Michal

by Jill Eileen Smith

“Couldn’t sleep, Captain?” Benaiah asked. David sat back on his heels, poking the fire with a nearby stick.

  “Too much to think about, Benaiah. So many questions slip through my thoughts.” He scratched a sudden itch along the back of his neck and lifted his sooty hair away from his head. A dip in the river would refresh him. After seven days it was time.

  “I suppose you’ve heard the talk of making you king.”

  David glanced at the burly bodyguard, who shifted his tall frame on a log placed before the fire. “Some. But I’m not sure it’s the Lord’s time.”

  “The camp is overflowing with men from Israel and Judah pledging allegiance to you. What more evidence do you need, my lord?”

  David studied the resurging flames, fascinated by the orange and yellow tongues licking the charred logs. “I’ll inquire of the Lord, Benaiah. Then I’ll know.”

  Silence passed between them, and David’s thoughts turned to Yahweh.

  Show me Your will, O Lord. Guide my steps. He glanced up at the glittering sky and breathed deeply. Let me know if Your time has come to grant me the kingdom.

  Muted shadows of a pale pink dawn awakened David from his cramped position before the fire. Somehow the place where he’d heard the news of Jonathan’s death brought him a measure of comfort. Peace settled over him, and he sensed this day would be different, despite his recent untold grief.

  He rose before the women stirred to start the morning meal, slipped into his tent for a fresh tunic, and walked the short distance to the river. After a brisk scrub that rinsed the dust and ashes from his hair and beard, he stepped onto the shore and donned the clean tunic Abigail had fashioned for him. He glanced down at the intricate design of palm leaves etched in green and the line of purple and gold trimming the edges. The design made him pause. His fingers traced the delicate embroidery. This was no ordinary tunic. This pattern signified royalty and months of intricate work.

  He remembered Abigail’s words to him soon after he had taken her as his wife. “The Lord has chosen you to be king, David. You must have a wardrobe fitting your future position.”

  So this was what she had been up to. All those times when he’d seen her sitting with the women, stitching—forever stitching. She was making this kingly tunic for him. Was it possible . . . could she have . . . ? He climbed the steep bank and trudged the short path to Ziklag, his heart picking up speed.

  “Good morning, Captain!” Joab called from across the street.

  “Yes, good morning, my lord,” another man, one of the tribal leaders, called out.

  David waved to both men and a group of other well-wishers, nodding and smiling before ducking into his tent.

  “Abigail?”

  Silence. He peeked into the women’s quarters. Empty. They were probably off getting water or starting to prepare the morning meal. He stuck his head under the tent flap.

  “Abigail!” If she were within earshot, she would surely hear him this time.

  “Yes, my lord?” She came running from the fire pit.

  “Come here.” He lifted the flap for her and pulled her into his quarters.

  Her thick chestnut-brown hair was pulled away from her face and tucked under a pale blue scarf, and her face and hands were streaked with flour. Her inky eyes held a fresh sparkle, and her full mouth dipped in concern, her breath coming fast from running.

  “What is it? Is something wrong, my lord?”

  “This.” David touched one hand to the ornamented tunic. “This is what you were working on, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, eyes downcast. “You don’t like it.”

  He looked at her. How could she think that? “Of course I like it. I just wondered if there was a robe to match.”

  She met his gaze, and her bright smile revealed evenly matched white teeth. “Oh yes, my lord. Let me get it.” Before he could respond, she walked to the other side of the tent to her sleeping mat and pulled a folded object from a wicker basket. He followed at her heels, and as she whirled to face him, she nearly bumped into him. He caught her elbow, and she gave him an awkward smile.

  “I finished it two nights ago. I was going to give it to you sooner, but . . .”—she unfolded the purple fabric as she spoke— “the timing didn’t seem appropriate.”

  David took the ornamented, kingly robe from her outstretched hands and studied every line in the dim light. Somewhere, deep within his soul, he knew. Abigail’s work symbolized God’s timing. And now that Saul was dead, the time was right.

