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

by Uvi Poznansky

  The boy cannot find a way to counter, because when I am onstage I perform with unequaled passion. I trust the sound of the words, and they turn into truth, into power. I am beyond compare, and he knows it. Defeated in this battle, in the war of words, he draws back in silence.

  Now I look at the audience up there, tiny heads hanging over the highest ridges up there, at the top the valley, all holding their breath. I know they know I am facing a giant, and I tell myself, Too bad. The time for words is over. What would you do now?

  And then, before I can find the answer to my question, the Philistine stirs. He too senses that this is the time for action, which is what he does best. With a mechanical grind he passes his arms bearer, who holds his bronze shield behind him. This is never supposed to happen. With not a moment to spare, Goliath draws his sword near. Only a few paces away, it is raised now to the level of my throat.

  I must have lost my mind, because I leap over the brook and run quickly towards him. And I put my hand in my bag and take out one of my pebbles and sling it.

  It is now that time starts slowing down. With sharp, heightened senses I feel the morning breeze playing with my curls, brushing them this way and that, down to the nape of my neck. Here I am, twisting over my legs, wringing my body in a tortuous effort to gather momentum, to let a pebble fly. This, I tell myself, is no dream. This is for real. I am aiming to slay a giant.

  If I live, someone should sculpt me in this pose, just so.

  Now I aim at his head, because it was the only exposed part of him. I close one eye, so I may focus better.

  Then I take my shot.

  Eventually, the historians may write events in a different manner—but then, who cares? They are not here to bear witness. Now here is my little secret, which I will never divulge to anyone: I have missed him!

  That first pebble has flown, somehow, in the wrong direction, right over his shoulder. And having grazed his ear, it hits something which I can barely see, down there behind the giant.

  Overhead, the audience heaves a deep sigh, which confuses my sense of hearing—but in spite of this I catch a slight pinging sound, stone against metal. Perhaps, my pebble has bounced against the bronze shield out there. Goliath takes a step in my direction, and the earth rumbles.

  Then, before I have a chance to gather my wits about, or kick myself in the butt, or—better yet—start escaping, something happens. I wipe my eyes in amazement, because here in front of me Goliath starts tipping forward, as if something has hit him in the head from behind.

  Even so, why should I take any chances? Just as he comes tumbling over into me, I find the presence of mind to step back, and to take out a second pebble and sling it at him.

  Thankfully, this one finds its target. It strikes the Philistine in his forehead, and sinks into it, and he falls on his face into the mud, right here at my feet.

  I take hold of his sword, give it a yank, and with a strength I have never known I had in me I lift it up, slashing the air to and fro with grand, theatrical gestures. The sharp edge turns, shining gloriously in the sun.

  The crowd is in an uproar.

  Victory!

  His Head is Mine

  Chapter 10

  Holding the sword upright over the head of the Philistine, and shaking a little on my feet, I know one thing for sure: by the rules of engagement, the outcome of this battle has already been decided by his fall. Now I have little time before they arrive here, I mean, our soldiers. They are sure to leap down into the valley, uttering wild battle cries and aiming their weapons at the backs of the enemy, who would be dispersing in confusion.

  And time is dear, time something I need. I must finish the job quickly, because when a giant falls you take no chances. What if he has merely fainted—only to rise to his feet again in a few minutes, and come at me? And what if he is simply faking it?

  So I take a deep breath. The sword feels ferociously heavy over me. Then in one fell swoop I bring it down with all my force, cutting deep into his throat.

  This is the moment when I decide that in the future, I must refrain from describing all the gory details, I mean, how my victim coughs and sputters as the flesh starts tearing apart... How his arms flail, trying to reach for me, to yank the hilt of the sword out of my hold... How the color seems to be draining from his skin... How blood spurts from the wound, gushing from the sliced vein... How it shoots from his neck all over the blade, and all the way up to the palm of my hand.

  This, I say to myself, used to be the hand of a musician. Is this the hand of a hero? A warrior? A killer? It seems to move by its own will, as if it belonged to someone else.

  Who am I now?

  With trembling fingers I brush the coils of his hair. They slither in the mud around his head, sticky to the touch. I grab them and with one pull, turn the head over.

  Two bulging, bloodshot eyes are staring up at me, and another one is gaping open right there, in the middle of his forehead, which is where my pebble has hit him. I am utterly fascinated by this third eye. By the sight of it I know right away that I will have some explaining to do.

  I have no doubt that in the coming days, those dreary historians in the royal court are going to interrogate me, because they must obey Saul, who has no use for competition, and no patience for heroes of any kind. I mean, once a hero has completed his service for the throne, he must relinquish his claim to glory. All glory must belong to the king, and to him alone.

  I can just imagine the scene. Raising their eyebrows the historians would ask me, “Are you sure you’re the one who killed Goliath? How can you be so sure? It could’ve been some other warrior, don’t you think? Now, tell us exactly what happened.”

  “Again?” I would ask.

  “Yes, again.”

  “What would you like to know that I haven’t told you already?”

