Michal

by Jill Eileen Smith

  David flexed his fingers and raked one hand through his thick hair. How could Saul have sought to kill these people? For as long as David could remember, the Gibeonites, protected by an ancient covenant with their ancestor Joshua, had been a peace-loving tribe. They didn’t try to push their territory beyond their borders and weren’t violent or trouble-making men. So why on earth would Saul murder them?

  David began a slow walk along the smooth stones of the garden path, hands clasped behind him. Memories of Saul’s bloodthirsty order to kill the priests flashed in his mind’s eye. Though he hadn’t been there, David had imagined the gory details many times in his nightmares. As with the priests, Saul had also killed the Gibeonites because he cared only for himself.

  He stopped in front of a spreading tamarisk bush and ran one hand over the prickly branches. They needed water. Barley harvest was about to begin, and David wondered if his family’s normally lush land in Bethlehem would produce enough grain to keep them fed. Three years was a long time to go without a good crop.

  Please, Lord, put an end to this famine.

  He’d uttered the same prayer a hundred times. Turning on his heel, he headed back toward his room, glancing at the sundial along the way. The Gibeonites should be arriving in Jerusalem within the hour, if his sources were correct. Maybe then he would finally have some answers.

  The trumpet sounded, announcing David’s arrival, and the hall grew quiet as the people waited for him to take his throne. Moments after the normal preliminaries, a scribe announced a contingent of foreigners, whose leaders strode forward as a group and bowed low at David’s feet.

  “May my lord, King David, live forever.” An aged man with silver hair and a bent back straightened as best he could and stepped forward, touching the scepter David extended to him.

  David assessed the men before him. “What shall I do for you? And with what shall I make atonement, that you may bless the inheritance of the Lord?”

  The old man averted his gaze a moment, staring at the mosaic floor, then lifted his head and sighed. “We will have no silver or gold from Saul or from his house, nor shall you kill any man in Israel for us.”

  David felt a measure of relief rush through him. “Whatever you say, I will do for you.”

  A collective breath suspended over the room at his announcement. David looked to his sons and advisors. At the sight of Mephibosheth, he paused, reading fear in the man’s gaze.

  “As for the man who consumed us and plotted against us, that we should be destroyed from remaining in any of the territories of Israel,” the man said, commanding the attention of the entire hall, “let seven men of his descendants be delivered to us, and we will hang them before the Lord in Gibeah of Saul, whom the Lord chose.”

  A trail of gasps moved around the room, and David watched all color drain from Mephibosheth’s face. He looked back to the spokesmen as the crowd stilled.

  “I will give them.” David’s voice cut the silence of the court.

  “Thank you, my lord,” the old man said.

  David turned to his scribe and whispered directions, then spoke to Benaiah. “Go, send for Armoni and Mephibosheth, the two sons of Rizpah . . .” He glanced again across the hall at Jonathan’s son. “I will spare Mephibosheth, son of Jonathan, and his son, Micha, for Jonathan’s sake.” David’s eyes met Mephibosheth’s before turning back to Benaiah. “And send for the five sons of Merab, whom she bore to Adriel the Meholathite. These seven I will give to the Gibeonites, that the Lord may lift the famine from Israel.”

  “No! He can’t have them. I won’t let him!” Michal pushed past Keziah, who had delivered the awful news, and hurried down the corridors, slithering by unsuspecting guards. Her whole body trembled.

  Please, God, let it be a lie.

  She reached David’s audience chamber, determined to force her way in, when one of the guards caught her arms, bringing her to a sudden halt.

  “Hold on, mistress. You can’t go in there. You do not have permission.” His grip tightened as she fought to free herself.

  “I have to see the king. He’s made a terrible mistake. I must see him!” Michal pounded her fists against the guard’s chest until he grabbed her wrists to stop her.

  “The king does not wish to see you, Michal.” Benaiah spoke from behind her.

