He’d given in several years earlier after Jahra had refused to stop badgering him. It went as poorly as David expected. He had not admitted it, but it had been humiliating and had only reinforced the vow he’d made as a boy. Even now he could feel the shame burn his chest just as it had that night he’d accompanied Raddai and Ozem on an overnight with the sheep.
David loved making up songs, but he’d never shared them with any of his family. Since the two older boys had made their resentment at his presence obvious, he’d started singing, wanting desperately to win their approval. The words had just come into his head as they always did. It was while he was lying on his back, looking up at the star-studded sky:
The heavens are declaring the glory of God.
The sky is proclaiming His wonderful works.1
He had sung the first line softly but stopped, wanting to know how the twins would respond. Afraid to look at them, he waited. When they said nothing, he continued, this time a little more loudly:
The sun and the moon and the stars at night,
They sing to each other.
Though their sound can’t be heard,
Their words are heard to the ends of the earth.2
He heard an intake of breath and felt a warm glow of pride. David was so happy he’d managed to impress them. As he turned to look at them, Ozem let out a guffaw, and David heard one of them clap the other on the shoulder.
“Can you believe that garbage?” It was Ozem.
“Yeah,” Raddai responded, his voice choking with laughter. “The sun and the stars singing!”
Ozem was up on his elbow, his broad face twisted in an ugly grin. “You’re too stupid to know that if a star does not make a sound, nobody can hear it!”
On his back, his eyes stinging with tears, David had vowed he would never sing or make music for anyone—ever.
The goats in the back of the cave were barely visible when David awoke Jahra early the next morning. “We need to hurry to get to Bethlehem for the auction.” He doubted that the reminder was necessary, but he needed to say something. He handed Jahra the food bag. It was empty. “No breakfast for us.”
Without meeting his eyes, Jahra took it and slung it around his neck, along with the pouch that held his harp.
“Take this as well,” David said, offering him his staff.
Jahra shook his head and led the goats down the hill.
David remained in the mouth of the cave, and as each goat walked past him, he touched it on the head with his thick rod. There were only thirty-six. “One’s missing!” he shouted down at Jahra, who was heading toward the sheep enclosure. He couldn’t understand it. It was impossible for one to have gotten past him while they were sleeping.
“Did you count the goats when we came back from building the pen last night?”
A blush crept up Jahra’s cheeks. David felt a stab of anger mixed with guilt. He wanted to blame his friend, but he couldn’t.
“It was my fault,” he yelled. “I should have barricaded the mouth of the cave before we left. And I know exactly which one escaped.” He walked back to search the recesses of the cave. It was empty.
“Bandit’s taken off,” he called out to Jahra, who was removing the branches from the entrance to the makeshift pen. “I’ll go find him. Don’t wait for me. When you get out of this valley, head straight over the first ridge and across the caravan route. Head west and I will catch up with you.”
Jahra waved to show that he understood.
David made his way around the rim of the valley to a smaller cave on the opposite side. By the time he reached it, Jahra and the flock could no longer be seen.
“Bandit,” he called, keeping the frustration out of his voice.
There was no response. The cave held the musky smell of wet fur and dung. A bear had recently been inside. He walked away. Bandit would never have gone near this place. He glanced around at the walls of the quiet valley, looking for another attractive opening. A movement near the cattails next to the creek caught his eye. It was the spindly legged kid taking a drink.
David opened his pouch, pushed aside the rounded stones, and pulled out his pipe. He gave two whistles—a long low followed by an abrupt high—that called the flock to move to another pasture. Most Bethlehem shepherds made a loud guttural sound, but David preferred the clear notes of the pipe.
Bandit jerked upright when he heard the signal. His little black head bobbed with excitement as he loped toward David. With long strides, David ran down to meet the animal.
