Warrior Poet

by Timothy J. Stoner

  She was about to jab at him with her spoon when he pulled out the flowers. Her expression softened, but she did not lower her weapon. “Put them in that jar,” she said, pointing at a clay vessel on the shelf behind her. “And don’t think I will let you taste it. You wait patiently like Jahra.”

  He unslung the bag holding Jahra’s harp, laid it on his sleeping mat, then walked over to the shelf to place the bouquet in the crude, hand-painted vase. He went over to the water pot, filled it with water, and set the vase on the table in the center of the room.

  He sat down on the floor next to his friend, who cocked a knowing eyebrow in his direction but kept playing. His instrument had seven double strings strung on a traditional frame a cubit and a half long. Its top was nearly twice as long as its base and was a full handbreadth taller than the harp David had been practicing on. The tune Jahra was playing was new yet oddly familiar, and though it was melancholy, Lydea was smiling as she hummed.

  At the end of the stanza, Jahra stopped and was about to set the harp down when David waved him on. “Keep playing,” he said, ruffling his hair. “It’s nicer than the sound of bleating sheep and goats I’ve had to listen to all day—though just barely.” Lydea clucked her tongue reproachfully and waved her spoon at him with feigned indignation.

  Jahra resumed playing. His fingers were light and fluid and confident. David envied them. In time, he told himself. In time.

  “Don’t make fun. This is my most favorite song,” Lydea said, her eyes closed and her voice lilting, as if her words were part of the song. “I tell you this, young, clever man: if you ruin it, you will get no stew.”

  Jahra kept playing but taunted David by crossing his eyes at him and blowing out his cheeks.

  “I don’t know how I put you two up,” Lydea huffed impatiently. “I mean, put up with you two.” David walked over to her and kissed the top of her head as she bent to put more wood on the fire.

  “Because you are our favorite woman in the world, and your singing melts our hearts,” he cooed.

  “Bah!” she said, pushing him away. “Try your fancy talk on the innocent girls with not much experience with pretty boys and their smooth tongues. Now you sit down,” she ordered, “and let me finish the cooking.” She walked to the table and began chopping potatoes and carrots.

  David sat on the floor next to Jahra’s stool. His back was resting against the warm wall next to the fire pit. Lydea began to hum again, and Jahra joined her in a much lower register. Some songs had this odd effect on his mute friend. Jahra’s voice was husky, a perfect counterpoint to Lydea’s and to the crisp clarity of the strings.

  David listened with eyes closed. The song brought to mind impossibly lovely girls with long dark hair and thick lashes. Slowly these images faded, replaced by a graceful beauty—elegant neck with proud, erect posture. She moved like a dancer. She swayed toward him, then began to turn away. Something in the slant of her shoulders and the angle of her body made him want to reach out and stop her. There was an ache in his chest.

  He tried to grasp her arm, which she held out from her body, but he could not move. As she lowered her arm, she pierced him with sorrowful green eyes filled with tears. They were the color of the emeralds on the high priest’s ephod. The girl lifted a slim hand in a motion of dismissal or farewell. His throat tightened, and his chest burned as she moved away.

  The tang of ground lemon peel brought David back. Lydea was bent over the table, finalizing the component of the recipe on which, according to her, the entire dish depended. Her back was to him, so she did not notice David quickly wipe moisture from his face.

  “Can I help with the lemons?” he finally managed to say over the lump in his throat.

  She lowered her head and nodded, making room for him at the table.

  Gratefully, he stood next to her, cutting the yellow fruit into even sections and squeezing the juice into the grated rind. Taking the bowl from his hands, Lydea let her fingers rest on David’s for a moment. But she said nothing. She broke pieces of dark spinach leaves into the bowl, sprinkling in salt, pepper, and some spices, and poured it all into the simmering pot.

  Jahra’s music had not so much ended as petered out. He stood the harp on the floor next to the wall and dragged his stool toward them.

