Carrion birds cawed and swooped low, feasting on the bodies of the defeated Amalekites. Was Zahara’s body among them? The thought troubled her, bringing with it a host of other thoughts that accused her of her own foolishness. Why hadn’t she been as suspicious of the woman as David had been? She should have known that Zahara’s loyalties would have stayed with her own people. After all, she was a foreigner who, despite her amiable attitude, denied that Yahweh alone was God. David would have killed her in one of his raids on Amalekite towns—had she been there—in fulfillment of Adonai’s curse on the cruel, idolatrous nation.
But what of the argument she had witnessed between Zahara and her brother? Had Zahara simply fled to find her people, never expecting them to use her to lead them back to David and his people? Zahara had often been kind to her. Had everything been a lie? Somehow she suspected that Zahara had tried to stop her brother’s actions, and in the end, maybe the reason the man had not hurt her had something to do with Zahara’s impassioned words.
A woozy feeling swept over Abigail as she grabbed a clay urn and picked her way along the outskirts of the Amalekite encampment toward the river. They would need water to bake the morning’s bread, and perhaps in the process of getting it, she could wash from her skin the blood that David had gotten on her.
Unnatural stillness broken only by the sounds of the carrion birds and meandering river heightened Abigail’s already tense nerves. She should have waited for more of the women to awaken rather than come down here alone. What if some of the Amalekites who had gotten away came back to retrieve their belongings, and waited to pounce on unsuspecting men?
A shiver worked through her. She lowered the urn from her head and knelt at the river’s bank.
Branches crunched behind her. She jerked upright and pulled away from the edge, her heart skipping a beat. She glanced around, and relief spilled through her. “You scared me.”
David moved toward her, still wearing the bloodstained tunic, his face a mixture of pleasure and concern. “You shouldn’t be here alone.” He stepped closer and squatted at her side, then sat on a rock to untie his sandals. “I noticed you were gone and followed you here. Just because the enemy is dead doesn’t mean it’s safe, Abigail. You should have waited for the others.”
“I’m sorry. Forgive me, my lord. I only meant to get started on the morning meal.” His serious expression caused a longing for his approval to sweep over her.
He pulled first one sandal and then another from his dirty feet. “Never mind it now. Just be more careful next time.” His smile put her at ease as he proceeded to remove his robe and pull his tunic over his head. Warmth filled her as she watched him slip into the cool water and dunk his head. “Come in and join me.” His playful smile sent a flutter to her middle.
“It’s too cold.”
“It’s refreshing.” He laughed, the hearty laughter of a man whose cares are few, whose burden is light. “Come on.”
“Someone might see.” She couldn’t believe he would suggest such a thing.
“There is no one here but us.”
“The camp is awakening and the women will be here to draw water soon. They’ll see you.” She picked up his filthy garments and looked them over. “I should wash these instead.”
“Plenty of time for that.” He gave her his most charming smile. “We may never get such a chance again.”
She glanced behind her toward the camp, then looked back at her husband, who had disappeared from sight. “David?” Panic filled her for the briefest moment until he popped his head from beneath the surface and came up again, laughing and shaking the water from his thick, dark hair. He scooped silt from the bottom of the river and scrubbed it into his skin, all the while looking at her with a gaze that turned her knees weak.
She placed his robe and tunic back on the grass and worked to undo the belt at her waist. She sat on the rock David had vacated and untied her sandals, then slipped the robe from her shoulders. She was about to lift her tunic over her head when the sound of female voices drifted to her.
Should she hurry and join him, not caring what the women might see? Or should she don her clothes again and catch the women before they came too close to give David his privacy? Indecision filled her.
“Come on, Abigail. We’re running out of time.” His playful tone had turned the slightest bit impatient, and Abigail did not miss the disappointment in his eyes.
“We already have. The women are coming.” She lowered her tunic again and put her arms back through the sleeves of her robe. “You’d best get dressed.” She slipped into her sandals and quickly tied them. She found his spare tunic in his leather pouch and smoothed out the wrinkles as he shook the water from his hair and beard and stepped out of the river onto the shore. He took the clean tunic from her outstretched hands and placed it over his wet body. He looked so refreshed that Abigail instantly regretted not having joined him. And now it was too late.
As the women approached the water’s edge, he pulled his soiled robe over the clean tunic and bent to tie on his sandals. “I’ll wash this for you,” Abigail said, clutching his bloodstained tunic to her. She felt as though she needed to do something to redeem the moment.
He looked at her, then glanced at the women behind her and nodded. “Don’t come back alone.”
At her silent agreement, he turned and moved back through the trees, out of her sight, leaving her drowning in a river of regret.
27
By the time they had gathered the spoils the Amalekites had taken and trudged back along the path they had come, meeting up with the two hundred men at the Besor Ravine, the trek back to Ziklag had taken nearly a week. Now Abigail sat beneath the wide awning of the goat-hair tent she shared with David and Ahinoam, stitching some of the fabric David had given her from the Amalekite plunder. David would need new garments when he took the throne as Israel’s king, and somewhere deep inside herself she sensed that time was near.
