Signs and Wonders

by Bernard Evslin

  “Truly a day of wonders,” growled Saul. “I seem to hear a son instructing his father.”

  “Pardon, O King,” said Jonathan. “But I want this lad to be my brother and share princely honors with me. For his deed this day has swept the enemy from our gates and preserved our land from the heathen hordes.”

  “Thank you, Prince,” said David. “But all victories belong to the king. We are his subjects, and our hearts and arms belong to him.”

  “Gently said,” said Saul. “Perhaps you can teach courtesy to princes, as you teach courage to kings. Do not return to your father, David. Stay here with me. I shall keep my promise and reward you as you deserve.”

  The king turned abruptly and departed. “Come with me, brother,” said Jonathan. He was very tall and broad-shouldered, and his legs were columns of muscle. He was the best young warrior in all Israel.

  David looked up at him and smiled. “I am yours to command, brother, elder brother. Will you teach me to use sword and spear, to ride the chariot and guide its swift horses?”

  “If you teach me shepherd things,” said Jonathan. “To cast deadly stones with that little sling and to pluck sweetly upon the harp.”

  “You recognize in me the harp boy who sang for your father?” said David.

  “Come,” said Jonathan, “let me tell you what I know about you. And you shall tell me all that I do not know.”

  The Outlaw

  The two youths loved each other like brothers and more than brothers. Each delighted in the other’s feats of strength and daring, and there was no envy in either of them. The soul of David knitted with the soul of Jonathan; they were seldom apart.

  One of the king’s counselors, a man named Doeg, knew that Saul secretly hated David, and saw a chance to curry favor. “Truly that little shepherd is puffed up with pride,” he whispered in the king’s ear. “He struts like a prince in the robes that Jonathan has given him, and tries to make people forget his origins.”

  “He has made me forget,” said Saul. “Perhaps you had better forget them, too.”

  But Doeg was a subtle man and easily read the king’s heart. He knew that Saul was pretending to defend David so that Doeg would continue to vilify him. “I am a blunt and honest man, O King,” he cried. “And my one wish is to serve you. Though you slay me for it, I must speak the truth as I see it.”

  “Speak,” growled Saul.

  “Yesterday you passed among the populace at the head of your troops, with David at your side. You were undoubtedly occupied by weighty matters of state and did not notice what happened.”

  “Crowds cheered as I passed,” said Saul. “And women came singing and dancing to meet me. Aye, the fairest of them, they came to greet their king with taborets and with joy and with instruments of music.”

  “Your generous nature did not allow you to hear what they were whispering.”

  “Whispering? What did they whisper?”

  “ ‘Saul has slain his thousands,’ they said to one another, ‘but David has slain his ten thousands.’ ”

  That night, after Saul and his favorites had dined, David tuned his harp to play to the king. Saul sat watching him. He saw the lad’s flushed face musing over the harp strings. The blood pounded in his ears and became a voice: “Saul has slain his thousands, but David has slain his ten thousands.” The fury swelled in Saul’s head until he felt his eyeballs bursting. He seized his javelin and hurled it at David. Just then a harp string broke. The boy bent suddenly to it, and the javelin sheared the air where his head had been an instant before. As in battle, David’s reflexes were quicker than thought. He slid out of the room like a shadow. And Saul sat on his high seat and no one approached.

  The king never offered explanations for anything he did, and no one dared question him. Nevertheless, as a leader of men he was attuned to the feeling of those he led, and when his spasm of fury had passed he knew that he had made a mistake. David had become a magical hero to the army, and the men were seething with resentment. David had vanished; Jonathan was nowhere to be seen. And Saul knew that if the youths quit the court, a faction would form itself about them, and resentment would ripen into rebellion.

  Swallowing his wrath, Saul pretended to bend to the popular mood. He sent for David again, and set him high among his captains, giving him a thousand men to lead.

  Doeg went to him and said: “Is this prudent, O King, to give David a thousand men? He will win their hearts with his sly, ingratiating ways and forge a weapon to strike at the throne itself.”

