Warrior Poet

by Timothy J. Stoner

  This time Jonathan filled his own cup. A good amount of wine pooled around the base of the glass as he poured with shaking hands. He lifted it to his lips, drained it, set it back down, and resumed his pacing.

  “‘You are not Jonathan! You’ve come to kill me!’ Father screamed, and as he did he whipped around and grabbed a spear from the guard. I was sitting across from him, too stunned to jump out of the way.” Jonathan bit his lip and turned to look out the farthest window. “If he hadn’t been so confused and half-drunk, he would have stuck me to the wall. As it was, I managed to fall sideways, and it barely missed me.”

  After a few moments, he sat down on the bench across from David. “When I had time to calm down,” he said, “I thought of you.”

  David looked at him, aghast. “What?” he spluttered. “Why?”

  “Your music. Remember what I told you about music driving the demons away?”

  David shook his head.

  “Well, if what happened at Kiriath Jearim is any indication, I believe that is exactly what your music can do.”

  “Nothing like that happened there,” David protested.

  “Did you see my father?” Jonathan asked. “Within a few moments after you started singing, his head dropped to his chest.” He waved David quiet. “No, it was not the wine. I know him, and that was not due to drinking. He was barely getting started. Your music did it.” He began twirling the thin stem of the glass between his fingers. David could now see that there were Egyptian letters etched into its side. Jonathan lifted it and showed it to David. “This was used by one of the Egyptian physicians who swore he had a potion that would drive away the evil spirits.” He traced the letters with his fingers. “It had no effect. The fake left before Father could string him up. Anyway, Mother is frantic with worry. She and Michal have talked it over, and they agree that you should play for him.”

  “But what will the king say?”

  “Don’t you worry about that. Michal can get Father to do anything she wants.”

  This time there was no knock; the door was pushed open, and Michal walked in. “I’ve talked things over with Abba,” she said, her cheeks flushed and her eyes red. “And he has agreed. He is willing to see David. But we need to hurry before he changes his mind—or forgets.” Her gaze was fixed on her brother. She seemed intent on avoiding eye contact with David.

  David stood, his knees weak. Then a surge of relief flooded over him. “But I can’t play for him. I didn’t bring my harp!” The last time he’d played it was when Joab came to find him, and he was sure he had not brought it from Bethlehem.

  Jonathan smiled encouragingly as he walked him to the door. “Don’t worry. One of the court musicians has one almost exactly like yours. I had it tuned so that it would be ready when you arrived.” Putting an arm around David’s shoulder, he gave it a squeeze. “You will do well. I’m sure of it. I will stay here. I do not think Father should see me at the moment.”

  Michal was already through the door. She was moving quickly, and when David increased his pace to walk beside her, she moved faster, staying in front. With her long legs, she glided smoothly, although her back and shoulders looked stiff. “Do not talk to him,” she murmured without turning her head. For a brief moment David thought she had said that she did not want him to talk to her. “He is in no mood for conversation. Begin playing your harp the moment you walk in the room. Sit across the room from him, but not too close.”

  David trailed her, wishing miserably that he knew what to say.

  She was taking the last stair that led down into the courtyard when, out of desperation, he reached out to her. As his left hand touched her shoulder, she froze. “I’m sorry,” he said. The apology slid off his tongue of its own accord. But it was as if the words had dropped and cracked on the stone floor. His hand felt like a useless slab of mutton draped over her rigid shoulder.

  He tried again. “It was my fault.” He clenched his jaw in frustration. You sound so weak and pathetic, he scolded himself.

  Though with each phrase Michal had become increasingly cold, David had no option but to keep digging a hole that seemed to be getting deeper with each word. “I should have been the one apologizing to you.” His hand felt even more heavy and awkward.

