Signs and Wonders

by Bernard Evslin

  When the petitioner thanked him, Absalom would say, “It is for us, the king’s sons, to thank you for your patience in this matter.” He would embrace the man. And the man embraced by this glorious prince would feel himself princely, and would return to his village praising Absalom, saying that he should be king. Thus did Absalom steal the hearts of the men of Israel.

  David was told how his son paraded himself before the people. Hushai, an old friend of David’s and his chief advisor, cautioned him. But David brushed off the warning, saying, “Absalom, my son, is princely and beautiful. People love him wherever he goes. Shall I blame him for this? It is rather a cause for rejoicing.”

  “He is more than princely,” said Hushai. “He means to be kingly. And he will not wait to inherit. Unless you wake up and bestir yourself, O King, he will snatch the crown off your head.”

  But another of David’s counselors, a man named Ahithophel, a subtle and deceitful man who had secretly cast his lot with Absalom, said: “No one is wiser than my brother Hushai. But in this matter, O King, his love for you, I fear, colors his judgment. Absalom is generous, impulsive, warm-hearted. But he worships you next to God and would never lift a hand against you.”

  David believed what he wished to believe. He welcomed the words of Ahithophel and coldly dismissed Hushai.

  For three years Absalom wove his web of conspiracy. In the fourth year he judged that events had ripened. He went to David and said: “God has been good to me, O my father, and I wish to thank Him. I wish to go into Hebron, and sacrifice at the tomb of Abraham and Sarah.”

  David was pleased at Absalom’s piety. “Go in peace, my son,” he said.

  That night Absalom called together two hundred of his most faithful followers in Jerusalem. They all left their houses and went out of the city. Absalom chose eleven of these men, and sent one to each of the tribes of Israel. “Await my summons,” he told them. “When you hear a man coming on a horse, blowing a trumpet, then proclaim to the tribe you dwell among that Absalom reigns in Hebron. Then gather men of valor from each tribe and come to me here, and we shall march on Jerusalem.”

  Absalom dwelt in Hebron. Men flocked to his standard. Among them went Ahithophel, David’s counselor. But there were those loyal to David in Hebron. They hastened to Jerusalem and told David. “Rise, O King, for the hearts of the men of Israel are with Absalom.”

  Then David knew that Hushai had spoken the truth and that Absalom had been conspiring against him all this time. He was sickened by the thought of his beloved son doing this, and he could not rise to the peril with his old fighting spirit. He could not bear the thought of fighting his son. He called his counselors together and said: “We must flee. We must leave Jerusalem, for Absalom is coming. He comes with an army and will take the city and put us all to the sword.”

  That night David departed with all his court. He left his city of Jerusalem, which he had taken from the Jebusites, the city that he had so joyfully entered, bearing the ark of the covenant, dancing before it and singing his glad song. As he rode through the gates out of the city, he felt all his triumphs turning to ashes. All his memories were repealed, and his pride withered.

  Six hundred men went out of Jerusalem with him, and his wives and his children. Of those who dwelt in the palace he left only ten concubines. He rode northward into the wilderness of Judah, into those hills where he once had hidden while Saul pursued him. The cold, piney wind off those mountains reminded him of the days of his youth, when he himself had been a rebel against the king, hunted by Saul’s entire army. He sat up in the saddle and drew a deep breath. He felt his heart reviving. He said: “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord forever.”

  He led his men out of Judah, across the river Jordan into the land of Gilead. This was a place of hills, also, a stark country. But there was a valley there, where a kind of pine tree grew; and the sap of this tree, when boiled in a certain way, made the most soothing balm for wounds and bruises. David thought of this and said to himself: “Perchance for me, also, in these hard straits there is a hidden sweetness.” His spirit flamed up in him again, and he became the war leader who had smitten the Philistine and the Moabite and the Ammonite and all the enemies of Israel, and made his name great among nations.

  Entering Gilead, he kindled the hearts of the men there, and they arose and followed him. They were tall, strong hillmen, good with the spear, deadly with the bow. They came to swell his ranks. Now David led an army, and the army had to eat. The matter became known. The women of Gilead came. They brought bread in earthen vessels. They brought wheat and barley, parched corn, beans, and lentils—also, honey, butter, sheep, and cheese. There was enough food for the army. The men rested themselves and were refreshed and ready for battle.

  David went into a walled city in Gilead, and made that his stronghold. “But we do not shelter here,” he said to Joab. “We attack. We will divide our men into three parts, a larger force and two smaller ones. You shall command the larger force, and we will appoint two subcaptains for the other two. We will draw Absalom into the valley, and then attack from the hills. I will go out with you myself and ride with you into battle, as in days gone by.”

  But the people heard this and sent a spokesman to David, who pleaded with him: “Do not go forth, O King. You are our father, our shepherd. If you are killed, we shall be like lost sheep, and be slaughtered like sheep. Stay here. You are worth ten thousand men. Do not risk your life.”