  “For a son to attack his father is sacrilege,” said Saul. “He may be ambitious, the little jumped-up shepherd, but I do not think he is prepared to break a holy statute. I shall bind him to me in fealty by making him my son-in-law. I shall give him my daughter in marriage. My youngest girl, Michal, seems to have developed a sudden interest in harp music. Little fool’s mad for him. Well, he can have her.”

  “Excellent,” murmured Doeg. “Generous … politic … profound and subtle. May I suggest a refinement?”

  “You may.”

  “You have dowered him royally by making him a captain and giving him a thousand men to lead. Now you must ask a groom gift, as is the custom.”

  “Gift? From him? What can he give me? His shepherd’s crook? One of his father’s stinking sheep?”

  “That is the point, O King. In tactful recognition of his humble means, you will ask him to supply out of his courage what his purse cannot.”

  “A deed of valor …” muttered the king.

  “Of exceeding valor. He prefers to fight against odds, apparently. Set a task to challenge the mettle of him who slew Goliath.”

  “Dead enemies!” roared Saul. “What gift more fitting to a warrior-king from a hero son-in-law? The heads of two hundred Philistines slain in battle—that is the gift I shall ask. To slay two hundred of them, he will have to engage a force ten times as great.”

  “And,” said Doeg, smiling, “the fortunes of war are uncertain, especially when you are outnumbered. It may be that a tragic circumstance will befall the young miracle worker.”

  “Nevertheless, we are moving ahead of events,” said Saul. “I have not yet offered him my daughter, so I can ask no groom gift. I appoint you my emissary in this matter. Go to David, wise Doeg, and offer him the princess Michal as his bride.”

  Doeg went to David and said: “O giant killer, I know that your modesty is as great as your valor, and that you may not have allowed yourself to recognize what is so plain to everyone else, that the king loves you dearly. He loves you like his own son.”

  Very much like his own son, thought David. He’s tried to kill Jonathan many times.

  But David had learned enough about the ways of the court to mask his thoughts, and said: “Your words please me, Doeg. Indeed I owe the king my love and fealty and obedience.”

  “Nay, I speak not like a smooth-tongued courtier!” cried Doeg. “I come to you with no ceremonial rhetoric, but with the simple truth. I tell you that the king delights in you. He wishes to make you his son, in fact. He offers you his daughter Michal as your bride.”

  “He has empowered you to tell me this?”

  “He has.”

  “What can I answer?” said David. “Do you think it is a light thing to be the king’s son-in-law?”

  “Not a light thing at all,” said Doeg, “but a supreme honor.”

  “Do I merit this supreme honor? Who am I that I should be son-in-law to the king?”

  “You are he who slew Goliath, he who preserved Israel. You are no shepherd now, but a captain and high among Saul’s captains. And he wishes you to marry his daughter.”

  “I cannot even afford a groom gift,” said David. “I have no princely fortune to draw upon. I am a poor man.”

  “The king who thinks of everything has thought of this, too. He asks only a token gift—the heads of two hundred Philistines slain in battle.”

  “Convey my profound gratitude to the king,” said David. “When next I appe
ar before his august presence, it shall be with the heads of two hundred Philistines slain in battle.”

  David led his men toward Ashkelon, where a mighty host of Philistines were encamped. Gorgeous among the tents was the pavilion of Ashkelon’s king, for the Philistines had three kings, each holding a section of the coast. Their harbor cities were Gath and Ashkelon and Ashdot.

  The king of Ashkelon had ten thousand men; David about eight hundred. David spoke to his men: “Do not let us consider our numbers. For the Lord multiplies us. Did He not guide my small stone and make it prevail against the gigantic spear and sword of Goliath? He is the Lord of hosts, wielder of man’s destiny, bestower of victory. He will magnify you against the Philistines until you are like a plowman stepping upon an anthill.”