  Michal’s head lowered a fraction.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” he said, unable to tell her the truth. “I was just so confused, and with Jahra, and everything that happened, I …” His voice trailed off before he could continue the lie. His hand was growing uncomfortably hot, and he could feel Michal’s skin through the thin material of her blouse. He knew he should let go, but he did not dare to. If he pulled back his hand, he would never have the courage to touch her again.

  As though reading his thoughts, Michal reached up and placed a hand over his. She still did not turn to face him.

  “I thought you hated me,” she murmured.

  “No. No. I could never do that,” he said, taking a step down. He was now only one step above her. He placed his right hand on her other shoulder. Michal leaned back against him, barely touching him. His breath caught in his throat. He hesitated, afraid to make a wrong move.

  A shriek startled them, followed by the smashing of a pot from the direction of the king’s chamber. “Father!” Michal gasped. She pulled away from David and rushed down the stairs and across the courtyard. When she arrived, the guards had swung open Saul’s doors and were peering inside. They could hear clapping and hysterical laughter.

  “The … stupid … stupid … cow!” came two voices in a slow, mocking cadence. They sounded like petulant children. It was awful. There was a hollowness to them, as if they were speaking from inside a barrel.

  “I told him I wanted it cold,” one of the voices rasped.

  Michal looked into the dim interior. “It’s only a jug of wine,” she whispered to David, a hand on his forearm. Her eyes were wide. He could tell she was trying to keep the terror from her face. She snapped her fingers, and both guards looked at her. One of them nodded and picked up a harp lying against the outer wall. It was the same size and shape as David’s kinnor, except that it had eight strings. David’s mouth went dry, and he clenched his fists to keep them from shaking. It might have looked identical to the untrained eye, but two fewer strings made it a completely different instrument.

  “Remember, start playing as soon as you step inside,” she said. Her fingers brushed his as she handed him the instrument. “Dishon will remain inside with you. You can trust him.” Though she seemed ready to break down, her voice was surprisingly steady. He looked down at her long fingers, aching to touch them. She hurried away, her hand covering her mouth.

  A bald guard with a massive chest stepped aside as David walked into the room. Beads of sweat shone on the guard’s head. The room was as dark and dank as a cave. All the window curtains had been drawn, but a few creases let in vague shards of the late afternoon light. David stepped into one of them and began to run his fingers over the taut strings, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Finally he was able to see the king’s huddled shape in the far corner of the room, on a small mountain of pillows across from a large brass bed. A servant was mopping the floor amid pieces of pottery. The bedroom stank of menace and sharp, spiced wine. And over it all was that pungent stench of charred and putrid meat.

  David’s fingers were shaking. The notes from the harp were muddled and muffled.

  “Curse him!” came a childish voice that did not come from a child.

  “Yes, curse him!” said the other.

  “Curse … them … all,” they repeated in a terrible, reverberating unison, as if two dissonant strings were being strummed together.

  “They … are … cursed … traitors. The … lot … of … them.” It was only one voice again.

  “Yes, you are right—all they want is my throne. But they will never, ever get it. Will they?” A cackling laugh cam
e from the king’s throat. David’s fingers jerked.

  “It … is … yours … only … yours.” The words ran out of Saul’s mouth like thick oil, obsequious and sly.

  “Mine! Mine! Mine!” the king roared. David saw light glint off something hard and reflective in the king’s hands. Fear squeezed his chest, and he nearly raced from the room. The pressure released as Saul lifted the object to his mouth and kissed it. It was the golden crown. He was clutching it with both hands as if it were threatening to vanish.

  “Only mine,” Saul moaned with a quiver of ecstasy as he hugged the crown to himself.

  Though terror was clawing up David’s back and seizing his throat, he knew he had to sing. He held in his breath, then let it out very slowly. As he did, he groaned out a quiet prayer. “To You, O Lord, I lift up my soul, O my God. In You I trust. Let me not be put to shame.”40

  Immediately he knew. Not all of it, but enough to begin. He would once again have to step over the cliff and trust that there would be arms to catch him. It was to be a song for the king about the king. Of that much he was sure. He sat down cross-legged in the middle of the room.

