

“I am aware of that.” There was a touch of steel in the words that made David give the boy a second look. But Joab had turned his back on him and was carefully fitting a stone into his sling. David could not help the quick surge of envy at the young man’s height. The thick, corded muscles along the back and shoulders he could live without, but he would give almost anything to be as tall. For a moment he was tempted to let loose a stone and show the novice what real marksmanship looked like. He decided not to.

“If you put in the effort, you will do just fine,” he said as he walked away.

He went inside the house to get a drink from the water bucket. Lydea was still lying down. David understood why when he noticed a small stoppered vial on the floor next to her. She used it only when the pain in her knees and back had become intolerable and occasionally, like today, to help her sleep. Taking care not to wake her, he grabbed two round loaves of flat bread and cheese to put in a bag along with some almonds and dried figs. The lyre was still on the table in its bag. He picked it up and tossed it around his neck.

After giving the horse a drink, he decided to build her a simple corral near the birthing cave at the back of the pen. It was evening when he was finished. He was inside the cave, rubbing her down, when he heard the sound of clanging bells as a servant brought the sheep and goats back to their pens. Over the din, he thought he heard Shimeah’s voice. It sounded like he was calling for David.

David stuck his head out and saw his brother standing near Lydea’s house. Shimeah waved him over. “Has the army been disbanded?” David asked as he stood facing his brother on the opposite side of the pen’s stone wall. Shimeah wore an odd expression of disapproval that could not hide something resembling satisfaction.

“Not quite,” he said. “All those who remained from the beginning were let go; those who joined up after the rout were assigned clean-up detail.” He grimaced. “I walked around the bend where the bodies were piled. The stench was terrible.” His scowl had become a wicked grin. “Serves those cowards right. Teach them to stay with us next time.”

David resisted the urge to ask about Michal. “Did Saul and Jonathan return to Gibeah?” was the best he could manage.

“Of course. In fact, the prince spoke to me about you before we pulled out. He wondered why you had left in such a hurry without saying anything to him.” Shimeah’s usually warm eyes sharpened into points. “It is not wise to disappoint the royals, little brother. I would not presume on their good nature or their tolerance.”

David stared back at him. “I was told he wanted me to leave immediately and take Jahra’s body back home to be buried.”

“Who told you that?”

A cold ball formed inside his chest. Now it all made perfect sense. “It was Eliab and Adriel—that wily little snake who likes to hang all over Jonathan’s sister.” He kicked the ground, and a chunk of mud and manure smashed apart on the stone fence. “I should have known!”

Shimeah looked at him coolly. “Despite being annoyed at your discourtesy, the prince told me to pass the word on to you to be ready to leave quickly if he should have need of you.” Shimeah’s narrowed eyes made him look like a suspicious ostrich. “And, a word of warning: you have made enemies inside the court. This is what happens when you gain favor with Saul’s family. The greater the favor, the larger the number of those plotting your disfavor.” He pressed his finger into David’s chest. “From now on you will need to tread carefully. Favor, like beauty, is fleeting.” It seemed to David that the words were prompted as much by resentment as anything else.

“Thanks for the message and the words of wisdom,” David murmured.

“By the way, Father wanted you to know that he was not able to stay for the funeral because he had to visit Uncle Onan. They had to discuss an urgent business matter, and he had to leave so he could arrive before sundown.”

David gave him a skeptical look.

“He should be gone for several days.”

“Let the servants know that I’ll be taking the sheep out tomorrow.” David looked up at the North Star, which had just made its appearance in the evening sky. “I’ll leave early.” Before Shimeah could respond, David spun away and went to the cave. In the distance he could see a torch and a stocky figure swinging a sling. David had told Joab that at night a flame made a good target. The dedicated young man was apparently taking his advice.

He put a bucket of water in the corral next to his horse and decided to lie down next to her on a pile of hay. He opened the kinnor bag and drew out the instrument. The first thing he noticed were a broken string and an indentation on one of its arms where it had struck the wall. Guilt stung him as he thought of his grandfather’s hands carving this instrument for his daughter.

He flipped it over. The light was dim, and he could barely make out the two letters on the base. He traced them with his finger, wondering how many times his mother had done the same thing. He lay back, blinking his eyes clear. He at least knew his mother’s name: Anna Lydea. It was a lovely name.

That was the last thing he remembered until bristles tickling his head woke him. The mare was nuzzling him. He opened his eyes. The sky was a light blue; it was well past dawn. On his chest was the harp he had been holding when he fell asleep. He stretched and felt terribly thirsty. The bay had emptied her water bucket, so he filled it at the trough and brought it back to her.

“I’ll be back soon, old girl,” he said, patting her withers. As he slipped the kinnor into its bag, he noticed something he had not been able to see in the dark. There was a new scratch on the top piece. He shifted it to get a better view. He had been wrong. It was not a scratch but a carefully carved letter. It was the dalet. His initial. Lydea must have engraved it when he was out with Joab.

His eyes stung as he traced the letter with his forefinger. He needed to see how she was doing. Clutching the bag, he hurried to the house. When he shut the door, Lydea rolled over and sat up. She looked haggard, as though she had not slept well. But it was obvious that she meant to get up. David decided it would be fruitless to try to convince her otherwise.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Much better,” she whispered hoarsely. She reached out her hand, and David helped her to her feet. He led her to the stool next to the fire pit and laid some sticks on the red embers. She pointed to the kinnor in his other hand. “Play for me,” she asked. “Play for me and Jahra.” Her eyes welled with tears.

Unexpectedly, David felt a surge of resentment. He wanted to refuse. There was no song left inside him. The words lay dead within his heart, like a carcass picked over by vultures. He glanced over at this woman whom he had loved as his nursemaid but had just discovered was his grandmother as well. Her head was bowed, and both lined hands were covering her face.

Pursing his lips in frustration, he slid the instrument out. He wished more strings had been broken, rendering the harp unusable, but with nine, it could still make music. He sat down next to her, eased open his clenched jaws, and tried to expel the tension that had clamped down on him like an iron chain. He rifled through the bag and found the plectrum Saul’s musicians had given him. Playing for time, he ran it across the strings. The sound was too bright—too bold and brittle. He put the piece of bone back in the bag and strummed with his fingers. That was much better. He tried to pluck out a tune, but his fingers had no life in them.

Lydea took her shawl, draped it around her, and leaned her head against his shoulder. His fingers were moving aimlessly. Then he found he could not stop himself. The notes were taking on a recognizable shape and pattern. Spontaneously, the words Jahra had sung slid out from between his lips:

“Adonai ro-i, lo-ehsar.”

Yahweh is my shepherd; I lack nothing.

“Bin-ot desheh yarbitzayni.”

In meadows of green grass He lets me lie.

“Al may m’nuchot y’nahalayni.”

To the waters of repose He leads me.

“Nafshi y’shovayv.”

There He revives my soul.

The words were sweet and lovely. They comforted Lydea—that much was clear—but they barely grazed the anger that had settled into his bones. The words lay inert, like a skim of oil on water. He was singing not for him but for her. It was the least he could do. When he reached the line “Though I pass through the valley of death,” his voice caught and threatened to break. Unable to continue, he laid the harp on the table, placed his hand on Lydea’s head, and walked out without speaking. He trudged over to the pens, pulled open the wooden gate, and followed the sheep and goats into the hills. Throughout the day, the discordant clanging of bells around the necks of the grazing animals managed to quiet the clamor of angry voices in his head.

He made sure to return late in the evening. As if reading his mind, and sensing that he needed to be alone, inside the cave Lydea had left three pieces of bread and a covered pot filled with a porridge of lentils and onion. Despite feeling as hollow as an empty grave, David still did not have much of an appetite. He took several bites, then after giving his horse some food, he lay down and fell asleep.

The following morning he again left with the flocks, this time taking the porridge with him. He spent all day in the hills and returned at nightfall. When he had put the sheep and goats in their pens, he noticed Joab standing outside the corral. He was holding a pot in one hand and the kinnor in the other.

“Lydea wanted me to give these to you. She said she does not want you to go hungry or to be lonely.”

“Thank you,” David said.

Joab did not turn away. He was looking down, marking the ground with the toe of his sandal. Without lifting his head he said, “I’m sorry about Jahra. I know you were good friends. I’m sure you miss him.” As he turned, David heard him whisper, “So do I.”

David shut his eyes and nodded to himself.

The next several days David followed the same routine but left the kinnor in the cave. Each time he left Bethlehem he looked to see if his father had returned. Jesse had been gone an unusually long time. On the morning of the fifth day, David felt something bubbling up inside him. He grabbed the harp and tossed it over his shoulder before following the sheep into the hillside.

After finding an adequate spot for the sheep to graze, he dropped to the ground and opened the bag. The complaint had been building inside him for days. He was worn down with sorrow, anger, and loneliness. He let the painful emptiness burst out of him.

My God, my God, why have You deserted me?

How far from saving me, the words I groan!

I call all day, my God, but You never answer,

All night long I call and cannot rest.[35]

It was like lancing a boil—as he voiced his pain, the bitterness began to dissipate. This time he nearly shouted the words: “Why have You deserted me?” Pouring out his grievance, while taking away something, had the strange effect of filling him as well. It felt like fresh water flowing into an empty pool.

“You never answer,” he repeated, and the three words doubled on themselves, echoing off the surrounding hills. He raked the nine strings as he formulated his complaint, seeking the exact words that would capture his sense of desolation. When they surfaced, they were not what he’d expected. He had intended to give full reign to his bitterness, but it had already begun losing its intensity. As he shouted his accusation, a presence seemed to be drawing near.

The next stanza was a surprise to him:

Yet, Holy One,

You who make Your home on the praises of Israel,

In You our fathers put their trust,

They trusted, and You rescued them;

They called to You for help, and they were saved.

They never trusted You in vain.[36]

But at that moment, whatever consolation he was feeling was swept away by images of his brothers with their seething jealousy. Above them rose his father’s condemning face—and alongside it, Adriel’s furtive, ferret eyes:

A pack of dogs surrounds me,

A gang of villains closes me in;

They tie me hand and foot

And leave me lying in the dust of death.[37]

From his long years of desolation he sang. It was his story, but now no longer an accusation as much as a lament. He described being surrounded by bulls, by lions ripping and roaring, being torn so that his bones were disjointed and his heart melted inside him. He sang about his enemies gloating over his broken body, their hatred so intense that they would go so far as to cast lots for his new tunic. He wept as he poured out his heart:

Do not stand aside, Yahweh.

O my strength, come quickly to my help;

Rescue my soul from the sword,

My dear life from the paw of the dog.

Save me from the lion’s mouth,

My poor soul from the wild bulls’ horns![38]

Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone approaching. It was Joab. David wiped his eyes but continued, unable to prevent himself from bringing the song to completion.

Then I shall proclaim Your name to my brothers,

Praise You in the full congregation;

You who fear Yahweh, praise Him!

Entire race of Jacob, glorify Him!

Entire race of Israel, revere Him![39]

When he was finished, the tall young man with his sling draped over his belt just like David’s was standing behind him, not making a sound. “I liked that,” he finally said. “I liked that very much,” he added in a pensive voice.

David placed the harp in the bag, nodding his appreciation but averting his eyes.

“A messenger has come from Prince Jonathan. He wants to see you at once,” Joab said.

David jumped to his feet. “Did he give an explanation?”

“He only said that he had to get you back without the slightest delay.” Joab gestured at the flock. “I’ll take care of them. You should leave now. The messenger was very anxious—he looked almost afraid.”

Impulsively, David reached out and gripped his nephew’s arm. “Thank you for delivering the message and watching the flock.”

Joab grinned sheepishly. “Don’t mention it.”

When David arrived back in Bethlehem, the messenger was standing under the sycamore, shifting from one foot to another. David’s bay was next to the messenger’s long-legged gray mare. Both animals were packed and saddled. The moment he saw David running toward him, he jumped on his horse. “There is no time to waste,” he said, beginning to trot away.

“Wait!” David called out. “Let me first say good-bye to—to my grandmother.” The messenger kept moving.

Lydea met him at the door. “I know,” she told him before he spoke. Her cheeks were flushed. He was surprised at the brightness in her eyes as she kissed him on both cheeks. “The messenger told me. Hurry now, and God be with you.”

David caught up with the messenger on the outskirts of the village. Passing the cemetery, he wanted to look away but was unable to avert his eyes. He wished he had. On the almond tree overlooking the new grave sat two fat crows. It made him feel ill.

Soon after they had passed Jebus and were bearing east toward Gibeah, David heard the sounds of travelers approaching and slowed. He and the messenger were on a rugged, winding path dug alongside hills covered with pine and oak trees. To their right was an olive grove in whose flickering shade grazed brown sheep.

“Make way! Make way! The messenger of the king!” Jonathan’s messenger shouted. It seemed to David that, rather than slowing, he had increased his speed.

Around the bend David saw the twins seated on the front of a cart pulled by two donkeys. They were hastily guiding their wooden vehicle off the road to give them as much room as they could. The back wheels were dangerously near a steep gully. There was a flash of recognition as David raced past. He caught a glimpse of his father lying in the back, his face contorted with pain. They rode by so quickly, there was no time to call out a greeting. The two picked up their gallop and arrived at Gibeah’s gate in less time than David thought possible.

Saul’s walled city was well fortified, but not as large as David had expected. The stone walls were thick and well maintained, but still, he had expected something more imposing—something more grand. The guards opened the sturdy double gates that were nearly twice his height and waved them through. At least the gates are impressive, David thought.

At the entrance to Saul’s fortress they dismounted and handed the horses to the servants. It was the tallest building David had ever seen. It dwarfed the tabernacle in Nob. Before they reached the guard at the front door, it burst open and Michal ran out. She looked panic-stricken, too distraught to betray any awkwardness. Her beautiful brown eyes were red rimmed and haunted.

“Follow me, David,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Father tried to kill Jonathan!”

35 Psalm 22:1–2

36 Psalm 22:3–5

37 Psalm 22:16

38 Psalm 22:19–21

39 Psalm 22:22–23

Chapter Twenty-One

When their eyes met, Michal’s cheeks reddened slightly, and she dropped her hand. “Come,” she told David, hurrying through the entry porch, whose walls were lined with seats and benches. In the daylight, she was even more attractive than he remembered. She wore a long tunic with dark brown, yellow, and black stripes over a gauzy cream blouse. A bright yellow scarf of the same material as that of the blouse covered her black hair. Striding behind her, he could tell that Jonathan had been right; she was tall, slightly taller than he was. And she smelled wonderful.

She pulled up the hem of her skirt to take, nearly at a run, the three steps leading to a large open courtyard. “Father is in his chamber,” she whispered, barely turning her head, pointing to the right, where two guards stood in front of large wooden doors. “But we still need to be quiet. I don’t want him to know we’ve brought you here—yet.”

David wished he could engage Jonathan’s sister in conversation but felt inept and self-conscious. All he could think about was how he had foolishly shamed and embarrassed this beautiful girl. What could he say to compensate? How could I have been such an idiot to push her away like that? he wondered miserably. Again the memory of the blush of shame rising up her cheeks came back to him. He wished he could run back out the door he had come in.

David pushed back the memory by concentrating on the building Michal had invited him into. It was the largest building he had ever seen, much less entered. He wished Michal were not walking so fast, so he could take it all in.

The palace was built in the form of a quadrangle, with the courtyard in the middle. Its center point was a large fountain. Marble eagles, their wings parted as if preparing to soar, stood at each corner. Streams of water flowed from their open beaks. The splashing sound created an atmosphere of tranquility, while the mist helped cool the warm air. Multicolored canopies, interspersed among elegant palms, shaded groupings of chairs, providing a sense of calm.

The floor of the courtyard was tiled in hues of blue. Crossing over it, David felt as though he were walking on rippling waves. Around the perimeter of the court were half walls with lovely arches and rows of elegant columns that supported the upper story. Behind the arches ran hallways bordering the court on all four sides. Sturdy doors along the walls led to various chambers. The second floor had the largest doors. In front of several of these stood motionless guards with swords strapped to their waists and spears in their throwing hands. Michal was heading toward a flight of stairs, which led to that level.

At the top of the stairs, still speaking in a hushed voice, she told a dark-skinned soldier with broad shoulders and lean muscles to announce her. Rather than speaking, and barely moving at all, he gave the door behind him three quick raps with the butt of his spear and resumed his stance. He did it so quickly, it was over before David knew what was happening.

The door was opened from inside. Two guards flanked the entrance. On a cushioned bench sat Jonathan. In front of his seat was a low table made of wrought iron. Its top was some kind of dark marble. On it sat a jug and a long-stemmed glass tinted blue. It reminded David of a heron. He had never seen any drinking vessel so fragile or so attractive. His fingers itched to feel its polished sides.

Jonathan’s back was toward them, a hand resting on one of the ornamental columns of the high triple-arched windows. He was bent forward, looking at something below. “I love watching him play,” he said. The prince spoke with a tenderness David had not heard before.

Michal waited for her brother to explain, but when he did not, she added for David’s benefit, “It’s the enclosure for women and small children. That is where Mother spends her time playing with her grandchildren. Jonathan’s boy is the youngest—and her favorite.”

Still looking out the window, Jonathan motioned for them to come toward him.

“Where is Ramah?” Michal asked.

“She is down below with Mother and Mephibosheth. He is taking his first steps. He is a strong lad.” He turned toward them but did not stand. Instead he held out his arm and grasped David’s. “Thank you for coming,” he said, patting the bench to his side. “Sit. And don’t worry about the guards; they are my men. We can speak freely.” Michal was about to take the seat opposite when another threefold knock stopped her. The dark-skinned soldier’s head appeared through the crack, and he whispered to one of the guards.

“Princess Michal,” the guard said. “Your mother has requested that you come to see her. She has news about your father.” Tossing the messenger a look of annoyance, she straightened, smoothed her dress, and strode out of the room. As she swayed past him, David smelled the delicious fragrance again; it reminded him of honeysuckle in full bloom. It made his head spin just a little. It was almost too strong, as if she had just put it on.

“It’s just as I warned you,” Jonathan said. “My father has gone completely mad.” Strands of hair fell over his eyes. With a sibilant oath, he swiped them back. “Ahimelech thinks it is an evil spirit that afflicts him. Zereth is much more diplomatic, of course, and keeps his opinion vague.” Jonathan held David’s gaze for only a moment but then turned away. David was shocked. He thought he had detected a glimmer of shame.

“What happened?” David asked.

Jonathan pushed himself off the bench and began pacing back and forth like a chained lion. “The senior members of the council were eating together in the courtyard, discussing whether we should launch a follow-up campaign against the Philistines. Father was recommending caution, as usual. It makes me crazy.” The prince kicked a floor cushion, nearly sending it through one of the windows. “He believes that the best offensive strategy is to let the enemy wear himself out. He acts as if he believes that if we wait, they will eventually stop out of sheer boredom.”

He threw a quick glance at the guards. The soldiers stood rigid, eyes fixed on a distant point. For a moment, David wondered how much Jonathan actually trusted his men. The prince shook his head, then continued. “After an interminable speech in which he argued for the need to gather better intelligence, I had heard enough. The last time my father followed that strategy, the army dwindled to six hundred men, and the Philistine marauders laid waste to five villages.”

