Abishai makes no move. Unlike me, he has no taste for taking souvenirs. I snatch the spear and the water jug from their place near Saul’s head, and in a flash, we leave.
No one has seen us so far, nor has anyone awakened. They seem to be in a deep, heavy slumber. Abner, the first in command, has just turned on his side, and his eyelids are starting to flutter open.
We leap off the ridge and land onto the craggy slope, where a bumpy ride begins. We skid around one rock and onto another, trying our best not to let out cries, sharp cries of pain mixed with glee, cries that rise to our throats simply for being alive, for being young, for being here, able to endure it all!
We stagger the rest of the way till reaching the foot of the hill. With Abishai trailing me I cross over a dry river bed and climb up to the top of the opposite hill, which puts a safe distance between us and them.
I clear my throat, this time with full intention to arouse the king and his men, up there in his camp. Granted, I have spared his life—but as for his feelings, look out! Anything goes! Why not stage a show, why not entertain the troops? Why not help them out of their boredom? They would crack up laughing at the enemy, he who has been spreading rumors about me, calling me a traitor.
So I take a deep breath and call out, “Hello there! Aren’t you going to answer me, Abner son of Ner?”
And he replies, in a drowsy tone, “Who are you, who calls to the king?”
To which I say, “Can’t you hear? It’s you I’m calling. Rise and shine! You’re a man, aren’t you?”
And he says, “Of course I am!”
And I say, “And who’s like you in all of Israel?”
“I am,” he boasts, “the king’s commander!”
“Then, why didn’t you guard your lord, the king? D’you know that someone came up there, an hour ago, to destroy him?”
He is silent, so I press on, “What you’ve done is no good, Abner! You and your men must die, because you’ve failed to guard your master, the Lord’s anointed.”
He mumbles, “Nonsense. I don’t believe a word you say.”
“Then, why don’t you look around you,” I suggest to him, with acid politeness. “Where are the king’s spear and the water jug that were near his head?”
He keeps his mouth shut this time, and I see him out there, crawling on his hands and knees, fumbling about to find these things, which are here, in my hands.
Meanwhile, Saul has risen to his feet and he is standing there, shielding his eyes from the morning rays, trying to spot where I am. Finally he cries out over the deep divide between us, “Is that your voice, David my son?”
Rarely has he called me that: David, my son. The softness in his voice has a profound impact on me, which is even more devastating when he opens his long arms to hug me, as if the gap between us means nothing to him. I shiver, and wish that I could fly into them, and find myself in his embrace. I yearn, for a moment, to be his son.
I breathe in, breathe out. The moment has come and gone.
I have to remind myself that up to now, he has been referring to me as ‘the son of Jesse’ without even caring to mention my name. So be it! I am my father’s son—not his.
Meanwhile, the echoes of his voice go on reverberating across the rocky terrain, “Is that your voice… Your voice, David… David, my son…”
In reply I say, “Yes it is, my lord the king.”
He must have wanted me to call him father. In disappointment, he lowers his outstretched arms to his sides.
I challenge him, “Why is my lord pursuing his servant? What have I done, what wrong am I guilty of?”
He cannot come up with anything to say, because once he has called me son in front of his men, he has given up the possibility of naming me a traitor.
So I bow mockingly before him, which makes my men burst into laughter, and at the same time, brings stinging tears to my eyes.
“Now let my lord the king listen to his servant’s words,” I bow again. “If God has incited you against me, then may He accept an offering. If, however, people have done it, may they be cursed before the Lord! They have driven me today from my share in the Lord’s inheritance and have said, ‘Go, serve other gods.’”
“No one is to blame for all this,” he admits, “but me.”
And I counter, “Now don’t let my blood fall to the ground far from the presence of the Lord. I am a nobody, really… The king of Israel has come out to look for a flea—as one hunts a game-bird, a partridge in the mountains.”
Then he beats across his chest. “I have sinned. Come back to me, David my son.”
“I am the son of Jesse.”
“Because you considered my life precious today, I promise: I’ll not try to harm you again. I’ve acted like a fool. I’ve been terribly, terribly wrong. Forgive me.”
His words are so persuasive, so disarming, that they make me hard with anger that I cannot be angry at him anymore.
“Here is the king’s spear,” I say, lifting it for all to see. “Let one of your men come over and get it. The Lord delivered you into my hands today, but I would not lay a hand on the Lord’s anointed.”
And as I utter these words, I have the distinct feeling that he understands, with perfect clarity, why I have decided to spare his life. This is not about him—it is me we are talking about, me, and the sanctity of the crown, which I am trying to preserve, because I am preparing myself to replace him.
“As surely as I valued your life today,” I call out to him, “so may the Lord value my life, and deliver me from all trouble.”
Then Saul says to me, in a rough, defeated tone of voice, “May you be blessed, David my son. You’re going to do great things in your life. You shall triumph.”
And on this note, the conversation comes to an end. We go our separate ways. Saul goes to his palace, and I turn back to the wilderness.
His figure is fading away, as clouds of dust, whipped in by the morning breeze, start swirling between us. Already I am beginning to have trouble recalling his face to mind.
