So I shake my head, bang it here, clang it there, and flail about to pull the thing off, and finally I am free of it, just in time for his speech, if you can call it that, to come to a full burst.
“Cowards,” yells his voice, in Aramaic this time.
Which tells me one thing: I must have underestimated him, I mean, his language skills. I warn myself from making this mistake again. If you aim for victory, you better start by respecting your enemy.
On and on come the echoes of his curse, as if to make sure that no one in his camp and in ours can avoid hearing it, “Cowards, cowards, cowards you, all of you!”
“Fucking hell,” says Saul, under his breath. “Not that again.”
“What,” I wonder, “you talked with him before?”
“If this can be called talking, then yes,” says the king. “Goliath barks, we listen.”
“Anything worth noting?”
“Lots of senseless repetition, I’m afraid. Every morning, every evening for forty days he’s come out here, and challenged us to send out a warrior of our own, to decide the outcome between our nations in single combat.”
“Really?” I cannot help asking. “He’s said all that?”
In return the king plucks nervously at the ringlets of his hair and mumbles something incoherently.
So I try again, “I suppose that’s a Yes?”
With a reddening face he turns to me. “This is no laughing matter. The fate of this nation, the life of your brothers, and our very freedom in this land... Damn, d’you even care about these things?”
“They all hang in the balance here,” I try to calm him down. “I get it, I do.”
His breath is labored. “We need a miracle,” he mutters. “But we rely on you.”
“Are you crazy?” I find the balls, somehow, to confront him, because what can he do to me? In his mind I am already as good as gone.
Saul holds himself back from answering, so by now his lower lip shows bite marks on it.
I press on, “Everything depends on a single combat—and it’s me you’re sending out there? Really?”
And under my breath I add, “I sure hope you have a plan B,” to which he has no comeback.
So I do what comes natural: I tear the armor off my back, which tugs at the rest of my clothes and in a rip, peels them away from me. I find myself wearing next to nothing, and at once I feel much cooler, and so much lighter on my feet.
Watching me, the king seems a bit stunned—but somehow he collects himself enough to blurt out, “What the hell... What exactly d’you think you’re doing?”
And I say, “Trying to stay alive, that’s what!”
And he says, “Really? What, by going up to him in the nude? Yeah right, that’ll knock Goliath immediately off his feet!”
“Look,” I say, trying to explain myself. “This armor has barely any tin in its metal. It is mostly copper. His is bronze. Who d’you suppose has the advantage, under these terms, soft against hard? With a single blow of his hand, Goliath’s going to crumple me.”
Saul shrugs, pretending not to understand.
In turn I shrug too, pretending not to notice his attitude. “You’re right,” I say. “The problem must be me, not this fine armor.”
“Of course I’m right,” he pouts. “Hell, that goes without saying.”
So I do my best to appease him. “Forgive me, your majesty, it’s all my fault. I haven’t tested it before. No way I can make a move in this thing, let alone fight.”
I lay the armor down at the king’s feet. It is leaning down there against my broken lyre. And a thought crosses my mind: here are the relics I am about to leave behind. Combat gear on one side—my string instrument on the other. Which way will I be remembered? Am I a fighter—or a poet?
In a snap I pluck a string from my lyre, and out of an old habit from my days back in Bethlehem, I tie a knot in it. All shepherds know that such a knot can cradle a stone, or a little pebble. All of us know how to swing such a sling, and how to release it with a flick of the wrist, at the precise moment when faced with a threat. It is a simple move, which frees the pebble to fly on its way to reach its target.
We all know it—but quite surprisingly, the king does not.
“Take my shield, at least. You better do it, do what I say! Between the two of us I’m the one with military experience,” he boasts.
I catch sight of the reflection, my reflection in his eyes. In a flash I know he sees me as a danger to him. He fears me, he prays for my demise, and at the same time he adores me, too. In me he hopes to capture the fading image of that which is lost to him. His youth.
