Warrior Poet

by Timothy J. Stoner

  “Why do they hate me?”

  She remained quiet. Jahra let out a sympathetic grunt.

  Lydea gave her son a look of disapproval. “Eliab is jealous of you.”

  “What of?” David was incredulous. This was more than she had ever said.

  Lydea picked up the damp bowl she had been washing, then absentmindedly set it on the shelf. She spoke quietly, her back to him. “David, this is what I believe. Down deep, he suspect you are a threat.”

  David coughed in disbelief. “Right! I’m the youngest; what possible threat could I be to him? Father thinks the sun rises and sets on his oldest son, and it is obvious he would be much happier if I’d never been born.”

  Lydea spun around, the rag clenched in her fist. “Never, ever say that!” The tears in her eyes startled David. “No matter what anyone in your family thinks, you are precious. Don’t pay any attention to what Eliab says. He is a selfish”—she stopped, hunting for the word—“big man-child. His opinion counts for nothing.”

  She shut her eyes, let out a deep breath, then continued. “Also, I not want you to take seriously what your father says either.” She placed her old fingers on his. “He has been a good master to me and Jahra, but he is a very proud man. And I am sad for him.” She blinked away the angry tears. “He was given a gift but has …” She looked up at him for help.

  “Rejected it?” David suggested.

  Her face lit up. “Yes! That is what make me so sad for him.” She bent and kissed him on the head. “And for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She interrupted him with an abrupt wave. Her eyes were again clear and hard. The old woman picked up an ember with a tong, lit the oil lamp, and walked to the corner, where she unrolled her sleeping mat. “It is time for bed. When you boys are ready, I will blow out the light.”

  Jahra walked to the opposite side of the house, straightened out their mats, and lay down. David felt dazed. Lydea had revealed more tonight than she ever had. It was only a matter of time before he would discover what she and the others seemed intent on hiding. He was about to lie down next to Jahra when he remembered the message he’d been given.

  “Lydea, Father wants Jahra to accompany me into the hills tomorrow.”

  Jahra sat up, his eyes wide with excitement.

  “Very good. I will prepare food for both of you.” Her voice was thin and tired.

  David grinned at his friend, who was shaking his clenched fist in the air. “I told him that I wasn’t sure you could handle it, what with you not knowing how to use a sling properly and all.”

  Jahra tossed one of his sandals at him, then rolled over on his back.

  “You need to work on your aim,” David said.

  “Quiet,” Lydea snapped as she extinguished the lamp.

  “Sleep well,” David whispered, closing his eyes. He was asleep within moments. Long before widow Ruth’s rooster crowed at the town’s easternmost border, he dreamed again of the sinister cave and the wolves. It was a nightmare that had been haunting him since he turned sixteen. He awoke with his body shaking and the words of a prayer on his tongue.

  Chapter Two

  The memory of the wolf’s unsettling grin dissipated as soon as David recalled that he and Jahra would be heading out together.

  “Get up. You’re coming with me this morning, remember?” David whispered. “The sooner we get going, the better our chances.” He was holding his tall staff but had not yet found his rod. To conserve oil, Lydea did not keep a lamp burning through the night, so the house was in almost complete darkness. He walked over to the back wall and opened the window.

  Jahra blinked his puffy eyes, scratching his head. He looked up at David in confusion, then sat up suddenly as the words sank in. He stretched and let out a high-pitched yawn that made Lydea, wake with a start.

  “Can’t you be a little more quiet?” David told him as the old woman straightened her stiff back. Jahra may have been mute, but the sound he made when arising was worse than an angry crow.

  As Lydea readied their food, David located the thick stick. It had a round weighted end into which small pieces of iron had been hammered. He slid it into his belt. “Good grass is getting rare, so we need to be the first ones out of town. Abishai knows about this pasture I found. We need to get to it before he does.”

  Jahra nodded distractedly, slipping a strap around his neck and adjusting the oblong leather pouch at his waist.

  Only a few lights were visible from the quiet houses as David and Jahra led the flock out of Bethlehem. The dark horizon was just beginning to turn gray. They lived on the western edge, so when heading east, they had to pass through the entire village. Each spring, while pasturing the animals on the ridges near their village, David counted the modest square homes. There were eighty-six of them now. He loved gazing down at the little boxlike dwellings with their flat roofs covered with flax, corn, or figs drying in the heat. It made him feel protective, as if he were responsible to look out for the small town.

  When they were past his father’s house, David heard the sound of a door closing behind him. He turned to see Mattai hurrying toward them, holding a lamp. He had been Jesse’s servant for so long, he had begun to resemble him. His nose was like the beak of an eagle, and under gray brows, his piercing eyes were set in a permanent frown.

  “I bring a message from your father.” He was from Amalek and spoke with the inflection of the south.

  “Well, what is it?” David snapped.

  Their eyes met for a moment, the servant’s sliding past his as if he were brushing off a gnat. The expression of disapproval was so like his father’s, it made David want to laugh.

  “It is market day tomorrow. He wants you to make sure the flocks are ready for auction. ‘First thing,’ Mattai said.”