  “What kind of a weapon is a pebble? Never heard of it. How d’you calculate its trajectory? Can it kill a man? Can it kill a giant? Really? Even so... If, indeed, you shot the pebble, and if that was the thing that hit his forehead, Goliath should’ve fallen backwards, shouldn’t he?”

  “I have no idea. Who am I to know?”

  “No really, don’t shrug it off. Was there a second shooter?”

  “What? Again with those conspiracy theories?”

  “Pay attention now: we ask the questions, you provide the answers. So, again, from the beginning: you sure you’re the one who killed Goliath?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  I wipe the scene from my mind, and the sweat off my brow. The mere fact that the Philistine was rude enough to fall face down is going to cause me a lot of grief. Alas, it is going to call my act of bravery into question.

  So I make a mental note to myself: from now on, avoid talking to historians. Avoid it at all cost—unless, of course, they belong to me.

  Then, on a whim—perhaps to show them, all of them, an undeniable proof of victory—I shove the point of Goliath’s sword right into the center of his cut neck, as hard as I can, impaling it. And I raise the thing over me, holding it the way a child would do, if he were to brag about licking a huge lollipop.

  At this moment I give no thought to how barbaric my action may be—and even if I do, what of it? These, I tell myself, are barbaric times, unfit for the faint of heart. What is called for is utter cruelty.

  To the eyes of a distant spectator, it must be a horrifically strange sight. Here comes the small, slender body of a young warrior, over which the face of a giant is hanging, with coils of hair swaying in the air back and forth, back and forth...

  Overshadowed by it I grit my teeth under my burden, and with every step, every labored stumble forward, I tell myself, and I tell the whole world: Goliath is dead. His head is mine!

  At long last I have become what I always wanted to be: larger than life!

  Around me rages a clash of arms. Brandishing their swords, our soldiers have arrived by now. There they are, down at the brook a few paces from me, rushing
to cross over to the other side of the valley, with sharp cries of revenge.

  But then, when their eyes fall upon me they halt, and a great hush falls upon them. They keep a space around me, and with great respect—which is delightfully new to me—they wait for me to make my move, to lead the charge.

  And so, slowly climbing the path, nearly collapsing under the weight of my trophy, I let the troops follow me. At last I arrive at the top, bringing the battle to the Philistines. They gape upon the dismembered head of their champion, and when they notice that it is coming at them, they start gasping and shrieking in fear. A great number of them leave their shields and weapons behind, because the lighter they are—the faster they can bolt from this place.

  What happens next seems like a daze to me. Having been a child entertainer up to this point, I have never been to a battlefield before, let alone in this new role, this odd public capacity as half David and half Goliath. Constantly advancing I feel the earth rumbling under my feet as the Philistines flee in fright before me.

  I sense heat, the heat of battle, sizzling in my veins. I hear a flourish of metal, the swoosh of arrows flying back and forth on all sides. Without looking down I step over the bodies of the fallen, the wounded, the weak… Guided mostly by a sense of touch I am unable to make any distinction between theirs and ours.

  And for a minute I think I spot someone out there, a tiny outline of him back there on the ledge, on our side of the valley. I know it must be Saul, because the sun hits a metallic thing on his head, and at once it comes aglitter.

  Then the sweat runs into my eyes, and I can no longer find him out there, nor can I locate his crown.

  *

  Despite pushing my way amidst the clash of arms I have no idea if it has lasted minutes or hours.

  Looking around me I can spot only a few of our soldiers still loitering about, looting the remains. The rest of them are long gone. I assume they are chasing the enemy deeper and deeper into their territory. I am dizzy. Somehow, the events of the day must have laid a cloud of bewilderment over me. I snap out of it only when I take note of the girls.

  In place of the troops, there are scores and scores of young women hopping and swaying their hips joyously all around this place, which is still muddy, even at high noon under a burning sun, and still drenched in blood.

  Both hands up—still carrying my trophy, which has started to reek—I have no way of wiping the sweat from my eyes. Over the stink of the dead, I smell the fresh, clean fragrance of their hair.

  By their perfume I figure these are sophisticated women, women of the cities, the kind of which I have never come close to in my hometown, nor in the court. They must have come out here celebrate victory, and they do it by frolicking around me with great abandon.

  The air tingles with the lovely clinking of their cymbals, and the soft, rhythmic beating of their tambourines. These sounds awaken me. All of a sudden I am aroused in a way I have never sensed before. For me this is a stirring, new sensation. Oh boy, I say to myself, am I hard! I mean, really!

  Pray, I beseech you, for my sanity! If not for this big head, which is already turning blue, and which I must go on holding up with all my might... If not for Goliath I would find it impossible to avoid touching these lovely girls. Oh, I would brush my fingers over their necks, over their naked shoulders and sleek arms, which are playing a beat, a fast, fiery beat on the tight skin of their tambourines.

  To my surprise, one girl rises up on her tiptoes to kiss my lips. Another one rubs the aching muscles of my shoulders, and her fingers feel so, so good to the touch. A third one swings by, takes out a lace handkerchief, and blots the sweat from the corner of my eye. Then she gives me a wink, the kind of which no girl in Bethlehem ever did.