  His men shouted until the thunder of their voices filled the plain, and followed him in a headlong charge against the Philistines. This was the first time that David had led his own troops, and they followed him as lost men follow a ray of light in the darkness. They cut through the brass ranks of the Philistines, divided them, and wheeled and sliced a bloody path through them again, cutting the enemy into smaller and smaller pockets. The spirit of God rode upon their banners and they were irresistible. The enemy fought bravely, but suffered huge losses and had to flee the field. David beheaded two hundred of the corpses, and presented the helmeted heads to Saul.

  “He is more a hero than ever,” said Saul to Doeg. “Is this the fruit of your wise counsel?”

  Now, it is a courtier’s task to accept blame for the king’s bad ideas, and to give the king credit for all ideas that work. And Doeg said: “David is your captain, O King. His victories are your victories. Give him Michal as bride. Celebrate the marriage with royal splendor. You will be the master of revels, the great benefactor; his glory will be absorbed into your own. And consider this: Michal is your daughter. It may be that in days to come she will prove a snare unto David’s feet.”

  “She’s in love with him. She will not betray him.”

  “Not yet. She is not yet his wife. Give her time. But it may be wise to let passion wear itself out on the nuptial bed.”

  Saul kept his promise. He gave his daughter Michal as bride to David. The marriage was celebrated with a round of magnificent feasts. But it was not Saul’s way to be crafty and diplomatic. His nature craved direct, brutal action. And his hatred of David robbed his days of purpose and his nights of sleep. He burned with rancor, and he knew that nothing would quench his torment but the sight of David dead. Nor did he seek to hide his feelings—even from Jonathan, who loved David.

  The prince spoke to David: “My father means to kill you, and soon. Do not sleep at home. Hide yourself, and stay hidden.”

  “Why? Why?” cried David. “I have offered him only loyalty and obedience.”

  “Hide yourself in the field beyond the palace gates,” said Jonathan. “I shall walk in that field tomorrow and speak with him. I shall speak of you. You will hear him, and judge.”

  David did not return home that night but slept in the field. In the morning Saul and Jonathan walked in the field. David heard Jonathan’s voice: “O King, my father, let me speak to you of David. Do not sin against him. He is your servant; he is innocent of any wrong. Consider his deeds. They are good, very good.”

  David heard Saul’s voice answering, “You speak the truth, my son, and I shall hearken to your voice. As the Lord lives, David shall not be slain.”

  Jonathan could not read his father’s mind. Had the venomous hatred passed like a fever? Or was the king dissembling, trying to disarm suspicion? But David wished to believe the king and went into his presence. He played the harp for Saul and sang to him, and Saul was pleasant to him.

  Reports came that the Philistines were gathering in strength again. David went against them at Gath. He led his men in another brilliant, headlong charge and won another great victory. The people rejoiced and lined the roads where he marched, and split their throats cheering. And Saul’s rancor flared anew.

  He called certain men to him and instructed them. They ringed David’s house. Michal saw them through a window; she knew who they were. She said to David: “My father has sent his assassins. Leave this house, beloved. Leave tonight, or you will be slain tomorrow.”

  She let a rope out the window. David slid down and disappeared. She stuffed David’s robes with straw and placed them on her bed under a sheet, and set a pillow of goat’s hair as his head. She drew the blinds, so that the room was full of shadow.

  The assassins waited outside the house all that night and the next day, but David did not appear. Their leader went to Saul and said: “He must suspect something, O King. He stays in the house and does not come out.”

  Saul sent a message to David’s house, bidding him report to the palace. Michal met the messenger at the door and said: “My husband cannot leave the house. He is sick.”

  “I must see him. I bring a message from the king.”

  “You may see him,” said Michal. “But he is too ill to speak.”

  She took the messenger to her bedroom. The man saw a shape in the bed and spoke the king’s message—but received no answer. “Go,” said Michal. “When he has recovered a little, he will go to the palace.”

  The messenger returned to Saul and told him that David was too sick to leave his bed.

  “Sick!” roared Saul. “I’ll make sure it’s fatal! I shall go there and drag him from his bed and slay him.”