Jonathan threw himself back down on his bench, lifted his glass, and pointed toward the jug. One of the guards strode up to him and filled Jonathan’s glass. Jonathan appeared too distracted to offer David a drink. “I was angry,” he continued. “I will admit it—and I spoke rashly. And it was probably not wise to remind him of what happened at Geba. I could see that my father was getting angry, but I had lost my temper too. I told him we needed to act aggressively to take away the Philistines’ capacity to launch future attacks. He tried to interrupt me, but I kept speaking. This makes him furious, but by that point, I didn’t care. I told him that the army needed better armor and that our first priority was to take back control of the smithies so we could make our own weapons.”

Emptying the glass in one long swallow, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “That is when he blew up. He started yelling, accusing me of currying favor with the troops. He said he knew I was only interested in getting the army’s support so I could take the throne from him. It’s the same thing I’ve been hearing for the past ten years. By this point, he was on his feet, screaming. It was the worst he’s ever been; he started foaming at the mouth and making sounds none of us could understand.” Jonathan was unable to hide a look of disgust as he recalled the incident.

“But he grew worse, and his face contorted into something I’ve never seen. You may think I’m the one who’s crazy, but I could swear it took the shape of …” Jonathan stopped and glanced briefly at David, as if unsure whether to continue. “It sounds impossible, I know, but it was something like a lizard.” The prince was staring at the blue glass he was holding in both hands. “He looked at me with these hooded eyes as if he had never seen me before and began to shriek: ‘Who are you? Who are you?’ It was the most awful thing you can imagine. There have been a few times when he’s not been able to recognize Mother and some of the commanders, but it’s never happened with me.”

This time Jonathan filled his own cup. A good amount of wine pooled around the base of the glass as he poured with shaking hands. He lifted it to his lips, drained it, set it back down, and resumed his pacing.

“‘You are not Jonathan! You’ve come to kill me!’ Father screamed, and as he did he whipped around and grabbed a spear from the guard. I was sitting across from him, too stunned to jump out of the way.” Jonathan bit his lip and turned to look out the farthest window. “If he hadn’t been so confused and half-drunk, he would have stuck me to the wall. As it was, I managed to fall sideways, and it barely missed me.”

After a few moments, he sat down on the bench across from David. “When I had time to calm down,” he said, “I thought of you.”

David looked at him, aghast. “What?” he spluttered. “Why?”

“Your music. Remember what I told you about music driving the demons away?”

David shook his head.

“Well, if what happened at Kiriath Jearim is any indication, I believe that is exactly what your music can do.”

“Nothing like that happened there,” David protested.

“Did you see my father?” Jonathan asked. “Within a few moments after you started singing, his head dropped to his chest.” He waved David quiet. “No, it was not the wine. I know him, and that was not due to drinking. He was barely getting started. Your music did it.” He began twirling the thin stem of the glass between his fingers. David could now see that there were Egyptian letters etched into its side. Jonathan lifted it and showed it to David. “This was used by one of the Egyptian physicians who swore he had a potion that would drive away the evil spirits.” He traced the letters with his fingers. “It had no effect. The fake left before Father could string him up. Anyway, Mother is frantic with worry. She and Michal have talked it over, and they agree that you should play for him.”

“But what will the king say?”

“Don’t you worry about that. Michal can get Father to do anything she wants.”

This time there was no knock; the door was pushed open, and Michal walked in. “I’ve talked things over with Abba,” she said, her cheeks flushed and her eyes red. “And he has agreed. He is willing to see David. But we need to hurry before he changes his mind—or forgets.” Her gaze was fixed on her brother. She seemed intent on avoiding eye contact with David.

David stood, his knees weak. Then a surge of relief flooded over him. “But I can’t play for him. I didn’t bring my harp!” The last time he’d played it was when Joab came to find him, and he was sure he had not brought it from Bethlehem.

Jonathan smiled encouragingly as he walked him to the door. “Don’t worry. One of the court musicians has one almost exactly like yours. I had it tuned so that it would be ready when you arrived.” Putting an arm around David’s shoulder, he gave it a squeeze. “You will do well. I’m sure of it. I will stay here. I do not think Father should see me at the moment.”

Michal was already through the door. She was moving quickly, and when David increased his pace to walk beside her, she moved faster, staying in front. With her long legs, she glided smoothly, although her back and shoulders looked stiff. “Do not talk to him,” she murmured without turning her head. For a brief moment David thought she had said that she did not want him to talk to her. “He is in no mood for conversation. Begin playing your harp the moment you walk in the room. Sit across the room from him, but not too close.”

David trailed her, wishing miserably that he knew what to say.

She was taking the last stair that led down into the courtyard when, out of desperation, he reached out to her. As his left hand touched her shoulder, she froze. “I’m sorry,” he said. The apology slid off his tongue of its own accord. But it was as if the words had dropped and cracked on the stone floor. His hand felt like a useless slab of mutton draped over her rigid shoulder.

He tried again. “It was my fault.” He clenched his jaw in frustration. You sound so weak and pathetic, he scolded himself.

Though with each phrase Michal had become increasingly cold, David had no option but to keep digging a hole that seemed to be getting deeper with each word. “I should have been the one apologizing to you.” His hand felt even more heavy and awkward.

Michal’s head lowered a fraction.

“I don’t know what came over me,” he said, unable to tell her the truth. “I was just so confused, and with Jahra, and everything that happened, I …” His voice trailed off before he could continue the lie. His hand was growing uncomfortably hot, and he could feel Michal’s skin through the thin material of her blouse. He knew he should let go, but he did not dare to. If he pulled back his hand, he would never have the courage to touch her again.

As though reading his thoughts, Michal reached up and placed a hand over his. She still did not turn to face him.

“I thought you hated me,” she murmured.

“No. No. I could never do that,” he said, taking a step down. He was now only one step above her. He placed his right hand on her other shoulder. Michal leaned back against him, barely touching him. His breath caught in his throat. He hesitated, afraid to make a wrong move.

A shriek startled them, followed by the smashing of a pot from the direction of the king’s chamber. “Father!” Michal gasped. She pulled away from David and rushed down the stairs and across the courtyard. When she arrived, the guards had swung open Saul’s doors and were peering inside. They could hear clapping and hysterical laughter.

“The … stupid … stupid … cow!” came two voices in a slow, mocking cadence. They sounded like petulant children. It was awful. There was a hollowness to them, as if they were speaking from inside a barrel.

“I told him I wanted it cold,” one of the voices rasped.

Michal looked into the dim interior. “It’s only a jug of wine,” she whispered to David, a hand on his forearm. Her eyes were wide. He could tell she was trying to keep the terror from her face. She snapped her fingers, and both guards looked at her. One of them nodded and picked up a harp lying against the outer wall. It was the same size and shape as David’s kinnor, except that it had eight strings. David’s mouth went dry, and he clenched his fists to keep them from shaking. It might have looked identical to the untrained eye, but two fewer strings made it a completely different instrument.

“Remember, start playing as soon as you step inside,” she said. Her fingers brushed his as she handed him the instrument. “Dishon will remain inside with you. You can trust him.” Though she seemed ready to break down, her voice was surprisingly steady. He looked down at her long fingers, aching to touch them. She hurried away, her hand covering her mouth.

A bald guard with a massive chest stepped aside as David walked into the room. Beads of sweat shone on the guard’s head. The room was as dark and dank as a cave. All the window curtains had been drawn, but a few creases let in vague shards of the late afternoon light. David stepped into one of them and began to run his fingers over the taut strings, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Finally he was able to see the king’s huddled shape in the far corner of the room, on a small mountain of pillows across from a large brass bed. A servant was mopping the floor amid pieces of pottery. The bedroom stank of menace and sharp, spiced wine. And over it all was that pungent stench of charred and putrid meat.

David’s fingers were shaking. The notes from the harp were muddled and muffled.

“Curse him!” came a childish voice that did not come from a child.

“Yes, curse him!” said the other.

“Curse … them … all,” they repeated in a terrible, reverberating unison, as if two dissonant strings were being strummed together.

“They … are … cursed … traitors. The … lot … of … them.” It was only one voice again.

“Yes, you are right—all they want is my throne. But they will never, ever get it. Will they?” A cackling laugh came from the king’s throat. David’s fingers jerked.

“It … is … yours … only … yours.” The words ran out of Saul’s mouth like thick oil, obsequious and sly.

“Mine! Mine! Mine!” the king roared. David saw light glint off something hard and reflective in the king’s hands. Fear squeezed his chest, and he nearly raced from the room. The pressure released as Saul lifted the object to his mouth and kissed it. It was the golden crown. He was clutching it with both hands as if it were threatening to vanish.

“Only mine,” Saul moaned with a quiver of ecstasy as he hugged the crown to himself.

Though terror was clawing up David’s back and seizing his throat, he knew he had to sing. He held in his breath, then let it out very slowly. As he did, he groaned out a quiet prayer. “To You, O Lord, I lift up my soul, O my God. In You I trust. Let me not be put to shame.”[40]

Immediately he knew. Not all of it, but enough to begin. He would once again have to step over the cliff and trust that there would be arms to catch him. It was to be a song for the king about the king. Of that much he was sure. He sat down cross-legged in the middle of the room.

Again he whispered, “My God, let me not be put to shame,” then ran a slow, heavy hand over the unfamiliar strings. Though not the most creative opening, it got the king’s attention. As the discordant sound bounced jaggedly off the stone walls, Saul grew still, and his mutterings stopped.

The king was crouched on all fours. He looked like an animal bracing itself to pounce. From the dim corner where he lurked, two burning orbs stared at the young singer. David shut his eyes, let his fingers pick a few chords and find their own way, and began to sing. The words were slow and tentative as he fought to keep the quaver out of his voice.

Yahweh, the king rejoices in Your power;

what great joy Your saving help gives him!

You have granted him his heart’s desire,

not denied him what his lips entreated.[41]

He strummed a few more chords, feeling his fingers grow more confident.

For You have met him with choicest blessings,

put a crown of pure gold on his head;

he asked for life, and You gave it to him,

length of days forever and ever.[42]

Heat was beginning to flow over him, like Samuel’s anointing oil. It ran down from his head, warming his chest, arms, and hands. The fear had dissipated, replaced with pity. An almost brash confidence flowed into his lyrics.

Great is his glory through Your saving help.

You have loaded him with splendor and majesty;

yes, You confer on him everlasting blessings,

gladden him with the joy of Your presence.[43]

At this, a whimper broke from the king’s mouth.

“Shut … up … you … pathetic … weakling!” came the doubled hiss.

There was a coughing and hacking. The king was weeping. He was lying on his face.

“Stop … it! Shame on you!”

David was unsure if this was directed at him or the king. He did not care. Anger rose inside him at the sinuous, dark power destroying Israel’s once mighty ruler.

Yes, the king puts his trust in Yahweh,

By grace of the Most High may he reign unshaken.[44]

The whimpering was growing louder. And with it, the contrasting sounds of snuffling and growling. David clenched his teeth and kept singing.

Your hand will unmask all Your enemies,

Your right hand all who hate You;

You will make them like a blazing furnace,

the day that You appear.[45]

Shrieks pierced the room, doubling, tripling, and twisting themselves from the king’s throat. They were the tormented wails of a band of furious demons. David barely heard them. He was burning with an implacable fury. The words boiled out of him.

Yahweh will engulf them in His anger,

and fire will devour them;

You will wipe them from the earth,

their offspring from among the sons of men.[46]

There was a gagging cough, followed by a low moaning. David could not tell if the king was laughing or crying. Standing, David walked resolutely toward the prostrate form.

Rise, Yahweh, in Your power!

We will sing and play in honor of Your strength.

Rise, Yahweh, in Your power!

We will sing and play in honor of Your strength.[47]

From the figure in front of him came an exhausted groan and a hoarse sigh of relief. The king grew quiet, and then David heard slow, labored breathing. He was standing over the king, who was lying in a ball on the embroidered pillows, his arms wrapped around himself. The crown was several paces away, partly obscured by a drape. It must have rolled out of his hands when he fell asleep. David walked over and pulled the crown from where it was hiding, laying it on an ornate chest at the foot of the king’s bronze bed. The darkness in the room was still dense with evil, and eyes seemed to be boring into him, though he could not tell from where. He did not want to wake the king, but he decided to slide back a drape and let some light in. As the shaft widened and the darkness dissipated, a weight seemed to lift, and the king’s breathing eased.

A heavy hand on David’s shoulder made him jump. It was Dishon the guard. He inclined his bald head toward the doorway. When David turned to follow, he stumbled and caught himself on the wooden chest, almost knocking the crown back on the floor. His legs had gone numb.

With a quick glance at the king, the soldier pushed the crown away from the edge and led David to one of the rooms off the hallway on the first floor. The floor was not tiled but made of smooth stone. There were some folded clothes on the floor and a cushioned bench in front of the single window. The thin cloth that had been drawn across the narrow window was swaying gently in the evening breeze. Beneath it was a small round table with two jugs, a bowl, and a mug. Unlike those in Jonathan’s room, they were of simple design and made out of reddish-brown clay.

As the door closed behind him, David filled the cup from the closest pitcher and emptied it. The wine was tart. It soothed the dryness of his throat and washed away the acrid taste of evil. He looked at the couch and realized that the only thing he wanted to do was sleep. The muscles in his legs felt as if he’d run all the way from Bethlehem. He slipped under the sleeping cloak that lay over the couch. Two malevolent flickers of light stared at him through a round hole in the center of the wooden door. Turning on his other side, he closed his eyes, too tired to care.

As his mind was drifting into sleep, he saw the image of his twin brothers mocking him for the song he’d sung to them years earlier. And he heard a whisper. It made him smile: “So much for your vow.”

40 Psalm 25:1, author’s paraphrase

41 Psalm 21:1–2

42 Psalm 21:3–4

43 Psalm 21:5–6, author’s paraphrase

44 Psalm 21:7, author’s paraphrase

45 Psalm 21:8–9a

46 Psalm 21:9a–10, author’s paraphrase

47 Psalm 21:13

Chapter Twenty-Two

David’s eyes flew open. He looked down at his chest to see if blood was splattered on his tunic. He could still feel the rock in his hand. The back of his throat was raw, as if he’d been screaming. The couch on which he’d fallen asleep was tipped over on top of him, and the cloak was wrapped around his legs like a death shroud. Terror still clung to him along with the anguish of betrayal. He kicked his feet, pushing the couch off him, and looked quickly around the room. He was alone. Warm sunlight was filtering through the cloth that hung across the window, but he could not rid himself of that sense of menace. It was like a cold mantle stuck to his skin.

He had never had a dream this vivid, not even the nightmare of the wolves. It was as if the colors, sensations, and sounds had been distilled and concentrated. The strange thing was that even as he was asleep he had suspected he was in a nightmare, but he had been incapable of waking himself.

It had begun innocently enough. Jonathan had asked him to accompany him on a hunting trip. “There was an attack on Father’s flock last night. It looks to be from the bear that has been savaging our animals.” The prince’s voice had sounded as if he were talking into a shofar, and as he spoke, the floor undulated beneath their feet.

“How big are the tracks?” David asked.

“The size of both my hands,” Jonathan said, as though a bear twice the normal size were the most natural thing in the world. “You’ll be my armor bearer. You can take Asa’s place.” He threw David a sidelong glance. The room they were in was no longer swaying, but David felt a ripple of apprehension.

Tracking the beast had been too easy. The animal had dragged the sheep, leaving a trail of blood and broken twigs. Everything was in sharp relief; the sun seemed to have burst out after a brief but violent summer’s rain. David’s eyes were drawn to droplets of blood that had splattered the stark, white flowers of a cumin plant. The flowers were bent over, as if weeping. Jonathan was loping ahead of him as though trying to outdistance an opponent in a race. When Jonathan stopped, at his feet David saw the carcass of a sheep. Its shiny entrails protruded from the mauled body.

David’s pulse began to race. He raked his eyes across the terrain. They were in a narrow valley with boulders scattered on all sides.

“You go ahead,” Jonathan muttered.

No movement came from the rocks ahead, but the bear’s blundering trail erased all doubt. The beast was hidden inside its den somewhere in front of him. The thudding of David’s heart sounded like the beat of a war drum.

He reached for his belt, but his sling was gone. Warily, he crouched to pick up a rock. It was the size of a small melon. He froze. A low, menacing growl rumbled dangerously near him. He looked back. Jonathan was standing and clapping with a smirk on his face. There was another rumble—this one louder and more threatening. It came from the rocks in front of him. The valley had grown still. All sound had fled. David held his breath, ears straining. He looked around for Jonathan.

The prince had vanished.

David’s foot slid forward, but a roar spun him around. As the animal pounced, it let out a bellow that slammed into him with the force of a rockslide. The ambush had been so sudden, and his turn so quick, that he lost his balance and was falling backward as the beast landed on top of him.

Something hot and sinuous seemed to pool and gather in David’s chest. It coiled, gathering strength, kneading all his rage into a dense, dangerous mass. He clutched the rock in his hand and slammed it into the side of the monstrous head above him. He struck again and again, the animal’s blood spraying onto his arms and face. Finally, with a shuddering sob, he stopped. His fingers dropped the weapon, and he pushed the inert body off him. He lay motionless, his chest heaving as he drew in great gulps of air.

That was when he had felt the hard edge of the couch on his shins and forced himself awake.

He gave the couch one more kick and untangled himself from the cloak. I’ll sleep on the floor from now on, he promised himself, giddy with relief. He righted the couch and found the kinnor underneath. He set it in the corner and walked over to the small stand and poured water from one of the jugs into the bowl. He was throwing the cool liquid on his face when he heard a cautious knock.

“Come in,” he said, drying himself with a soft cloth.

A servant pushed his head into the room. “The prince asked that you join him and the king for a late breakfast.” His inquisitive gaze made David wonder what kind of information had begun circulating through the palace.

“Is there something more you wish to say to me?” David asked, more pointedly than he’d intended. Images from his nightmare were still troubling him.

The young man’s face reddened, and he looked away, shaking his head. He shut the door quietly. Through the hole in its center, David could see the servant stop and then move quickly away.

The courtyard was empty except for the king and Jonathan. They were seated on pillows around a low square table under one of the canopies near the fountain. On the table, which was set for three, were colorful lacquered plates with matching small bowls and mugs in front of each. The centerpiece was an oblong dish heaped with small loaves of brown bread. Saul was speaking—but so softly that David could not make out the words. His son was sitting stiffly to his right, looking down at the food. A steady stream of servants wearing brightly colored tunics were coming and going, bringing trays of fruit and cheese, thinly sliced dried fish, pistachios, and almonds. Sisha was standing behind the king. He was holding a jug from which he was filling the empty cups with an unusually colored liquid.

David stood uncomfortably across from the king, waiting to be acknowledged. The palms of his hands were damp. Saul lifted a cup to take a drink and took notice of David. Beyond the dark smudges beneath his eyes, there was nothing to indicate what had occurred the night before. The king seemed a different person. For an awkward moment, Saul stared at David without recognizing him. Imitating what he’d seen others do, David placed his right hand over his heart. He pressed hard, trying to keep his fingers from trembling.

“This is David, Father,” Jonathan interjected smoothly. “He is the musician who performed for the army”—he stopped for a beat, as if weighing how to continue—“and sang for you last evening.”

“Ahhhhh.” A brief cloud passed over Saul’s face, but confusion and embarrassment quickly gave way to a practiced courtesy. “Yes. Yes. The musical shepherd.” He inclined his head slightly, as if grateful to be able to place the young man. “Sit down. Sit down.” He pointed to the pillows opposite him, sounding not so much like a king but like an affable host.

