“You said he was checking the sheep and paying a visit to the king in Gibeah. Such a journey can take time.” It still irritated Abigail that Zahara had been the one to convey this information, something Nabal should have told her directly.
“His visits are usually shorter.” Zahara threaded red yarns through the weaver’s loom, her back to Abigail.
As the sun warmed this section of Nabal’s spacious roof, silence fell between them, provoking Abigail’s long-held curiosity. She cleared her throat. “How did you come to be in this house, Zahara? You are not of our people, so how did Master Nabal come to make you his servant?” The questions had burned in her heart since that first day in Nabal’s house when she’d sensed this girl held her husband’s interest in a way she could never seem to do.
Zahara focused her attention on the loom as though she didn’t want to answer, but at last she straightened and looked up. “I was captured as a spoil of war. Nabal’s father bought me.” She met Abigail’s gaze, then quickly lowered her head back to the loom, but not before Abigail caught the bold gleam in her eye.
“I see.” Part of her felt compassion that the girl had obviously lost her family, but she chafed against Nabal’s obvious favor toward her. He even went so far as to make Abigail, mistress of the house, feel like she was somehow beholden to the girl. “What happened to your family?”
“I don’t know. My home is here now.”
Abigail studied Zahara, catching the defiant tilt of her chin before Zahara respectfully lowered her head. “Tell me, Zahara, how is it you have been with my husband all these years, and yet you have not given him a son?”
The girl looked up at that, surprise etching her features. It was a risky question. Abigail didn’t know for sure that Nabal had been with Zahara. But a part of her told her he had.
“I could ask you the same question, my lady.” Zahara made no attempt to hide her disdain in the lifted brow and scorn twisting her normally pleasant mouth. A strand of her raven hair slipped from beneath the linen head scarf. The jewels Nabal had given her enhanced her dark, exotic beauty. She was dressed in robes nearly as rich as Abigail’s, and her manner when Nabal was not around bordered on arrogance.
“We’re talking about you. What is your precise relationship with my husband?”
Zahara reached for another colored thread, her movements exact, not missing a beat, while Abigail’s thread knotted, forcing her to stop to tug it loose. “There are ways to avoid giving a man a son,” Zahara said, sidestepping the answer Abigail desired. Her voice was a mere whisper.
Abigail’s hands stilled, the distaff slowing. “What do you mean?” Had the girl done something . . . Impossible! And yet . . .
Zahara continued to weave the thread as though nothing they had said held any importance. She met Abigail’s gaze. “My people are schooled in many arts, some of them more practical than others. Women can learn to manipulate men, and there are ways to remove things that are unwanted through certain herbs . . . if the woman would prefer barrenness to the burden of bearing the child of a man who does not deserve an heir.”
Abigail’s heart skipped a beat as she looked at her maidservant in disbelief. “You would kill an unborn child to keep Nabal from having a son?” For all of Nabal’s cruelty, only Yahweh had the power of life and death.
Zahara lifted one shoulder in a shrug, her defiant gaze never leaving Abigail’s. “So you have been with him, but you have destroyed his seed?”
“You are putting words in my mouth.”
“Then speak plainly and tell me the truth.”
Zahara looked beyond Abigail as though seeing something in the distance, then slowly brought her gaze around to Abigail’s once again. “Can you honestly say you would want that man to father your child, my lady?”
The thought had never occurred to her otherwise. Nabal was her husband, after all. But the girl was successfully avoiding a direct answer to her questions and, in the process, doing a remarkable job of making Abigail question her own desires and motives. But what choice did she have? She had no other hope.
Abigail lifted the distaff and turned it to spinning again, meeting Zahara’s gaze. “Of course I would.”
“I know what Nabal did to you, my lady. I know what he has done to others. A man like Nabal does not deserve sons.” Silence hung between them, broken only by the sounds of the distaff and loom and birds twittering among rustling oak leaves.