  “Let him know he has nothing to worry about,” David responded, then paused for emphasis. “… now that I have Jahra to accompany me.” He turned to the quiet boy, who’d looked away studiously at the eastern sky as if divining the day’s weather. “Let’s go.”

  Several lights shone in the large house ahead. As the sheep and goats passed it, their dull bells clanging, David saw a lamp approach a window, and the outline of Abishai’s curly head.

  David waved but said nothing.

  The place he had in mind was one of his favorite pastures in the Judean hills. Because of its distance, he went there only at the end of summer, when the grass was beginning to dry out. It was bordered by rocky cliffs and could be entered only by a crack wide enough for the animals to enter three abreast. The narrow passage led to a lush, quiet valley with a stream gentle enough not to scare the skittish sheep. Its entrance was so well disguised that it was hidden from the merchants traveling the caravan route that passed close by.

  After a trek of nearly two hours through rugged terrain, they were crossing the hard-packed trail used by traders moving their wares from the south and the east. David led the flock over a rise and down the other side toward a rock wall. He pulled aside a mound of dried brush and prodded the sheep into the winding passageway. The sides were so high and steep that the sun could filter through only indirectly. As they moved forward, the walls seemed to incline as if threatening to crush them. David tightened his grip on the rod at his belt and the staff in his other hand.

  When they had made their way through, Jahra looked around in amazement.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” David said, bending down to feel the thick grass and pointing with his chin at the little stream that flowed from a rock wall about thirty paces away.

  Jahra nodded.

  “Now you see why I wanted to hurry.”

  The flock dispersed, and David and Jahra sat down, resting their backs against a boulder. It had slid down the side of the cliff so long ago that a bush was growing on top of it. Stretching out their legs, David and Jahra let the warm sun relax their
knotted muscles.

  David read his friend’s expression as he pointed to their surroundings. “How did I find this beautiful oasis?”

  Jahra nodded.

  “I never would have, had it not been for Bandit, that little scamp.” Among all the goats, the mischievous two-year-old kid was David’s favorite. He was black as night except for a white circle around one eye and a shock of white hair on top of his head. It gave him a wild, roguish look that contrasted with his soft, innocent eyes.

  “He took off, and I tracked him to this place. That’s why I call it Bandit’s Lair.”

  Jahra smiled, pulled out his water bag, and took a long drink. He handed it to David, who held it aloft and let the jet of water spurt into the back of his mouth. Knowing Jahra was looking at him, David extended his arm so that the bottle grazed the branches of the bush above him. He pulled his head back, his mouth wide, imitating Eliab. The water splashed over his lips and into his nose, and he began coughing. Jahra chortled so loudly that the flock froze, staring at them with wide eyes.

  David tossed the bag at Jahra, who lifted his hand in a gesture of conciliation. Smiling, Jahra slid the strap over his head and picked up the leather pouch that was lying on the ground next to his side. He untied it and pulled out his compact, seven-stringed harp. It was small and light, perfect for long treks into the hills. Before playing the instrument, he had to find a piece of straw to chew. David found it first and handed it to him with a roll of his eyes. Jahra inspected the straw carefully, blew through it, then placed it in the corner of his mouth.

  David leaned back on the rock to listen. He could feel the stone’s heat through the back of his head and shoulders. His brothers enjoyed mocking Jahra for his uncoordinated gait, but he more than made up for his impediment with amazing manual dexterity. His fingers ran and skipped over the instrument like a goat leaping up the sides of a mountain.

  On their last expedition together, Jahra had convinced David to give the harp a try. But David gave up almost immediately. Though Jahra had been anxious to teach him, David was frustrated by his own awkwardness. The compact instrument, with its close-fitted strings, required perfect placement of thumbs and fingers. It seemed to mock him—and if he could not play perfectly, he would not play at all.

  Jahra was in an inventive mood. “I like it,” David said quietly. It was the sound of a mother’s lullaby and evoked the peacefulness of the glen.

  David’s eyes were growing heavy. “Are you trying to put me to sleep so you can have the flock all to yourself?” he murmured. Jahra kept playing.

  “If you stay alert, I’ll catch a quick nap.”

  Jahra nodded and began humming hoarsely to himself, something he did only when feeling especially happy.

  Wind ruffled David’s hair, and something stung his face. But it was the thunder that woke him, and, apparently, his sleeping companion as well. Together, they jumped to their feet. Dark clouds were massing overhead. A storm was heading their way, and since it was blowing in from the sea to the west, it would be cold and strong. Jahra avoided David’s angry gaze. He reached for his pouch and quickly shoved the harp into it.

  “I’ll count the animals,” David said through pursed lips. He was upset with Jahra but angrier at himself. He should have realized that his friend couldn’t stay awake on his own. “Go up to that cave and make sure we have plenty of dry wood in case we have to stay overnight.”

  Please, God, let them all be here, David prayed as he pulled himself up onto the boulder to get a view of the flock. Fortunately, the thunder had not yet driven the animals into an indistinguishable mass, so it was not difficult to get an accurate count.

  All 146 sheep and goats were accounted for.

