Rise to Power (The David Chronicles) (Volume 1)

by Uvi Poznansky

  I blink, hoping he does not notice.

  “You do,” he charges. “And both of us know it.”

  I blink again, so as not to see my own face mirrored in his shield. In spite of my best efforts to cling to logic I find myself superstitious at times. I have a vague sense that looking at myself is a dangerous thing for me, similar to facing the truth. It can mess with anyone’s mind, and especially with mine. It can make me vanish into thought, into reflection.

  I would rather look elsewhere.

  As if he knows it, the king keeps spinning his shield this way and that right here, in front of my eyes. And he presses on, “Look here, boy! I’m the one standing here, in your way. I am—am I not?—your enemy. On your way to the top, it’s me you would kill. Isn’t it? Me and no other!”

  In reply to which I break my silence, at long last.

  “Enough,” I tell him, and by God I mean it. Let him pick his weapon and impale me if he must, if what I say enrages him. “I left my father’s house to come here, to play for you. I am David. And I’m nobody’s boy.”

  Saul draws back in surprise.

  “Indeed,” he utters, now turning to take his seat. “I haven’t been paying attention. But now I can see, son. You’re not a boy anymore.”

  I bow to the floor and pick up his spear. It rattles in my hands, steel-cold.

  Then I approach the throne, and kneeling before the tall, tormented figure I raise my hand, offering the return of what belongs to him: his weapon. He takes hold of it.

  For a second—before I release it to him—we are connected.

  “It’s time,” says the king, lowering his shield.

  Now, the thing is at my eye level. I cannot help but be drawn into my mirror image. It dances in and out of the metal engravings and over the ridges of the royal inscription, The House of Kish, as if to suggest new twists in my own story, and new turns in his.

  “Tomorrow,” he says, softly this time.

  “What’s going to happen, tomorrow?”

  There is a different quality to his voice. So resonant, so full of some strange new sense... Perhaps you could call it pity. “Before the sun rises, come ride with me out there.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Yes, David.”

  “Out where?”

  “Out to the battlefield, down in the valley of Ellah.”

  And he bends over me, to breathe in my ear, “Out there, a giant is waiting.”

  Crossing Swords

  Chapter 4

  It has been a long, arduous ride through secret passages in the Judea mountains. A turtle-shape moon is keeping pace with us. By the time the horses are reined in and the clatter of hoofs finally subsides, I find myself somewhere between excitement and fear, straddling the question of what is to come next.

  I am embarrassingly unsure of myself, to the point of regretting coming along with the others, only to trail them at the tail end of the cavalry. I twist uncomfortably in the saddle, watching their shadows ahead of me, stirring there in the faint moonshine.

  Who amongst us will be brave enough to answer the king’s call, to go out and face the enemy’s lead soldier, the one said to be the most frightening freak of all freaks, the Philistine Goliath? Will you? Will I? And from those of us who step up to volunteer—as I have done, foolishly, last night—who will be chosen for the deadly mission?

  I ask myself, why am I here? For some lofty cause, such as the defense of the nation? Why place myself at risk, the risk of dying? I mean, courage is important, but so is life. I am young, too young to die. Being wounded is no fun either.

  I would have turned away, really I would, if not for my brothers—all of whom are much older than me—who tell me to do so.

  The eldest one of the bunch comes over to my horse, perhaps to watch how clumsy I am at dismounting it. Eliab lays a hand on the hilt of his sword, which looks like an oversized kitchen knife with a dull edge, rather than the real thing. Then with a loud, scraping grate of metal he pushes it hard into its sheath, as if to tell me—with no need for words—how annoyed he is at me.

  I glance at him, not daring to ask for help. I mean, how can I slip off the saddle, when the horse confuses me by flicking its mane this way and that, and when the earth seems so far below my feet?

  Alas, I know I am quite a spectacle, this being only my first attempt. No, the second. The third, now...

  In lieu of greeting, “You nuts?” says my brother. “What are you doing here?”

