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Song of Solomon 8:13–14
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You who dwell in the gardens with friends in attendance, let me hear your voice! Come away, my lover, and be like a gazelle or like a young stag on the spice-laden mountains.
Thirty-Seven Years Later
King Solomon’s breathing grew labored, and he realized his aging body was beginning its slow, deliberate march toward eternity’s gates. “Abishag, my friend, it seems you will comfort two dying kings.”
Abba David’s Shulammite sat quietly at his bedside, her silver-streaked hair falling in soft waves under her fine linen head covering. She was as lovely as the first day he’d seen her peer from beneath Abba’s blankets. She glanced at him, smiled, and then returned her attention to the wool and spindle in her hands.
“I want to talk about
her
,” he said.
Abishag’s hands stilled at his declaration. When she finally met his gaze, he searched the cloudy brown eyes that had once mesmerized him. “I need to speak of her with someone who knew her as you did.”
Abishag laid the spindle aside and placed her hand on his forearm. “Say her name, my king.”
“I want to talk about what she taught me.” He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t lift himself.
“Wait, let us help you.” Abishag signaled to the palace physician. Several other servants were immediately at the king’s bedside, fluffing the doeskin pillows, arranging his lion-fur blankets. Solomon’s chamber was every bit a man’s room though women filled his world until just a few weeks ago.
“Abishag.” Solomon captured her hand as she gathered his robe around his neck. Their eyes met again, his stinging with tears. “Remember when I used to finish my day in court and return to her in our private garden? I would say, ‘You who dwell in the garden with your friend, let me hear your sweet voice!’ And you would sit with her on that bench under the almond tree.” Solomon labored to lift his hand and point to the little limestone bench he had moved from Abba David’s old palace. The suite in Solomon’s opulent palace now boasted an extravagant garden, making the little bench appear stark. But it had been
their
bench, the place they shared their joys and secrets. “And then she would giggle. Abishag, do you remember her giggle?”
Tears made their way into every crease around Abishag’s beautiful eyes. “Yes. It sounded like summer rain on palm fronds.”
“Ah, a true Shulammite shepherd’s verse!” He covered her hand with his own. “Thank you. It’s been years since anyone has spoken a shepherd’s verse to me.”
Abishag eased her hand away and sat down again beside his bed. Solomon’s memories continued.
“Do you remember the way she answered me with a shepherd’s verse each day? ‘Come away from your troubles,’ she would say. ‘Be strong like a young stag on the spice-laden mountains.’”
“Solomon,” Abishag said, “speak her name.”
Tears spilled over his lashes. “I cannot.”
“Say her name. You’ve held her captive in your heart long enough. Say her name.” Moments passed in silence. “What are you afraid of, my king?”
“I’m afraid if I speak her name, the memories will escape, and I’ll feel more alone than I’ve felt all these years.” He looked at the only person who knew and loved his wife as much as he did. “Why did I give you to my brother Nathan? Why didn’t I marry you myself?”
Her laughter washed over him and allowed Solomon to smile through his tears. “Because you don’t love me,” she said. “You loved Arielah. Your other women are simply entertainment.”
Her words pierced him. No condemnation laced her tone, but in those few words, she’d summarized the essence of Solomon’s life. His seven hundred royal brides and three hundred concubines had been pleasurable distractions from the deep ache left behind when Arielah died giving birth to their only child.
Arielah died giving birth . . .
If she hadn’t been weakened by the beating, would she have lived? Why hadn’t he loved her from the beginning? She was so easy to love. He’d wasted so much time—so much of his life. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears streamed down his face.
“Solomon, what is it?”
“Have I ever thanked you for taking such good care of our daughter?”
Abishag’s cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink, the color of one of the rare sapphires in his crown. “It was our honor and delight to care for Arielah’s child, my king. Your wife and I were more like sisters than queen and servant in those last days of her pregnancy.” Abishag stroked his brow, and her eyes became distant. “When Arielah realized she was dying, she asked me to care for her daughter—and for you. Just before you rushed into the room, she said, ‘Love my daughter as you have loved me, and name her after Solomon. Name her
Peace
.’”
“Shalom-it . . . Shlomit.” Solomon whispered his daughter’s name reverently as Abishag played absently with a tassel on his pillow. “Abishag, where is my daughter now?”
The woman’s hand stilled and then pulled away. When Solomon looked up, caution had replaced her tender expression. He reached for her hand. She tensed but did not resist. His heart convulsed at the suspicion in her eyes. “Abishag, I’m dying. I don’t want to disrupt Shlomit’s life. I simply want to know if she is well.”
The woman stood and fidgeted nervously with the jeweled belt at her waist, her slender figure still beautifully formed after six children. “I must call for Nathan. He should answer your questions about our—I mean your daughter.” Before he could form a reply, Abishag fairly ran out of his chamber.