  “Hello, handsome,” she bats her painted eyelashes.

  I am lurching from one foot to another without really moving from my spot, just to try, to look as if I am keeping up with her. “Oh, hello,” I mumble.

  “You so strong,” she breathes in my ear in a deliciously throaty voice. “Just looking at your sword here, oh my, it makes me blush. Really, it makes me think such naughty thoughts. Shame, shame on you, darling!”

  At that I find myself tongue tied.

  So she wraps her arms around me, holding me captive. “I don’t scare you—now, do I? It’s just, I can’t resist soldiers, and the way you hold up your weapon, so straight, so erect! That’s simply adorable.”

  I wish to offer an apology, to say, No, this is not really mine, this sword. Instead I just say, “Hello,” once more, hearing the sudden catch in my throat.

  She winks at me, “You know, to the victor go the spoils, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, what?”

  “But,” she takes note, “I see you have both hands kinda busy.”

  “Who, me?”

  “So, whenever you’re done with this fellow,” she hints at the huge, hairy head wobbling up there, at the end of the sword, “just swing by my place, honey, will you?”

  With that she twirls back into the dance.

  And I am left there thinking, Oh boy! If I have ever dreamt about a hero’s welcome, this has exceeded it by far!

  Circles form around me, one ripple inside another, dancers and more dancers swim in the air this way and that, turning to liquid before my eyes as if seen through vapors, or under the influence of alcohol. Boy, am I intoxicated…

  Some of them have generous curves, which drop ever so gently into their tight, fitted tops. Their embroidered hip belts are richly decorated, sewn with sequins and coins, and with a fringe of beads that is shaking—somewhat loosely—in tandem with the heaving of their breasts. Their wide skirts are flowing creations in glowing rainbow colors, made of sheer fabrics that are twisting over their harem pants.

  Oh, sweet temptation! The way they move, the way they shimmy! The speed with which these girls swing the knees, somehow, while shaking their shapely thighs up and down, side-to-side, forward and back! And here, look here, the lovely undulations of this chest! Oh, I could go on and on, just make me stop...

  Another girl calls me to follow her, follow the beat of her step. Yes, if not for the fact that my own lyre is broken, I would surely join in, I would play the music, dance the dance!

  Then I would hug her waist, lean my tired head on her shoulders, and take in this sweet, arousing smell. Yes, I would bring myself closer into her warmth, her embrace, and forget feeling lonely. Yes, I must have her, because I am the victor! I deserve it all!

  Quite conveniently I forget, at this moment, all about my prize, the reward that must be waiting for me back there, at the palace. The princess is in her golden bedroom, expecting me.

  Later I whisper her name to myself, rolling it slowly on my tongue, tasting it. Merav... I imagine her looking out the window, perking her ears for the first hint of my footsteps. The doors fly apart before me and there she is, adorned with her best jewels, opening her arms to me...

  But then, looking at these beauties around me I am in no hurry to get back to her.

  She is mine. Let her wait.

  But now I realize one thing: I must be coming out of a stupor. I realize this because only now do I pay attention to what it is these girls around me are singing.

  The song has started in soft tones just a few minutes ago, and now that I hear it, I take note of the words, "Saul has killed his thousands, and David his tens of thousands! Tens of thousands! Tens of thousands! Tens of thousands!”

  Which of course is wrong on both accounts. The blood on my hands means I am the slayer of Goliath—but for sure it does not amount to taking the lives of tens of thousands of souls.

  And as for the king, I doubt he has made his way into the battlefield at all, because with his military experience he must stay out there, to oversee the movement of our forces from afar, and direct them to go here or there. So in truth, he has killed not a single soul.

  The song, which has started with a whisper, starts gaining volume. By now the hills around me
are dancing, they are rocking wildly, faster and faster. "Saul has killed his thousands, and David his tens of thousands! Tens of thousands! Tens of thousands! Tens of thousands!”

  The words send a sudden chill down my spine, because I know the king. I now him all too well. By now he must be back on his throne, listening carefully to his spies, drilling them, letting them feel his terrible gaze. They are trembling before him even as they are delivering the news from the front.

  Usually they are reluctant to report defeat—but now, what makes them sweat, of all things, is this song of victory.

  Saul forces them to repeat it word for word, over and over again, and to analyze every nuance in every one of them, because there must be no secrets before him. I can imagine how jealous he becomes, madly jealous of me—and dangerous to them.

  "Saul has killed his thousands, and David his tens of thousands! Tens of thousands! Tens of thousands! Tens of thousands! Tens, tens, tens, tens of thousands!”

  The first line of this song offers praise for Saul—only to snatch it away in the second. The words make it sound as if I am more man than he is, which, quite obviously, is true.

  Larger than life, that’s me!

  I better keep away from the court for a while, because when Saul explodes with anger, he has this nasty habit of throwing his spear at me. At this point I am weary of dodging it. What we have here is no longer a game. My life is on the line.

  And so is his crown.

  Fame

  Chapter 11

  I am intoxicated by fame. I love it! Getting used to it, like getting used to a woman—even one you happen to adore—is not as easy as you may think. But then again, who’s complaining?