I ask myself, what makes him so jealous of me? What is he thinking?
Perhaps this: there is David, a young boy with a glint in his eyes. Morning breeze plays with his curls. It breathes words of hope and promise in his ear.
Yet unscarred by battle, his skin is smooth. His muscles are flexible, his hands strong. They are large, larger than you would expect for such a slender body. They are the hands of a killer.
There is David. Narrowing his eyes to focus them at the enemy, the boy is searching for a way to change, to become that which is not: larger than life. There he stands, ready for the kill.
I smile at Saul. He is slow to smile back.
“Trust me,” he says. “It’s no good, being exposed like that. Here, take my shield.”
“No,” I shake my head, stubbornly. “No shield.”
“As you wish,” the king backs away from me.
Which makes something flare up in my heart. So with brazen defiance, “Yes,” I say, over his words. “Just as I wish.”
“I shall go no further,” he says, turning away. “This spot, right here, marks the middle of the slope. The middle between us, really. I have as much distance to go up to the top as you have to go to the bottom.”
“Yes,” I hear myself saying. “This is where we must part.”
Then he casts a look back over his shoulder, by way of dismissal. “From here on, son, you’re on your own.”
And with that, Saul mounts the stallion. I wish I could pat it one last time—but hold myself back. A minute later I hear the sound of galloping, galloping away.
I feel a breath of wind on my skin, and welcome it. By some strange twist, now that my body is no longer protected by metal, my heart must have hardened. I can no longer sense fear. With a sudden thrill I find myself impatient.
Boy, I am eager to meet the Philistine.
*
But the impression Saul leaves in me, that image of myself, which I have just seen reflected in his eyes, lingers in my mind. It is, for me, a revelation.
For the first time in my life I see myself not as a child—but as a youth about to embark on an exciting challenge. Call it, if you will, a ritual of manhood. I am about to prove myself—in his eyes and the eyes of the entire world—as a warrior. And boy oh boy, am I in love with me!
My new role is so inspiring, so flattering to me, that on the spot I make up my mind: if, by some quirk of fate, I come out of this alive—and not only alive but victorious, too—and if I end up being the husband of a princess, rich enough to afford some mildly extravagant luxuries, then, look out! I am going to splurge like there is no tomorrow!
Despite working as the court musician until now, I have a refined, expensive taste, more than anyone else I know in the royal court. So—no matter the cost—I am going to commission the most renowned, gifted artists in the world, so they may have the pleasure of sculpting my figure, carving it in marble. I am going to pose for them, just so!
I want the arms buffed, rubbed and polished till they are smooth. I want the armor and the lyre carved at the base, between my marble feet, not only because they add a certain flair to the whole piece—but because I sense that their bulk will give it structural strength, so the thing does not topple over or crumble upon itself.
Alas, difficulties may well arise… I already know it. No Jewish artist will accept such a task. Why? All be
cause of that ridiculous, utterly unreasonable second commandment of our faith, namely, “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.”
So with no Jewish artists at my disposal, I will have to make do with one of the heathens. I have no qualms about their skill, except for this oddity: most likely, they will create me in their image. Uncircumcised.
Which means I will be big, I mean, big in every respect. Larger than life, that would be me! Larger than any old prick! Larger than Goliath! And I must be placed on a high pedestal, for all to worship me, because trust me: at the end of today I will be a regular hero.
Truly, I care little about the words, “Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them.” When I am the husband of a princess—or even better, when I am king—I promise myself, we shall see about that... My future subjects should treat me with the respect I deserve, and the same respect should be extended to any icon, sculpture, or painting depicting me. So bow down, bow down already! Show me your love!
These plans play themselves out in my mind in the most splendid, grandiose manner. Meanwhile here I am, barefoot. With staff in hand I scramble over a boulder here, a crag there. The rocks are slippery, the earth soggy, the puddles splashy, all of which feels so good, so vivid! Never before did I feel this way... I skate, slip and slide all the way down, heading for the darkest, most obscure area under the fog.