“Wait! I—” He tried to shout, but he collapsed into a fit of coughing. His chest felt as though it was on fire. The palace physician offered him some sort of potion. “No! I will not sleep. I must speak to Nathan!”
More servants shuffled about until finally his brother entered with a worried Abishag trailing behind him. Nathan had become Solomon’s best friend and most trusted advisor after Benaiah’s death.
The physician drew Nathan aside. “The king is very weak. Try not to let him talk too much.”
“I heard that!” Solomon tried to raise his voice, but coughing gripped him again.
“Brother, must you always have the last word?” Nathan crouched behind Solomon like a chair on the bed and lifted his brother’s shoulders, enabling him to breathe easier. He’d done this dozens of times in the past weeks.
The coughing abated, and he tilted his head up. “Of course I must have the last word. I am the king.” Solomon offered a weak but mischievous smile. He noted a timid grin on Abishag’s face as she exchanged glances with her husband.
“All right, Solomon,” Nathan said. Climbing from behind his brother’s shoulders, he motioned to the servants for help propping up the king with more pillows. “Shlomit is a beautiful woman with a family of her own.” Casting a furtive glance at his wife, Nathan added, “She is wholly dedicated to Jehovah. Why this sudden interest in her?”
The mirth in the room evaporated, and Solomon realized Shlomit had been hidden to protect her from his pagan influence. “Nathan, after weeks in this bed, I’ve realized that my heart was wooed from the Lord by foreign wives and their gods.” His eyes misted. “Surely the scrolls I dictated during the last new moon proved my conviction that only Jehovah provides meaning to anything under the sun.” When Nathan seemed unconvinced, he continued. “I need to know Shlomit is well, and I want to talk about—her ima.”
A guttural moan began in Abishag’s throat and finally emerged in ranting. “No! We will not speak of Arielah until I hear her name from your lips!” This customarily meek Shulammite was trembling, her chest heaving. “Her name! Say it!” Sobs shook her as the words spilled out.
Nathan gathered his wife into his arms as Solomon watched, regret seizing him anew. He had caused them much pain. After Arielah’s death, Solomon had devoted himself to wine, folly, and pleasure. He’d buried himself in projects: God’s temple, palaces, fortress cities, gardens, and vineyards. He’d become greater than any man before him, using God’s wisdom to build and guide, while trampling the hearts of those closest to him.
“Oh, Arielah.” Shame drew her name from his heart. It was only a whisper, but Abishag heard him.
She quieted in Nathan’s arms. “What did you say, Solomon?”
“Arielah. Arielah. Arielah.” The name quenched the thirst of his soul and flowed from his lips. “Arielah!” he cried, and the coughing began. “Arielah . . .”
Nathan and Abishag rushed to embrace him but were pushed aside by the physician. “Get me the loquat solution,” he shouted at one of the servants.
Solomon tried to shove the doctor away but found his strength sapped by the coughing. Before he could protest further, a large spoonful of foul-tasting liquid was ladled down his throat.
Lord Jehovah! Let me die before my next dose of that!
Nathan held him upright while his coughing subsided. The room grew blurry, quiet, and then finally blackness covered him.
When Solomon awakened, Abishag was working her spindle again. Nathan was sprawled in the high-backed ivory chair—a gift from the Cushite ambassador—his ankles crossed. He was slouched and snoring.
“How long have I been asleep?” Solomon’s voice sounded like wind through a shepherd’s pipe with the holes uncovered.
Nathan let out an awful snort, returning to consciousness, and Abishag giggled like a young maiden.
“Well, long enough that my beard has grown three inches.” His brother rubbed the neatly manicured gray growth on his chin.
Abishag issued a reproving glance to her husband. “Not long,” she said to Solomon, her eyes kind, all fear gone. She leaned up, tenderly touching the king’s arm. “We’ll tell you about Shlomit if you like.”
The familiar ache in his heart deepened, twisted, extending down his left arm. “Yes, but first . . .” He looked at Nathan. “I want to ask . . .” A racking pain replaced the ache in his chest, and he winced.
“Are you all right, brother?” Nathan’s face registered alarm, and the hovering physician took a few steps toward the bed.
Solomon glared. “Tell that vulture to go feast on someone else’s bones.” His patience was wearing thin with that potion-wielding fellow.
Nathan chuckled and warned the doctor away. “He’s just doing what you pay him to do.” Solomon rolled his eyes, but Nathan continued. “You’ve searched the world for the best physicians, the most knowledge, the grandest architecture. You’ve accomplished much, brother.”
“But there’s one more thing,” Solomon said, his eyes filling with tears. “I need you to write something for me.”