Abigail’s stomach pitched, the familiar sense of despair swirling, spiraling downward with the weight of Zahara’s words. Was she right? Should a man like Nabal not father sons? But if not for Nabal, she would never become a mother. Could she live the rest of her days without life’s greatest gift?
The thought made the despair deepen. She looked at Zahara, noting the slight defiance in the way she held her shoulders back and in the uplifted tilt of her jaw. Was she trying to manipulate Abigail as she had Nabal all these years? Yet her words and tone spoke kindness and concern.
Abigail rubbed her left temple, her thinking muddled. Had Nabal been with Zahara, or was Zahara only trying to make it appear he had, toying with them both?
Adonai, give me wisdom. No telling what Zahara’s pagan influence had done to Nabal. Didn’t the law warn against taking foreign wives so they did not turn a man’s heart from Adonai? Was Zahara a foreign wife or concubine? Was she responsible, at least in part, for Nabal’s behavior? Then why would she seem to care how Nabal had treated Abigail?
Even if she tried, could she discover the truth? Nabal wouldn’t care at all for the truth, and he certainly would not change his actions or put Zahara out of his house.
The thought brought a dull pain to Abigail’s heart. She ached for justice—both for Nabal for his selfish cruelty, and for Zahara if she was guilty of destroying Nabal’s unborn seed. But at the same time she wanted them both to repent, to bring them both to the knowledge of Adonai’s peace.
Law warred with mercy in her heart.
Oh, Adonai, what do I do?
David wrapped his arms around Ahinoam’s waist, her back to him. He breathed in the sweet scent of her golden brown hair as his gaze swept the vast wilderness below. Barren red clay stretched in every direction, the narrow paths easily visible from their privileged perch. They were safe here in the stronghold of this mountaintop fortress. Something his timid wife should appreciate.
“A man feels rather small compared to all of this,” David said, bending close to Ahinoam’s ear. “When I consider this, then look up and see that the sky is bigger still, everything else seems so insignificant. What is man that Adonai is mindful of him?”
Ahinoam rested her head against David’s chest. He drew in a contented sigh as he took it all in, threads of a song weaving their way into his mind.
“The desert is big, like it goes on forever,” Ahinoam said, her voice carrying the same awe he felt. He squeezed her closer. Perhaps they had something in common after all. He nibbled her ear, pleased to hear her musical laughter, laughter he had heard too little of late. Someday things would be different. Someday he would give her everything she needed to keep the smile from ever leaving her face.
The early morning breeze brushed the strands of her hair against his arm. He turned her to face him and kissed her forehead. “It is good to see you at peace, my love.” He smiled down at her, then released his grip and turned for one last look at the valley floor.
She stepped away as if to attend to her chores, then stopped and looked at him, indecision crinkling her brow. “David?”
He looked at her again. “Yes?”
She chewed her lip, glancing beyond him, then lowered her head. “What happens when we run out of water? I don’t mean to worry you, my lord, but some of the women were voicing their concern this morning, and they asked me—”
“Maybe you should stop listening to their worries.”
Guilt nudged him at his own sharp tone and her startled intake of breath. He shouldn’t snap at her so, but even on a good day Ahin
oam had the ability to strip him of his confidence, to remind him, however subtly, of his inability to protect her, to protect them all.
He walked away from her toward the edge of the precipice and looked into the distance toward the west and north, then examined the road below once more. Movement caught his eye—a lone person trudging up the side of the mountain, leaning heavily on his staff. Saul would never come alone. Had God sent the prophet Gad again as He’d done the last time they’d stayed in this mountain fortress to tell him to move?
A troubled breath escaped him, and he glanced back at Ahinoam, half expecting her to have gone back to the shelter. Seeing her still standing there awaiting his answer, he walked toward her and touched her shoulder. “Go back to the women and tell them not to worry. We may not be here long enough for water to become a problem.”
“What do you mean? Are we moving again so soon?” Her voice rose in pitch, and her alarmed look made him wish he could retract the words. But he couldn’t keep the truth from her, so he was better off telling her.