“You rascal!” he scolded, bending down to look into the moist brown eyes. “I’ve told you not to wander off like that. We’re in a hurry to get home, and you’re going to make us late.” Bandit nuzzled his fingers, snuffling for a handout. “No food for you. Let that be a lesson. Bad boys go hungry.” David picked up the goat and draped him over his shoulders. “You be still and don’t cause me any more trouble. If you do, I’ll have to tell your mother.”
Bandit was docile and quiet, his head bouncing slightly as David set out to join the rest of the flock. He used the staff in his left hand to push himself forward. He and Bandit were through the passageway and were heading up the rise to the caravan trail when the sound hit them. It was the roar of an angry bear. His knees locked for the briefest moment. He stumbled, but he kept his balance, a cry stuck in his throat. He doubled his speed, racing to the top of the incline. He felt Bandit’s body tense and heard a terrified little bleat as they neared the predator in front of them.
1 Psalm 19:1, author’s paraphrase
2 Psalm 19:2–4, author’s paraphrase
Chapter Three
As he looked down from the hill, David’s attention was drawn to the glistening pool of blood. He almost let out a cry but stopped when he saw the two dead sheep. Ten or so paces away, a bear loomed over Jahra. He was on the ground, looking up at the beast, scrambling backward, trying to evade its open jaws.
David dropped Bandit, threw down his staff, and ran at the bear, his sling whipping next to his body. He screamed, drawing the animal’s attention, and without taking time to aim he let the stone fly. As soon as it left the sling, he knew he’d missed the bear’s forehead. The stone struck its shoulder instead.
The beast threw its head sideways, roaring a challenge. David stopped, fumbling for another stone. He again rushed his swings and this time grazed the bear’s snout. Infuriated, the animal raked Jahra with a huge paw, tossing him into the air.
Forcing himself to slow down, David fit another stone into his sling before moving toward the animal with measured strides. But the angle was wrong. The bear was turned sideways, its fangs clamped on Jahra’s leg. The third stone struck it sharply on its hip. Bellowing in pain, it dropped Jahra’s limb. With a backward glare and a tossing of its massive head, the beast turned and loped up east toward the rocky hills, favoring its left leg.
David could have wept in relief.
He ran to his friend, who was lying on his back, sucking in air through clenched teeth. Dark blood was seeping from the ragged puncture wounds in his right thigh. Something about the blood dripping down Jahra’s leg made David’s insides boil. It released something that shocked him.
The words exploded from him: “I swear to you I will kill that cursed animal!” he promised. As he spoke, a force that was both wild and hungry took over his body. His hands were heavy with a dense, throbbing power.
He had a vague memory of uncorking the horn at his waist. Pouring oil on the wounds. Then tearing cloths to wrap Jahra’s leg. He placed the water bag next to Jahra, said something to him, and sped off over the desert terrain. David jumped from boulder to boulder, his limbs gliding in an effortless dance as he ran, jumped, dodged, and clambered. Though his knees and shins stung from a dozen scratches, his sandaled feet were light. Had he not been so furious, it would have been exhilarating.
Whe
n he felt a stitch in his side, he slowed, looking up at the sky, moisture dripping off his hair and into his eyes. He took off his headband and wrung it dry. He was parched and wished momentarily that he’d brought the water bag with him. He wiped the sweat off his face, then took several deep breaths and started off again.
He looked at his feet, kicking up dust as he ran. He was no longer casting a shadow. It was midday.
If the beast doesn’t stop soon, I’ll turn back and get Jahra and the flock home.
Though morning had passed, the ancient words of Moses that he loved came rushing into his mind:
Lord, You have been our refuge age after age.3
As he ran, he continued reciting the beloved words he’d memorized after hearing them during the feast days at the tabernacle.
“Relent, Yahweh!” he pled, making the words his own. “Take pity on Your servants!”4
Unable to concentrate on the words as his side began to ache, he skipped to his favorite lines:
May the sweetness of the Lord be on us!