Nathan exchanged a puzzled glance with Abishag. “Solomon, you’ve written so many songs and proverbs already. What could I possibly write for you?”
“I wasn’t talking to you. I want Abishag to write it.” Solomon enjoyed the shock on both of their faces.
“What? I can’t write,” she said. “What would I write?” The pink sapphire shone again on her cheeks.
“I want you to help me write about her—about Arielah,” he amended quickly, avoiding any more outbursts from this suddenly emboldened Shulammite.
Nathan watched with a satisfied grin, his gaze intent on his wife.
Look how he loves her after all these years.
“At first, all you need to do is sit with me while I dictate memories to a scribe.” Solomon squeezed his eyes shut. “But if Arielah told you things, feelings only a woman could convey, you must share them. And I want much of it to be written in shepherd’s verse—as a song, a sacred song.” Solomon chuckled, setting off a short coughing bout. “No matter how hard I try, I’m sure your shepherd’s verse will outshine mine.”
Abishag began shaking her head, her eyes full of tears, and Solomon’s heart plummeted. “I understand, Abishag. I will not compel you. I don’t deserve the honor of your help to write this sacred song.” A lonesome tear made its way down Solomon’s cheek. “But I would be grateful.”
Abishag reached up to wipe the tear from Solomon’s beard. “If Arielah’s love taught us anything, it is that mercy is rarely deserved.” Her hand lingered on his cheek while she spoke. “And what is Nathan supposed to do while you and I are hard at work?”
Another tear escaped when he realized she’d just agreed to his request. “Thank you, Abishag.” He reached up to cover her hand.
“All right. That’s enough caressing of my wife.” Nathan’s eyes glistened.
Solomon’s laughter had become more of a wheeze, but it still felt good to laugh. Mischief suddenly got the better of him. He ceased his laughter and donned his most serious expression. “Listen carefully, both of you,” he said in a grave voice. Nathan and Abishag leaned close, their faces poised for Solomon’s instruction. “If I should die before we finish Arielah’s song . . .” Abishag gently drew his hand into hers. “You two must make it the best song
I’ve
ever written.”
“Oh!” Abishag threw away his hand as though he had leprosy. “You’d better live long enough to write the whole song, or Nathan and I might take the credit!”
Nathan’s laughter resounded in the king’s chamber, and Solomon felt another moment’s regret. He’d shared too few quiet moments in his lifetime with these precious people. The remaining days of his life would be different—in many ways.
With his heart at rest, memories of Arielah flooded his soul, and Solomon nestled into his pillows. He hadn’t felt this shalom since . . . well, since his lion of God had left him. “We’ll begin writing the song tomorrow, Abishag. But for now, tell me about my Shlomit.”
T
his story began in 1998, when I was intrigued by a one-page fictional summary of Song of Solomon written by Ann Spangler and Jean E. Syswerda (
Women of the Bible
, Zondervan). Like all good biblical fiction, the story sent me back to Scripture, and I found Song of Solomon extremely confusing! When I turned to commentaries, each scholar had not only a different approach to the interpretation of the original language, but a differing opinion on which character spoke what line of poetry. Being the determined (my husband would say
stubborn
) student that I am, I decided to read all eight chapters of Song of Solomon every day until I understood it. A year later, the story of Solomon and Arielah’s sacred love had taken shape, and the foundation for a retreat topic and adult Bible study was born.
As the vehicle changed from speaking topic to Bible study to novel, over twelve years of research also evolved. Each new tidbit of knowledge changed the characters, the scenery, and the timelines. The geography of Lebanon, Shunem, and Jerusalem intrigued me, as did the seasons and festivals, the ancient wedding traditions, and Solomon’s political reforms. First Kings 6:38 says Solomon completed the temple in the eleventh year of his reign after seven years of construction. This single verse gave me a four-year window for his relationship with Arielah. Since most research on Solomon discusses his later reign (the building of his palace and God’s temple), I aligned scriptural accounts with my best guess at a plausible timeline for this story.
I’m often asked, “How much of the book is fact?” My reply is always, “As much as possible!” You can find Solomon’s birth in 2 Samuel 12:24–25 and the records of his reign in 1 Kings 1–11 and 2 Chronicles 1–9. Additional information on Solomon’s early reign is included in the final days of David’s life in 1 Chronicles 22:5–16; 28–29.
God is perfect and His Word inerrant. I and my writing are neither. I have made every effort to write an accurate historical novel. Accuracy is crucial, and though it is very important to me, it is not my only goal. Most important is the message of Arielah’s love. It’s my prayer that in the ferocious, unrelenting love of a simple shepherdess, you will catch a glimpse of God’s lavish love and passionate pursuit of every heart. Jesus Christ adores you and won’t settle for less than your whole heart. May we all learn to carry Him like a seal over our hearts.
Shalom, dear reader.