  Michal turned stricken eyes on the burly warrior, head of David’s private guard, the man who had once tried to free her from her father and take her to David—in another place, a lifetime ago. The sight of him now did not hold the same hope it once did. He was wholly devoted to David, and David didn’t want anything to do with her. The thought made her heart sink and tears sting.

  “Benaiah, you must speak to him for me. They’re going to execute my nephews—all five of them. Please, Benaiah, I have to stop him before it’s too late.” Her broken sobs made her breath come in short gasps. The guard loosened his grip on her. She fell to her knees before Benaiah, hands clasped in front of her. “Please, Benaiah, take me to him.”

  “I have orders to keep you away.”

  The quiet words tore at her heart.

  “Please!” She was sobbing now, not caring what anyone thought of her. Malchi, Benni, Rueben, Jacob, Joel. Her heart cried out their names, remembering each young face despite the fact they were grown men. She hadn’t seen them in two years, not since David had banned them from the royal court. Still, they were like sons to her. She couldn’t lose them now.

  “It’s too late, Michal.” David’s voice broke through her sobs, arresting her breath. “The Gibeonites asked for seven sons of Saul to stop the curse of the famine, to pay for the harm your father brought on them when he tried to exterminate them. Sometimes a few must die for the good of the people.”

  The compassion in his voice gave her courage to look into his still charmingly handsome face. “Are they . . . are they . . .”

  “They’re already dead.”

  She didn’t want to cry, to give him the satisfaction. Hadn’t he done enough damage?

  “Why my nephews, David?” The bitter words came out before she could stop them. “Why choose so many from one family, leaving none to console me? Did you do it to spite me? Am I so odious in your eyes that you had to kill the only men I could call sons?” She rose to her feet, hands clenched at her sides. When she took a step toward him, Benaiah restrained her.

  She tried to wrench free. “Let me go!” She turned on him, fury making her beat his thick chest with her fists. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid I’ll hurt your precious king?”

  David’s cool voice from behind tamed her flailing arms. “You haven’t changed.”

  Michal twisted her head, her body still held in Benaiah’s iron grip, and met David’s level gaze.

  “Take this woman back to her rooms and post a guard. See that her needs are met.” He turned and walked in the opposite direction without a backward glance.

  37

  Michal paced the lengthy chamber, perspiration beading her forehead, her fists clenched. She wanted to scream and wail, but the sounds stuck in her throat. How had her life come to this? She was secluded from all happenings in the palace, the city, and the nation. Except for Keziah, she had no one to talk to on a regular basis, and she would never be held in a man’s arms again. The ache of it all made her ill to the core. Seeing David dressed in his finest with a glittering crown on his head, looking down on her with compassion, had made her yearn for him again with a fierceness she thought long dead.

  She would have given anything to feel the touch of his fingers against her cheek, to hear his whispered words soothe her grief. And then she had ruined it. Her bitterness had bubbled to the surface before she could stop it, and she’d shown David the side of her she now despised—as much as she had once despised him.

  Oh, God, what had she done? How could she ever make it right? Her feet found their way to her bedchamber, and she fell to her knees beside her bed. She didn’t really know how to pray. Oh, she had heard David speak words to Ado
nai many times, but he’d spoken so easily, as though he knew Him. Michal realized with sudden clarity that she did not know the God of Israel. Not the way David did.

  She snatched a pillow from the pristine bed and hugged it to her chest, leaning against the wooden frame. Why should she care whether she knew the Lord or not? Adonai had stolen everything—every man she’d ever held dear. Even David. But she could hardly blame God for that loss.

  She buried her face in the pillow and rocked back and forth, moaning. Anger nearly choked her as the bitter tears wet the fabric. Why was God so mean to her? Was He punishing her for the way she’d acted, for the lies she’d told?

  Was He trying to tell her something?

  The thought had never occurred to her before, and with it came a sense of longing. How could David know Adonai El Elyon, the Lord Most High God, so well? Was it possible . . . could she know Him too? The thought sent a shiver of fear up her spine.