  Again he whispered, “My God, let me not be put to shame,” then ran a slow, heavy hand over the unfamiliar strings. Though not the most creative opening, it got the king’s attention. As the discordant sound bounced jaggedly off the stone walls, Saul grew still, and his mutterings stopped.

  The king was crouched on all fours. He looked like an animal bracing itself to pounce. From the dim corner where he lurked, two burning orbs stared at the young singer. David shut his eyes, let his fingers pick a few chords and find their own way, and began to sing. The words were slow and tentative as he fought to keep the quaver out of his voice.

  Yahweh, the king rejoices in Your power;

  what great joy Your saving help gives him!

  You have granted him his heart’s desire,

  not denied him what his lips entreated.41

  He strummed a few more chords, feeling his fingers grow more confident.

  For You have met him with choicest blessings,

  put a crown of pure gold on his head;

  he asked for life, and You gave it to him,

  length of days forever and ever.42

  Heat was beginning to flow over him, like Samuel’s anointing oil. It ran down from his head, warming his chest, arms, and hands. The fear had dissipated, replaced with pity. An almost brash confidence flowed into his lyrics.

  Great is his glory through Your saving help.

  You have loaded him with splendor and majesty;

  yes, You confer on him everlasting blessings,

  gladden him with the joy of Your presence.43

  At this, a whimper broke from the king’s mouth.

  “Shut … up … you … pathetic … weakling!” came the doubled hiss.

  There was a coughing and hacking. The king was weeping. He was lying on his face.

  “Stop … it! Shame on you!”

  David was unsure if this was directed at him or the king. He did not care. Anger rose inside him at the sinuous, dark power destroying Israel’s once mighty ruler.

  Yes, the king puts his trust in Yahweh,

  By grace of the Most High may he reign unshaken.44

  The whimpering was growing louder. And with it, the contrasting sounds of snuffling and growling. David clenched his teeth and kept singing.

  Your hand will unmask all Your enemies,

  Your right hand all who hate You;

  You will make them like a blazing furnace,

  the day that You appear.45

  Shrieks pierced the room, doubling, tripling, and twisting themselves from the king’s throat. They were the tormented wails of a band of furious demons. David barely heard them. He was burning with an implacable fury. The words boiled out of him.

  Yahweh will engulf them in His anger,

  and fire will devour them;

  You will wipe them from the earth,

  their offspring from among the sons of men.46

  There was a gagging cough, followed by a low moaning. David could not tell if the king was laughing or crying. Standing, David walked resolutely toward the prostrate form.

  Rise, Yahweh, in Your power!

  We will sing and play in honor of Your strength.

  Rise, Yahweh, in Your power!

  We will sing and play in honor of Your strength.47

  From the figure in front of him came an exhausted groan and a hoarse sigh of relief. The king grew quiet, and then David heard slow, labored breathing. He was standing over the king, who was lying in a ball on the embroidered pillows, his arms wrapped around himself. The crown was several paces away, partly obscured by a drape. It must have rolled out of his hands when he fell asleep. David walked over and pulled the crown from where it was hiding, laying it on an ornate chest at the foot of the king’s bronze bed. The darkness in the room was still dense with evil, and eyes seemed to be boring into him, though he could not tell from where. He did not want to wake the king, but he decided to slide back a drape and let some light in. As the shaft widened and the darkness dissipated, a weight seemed to lift, and the king’s breathing eased.

  A heavy hand on David’s shoulder made him jump. It was Dishon the guard. He inclined his bald head toward the doorway. When David turned to follow, he stumbled and caught himself on the wooden chest, almost knocking the crown back on the floor. His legs had gone numb.

  With a quick glance at the king, the soldier pushed the crown away from the edge and led David to one of the rooms off the hallway on the first floor. The floor was not tiled but made of smooth stone. There were some folded clothes on the floor and a cushioned bench in front of the single window. The thin cloth that had been drawn across the narrow window was swaying gently in the evening breeze. Beneath it was a small round table with two jugs, a bowl, and a mug. Unlike those in Jonathan’s room, they were of simple design and made out of reddish-brown clay.