“I don’t know, Ahinoam. I don’t know from one day to the next where Adonai will lead me. We are safe here for now, but tomorrow He may tell me to leave this place for another. You might as well get used to it.”
He bristled at the look of hurt he got in response, then watched her turn and rush back toward the sea of tents. David sighed, then went to find Benaiah and Joab to meet whoever it was coming to call.
12
Her spinning and dyeing finally finished, Abigail sat alone beneath a makeshift tent on top of the roof, pulling colored strands of thread through the weaver’s loom. Normally she would share the task with Zahara or one of her other maids, but this morning she’d come up here at dawn to enjoy a bit of solitude.
Nabal’s return three weeks earlier had caused activity to swell throughout the household. Sheepshearing time was still five months away, but in the meantime there were olives to press into oil, dates from local farmers to press into cakes, and grapes from area vineyards to be made into wine and dried into raisins. And in the midst of it all, Nabal wanted his garments finished for the celebration after the shearing was over. The whole town would be present to hear him boast over all the things his hands had made.
A shiver worked through her at the thought. Nabal’s pride surely could not be pleasing to Adonai. A man’s pride was a curse, if her mother was to be believed, and while Abigail knew all men needed to feel important and respected, she wondered where the line came between the need and the desire for more than they deserved.
Adonai, why doesn’t he see it?
Of course, she couldn’t tell him. Just as she could never bring up the questions she’d raised with Zahara, despite the implications, the desire to know. She wasn’t sure why she tormented herself so. He was rarely kind to her and did not know the meaning of love. They barely tolerated each other. The last thing he would want was to be bothered with the petty worries of a woman.
And Zahara’s own change in demeanor had puzzled her. She’d been kinder since that day, easier to be with. The tension had somehow lessened despite the unanswered questions hanging between them.
Birdsong came to her on the morning breeze as she knelt on the roof, working the loom. She whistled a tune in response, mimicking the melodic call of finches and swallows, pleased with her ability to sound so like the birds that often perched on the parapet to watch her. She smiled, humming to herself, then paused.
Hoofbeats coming hard and swift drew her attention. Curious, she stopped the loom and pushed up from the floor. She smoothed her skirt and stepped out of the protection of the tent, then walked to the parapet to look in the direction of the sound. She could see a fair distance from the roof. Terraced gardens rose up and around the house, while Nabal’s land in the valley below boasted an olive grove, a vineyard, and cornfields. Storehouses and stables surrounded his house, large enough to host a small entourage.
The horseman stopped at a feeding trough long enough to give the animal a quick drink, then trotted up to the courtyard. Abigail gathered her skirts and hurried down the stone steps to the court as Nabal’s servant met the messenger.
“Tell my lord Nabal that the prophet Samuel has died. All Israel is gathering at Ramah to bury him in the tomb of his fathers.” The messenger’s words rang out through the courtyard. Nabal stepped out of the house to meet him. Abigail moved closer, careful to stay out of sight.
“When?” Nabal tied the belt at his waist, and his hair was missing the turban he normally wore. He looked disheveled, as though he had just awakened, though Abigail knew he had been up for hours.
“The prophet died this morning, my lord. The school of prophets sent runners throughout Israel with the news. We had planned to bury him at his home in Ramah by sundown but wanted to allow the people time to come and mourn. So we will bury him before sundown the day after tomorrow.”
“Will the king be there?”
“I assume so, my lord.”
Abigail’s thoughts wandered. Would David bring his men to mourn the prophet as well? If Saul was there, it would be a great risk. But if he came despite the risk, perhaps she could see her family again. If Nabal would let her go with him. If Nabal planned to go at all.
Please, Lord, let it be so.
The messenger turned his horse around and kicked the animal’s sides, galloping through the gate. Nabal stood staring after him for a moment as though caught in indecision. Abigail stepped from the shadows and approached him.
“Will you be attending the burial, my lord?” She kept her voice gentle, knowing how it was with him most mornings after he’d been drinking.