The rays of the sun are painting the opposite ridge, there at the top of the valley, with warm yellows, glittering golds. But they reach only halfway down, way short of the bluish mist that is still blanketing the bottom of the valley.
Here, under this cover, it is an eery sight. One cloud of murk after another drift aimlessly in the air. In the thick haze I step among rocks and bodies, barely noting the difference between one immobile shape and another. I am finding my way by touch rather than by vision. All the while I am grateful, so grateful that the vultures are nowhere in sight. In the distance I spot an outline of a dog here, a dog there, sniffing the remains with their tails between their legs.
And for the first time in my life I pray for help. I look up the slope searching, hoping for something divine, something that will guide me, show me the path out of this dark passage. I cry out to God, bless me, sustain me, protect me... You are the only shield I have against my foes, the shadow by my right hand.
Now I hear the babbling of a brook, and before long I am sloshing my way through it. This must be the border, the natural border between us and the Philistines. From here on I am encroaching on the turf of the enemy. I stop to choose five pebbles from the brook. Four of them I put in my pouch, and one in the knot of my sling.
My wrist is ready. I peer through the mist, listening intently for the voice of the Philistine.
“Coward,” he howls, and his voice rattles me. It sounds so close that for a second, I am stunned.
It is then that rays of light finger the mist, first with some hesitation. Then with a rip, they pierce through it, and are now shining directly upon him.
His heavy ankles, covered with bronze leg armors, are planted slightly above the level of my eyes, on a ledge up there, at the opposite side. As the light becomes sharper, so does his shadow. With a steep slant, it is cascading over the limestone outcrops. There is Goliath, overshadowing me.
“Coward!” he coughs out. “Coward, you!”
The Mystery of a Pebble
Chapter 9
It is then that I become painfully aware of my earlier mistake. Alas, I must have been blinded by pride, by my own foolishness, which is the flip side of courage. No matter what you call it, it is that thing that drives young, inexperienced warriors like me to take unnecessary risks.
Earlier, looking at Goliath from a safe distance, it seemed to me that he stood three cubits and a span, at most. Oh, was I wrong! Now, at close range, I come to realize that my estimate fell quite a bit short of being accurate, and a sudden fright falls upon me.
There he stands, incredibly huge. Barely human, with an armor that covers him head to toe, Goliath looks like a scaly, oversized mechanical beast. Up there, in the front part of his helmet, darkness is glaring out of his eye slits. Only now do I understand that they are meant not so much for looking—but for scaring the enemy...
Metal is grinding against metal as his hefty arms sway in the air. At the end of a long scrape, Goliath claps a hand right over that place where his mouth would be found, if it were not masked by that helmet.
“Cowards,” he manages, somehow, to cough out.
Clearly, he is not a man of words. That is to say, words have a way of choking him. I figure that repeating his single favorite one must have proved quite a mouthful for him.
Trained for such an occasion, his arm’s bearer comes to the rescue. The boy brings out a bullhorn, and out of the mouth of it he produces something white: a handkerchief, which the giant flicks off. Wiping his drool seems like a waste of time to him. I suppose he has no appreciation for the daintier things in life.
Making an effort to clear his throat, “Cowards,” he mutters, in a choked voice.
So the boy starts yelping into the bullhorn, in place of his master, because in his mind, the show must go on.
“Why have you come out to draw up for battle?” he blares, in tones that are as manly as he can possibly produce, so as to fool the faraway crowds on both sides, outs and theirs.
From a distance, our soldiers can barely notice the boy, not only because the he is so slight—but also because he carries that huge shield for his master, which makes him disappear in plain sight.
“Am I not Goliath,” cries the boy, raising his voice to its highest pitch. The echoes of his cry, amplified through the bullhorn, resound soundly throughout the valley.