  “Go get the cheese,” Lydea told Jahra. “Also the bowls. And you,” she said to David, “wash the lemon from your hands and sit.” While he cleaned his hands, Jahra placed three clay dishes on the table along with a small plate with goat cheese. David uncovered a larger platter with flat loaves of bread, positioned it in the center next to the vase, and sat down.

  When Jahra drew up to the table across from him, he made a point of jiggling it, as if testing to see if it was about to collapse. Briefly forgetting his friend’s injury, David aimed a kick at his shin. But Jahra had slid his legs to the side. Lydea’s eyes flashed, and the boys turned into statues as she spooned out the reddish stew with its small round beans, bits of bright orange and red, and tendrils of green. They reached for the cheese at the same time. Usually, David would have made a point of grabbing it away, but this time he let Jahra take it and crumble pieces into his bowl. It was the cheese that turned the delicious concoction into something unforgettable.

  Jahra was making a production out of the whole process, putting the bowl up to his face to breathe in the aroma, then crumbling the cheese into miniscule grains, as if he were portioning gold dust into his dish. David could barely restrain himself from pulling the white chunk out of his friend’s hands. He pursed his lips impatiently, but when he noticed the corners of Jahra’s mouth twitch, he lunged and tugged the cheese from his fingers.

  “David!” Lydea scolded. “I think maybe you were born in a cave and grew up with wolves!”

  David was too busy breaking small pieces of cheese into his bowl to answer. When he lifted his spoon to his mouth, Lydea interrupted him. “David!” she said in a shocked voice. “The prayer of blessing!”

  He dropped his hand, letting the spoon rest on the edge of the bowl. Without looking at Jahra, who had nudged him with his good foot, David let out a breath and gave thanks. “Blessed are You, God, O Lord God of the universe, who brings forth the bread from the earth and who creates the fruit of the ground. Amen.”

  Both boys picked up their spoons, which were dripping with cream-colored strands, and shoved them into their mouths. “Ahhh,” David sighed, savoring the stew. There was no further conversation until they had emptied their bowls. “Mama Lydea,” David groaned, “nothing can compare with this. Now I will have to kill myself—but only after another serving.”

  Jahra also let out a moan, which sounded more like a growl, his face a parody of David’s. He swayed in his seat, his palm on his forehead as if he were ready to faint.

  “You boys!” Lydea said, filling their bowls again. “I think I am with two crazy people.” They looked up at her, trying to appear chagrined, and began shoveling the food into their mouths.

  When David finished, he wiped his bowl with a piece of flatbread and leaned back on his bench, his head resting against the wall. “Thank you, Yaya. That was the best stew I’ve ever eaten.”

  Jahra sniffed.

  This is what David always said, and he always meant it. Lydea nodded curtly. “If you do not mind your manners, maybe you will not have more.” She stood up to take the bowls to the large bowl she used to clean dishes. “And do not be leaning on the bench. You will make the legs bad.”

  When the plates were cleaned, David leaned over, resting his elbows on the table. “Mama Lydea?” He had been holding the question in for what felt like an age. She was folding the cloth she had used to wipe the table. Lydea stopped, and her fingers froze.

  “Did my mother have green eyes?”

  Jahra pulled his bench away from the table and began tuning the strings of Lydea’s harp with unusual concentration. Hunched over the instrument, he
seemed to be listening intently as he plucked each string repeatedly, twisting the knobs with exquisite care. Looking at his friend, David wondered for the first time whether Jahra knew more about his birth than he did.

  David’s glance shifted back to Lydea. She was staring at the spray of yellow, white, and blue flowers on the table. The rag in her hand was now being twisted into a rope. Her face and eyes were hollow.

  “Why can’t you tell me?” he asked.

  She did not answer.

  “Mama Lydea, you said that someday Father would tell me, but you know that will never happen.” He put his hands over hers. Her fingers continued working the rag, as if disconnected from her. She was fixated on the small bouquet but seemed to be remembering something long past.