“Please try our cook’s specialty. I drink it every breakfast.”

Tentatively, David sat down on the cushions. As he did so, he surreptitiously rubbed his hands dry on the soft material. Then he picked up the cup to the left of his plate and took a sip.

“No! No!” roared the king.

David nearly dropped the cup onto his lap.

“Don’t drink it like an old woman,” Saul urged. “Take a manly swallow. It will not harm you.” He demonstrated by draining his cup in one gulp.

David felt himself blush and drank deeply. He could taste grape and pomegranate juice, and a little honey. But there was a tang he could not identify. He smiled widely, unable to hide his exuberance. “That is delicious!” Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “May I have some more?”

The king grinned broadly, looking as though he would have thumped David on the back if a table was not separating them. “You certainly may. By the way, I had a hand in the recipe.” Jonathan glanced at David, nodding at him encouragingly. “My own special touch is the crushed lime—for tartness.”

David took the prince’s hint. “King Saul, this is by far the most refreshing drink I have ever tasted,” he enthused, taking another drink.

The king lowered his head, acknowledging the compliment. When he lifted his eyes, he stared at David, not saying a word. Jonathan cast a nervous glance at his father but kept quiet. The silence stretched and was becoming uncomfortable, but David could not think of anything else to say. He waited, growing increasingly anxious.

“You are a fine musician,” the king said eventually. “By far the best in the kingdom.” He took a long, slow sip from his cup, swirling it around in his mouth.

It was David’s turn to beam.

“I want you to be a part of the royal court.”

Had he not already been sitting, David would have probably dropped to his knees. The blood rushed from his head, and everything seemed to be swaying in front of his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. His tongue felt like leather. Not knowing what to do, he drew his shoulders back and placed his hand fervently over his heart.

Saul’s eyes gleamed. “My son tells me that you are a gifted slinger as well. According to him, despite being a Judite, you are on par with our Benjamites, who, as I’m sure you are aware, are the best in the land.” He gave David a sly smile.

“Though they are from my tribe,” Saul continued, “I will say this: they have a tendency to strut about as if they invented the weapon. They are good—and they know it. Till now, they have been the only members of my personal detail. I want you to join them. You will be the first Judite in the group of armor bearers.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “It will do them good to know they cannot make exclusive claim to excellence. It is not a wise thing for a servant of the king to grow overconfident.” There was steel now in Saul’s gaze.

David swallowed hard. The tart drink was souring in his stomach.

Jonathan looked at his father in surprise. “Father, I had intended to select David for myself—we agreed—as a replacement for Asa.”

The king raised his hand to dismiss his son’s concern, but he stopped himself, shame creeping into his eyes. He threw up his palms in mock surrender. “Well then, I shall not take him from you.” He thought for a moment. “We shall appoint him to both. When we go on maneuvers and the forces are split, he can go with you. Otherwise he will be part of the Benjamites.”

Jonathan’s jaw stiffened and his eyes sparked; then, with obvious effort, he gave an acquiescent nod. “Very well, Father. It shall be as you say.”

They ate in cool silence until Sisha whispered in Saul’s ear. “I have matters of state to attend to,” the king declared without preamble, almost knocking over his cup as he lurched to his feet. Jonathan did not respond. Saul turned to leave, then stopped and looked at his son. “My apologies for yesterday,” he growled. “It will not happen again.”

His expression softened as he glanced at David. “Young man, your music is a gift from God.”

David pushed himself away from the table to rise to his feet.

“No need for that,” the king said, gesturing for him to remain sitting.

Saul ran his fingers through his beard, looking over David’s head. David stared at the king awkwardly, waiting, unsure whether some kind of response was expected. Jonathan was taking a bite of fish and not offering any help.

“I thank you for your singing last night. I sometimes don’t know what comes …” For a moment, Saul seemed about to continue, but instead he shook his head, turned heavily, and shuffled out of the courtyard. Two guards followed at his back, holding their spears across their chests.

“He is very taken with you,” Jonathan said when the king’s chamber door shut. “And, I must admit, he is not the only one.”

David looked down at the plates of food on the table. He did not trust himself to speak. His chest felt like it would burst. He knew that if he tried to say anything, his voice would betray him and make him sound like a child. To hide his discomfort, he took a bite of the dried fish.

“What you did last night was nothing short of a miracle. My mother is extremely grateful. She made me promise to convey her appreciation. She wanted to tell you herself but is not feeling well.”

The fish was so good, David took another piece.

“Here, try this,” Jonathan said, holding out a cake of raisins and figs. “It’s one of my favorites.” David took a bite. The flavor was unexpected—sweet and tart as if the fruit had been dusted lightly with salt. He did not much care for it. “My sister is anxious to meet the new hero,” Jonathan continued. “And I am not referring to Michal, of course.” Jonathan’s face was inscrutable. “You have already made her acquaintance.”

David looked at the dark, sticky mass of crushed dates and raisins in his hand. He was beginning to feel slightly nauseous. Not wanting to offend, he raised his hand to put all of it into his mouth. Suddenly a question came to him. “But, Prince, how can I stay here without my father’s permission?”

Jonathan smiled. “The messenger is on his way to Bethlehem at this moment. My father sent him before breakfast. He will deliver news of the royal appointment directly to your father.” He stood, and David followed his lead. “I think that suffices for our breakfast. If you are going to be armor bearer to the king as well as to the prince, you will need to put in some practice with the bow. And you don’t want too full a belly, I can tell you. If you get good enough, maybe we will go bow hunting later. There is a bear that keeps attacking the flocks. I have told the guards that I want to kill him myself.”

A shiver ran through David. “That would be an honor,” he said with a weak smile.

“Knowing how you prize that lyre of yours,” the prince added, striding ahead of him down the hall toward the palace entrance, “I’ve given instructions for the messenger to bring it back with him.”

“I appreciate that, my prince.”

Jonathan had turned a corner and did not hear him.

For the remainder of the day, he and Jonathan worked with the royal trainers. David learned more about the bow and arrow than he had thought possible. He was introduced to one of Jonathan’s younger brothers, Malki-shua, who was in a small group working on spear throwing.

By early afternoon, David was near the bull’s-eye on more than half of his attempts with the bow and arrow. When his fingers had grown sore from pulling back the gut string, he began work on the use of the sword and shield as weapons of offense and defense. By the time the first session was over, his arms felt as if they had been battered by a thousand clubs.

“Excellent work,” Jonathan said, clapping David’s back. “You began as a novice and reached the level of mediocre in only one day.” He laughed. “Don’t take me so seriously. I was joking. You have a natural skill with weapons. The instructors were impressed, and that is not easily accomplished. Even Uriah spoke well of you, and he rarely compliments anyone. You should be pleased.”

Inside the palace’s entryway, Jonathan gave David’s shoulder a squeeze. “I am very glad that you are going to be part of the royal court.” He looked up the three stairs to the courtyard, where one long table had been made out of the separate tables scattered about. He gestured apologetically. “The evening meal is reserved for immediate family, unless it is a special feast. Then we have nearly a hundred milling about. Tonight you are free to eat with the guards if you desire, or the servants can bring you your food. It is your choice.”

“I’m exhausted,” David responded quickly. “My arms and legs feel like boiled cucumbers. If it’s not too much bother, I think I’d prefer eating in my room.”

“Fine,” Jonathan said. “Maybe we can go hunting tomorrow. Give you a chance to work on your marksmanship,” he said, heading for the staircase to the upper chambers.

A servant brought David a plate heaping with food that he recognized from breakfast that morning. David was delighted; it was better food than he had ever tasted, and the quantities were impressive. On the table the servant also set a round lamp twice as large as Lydea’s.

David ate sitting on a bench, looking out the narrow window. Saul’s palace was built on the highest elevation in Gibeah. Lights from scores of houses stretched out beneath David. Pride and excitement were bubbling inside him. He could not believe how much had changed in one day. Behind him, in the center courtyard, he could hear children’s voices and maternal scolding, along with the clinking of dishes and knives. He turned around to listen in. It was impossible. There were several conversations going on at once. Getting up, he walked to the door and put his ear against the hole in the center.

He could now hear Jonathan’s voice, interrupted by male laughter and female gasps, as the prince recounted his attack on the Philistine garrison. David recognized the voice of Malki-shua, Saul’s second-born. David had not yet met the two other boys. He listened carefully but could not hear Saul’s voice. Everybody seemed to be talking over one another.

David walked back and blew out the lamp so he could not be seen as he peered out through the hole. The king was partially obscured by the curved trunk of a palm tree. He was sitting at the head of the table, his back to David as he ate slowly and thoughtfully. At the foot of the table, David could see a woman whom he assumed to be Saul’s wife, Ahinoam. She was heavyset, with high cheekbones that still bore traces of youthful beauty. As she bent toward a little boy sitting next to her, David saw her face light up. Her smile was stunning.

David felt a pang. He had never been part of a family meal like this. It was the happiest, most tranquil scene he had ever witnessed. There was the sound of more laughter, and he recognized it as Michal’s. It soared like a swallow on quick wings, settling in the palm branches above. He could just make out a head of dark hair and a band of silver cloth. All at once, he felt utterly alone. His throat tightened, and his eyes stung.

He moved away from the door, feeling terribly tired. Recalling what had happened the night before, he removed the cushion on the sleeping couch and placed it on the floor. He was asleep as soon as he lay his head on it.

He was awakened within moments, or so it seemed. A hand was shaking him. He opened his eyes with a start. Sisha was holding an oil lamp in his hand.

“The king is sick.” The old man’s voice was taut. His hand trembled, causing the lamplight to dance drunkenly on the walls. “You need to come immediately.” His deep-set eyes looked like empty caverns.

David glanced out the window. It was well past midnight. He pushed himself up and, as he was about to follow Sisha, noticed that his kinnor was lying on the round table next to the two jugs. He looked inside, saw that the broken string had been fixed, and closed the bag. Slinging it over his shoulder, he walked out of the room. The darkness in the palace was lit by torches hung on the corner columns of the courtyard. David followed the guttering light that seemed to float several paces in front of him. Unlike the gentle flame suspended before the golden ark, this one jerked and twisted as if straining to fling itself at him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sisha stood at the entrance to the king’s private chamber. The doors were open, and the guard was barely visible in the shadows. The gaunt servant was holding his lamp in front of him, directing its light into the dark interior. He turned his head and stared at David without uttering a word. Icy fingers tickled the back of David’s neck. The flickering lamplight was carving deep furrows along the sides of Sisha’s face. He looked like a corpse. David took the lamp and stepped into the doorway.

Grabbing his arm, Sisha whispered, “Set it on the table next to the door. Bright light hurts his eyes. It makes him furious.” Sisha released his grip, and the doors closed behind David with a muffled thud.

Strangely, Dishon was gone. David set the lamp down, trying not to make a sound. He waited for his eyes to adjust. The pile of cushions was empty. The curtains were pulled back, and through a large, triple-arched window a harvest moon measured him with a cool, unblinking gaze. On the rug in the center of the room, the shape of the arches was illumined by moonlight. Two measured steps placed him inside the patch of silvery light. He looked down at his feet and gave an involuntary start. The claws of a bird of prey woven into the rug looked like they were grasping at his sandals.

He shifted sideways and glanced around the chamber. He was able to make out the king’s profile hidden in shadow. He was sitting on a wide couch in the farthest corner, staring down at an enormous two-handled cup on a low table next to him. Saul’s back was bowed, and his disheveled hair looked like a crane’s nest. He lifted his hand to push back a loose strand that hung into the cup in front of him. He could have been over a hundred years old.

David sat in the center of the illumined patch to take advantage of the light. He slid his instrument out of its bag and with a gentle, sweeping motion stroked the ten strings. His kinnor was in perfect tune.

It began with that familiar tingle as the warm presence descended, melting away his anxiety as quickly as the morning sun dissipates a summer mist. His fingers danced lightly over the strings. Lyrical notes merged together. David closed his eyes, envisioning the links of an intricate golden chain circling around the still figure of the king and resting lightly on his shoulders.

Saul let out a low, plaintive moan. His shoulders bunched as he pressed the palms of his hands against his face. David kept playing, weaving the spell, using the music to push through the king’s pain and drive back the oppressive darkness. With shaking hands, Saul reached for the cup and emptied it. He squeezed his palms back over his eyes and mumbled some indistinguishable words.

David strummed more softly, trying to hear the king. He was able to make out a simple plea: “Please. Please.” It sounded like someone at the edge of an abyss, knowing that a push will send him hurtling down. It was the appeal of a broken man who has lost hope. Unexpected tears formed at the corners of David’s eyes. He wondered if this was what it felt like to love a father, if this was what he should feel for Jesse. He shoved the thought aside.

Help me, O Lord! he whispered. As he fingered an elaborate musical phrase, it came to him: If King Saul can’t pray for himself, I will pray for him.

The petition simply arose out of him.

God, hear my cry for help,

listen to my prayer!

From the ends of the earth, I call to You,

with sinking heart.

To the rock too high for me,

lead me!

For You are my refuge,

a strong tower against the enemy.[48]

He sang the words for Saul.

Let me stay in Your presence for ever,

taking refuge in the shadow of Your wings.

You, God, accept my vows,

You grant me the heritage of those who fear Your name.[49]

Now he found himself singing his own plea for the shattered warrior sitting in front of him.

Let the king live on and on,

prolong his years, generation on generation.

May he sit enthroned in God’s presence for ever!

Assign Your Love and Faithfulness to guard him!

So shall he always sing of Your name,

Fulfilling vows he has taken, day after day.[50]

When David was finished, Saul lay down on the couch without saying a word. David picked up a cloak that was lying on the floor, draped it carefully over the king, and walked toward the door. Before he could raise his hand to knock, Saul’s weak voice interrupted him. “David … you have the king’s thanks.” It was the voice of an old man drained of all strength.

The next weeks followed an almost identical pattern: after spending the day training with Jonathan and eating with the fighting men, and the evening working on his music in his bedroom, David would go to sleep and more often than not be awakened to ease the king’s distress. During the daytime, whenever the king saw him, he would stare at David in silence, fatigue showing in dark smudges beneath haunted eyes.

Saul only rarely engaged David in conversation, but Saul’s appreciation was evident in the way his face softened when he caught sight of David. Occasionally, David could detect gratitude battling with humiliation, and several times he had felt a prickle on his back and turned to catch the king staring at him with cold appraisal. This did not alter David’s feelings of sympathy. Though Saul was no longer the heroic warrior he’d daydreamed about in the Bethlehem hills, David had begun feeling a fierce protectiveness for this worn-out old man burdened by suspicion and by terrors that were destroying him.

The king’s fits rose and fell like the waxing and waning of the moon, but slowly their frequency abated. When they did return, however, it was with redoubled intensity. They seemed to withdraw only to gather strength and resurface with greater malevolence. After another drawn-out and exhausting episode, David was adjusting the kinnor’s strap around his neck, preparing to leave, when the king grabbed his forearm. It was so unexpected, David nearly tripped.

Saul’s voice was choked with emotion. “If it weren’t for you, I think I would have lost my …” He stared away into the cold darkness, then tightened his hold on David’s arm. Though the voice was weak, the grip was not. “David, you have become like a son to me—”

Warmth flooded through David. It was pride and gratitude that somehow comingled with a profound sense of unworthiness. But as soon as the words registered, Saul’s body went rigid. His fingers clamped down so tightly that David’s arm began to tingle, the thick royal ring feeling as though it were bruising his bone. The temperature in the room dropped, and David felt the old, familiar dread begin creeping up behind him, tracing the tip of a cold knife up the middle of his back.

“—but I’m glad you are not,” the king continued. His voice bore a hint of malice that had not been there earlier. His bloodshot eyes, now hooded and mistrustful, shifted around the room. “If you were, where would that leave Jonathan?” Saul leaned forward, staring at him with a wild and sudden ferocity. “You see my point, don’t you?”

“Yes, my king,” David managed to say.

Saul’s fingers were embedded in David’s flesh as he pulled David toward him. “Not so long ago, Samuel said something that has made me wonder.”

The back of David’s neck grew clammy with fear.

“He prophesied that my throne had been turned over to another.” The king was so close that when he spoke, saliva sprayed David’s cheek. Impossibly, the angles of Saul’s face were sharpening and elongating, his jaw sliding forward grotesquely. David shivered, expecting at any moment to see a thin, red tongue flick out of the king’s narrowing lips.

“Are you my rival?” Saul’s eyes glowed with a menacing light, but he was staring at David with a warmth that sickened him. The question was as soft and gentle as a cat’s purr.

“No! Never, my king. You are the anointed of the Lord, and I am your faithful servant.” The words leaped out of David without conscious thought.

Though he did not release David’s arm, the tension eased from Saul’s face. He blinked as if waking from a dream. “Promise me, David. I want you to promise me.” The note of entreaty in the king’s voice was distressing.

David found himself kneeling before Israel’s once-mighty leader. Pity and tenderness washed over him as he saw the fear, the inadequacy, the desperation and confusion in those weary eyes. “I give you my word, O king. As long as you live, you have nothing to fear from me, your humble servant.” He bent down and kissed the ring.

“You may go … my son,” Saul whispered, loosening his hold to rest his hand on David’s head. “Were that there were hundreds more like you in my kingdom.”

During these weeks at Saul’s palace, David did not speak with Michal. The prying eyes of the courtiers made that impossible. She sent him notes through Tirzah, her maidservant. Mostly they expressed frustration at the vigilance of those surrounding her, especially the guards, whom she believed had received special instructions to watch over her.

“I don’t think it is Father,” she wrote in one of her notes. “He is too sick and too tired to pay much attention to anything, especially to what his youngest daughter may be doing. He can barely keep his focus on the affairs of the nation. But, thanks be to God, your music seems to be helping him a great deal. It is obvious that he is improving.”

In another note, she wrote, “Father is much better. Your music is magic. Mother says so. She is convinced that the gods are using you to drive away the evil spirits that are afflicting him. She prays to them every night. The teraphim were given to her by her mother as a wedding present and are some of the most powerful Canaanite gods. When I am married, I will be given the largest one. I pray for Father, of course, but even more for you.” Michal concluded by warning him that it was too dangerous to send a written response, but Tirzah could be trusted with any verbal messages.

He was actually relieved that he could not write. Despite his strong physical attraction to Michal, he was confused. She was easily the most beautiful and beguiling creature he had ever met. His longing to hold her was sometimes so intense that it hurt. He knew she was ready for marriage, but he was unsure if he was. Her feelings for him were clear. It was what he felt in return that troubled him. Everything had changed so drastically, and so quickly, that he was still trying to adjust to his new circumstances and responsibilities. He needed time to find his way; then maybe he would know what he felt and what to tell her.

Since the notes were written on wood or leather, he burned them in the fire pit, but despite the risk, there was one he kept in the pouch with his rounded stones. It had been written in great hurry: “I wish you were holding me again. I want to be near you. I can only imagine that I am. For now that will have to do. But not for long.” Whenever he traced his fingers over the letters, his pulse began to pound.

The following day, her note confirmed what he had suspected: “I found out who was behind the order. It was Adriel! I don’t know how, but he found out about us. Either that or he merely suspects the truth. He is a sneaking, loathsome, sharp-nosed lizard. I told him that if word got to Father, I would make his life an absolute misery—forever. I hate him!”

A few days later, he found a note folded beneath his pot of goat stew. “Tirzah was stopped by Sisha. Adriel must have told him about us, but she is sure Father has not been informed. I wake up every morning with my heart in my throat. In case I have not made it clear by now—I love you.”