  “I will do what seems best to you,” said David. Then he said to Joab: “I wait here, for the people wish it. And I trust you utterly, my brave one. I know we shall prevail. God sent me a dream last night, and I saw the enemy fleeing before you. But I pray you, Joab, deal gently with my son. Scatter his forces, destroy his army, but do not slay Absalom.”

  Joab drew his sword and saluted the king. Thousands of swords flashed in the air. Thousands of voices merged into one voice and rolled across the hills like thunder: “David! David! David, our king!”

  Absalom led his troops across the river into Gilead, and they were a mighty horde. He rode a tall white horse and wore a breastplate of brass. He carried his helmet on his pommel and his red-gold mane streamed out behind him. That shining head was like a banner, and men followed it heedlessly, certain of triumph. So sure of victory were they behind their radiant young prince that the captains sent out no scouts, no outriders.

  But David’s work was not yet done, nor did the Lord intend that Absalom should be king. The prince led his men into a valley. A rain of arrows fell upon them. Huge boulders fell upon them, crushing man and horse. They heard a keening like eagles—David’s war cry that was a cry in the throats of all his captains. One troop charged downhill at them on the right flank; another troop charged down the left-hand hill. Joab led his troops straight up the valley toward them. They were hemmed in, trapped. They were slaughtered like sheep in a pen.

  Absalom’s tall, white horse was swift as a stag. He spurred it through a break in the ranks, angling across a slope and beyond the battling men. He rode behind a screen of rocks, and out the other side of the valley, into a copse of trees. He heard pursuers behind him and spurred the horse on, throwing off his breastplate to make himself lighter. He threw away his sword and his shield. He wore no helmet and his hair streamed out behind him. A great oak stood in his path; its branches grew low. He ducked down to the neck of his horse to pass under the branches. But the wind took his hair; it caught upon the branch and tangled there. His beautiful long hair, strong as a rope, swung him from the saddle, and he hung there. A spearman ran past the tree, looked up and saw Absalom, but did not stop. The spearman ran through the woods until he came to Joab.

  “Captain!” he said. “I saw Absalom in the wood, hanging by his hair from a tree.”

  “Did you kill him?” said Joab.

  “No!” cried the spearman.

  “You saw him hanging there and did not spear him where he hung? I would have paid you ten shekels of
silver.”

  The man said: “Not for a thousand shekels would I raise my spear against the king’s son. I stood there in the ranks this morning as the king charged you, saying, ‘Deal gently with my son Absalom. Do not slay him.’ Can I disobey the great king? It would be my own death.”

  Joab did not answer but pushed past him and strode off through the woods. He came to the oak, and saw Absalom hanging by his hair. “Prince Absalom,” he said, “are you still alive?”

  “Thank God I still live, brave Joab.”

  “It is well,” said Joab. “You die with the Lord’s name on your lips.”

  He took three darts from a quiver and thrust them through Absalom’s heart. The young man died, still hanging by his golden hair.

  Joab blew a great blast from his trumpet. His warriors came running. He gave orders. They cut Absalom down and cast him into a great pit, and covered him with a heap of stones.

  David waited at the city gates for news of the battle. A sentry stood watch on the wall. He cried: “A man comes running, O King!”

  David climbed to the wall and watched the man come. “I know him,” said David. “He comes with good tidings.”

  The runner came near. “All is well!” he called. He ran to David and fell to the earth upon his face, crying, “Blessed be the Lord God! He has delivered up the men who have rebelled against you.”

  “Is Absalom safe?” said the king.

  “There was a tumult and a confusion,” said the man. “I do not know. I did not see Absalom.”

  Then a second runner came. He, too, called joyously to David, “Great tidings, my king! The Lord has avenged you this day upon all those who rose up against you.”

  “Is Absalom safe?” said David.

  “May all your enemies suffer his fate,” said the second runner.

  “Is he dead?”

  “He is dead, my lord.”

  The king did not rejoice in the victory. He walked away and avoided everyone. He wept. Great wrenching sobs were torn out of him. “Oh, my son Absalom,” he cried. “My son, my son Absalom, would to God I had died for thee.”

  David kept to his chamber and would not go out. No one saw him.

  Joab came back from the battlefield and searched for the king. He was told: “The king weeps and mourns for Absalom.” The word was passed among the troops, and the day of victory was turned to a day of mourning. People slunk out of the city as if they were ashamed. They looked like defeated men, instead of warriors who had vanquished a foe many times their own number.

  And Joab, warrior and captain, could not bear this. He ran up the stairs to the king’s chamber, swept the guards aside, and stormed into the room, crying, “O King, you have shamed me! You have stamped shame upon the faces of all your men who went into battle for you and saved your life, and the lives of your sons and your daughters, and of your wives. Why do you do this? Why do you weep and keep yourself solitary? Do you love your enemies and hate your friends? If Absalom had lived and we all had died by his command, would that have pleased you more?”

  “Is this how you speak to your king?” said David. “Have I merited this?”

  “You know how I love you,” said Joab. “And how many times I have risked my life for yours and spilled my blood for you. Again today I went into battle for you, and saw men die in that battle, men I led in your name. I cannot bear it, King. I shall put this sword through my own heart unless I see you accept your victory as you should.”