  He stormed to David’s house at the head of the Royal Guard. They burst into the bedroom and tore the sheet from the bed, and saw the robes stuffed with straw and the goat-hair pillow. Saul took Michal by the throat and said: “Why have you deceived me? Why have you helped my enemy escape?”

  She put his hand aside and said: “You gave him to be my husband before God’s altar. In that holy place we vowed to be of one flesh. How can I help you slay him?”

  Saul departed, but sent his men to pursue David, bidding them not to return until they had slain him.

  David fled the city. He hid himself by day and traveled only by night. He made his way to Ramah, where the prophet Samuel dwelt. The fame of Samuel’s wisdom had spread, and a company of young men had come to dwell near him and learn from him. For it was believed that Samuel spoke directly to God.

  Each day at noon, the old man would stand in an empty place before a stone altar, stand with his head bared to the full blaze of the sun, stretching his arms to the sky. No one spoke; there was absolute silence, a silence so profound you could hear the light vibrating. Upon certain days Samuel just stood there staring at the sky, staring and waiting—until his beard and hair and white garments were drenched, and his arms fell of their own weight. Then he would bow his head and walk away, for God had not shown Himself.

  On other days his face would light up with joy and he would speak in a voice so deep it was like the mountain speaking. Some words were Samuel’s own, questioning and imploring; other words were God’s words, uttering themselves through Samuel. The young men wept for joy. Certain of them remembered the words that had been spoken, and, when they returned to the shade of their tents, wrote them down on tablets of clay.

  Here it was that David came, fleeing Saul’s assassins. He sat among the company of young men the first day. It was a day when God did not speak. But when Samuel had dropped his arms, David leaped up and cried to the sky, “Deliver me from my enemies, O my God; defend me from those who rise up against me. Deliver me from the workers of iniquity; save me from bloody men. Lo, they lie in wait. They make a noise like a dog and go about the city. Scatter them with your wrath and bring them down, O Lord. Consume them with your wrath and let them know that God rules. And I will sing of your power. Yea, I will sing aloud of your mercy in the morning.”

  They marveled to hear. David’s voice was not like thunder in the hills, but like a song. Like water dappling in the sunlight and birdcall—sometimes like a trumpet. The young men marveled, and Samuel was pleased.

  S
aul’s men went to Ramah seeking David. They went with swords to the altar. They saw a white-bearded old man talking to the sky. He turned on them and thundered, “O you who come with swords to this place, know this: The wicked are estranged from the womb; they go astray as soon as they are born. O God, let them melt away. He who bends his bow, let him be cut to pieces. As a snail melts under salt, let every one of them melt away. Let them pass away like the untimely birth of a woman. Let them not see the sun again!”

  Saul’s men were terrified. The swords dropped from their hands. They fell to their knees, gibbering with terror. Samuel turned and walked away as they knelt on the ground. And Saul’s men stayed among the company of young men. They did not raise their hands against David, nor did they return to Saul.

  When they did not return, Saul sent other men to pursue David. And they did not return. He sent others under strict instructions to go to Ramah and kill David. Saul waited. No man of this troop returned. Then Saul himself led a company of picked warriors to Ramah. He went to a well. His men drank and watered their horses. He inquired of the people where Samuel and David were, and was told, “They are in Naioth in Ramah.”

  Saul led his warriors to Naioth. He saw a congregation of white-robed men standing still as trees; among them he saw his own men who had not returned. They were crowding about an altar. Before the altar stood Samuel and David, their faces transfigured with joy. Saul’s sword was in his hand, the great blade that had scythed down so many enemies, and the grip of his hand was mighty upon it. He shouted to his men, but the tongue froze in his mouth and no words came. The sword was twitched from his hand. A terrible, nameless pain gripped his bowels. He staggered forward, lurching like a blind man. His robes burned like nettles. He tore his clothes off and knelt before the altar, sobbing like a child: “I seek you, O God; my soul thirsts for you, my flesh yearns for you in a dry and thirsty land where no water is. Return to me, and my soul shall be satisfied as with marrow and fatness; my lips shall praise you. I will remember you upon my bed and meditate on you in the night watches. Return, return, forgive and return!”