The next message came through an unexpected source. At breakfast, the courtyard was crammed with army officers. While he was eating with the trainers, David caught sight of the prince looking at him across the room over General Abner’s head. He gave David a troubling look and pointed with his chin toward the hall that bordered the palace’s central square. Jonathan pursed his lips emphatically, indicated that David should not speak until they were out of sight.

When they were positioned behind one of the corner columns, Jonathan grabbed the neck of David’s tunic, glaring at him. “I know about you and Michal,” he whispered, pulling David up to the tips of his toes.

David felt his saliva turn to acid with dread. Jonathan had twisted his tunic; David could barely breathe.

“What did you think you were doing? Did you really expect you could keep it secret?”

David had no idea how to respond. The tunic was like a noose, and he was beginning to see stars.

“Tell me, what were you thinking?”

David tried to speak but could not squeeze anything out.

Jonathan’s expression of rage melted into a mischievous grin. “By the bulls of Bashan!” he swore, releasing the tunic. “The look on your face was priceless.”

David bent over, taking a ragged breath.

“I was hoping to have you pleading for mercy. But I just couldn’t pull it off.” Jonathan shook his head ruefully. “I’m afraid I still have to master the art of deception.”

“I’m glad for my sake that you haven’t,” David rasped. “As it was, I thought my life was over.”

Jonathan embraced him, slapping him hard on the back. Then he pushed David away, his hands gripping his shoulders. “I’ll do better next time,” he said, looking down at him. “Still, I’ll never forget that open mouth. You looked like a beached catfish.”

He stepped back, clearing his throat as if preparing to deliver an oration. “I actually come with a message from my sister. Apparently, she—along with several others of the royal family—is smitten with you. She instructed me to tell you that she will miss you terribly and will pray for you every day. I promised her I would relay it with no emendations. She made me swear on my life, and—word to the wise—she does not take broken promises lightly.”

“Where is she going?” David asked. “Has your father found out? Is she in trouble?”

“Nothing like that,” Jonathan said. “You are the one leaving. And before you ask, you are not being banished either. My father has more important things on his mind these days than worrying about his armor bearer making eyes at his younger daughter.”

David stared at him in dismay.

“Remember the advice I gave him about moving aggressively against the Philistines? The comment that led to him splintering the spear over my head? Well, he decided to take my advice—belatedly. He is mustering the troops to launch an attack on Azekah in the valley of Elah. The goal is to crush them once and for all.” Jonathan looked cautiously around the pillar. “To be frank, I think the timing is off. The element of surprise is gone, but now that he has been miraculously healed”—he gave David an appreciative punch in the shoulder—“he is intent on action.”

Jonathan leaned over to speak into David’s ear. “I don’t want to go against him. I think he’s doing it to conciliate me. It’s his way of making amends.”

“So I’m going with the army!” David said with a thrill of excitement. “Finally I’ll have an opportunity to fight on behalf of the king!”

Jonathan looked at him regretfully. “I’m afraid not. Some of the soldiers have already arrived, and those from Bethlehem were in the first wave. Your brothers told their commander that your father’s condition has deteriorated, and he requested that you return to provide the help they will not be able to give him.”

Anger surged through David. He could sense conspiratorial cunning pushing him away from battle. But his response was tempered by a trickle of shame as he recalled his father’s drawn expression in the rear of the cart when he and the messenger raced past on their way to Saul’s palace. “I was not aware of his illness,” he admitted, shading the truth a little. “What is the matter?”

“I think they said something about an injured hip.” Jonathan put an arm around his shoulder. “I am disappointed as well. I was looking forward to going to battle together. All the instructors agree: you are going to be an exceptional armor bearer.” He shook his head in frustration. “I had already made Father promise that you could serve with me on this campaign. But it is the rule of the army that vital family obligations, especially when one parent is dead, take precedence over military service. The only exception is when the nation is in extreme danger. That has been true since the time of Moses.”

David thought about lodging a formal protest but knew it would be rejected. This was not a defensive war; his father was apparently very sick; Jahra was gone, as were David’s oldest brothers; and who knew where the other three were scattered. They couldn’t be trusted with the flocks anyway. As the youngest son, even though he had been selected by the king as his armor bearer, he had no recourse. He would have to return to Bethlehem.

“Commander Manoah spoke to me before we ate,” Jonathan said. “He knows your father and said that you should leave as soon as possible. Your horse is packed and ready to go.” Jonathan let go of David’s shoulder. “Next time, you and I are going to wreak havoc on those uncircumcised dogs,” he promised with a tight grip on David’s forearm. “It will be the stuff of legends.”

“Next time,” David agreed. He walked away, and with each step his heart sank lower. Before opening the door to his chamber, he stopped and looked back. Jonathan had not moved. “Tell Michal thanks for her prayers.” The prince’s broad grin made David feel like a fool. “I will return as soon as I can.” He swung open the door and stepped inside quickly to hide the blush on his face.

He was still fuming at Eliab when he mounted his mare. She reared and almost bucked him off when he gave her more of his heel than necessary. Though he released the pressure of his knees, they were still in a half gallop as they sped through the gate. He was taking the bend heading south toward Jebus and Bethlehem when he heard a voice and racing hoofbeats behind him. David clicked his tongue and pulled back on the reins, guiding his horse to the side of the road. He prayed that Jonathan had changed his plans.

Instead of the king’s messenger, it was Michal who rode around the bend. Her horse was in full gallop. Her green gown and scarf were billowing like a banner about her, accentuating her black hair and dark eyes. Expertly the princess guided her horse next to David’s, pressing its flank against his leg. She threw her arms around him, pressing her head into his chest.

It was delicious to have this enticing young woman drawn to him. The combination of her beauty and her attraction to him was intoxicating. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Won’t the guards tell your father that you’ve left town?”

“He doesn’t know, and he won’t, I can assure you,” she said, smiling. “I told them that he had sent me to give you a special message. I explained that since everyone was getting ready for the battle, I had volunteered.” She arched her eyebrows coyly, pleased with the lie.

“Well, it seems that you have mastered the art of deception,” he said. “You should give your brother some pointers.”

She looked at him with a question in her eyes, then smiled again. “You’re right. It is a skill one needs in order to thrive in the royal court. I’ve told Jonathan that he will find it necessary when he takes over from Father.” She waved her hand impatiently. “Anyway, I have only a moment. That is not what I came to say.”

Michal stopped, her cheeks growing red. “I did not know when I’d see you again, so I just had to come.” She leaned toward him, lifting her face to his. Impulsively, he bent toward her and pressed his mouth against hers. He felt the heat rush up his legs and into his chest.

“I love you,” she murmured after several long moments. His insides tightened, and his mind went blank. She waited for the briefest moment, gave him a searching look, then spun her horse and raced back toward Gibeah.

Later that morning, as David rode into Bethlehem, he tried to make out Jahra’s grave. A little farther along, he located it underneath the almond tree. A fresh spray of wildflowers lay on top, and several small memorial stones had been placed there. He did not trust himself to get off his horse, so he continued into town.

The cart was standing empty in front of his father’s house. David again felt a pang of guilt, remembering his father’s haggard face the last time he’d seen him. He dismounted, tied the bay to a wheel of the cart, and entered Jesse’s home. Peering into the dim interior through a doorway in the back, he could see his father lying on a woven mattress on the floor. A servant was bent over him, giving him water to drink.

“How are you, Father?” David asked awkwardly, standing in the entryway of the bedroom, feeling like a little child.

Jesse grimaced, pain lining the corners of his eyes and disappearing into his beard, which had gone completely white since David had last seen him. “I fell at Onan’s house,” he answered, his voice taut with discomfort. “I broke my hip.”

There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence as David waited for further explanation. Finally David asked, “How is he?”

Jesse shrugged, and even that seemed to be too much movement. “He somehow manages to keep prospering, despite himself. In any event, I want you to care for the sheep.” He winced and let out a shaky breath. Something David could not interpret passed over his father’s face. “No one can look after them like you.”

David was dumbstruck. It was the kindest thing he could recall his father ever saying to him. A whisper of pride and hope blew through him. Before he could stop himself, he was speaking, his words coming quickly, tumbling over themselves. “Father, King Saul made me one of his armor bearers. Prince Jonathan and I have become friends. He also made me his shield bearer.” He was about to tell him about Michal but held back.

Jesse coughed, and his eyes grew distant. David thought he detected resentment or jealousy. He stiffened, taking a step back from the bed.

“I will take the flock out, Father,” he said, his voice sounding to him as thin and sharp as a mending needle. Without looking back, he strode to the front door. He heard a sound that might have been his father calling his name, but he did not stop.

He was out with the flocks every day for the next week. He left early in the morning, bringing the food Lydea had prepared for him, and did not return till evening. The work of a shepherd had to be done on foot, so he left the bay behind. Though he missed the exciting and busy life of the palace, it felt good to be on his own, walking up and down the rugged terrain he knew so well.

On the tenth morning, as he was preparing to take the flocks out, he was surprised to see his sister Zeruiah approaching. They rarely spoke to each other. Whenever she needed to communicate with him, she used her children as messengers. She was a serious, angular woman who was devoted to her family and, not having any daughters of her own, busied herself sewing clothes for her nieces. She usually moved slowly, favoring knees that were a source of constant pain. He was shocked to see her nearly running.

“Father wishes to see you,” she said, gasping for breath. Her cheeks were blotchy, and her eyes were red.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She put her fist over her mouth and blinked several times. “Just come,” was all she could say. David hurried after her. When he entered the house, he was shocked to see how gaunt and pale his father looked. He was on his sleeping mat, his back propped up with pillows. The side of his mouth drooped strangely. Zeruiah bent down, took a cloth from a servant, and wiped drool away with the cloth.

His father tried to turn his head to look at him but could not. “Go … to … my … boys.” His words were slurred. “Bring … me … word.” His head lolled to the side. Zeruiah tried to lay him down, but Jesse grunted at her impatiently.

“I will, Father,” David said.

Before closing the door, he heard his father wheeze, “Zeruiah will give … food.”

David saddled his mare, made sure his water bottle was secure, and tightened his belt so that his cudgel and sling would not slip out. When he rode past his father’s house, he was surprised to see Jesse outside, sitting on a chair. David slowed, waiting for Zeruiah, who was walking toward him, holding out a large bag.

“The food is in here,” she explained, then glanced back over her shoulder. “He wanted to watch you leave.” A coolness had crept into her voice. He took the bag and was surprised by its weight. “There is roasted grain, bread, and nine of your father’s cheeses,” Zeruiah said. “Three are for cousin Manoah.”

“I will deliver them,” David said, trying to avoid looking in Jesse’s direction. “Tell Father I will bring back word as soon as I can. Azekah is only a half-day’s ride. I will be there by midday.”

David slapped the reins and began trotting away. Out of the corner of his eye, he detected movement, as though his father had attempted a wave. He spurred his horse into a canter.

Over the years, David would wonder what he would have done differently had his childish boasting not been cut off by a dry cough. Whether voluntary or not, it had robbed him of the only chance he would ever have to reconcile with his father. And, much later, he would have occasion to concede that his pride was also to blame. Had he stepped through that opening, that possibility offered by the sound of his name, he would have freed himself of the guilt that would plague him the remainder of his life.

48 Psalm 61:1–3

49 Psalm 61:4–5

50 Psalm 61:6–8, author’s paraphrase

Chapter Twenty-Four

The army was stationed on the northern hills overlooking the Valley of Elah in the plains of Judah. When David rode into camp at midday, he was struck by the quiet. It was unnerving. There was tension in the air, and none of the soldiers, even the ones he knew from the palace, met his eye. They acted as if they had suffered a humiliating defeat, but David could tell they had not yet engaged the enemy. And why not? he wondered. What have you been doing all this time?

He could make no sense of it. Months earlier, after crushing the Edomites in their latest campaign, following resounding victories over Moab and Ammon, his brothers had come home bragging that Yahweh their God had made the Israelite army invincible. Yet here they were, cowering like a pack of whipped dogs. How can this be? David raged silently. Are you not descendants of Joshua’s army, the one that laid waste to the seven Canaanite nations?

It made him furious.

Shimeah was the first of his brothers to spot him. David tethered his horse and handed over the food bag. Shimeah immediately opened it.

“Three are for cousin Manoah,” David explained when his brother pulled out one of the bricks of cheese. “The remainder you can divide among yourselves.”

“It tastes like home,” Shimeah said, speaking around a mouthful. He ripped off a corner of flat bread and put that into his mouth along with another bite of cheese.

David was waiting impatiently for his brother to swallow so he could ask about the army’s behavior when a bellow interrupted him, rising from the valley below. It was the sound of a powerful man and brought to mind King Saul’s voice during one of his attacks—but it was much louder.

“Am I not a Philistine, and are you not the servants of Saul?” it boomed. There was no need for the man to identify himself. His harsh gutturals betrayed his nationality. “Choose a man and have him come down to me. If he is able to fight and kill me, we will submit to you, but if I overcome and kill him, you will serve us.”

David shook his head as if to break a spell. The insolence of the challenge was unmistakable. Certainly, this could not be the reason why Saul’s mighty army had dissolved into a mass of trembling women. Where were the champions rushing to defend Israel’s honor? It was only one Philistine, after all; had they forgotten how Jonathan dispatched twenty?

David pushed himself in front of the line of soldiers standing stiffly on the edge of the northern summit. Shimeah followed him more slowly. About two hundred paces away was a strutting Philistine warrior, and behind him, his squat but sturdy armor bearer. David squinted to see more clearly. The sun was blazing off the warrior’s bronze armor. David had heard about giants before but had never seen one. There was no doubt that he was looking at one of those formidable creatures now. The warrior appeared to be several heads taller than King Saul, the tallest man in Israel, and must have been twice as heavy. But from this vantage point, it was difficult to make an accurate assessment.

Shimeah pulled David’s tunic to get his attention. David bent toward him, still looking at the Philistine. “His name is Goliath,” Shimeah said in a whisper, as if afraid of his own voice. “He is one of the giants from Gath. His brothers are underneath those terebinths.” He indicated the bushy oak trees that ran the length of the valley. With their leafy, horizontal branches, they made ideal shade trees. “He has been coming out every day since we arrived. And every day he says the same thing.” Shimeah lowered his voice even further. “Hundreds of men have fled.”

David looked incredulously at his brother. Was he implying that it was an act of heroism simply to have remained to listen to the Philistine’s shouts? He was going to ask why no hero had stepped forward when Goliath made a sudden movement. With a dramatic flourish, the giant unsheathed his sword and brandished it overhead. He thrust out his massive chest and thundered, “This day, I defy the ranks of Israel and your God! Give me a man, and let us fight each other.”

At that, something snapped inside David. It was one thing to ridicule the army, but mocking Yahweh was intolerable. He stared in amazement at the pallid faces and haunted eyes surrounding him. Shimeah seemed to have shrunk into himself.

David was ashamed for these soldiers. They were the ones meant to instill fear; they weren’t meant to shudder in urine-soaked tunics, paralyzed by pig-eating Philistines. As he opened his mouth to berate his brother, he was stopped short by an audacious idea.

It came in the form of a question: Is this not both a challenge to the God of Israel and a perfect opportunity? Is this not the moment I’ve been dreaming of? He closed his mouth and pulled his brother aside. “Tell me, what will King Saul do for the man who takes up the challenge of this uncircumcised Philistine?”

Shimeah stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. He adjusted his tunic over his broad belly, then looked David directly in the eyes, as if issuing his own challenge. “The king will bestow on him great wealth, will give him one of his daughters in marriage, and will grant him and his family exemption from royal taxes.”

David’s pulse began to race. “Did he say which daughter?”

Shimeah’s eyes narrowed, but he did not answer. He merely shook his head.

Wanting confirmation from a higher source, David found Manoah and asked him. The gray-bearded commander confirmed what Shimeah had said. “The king has given his vow to make the victor rich and a member of the royal family.”

As he spoke, David noticed Eliab sauntering toward them, listening in. Raising his voice to make sure his words would carry, David asked Manoah to take him to see King Saul. If arrogant Eliab wanted to behave like a helpless baby, then let the courage of a young man not yet twenty be a rebuke to his spinelessness.

Eliab was as predictable as a ram staking claim to a ewe. “Where do you think you’re going?” he growled, striding toward David. He grabbed David’s tunic and yanked it tight around his throat. “Who’s taking care of Father’s sheep while you’re here prancing about, trying to get the king’s attention?”

“Let me go,” David said, struggling to escape his brother’s grasp.

Eliab turned to look at Manoah. “Since King Saul asked David to play for him, this runt struts about like”—he stopped, hunting for the right term—“like a peacock. He acts like he’s one of the royals himself. Now he thinks he’s too good to take care of our father’s flocks.” He jerked David, lifting him momentarily off the ground. “What he needs is to be taught his place.”

His thick-browed eyes searing David, Eliab raised his hand to deliver a slap, but Manoah held him back. “Enough.” The command was short but cracked like a whip. “Calm yourself. David meant no harm. He has won the king’s favor. You would do well to remember that.” He gave his irate cousin a pointed glance. Eliab blustered, oblivious to the implication.

“The music has done wonders for our king,” Manoah continued, breaking Eliab’s hold on David. “Your little brother has pleased all who live in Gibeah. They tell me that his songs have the power to chase the thunder and lightning away.”

Eliab shook his head in disgust, his lips puckered as if he’d been forced to lick a spoiled lemon. Placing a hand on his thick shoulder, Manoah gave Eliab another sharp look. Yet his words were soothing. “Go easy on him; he’s just a boy.”

Eliab pulled back, his cheeks a mottled red. “Don’t be fooled by the innocent face. You do not know how conceited and devious his heart is. He thinks that by batting his eyes and using the king’s name, he can get whatever he wants.”

“What did I say?” David protested. “Can’t I even speak for myself now? Father sent me, and I was only asking—”

At that moment a tall, lean runner arrived. He stooped to deliver a message to Manoah in hushed tones. The commander’s mouth tightened, and then he spun on his heels and followed, motioning for Eliab to come with him. David gave his irate brother a contemptuous glance before he left to find an officer to take him to the king.

As he was looking, the messenger strode toward him with long, lithe strides. He placed an authoritative hand on David’s upper arm. The fingers tightened sufficiently to cause alarm. Staring through David, the messenger said in flat tones, “Come with me. The king wishes to speak with you.”

Not waiting for a response, he trotted toward a large tent, pulling David with him. When they approached, without a word the king’s guards uncrossed their spears and granted them entrance into the royal shelter.

King Saul was in the middle of the cool, spacious tent, sitting on a polished wooden bench with curved sides and no back. General Abner was standing next to him, his legs as bowed as the arms of the king’s bench. They made him seem more squat than he really was. Saul looked as though he had not slept in days. His troubled eyes were red, with purplish pouches underneath. They seemed to be filled with fear and indecision. Saul glanced at David without any recognition. David’s stomach tightened into a cold knot.

“Who is this youth, and who is his father?” Saul asked Abner, his words soft and slurred around the edges.

Abner bowed his head slightly and shot David a warning glance. It was not uncommon for the king to forget names and faces following a severe fit. “This is David, the son of Jesse,” the general answered. “The family is from Bethlehem, and three of his brothers serve under Commander Manoah. He comes from good stock.”

Saul nodded distractedly. “Tell me why you’ve come,” he ordered David.