  Did she want to?

  What if she came to Him and gave Him everything she had left, and He took the rest? If she’d learned one thing in her life, it was that God could not be trusted. Every time she’d wanted something and begged Him for it, she’d lost it soon after He gave it. Her father’s times of peace never lasted. David never stayed home, and after he left her, he never came back, no matter how many prayers she’d uttered.

  She gulped a sob and pushed up from the floor, flinging the pillow onto the bed. Sullenly, she wandered into her adjacent gardens and sank onto a wooden bench. Her fingers stroked the clay pot that had once held her favorite rose of Sharon, now dried up from lack of water. Relentless tears smarted again, and she sniffed away the emotion. God had taken the beauty from her only place of refuge.

  Why, God? Why are You doing this?

  Her thoughts drifted again to her early days with David, the joy they had found in each other’s arms. How short-lived it had all been. David was supposed to have been the means to her gaining control of her life and one day ruling at his side. What had happened to it all? She curled both fists and squeezed them, closing her eyes.

  Images passed before her thoughts, as though her life were being replayed. Father’s rage. David’s kiss. Paltiel’s arrogance. Her bitter words flung in David’s face.

  She slowly unclenched her fingers as the pictures played like a terrible dream in her mind. Grief and guilt rose in her chest, filling her with deep remorse. She blinked hard and tried to look heavenward, but her knees grew weak, and heaviness fell like a hot blanket over her soul.

  O Adonai!

  Her heart twisted in fear and pain. She felt as though a hand pressed down on her, forcing her to her knees.

  And suddenly she knew. A window to her soul opened, and Michal squirmed at the sight. What a bitter woman she’d become! She’d been so afraid Father’s demons would one day hound her steps that she never realized she’d given herself over to demons of her own.

  She lowered her head to her hands, the pressure of guilt squeezing her soul. A sense of humility washed over her, and her spirit felt stripped and bare before the eyes of the One who sees all. How could she even lift her head to speak with Him? He had exposed her shame, and the scars in her cynical soul repulsed her. How could she ever face anyone again, let alone the Lord?

  Come to Me with clean hands and a pure heart.

  She turned her hands over, examining them. Oh, they were clean on the outside, perfectly perfumed and hennaed too. But she’d used them to seek her own way all of her life.

  She lifted her gaze long enough to glance across the garden, where the teraphim sat guarding the opposite gate. She had kept them purposely, knowing David would never approve. Another stain on her hands.

  O Adonai, please forgive me.

  The weight of her guilt nearly leveled her to the floor, and tears blurred her vision again. She would destroy the idols first thing.

  And a pure heart.

  Despair slid next to the grief in her soul. How on earth could she ever have a pure heart? Hers was as black as a starless night.

  Repent.

  The word sang in her thoughts, as though David had strummed his lyre and sung the word in her ear. Repent? Hope filled her. Was it that easy?

  Repent, beloved.

  Oh, could she? Would Adonai accept her after all she’d done? She moved from her knees and prostrated her body across the smooth stones. Words formed in her thoughts, and she spoke aloud slowly, haltingly, like a baby taking his first steps.

  “I have never prayed to You like this, Adonai. I’ve never come seeking Your forgiveness, never humbled myself before You, never realized my sin. I don’t know if You can forgive me for my pride or give me the pure heart You require. But I’m coming to You, and if You will have me, I will submit to You.”

  Michal’s words continued in broken sobs as she named every sin that surfaced—her deceit when she had convinced Father to give Merab to Adriel, her lies when Father had questioned her about David, her angry words poured out at David’s feet, and most of all her bitterness. She grew stiff and achy until she finally pushed up to her trembling knees and gazed heavenward.

  Was it possible? Her bitterness was gone, melted away like wax seeping into the soil on a hot day. Joy filled her. She was clean! Her heart felt light, and she laughed outright, almost giddy.

  “Are you all right, my lady?” Keziah asked, rushing through the door of the house.