  In reply I shrug, which at once makes me lose my balance. I hold onto the leather pommel for dear life. The horse is still patient, but not for long. It shifts, ever so slightly, from one hoof to another, and pricks its ears. In a moment it will start neighing at me.

  At last—perhaps to put me out of this misery—Eliab claps a hand on my belt and pulls me forcibly down. Before I can say a word, I find myself meeting the sludge with a sloppy, splashy thump.

  “I’m going to do you a big favor,” he rasps. “I won’t tell mom that you came here, because if I do, she’ll start with the usual complaints, telling everyone how her heart aches, how it’s pounding in her chest, because she keeps worrying about you, which according to her keeps her from falling asleep at night.”

  With that, Eliab kicks some mud in my direction, perhaps to entertain the rest of my brothers. By the wasted look in their eye, they must have been stationed here for quite some time. The only acknowledgement anyone bothers to give me is a tired chuckle.

  “I’m here to kill a giant,” I say, hoping to impress someone, anyone.

  “Yeah, right,” says Eliab. “And in return, the king will give you his daughter for a wife.”

  “Not a bad idea,” say I.

  And he counters, “It’s nothing original. Look around you: every soldier here, everyone you see, has a fantasy just like that, in which the king’s daughter is so beautiful, so faithful, so full of promise, as no woman can be. And she’s waiting in the palace with open arms, waiting to receive her wedding gift: the head of a defeated giant, served on a silver platter, garnished with a generous drizzle of blood.”

  I shudder, in response to which he says, “You see, this here is no fairytale. This is real. Now, do me a favor, will you? Just go! Go home.”

  I shake my head, “No!”

  And he says, “Fine, smart ass, fine... So, want to be a soldier?”

  With that, Eliab throws his sword in the air, and the instant I catch it—which I never really intended to do—someone hands him another one. It looks just as clunky as the first, because unfortunately, all the skilled blacksmiths happen to be Philistines. And they are only too happy to provide our side with inferior leftovers of their military production line.

  “So,” says my brother, spurring me into a fight. “Want to kill a giant? Then show me, come on! Show your skill!”

  “Stop it,” I plead, afraid of where this might be going. “The two of us should never cross swords—”

  “Says who?” he blurts, coming at me.

  I spring back. “Say I, that’s who!”

  With great flamboyance I spin around, swooshing the thing this way and that, attempting to stop him in his track, perhaps by doodling circles into the wind.

  With this sword, no wonder they look misshapen.

  He stops, just long enough to shake his head. “No, no no!” he snickers at me. “Are you totally nuts? Never expose your back like that. Never!”

  In return I stab at him, “Why, it’s such a fancy maneuver!”

  And he comes back at me with, “Ah! Nonsense! How dumb can you be? You’ve added a fraction of a second for that silly spin, and what’s more, you’ve taken your eyes off me... A fatal mistake, because now, look! Look at that bellybutton... Oh, little brother, you’ve exposed yourself!”

  So I lower my eyes and at once he pokes me, just to make sure I get his point.

  “You tell me,” he says, “how fancy is that?”

  “No, you tell me,” I lower my weapon. “Tell me how to handle thi
s thing.”

  “Keep it in front of you, dimwit! See? Straight down the middle, with the point aimed high, like that... Higher. No, higher still. Right here, at my head.”

  “But,” I complain. “It’s too heavy for me.”

  “Stop rolling your eyes, you fool! Your goal, your only goal,” he stresses, “is to not be stabbed in the heart. Or the brain, for that matter. Perhaps in your case it makes no difference. ”

  With that, his blade comes brushing against my throat, so what can I do, but this: freeze.

  “Go, go on, little brother,” he pricks and prods. “Use your arms and legs. Dance. Dance closer. Farther. Try, just try to stay alive. Damn it, how hard can that be? What’s the point,” he lowers his weapon. “You’re fucking useless.”

  That really hurts. “Don’t you say that,” I wipe the corner of my eye. “You’ll change your tune, I know you will, when I kill a giant.”

