Warrior Poet

by Timothy J. Stoner

Lydea took her shawl, draped it around her, and leaned her head against his shoulder. His fingers were moving aimlessly. Then he found he could not stop himself. The notes were taking on a recognizable shape and pattern. Spontaneously, the words Jahra had sung slid out from between his lips:

  “Adonai ro-i, lo-ehsar.”

  Yahweh is my shepherd; I lack nothing.

  “Bin-ot desheh yarbitzayni.”

  In meadows of green grass He lets me lie.

  “Al may m’nuchot y’nahalayni.”

  To the waters of repose He leads me.

  “Nafshi y’shovayv.”

  There He revives my soul.

  The words were sweet and lovely. They comforted Lydea—that much was clear—but they barely grazed the anger that had settled into his bones. The words lay inert, like a skim of oil on water. He was singing not for him but for her. It was the least he could do. When he reached the line “Though I pass through the valley of death,” his voice caught and threatened to break. Unable to continue, he laid the harp on the table, placed his hand on Lydea’s head, and walked out without speaking. He trudged over to the pens, pulled open the wooden gate, and followed the sheep and goats into the hills. Throughout the day, the discordant clanging of bells around the necks of the grazing animals managed to quiet the clamor of angry voices in his head.

  He made sure to return late in the evening. As if reading his mind, and sensing that he needed to be alone, inside the cave Lydea had left three pieces of bread and a covered pot filled with a porridge of lentils and onion. Despite feeling as hollow as an empty grave, David still did not have much of an appetite. He took several bites, then after giving his horse some food, he lay down and fell asleep.

  The following morning he again left with the flocks, this time taking the porridge with him. He spent all day in the hills and returned at nightfall. When he had put the sheep and goats in their pens, he noticed Joab standing outside the corral. He was holding a pot in one hand and the kinnor in the other.

  “Lydea wanted me to give these to you. She said she does not want you to go hungry or to be lonely.”

  “Thank you,” David said.

  Joab did not turn away. He was looking down, marking the ground with the toe of his sandal. Without lifting his head he said, “I’m sorry about Jahra. I know you were good friends. I’m sure you miss him.” As he turned, David heard him whisper, “So do I.”

  David shut his eyes and nodded to himself.

  The next several days David followed the same routine but left the kinnor in the cave. Each time he left Bethlehem he looked to see if his father had returned. Jesse had been gone an unusually long time. On the morning of the fifth day, David felt something bubbling up inside him. He grabbed the harp and tossed it over his shoulder before following the sheep into the hillside.

  After finding an adequate spot for the sheep to graze, he dropped to the ground and opened the bag. The complaint had been building inside him for days. He was worn down with sorrow, anger, and loneliness. He let the painful emptiness burst out of him.

  My God, my God, why have You deserted me?

  How far from saving me, the words I groan!

  I call all day, my God, but You never answer,

  All night long I call and cannot rest.35

  It was like lancing a boil—as he voiced his pain, the bitterness began to dissipate. This time he nearly shouted the words: “Why have You deserted me?” Pouring out his grievance, while taking away something, had the strange effect of filling him as well. It felt like fresh water flowing into an empty pool.

  “You never answer,” he repeated, and the three words doubled on themselves, echoing off the surrounding hills. He raked the nine strings as he formulated his complaint, seeking the exact words that would capture his sense of desolation. When they surfaced, they were not what he’d expected. He had intended to give full reign to his bitterness, but it had already begun losing its intensity. As he shouted his accusation, a presence seemed to be drawing near.

  The next stanza was a surprise to him:

  Yet, Holy One,

  You who make Your home on the praises of Israel,

  In You our fathers put their trust,

  They trusted, and You rescued them;

  They called to You for help, and they were saved.

  They never trusted You in vain.36

  But at that moment, whatever consolation he was feeling was swept away by images of his brothers with their seething jealousy. Above them rose his father’s condemning face—and alongside it, Adriel’s furtive, ferret eyes:

  A pack of dogs surrounds me,

  A gang of villains closes me in;

  They tie me hand and foot

  And leave me lying in the dust of death.37

  From his long years of desolation he sang. It was his story, but now no longer an accusation as much as a lament. He described being surrounded by bulls, by lions ripping and roaring, being torn so that his bones were disjointed and his heart melted inside him. He sang about his enemies gloating over his broken body, their hatred so intense that they would go so far as to cast lots for his new tunic. He wept as he poured out his heart:

  Do not stand aside, Yahweh.

  O my strength, come quickly to my help;

  Rescue my soul from the sword,

  My dear life from the paw of the dog.

  Save me from the lion’s mouth,

  My poor soul from the wild bulls’ horns!38

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone approaching. It was Joab. David wiped his eyes but continued, unable to prevent himself from bringing the song to completion.

  Then I shall proclaim Your name to my brothers,

  Praise You in the full congregation;

  You who fear Yahweh, praise Him!

  Entire race of Jacob, glorify Him!

  Entire race of Israel, revere Him!39

  When he was finished, the tall young man with his sling draped over his belt just like David’s was standing behind him, not making a sound. “I liked that,” he finally said. “I liked that very much,” he added in a pensive voice.