He looked at her and rubbed a hand over his face. “I have no use for prophets.” He spat in the dust near her feet. “But if the king is going, then I have no choice.” His gaze flitted beyond her in the direction of the retreating messenger, then back to her. “Gather your things and be ready to leave before the sundial moves to the next notch. You’re coming with me.”
Abigail nodded her acquiescence, hid a smile, and hurried to do his bidding.
The cry of mourners met Abigail’s ears as they approached the city of Ramah. Crowds lined the streets while merchants hawked their wares even amid those who had come to grieve.
“Rare spikenard from the Far East for the beautiful lady,” a man said, thrusting an alabaster jar toward Nabal as his gaze skirted past him to Abigail. “Or perhaps you would like these silver earrings. Your wife would be the envy of every other man’s wife in town.” The man smiled, showing uneven, yellow teeth as he opened a cloth and spread several pairs of sparkling silver earrings before Nabal.
Heat flamed Abigail’s cheeks as she watched Nabal dismount his donkey to bargain with the man. They weren’t here to make purchases, but Nabal had a weakness for crafty salesmen. Moments later, he tucked two packages into his animal’s saddlebag and remounted, kicking the donkey’s sides to move forward. Abigail quietly urged her donkey to do the same, feeling the crush of people on each side. Were the gifts for her as the man obviously intended, or would Nabal give them to Zahara or to some friend or ally to buy their allegiance?
Nabal glanced back at her, then pulled the reins, taking a narrow side street away from the throng. They wound around the dirt roads and up a hill until they reached the outskirts of town, where they gained a foothold to look down on the procession, surrounded by others who had the same idea—to get a better view.
Weeping and wailing pierced the air as the crowd parted for the men carrying the bier with Samuel’s body, which was wrapped in spices and white linen. The men marched slowly and sang a funeral dirge until they came to a cave set in the side of the hill. The smoke gray basalt seemed a fitting choice for a tomb—a depressing color, matching Abigail’s somber mood.
She let her gaze move from the prophets carrying Samuel’s body to the people lining every space in front and behind the cave. If her family were here, finding them would be nearly impossible. Her heart sank at the thought.
/> Nabal moved his donkey closer to hers, and she felt the heat of his stare. She looked at him, surprised at his troubled expression, not sure how to respond.
“I have no use for funeral dirges.” He held her gaze, but his dark eyes revealed nothing. “They sang them for my mother.” He turned his head away from her then, as if his admission embarrassed him. “I have no use for them.” His rigid back and the firm set to his jaw were telltale signs that he was craving wine and barely holding his anger in check.
“I’m sorry for your loss, my lord.” She moved her hand to touch his arm, then thought better of it.
His gaze swiveled back to hers, the hard lines of his mouth softening ever so slightly. He nodded, acknowledging her comment. He opened his mouth as if to say more, then turned away at a commotion coming from the direction of the burial cave.
She followed the sound, squinting against the sun’s glare, trying to see. King Saul stood in full regal garb surrounded by a large retinue, hands lifted above the crowd.
“We mourn a great man today—Samuel, prophet of Adonai, judge and ruler, and the man who anointed me king over you.” He paused, and the crowd quieted. Prince Jonathan stood to the king’s right, his posture humble, his gaze solemn. Jonathan would not turn Samuel’s funeral into a focus on himself, but it was obvious Saul was the one in control here.
“Though Samuel and I had our differences in recent days, I am certain he would want us to remember better times, when the kingdom was not filled with strife and discontent.” Saul’s declaration pricked her heart, filling her with unease. The honeyed words were aimed against men like her brother and father, and the king’s own son-in-law. “Let us therefore remember Samuel’s life not as a prophet and judge, but as a man who strove to unite us as one people under one king— a king who stands humbly before you now.” He bowed his head for a brief moment, then moved an arm toward the bier bearing Samuel’s lifeless form. “Let us mourn for Samuel, and remember all he did to honor his people.”
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