David had been rehearsing the words since the idea struck him. But he had crafted them within the context of his relationship as the favored singer whose music could drive the demons away. Now, like a thief, the king’s illness had stolen this from him. He was a total stranger—a teenager who, as far as the confused king knew, did not know the difference between a carving knife and a sword.

There was nothing to do but push forward. The words he’d so carefully prepared poured out of him in a nervous rush. “O king, do not let the hearts of your soldiers fail at the blasphemous words of this Philistine. Your servant will go and confront this uncircumcised dog who has defied the army of the living God and of his great king. I”—he corrected himself quickly—“I mean, your servant will take up his challenge and fight him. Your servant will—”

Saul raised his hand to stop the stream of words. There was a flicker of impatience, or possibly humor, in the recesses of his eyes. David was unsure which. “You are not able to go against this Philistine. You are only a boy, and the Philistine champion has been a man of war since before you were born.”

David felt it the instant the king began to speak: the awareness of a presence around him, and then a tingling warmth as it flowed over and into him. He had first felt it after Samuel’s anointing. It had returned inside the holy place, and now he could feel it again, the warmth of oil on his head, followed by that strange, frightening, exhilarating feeling of being filled up—like warm honey was pouring into him.

The unrehearsed words flowed out of him. “Though your servant is young, I have kept my father’s flocks since I was a child. I have not had to face men, but I have done battle against lions and bears. Whenever these beasts attacked, I would go after them and strike them down, plucking my father’s sheep from their open jaws.”

David raced on, knowing that one more wave would seal the king’s refusal. “And when lions came after your servant, I grabbed them by the beard and struck them to the ground.” He was exaggerating the encounter with the lions, but not by much. David raised his staff to illustrate the blow he’d delivered. At this, the guards leaped forward, spears aimed at his chest.

Abner restrained them with a harsh command.

Another surge of that strange power carried David forward. “I have killed these wild animals, and I shall do the same to this uncircumcised Philistine.” The warm prickling was now a fire racing over the surface of his skin. His voice was thick and resonant with conviction. “O king, the Lord who delivered me from the paw of the lion and the paw of the bear will surely deliver me from the hand of this Philistine!”

As David was speaking, Saul’s back had stiffened, and he began to lean forward as if pulled in by the force of David’s fervor. By the time he finished, the king’s breathing was coming faster and his eyes had cleared. His hands, gripping the arms of his chair, and his upper body were taut. He looked as though he were getting ready to fling himself at David.

David tensed, anticipating an attack.

After a moment of silence, the king let out a tight breath and leaned back just a little. His knuckles were no longer white. Straightening in his chair, he raised his hand, palm forward, and his voice rang out. “You have permission. Go, David, my son, and the Lord be with you!”

David was flooded with relief, then pride at the honor he’d been given. This was followed by a sudden doubt about what he had so confidently assured the king. He ignored it.

Before David was ushered out, Saul motioned for Abner to come to him. The general listened to the king, nodded, and gestured for David to follow him. “The king wishes you to wear his armor into battle,” he explained as he walked briskly to the king’s dressing area at the back of the tent.

David’s heart dropped. He had seen the armor up close when Jonathan first introduced him to his father. It was impressive but designed for the tallest warrior in Israel. The niggling doubt was now turning into something that felt more like fear, and the comforting presence seemed to have evaporated. Abner pulled aside the back curtain and directed him inside the chamber.

As the general draped the coat of mail over him, David remained silent, hoping that the foolishness of the king’s instruction would be obvious to the experienced warrior.

“Walk toward that post,” Abner muttered, his lips pursed in disapproval.

David was walking toward the opposite wall of the tent when the curtain parted and the king stepped in. Saul did not seem to notice that the coat’s fringe was dragging on the ground. He walked up to David, took off his bronze sword, and without speaking a word handed it to him. Its weight shocked David. It was as heavy as a two-year-old lamb.

By now, dread and embarrassment had chilled David’s zeal. Feeling ridiculous, he cursed himself silently for being a proud fool. He took a step forward, sliding his feet to keep from getting tangled. It was as clear to him as it evidently was to Abner that he would fall on his face if he took a normal step. The general stared at David, lifting his eyebrows emphatically, willing him to speak. Though he was second-in-command, Abner no longer dared, since the onslaught of Saul’s fits, to contradict the king.

His heart thundering in his ears, David finally said, “You have honored me, my king, but I have not had any experience with this armament.” He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. “I am but a shepherd, and I am used to the weapons of a shepherd. Please allow me to fight with those I have tested and mastered.” David’s face flushed. He wanted desperately to wipe the water from his eyes.

The king strode forward and placed his hand on David’s head. Saul lifted David’s face with both hands so that David was looking into his eyes. The old warrior bent down and kissed David on each cheek. The king’s lips quivered, and the muscles along his jaw were clenched.

“You may do as you have asked. You are a hero in Israel,” whispered the man who had once been David’s hero. David’s eyes stung, and his chest burned with joy at words he had dreamed about hearing his whole life.

“Thank you, my king,” David managed to whisper, placing the sword back into Saul’s hands and pulling off the heavy coat. As he walked out into the heat of a cloudless Judean afternoon, David knew that he would gladly die for this man. The only thing in his hand was his shepherd’s cudgel, and slapping against his thigh were the sling’s leather straps.

Not wanting to be confronted by his brothers, he ran down a narrow defile, out of sight of most of the Israelites and the Philistine monster. There were some surprised oaths and exclamations as a few soldiers caught sight of him heading into the valley.

David bent down next to a creek bed. The winter rains had not yet come, so the creek was barely a trickle. He let out a quavering breath and stretched out his sling hand. It was shaking. He needed only five stones, but they had to be perfect. He could not allow himself to be rushed.

It was impossible to block out Goliath’s taunts. They were amplified by the hills on each side, transforming them into an astonishing weapon. Though he was not tired by the brief run David noticed that his breathing was coming in short gasps. He forced himself to take in long, slow breaths.

When David had stood on the northern summit of Elah, the Philistine’s mocking words were fearsome, but not quite so intensely and personally threatening. Now that David was on the same level with the bronze-covered giant, the fierce voice was devastating.

David focused on locating the smooth stones. On their size and weight rested his life and that of Saul’s entire army. His defeat would most probably mean the death of the king as well as that of Jonathan, who was becoming more of a friend to him than a prince. And, as if this were not enough, failure would most likely bring down destruction on the entire nation.

While four stones would suffice, David wanted five. One for the giant, one for his shield bearer—who held his own spear—two for the hulking brothers looming nearby, and one just in case.

Always take one more than you need was the slinger’s rule, whether you came from the hills of Judah or were part of the elite corps of Benjamites. The joke was ancient but carried the old warrior’s wisdom: You never want to be caught without your stones. On the practice field with Jonathan, it was commonplace to hear a slinger yell, “Why one more than you need?” followed by the swaggering response: “You never know when you’ll need the extra stone.”

The briefest smile touched David’s lips, then vanished with another thunderous bellow. Maybe this is the real point of the joke, he decided, placing the fifth projectile in his pouch. Laughing takes your mind off the terror. Bowing for a quick prayer, he picked up his shepherd’s rod, stood, and followed the bend of the creek to meet the giant.

Still hidden by a craggy wall of rock, David examined his opponent. From this distance—around eighty paces away—the giant loomed like one of the massive, ancient terebinths sprinkled around the valley. He was an astonishing sight—almost twice as tall as David, and three times heavier. Not only was he enormous, but he also was covered from head to foot in burnished metal. His armor glowed in the hot orange sunlight.

David estimated that the fine mail draped from throat to knees, by itself, must weigh as much as he did. And the giant’s shins—nice targets—were sheathed as well. David could make out the large point of a thick javelin protruding from the quiver on Goliath’s back. But what concerned him was the spear that towered over his armor bearer. Its chiseled head was big enough to tear David’s body in half.

“Send out your hero!” bellowed the giant.

David let the rod in his right hand slide down so that its knobby head rested against his fist. It was a twig in comparison with Goliath’s weapons. The brute could snap it with his thumb and forefinger.

“Are you nothing but an army of old women? Where is the might of Israel?” The giant’s taunts were drowned out by the laughter of thousands of Philistines along the southern ridge. They outnumbered Saul’s army three to one. The pounding of fists against bronze breastplates made the valley floor tremble.

Goliath swung his sword in wide, sweeping arcs. The giant was powerful and loud but did not appear to be the most coordinated of fighters. There was a spastic unpredictability to his swings that would have made him look comical were he not so terrifying. To David he seemed to be an embodiment of those ferocious summer storms that unexpectedly lashed the Judean mountains. Goliath was at the same time fascinating and horrifying.

“You boast of your God—well, I defy you and your God!” The last three words were almost a shrill scream.

David blinked in dismay. It was as if Goliath had delivered a slap to the side of his head. The challenge could not be ignored. He drew in a shaky breath and stepped into the open. Both the giant and the soldiers lining Elah noticed him at the same time. It was as if the air had been sucked out of the valley. The stunned silence seemed to stretch forever and was finally snapped by an incredulous roar. It was the incoherent sound of rage and shock. It was the most humiliating thing David had ever felt, and it was made worse by the almost palpable disbelief of the ten thousand Israelites who flanked him to his left. He could feel Eliab’s eyes stabbing him. He felt naked, humiliated, and completely alone. It was then that he felt his knees begin to tremble.

As he choked down his mounting panic, waiting for Goliath to address him, David noticed that the Philistine had foolishly chosen to face the descending sun in the western sky. Observing the tilt of the head and almost choreographed motions, David recognized that this giant intended to both frighten and dazzle the onlookers. A needle of doubt pricked him: behind the bluster might very well lurk a cunning intelligence. The rays of the sun reflecting off his bronze armor, from helmet to shin greaves, made him shine like a god. His swarthy, clean-shaven face, set off by the blazing metal, made him look not quite handsome, but awful and formidable.

The giant turned to face the Israelites. “What is this?” the brute screamed, his entire body shaking David squinted; his eyes were burning. The sun glinting off Goliath’s armor made him shimmer like a mirage. Shaking his head in disgust, the Philistine turned sideways, ignoring his challenger and directed his wrath at the Israelite soldiers flanked along the northern hills.

It was painfully obvious to David that the giant was seeking to humiliate him.

“Am I not Goliath of Gath, the Philistine champion?” he roared. His clean-shaven face and sensuous lips were a sharp contrast to his coarse, guttural roar. “What is this litter’s runt you have sent to face me? Do you take me for a nipple-sucking private that you challenge me with this child who looks to be more girl than man?”

Goliath drew his curved sword and shook it at the army. “Are you making sport of me?” Spittle flew from his mouth. “Look at this weakling you’ve sent against me. Is this what serves as a champion in Israel these days? And his weapons!” He snorted, aiming the tip of his sword at the young shepherd. “He comes with a stick and a stone to try to break my bones!” At this joke the Philistine threw his head back to expel a shrill rasp of laughter. It was like a saw squealing as it cut through resistant wood.

The skin on the back of David’s neck crawled. The Philistine hordes on the incline to David’s right erupted. He whispered the warrior’s prayer, his eyes clenched in fierce concentration. As if he’d heard the petition, Goliath grew still, lowering his sword. He dragged a hairy forearm across his lips, wiping away the spittle.

The back of David’s throat burned. It was that unmistakable stench of black smoke and rancid meat. And this time it was affecting his knees. They were trembling. A wave of panic made the glowing figure swim before his eyes. Only one thing came to mind—the warrior’s prayer. Desperately he whispered, “Lord Sabaoth—Lord of the heavenly hosts—deliver me, for I trust in Your name.” He repeated it several times, trying to quiet his mounting fear.

Goliath was staring at him intently as if measuring him with his eyes.

David’s heart sank. From this distance, eighty paces away, he could make out no crack in the giant’s armor. All hope and confidence left him. He clenched his teeth to keep his jaw from quivering. Gathering his last fragments of courage, he pushed his foot forward, the sling heavy in his left hand.

Leering, Goliath gestured at the shepherd’s rod. “Am I a dog, that you come at me with a toy? Dagon curse your impudence to the abyss! Come to me, and I will give your sweet, young flesh to the birds and the beasts.”

With ease of practice, the Philistine thrust his sword into its scabbard and pulled the spear away from his armor bearer, who was standing in front of him. Goliath widened his stance, thighs and calves bulging. Shifting his left foot forward, he centered his weight on his back foot. He held the weapon horizontally, then tossed it lightly into the air, finding its balance. The weight of its bronze head, almost as large as David’s, made the pole bow deeply as it fell back into his hand. Snorting with satisfaction, the giant motioned insolently for David to approach.

The young shepherd inched forward, sweat running down his back, as he still tried to locate a weakness in the armor.

Unable to restrain his excitement, the giant threw back his head and bellowed.

The sound of hunger and derision turned David’s insides to water. He no longer cared whether the Israelites could see his terror. His breath was coming in gasps. It was suddenly clear—there would be no deliverance. There was no chink in the brute’s armor.

All that was left was to run.

His fingers loosened on the braided thongs, and the stone fell out of the leather pouch. As he turned to escape, Goliath drew back his spear, and a triumphant cry echoed off the valley walls.

And then David felt a hand on his back.

David twisted his head to look behind him, and at that instant, from the corner of his eye, he saw Goliath’s throwing arm bend backward as the giant let out a derisive cry.

Chapter Twenty-Five

There was no one behind him. Still, the force of the shove knocked David down and sent his rod spinning crazily away from him. He caught himself with his outstretched hands as Goliath’s spear thrummed past him. The giant let out another roar; it was an explosion of outrage. Scrambling to regain his balance and get to his feet, David felt the stone that had slipped out of his sling. It was under his palm. He closed his fingers over it and stood up.

Though his eyes told him he was alone, David felt a distinct presence next to him. He was certain it was the angel who had appeared in front of the ark. Dust kicked up at his feet, and a strong breeze undulated and whirled around him, exactly as it had when that man-eater had charged up the hill toward him and Jahra. He had forgotten the unusual wind, and it had never occurred to him that it was the work of an angel. Only this time it was more personal. And by its mass, David sensed that the angel was at least as tall as the Philistine trying to kill him.

A Voice entered into him. It had no specific content. Though it was calm, confident, it was slightly disconcerting, for it contained ripples of amusement. For the briefest moment he was annoyed. Was he once again being mocked? But then he realized that the joke was not on him but on the bronze-sheathed braggart in front of him. David felt a flash of pity, which was extinguished immediately by a white-hot flame that rose from the soles of his feet and flew up into his chest. He had the sensation that his hands and arms had grown heavier, infused with power.

Goliath had pulled his javelin loose and was poised to hurtle it at David, but suddenly he recoiled. The Philistine warrior stood absolutely still, his right arm bent at a throwing angle, his mouth open in an expression of disbelief.

Bold words massed, then burst from David’s mouth. They singed the air and resounded off the sides of the narrow valley. “You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come against you in the name of Yahweh Sabaoth—the God of the armies of Israel whom you have dared to insult.” His voice had taken on the same resonance as that of Samuel’s when the old prophet anointed him king. “Today Yahweh shall deliver you into my hand, and I shall kill you.” As he shouted this challenge, he carefully slipped the smooth stone back into his sling.

Rage was billowing inside him. He hurled back at Goliath the same taunt the giant had used moments earlier. “I shall cut off your head, and this very day your dead body shall be food for the birds of the air and the wild beasts of the earth.” Then, fixing Saul’s army with a ferocious glare, he shouted: “And all the earth will know that there is a God in Israel! And all of you will know that it is not by sword or by spear that Yahweh gives the victory.” The Israelites stared back at him in astonishment.

David swiveled his body and pointed toward Goliath and the swarm of soldiers massed along Elah’s southern slope, their bronze helmets glittering in the afternoon sun. “And let it be known this day that Yahweh is Lord of the battle and that He will deliver you—all of you—into our power!”

Before the last word was out of his mouth, David was running. His first strides were short and compact; then when he was within thirty paces from the stunned Philistine champion, they lengthened. Goliath’s mouth had sagged wider, revealing ragged yellow teeth. David could no longer feel the ground, nor could he feel his left arm. He could only hear the sling humming next to his left ear.

Now! came the quiet command. Rather than releasing the pressure of his thumb and forefinger, he did something he had never thought of doing—he leaped, throwing himself into the air as he let the thong loose.

There was a satisfying thwack as the stone flew straight at the gaping giant. It struck the top of his bronze nosepiece, but instead of careening away with a loud clang, it made a dull, metallic thud that reverberated through the valley. It was the sound of a javelin penetrating a breastplate of iron. Goliath’s head jerked back. He staggered but did not fall. David, still running, was close enough to see blood pouring down the face of the giant, bathing his eyes, dripping off his nose.

The monstrous warrior righted himself, shook his massive head, and blinked to clear his eyes. He tried to speak, but no sound came. Goliath’s armor bearer dropped the heavy shield, pulled out his sword, and with backward strides shuffled quickly toward the Philistine army.

Goliath took a step forward, then another. On the third step, he began swaying from side to side. It was both terrible and spellbinding. He tried to lift his javelin, swayed once more, then slowly bent forward at the waist and collapsed, arms splayed beside him.

The impact knocked Goliath’s helmet into the air along with the javelin. They were still rolling away from the defeated champion when David ran up beside him. He gripped the hilt of Goliath’s curved sword, yanking it out of its sheath. There were bubbles forming on the giant’s lips as he labored to expel one last taunt. David stood above him, holding the sword high with both hands. Borrowing Jonathan’s war cry, he screamed,“Yahweh Sabaoth Immanuel!” The Lord of the heavenly hosts is with us! And with one stroke, he drove the blade through Goliath’s neck, plunging its edge into the ground.

When he lifted his trophy by the hair, the Israelites began to shout deliriously. Opposite them the Philistines were screaming with terror. From both sides of Elah came the sounds of hysteria. Saul’s troops flooded into the valley as the Philistine soldiers fled up the southern slope as quickly as their heavy armor would allow. David dropped the giant’s head and joined the pursuit, enveloped by the cries, “The Lord of the heavenly hosts is with us!”

Around him were jubilant yells, screams of rage and pain, and roars of men in hand-to-hand combat. He was surrounded by milling, desperate, grasping warriors. Here and there, dispirited Philistines had turned to make a halfhearted stand. Two-handed, he swung Goliath’s bloody sword. The sharp blade sliced through shoulders and necks. Bodies fell, and he kept running, his pulse racing with a violent joy. As the blade did its brutal work, he knew with a clear certainty that he’d been born for this.

And with that realization, as he thrust and parried, swung, cut, and jabbed, the words of a battle prayer began taking shape, each phrase in time with the sweep of his sword.

Slaughter them, God, before Your people forget!

Harry them with Your power and strike them down,

Lord, our shield!

Sin is in their mouths, sin on their lips,

do let them be caught in their pride!

Destroy them in anger,

destroy, until they are finished,

until You are acknowledged

as ruler in Jacob

to the remotest parts of the earth![51]

Yes, he had been born for this.

By the end of the day, thousands of the enemy lay strewn on the road to Gath and Ekron, the twin pride of Philistia. When the Israelites reached those walled enclaves, they turned back to take advantage of the easy plunder from the huge Philistine encampment bordering the valley.

As evening fell and the troops made their victorious march back to their homes in Israel, happy villagers swarmed them. Women streamed ahead, singing and dancing. There were at least thirty celebrating with tambourines, harps, and lyres. They spun and whirled joyfully in the vanguard. One of them broke out in a song that was picked up by the other women as the dancers twirled, their arms raised to heaven.