I cannot move past this moment. It leaves a nagging feeling in me. One day I am going to regret it. I will be sorry for mocking him, while he found the courage to come clean, to call me into his arms. I have refused his love, and worse than that, I have denied him my forgiveness.
This has been an incomplete farewell. Perhaps I can embrace him when we meet again, so I can stop agonizing over it.
Little do I know that this conversation is our last one.
Abigail
Chapter 22
Hard to imagine, but now I am the bad guy. To my astonishment, being a wanted criminal has its rewards. One of them is being sought out by women. So I figure it is time to live up to my name.
I mean, what else can I do? I wish I could make a living playing music—but without a rich patron, that would not put food on the table, not even a few crumbs, and I have to provide not only for me—but for my followers as well. Starting a farming business is no good either, because I must stay light on my feet, and avoid attachments to any place whatsoever.
The only occupation that seems promising at this point is collecting money from wealthy landowners, in return for keeping them and their property safe from all kinds of hoodlums, including mine. I hate to call it extortion, because it is such a blunt, unpleasant word—but unfortunately, that is what it amounts to.
From time to time I think about writing a psalm or two, or composing music—only to realize that I can no longer do it. I mean, honestly, what can I write? “Blessed is the one who does not walk in step with the wicked, or stand in the way that sinners take, or sit in the company of mockers?”
My harp has been left behind in the hands of my wife, Michal, who must have forgotten me by now. I try not to think about her, because her husband Palti enters the picture as soon as I do, and because I can hear her voice then, claiming that I do not deserve her.
She is so right.
Now I cannot produce a single note, and not only because I am missing my instrume
nt. Something else is missing, perhaps because of my new line of work—yet I am unsure what it is. Perhaps love, or passion, or a yearning for something mysterious, something that purifies the soul.
One of the wealthy people I target for extortion lives in Maon. When speaking about him, my men use language in a deplorable way. In spite of my sincere objections they never use his real name, which may explain why it escapes me now. Instead, they call him Nabal. It is nasty nickname, which—forgive me for saying so—means son of a bitch.
I suppose it serves him right for refusing to pay his dues to us.
Nabal has a thousand goats and three thousand sheep, which he is shearing in Carmel. His wife, Abigail, has a reputation. I mean, she is said to be pretty and clever, which makes me want to pay both of them a visit.
Just to give him a little advance warning, so he knows I am serious about my business, I send him a long-winded message, which is borderline threatening if you care to interpret it that way.
I neglect to say how thirsty, how truly famished we are. Instead, my message opens cheerfully. “Long life to you! Good health to you and your household! And good health to all that’s yours! Now I hear that it’s sheep-shearing time. When your shepherds were with us, we didn’t mistreat them, and the whole time they were at Carmel nothing of theirs was missing. Ask your own servants and they’ll tell you.”
After these niceties I conclude with a purposely vague demand. “Be favorable toward my men, since we come at a festive time. Please give your servants and your son David whatever you can find for them.”
The rascal! He laughs in the face of my messengers. “My son, you say? Ha! I have more of these than I know what to do with. Who is this David? Who is this son of Jesse?”
And before they have a chance to sing my praises, or to offer a few clear, unveiled threats, he follows that up with, “Many servants are breaking away from their masters these days.”
Judging by this answer, he must have heard about Saul chasing me. Before my messengers can spin things, he asks, without expecting an answer, “Why should I take my bread and my water, and the meat I’ve slaughtered for my shearers, and give it to men coming from who knows where?”
At hearing this I become enraged. I mean, the blackmail business is difficult enough, why make it more grueling than is absolutely necessary? Alas, I find myself in the uneasy position of having to prove this very point to Nabal.
I order two hundred of my men to stay behind with the supplies, and the other four hundred to strap on their swords. The earth shakes under our feet as we climb up over the ridge of Mount Carmel, and down into one of the ravines.
Between one rock and another we catch sight of the blue sea, which deflects the rays of light into our eyes. It is a hot day. The trail is treacherous, with numerous twists and turns. Our faces turn red under the fiery, unrelenting sun. My rage is churning inside, together with pangs of hunger and cramps of thirst.
And then, then what do I see coming around the bend but the answer to my prayers.
Food! Water!
A train of donkeys is coming our way. Heaped upon their backs are baskets filled with freshly baked loaves of bread, enormous skins of wine, five dressed sheep, bags of roasted grain, cakes of raisins and of pressed figs.
And at the head of this procession, a red-cheeked woman rides her donkey side saddle. From a distance she looks like a sack of potatoes wearing an apron, a flowery, ruffled apron suffused with a tantalizing smell, honey and butter mixed together.
When she sees me, Abigail hops off her donkey and bows down before me with her face to the ground. Her hand is the one thing I can see. It is powdered with flour, from baking all these lovely loaves and cakes.
She falls at me feet, pleading, “Pardon your servant, my lord, and let me speak to you. Hear what your servant has to say. Please pay no attention, my lord, to that wicked man, Nabal.”
I am a bit surprised she knows his nickname, and even more surprised at how eloquently she managed to weave it into a delicate yet clever spiel. This woman can serve as a top diplomat in critically important foreign countries. Her pastries are honey coated, and so is her tongue!