  David placed the harp in the bag, nodding his appreciation but averting his eyes.

  “A messenger has come from Prince Jonathan. He wants to see you at once,” Joab said.

  David jumped to his feet. “Did he give an explanation?”

  “He only said that he had to get you back without the slightest delay.” Joab gestured at the flock. “I’ll take care of them. You should leave now. The messenger was very anxious—he looked almost afraid.”

  Impulsively, David reached out and gripped his nephew’s arm. “Thank you for delivering the message and watching the flock.”

  Joab grinned sheepishly. “Don’t mention it.”

  When David arrived back in Bethlehem, the messenger was standing under the sycamore, shifting from one foot to another. David’s bay was next to the messenger’s long-legged gray mare. Both animals were packed and saddled. The moment he saw David running toward him, he jumped on his horse. “There is no time to waste,” he said, beginning to trot away.

  “Wait!” David called out. “Let me first say good-bye to—to my grandmother.” The messenger kept moving.

  Lydea met him at the door. “I know,” she told him before he spoke. Her cheeks were flushed. He was surprised at the brightness in her eyes as she kissed him on both cheeks. “The messenger told me. Hurry now, and God be with you.”

  David caught up with the messenger on the outskirts of the village. Passing the cemetery, he wanted to look away but was unable to avert his eyes. He wished he had. On the almond tree overlooking the new grave sat two fat crows. It made him feel ill.

  Soon after they had passed Jebus and were bearing east toward Gibeah, David heard the sounds of travelers approaching and slowed. He and the messenger were
on a rugged, winding path dug alongside hills covered with pine and oak trees. To their right was an olive grove in whose flickering shade grazed brown sheep.

  “Make way! Make way! The messenger of the king!” Jonathan’s messenger shouted. It seemed to David that, rather than slowing, he had increased his speed.

  Around the bend David saw the twins seated on the front of a cart pulled by two donkeys. They were hastily guiding their wooden vehicle off the road to give them as much room as they could. The back wheels were dangerously near a steep gully. There was a flash of recognition as David raced past. He caught a glimpse of his father lying in the back, his face contorted with pain. They rode by so quickly, there was no time to call out a greeting. The two picked up their gallop and arrived at Gibeah’s gate in less time than David thought possible.

  Saul’s walled city was well fortified, but not as large as David had expected. The stone walls were thick and well maintained, but still, he had expected something more imposing—something more grand. The guards opened the sturdy double gates that were nearly twice his height and waved them through. At least the gates are impressive, David thought.

  At the entrance to Saul’s fortress they dismounted and handed the horses to the servants. It was the tallest building David had ever seen. It dwarfed the tabernacle in Nob. Before they reached the guard at the front door, it burst open and Michal ran out. She looked panic-stricken, too distraught to betray any awkwardness. Her beautiful brown eyes were red rimmed and haunted.

  “Follow me, David,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Father tried to kill Jonathan!”

  35 Psalm 22:1–2

  36 Psalm 22:3–5

  37 Psalm 22:16

  38 Psalm 22:19–21

  39 Psalm 22:22–23

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When their eyes met, Michal’s cheeks reddened slightly, and she dropped her hand. “Come,” she told David, hurrying through the entry porch, whose walls were lined with seats and benches. In the daylight, she was even more attractive than he remembered. She wore a long tunic with dark brown, yellow, and black stripes over a gauzy cream blouse. A bright yellow scarf of the same material as that of the blouse covered her black hair. Striding behind her, he could tell that Jonathan had been right; she was tall, slightly taller than he was. And she smelled wonderful.

  She pulled up the hem of her skirt to take, nearly at a run, the three steps leading to a large open courtyard. “Father is in his chamber,” she whispered, barely turning her head, pointing to the right, where two guards stood in front of large wooden doors. “But we still need to be quiet. I don’t want him to know we’ve brought you here—yet.”

  David wished he could engage Jonathan’s sister in conversation but felt inept and self-conscious. All he could think about was how he had foolishly shamed and embarrassed this beautiful girl. What could he say to compensate? How could I have been such an idiot to push her away like that? he wondered miserably. Again the memory of the blush of shame rising up her cheeks came back to him. He wished he could run back out the door he had come in.

  David pushed back the memory by concentrating on the building Michal had invited him into. It was the largest building he had ever seen, much less entered. He wished Michal were not walking so fast, so he could take it all in.

  The palace was built in the form of a quadrangle, with the courtyard in the middle. Its center point was a large fountain. Marble eagles, their wings parted as if preparing to soar, stood at each corner. Streams of water flowed from their open beaks. The splashing sound created an atmosphere of tranquility, while the mist helped cool the warm air. Multicolored canopies, interspersed among elegant palms, shaded groupings of chairs, providing a sense of calm.

  The floor of the courtyard was tiled in hues of blue. Crossing over it, David felt as though he were walking on rippling waves. Around the perimeter of the court were half walls with lovely arches and rows of elegant columns that supported the upper story. Behind the arches ran hallways bordering the court on all four sides. Sturdy doors along the walls led to various chambers. The second floor had the largest doors. In front of several of these stood motionless guards with swords strapped to their waists and spears in their throwing hands. Michal was heading toward a flight of stairs, which led to that level.