Saul has killed his thousands,

and David his tens of thousands.[52]

At first, the words made David swell with pride. The soldiers around him laughed, pounded him on the back, and yelled for him to lift Goliath’s head again. But as the singing continued, David became increasingly uncomfortable. He wished they would stop before Saul’s royal caravan made its way to the front for its triumphal entry into Gibeah. His only hope was that the king was asleep.

David turned to look at the covered cart festooned with flowers and draped in banners. Walking next to it were Commander Manoah and General Abner. They appeared to be in a heated conversation. He was not surprised to see Eliab at Manoah’s elbow, staring resentfully in David’s direction. Abner was thrusting his hand toward either David or the singers. Manoah grabbed a banner from a soldier who was waving it wildly. It had been stitched from two pieces of cloth into a flag with horizontal bands of light blue and white. Holding it aloft, the commander began pushing through the column of soldiers toward David.

Manoah’s face and tunic were spattered with blood. There was a circular indentation around his sweaty crown where a helmet had been pressed down over his head. He had to shout to be heard over the yelling and singing. “I would suggest that now might be an excellent time to lead the army in a victory chant.” Manoah nodded in the direction of the women, his eyebrows lifting with clear intent. “Make it short and make it … simple. Remember, these are soldiers, not singers.” His words sounded like an uncle’s jovial advice, but they could not mask the furrows of worry over his eyes. “I would be quick about it,” he said, handing the banner to David.

David knew what the chant would be before his cousin left his side. It was powerful and memorable and—as instructed—easy to learn. The idea came from the stories of the Canaanite conquest that had thrilled him as a child. It was a paraphrase of the words Moses shouted whenever the ark of the covenant set out ahead of the Israelites on their winding pilgrimage to the land of promise.

Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered,

let those who hate Him flee before Him!

Over Israel His splendor, in the clouds His power,

the God of Israel gives us power and strength.

Blessed be the God of Israel![53]

The bloodied warriors standing next to him took up the chant as David raised the flag and waved it in sweeping arcs, keeping time with the triumphant words. Soon the entire army was repeating the chant in a roar that drowned out everything else.

But it was too late.

Later that night after the feasting and regaling had ended, his arm worn out from having to repeatedly lift Goliath’s head for the giddy soldiers, David was dragging himself to his room. Several times he had to lean against one of the pillared archways to maintain his balance. A hand grabbed him as he reached for his door latch. He stumbled, almost hitting his head on the wooden frame.

“It’s me!” hissed Jonathan, warding off an ineffectual blow.

David tried to clear his bleary vision. “I’m glad to hear it,” he mumbled, holding the doorjamb to steady himself. “It’s me, too,” he added with a weak grin.

“Let’s go inside. There is something I have to tell you!” The urgency in Jonathan’s tone shot a brief current of worry through David’s numbed brain.

“Very well, then, but stop pushing me,” he grumbled as they entered his chamber.

Jonathan shut the door and leaned in toward David, putting both hands on his shoulders. “Listen, this is important!” he said, giving him a shake. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

David blinked and tried to give him an encouraging smile.

“I was inside the cart with Father as the women were singing. And—as you can imagine—he was livid. The song convinced him that you have designs on the throne. He began swearing that he would never let it happen; that you had stolen the affections of the people; that he could not trust you.” David tried to defend himself, but Jonathan kept talking over him. “I know he is also furious at me because he does not think that I care about keeping the crown.” The anxiety in his face reminded David of Manoah’s expression when he handed him the banner. “He didn’t say it, but I’m sure he intends to kill you,” Jonathan concluded.

The mist was slowly lifting, and as it did, a pain pierced him. During the months in the palace, Saul had become more like a father to him than a king. And David had begun to hope that perhaps Saul had begun to have paternal feelings for him. The king had said as much on several occasions. And David had tried to convince himself that Saul’s affection was too strong to be breached by a little ditty sung by a handful of foolish women.

But with Jonathan’s words, something broke inside him, and a sob rose into his throat. David stumbled, and the prince had to grab him to keep him from falling. Jonathan mistook his response for the effects of the wine and lifted a jug of water. “Bend over,” he ordered, pushing David’s head over a large basin and drenching him with its contents.

“I may need to learn the art of deception, but you will need to learn to hold your drink,” Jonathan fumed, dousing him with another jug full of water. “I’m going to have the servants bring a drink that will clear your head.” As he walked out of the room he added, “If Father calls for you tonight, take great care; you will need to have all your wits about you.”

David had dried his face and wrung the water from his hair when the servant boy arrived. He handed David a stemmed blue glass. It was full, and through the translucent sides the liquid was the color of green-brown sludge. David closed his eyes and swallowed all of it in two huge gulps. It was vile and so spicy it made his eyes and nose run, numbing his lips and tongue. He pushed the glass toward the servant and poured water into his mouth to quell the fire. Within moments he was so alert that even his fingernails were tingling.

David began pacing back and forth, trying to release the energy crackling inside him. He jumped and grabbed one of the beams that transected the ceiling of his room, pulling himself up and touching his chin to the wood. He had done this fifteen times when Dishon swung the door open. The bald guard gaped as David dropped down to the floor.

“You are needed in the king’s chambers,” he said, giving David a questioning look.

David took a moment to catch his breath. “How is the king doing?”

The guard stared impassively at him, then gave the briefest shrug. “The king is as he is. You shall see soon enough.” It was impossible to tell if this was a threat or a warning. Dishon spun on his heels and marched across the courtyard.

Gripping the kinnor bag in front of him like a shield, David followed him, Jonathan’s words clanging like warning bells in his head. Too soon, he again found himself alone inside the royal bedchamber. All the lamps were extinguished; the only light was from the moon that shone through the arched window. Saul was silhouetted in front of it. David initially mistook him for a guard, for every time he’d been in this room, the king had been either sitting or reclining. David had also been initially misled by what the figure was holding: a spear. Recognizing that it was the king, David’s last fragment of hope disappeared.

And while the presence of the spear was ominous, its position was chilling. The spearhead was resting on the tiled floor next to Saul’s right foot. As David had recently learned on the practice field, it was the best position if one anticipated a sudden throw.

“Sit,” ordered the king.

David lowered himself, crouching on his haunches, unwilling to lose his leverage by sitting with his legs crossed beneath him.

Saul did not seem to notice.

“Play me one of your gentle melodies. After the battle today, I am having a difficult time falling asleep.” The king’s words were slurred. While he may not have felled any Philistines, during the celebration that followed, the king had laid to rest many flagons of wine. He swayed, then caught himself, resting his full weight on the lethal weapon. “Make it that ‘Lord is my shepherd’ song.”

“Yes, my king,” David responded, beginning to play the melody, which was now so familiar that the royal musicians were not only playing it themselves but modifying it into songs of their own. He transitioned into an introduction that on other occasions had proved effective in calming the king. This time, as he strummed the notes, it had the opposite effect. King Saul became more agitated and began pacing the length of the room. Each stride was punctuated with the click of a metal point striking tile.

Oddly, whenever Saul passed the open window, he would look down at the shadow he cast on the floor and take a long, hurried stride, as if afraid to step on it. Regardless of how sweetly David played, Saul’s body remained as taut as the strings of the lyre. David was equally tense. At any moment, he expected to see a spear hurtling toward him. Unused to this awkward position, his legs were trembling with tension. He had escaped Goliath’s attack, but he doubted that at this close range he could repeat the feat. His fingers began to shake, but he kept playing. A menacing evil was seeping down onto him, leaving a tarry residue on his tongue.

In front of the window again, the king stopped, his body turned toward David. Leaning against the corner of the room, David could now see the shaft of another spear. Its point was also resting on the tiles, and it was only an arm’s length from the king. Saul did not adjust his body but lowered his shoulder and bent his head sideways to look at the sliver of moon behind him. Twisted grotesquely, he growled, “Start singing!”

Despite the dryness of his mouth, David obeyed, repeating the phrases he and Jahra had sung together a lifetime ago.

“Hah! Go on. Go on—I command you!”

David’s hands froze. The last three words had come from those infantile voices he had hoped never to hear again. Sweat broke out along his hairline. Every muscle was poised, ready for flight.

Saul was still staring out at the sky. “Yesss! Yesss!” the childish voices hissed, sounding like coiling serpents.

Trapped, David struggled to sing the closing stanzas.

You prepare a table before me

under the eyes of my enemies.[54]

The king was outlined against the window, his disheveled head bowed, the point of the spear tapping softly, keeping time. David’s heart clutched. Though the king had not moved, his shadow was oozing into the shape of a hunchbacked beast. It had a small head and elongated arms, but its elongated hands held no weapon.

David could no longer feel his legs. He forced the next-to-last stanza out of his mouth.

You anoint my head with oil,

my cup brims over.[55]

As the lyrics hung in the air, David realized the significance of what he’d sung. “Anointed! There it is!” the voices gloated, and as they did, Saul’s head jerked up, his back straightened, and he wheeled, lifting his arm in a fluid, feline motion.

The moment Saul released his spear, David flung himself sideways. The weapon flew past him, striking the table behind him. On wobbly legs, David teetered toward the entrance. He was pulling on the latch as the doors were pushed open from the outside. Dishon rushed in and fell as the doors gave way unexpectedly. David tripped over him and heard the sound of the second spear striking the stone wall next to his right shoulder. Without stopping to explain, he righted himself and made his escape, stumbling awkwardly across the courtyard and slamming shut the door of his chamber. To protect himself he locked the door by sliding a wooden bar through metal rings on each side of it.

He lay on his bed, sweat pouring from him. He felt like a knife had hollowed him out. His dreams were shattered, but he was not so much angry as ashamed. Sometime near dawn he fell asleep. When he awoke, it was almost midday. Not knowing where to go, he kept the door barred and stayed in his room. In the early afternoon he heard Jonathan’s voice outside his door.

“Open up,” the prince called. His voice was surprisingly cheerful. “I come bearing gifts.”

David slid the bar out, and Jonathan pushed his way in. David gaped at him; the prince was dressed for war; his sword was at his side, and in his right hand he was holding his best bow. Beside him stood a servant boy carrying a platter of food and a water jug. The prince said nothing as the thin waif arranged the items on the round table. When they were alone, David picked up the jug and poured the contents directly into his mouth. He drank greedily while Jonathan leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, a wide grin on his face.

“I wanted to come sooner, but there were certain arrangements to be made,” the prince said. “Dishon told me what happened. Believe me when I tell you that everything is fine. I spoke with Father this morning—he feels terrible, as well he should. And I can assure you, it will not happen again.” Jonathan’s eyes sparked briefly, but then the smile returned. “He is back in his right mind and wants to see you. In fact, he wants to talk to you about your upcoming marriage.”

David stared at him in shock.

Jonathan let out a loud laugh and grabbed an apple from the platter. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten! I thought that was your main motivation for taking on that oversized Philistine.” The grin had shifted to something more ribald.

“Well, yes. I mean, no.” David felt his face grow warm. “I mean, yes, I did want to win the reward. After all, what an honor! But I am only a shepherd, and I have no dowry. How could I possibly marry the daughter of the king?”

“It may be easier than you think,” Jonathan said. “It is not so hard when the mother and the daughter and the firstborn son are behind the arrangement.” He took a bite of the fruit, then tossed it out the window. “You need to see him immediately. With Father, one must strike while the iron is hot, and thanks to my dear sister, it is most definitely that.”

David’s head was spinning. He stared at Jonathan’s smiling face, then down at his leather studded chest piece and his elaborate sword belt, feeling a prickle of resentment. Events were carrying him along much too quickly. He felt like a piece of driftwood being dragged away from shore. He was being manipulated into the middle of a complex scheme he could neither understand nor control.

“Michal insisted that she be the one to tell you the plan.” Jonathan went to the bench on which David’s clothes were folded. He threw him the yellow tunic. “Put this on. It’s the one I gave you. It’s Michal’s favorite.”

David grabbed it before it hit the floor. “What’s going on?” he asked, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “And where are you off to?” There was a petulance to his question as he pointed to the articles of war.

“I worked it out so she could come and see you. It’s her surprise; I promised I wouldn’t spoil it.” With an enigmatic expression, the prince loosened the elaborate chest piece. “I told you I came bearing gifts, and I did not mean the food,” he said, handing the chest piece to him.

David pulled back, too stunned to say anything. The prince smiled. “I insist,” he said, pushing it into David’s arms. The prince was grinning at David’s consternation and laughed quietly as he began to unclasp his sword belt. “A warrior always needs to be ready for combat, and, my friend, Israel’s champion should not be without one of these.” The thick leather belt and sword came free, and Jonathan tossed them at David, who had taken several steps back. David caught them easily with his slinging hand.

“No, my prince. I can never accept these.” His hands were full, his cheeks were red, and he felt foolish. “I am not worthy.” He wanted to kneel but knew that would only make the situation even more embarrassing.

Jonathan stepped toward him and laid his bow on top of the sleeping couch. When he straightened, his smile had been replaced by a look of tenderness that alarmed David. For an instant David was terrified that the prince was preparing to send him away from the royal court.

“I have others, David,” Jonathan said, resting his fingers on the sword belt David was clutching in his left hand. “This is a gift of love. It is to remind you that no matter what happens, my soul is knit with yours. We are friends for life.”

David tried to swallow the lump in his throat as Jonathan took the belt and buckled the sword around him. In a voice choked with emotion, Jonathan continued, “I am aware that you are God’s anointed.” His eyes were red, yet he looked directly at David. “This is also my pledge of loyalty to you.”

Impulsively, David threw his arms around this strong man who had become to him the older brother he had longed for his whole life. At first, the prince’s words had filled him with joy, but now he felt so unworthy, he knew he was going to cry.

“Look at us.” Jonathan laughed, pulling away after a moment and wiping his eyes. “Anybody would think we were little girls instead of warriors. Throw some water on your face, make yourself presentable, and be quick about it.” He again sounded like a commander. “She should be outside by now. But don’t take too long with her. We don’t want ugly rumors to spoil our plan. I’ll be standing guard outside.”

David had just enough time to dry his face and run a comb through his hair before he heard a soft knock and the door swung open. Michal wore a flowing dress tied at the waist in such a way that it accentuated every curve of her body. It was a rose color, and her belt was a deep crimson, which matched the scarf draped around her hair and neck. Large silver hoops dangled from her ears, and around her forehead hung a rope of silver coins. She was radiant.

He was trembling deep inside as he held her hands. She looked at him, a question on her lips. He stared into her eyes and felt himself floating away. “You look beautiful,” he whispered.

Michal smiled coyly, little lines forming at the corners of her eyes. “So do you,” she said with a happy smile. “We don’t have much time. I have spoken with Adriel and made him understand that I love you, not him. I suggested that he ask for Merab’s hand instead. It did not take him long to agree. It was as easy as I had expected. He loves the idea of being a part of the royal family more than he cares about either of the king’s daughters.” Michal’s eyes glistened with sly triumph.

She stepped closer so that her body just grazed his. “Now that the eldest is spoken for, my father is free to offer his second daughter as a reward to the champion of Israel.” She gazed at him, her face flushed with admiration. “He was not happy about it at the beginning, but with the three of us in favor—Jonathan, Mother, and me—he had to give way.”

Michal moved even closer. She went on as if unaware that they were pressed together. Her body burned his. “Mother is furious about what Father tried to do to Jonathan and, now, also to you. She made a terrible row, and Father realizes he needs to make amends—to all of us.”

David’s pulse was throbbing. He could hardly swallow, much less speak. Michal was barefoot, and since he was wearing sandals, he was looking directly into her eyes. She tilted her head, her eyes bright with a fire he had not seen before. “I made him swear that within six months he would honor the promise he made at Elah. He said he would, on one condition.”

David looked at her warily. “What is it?”

She giggled. “Not money,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Foreskins.”

“Fore—” David stuttered.

“Yes. One hundred of them,” she said and laughed again. A slight blush rose to her cheeks, but she kept her eyes fixed on his.

He cleared his throat, needing desperately to take a drink.

“These were his words.” She furrowed her forehead, and her voice became low and husky, a passable impression of her father’s. “‘What is a better dowry from Israel’s champion than the foreskins of one hundred of her enemies?’” She raised a fist and shook it. “‘And though they may be dogs, they will no longer remain uncircumcised.’” David joined in her laughter despite the worry that trickled through him.

Michal’s body against his, and the scent of her perfume, was making his head reel. Her dark eyes had grown darker and were looking deeply into his. A fire filled his chest. He placed his hand lightly on the back of her neck, then slowly drew her toward him. As their lips met, he thought, Maybe, just maybe, it isn’t such a bad thing to be carried away on the current.

Three quick knocks interrupted them. Before David could respond, the door swung open and Jonathan poked his head into the room. “Time to go,” he said, the grin back on his face. David looked at Michal, who was shaking her head disgustedly at her older brother. She took David’s hand, leading him to the door. Jonathan gave her a wink, but she ignored him, pushing him away from the entrance.

“The king awaits your pleasure—Captain,” he said.

David stared at him in surprise. Jonathan’s grin widened. “The king and I have agreed that you should receive a battlefield promotion. The general, of course, concurred.” He gave David a hearty slap on the back. “Or, if you prefer, I can just call you … brother-in-law.”

David punched the prince in the side as he walked past him, his other arm around Michal’s waist.

51 Psalm 59:11–13, author’s paraphrase

52 1 Samuel 18:7

53 Psalm 68:1, 35, author’s paraphrase

54 Psalm 23:5a

55 Psalm 23:5b

Chapter Twenty-Six

It had been about two weeks since King Saul made official the offer of Michal’s hand, conditioned on bringing back trophies proving the deaths of one hundred Philistines. During a heated conversation over breakfast, the king had waved off Jonathan’s protests that killing Goliath was sufficient and had in fact been the only requirement prior to David’s legendary victory. David was reclining on the king’s left, listening quietly but expecting at any moment for the king to erupt and fling something sharp in his son’s direction.

“I’m sure that a champion such as David will have no difficulty in meeting this challenge,” the king had said, his voice booming around the courtyard. “If he can defeat their best warrior with one little stone, certainly he can kill one hundred with proper weapons and the help of his men.” With a certain smugness, the king had leaned forward so close that his face was nearly touching David’s. “What say you, mighty man of valor?”

He, of course, had to agree that killing a squadron of Philistines would not pose an insurmountable difficulty. “My king, your will is my command,” David murmured, wondering if he had been maneuvered into assenting to his death sentence.

Saul smiled and gave him an encouraging blow between the shoulder blades. “That’s the spirit!” he roared. “And for love of my daughter, it will be even lighter work.” This had been followed by another thump that would have knocked David over had he not been resting on his elbow.

With the promotion to captain had come the command of a small squad. The first thing David had done after leaving the king was to take his twelve men to spy out the nearest Philistine strongholds. What he found was not encouraging. It was obvious that Goliath’s death had put the enemy on high alert. Their defenses had been solidified, guards had been doubled, and vulnerable positions had been reinforced.

David returned to Gibeah convinced that even with the help of his men, he would be incapable of filling the king’s quota. He was as dispirited as he had been when Goliath had threatened to feed him to the buzzards. When he reached the palace, he was told that Jonathan was on the training grounds, practicing with his bow.