  As the door closed behind him, David filled the cup from the closest pitcher and emptied it. The wine was tart. It soothed the dryness of his throat and washed away the acrid taste of evil. He looked at the couch and realized that the only thing he wanted to do was sleep. The muscles in his legs felt as if he’d run all the way from Bethlehem. He slipped under the sleeping cloak that lay over the couch. Two malevolent flickers of light stared at him through a round hole in the center of the wooden door. Turning on his other side, he closed his eyes, too tired to care.

  As his mind was drifting into sleep, he saw the image of his twin brothers mocking him for the song he’d sung to them years earlier. And he heard a whisper. It made him smile: “So much for your vow.”

  40 Psalm 25:1, author’s paraphrase

  41 Psalm 21:1–2

  42 Psalm 21:3–4

  43 Psalm 21:5–6, author’s paraphrase

  44 Psalm 21:7, author’s paraphrase

  45 Psalm 21:8–9a

  46 Psalm 21:9a–10, author’s paraphrase

  47 Psalm 21:13

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  David’s eyes flew open. He looked down at his chest to see if blood was splattered on his tunic. He could still feel the rock in his hand. The back of his throat was raw, as if he’d been screaming. The couch on which he’d fallen asleep was tipped over on top of him, and the cloak was wrapped around his legs like a death shroud. Terror still clung to him along with the anguish of betrayal. He kicked his feet, pushing the couch off him, and looked quickly around the room. He was alone. Warm sunlight was filtering through the cloth that hung across the window, but he could not rid himself of that sense of menace. It was like a cold mantle stuck to his skin.

  He had never had a dream this vivid, not even the nightmare of the wolves. It was as if the colors, sen
sations, and sounds had been distilled and concentrated. The strange thing was that even as he was asleep he had suspected he was in a nightmare, but he had been incapable of waking himself.

  It had begun innocently enough. Jonathan had asked him to accompany him on a hunting trip. “There was an attack on Father’s flock last night. It looks to be from the bear that has been savaging our animals.” The prince’s voice had sounded as if he were talking into a shofar, and as he spoke, the floor undulated beneath their feet.

  “How big are the tracks?” David asked.

  “The size of both my hands,” Jonathan said, as though a bear twice the normal size were the most natural thing in the world. “You’ll be my armor bearer. You can take Asa’s place.” He threw David a sidelong glance. The room they were in was no longer swaying, but David felt a ripple of apprehension.

  Tracking the beast had been too easy. The animal had dragged the sheep, leaving a trail of blood and broken twigs. Everything was in sharp relief; the sun seemed to have burst out after a brief but violent summer’s rain. David’s eyes were drawn to droplets of blood that had splattered the stark, white flowers of a cumin plant. The flowers were bent over, as if weeping. Jonathan was loping ahead of him as though trying to outdistance an opponent in a race. When Jonathan stopped, at his feet David saw the carcass of a sheep. Its shiny entrails protruded from the mauled body.

  David’s pulse began to race. He raked his eyes across the terrain. They were in a narrow valley with boulders scattered on all sides.

  “You go ahead,” Jonathan muttered.

  No movement came from the rocks ahead, but the bear’s blundering trail erased all doubt. The beast was hidden inside its den somewhere in front of him. The thudding of David’s heart sounded like the beat of a war drum.

  He reached for his belt, but his sling was gone. Warily, he crouched to pick up a rock. It was the size of a small melon. He froze. A low, menacing growl rumbled dangerously near him. He looked back. Jonathan was standing and clapping with a smirk on his face. There was another rumble—this one louder and more threatening. It came from the rocks in front of him. The valley had grown still. All sound had fled. David held his breath, ears straining. He looked around for Jonathan.