  “I must know about her,” he said through clenched teeth. His hands closed hard, and the movement grew still. “All I have been told is that she died giving me birth. That’s it, nothing more. And my brothers act as if it were my fault.”

  He felt her hand shake.

  “Was it?” he whispered, his voice cracking.

  It looked as though she were trying to speak but could not. Her eyes brimmed, and David saw her bite her lower lip to keep the tears at bay. One escaped and ran down her lined, brown cheek. She looked up at him and softly uttered one word.

  “No.”

  Something seemed to melt inside David’s chest. His mouth felt parched. He wished he could stand and get some water, but his legs felt too weak. The last time David had seen Lydea cry was when she had cut the poison out of his arm. That had been almost ten years ago. He waited, growing impatient, but she said nothing further. Jahra leaned over the tall instrument he was holding and quietly began to play the tune David had heard when he entered the house. But this time the tempo was slower, transforming the song into a lament.

  David kept quiet, afraid that one wrong question would ruin the moment. Finally Lydea spoke. “She was a beauty. And, yes, she had green eyes. Similar to yours.” Her voice caught. “They were so beautiful, you can’t imagine it. I think that is what your father”—she paused, considering her words carefully—“noticed first.”

  David waited, searching her eyes, willing her to continue. She shook her head. “I have said to you as much as I can—perhaps too much.”

  “No! You’ve barely said anything.” Desperation was rising within him.

  She shook her head again, more emphatically. “I must keep my word.”

  “Why? Did he make you promise?”

  Her head was still shaking, but now with sadness. “I had not a choice.” The words were barely audible.

  David struck the table with the flat of his hand. The vase tipped, spilling water and flowers, and began rolling off the side. Reaching out, Jahra stopped it, then set it next to his bench.

  “You’ve seen and heard him,” David said. “He barely speaks to me. Father hates me.” The emotion swelling inside him constricted his words, making him sound like a child. He stopped, waiting for the pressure to ease. Then he spit out the accusation that had been building up inside him for months. “Why do you bother keeping his secrets?”

  She raised herself to her full height and stared directly at him. There was steel in her eyes. “Because of respect. He is your father. And because—” She bit off the end of her sentence.

  “I know. I know. You made a vow.”

  She looked away, her head drooping as a dirge flowed sadly from her son’s harp. All the strength seemed to have drained out of her. Another tear fell on the tabletop. There was much more, David could tell, but she had revealed all she intended to.

  Jahra’s song was becoming louder, more rhythmic and insistent. Something in the tune captivated David’s attention. He recognized it somehow, though he was sure he’d never heard it before. To his surprise, he found himself choking up, and his eyes began to sting.

  Lydea was watching him intently, deep lines etched along her face. She walked to the corner where she kept her clothes along with her few special treasures. She pulled out a leather satchel inside a rough box. Untying the cords, she opened it and pulled out a lovely, fragile ten-stringed instrument. He had seen something like it only once before—at the marriage of Sarai, the only daughter of Bethlehem’s chief elder. It bore a vague resemblance to Jahra’s harp with its smooth, flat base, except it was about half the size, and its elegant arms were bowed outward.

  “It is a lyre—called a kinnor,” she explained, sitting down next to him. Instead of holding it horizontally in front of her like Jahra’s harp, she cradled it in her lap like an infant.

  She strummed the ten strings. They produced a tone that was high and sweet. While Jahra’s harp soothed, this lyre could pierce your heart. She waited a few beats, then plucked a few notes that harmonized beautifully with Jahra’s melody. “I played this when you were a baby. If you were crying it would make you stop.”

  “Maybe it will work again,” he said with a sheepish smile, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He almost asked why she had stopped playing it, but something told him that would be one question too many.

  She adjusted the position of the lyre, then began to play. As she did, her body swayed gently like the flame of a candle.