From a distance, he could see that Jonathan was competing with a group of his men. Their laughter and uproarious insults carried over the wide field. When the prince caught sight of David, he spoke to his men and strode to another range farther away. At the far end was a bundle of straw bound tightly so as to resemble a person. By the time David joined him, Jonathan was taking aim with his last arrow at the target fifty paces way. He overshot the bale and waved for a young boy collecting the arrows to find it.

“That was my last one. He will be back shortly, but we’ll be alone for a bit.” The prince set one point of the bow on the ground and rested his forearm on the other. “So what did you find?” he asked. “Not good news, I take it, judging from your mournful expression. You look as if you came back from a funeral.”

“Maybe mine,” David murmured, kicking a stone in the direction of the target. He reported what he and his men had seen and their pessimistic assessment.

After casting a look around, Jonathan spoke. “I’m not surprised at your findings. Father definitely had an ulterior motive in demanding that dowry.”

“What do you mean?” asked David, bristling at Jonathan’s implication. “Michal is the apple of his eye. He just wants to make sure I deserve her.”

Jonathan said nothing. He merely gave David a doubtful look.

“Before I left to scout out the garrisons, the king and I had a private talk,” David explained. “I don’t know why; maybe he was thinking I was going to back out. Anyway, he told me that it would be the ideal way to prove I was worthy to be Michal’s husband.”

What David did not tell Jonathan was that during the conversation, the king had apologized profusely for losing his head. “You are to me as one of my very own children,” Saul had assured David, following it with a solemn vow. “I swear by the gold on the wings of the cherubim that I will never do anything like that again.” There were tears in Saul’s eyes when he spoke. David had never felt closer to the king.

But he could tell Jonathan none of this. He knew what the prince would say. Jonathan would dismiss it as cunning manipulation. David had relived the conversation scores of times, and he was certain that the king had been sincere.

Still Jonathan said nothing. His condescending silence was maddening.

“Your father believes that this would prove to her that I am every bit the warrior the women sing about in their songs.” In his frustration, David could not help bragging just a little.

Jonathan nodded, but his expression did not change. David was about to continue, but Jonathan interrupted him. “David, don’t you see? Before you arrived, Father was Israel’s hero; now every time the army marches out to battle, the women start chanting, ‘Saul has killed his thousands, but David his tens of thousands.’ It is becoming our national anthem. That is a humiliating insult for a king.”

David shrugged. “I know. Do you think me stupid? I’ve told my men that whenever they hear it, they are to start singing one of our victory songs. There is not a shred of disloyalty among us.”

“Unfortunately, David, the damage has been done. There is no longer anything you or I can do to convince Father that you are not conniving with his enemies to steal his crown.” Jonathan lowered his voice and began speaking more quickly as the young boy approached with a quiver full of arrows. “Now that you’re betrothed, he cannot be directly linked to any plots against you. But that does not mean he has stopped scheming.”

The words cut deeply. David bit his tongue, waiting as the boy handed Jonathan the quiver. The prince pulled out an arrow and sent it flying high over the target. He gestured for the boy to run and bring it back. With a questioning look at the remaining arrows, the boy raced off.

“Practicing with you seems to be affecting my accuracy,” Jonathan said, trying to relieve the tension. David ignored the joke.

“Maybe I’m learning bad habits from my father,” Jonathan continued. “He seems to be incapable of hitting a target from ten paces, much less fifty.” Still fuming, David responded with a tight smile, though he hated remembering the incident in the king’s chamber. “Anyway, with your marriage on the horizon, Father has smelled an opportunity. I’m afraid that he intends to use your desire to impress your betrothed against you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He expects you to be too proud to request support, and to go off on your own to prove yourself to Michal.” Jonathan looked at David from the corners of his eyes. He seemed to be weighing his words carefully. “He wants to exploit what some might call a weakness.”

The statement was not an accusation, yet it stung.

“I know you want to earn the dowry price on your own, but we both know that can never happen. So this is what I propose—and this is not an offer: it is an order from your senior commander.” The prince spoke gently, but his words were as weighty and unyielding as iron. There was an angry spark in his eyes. “I will accompany you with thirty of my best men. Father must not find out. If he does, he will use it to call off the wedding.”

Though David was tempted to do so, he couldn’t refuse. Not only because it was a command from the prince but also because the prince was right. There was no way for him to fulfill the quota without Jonathan’s help. He swallowed his resentment and assented as gracefully as possible. “Thank you, Prince,” he began stiffly. “I will admit that I was worried. A giant Philistine is one thing, but taking on one hundred warriors, even with twelve men, is quite another.”

The tightness around Jonathan’s eyes softened. “Yes, I understand completely,” he said, his face expressionless. “Rare is the man capable of facing odds of ten to one—as Asa and I did on Geba.” He gave David’s shoulder a squeeze, unable to hide his grin.

“They were drunk!” David protested. “And you surprised them from behind! Half were dead before they realized they were under attack.” He knew Jonathan was needling him, but he was still indignant. “This is completely different.”

Jonathan raised both hands as if fending off blows. “Keep it down, Captain. I was only making a joke. Don’t let your temper get us both in trouble.” Putting his arm around David’s shoulder, he drew their heads together. “Are you calmed down yet?” He did not wait for a response. “Good. My advice to you is not to take yourself so seriously. Anyway, Abner will have men reporting back to Father, so we will have to be careful. In three days, you will leave Gibeah with your squad. Two days earlier, I will have headed out with my best men in the opposite direction on a scouting mission. We will meet up in the valley near Aijalon. That is the closest concentration of Philistines and the easiest for us to attack.”

The boy ran up and handed Jonathan the arrow. “Koniah, we are done for the day. You may report back to Sisha.” When the boy had left, Jonathan motioned for David to walk with him back to the palace. On the way, he gave David a detailed explanation of his strategy.

“But how will we gain access to the gate?” David asked.

Jonathan winked slyly. “You will have help.” He refused to say anything more.

When he awoke the next morning, David found that a detailed map of Aijalon had been slipped under his door. David took his men away from the palace to practice the assault and memorize the interior of the Philistine city.

In the late afternoon of the third day, David and Jonathan and their forty-two comrades were in the wooded valley bordering Aijalon. Jonathan repeated the instructions one more time, then pulled David aside. Holding David’s forearm, he drew him close. “Let it not be said that I failed to give my brother-in-law help in his time of need.” David smiled up at him gratefully. Jonathan gave his arm a hard squeeze. “Now we shall see what champions are made of.”

“It will be the stuff of legends,” David responded, trying to keep the trembling excitement out of his voice.

“The stuff of legends,” Jonathan concurred. “And the breastplate and sword look good on you.” David smiled and saluted as the prince waved for six men to follow him toward the summit on which the Philistine stronghold sat. The remainder split and headed off in opposite directions, remaining hidden behind the trees. The plan was for Jonathan to position his party so that they were facing the setting sun, making it easier for the soldiers posted on the walls to see them. Success depended on using the enemy’s shame and hunger for revenge against them.

Once they were spotted and the alarm had sounded, David watched as around three dozen Philistines waving swords rushed out to wreak havoc on the poorly armed Israelites lurking nearby. They pursued them into the woods, where twenty of Jonathan’s men lay in wait. After dispatching their pursuers, Jonathan’s squad would enter the town to assist in collecting trophies until they met up with David’s band.

When the Philistines were in the woods, David led his band of sixteen toward Aijalon, hoping that there would be no surprises. Before leaving Gibeah the prince had explained that he had two men inside the stronghold. They would kill the guards and allow them access into the walled city. The spies must have been successful, for as the Israelites were sixty paces away, the tall gates were already creaking open.

David and his men raced through the opening, swords at the ready. They were met by a wiry man with a face like wrinkled leather. He looked about Jonathan’s age. Like David’s brother Nethanel, he had a braid that almost reached his waist. He made an abrupt motion indicating that they should follow; lifting a finger he issued an unnecessary order to move with speed and quiet. They followed him along a narrow alley with doorways on either side. It was cool and dark. There were no torches on the wall, and the only light was what shone down from the nighttime sky.

Up ahead, they saw a stocky man with a bushy beard turning a sharp corner. His hand held a short knife. Calming them with an emphatic gesture, the wiry man assured the warriors there was no need to worry. He pointed at himself and then at the distant figure. It was Jonathan’s second spy.

David followed closely behind the braided warrior, his men strung out behind him. The spy raised his hand when they came to the center of town. It was a broad, cobblestoned square with larger buildings on each side. Across from them a long, whitewashed two-story structure flanked the western side of the square. From the interior came the sounds of boisterous and profane men eating.

“This is the barracks,” the spy muttered. “Wait for me here.”

He left them without any further explanation, striding confidently across the town center without a trace of worry. He entered the front doorway and a few moments later ambled back out.

“It’s perfect,” he whispered to David. “The dogs are eating their swill. There is another door on the opposite end of the building. No guard is posted there either. Take half your men and enter there; the others will follow me through the front. When you hear me whistle, that will be the signal to enter. Do your work as quietly as possible.”

“How many Philistines are there?” David asked, needing to assert command.

“Forty-six. But they are defenseless. When they eat, they stack their weapons in the corners.” He threw a wary look at the entrance. “We must make haste. They may soon become suspicious.”

“First, tell me your name,” David snapped, keeping his voice quiet.

The spy slung back his braid with an annoyed jerk of his shoulder. “Josheb Bashebeth.”

“Josheb, I am glad to make your acquaintance. I will not forget your help.”

David drew his men around him, dividing them into eight-man squads. “Wait for me,” he whispered. They all nodded.

The nine warriors trotted around to the back, bent over so as not to be seen through the open windows. When they reached the rear entrance, David did not wait for Josheb’s signal but was the first one to race into the room. Eight Israelites followed with their swords aimed low. Josheb and the other men entered from the opposite end of the hall. The Philistines, caught completely by surprise, were quickly overwhelmed. Most died sitting down. David was astonished at the rapidity and savagery of Josheb’s attack. He had grabbed two swords when he ran into the building, and like a lethal cyclone spun his twin blades, cutting down the enemy with an implacable fury.

When the Philistine soldiers were dead, David assigned Josheb the task of collecting the trophies while he took his warriors to kill as many other Philistine men as they could before any survivors brought back reinforcements. A little before midnight, they were trotting back out through the gates of the city. David was trailed by twenty-six men. Sometime during the raid, ten of Jonathan’s men had joined them.

“Where is the prince?” David asked one of them. He knew the man only by his nickname, Sammi. He was thin but was a surprisingly good swordsman and a superb javelin thrower.

“The Philistines put up more fight than expected. He stayed with the others to make sure they finished them off. He told us to join you to help make sure you gathered the necessary amount.”

“How many did your men get?” David asked, gesturing at the sodden bag that bounced at Sammi’s waist.

“Well, we had help from someone inside,” the lanky fighter answered. “We did not get his name. All I know is that he was not an Israelite and that he had a good head start by the time we arrived. He seemed to hate the Philistines even more than we do. So together with his, it amounts to fifty-one.”

“Well done.” David laughed, slapping Sammi on the back.

“What are they for?” Josheb interrupted. He had been loping behind them. At his waist was a similar bag.

“First, tell me how many you have.”

“Including the guards at the gate—forty-eight.”

When David told Josheb about Michal’s dowry, the braided warrior threw his head back and laughed. When he had regained his breath, he looked down at David’s pouch. “If I may ask, Captain, did your men surpass our total?”

David held up a damp leather pouch. “If the count was accurate, the number is fifty-nine.”

Josheb and Sammi howled with delight. “That should be plenty to impress any princess.”

When they rejoined the others in the woods, Jonathan rushed up to David, lifting a bag in front of him. “Thirty-nine. Only one escaped. He fled toward Gaza, but since it was getting dark, we had to let him go.” He looked at what David was holding. “We need only sixty-one. Tell me you got at least that many.”

David shook his head, feigning disappointment. “I’m afraid not. I am two short.”

Jonathan’s shoulders slouched, and he slapped his thighs in disgust. “That will never appease Father. He will demand the exact amount. We’ve got to go back and get what we came for.”

David waved his companions forward. He interrupted the prince, trying to keep the elation out of his voice. “Wait a moment. Josheb and Sammi have their own bags.” They lifted them proudly. “Altogether, we have nearly twice what the king asked for!”

Jonathan hooted in pleasure, gripping David’s shoulders as they headed back toward Gibeah. “A good evening’s work, brother-in-law,” he said. “Nothing can keep Father from honoring his oath now.”

The following morning, David asked to see King Saul but was told he was in bed with a severe headache. David set the four bags stiff with dried blood in front of the stocky guard. “Make sure you show these to the king when he improves.” The soldier gave him a knowing nod. There was a trace of a smile on his face as he picked them up and tested their weight. “And if he does not want to count them,” David added, “you can tell him that there are one hundred and ninety-seven. Proof of the depth of my devotion to his daughter.”

“It will be an honor, Captain,” the guard said, saluting smartly. His smile was now a wide grin.

About ten months later, four more than the king had promised but two months fewer than the normal betrothal period, the royal family celebrated the marriage of the youngest daughter. It was barely two months after the marriage of Merab, the eldest. The brief ceremony was held inside the palace. Ahimelech had traveled down from the tabernacle at Nob to perform the ceremony. The elders from each of the twelve tribes were in attendance, along with all of the commanders of the army. David invited his brothers and father, but only Shimeah came. He claimed that Jesse was in no condition to travel. He made no excuses for the others.

Though a wedding was normally a solemn affair, by the time the wedding date arrived, news of the dowry price had spread, undermining the seriousness of the ritual. In breach of protocol, at Michal’s insistence, David agreed not to hand over the specific items establishing his bride’s value.

As they stood holding hands under the chupah, the wedding canopy, David thought that Michal had never looked more stunning. A nearly transparent veil covered her head but did not obscure her black hair, which lay in beautiful ringlets along her cheeks and was pulled back from her eyes with a headband of golden coins. She also wore a jeweled nose ring that sparkled whenever she smiled mischievously. Her gown was a perfectly fitted lavender silk. David had to tear his eyes away from her when the king rose to make his welcome.

Saul began by making a general, very diplomatic reference to the dowry. When he had declared his formal acceptance, Jonathan’s raucous cheer triggered a burst of laughter that swept through the courtyard. The hilarity was a boon to David, whose nerves had made him feel as though he were about to lose his breakfast.

When quiet was restored, David, with a grateful glance at the prince, took Michal’s hands and made the fateful declaration: “You are my wife and I am your husband from this day and forever.” This was followed by Ahimelech’s prayer thanking God for the blessing of the chupah and requesting a fruitful womb. With a chorus of amens—and with ribald shouts—the festivities began.

The celebration lasted till well past midnight. Michal kept throwing impatient glances in her father’s direction, wanting him to give the new couple permission to leave. They would not be going far. Their home was still under construction, so they would be spending their first night—and as many more as were required—in her own chambers.

Finally King Saul, on unsteady legs, stood with cup in hand. “Here is to David, my new son-in-law, and his beautiful bride, my dearest Michal. May God give them a long and fruitful life.” The affection in his eyes as he looked at his daughter was unmistakable. “Let us stand together and wish them the blessing of a full quiver and allow them to get to it!”

The courtyard thundered with much foot stomping, thumping of tabletops, and shouts of congratulation as David and Michal, blushing, hurried up the stairs. Jonathan, along with Michal’s three other brothers, trailed a few steps behind. Seeing them following, Michal picked up the edge of her dress and started to run down the hall. When she and David reached her chamber, she quickly opened her door and rushed in. Before David could follow, Jonathan pulled him back. “Michal knows you are a champion on the battlefield,” he said, swaying slightly. “We all do.” He blinked, his eyes trying to focus. “Now I expect you will show your wife what a champion lover you are.” Michal reached out and pulled David through the doorway before Jonathan could say anything further. Then she slammed the door. The four began pounding and hooting on the other side.

Michal pushed David aside, swung the door open, and stood in the entrance, hands on her hips. “Stop it this moment!” she said through pursed lips. “Leave us alone this instant, or by the gods, I will make each of you pay! And don’t you dare say another word!” The four laughed but turned away meekly, making subdued jokes among themselves as she once more shut the door firmly.

After their voices blended into the raucous sounds coming up from the courtyard, Michal pulled out a key from a small purse at her side, turned, and locked the door. Without turning to face David, she untied the purse from her waist and dropped the silk bag onto the table by the door. With the grace of a dancer, she unwrapped the scarf and laid it next to the bag and the oil lamp that was beside it.

David, an arm’s length behind her, could not move. He was watching her as if in a trance. Michal shook her head and ran both hands through her thick black hair so that it lay loose against her cheeks. The strands glistened like raven’s wings in the lamplight. She turned slowly to him. Her face was flushed, and her eyes shone.

David could not move. He felt as if his arms and legs had been wrapped in iron. Michal did not seem to notice. She reached back to pick up the oil lamp and with her other hand took his and without a word led him into her bedroom.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A month and a half after the wedding, their house was finally completed. It was more extravagant than David would have liked, but after six weeks worrying about aggravating his father-in-law’s hostility, he would have been content moving into a stable.

Imposing the outlandish dowry had the opposite effect from what the king had intended. David’s victory made him even more popular and earned him another promotion. This time he was appointed commander over a full squadron—one thousand men.

Still intent on ridding himself of his chief rival, Saul selected David to lead the most dangerous missions. Due to the ferocity of his attacks, the men began referring to David as the Lion of Judah. And despite his best efforts, word of the title filtered back to the palace. That, along with his string of military successes, only reinforced the king’s implacable suspicions and drove Saul nearly frantic with jealousy. Furious at the backlash of his schemes, Saul no longer attempted to hide his resentment whenever David’s squadron returned home. He pointedly refused to greet his celebrated commander.

The tension in the palace was so intense that whenever David was not with his men, he was overseeing the work of the stonemasons, intent on ensuring maximum speed without sacrificing quality. “Whoever lays the most stone will receive double his weekly earnings,” became the regular incentive. It was one of several ploys to keep the men focused on the end goal. Another had been appointing his nephew Joab as the interior foreman.

Even more than desiring a skilled artisan, David wanted to have as many allies as possible close at hand. And Joab was not the only family member he brought in from Bethlehem. David convinced Michal to bring Lydea on as their cook once they moved into their own house. He set aside several rooms for her on the new home’s first floor that gave her twice as much space as she and Jahra had shared.

David and Michal had fallen in love with the location of their home. It stood above a cliff that provided a dramatic view of the olive groves and fig trees in the plain below. Its ruggedness reminded him of the hills near Bethlehem. And it was as far from the palace as he could get. But when construction was finished, Saul had exacted his revenge by ordering David to head south to protect the border against an Amalekite incursion. Over Michal’s tearful protests the king had insisted that David leave immediately.

This latest operation had taken David only eight days, and when he returned to Gibeah after subduing the Amalekites, he found that Michal had made the new house into a home.

“So what do you think?” she asked, removing her hands from his eyes. They were in the alliyah, the second-story room above the gateway. It was the only space in their home that David had designed. He had placed it far from the flow of traffic, for it was to be his refuge from the noise of visitors, family gatherings, and, eventually, boisterous children. It was where he would have the quiet he needed to compose his music.

“It’s perfect,” he said, turning and wrapping his arms tightly around her. “I love it, Eglah.” It was his favorite nickname for her. It meant a gentle, young calf.

“I can be boisterous too, you know.” She smiled archly, pressing herself against him.

“Don’t I know it,” David said, giving her a long, slow kiss.

