Warrior Poet (8 page)

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.

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.