  He slipped his arms through the wide sleeves and allowed Abigail to wrap the golden sash around his waist. She hurried to another basket on the tent floor along the center divider and pulled a bronze mirror from its depths.

  “It’s hard to see in this light. Perhaps you’d rather step into the sunshine?” she asked, her shy gaze meeting his.

  He studied his reflection for a long moment, then laid the mirror on the ground, pulling her into his arms. “Thank you,” he whispered, his throat tight. “I don’t know how you knew to make such fine garments, but . . . thank you.” He kissed the sweet moistness of her parted lips.

  The kiss lasted longer than he intended, but he couldn’t pull away from the security of her arms. Somehow he knew that once he released her, his life course would take a turn, and his relationships with his men and his wives would be forever altered.

  “But don’t you think wearing this now is a bit presumptuous? No one has declared me king yet.” He still held her close, letting her head rest against his chest.

  She tilted her head to gaze at him. “You could wear the tunic and your captain’s robe. I mended and washed the one you tore a week ago. A little royalty mixed with humility should be a good mix, my lord.”

  David released a slow breath, then kissed her again. “You are always so wise, my love.” He brushed flour from her cheek with his thumb. “Thank you.”

  She helped him slip the royal robe from his arms and then folded it, setting it aside for a better day.

  “You’re welcome, my lord.” She patted the garment lovingly and stood facing him.

  His hands cupped her shoulders, emotion overwhelming him as he studied the depths of her gaze. What a blessing from the Lord this woman had been. First she had kept his hand from slaying innocent men. Then she somehow managed to keep the kidnapped women from panicking when he was not around to protect them. And now she was preparing for his future reign without being asked, humbly giving of herself to him.

  Would Michal have done the same?

  The thought troubled him. Guilt mixed with anger every time he thought of his first wife—his heart’s first love. He should have gone back for her. And she should have waited for him.

  David closed his eyes, hoping the action would block the tormenting guilt from his mind. He slipped one arm around Abigail’s shoulders, walked her to the tent door, and placed another tender kiss on her cheek. “Wait for me tonight, my love.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She gave him an appreciative smile and ducked under the flap, leaving David alone.

  26

  The earth shook. A stampede of horses grew closer. Dust billowed, filling the air, choking her.

  Get away. Run, Michal, run!

  Thunder split the sky. Fists pounded on the door. Violent screams.

  Hurry, Michal!

  They were coming for her.

  Her breath came in short spurts, like the snap of a distant drum before an army marched off to war. She dragged for air. Oh, help me!

  A hand on her arm. Gentle shaking.

  “Michal, wake up! Do you hear me? Wake up, I say.” Paltiel gripped her elbow, and Michal sat upright, eyes wary, fear constricting every muscle.

  “Where am I?”

  “In Bahurim, with me,” Paltiel said softly against her cheek.

  Michal blinked, trying to clear her vision. Below them she heard what sounded like muffled screams. “What was that?” Her heart refused to slow its destructive pace.

  “Calm down, Michal. You had a
bad dream. It’s all right now.” Paltiel’s fingers stroked her bare arm. “Everything will be all right.”

  The muffled scream grew in intensity, doubling Michal’s fear. “Then what is that?” she demanded. In one leap she jumped from the sleeping mat and strode to the door. If he wouldn’t tell her, she would find out on her own.

  “Michal, wait!” He dogged her heels, but she hurried down the steps ahead of him. The screams dwindled to an agonized groan.

  Merab!

  She darted across the courtyard to the room occupied by Merab and Adriel. Merab had spent the week since they’d come to Bahurim in bed, her labor pains stopping and starting, leaving her exhausted and weak. Had the baby finally come and not survived? The thought made Michal’s stomach dip in dread. She slowed at her mother’s approach.

  “Michal. Oh, my dear, whatever will we do?” Ahinoam collapsed into Michal’s arms. Unsteady from her jarred awakening, Michal nearly lost her balance, but Paltiel’s hands supported her. She offered him a grateful look, then focused on her mother.

  “What are you talking about, Mother? What’s wrong with Merab?”