  At the top of the stairs, still speaking in a hushed voice, she told a dark-skinned soldier with broad shoulders and lean muscles to announce her. Rather than speaking, and barely moving at all, he gave the door behind him three quick raps with the butt of his spear and resumed his stance. He did it so quickly, it was over before David knew what was happening.

  The door was opened from inside. Two guards flanked the entrance. On a cushioned bench sat Jonathan. In front of his seat was a low table made of wrought iron. Its top was some kind of dark marble. On it sat a jug and a long-stemmed glass tinted blue. It reminded David of a heron. He had never seen any drinking vessel so fragile or so attractive. His fingers itched to feel its polished sides.

  Jonathan’s back was toward them, a hand resting on one of the ornamental columns of the high triple-arched windows. He was bent forward, looking at something below. “I love watching him play,” he said. The prince spoke with a tenderness David had not heard before.

  Michal waited for her brother to explain, but when he did not, she added for David’s benefit, “It’s the enclosure for women and small children. That is where Mother spends her time playing with her grandchildren. Jonathan’s boy is the youngest—and her favorite.”

  Still looking out the window, Jonathan motioned for them to come toward him.

  “Where is Ramah?” Michal asked.

  “She is down below with Mother and Mephibosheth. He is taking his first steps. He is a strong lad.” He turned toward them but did not stand. Instead he held out his arm and grasped David’s. “Thank you for coming,” he said, patting the bench to his side. “Sit. And don’t worry about the guards; they are my men. We can speak freely.” Michal was about to take the seat opposite when another threefold knock stopped her. The dark-skinned soldier’s head appeared through the crack, and he whispered to one of the guards.

  “Princess Michal,” the guard said. “Your mother has requested that you come to see her. She has news about your father.” Tossing the messenger a look of annoyance, she straightened, smoothed her dress, and strode out of the room. As she swayed past him, David smelled the delicious fragrance again; it reminded him of honeysuckle in full bloom. It made his head spin just a little. It was almost too strong, as if she had just put it on.

  “It’s just as I warned you,” Jonathan said. “My father has gone completely mad.” Strands of hair fell over his eyes. With a sibilant oath, he swiped them back. “Ahimelech thinks it is an evil spirit that afflicts him. Zereth is much more diplomatic, of course, and keeps his opinion vague.” Jonathan held David’s gaze for only a moment but then turned away. David was shocked. He thought he had detected a glimmer of shame.

  “What happened?” David asked.

  Jonathan pushed himself off the bench and began pacing back and forth like a chained lion. “The senior members of the council were eating together in the courtyard, discussing whether we should launch a follow-up campaign against the Philistines. Father was recommending caution, as usual. It makes me crazy.” The prince kicked a floor cushion, nearly sending it through one of the windows. “He believes that the best offensive strategy is to let the enemy wear himself out. He acts as if he believes that if we wait, they will eventually stop out of sheer boredom.”

  He threw a quick glance at the guards. The soldiers stood rigid, eyes fixed on a distant point. For a moment, David wondered how much Jonathan actually trusted his men. The prince shook his head, then continued. “After an interminable speech in which he argued for the need to gather better intelligence, I had heard enough. The last time my father followed that strategy, the ar
my dwindled to six hundred men, and the Philistine marauders laid waste to five villages.”

  Jonathan threw himself back down on his bench, lifted his glass, and pointed toward the jug. One of the guards strode up to him and filled Jonathan’s glass. Jonathan appeared too distracted to offer David a drink. “I was angry,” he continued. “I will admit it—and I spoke rashly. And it was probably not wise to remind him of what happened at Geba. I could see that my father was getting angry, but I had lost my temper too. I told him we needed to act aggressively to take away the Philistines’ capacity to launch future attacks. He tried to interrupt me, but I kept speaking. This makes him furious, but by that point, I didn’t care. I told him that the army needed better armor and that our first priority was to take back control of the smithies so we could make our own weapons.”

  Emptying the glass in one long swallow, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “That is when he blew up. He started yelling, accusing me of currying favor with the troops. He said he knew I was only interested in getting the army’s support so I could take the throne from him. It’s the same thing I’ve been hearing for the past ten years. By this point, he was on his feet, screaming. It was the worst he’s ever been; he started foaming at the mouth and making sounds none of us could understand.” Jonathan was unable to hide a look of disgust as he recalled the incident.

  “But he grew worse, and his face contorted into something I’ve never seen. You may think I’m the one who’s crazy, but I could swear it took the shape of …” Jonathan stopped and glanced briefly at David, as if unsure whether to continue. “It sounds impossible, I know, but it was something like a lizard.” The prince was staring at the blue glass he was holding in both hands. “He looked at me with these hooded eyes as if he had never seen me before and began to shriek: ‘Who are you? Who are you?’ It was the most awful thing you can imagine. There have been a few times when he’s not been able to recognize Mother and some of the commanders, but it’s never happened with me.”