Make all we do succeed.5
He repeated that last phrase over and over but stopped when he hurdled a bramble bush, and when he landed, his foot slid on a flat stone. He looked down, stopping to catch his breath. On the surface was a wide, dark smear. He had slipped on blood from one of the bear’s paws. Most likely the wound had been caused by a piece of broken shale or a large thorn. He smiled. That would slow the animal down.
He ran to a boulder, reached up to find a grip, and felt something wet. His mouth tightened. Drawing back his hand, he stared at the dark, reddish mud. He brought his fingertips to his nose, smelling the blood and earth. Savage pleasure prickled his spine. Seized by an inexplicable urge, he ran his fingers along the sides of his face, smearing the blood on his cheeks.
Taking in a lungful of air, he pulled himself up. He blinked the sweat from his eyes. The blood was fresh. He was in a more or less flat clearing about three times the size of the pens in Bethlehem. A sling’s throw away was another crest leading higher into the hills. Ten paces to his left, rocks and debris were heaped at the base of a steep incline. A cliff fell away to his right, marking the boundary.
He pulled the rod out of his belt, following the drops of blood directly toward the rocky face in front of him. As he approached, sounds of an animal huffing and lumbering reverberated inside. David leaned in and saw a large opening, the entrance to a narrow tunnel. At the opening was the silhouette of a bear. The animal turned its head, as if gauging the distance between them, and disappeared.
David stepped in cautiously and made his way through the tunnel. He felt as though he were being swallowed by the mountain. Emerging into the light on the other side, he took a step and hit a patch of shale. He bent his knees and spread his arms, allowing his weight to carry him forward. He lost his balance but caught himself with his hand. Shards of stone sliced into his palm as he ground to a halt. Ignoring the sting, he yanked off his headband and wrapped his hand as he continued his pursuit.
The bear, now less than seventy paces away, stopped to look at him, then wheeled around a sharp bend. It was heading back in the direction they had come. David froze. Was it returning to the spot where Jahra lay defenseless? He was now convinced that leaving had been a dreadful mistake.
He was running now as he’d never run before. Chest heaving, David crested a gentle rise and saw the hindquarters of the bear. His pulse quickened; instead of bounding up the hill, the animal had turned left and was going around it.
David leaped over the boulders, heading up the steep hill. If he reached the top before the bear made it around, he would have time to prepare for a kill shot.
Not more than six paces from the top, he heard something that could not have possibly come from his friend’s mouth. It was a cry of horror, rising to an impossible pitch before coming to a brutal halt. David’s legs buckled, and he pitched forward. What followed made no sense. It was the bray of a wounded donkey. For a moment David thought he would vomit. Choking it down, he crawled to the summit. Below him, barely within range of his sling, the bear was savaging a pack animal lying on its stomach, its front legs bent underneath. Its head was facing the dry gorge ten paces away.
Nearby lay the body of an Egyptian trader. The light-skinned man was still wearing a bright-green turban. David looked around frantically. Jahra was nowhere in sight. The goats were scrambling over the side of the streambed, seeking higher elevation, while the sheep, in foolish panic, were clustered in the middle of the shallow streambed.
Snorting impatiently, the bear seized the man in its jaws and with a mighty swing tossed him over its head. The limp form almost landed on the pack animal’s bloody entrails. The turban rolled away, unraveling in the dust.
The beast’s cruelty infuriated David. Without taking his eyes off the bear, he pulled out his sling, fitted a stone into the leather pouch, and began twirling his weapon. He felt the cloth wrapped around his slinging hand, but it was too late to do anything about it. Adjusting his stance, he spun the sling faster.
The leather braids hummed next to his ear. It was an awkward angle; the bear was straddling the merchant’s body, its head hunched beneath its bulky shoulders. David let the stone fly. The projectile struck the animal’s spine. Roaring its outrage, it glanced wildly about, then clamped its teeth over the man’s head.