  Ahinoam recovered a small sense of dignity and stepped back, resting one hand against her lined cheek. “You must come and help, Michal. I think we’re losing her.”

  “What!” Michal burst through the closed door, startled to see Adriel at Merab’s side, weeping. Had the screams and groans come from him? She studied Merab’s pallid face in the lamplight. Her breathing was almost imperceptible, and all color had drained from her once rosy face. The bed where she lay was blood soaked.

  Adriel lifted stricken eyes to meet her gaze, confirming in his look what her heart told her was true. Merab was dying.

  Oh, God, not Merab. Not now.

  Michal felt her body propelled forward almost against her will, and she knelt at Merab’s side opposite Adriel. She wrapped both hands around Merab’s cold, limp one and leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

  “Oh, Merab. Don’t leave me. Please . . . don’t you know how much I need you?” Amazing how true the words had become over the years since David. She studied Merab’s pale face.

  The woman’s eyelids fluttered, then opened a crack. She gave Michal a tired smile, and her words came slowly. “You always wanted children, Michal. Sometimes they . . . can be . . . the death of you.”

  Michal blinked hard against a rush of tears. “No! You can heal. You just need time.” She squeezed Merab’s hand.

  “Take care . . . of my sons, Michal . . . for Adriel.” Merab managed the last words through parched gray lips before sinking back against the mat, her forehead bathed in sweat. The effort to speak had weakened her further, and Michal held back the words she wanted to say, lest they exhaust her sister more.

  She dipped a cloth in tepid water and placed it on Merab’s forehead, her gaze catching Adriel’s bent head buried against her sister’s limp arm. Merab couldn’t die.

  Oh, God, please don’t let her die.

  Bitter tears coursed down Michal’s damp cheeks, and she stifled the urge to cry out, to raise her fist into the air and scream at God, if He was even listening.

  A crackling rattle sounded in Merab’s throat.

  “Oh no! I told you we were losing her. Oh, baby!” Ahinoam rushed forward, throwing herself across Merab’s still form.

  “Oh, God . . . Merab, I love you!” Adriel’s deep voice rose above her mother’s clamoring, and he leaned over his wife, tears flowing, to kiss her cheek.

  Michal stared at the two of them, unable to move or speak. She felt Paltiel’s hand on her shoulder and glanced up at him.

  She heard the death rattle once, then twice, until at last Merab’s body jerked a final time, then stilled. Almost immediately her mother broke into a loud wail, and Adriel’s moans carried through the household, waking any lingering sleepers. Michal looked on, longing to weep and cry out along with them, but no sound would escape her tightened throat. She turned away from Paltiel’s concerned look and ran out of the room.

  “This is the place, my lord.” Benaiah, head of David’s personal guard, pulled his animal up beside David’s and pointed to a spacious house, which was built atop a small rise surrounded by a lush olive grove on one side and terraced gardens on the other. “A fitting place for a king, don’t you think?”

  David took in the scene. He spotted a lone figure peek through one of the windows, then disappear behind a curtain, and a moment later burst through the front door. A short, balding, smiling man hurried down the cobbled steps as quickly as his portly legs would allow. He came to a stop at David’s side and bowed to the ground three times, touching his forehead to the earth.

  “Welcome, my lord. My name is Hushai the Archite. I bid you welcome to Hebron.”

  David swung his leg over his donkey’s side and hopped to the ground. He stepped forward and kissed Hushai on both cheeks. “Thank you, Hushai.”

  The man took a step back as though he felt he did not deserve such equal treatment. He recovered his dignity with a short laugh. “Yes, well, you are welcome, my lord. Please, won’t you come in and rest yourself? See the place the elders of Judah have been preparing for you.”

  David nodded to Benaiah, and the two followed Hushai to the house.

  “When you ran away from Saul and it became apparent that God would not allow the old king to harm you, your brethren from Judah decided to begin building a home for you. They believed, as many in Israel have, that you were chosen by the Most High to one day be king. So we all began giving what we could to provide the materials to build you a house to rule from, when the time came.” They stepped over the threshold of the house into a spacious room.