  Michal could not contain her smile. “Better than I’ve ever been.”

  If only she could share her news with David. The thought dampened her spirit, but the joy remained. If God willed, she would see David again to share her newfound faith.

  “It’s been six months, my lord, and Rizpah still stands guard over the bodies of her sons, not allowing the carrion birds to touch their bodies.” The messenger had come from the tribe of Benjamin with a contingent of men.

  David looked down at the crowd, searching for a friendly face, but saw only troubled glances. His gaze shifted to his counselors, and he motioned for them to approach his throne.

  Ahithophel spoke first. “Perhaps it’s time you gave the bodies a proper burial, my lord. The famine has only partially let up. The Lord may not bless us until the bodies are no longer exposed.”

  David noted the nods of Hushai and Benaiah. He glanced over at Amnon and Absalom seated to the right of the court. How would he have felt if they had been among the dead? A twinge of guilt nudged him. Perhaps that would explain Michal’s outrage when the men were killed. Had he picked her nephews out of his own private revenge? David shook away the disturbing thought. It had not been his idea to execute Saul’s family. He’d done it for the good of the people. Still, six months’ exposure to the elements was long enough.

  “You’re right, Ahithophel, it is time to give the men a proper burial. We will exhume the bones of Saul and Jonathan as well and bury them in the cave of Saul’s father, Kish.”

  He excused his counselors and announced his intentions to the men from Benjamin. Maybe then God would bless the land again with abundance.

  A knock at the door, so unusual these days, made Michal’s heart skip. She looked up from the pillow she was embroidering with fig leaves and purple lilies and nodded to Keziah, who jumped up to open it. David’s guard stood to the side, admitting a messenger bearing the royal insignia. David had a message—for her?

  The man stepped into the room, and Michal laid her stitching aside. She watched the messenger bow at her feet.

  “My lady,” he said, meeting her gaze, “the king has sent word to inform you that there will be a memorial service honoring your father at the end of the week. We will be traveling to the burial cave of King Saul’s father, Kish. Do you wish to come?”

  Michal’s heart leaped, hope filling her. David was going to honor her father? And he was inviting her to come? “Yes. Tell the king . . . tell my lord, King David, that I would be pleased to come.”

  The guard gave her a curious look. What had the servants been saying about her? Were he
r words and tone so different that he actually noticed? Would David notice too?

  “I will give the king your message, my lady.”

  O Lord, please let David look on me with favor once again. I don’t deserve the pleasure of his company or the status of first wife restored to me after what I’ve said and done to Your anointed, but please . . . if nothing else, let me share with David what You have done for me.

  She watched the messenger close the door behind him, and she picked up her stitching again. What she wouldn’t give to move freely through David’s house again. Even to interact with his bickering wives was better than this seclusion. And yet, it was nothing more than she deserved. She knew that now. If only God would be merciful . . . Dare she hope? Maybe then she would find a renewed purpose for living.

  38

  Michal tugged the woolen cloak over her shoulders and hunkered closer to her mule’s neck, trying to block the cool wind from seeping against her skin. The caravan traveling from Jerusalem to Zelah where her grandfather’s bones rested was filled with heads of tribes, mighty men, several of David’s family, and what looked like the entire tribe of Benjamin. Her father’s concubine, Rizpah, was given a place of honor behind the king and to the left of Mephibosheth, who followed the men carrying the bones of Saul, Jonathan, Rizpah’s sons, and Michal’s five nephews.

  The wind picked up as they neared the outskirts of the town, whipping the scarf around Michal’s head. She reached one hand to pull the black sheer fabric from her eyes and scanned the crowd. David was separated from her by scores of men. Would she even be able to see the cave when they placed her father’s bones within its walls?

  Pain tugged at her, and the familiar bile of bitterness rose to choke her. This was her family! She deserved to be leading the crowd, or at least given the honor due Saul’s last surviving offspring. Yet David treated her as though she were as dead as the men whose bleached bones they were burying.