Abigail draws closer to me. “My husband, he’s just like his name—son of a bitch! And as for me, your servant, I didn’t see the men my lord sent.”
Now she clasps my hand, and her fingers are warm to the touch. “And now,” she says, “since the Lord has kept you from bloodshed and from avenging yourself with your own hands, may your enemies and all who are intent on harming my lord be like my husband, Nabal.”
“Amen,” I say, allowing myself to be swayed by this fine flattery.
With a lovely gesture Abigail points at the heaps of food. “Let this gift, which your servant has brought to my lord, be given to the men who follow you.”
My hoodlums, who are literally drooling by now, start cheering. I silence them, just to hear some more of her voice.
Abigail winks at them and smiles at me. “Please forgive your servant’s presumption. The Lord your God will certainly make a lasting dynasty for my lord, because you fight the Lord’s battles, and no wrongdoing will be found in you as long as you live.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear,” I say.
“Even though someone is pursuing you to take your life, the life of my lord will be bound securely in the bundle of the living by the Lord your God, but the lives of your enemies He will hurl away as from the pocket of a sling.”
“Ah, you’ve heard what I did to Goliath—“
“Oh, I did! When the Lord has fulfilled for my lord every good thing he promised concerning him and has appointed him ruler over Israel, my lord won’t have on his conscience the staggering burden of needless bloodshed or of having avenged himself.”
“Amen to that!” I cry. “I’d rather God do the bloodshed instead of me.”
Then she bats her eyelashes. “And when the Lord your God has brought my lord success, remember your servant. Remember me, David…”
She says all that, and more. There are so many words, so many fancy, flowery expressions! All of them are addressed to me in a highly complementary manner, with my lord and your servant punctuating each and every sentence. Before long, my mind becomes cluttered with all that verbiage.
I thought I had a talent with words, but boy oh boy, does she exceed me! I am in awe! Like all Jewish women, her power comes from self sacrifice—but Abigail has perfected it through the use of flattery, which blows up the folly of her opponent to the point that he is completely in her hands.
She reminds me of the stories I heard about my great-grandmother, Ruth, and the way she found her way—having immigrated to a harsh country such as Canaan—to marry a rich landowner, my great grandfather, Boaz. I bet that’s how Abigail married Nabal.
The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and she knows it. She is a master at everything she does. I tell myself, here is a woman who knows how to handle a man. I let her handle me, if you know what I mean, for the duration of an entire evening.
Then I send her back to her husband. I swear I have nothing to do with his death the very next morning. When I hear about it I am truly stunned.
She must have known that Nabal has a weak heart. Why Abigail decided to tell him everything, all that happened between us, is anybody’s guess. With her skill with words, who knows to what incredible, delightful detail she has gone… And so, no wonder his heart gave out. What chance did the poor guy have?
It humbles me to think that I could not pressure him through brute force extortion as much as she did with a few choice words. This is a woman I must have!
After she has buried him I send word to Abigail, asking her to become my wife. This time—thank God!—her reply is short. She bows down and says, “I’m your servant, ready to serve you and wash the feet of my lord’s servants.”
And without mincing any more words, Abigail gets on a donkey and, attended by her female servants, comes to my place in the desert of Paran, to become my wife
. There is so much dancing and wine to be had at the wedding, that the morning after I ask another girl, Ahinoam of Jezreel, if she would be my wife, too.
With both of them in my bed, I can now begin to recover from forcing myself not to think about my first wife, Michal, and about my place at the king’s table, and how I dropped out of my rightful place in the hierarchy of succession to the throne.
A Question of Betrayal
Chapter 23
One of these days Saul is going to lose one of two things: his temper, or his wits. Either way I will be destroyed by his hand. And then, who knows? He may weep inconsolably, and mourn my untimely passing, even say nice things about me, some of which may be in earnest, because his hate of me is surpassed by only one emotion: love.
By now, at stake is much more than just my life. Six hundred fighters have gathered around me, which at first sight may be mistaken for a sign of strength—until you notice that alas, with all of them trailing me wherever I go, I have become an easily detectable target at which to aim.
And to complicate matters even more, each man has his family with him. I, for example, have my two lovely, newlywed wives: Ahinoam of Jezreel, and Abigail of Carmel, whose late husband, Nabal, has unwittingly fainted when she told him about our little affair, and passed away soon after, which left her in the unfortunate state of becoming a widow, and alas, in my care.
Now, the honeymoon is over. In the wake of it I find myself bewildered. All these newly formed relationships are quite complex for any man in my position, as is the burden of providing food and shelter for everyone. In short, I am perplexed. Our chances of survival are less than promising.
I am tired of life on the run, tired of having to find new ways to stay a step ahead of Saul. So I figure that the best thing I can do is to slip entirely out of his reach, and escape with my men across the border, into the land of the Philistines.
I lead them into the gates of the city of Gath, and head directly to the court of Achish son of Maok, its king. I have no idea what I am going to say to him, which may not be a problem at all, because in all probability I am not going to make it.
Rise to Power (The David Chronicles) (Volume 1) Page 17