  Hushai motioned them forward and pushed open heavy oak doors, revealing a large audience chamber with a raised dais at one end. David glanced around at the cheery place with open windows spilling the midafternoon light across the wooden floor. A sense of humility and awe washed over him.

  “This is more than I could have asked for or dreamed of, Hushai. But how could you all have known such a thing? How would you know I would want many windows and wooden floors, of all things?”

  Hushai waddled up to David and smiled. “The men of Judah knew I was experienced in architecture. I had been to Saul’s palace—was friends of the man who designed that dreary place. Saul had a history of dark moods, you know. He never really trusted anyone. I think he built a fortress to keep his enemies out. Too bad he never realized his worst enemy was coming from within.” He looked at David. “I surmised that you would want your home to be the exact opposite of the man who tried to kill you.”

  David lifted his callused fingers to stroke the soft hairs of his beard, studying the remarkable man the Lord had placed before him. “You have much wisdom, Hushai.” He placed one hand on the man’s arm. “Thank you.”

  Hushai’s face flushed a deep shade of crimson, and he lowered his head. “Oh, it is nothing, my lord. But I do appreciate the compliment.” He glanced up, his countenance suddenly brightening. “Would you like to see the rest of the place?”

  David stifled the urge to chuckle. He already liked this man. “Indeed,” he said, patting Hushai on the back. “Lead the way.”

  Michal’s back ached as she pressed her palm into the mortar, pushing down on the rough stone pestle. Soft grains of wheat sat in a clay bowl beside her, and Michal glanced at the rising pile of flour and sighed. She should be sipping lemon tea or baking sweet cakes in her own kitchen rather than killing herself with labor usually relegated to servants.

  “Do you want me to do some of that now, mistress?” Keziah asked from her seat beside Michal. She moved a clay sieve back and forth, letting the crushed hulls separate from the grain. “You look like you could use a break.”

  Michal leaned back against the stone bench, brushed stray hairs from her face, and smiled grimly. “Concentrating on this keeps my mind off other things. It’s easier to face pain in my body than pain in my heart.” She pushed the sleeves of her robe back up her
arms and pressed both hands against her aching back, straightening. The week since they had laid Merab and her unborn child in the burial cave seemed like an eternity ago, and at the same time impossible to have happened. Maybe if she kept herself busy, she could continue to ignore the grief dogging her.

  The distant rumble of a horse’s hooves made her tense. She exchanged glances with Keziah.

  “Who would be coming so fast?” Keziah asked.

  Michal stood and walked through the courtyard to the front of the house. She glimpsed Paltiel, Abner, and Adriel walking out to the road to meet the lone horseman. Sudden wariness slipped under her skin, and her hand shook on the latch of the door. The words of the messenger were indiscernible, and she walked through the entrance, straining to hear.

  “You are no longer safe here. David and his troops have moved into Hebron. The men of Judah have crowned him king over them,” the messenger said, his animated arms pointing north and east. “You must escape before David sends men to capture all who are left of Saul’s household.”

  Michal watched Abner pull a coin from a pouch at his side and place it in the man’s hand. “We will leave at once,” he said.

  “Where will we go?” Paltiel asked after the man rode away.

  Abner said something Michal couldn’t hear. Nor did she care what he would say. So what if David captured the lot of them? He wouldn’t kill them. She couldn’t imagine him hurting her family. They’d already suffered enough. Her gaze flitted to her husband. Then again . . . he might not take kindly to Paltiel.

  As though he could read her thoughts, Paltiel suddenly turned toward her and trotted across the front yard.

  “You heard?” His dark eyes illuminated his fear.

  She nodded. “Where will we go?”

  Paltiel took her arm and ushered her into the house. “Abner has been checking our options, sending spies throughout Israel. He wants to get us as far from David as possible.”

  “Away from Judah, you mean.” Impatience made her words terse.

  “To the farthest border of Israel. To Mahanaim. Is there a problem with that?” She couldn’t miss the hurt in his tone.