  “How the hell can you do that,” he counters, “when you can’t hold a sword straight, not even against me. Your giant will die of boredom, just like me, waiting to see some action from you.”

  For that I have no answer. Exasperated, he plucks his sword from my hand and turns away from me.

  The show is over, so the others go back to comparing old scars and telling each other war stories, in which you can easily detect the phony bravado, the overblown details: how one slung a rope around the throat of a huge Philistine and wrestled him to the ground, while another kicked him straight in the groin.

  I figure, this way they can try to ignore what they see in each others eyes: the inevitable look of fear. Who knows how many of them will stay alive by the time evening draws near. A big battle is looming ahead, and the troops are poorly equipped for it.

  Now, Eliab is trying to fit a clunky metal pot on his head, which he intends to use as a helmet.

  “You know your way back, right?” he asks.

  “I’m staying right here,” say I.

  What I really mean is, it is too dark to find my way back.

  Pale-faced, he claps both hands on my shoulders. “You can be stubborn, if you wish. At your age I used to be much the same... But this,” he says, with a strained look on his face, “is no place for boys.”

  Indeed, I could not help but notice how thin he has grown since I saw him last. His provisions are probably gone by now, which is why I have brought with me a satchel full of olives and cheese, some of which is already stuffed in sandwiches. I intend to hand the food over—but not right away, just because.

  Being the youngest in this family, where rivalry is a steady companion, taught me to expect no word of encouragement from my brother, and no gratitude.

  “Something here smells so good,” says Eliab. “Brings to mind the old, gnarled olive tree in the garden, just outside our window... Doesn’t it?”

  I untie my satchel from the saddle, lift the flap, remove my lyre from the top so he can take a good look inside.

  “Here,” I say, “take a sniff.”

  Eliab seems to swoon at the sight of food, and at once his eyes tear up. It must be more than a simple hunger.

  Perhaps it is the memory of the warmth of our kitchen back home, when steam puffs up the dough, just before it cools down to create the air pocket in the center of the bread. Or else, it is the touch he remembers, the touch of my mother’s hand as she sprinkles some sesame seeds all over the top.

  I let the flap fall back and at once, the smell of our olive tree is cut off. Eliab grabs the satchel from my hand. I snatch it right back.

  “Hand it over,” growls my brother. “Right now, I said, or else.”

  “Is it true,” I ask, teasingly, “that the most important qualification of a soldier is endurance?”

  “What the hell is that,” his nostrils flare wide. “What d’you mean, endurance?”

  “I mean, holding out as best you can, under fatigue and privation.”

  “Don’t you play with me now. Hand the thing over!”

  “I’ve heard,” I go on, “that the most important wish of a soldier is to die with honor. Is it true? I mean, we’re all destined to die, right? Can a few days of life equal the glory, I mean, the glory of dying for your country?”

  “Enough!” he bellows. “I’ve had it with this nonsense! Hell, I’ll die of hunger way before glory comes.”

  “Oh, I see! If not for craving a morsel of food, you’re a regular hero,” say I. “Wouldn’t a medal be grand? Or a bit of colored ribbon, perhaps?”

  “Enough already,” his voice bursts to an exasperated rasp. “You be careful, or I’ll tell mom about you! If somehow you manage to come out of here alive, I’ll make damn sure she kills you.”

  Which at once makes me remove the strap of the satchel from my shoulder, and let him grab it from me.

  “Hey,” says he, now with bulging cheeks and a mouth stuffed with bread, “you’ve seen him, right?”

  “Who?” say I.

  He takes a pause, chomping on a mouthful of olives. Not sparing a second to spit out the pits makes his speech incoherent, until he ends up swallowing, “Saul, who else.”

  “Sure,” I swagger. “Sure I have, it’s my job, you know, to play before the king.”

  At that, he coughs up a few bread crumbs. “Oh, stop it! I hate it when you brag.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Lots of rumors, you know… I hear he’s raving mad, isn’t he? Out to lunch? I mean, he’s few sandwiches short of a full picnic...”

  “His majesty is no madder than you or me,” I assure him.