He was fitting it into the pouch when something moved in the dry gully near the donkey’s carcass. It was a hand—then, a dark patch of hair. David stared as Jahra’s forehead and eyes rose over the edge of the gully. He was lying prone, his face discernible through a thatch of high grass along the bank. The bear was unaware as it snuffled over the trader’s body.
David gestured madly for his friend to lower his head. Suddenly, the hulking animal threw its head up, twisting toward David. Its small eyes trained on its assailant on the hill, it stood on its back legs and opened its mouth. The cavernous mouth with its bared yellow teeth looked twice as large as the beast’s head. David waited, but no sound came. Instead, the bear’s body twitched, jerked, then shuddered violently. It was a strange, vaguely human movement, as if it had been grabbed by the nape of its neck and shaken furiously. Dust flew off its thick hide. Its eyes rolled back in its head … and the animal collapsed.
After several long moments, David began inching his way down the hill. Jahra pulled himself up to a crouch and waved him back. Hands upraised, he signaled for David to stay where he was and use his sling if the bear regained consciousness. David hesitated and nodded as the injured boy hobbled toward him, looping around the motionless animal.
When Jahra finally reached him, David threw his arms around his friend and bit his lip to keep from crying. Tears were mixing with the sweat and dust that streaked the side of Jahra’s face. The scar over his temple throbbed.
They jerked around when they heard a hoarse intake of breath from below. The bear was again standing on its back legs, its baleful, piglike eyes seemed to grow wider; they had turned a bright red. A terrible stench of burned, rotten flesh stung the back of David’s throat. He was breathing in the scent of something ancient and perverse.
Strange twitchings and jerkings were rippling along the bear’s body. Its nostrils were distended, and slaver dripped from its jaws. Out of its open maw arose an unearthly wail. The sound tore through David like a metal-tipped whip. Jahra’s injured leg collapsed beneath him, and he dropped to the ground with a moan. David sank next to him, barely able to breathe. He sensed rather than saw the bear charging up the hill toward them.
David turned to his friend. Jahra’s forehead was pressed into the dirt, his whole body shivering. Both arms were stretched out in front of him, hands elevated, the little finger and second finger splayed apart from the other three. It was the Israelites’ sacred symbol, representing the Hebrew letter shin—for Shaddai, the Lord Almighty. The terrified boy was warding off an evil spell.
A soft murmur poured from Jahra’s lips. It was the most holy prayer a Hebrew could utter. Goose bumps rose on David’s forearm as his mute friend somehow recited the Shemah in sibilant undertones.
“Sh’mh Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai ehad.”
Hear, O Israel: the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.
The words ran together in a continuous cascade of prayer without beginning or end. As their sound enveloped them both, a heavy stillness pressed David to the ground. Something like a hand lifted his head. The bear, fifty paces away, was bounding toward them, its enormous head swinging from side to side. Saliva trailed from the corners of its snout as it approached.
“Shaddai,” Jahra groaned.
David felt a shiver along his back. What Jahra had uttered was the same word that at that moment had burned itself into his own mind. It was one of David’s favorite names for God. It meant “the one who nourishes and the one who destroys.” David loved the paradoxical image of the nourishing breasts of a mother and the destructive power of an earthquake.
With that one weighty word, David’s trance was shattered. He was on his feet, and his first clear sensation was the pressure of the cloth around his hand. Tearing off the bloody rag, he adjusted the cords of his sling. The bear was forty paces away.
David set his feet beneath him and timed the head’s movement, aiming for the spot between the eyes. At thirty paces, he let the stone fly. It catapulted out of the pouch, hitting the animal in the center of the forehead. Immediately the bear stopped, its front legs stiffening, its jaws contorting.
“Die—curse you!” David swore through gritted teeth.
The beast shook its head violently, batting at the air as if warding off David’s words. From its slavering mouth came a thunderous roar, and in its eyes was something he’d never seen in an animal: loathing. Pawing at the ground, and without breaking its stare, the bear launched itself toward him.
3 Psalm 90:1
4 Psalm 90:13
Warrior Poet Page 3