In the three days since they had returned to Ziklag, the town had filled with men from Judah seeking to help David’s cause. They had salvaged the courtyards of the burned-out homes and made camp among the ashes. David’s wealth had jumped substantially with the spoils they had taken from the Amalekites, despite the large portions he had shipped off to friends in Judah who supported him.
Abigail fingered the fine fabric and smoothed it across her lap, listening to the midmorning sounds of women shooing children off to play and men shouting to one another across the square or speaking in guarded tones in small groups. She reached for her basket of colored threads and pulled a deep green from the assortment. Threading a slivered bone needle, she worked a leaf design along the edges of the tunic.
Zahara had taught her how to dye the threads to just the right shades back when she lived under Nabal’s roof. When Nabal was off inspecting his sheep, Abigail had learned creative stitches to design intricate patterns in cloth—something she rarely took time for in the day-to-day management of Nabal’s estate.
Where was Zahara now? A weight of worry pressed in on her at the thought. When finally alone with David, she had asked him for permission to search the dead before they left the Amalekite camp in hopes of finding her, but he had refused. Her jaw tightened as she remembered his adamant response, his stubborn unwillingness to allow her the chance to know what had happened to her maid.
“But my lord, she belongs to me. I’m only asking to find out what has happened to her. If perhaps she is still alive—”
“No one still lives out there, Abigail.” His sweeping gesture toward the rotting corpses and his hardened expression told her he would not be easy to convince.
“But you said four hundred men got away on camels. Is it possible she went with them? How will I know if you don’t let me check or send someone else to check? I want the chance to bury her, David.” She crossed her arms and turned her back on him, her own stubborn defiance surfacing despite the better part of judgment that told her to let it go.
His hands
rested heavily on her shoulders, and she flinched as he turned her to face him, but he didn’t seem to notice. “She was an Amalekite. She does not deserve a proper burial.” He worked his jaw and glowered at her, an expression he’d never directed her way before. He dropped his hold on her and stood looking down at her, arms stiff at his sides, obviously waiting for her compliance. A compliance that she was loath to give, despite her longing for peace.
“I understand that, my lord.” She uncrossed her arms and held her hands toward him in a gesture of supplication. “But she was a good servant . . . and . . . and I think her actions spared me a terrible fate.”
He quirked a brow at that. “What do you mean?”
“She argued with her brother, the man who planned to take me for himself. I couldn’t understand their words, but he did not do as he planned, as he might have done.”
David closed his eyes, drew in a slow breath, and released it, but he did not take another step toward her. “I hope what you are saying is true, beloved. But your maid was Zafirah, not Zahara, and an Amalekite spy. I suspected her from the first week she joined us and should have sent her away right then. Despite what she might have said to save you, the fact is, she led those men to Ziklag. She almost cost me your life. For that, she deserves whatever fate befell her.” His voice rose on the last words, but when he cleared his throat, his tone grew quieter yet was just as stern. “Put her out of your mind, Abigail. And never speak of her again.”
Abigail paused in her stitching and swallowed the rise of emotion evoked by the memory. She’d wanted to ask David how he knew Zahara was a spy or why he’d suspected her, even how he’d come to know her Amalekite name since she hadn’t told him. And if he’d known all of this, why had he allowed Zahara to live among them for so long? Or was it just a hunch that happened to be proved right? Chances were, she would never know. As it was, the argument had cost her precious time with him, and she had slept fitfully beside him without the comfort of his touch.
She tilted her head at the sound of children racing down the street and kicking a pottery shard in a keep-away game. Laughter rose from young girls watching the boys play, and a handful of women scolded the boys for coming too close to them as they moved from the river carrying jars of water on their heads.
She started at the sound of David’s voice among a group of men heading toward the courtyard not far from where she sat. He hadn’t called for her to share his bed since that night, and even from this distance she suspected he would keep his gaze turned away from her at any cost. The inner turmoil this created in her spirit had stolen her appetite for days, but there had been no chance to seek him out to ask his forgiveness.
Though deep in her heart, she still believed she was right— he should be the one seeking her goodwill, not the other way around. But she would humble herself and fall at his feet if she knew it would put an end to their current strife. She was a peacemaker at heart, and her heart told her she needed to act soon.
Shouts caused her to look up again.
“Captain! A runner comes.” Asahel, David’s nephew, rushed up to the courtyard and stopped near David. “A man enters Ziklag even now. He comes from the battle. There is news of the king.”
Asahel stepped aside and allowed David a full view of the foreigner now moving toward them. A Bedouin—robe torn, dust on his head, and out of breath—came to a quick stop just outside the courtyard and fell to his knees before David. He bowed low, his face to the dust.
“Where have you come from?” David asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I have escaped from the camp of Israel.”
David’s hands clenched of their own accord, and he steeled himself for the news, holding his anger in check. “What happened? Tell me.”
The man lifted his head and rested on his haunches, hands pressed against his knees. “The men fled from the battle. Many of them fell and died. And Saul and his son Jonathan are dead.”
David’s gut tightened and he winced, not wanting to believe. He searched the young man’s face for some sign of falsehood. “How do you know that Saul and his son Jonathan are dead?”