  “You idiot!” he spits. “Knowing the two of us, that’s not exactly a clean bill of health!”

  “Speak for youself,” I tell him.

  “We’re in for a big trouble here, with that soft-minded Benjamite to lead us, somehow, into battle.”

  Before I can think of anything to say, I see my brother startled, suddenly, into cowering. Something, I sense, is afoot...

  I look up. At the dim light of dawn you can see little more than the dark, heavy cover of clouds. More and more of them are hanging overhead, rolling out of the unseen edge of the night, as if they were the first premonition of attack.

  And coming from the enemy lines somewhere in the distance, a drumbeat is intensifying to a boom, boom, boom.

  We fall to the ground and feel it shaking, shaking, shaking... We listen. We exchange looks. At last my brother says, “I would learn to pray in a big hurry, if I were you.”

  No longer do I wish to speak. Instead I clench my jaws, to stop them, somehow, from chattering.

  At the other side of the valley, the sun has just begun to rise. At first, its blood-tinged rays shoot straight into my eyes, blinding me. They make me blink, so it takes me time to adjust, to notice how, out of the shimmering air out there, the rays are starting to carve out three distinct silhouettes.

  Atop the rocky ridge overlooking the valley, three riders are now coming to a halt. Their stallions snort, scrambling a step or two backward, away from the edge. At last I recognize them: the king, flanked by his general on one side, and his son on the other.

  Clasping my lyre tightly, to stop its strings from trembling in the wind, I draw closer. Along the way I try to hide from sight, cowering here and there behind pieces of mossy, soggy turf, which serves me as camouflage. I tell myself, it is time to confuse the enemy. Let him misjudge me.

  Here I am. Here I am not.

  Here is pretending not to be watching Saul, and not to be listening.

  The Valley of Elah

  Chapter 5

  There, with their backs to me, they are: three silhouettes, drawn sharply against the gray, gloomy landscape. The horsemen in the center is the one I am watching with keen interest. He is tall, formidable, and cloaked. A ray of morning light reaches hesitantly for his crown, sets it afire, and then pulls back.

  Ahead of him, the valley opens like a fresh cut. Thin, muddy streams are washing over its rocks, oozing in and out of its cracks, and bleeding into its soil. L
ayers upon layers of moist, fleshy earth are pouring from one end to another, then halting on a slant, about to slip off. And from down below, somewhere under the heavy mist that hides the bottom of the valley from sight, stir some unexpected sounds.

  I wish I could ignore them. For a moment I am tempted to stick my fingers in my ears—but to do so I would have to let go of my lyre. Let go I cannot, because its strings may tremble in the air. My music may betray me, I mean, it may betray the place of my hideout.

  So I go on cowering, trying to imagine silence—only to be startled once more: in place of the first birdsongs of the day, there rise the shrieks of vultures.

  Sitting up there astride his stallion, the king hangs his head, which forces him to raise a hand to support his crown from slipping. In despair, he averts his eyes from the valley.

  So does his son, Jonathan. He is a slender teen with long arms and legs. His bravery is well-known throughout the land. I try to imagine him on the battlefield, wielding his weapon with a battle cry over the heads of the Philistines—but despite his reputation I find it impossible to do so. Why? Because at this moment he looks nothing like a war hero.

  Curled up atop his saddle, there he is, holding the end of his thick staff to his lips, sucking nervously on it like a baby who has just opened his eyes to discover his thumb.

  Everyone knows that he has a healthy appetite. Moreover, he is easily seduced by sweets. Jonathan must have dipped his staff in honey on his way here, riding through the Judea forest. He must have licked it clean by now. Perhaps the thing can still bring back a taste, or the memory of it.

  “Stop it, stop sucking already,” says the King to his son. “This is unbecoming of a prince. People are bound to find out.”

  And turning to his first in command, Abner Ben Ner, he grumbles, “I wish… I so wish all this would be over soon.”

  From somewhere far below them, a shriek tears through the air, followed by a faint cry for help. Abner dismounts his horse and leads it a step backwards, away from the lip of the ledge.