Warrior Poet (16 page)

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.”

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.