The man straightened, fingering a leather pouch at his side. “I happened to be on Mount Gilboa, and there was Saul, leaning on his spear, with the chariots and riders almost upon him. When he turned around and saw me, he called out to me, and I said, ‘What can I do?’ He asked me, ‘Who are you?’ ‘An Amalekite,’ I answered. Then he said to me, ‘Stand over me and kill me. I am in the throes of death, but I’m still alive.’ So I stood over him and killed him, because I knew that after he had fallen he could not survive.”
“And Jonathan?” The question faltered on his tongue, though deep in his spirit, David knew the man had spoken the truth.
“A Philistine arrow pierced him through. That is all I know.” The man reached into his pouch, produced a jeweled golden crown and a solid gold armband, and laid them at David’s feet. “I took the crown that was on the king’s head and the band that was on his arm and have brought them here to my lord.”
David glanced at the familiar adornments of Saul, then looked hard at the Bedouin, his mind reeling. The man had admitted to killing Adonai’s anointed. “Where are you from?” Had he heard him correctly, that he was an Amalekite? Surely the man was not such a fool as to think David would be pleased to hear such news from an enemy that nearly cost him his life and the lives of his family.
“I am the son of an alien, an Amalekite,” the Bedouin said, lifting his chin. His haughty gaze rested on David as though in challenge, as though proud of his heritage. Apparently the man truly was a fool.
“Why were you not afraid to lift your hand to destroy Adonai’s anointed?” David took one step back from the man and skewered him with a look. Several of his men quietly surrounded the Bedouin. The man glanced around him, blood draining from his face.
Abishai stood at the back, behind the man, sword drawn. David nodded to him. “Go, strike him down.”
In three strides, Abishai moved forward and thrust his sword into the man’s back.
“Your blood is on your own head,” David said, “for your own mouth has testified against you when you said, ‘I have killed Adonai’s anointed.’ ”
The man fell in a heap where he stood, his eyes wide, his face twisted in a grotesque mix of hatred and fear. David gave him one last look, then nodded to Abishai. His men took the body to a nearby ravine and cast it down for the carrion birds.
David sat cross-legged in the dust, his throat raw from weeping, his eyes stinging and swollen. The feeling was all too familiar. Hadn’t he and his men dealt with similar emotions just days ago when they thought their wives and children were lost to them? A knot of grief coiled in his belly, and his mind traveled of its own accord to the terrifying moment when his men had come close to stoning him. How much of a difference a few weeks could make! Now they looked at him with expectant eyes beneath their grief, eyes that spoke of the promise of the future kingdom.
A kingdom that now felt suddenly hollow. How could he ascend the throne without Jonathan at his side? He had always expected to have his friend help unite the tribes, to turn the kingdom over to him after Saul was dead. Michal would be restored to him, and he would bring the people back to the true worship of Adonai. Now, without Jonathan’s aid, who would accept his rule?
He lifted his head from staring into the ash-coated dirt and looked over the compound in one sweeping gesture. Abigail sat huddled near their tent, a picture of misery. His conscience pricked at the sight of her. He’d been hard on her after the rescue, upset with her desire to seek a maid who had betrayed her. Somehow he needed to make it up to her, to let her grieve in her own way, however misguided she might be.
His gaze shifted away from his wife to the pockets of men and women sitting in small groups, mourning the dead. How many had lost loved ones in the battle? Months would pass before they would know for sure. And how much territory had the Philistines taken from Israel?
D
avid’s hands clenched in and out as he considered how close he had come to being forced to fight with them. Oh, Adonai, how I thank You for sparing us.
The thought made his heart turn heavenward, and a song of lament formed in his mind. Brushing the ashes and dirt from his tunic, he stood, walked toward his tent to retrieve his lyre, and returned to mourn his friend.
Abigail pulled her cloak about her, cinching it against the evening breeze that blew down from the surrounding hills and sent the flames in the fire pit to dancing. She crossed her legs at the ankles, listening to David strum his lyre. He repeated his haunting lament for Saul and Jonathan over and over until she could match the tune in her head.
“Your glory, O Israel, lies slain on your high places! How the mighty have fallen! Tell it not in Gath, proclaim it not in the streets of Ashkelon, lest the daughters of the Philistines be glad, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised rejoice. How the mighty have fallen in battle! Jonathan lies slain on your heights . . .”
She glanced at her husband sitting across from her. His dark head was bent, his fingers deftly strumming the funeral dirge.
“I grieve for you, Jonathan, my brother. Your love to me was wonderful, surpassing the love of women.” He paused, his voice catching as it did each time he uttered the words.
Abigail studied the fire, the words pinning her with guilt. As his wife, she should have loved him without demands, should have somehow offered him a companionship unequaled. Hadn’t God said in the beginning that the two shall be one? But David had made their marriage a union of three from the start, since Michal could not really be counted. And yet, only Michal had been his alone, a position Abigail envied. If she had been the first . . . But she mustn’t bemoan what she couldn’t change.
Abigail (The Wives of King David Book #2): A Novel Page 19