  The sky was a foreboding color. There was another peal of thunder, and the sheep began to gather anxiously in the middle of the valley. Preferring the heights, the goats followed Jahra into the cave. Fat drops were falling and the wind was whipping sand and twigs into his face when David finished piling rocks across the valley’s narrow entrance. As he rushed up the hill, the rain began in earnest.

  Jahra had gathered enough branches and pieces of wood to last several days. He had even managed to get a small fire going. The goats were huddled together at the back of the cave. Not wanting to ask if Jahra had done so, David went ahead and counted them. All had made it inside.

  The two shepherds wrapped their cloaks around themselves and sat on opposite sides of the fire, looking out at the billowing sheets of rain. Thunder echoed inside their enclosure, sounding as if great rocks were being ripped from the sides of the valley.

  David heard Jahra riffling through one of the bags but kept staring at the storm. He hoped Jahra wasn’t pulling out his harp. He was in no mood for music. Instead, Jahra came over to him and nudged his shoulder. David turned to see a small parcel in Jahra’s hand. Without looking up, David took it.

  Inside was a piece of flatbread, several strands of dried goat meat, and a cake of raisins and dates. The flatbread was cut in two pieces. Between the halves was a paste made of ground lentil, tomato, and onion. It was one of Lydea’s special creations. David took a bite, then another. It was difficult to remain angry while enjoying delicious food.

  David looked up to thank Jahra, then jerked back in shock. His friend’s eyes were surrounded by big black circles. His mouth was a long black slit. Jahra pulled back his lips. Small fangs had replaced his teeth. For a moment David was too stunned to move; then he threw his head back and began to laugh.

  With a relieved smile, Jahra spit out the twigs, sat next to David, and used his cloak to wipe the charcoal off his face.

  “I can’t believe you,” David said when he regained his breath. “Where do you come up with these things?”

  Jahra rolled his eyes and shrugged. It was a gesture that could mean just about anything, from infinite understanding to total ignorance. When they had finished eating, David stood and walked to the cave’s mouth. The thunder had stopped, but the rain was still coming down hard.

  “We could be in big trouble, you know that?”

  Jahra looked at him quizzically.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear Mattai’s message as we were leaving. Tomorrow morning is the sheep auction, and I promised we’d have the flock ready. First thing. If this rain doesn’t stop, we won’t be able to start heading back to Bethlehem till tomorrow morning.”

  Jahra gave an exaggerated expression of dismay.

  “Go ahead and laugh. You want to be the one blamed for missing out on getting the best rates for the sheep?” David turned back to look at the sheets of water outside their cave.

  Draping his cloak over his body, Jahra crawled to David and butted him in the leg like a goat.

  “Stop it!” David said, laughing and kicking him with his heel.

  Jahra butted him again, almost pushing David into the downpour.

  “If you do that one more time, I’m going to toss you out of the cave and see how you like the life of a four-footed animal.”

  Jahra retreated.

  David tossed several larger branches into the fire and sat down to wait out the storm. It took over an hour, and by the time the rain clouds had dispersed, the sun had begun to set.

  “Perfect,” David growled, and he sighed heavily. Trying to ease the tension, Jahra stood and thrust out his chest and stomach, stroking his chin like a merchant deciding on the price for an animal.

  David threw a stick at him. “Let’s see if you think it’s so funny tomorrow. Now, pull in your belly, and let’s go make sure the flock is safe and accounted for.”

  The two shepherds piled stones and brush in a semicircle at one end of the valley, leaving a small opening for the flock to enter. Jahra urged the animals through it while David stood at the entrance and counted. The enclosure was not tall enough to prevent goats from leaping out, but since they would be staying in the cave, David was not conc
erned.

  The 109 sheep were safe for the night.

  The sky was alight with stars when the shepherds made their way up to the cave. They laid some wood on the embers, and soon the fire was blazing again. David motioned toward the satchel in the corner. “Why don’t you play one of those old Amorite tunes, the one where you pound on the base with your palm?”

  Jahra pulled out the instrument, tuned it thoughtfully, then began plucking the strings with thumb and forefinger. The notes snapped and popped harshly in counterpoint to the crackling of the fire. “Now, that’s really pleasant,” David said. “If you pulled the strings a little harder, maybe you could break them all, one by one.”

  The quiet musician ignored the jibe. He exhaled, spread out both hands in front of him, closing and opening his fists, then ran his fingers through his hair, as if preparing for a public performance.

  “Get on with it,” David grumbled. “Look, if you’re not in the mood, you can just tell me, you know.”

  Jahra set his hands as if ready to play, hesitated, then looked up at David thoughtfully. He grabbed the harp’s side post and lifted it toward David.

  “Oh no!” he objected, shaking his head. “You remember the last time I tried. It sounded like I was choking a small animal. It was very clear: you are the musician; I am—most definitely—not.”

  Jahra dangled the harp in front of him, urging him to take it. He was smiling, but there was a seriousness in his eyes. It was reproachful and condescending. It made David feel like a child.

  David pushed the instrument away. “I know my limitations,” he said, ignoring the disappointment on his friend’s face. Jahra drew back the harp, slipped it into the pouch, then wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down with his back to the fire. David followed suit.