She had placed his padded bench and a sturdy working table directly beneath the arched windows across the room. They were the alliyah’s focal point. He had elaborated on the design of the window in her father’s chamber, expanding it to include a total of five arches and ornate marble columns that spanned the entire wall. To his right, on wooden posts, hung a variety of lyres and harps, and on the opposite wall on similar hangers were Goliath’s sword and armor, with extra posts for the personal pieces David used in battle.

“That’s for you and your captains when you need to talk in private,” she said, pointing behind her. It was a circle of comfortable oak chairs with padded arms around an oblong table.

“I like it,” he said, letting go of her so he could unbuckle Jonathan’s belt and sword. He placed it on the wall next to the monstrous curved Philistine weapon. “Did you have Joab add these extra hangers?”

She nodded. “He was thrilled to be in on the surprise. And he always takes such pride in his work.”

“Of course. You didn’t think I’d chosen him only because he was family, did you?”

“What do you like the best?” she asked, grabbing his hand and turning him to look at the tapestries that hung on each side of the window.

David looked up and pointed at the broad strip of material she had artfully draped over one of the exposed ceiling beams. It was the banner with horizontal bands—light blue on top and white on the bottom—that he had waved at the Valley of Elah.

“It looks beautiful up there. I don’t know how you think of these things,” he said. “I would never have thought of placing it there. The best I can do is picture it above a fortress city. Somewhere high and dominating—like on the hills of Jebus.”

Michal leaned her head against his shoulder. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one day it is. Once Father is gone, Jonathan will let the champion of Israel have as many cities as he wants.” She looked at the flag over their heads. “Since you like it so well and since the women have their red room, this will be your blue room.” David hugged her, kissing the tip of her nose. Michal was referring to the room set aside for the women during their monthly periods. Not for the first time, he thought to himself how glad he was not to be a woman. He would take a blue room over a red room any day.

He smiled to himself as he held her; it was wonderful to be with his wife in their own house. Though it had been months since the king had required him to play for him, while living at the palace David had been on constant alert, expecting an interruption at the most awkward moments. But he had to concede that while it was neither as good as he had expected nor as bad as he had feared, their lovemaking occasionally exceeded anything he could have imagined. And despite the pleasure he found in her, he was still plagued by two worries: that the leering face of the she-wolf would once again materialize, and that his feelings would never match the depth of hers.

He kissed the top of her head, breathing in the smell of lilacs and choosing to ignore his doubts.

Several weeks after their move, David was sitting on the window ledge in the alliyah, picking the strings of the kinnor. The song he was working on was complicated. Each stanza began with a different letter of the Hebrew alphabet. It was an interesting concept, but nothing felt right. He was concentrating so hard that when the door slammed against the wall, the lyre almost slipped out of his hands and shattered on the rocks below.

Michal rushed into the room without announcing herself. It was the first time she had entered since the day she had shown off her improvements. Her hair was disheveled, and her eyes and red cheeks betrayed the depth of her anxiety.

She began speaking the moment she entered. She spoke breathlessly, her words running over each other. “Dearest, Joab, that young stonemason from Bethlehem, has terrible news!” She was so distraught, she did not apologize for interrupting him. David pivoted on the ledge so that his back was to the window. Michal dropped to the floor in front of him, her hands gripping his knees.

“Yes, I know—my nephew,” he said. “Go ahead; just tell me the problem.” He was getting used to her overexcitement and doubted there was any real trouble.

“He overheard Father and that awful Abner talking. It was about you. That’s all he would say.”

“How did he manage to hear that conversation?”

“Sisha assigned him to work on the palace when our house was finished. He was working underneath the balcony where they were standing. You need to talk to him right away.”

“Where is he?”

“Downstairs with Lydea.”

“Tell him to come up alone. I don’t want Lydea in the middle of something that might put her in danger.”

Michal rose and went to the door. “Lydea,” she called, “send Joab up.” Before David could say anything, she told him, “I’m staying. If it has to do with you and Father, I deserve to know everything.”

When Joab walked in, David was sitting on his padded chair. Michal was standing behind him, her hands grasping his shoulders. David’s nephew glanced down at his dusty apron, rubbing his hands over it in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking at Michal and then at David, pushing strands of sweaty hair under the band that circled his bushy mane.

David waved away his concern. “It’s fine. Just tell me what you heard.”

Joab put his arms behind his back. “I was repairing one of the first-story windows. The king and the general walked out onto the balcony above me. They were speaking softly but loudly enough for me to hear. They were talking about one of the king’s recent—episodes, the general called it. He made it sound as if it had been quite serious.”

Joab scraped his teeth against the scar at the top of his lip, then exhaled and continued. “Abner wanted to call you to play for the king.”

“What was his response?”

“King Saul became extremely angry and refused.”

“What did he say?” asked David.

“The exact words?”

“Yes, Joab. Don’t spare my feelings.”

The young stonemason exhaled loudly and looked over their heads out the window behind them. “‘You’ve heard the women,’ the king said. ‘You saw how they behaved when he returned from his latest campaign. I’m sick to death of hearing that—upstart—praised from one end of Israel to another.’” As he spoke, Joab’s face was turning crimson. “‘I would die before giving that—ambitious braggart another opportunity to boast, especially at my expense.’”

Joab kept his eyes trained on something outside the window. “Abner responded that none of his men had ever heard a seditious word from you. And he reminded Saul that your music is the only thing that has succeeded in providing relief. The king simply swore more loudly and accused Abner and his men of conspiring against him.”

“That does not surprise me,” David muttered.

Joab waited for David to explain himself, but when he said nothing more, he continued his report. “The general defended you—at least I thought that was what he was doing by saying that if you harbored treasonous motives he would know. ‘You can say many things about him,’ Abner told him. ‘David may be ambitious and vain, but he is not disloyal.’”

Now David felt his cheeks flush.

His nephew’s hazel eyes had grown bright as if guarding a secret. “It was at this point that the general said something that I think was quite important.”

David and Michal both leaned forward.

“The general laughed as though he were making a joke and told the king that he had more to fear from you than the king did.”

“I knew it,” hissed Michal through clenched teeth. “I knew he resented you and your success.”

David placed his hand over hers, trying to soothe her anger.

Joab continued. “Something about what the general said made the king even more furious. He stamped his foot—it made the balcony shake—then said something strange. ‘I am the only one who is to be feared. And I am the only one who has reason to fear. David is my adversary, and I will never allow him to steal what is rightfully mine!’”

“Oh, Father. Father,” Michal moaned despondently.

“It was then that I realized what Abner had been doing,” Joab continued. “He was goading the king, for he immediately responded that if it was the king’s pleasure, he had a plan to get rid of the king’s most dangerous enemy.”

David patted Michal’s hand. Her fingers were digging furrows in each of his shoulders. “So what does that old fox have planned for me?”

“He said that your brothers’ resentment was common knowledge, especially Eliab’s, and he knew how to use it to the king’s advantage.”

“It was just a matter of time,” David murmured.

Joab fingered his scar nervously. He looked as if he wished he could spare his uncle the details.

“Go on,” David urged. “Tell me all of it.”

“Eliab and Abinadab will come to take you to Bethlehem to visit your father, who they will say is dying. On the way, they will attack you and claim that they were ambushed by Philistine raiders.”

Michal let out a gasp, then wrapped her arms around David’s neck.

“What about Shimeah?” David asked.

“He was not mentioned. I would guess he was left out of the plot, since the general was not certain he could be trusted.”

David nodded grimly.

“This is where the plot becomes even more clever,” Joab said. “The general will have another squad bring back a report that they witnessed the killing and will contradict your brothers. They will make sure that Eliab and Abinadab take full blame for the murder. The general will have them executed, and his role in the plot will remain a secret.”

A cry broke from Michal’s lips. David stood, turned, and placed his hands alongside her face, wiping the angry tears from her cheeks. She pounded her fist against his chest. “I wish he would die! I’ll take care of that vile man. Jonathan and I will go to Father. We will convince him that it is the general who has designs on the crown.”

“Don’t get upset, Eglah,” David said, trying to expel her fears with the intensity of his stare. “You know how your father is. He gets angry, makes impulsive decisions, then more often than not changes his mind. It will blow over, you’ll see.” He did not believe his own words but needed to say something to calm his terrified wife.

He turned to Joab. “When were my brothers supposed to do their dirty deed?”

A note of alarm crept into Joab’s voice. “That’s the problem. Abner insisted that it be done quickly. It is planned for tonight. I would have come sooner, but I could not get away from the palace earlier without alerting the king’s spies.”

“Tonight?” Michal gasped.

“It’s what the general said. I’m sure of it.”

“How much time do we have?” she asked.

“They will be here at evening. After dinner.”

Michal wiped her hands over her eyes, and her shoulders straightened. “That gives us a few hours, then.” Ice was creeping into her voice, and she sounded dangerous. She strode over to Joab. “Thank you for coming, and thank you for your loyalty to my husband. But you need to go back before someone starts asking about you.”

When they were alone, Michal grabbed David’s hands. “I have a plan,” she said. “I’m almost certain it will work. But there is not much time. I need to get with Lydea so she can help.”

He was stunned by his wife’s transformation. She was the one acting like a military commander.

“You wait here till I call for you.” She kissed him once, then walked out of the room before he could protest.

After sunset, David took the stairs down to the first floor. It had taken the entire afternoon to dismiss all the house servants and send them to their quarters without raising any alarms. As Michal had instructed him, David brought down a thick, coiled rope that the stonemasons had left behind. He tied one end around a pillar in the dining room and threw the other end over the low wall that ran the length of the back porch overlooking the rocky cliff. The bag holding his kinnor was strapped across his chest, and Jonathan’s sword hung at his waist.

Michal had been talking to Lydea in the front room, and when the rope was ready she ran up to him and threw her arms around his neck. She did not make a sound. Over her shoulder David could see the cliff falling away into the darkness. Suddenly she loosened her arms, her lips set in a determined line.

“Remember, hide in the rocks, and if my plan works, I will wave a lamp; if not, I will wave two.” She was repeating instructions she had given several times already. “That will mean you need to flee as far and as fast as you can. I’ll make sure Jonathan gets word to you when it’s safe to return.”

“Two men are coming!” Lydea whispered from the other side of the house. She was looking out one of the front windows.

David looked into Michal’s glistening eyes and kissed her quickly. He ran to Lydea and gave her a hurried hug and kiss on both cheeks. “Good-bye, Yaya,” he told her.

“Yahweh Sabaoth be with you, my ahuvee.” She held his hands for a moment, then let him go.

David ran to the rope, started to lower himself over the edge, then paused. “If it is two, tell Joab to meet me on the training grounds.”

“I will, my love. Hurry!” Looking down at him, Michal blew him a last kiss.

The knock came as Michal was untying the rope.

“Who is it?” Lydea asked after waiting several moments.

“We are David’s brothers, and we have an urgent message about our father.”

Lydea mouthed to Michal that Eliab was the speaker.

“We need to talk with him immediately.”

When Michal had hidden the rope in the closest cupboard, Lydea opened the door. After the men introduced themselves, Michal led Eliab and Abinadab to the second-story bedroom. She positioned herself in the doorway so that the two men had to look past her. She and Lydea had pushed the bed as far from the door as possible so that the mound in the middle would be obscured in shadow. “My husband has taken ill. I’ve given him some medicine that has put him to sleep. He should not be disturbed.”

The men looked at each other nervously. Eliab eventually spoke. “Our commander told us it was imperative to let David know.” He looked at his brother, seeming uncertain. Abinadab gave a slight shrug. “We will relay the situation to Commander Manoah and see what he says,” Eliab finally grumbled, turning to walk back down the stairs.

Abinadab’s hawk eyes were filled with suspicion. “I can assure you that we will be back,” he said, casting a long look at the bed before turning away.

The two women sat together on a bench in the courtyard. The fountain tinkled quietly behind them. They held hands but did not say anything, waiting with sick apprehension for David’s brothers to return. Eventually, they heard the sound of running feet, and this time the front door burst open and the two rushed into the courtyard. They were perspiring and breathing heavily. Eliab could not conceal his eagerness. “Our commander insists that David come with us. Our father is dying, and we must leave immediately, regardless of our brother’s condition.” Without waiting for Michal to respond, they raced up the stairs.

They entered the dim room almost at a run and flung back the covers. Underneath was Michal’s large teraphim idol, with a mass of goat hair at the head. Eliab spun to face Michal, who was standing just inside the door. He stepped toward her; his face was dark with rage. “Where is he?” he screamed. She retreated, stunned by the violence in his eyes.

“Where have you hidden him?” Abinadab yelled, looking under the bed and in the closet.

Michal’s back was against the bedroom wall.

Eliab strode up to her, his bearded face almost brushing against hers. He seemed half crazed. He grabbed her arms and squeezed so hard she cried out. Michal lowered her face, anticipating a blow. There was raging fury in his piglike eyes and something more. It made her feel both terrified and violated.

“He forced me to do it,” she blurted over her tears. “He heard that Father wanted to harm him. It was his plan. He made me lie in order to protect him.” The falsehoods came easily. She needed to shield herself not only from this monster but also from her own father.

Eliab pulled Michal toward him. His skin reeked of garlic and sweat. He swore, then pushed her away so hard that the back of her head struck the wall. She almost crumpled to the floor.

“Let’s get out of here,” he snarled as he and Abinadab, their faces contorted with anger and humiliation, ran out of the house.

“They’re going back to the palace,” Lydea said, her voice quavering. She was again standing at the window by the entryway. She dried her eyes, then walked into the kitchen. “Madam. I will show you where the lanterns are.”

Lydea lit the two lamps and handed them to Michal. When Michal turned to go to the back porch, Lydea grasped her arm, giving a small cry of dismay. “You are bleeding!”

Michal’s head hurt terribly, but she refused to be distracted. Every moment put David in greater danger. “It can wait. First I need to warn my husband,” she said, walking quickly to the balustrade. She leaned over the low wall, and with her heart breaking, waved the lamps back and forth.

“David, my beloved, I love you,” she cried, tears spilling down her face. She held both lamps as far over the balcony as she could, calling out to him, “I will wait for you, my love.”

But had she known the price her father would exact for her betrayal, and how long it would be before she saw David again, she would have screamed out his name, begging him to return.

Epilogue

When David saw the twin flames flickering above him, he was surprised—not so much by Saul’s treachery as by his response. Instead of anger or fear, he felt relief. He would certainly miss his wife, but he had missed the open country, the wild hills, and the quiet nights under the stars. David adjusted the kinnor and tightened Jonathan’s belt. Looking about to spot any approaching torches, he offered a brief prayer for protection and headed toward the training grounds to wait for his nephew.

He did not have to wait long. Lydea had delivered the message, and within an hour, they were marching cautiously back to their little village. On the way David told Joab about what had occurred to him in the stable. When he repeated the words that the prophet had uttered—“Rae magnu u’bet Elohim Mashiach phni”; May the Lord look with favor on His anointed one—Joab stiffened. He did not say anything for so long that David was afraid his nephew had concluded he had lost his mind.

Finally Joab turned toward him. The look on his face was one of amazement, not skepticism. “So that is it,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve known for years there was something different about you. But I couldn’t put my finger on it.” Joab rubbed the scar on his lip. “Thank you for trusting me,” he said, then lowered his hand shyly, placing it over his chest. “I will serve you gladly,” he said in a quiet voice.

The following evening, David was stretched out in a cave nestled in the foothills outside Bethlehem. Besides Joab there were three others. Joab’s older brothers, Abishai and Asahel, who were recognized as two of the strongest young men in Judah. Elhanan, their cousin, had also volunteered to join the band of fugitives. He was a brawler who, though not as strong as his cousins, was notorious for his speed and cunning.

“I told them about Samuel and the anointing,” Joab had explained before the others showed up. “When I did, they insisted on joining up. They said they would be your fighting men for life.”

When the three arrived, David had embraced each one, kissing them on both cheeks. “My thanks to each of you,” he said. “I shall never forget this, not as long as I live.”

They spent the next day working on plans to evade Saul’s trackers. They decided they would leave early the next morning and make their way to Ramah to ask Samuel’s advice.

All of them were reclining around the fire when David took out his kinnor.

“What do you think of this one?” David asked them, adjusting his fingers on the strings. The four looked at him with anticipation as he began to sing:

Rescue me from my enemies, my God,

protect me from those attacking me.

Look at them lurking to ambush me,

they are strong and united against me,

for no fault, no sin, no offense of mine,

Yahweh, how they hurry into position![56]

David wiggled his eyebrows mischievously, and Elhanan hooted in pleasure. David narrowed his eyes and twisted his lips into an exaggerated snarl.

See how they slaver at the mouth,

with swords between their teeth.

“There is no one listening,” they say.[57]

The four snorted and clapped their hands, urging him on.

Yahweh, You laugh at them,

You make fun of these pagans.

My Strength, I look to You.[58]

Abishai shouted out his approval. David repeated the phrase several times so they could get comfortable with the melody line. Then he invited them to join in.

My citadel is God Himself,

the God who loves me is coming,

God will show me my enemies defeated.

I, for my part, celebrate Your strength,

I sing of Your love morning by morning.[59]

“And evening, too!” chimed in Asahel in his high, clear voice.

David smiled and nodded, repeating the final stanza several times. Tentatively at first, then more confidently, their voices melted together in fluid harmony. Together they sang out words of hope, words of petition and of worship.

My Strength, I play for You,

My citadel is God Himself,

the God who loves me.

My Strength, my God who loves me.[60]

When they were done, none of them laughed. They were very quiet. The lyrics and the unexpected beauty of their voices resonating inside the chamber had awed them all. Elhanan broke the silence. He turned to David, pushed his curly hair out of his face, and asked, “So, Captain, I’ve been wondering. Are we a band of warriors or just a bunch of poet singers?”

David ran his fingers lightly over the lyre, staring out into the night. “Yes,” he answered, smiling. “I do believe we are.”

If you enjoyed Warrior Poet, I would be honored if you would tell others by writing a review. Go here to write a review on Amazon.

Thank you!

—Timothy Stoner

56 Psalm 59:1, 3–4

57 Psalm 59:7, author’s paraphrase

58 Psalm 59:8–9a

59 Psalm 59:9b, 16

60 Psalm 59:17, author’s paraphrase

WARRIOR POET

Published by David C Cook

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The graphic circle C logo is a registered trademark of David C Cook.

All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, scanned, resold, or distributed by or through any print or electronic medium without written permission from the publisher. This ebook is licensed solely for the personal and noncommercial use of the original authorized purchaser, subject to the terms of use under which it was purchased. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

Scripture quotations are taken from the Jerusalem Bible, copyright © 1966 by Darton, Longman & Todd Ltd. and Doubleday & Company, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Reprinted by permission.

For purposes of this novel, deity pronouns are capitalized, and wording has occasionally been paraphrased to fit the narrative (marked as author’s paraphrase).

ISBN 978-0-7814-1180-6

eISBN 978-1-4347-0804-5

© 2014 Timothy J. Stoner

The Team: Renada Arens, Caitlyn Carlson, Nick Lee, Karen Athen

Cover Design: James Hershberger

Cover Photo: iStockphoto

First Edition 2014

The son of missionary parents, TIMOTHY J. STONER grew up in Chile and Spain. After graduating from Cedarville University and attending Grand Rapids Theological Seminary, Stoner graduated from Cooley Law School in 1987. Timothy and his wife of over thirty years, Patty, have five children.

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Table of Contents

Cover

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

Extras