At hearing these words, a great hush falls upon our soldiers up there. I figure they must be dismayed and greatly afraid. So if history be written, the words uttered by the arm’s bearer would forever belong to the throat of his master.
By now the boy figures that the stage is his. So he blares, “Am I not a Philistine, and are you not servants of Saul? Choose a man for yourselves, and let him come down to me. If he’s able to fight with me and kill me, then we’ll be your servants. But if I prevail against him and kill him, then you shall be our servants and serve us.”
Behind him, Goliath gives it another try, which gags him.
In his place, the arm’s bearer goes on to declare, with joyous, overblown passion, “I defy the ranks of Israel this day. Give me a man, that we may fight together!”
And Goliath wheezes something, which sounds somewhat like, “Fight, cowards...” But his voice is so low, so broken up into stutter, that no one but me can detect it.
I figure I might as well let him notice me, so I rise up and on the whim of a moment I wave at him, in a manner of greeting, which causes him to redouble his efforts to stop coughing—only to realize that alas, his cold is bigger than him.
With a sense of astonishment he blurts out, “Fight?”
“Gladly,” I say, for no better reason than to be friendly.
Goliath lifts his helmet halfway, because it is heavy, even for him. Then with a metal nail he digs into his ear, perhaps to unclog it, the better to hear me.
At last he pulls the helmet off his head, the better to see me—or else, to draw a breath of air. The sight of his scalp is quite awesome. Coils upon coils of hair are snaking, swarming all around it, heavily drenched with sweat. Something tightens in my throat, and the only way I can try to relax myself is by smiling at him.
For a second he curls his lips to smile back, which bares his jaws. They are red and quite inflamed. Yes, smiling is a good thing, but if you ask me, it helps to have teeth. Goliath does not.
He stares at me in disdain as if to ask, Who the hell is this? Just a youth, ruddy and handsome in appearance, and what in the name of the gods does this nobody think he is doing her
e, in this place?
And being a nobody I find myself torn between a sense of fear, which tells me to scurry for cover, and the temptation to become a hero, which urges me to charge ahead. So I tell myself—perhaps foolishly—that this giant may have been a skilled warrior in his time, but now, apparently, he has grown old. If you ask me, Goliath can lose them the battle with one hand tied behind his back.
I wave my staff at him, in the most courteous manner, as a prelude to a diplomatic exchange.
In return he utters a full sentence, even two, which catches me by surprise. “Am I a dog?” he barks. “Why you come at me with sticks?”
Meanwhile his arms bearer continues to do his best to control his master, to transform his part of the conversation into an eloquent, uplifting motivational speech. The boy becomes truly inventive with what he says next.
“Come, come here!” The words bounce against the rocks and dance all around me. “I’ll give your flesh to the birds of the air and to the beasts of the field.”
The show must go on, which is why I ignore the boy and address myself to Goliath, raising my voice to him as only a great entertainer like me can do. And I listen to what comes out of my mouth with great astonishment, as if it is not me talking but a higher force. The words are flowing through me as if I were merely a vessel, and all I can do is amplify every shade of meaning in them.
“You come to me with a sword and with a spear and with a javelin,” I charge. “But I come to you in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied.”
Goliath shakes his head, perhaps to deny that he has done anything of the sort—or else to indicate that he understood not a word of what I was saying. Of course, that does not stop me.
“This day,” I warn him, “the Lord will deliver you into my hand, and I’ll strike you down and cut off your head.”
His arm’s bearer hesitates. Then he brings his bullhorn to his lips, but before he can figure out what to say I go on with it.
“And,” I promise, “I’ll give the dead bodies of the host of the Philistines this day to the birds of the air and to the wild beasts of the earth, that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel, and that all this assembly may know that God saves not with sword and spear. For the battle is God’s, and he shall give you into our hand.”
Rise to Power (The David Chronicles) (Volume 1) Page 7