  “What do you wish me to do?” said David.

  “Arise! Go out and praise your men for their service this day. I swear to you that if you do not, you will not have one man left by evening.”

  “Forgive me,” said David. “You are right. My heart is torn, but the time of grieving is past. I will go out to the men.”

  David went out and spoke to his men, thanking them and praising them. Then he led them out of Gilead over the Jordan, back to Jerusalem in a triumphal march.

  But the wound in his heart did not heal. For many years he mourned Absalom. And it was not until Solomon, son of Bathsheba, his youngest son, grew to be a beautiful youth, also, and a wise and gentle youth, that David was able to forgive himself for his victory over Absalom. Seeing Solomon grow up into such splendid manhood, he realized that God had not meant Absalom to take the throne of David—that he and his sons were all part of a great design, and that Solomon was meant to be king after him.

  SOLOMON

  DAVID RULED OVER ISRAEL FOR FORTY YEARS. When he knew he was dying, he called for Solomon and said: “Son of Bathsheba, you are not my eldest son, but you are the child of the woman I have loved best. God has chosen you to be my heir and to rule over His people.”

  “No, my father!” cried Solomon. “I am not ready for you to die; I am not ready to be king. Do not leave us.”

  David said: “I go the way of all flesh, my son. Be strong, therefore; show yourself a man. Keep the charge of the Lord, your God: Walk in His ways, keep His statutes, obey His commandments and His judgments and His testimonies, as is written in the law of Moses. Do this, and you will prosper in all things.”

  Solomon was about twenty years old when he was crowned king. The Lord appeared to him in a dream and said: “What shall I give you?”

  Solomon said: “You showed David, my father, great mercy. He walked before you in truth and in righteousness. You secured his throne and overthrew his enemies. Now, O Lord, my God, you have made me king. And I am but a little child; I do not know how to go out or come in. I rule over a great people, the people you have chosen, a people who cannot be numbered or counted because of their multitude. I ask only this of you: Give me an understanding heart to judge your people, that I may discern between good and evil.”

  God answered, “Because you have asked this thing, and have not asked for a long life, or great riches, or for the life of your enemies, but only an understanding heart and a discerning judgment—because you have done this, behold, you have pleased me and I will give you what you desire. You shall have a wise and understanding heart. You shall be wiser than any man who came before you; nor shall there beany like you afterward.”

  Solomon awoke, and knew that he had dreamed, and rejoiced in the dream.

  His wisdom was soon tested. There came to him two women. One of them carried a child. The other one said: “Oh, my lord, this woman and I dwell in one house. I was delivered of a child. Three days later this woman bore a child, also. There was no one else in the house, only we two and our two infants. Now, this woman rolled over in her sleep and smothered her child, and he died. Then she arose at midnight and took my son from me as I slept, and laid my child upon her breasts and put her dead child in my bed. When I arose in the morning to nurse my child I saw that he was dead. But when I looked more closely I saw that it was not my babe, but hers.”

  “No!” cried the other woman. “You lie, you whore! You were the one who rolled over and smothered your child. My son lives. Yours is dead.”

  “It is you who are lying,” said the first woman. “O King, I appeal to you for justice, I speak the truth.”

  Solomon studied the faces of both women. He looked at the baby. It seemed to resemble neither woman, but he could not tell. He thought for a moment, then said to his servant: “Bring me a sword.”

  A sword was brought to him. “Now,” said the king, “I cannot tell which of you is lying and which tells the truth. Therefore, I shall cut the child in two and divide him between you.”

  “No!” cried the first woman. “No, my lord, no! Don’t cut the child in half. I withdraw my claim. Let her have him.”

  The second woman said: “You are just, O King. Cut him in two and give me my half.”

  Solomon said: “Woman, you who have refused to let the child be slain have produced the only valid claim to motherhood, which is love. I award the child to you.”

  God smiled upon Israel. Everything prospered. The people were busy, peaceable, full of joy and pride. And Solomon felt his heart bursting with grat
itude.

  “I will use my wealth to build a house for God,” he said. “Such a temple as has never been seen.”

  He sent for skilled workmen from every land, from Egypt and Tyre and Sidon, from the lands to the south and the east: carpenters, silversmiths, goldsmiths, and those who worked in stone. He had decided that no base metal should be used in God’s house—no tool of iron, no hammer, axe, adze, nor any nail or bolt or rivet of copper or iron. This meant that all the timber had to be cut and shaped, all the stone hewn and polished before reaching Jerusalem. It also meant that the huge beams had to be notched and tapered so that they might fit into each other and hold together of their own weight without spike or nail. The massive hewn stones had to be taken from the quarries of the Dead Sea, carried by ox cart across the desert, and by mule train up the Judean hills. And the great timbers, the tremendous dressed planks of cedar and fir, had to be taken by mule down the hills of Lebanon, then by ox cart to the ports of Sidon and Tyre, loaded on barges, and floated down to the Red Sea port of Ezion-Gabor—then by ox wagon across the desert to the Judean hills, then uphill on mule-back to that courtyard in Jerusalem that was to become the spiritual navel of the world.