  Jahra’s melody remained in the forefront at first, but when the music slowed, the kinnor took the lead, its high notes dominating and Jahra’s receding. They alternated like this for several measures. The instruments seemed to be speaking to each other, sharing a story of sorrow and loss, echoed back and forth in lower, then higher registers, as if consoling each other. Jahra and his mother hummed in unison as they strung together their wistful musical story.

  As the wordless dialogue moved toward its conclusion, its speed increased. Jahra’s fingers strummed madly, and Lydea was plucking the strings with both hands. The music built in intensity and volume; there was a crescendo of racing fingers, and then all came to a sudden, almost heartbreaking stop.

  David’s jaw ached. He had been biting down, resisting the emotions pooling inside him. The unexpected quiet was both a pain and a relief. Blinking back tears, he stole a quick look at Jahra and saw him give his mother a brief nod. Jahra tapped three times on the hollow base of his instrument, and Lydea began to sing.

  David remembered listening to her lullabies when he was much younger, but that was a long time ago. He had never appreciated how good her voice was. There was not a trace of the amateur’s self-consciousness. It was the voice of an assured performer. Her timing and pitch were perfect. Each musical phrase ended masterfully in that wild yet controlled ululating glide that conveyed sorrow and joy at the same moment. Her tone was husky, like her son’s, but higher, cleaner, exhilarating.

  The words she sang were perfectly suited for the rhythmic scaffolding Jahra had constructed. After each phrase, Lydea would grow quiet as her son thumped softly on his resonating instrument. After several beats, her singing continued.

  Yahweh, why do You stand aside,

  why hide from us now that times are hard?

  The poor are devoured by the pride of the wicked.

  We are caught in the wiles that the other has devised.

  Peering and prying for the unfortunate,

  lurking unseen like a lion in his hide.

  Questing of eye, he stoops, he crouches,

  and the unfortunate wretch falls into his power.

  Rise, Yahweh, God raise Your hand,

  do not forget the poor! Do not forget me!

  You Yourself have seen my distress and my grief,

  You watch and You take them into Your hands.10

  The words were sad, but there was no quaver in her voice. Her eyes were lifted as she sang; they were clear and hard as crystal.

  Break the power of the wicked, of the evil man,

  seek out his wickedness till there is none to be found!

  Yahweh is King for ever and e
ver.

  Those who are cruel and proud are doomed to vanish.

  Yahweh, You listen to the cries of the humble,

  You bring strength to their hearts, You grant them a hearing,

  judging in favor of the fatherless and the exploited,

  so that the oppressor may strike fear no longer.

  Yahweh, You listen to the wants of the humble,

  You bring strength to their hearts,

  judging in favor of the fatherless and the exploited,

  so that the earthborn man may strike fear no longer,

  may strike fear no more,

  may strike fear no more.11

  By the end of the song, David no longer cared. Tears had pooled on the tabletop in front of him. When he had wiped his eyes clear, Lydea was standing in front of him. Her eyes were still distant, holding on to a memory she would not share but could not forget. He was surprised to also see anger etched along the corners of her eyes and at the edges of her mouth.

  “That was your mother’s favorite song,” she said.

  It came as no surprise; somehow he had already known. Though he knew the answer, he still needed to ask. “Did she write it?”

  She did not seem to have heard him. He looked away from her to Jahra, who caught his eye and nodded. Then, as if remembering where she was, Lydea looked at the lyre in her lap and held it out to him. After clearing her throat, she whispered, “This was hers.” She drew in a deep, unsteady breath. “She gave it to me to give to her child.” She ran her fingertips along one polished side. “Her father made it. When she played and sang, he would tell her that she could make demons weep.” She laid it in his hands. “I was going to give it to you when you left home. But I think now that it is the right time.”

  He looked up at her, filled with questions. Lydea patted his hair. “I will keep it here for you. Whenever you want to play it, it will be waiting for you.”

  He could not stop himself. The question had torn holes in him for so long. He had to know the answer. “Yaya. What really happened to her? All I know is that she died when I was born, but I know there is more you are not telling me.”