Day of War

by Cliff Graham

  The Philistine pulled and wrenched the lance from his body, and Jonathan felt no pain, only the dull sensation of the shaft tearing loose. The soldier ran back to his place in the lines. There was no more shouting from either side then, only the grim silence of men trying to kill one another. Jonathan listened to it, the mosaic of noises that told him the battle was almost over and there would finally be rest.

  He was so very tired. No pain, just exhaustion. He was relieved that the lance had ended this war for him, for he would not have stopped. But now there would be rest. There would be warmth and fires and laughter again. His blood was filling the earth around him. He did not care. He only wanted rest.

  Yahweh had been there at the end. Jonathan had felt him in his spirit and let him move the blades. The covering had given him one final charge for the men to see, for his father to see. He chuckled, blood filling his throat.

  His father would not have watched. His father had never been proud of him.

  But perhaps his father had seen. Perhaps he had been proud.

  Perhaps there had been a moment when his father watched him run courageously through the ranks, trusting only in the urge of the covering in his spirit that had so often come upon him, and was proud of him. Jonathan’s father no longer understood that urge. He did once. Not anymore.

  The sounds were gone at last, and Jonathan was thankful. He was weary of the sound of war. He had known it all his life. He wanted rest now. Perhaps his father had seen him.

  Perhaps Yahweh will be with us.

  TWENTY-ONE

  In his daydream, David was climbing, but he had paused to peer up and around a tangle of wet brush that clung to the edge of the rocky face. The sun and the smell of salt; he could see far to the distant peaks of Moab, and he was calm for a moment. Calm because the place was perfect and beautiful, as though Yahweh had dipped a mighty finger into the nearby sea and shaken it clear of the death salt before touching this wadi, its bright water erupting out of the stark side of the mountain. He tried not to think of Michal and her touch, her skin, her soft body that he had taken so much delight in, before she was torn from him.

  He touched his cheek to the moss, letting the cold stream cleanse his head as he clung to the brush. Then, in an instant, he remembered where he was and what was happening, and panic gripped him. He froze, listening. The sound of water, birds, hyraxes squealing nearby.

  And he heard voices, violent and full of anger, coming closer, and he scrambled up the rocks beneath the waterfall as fast as he could scrape his fingers into the moss.

  They were coming.

  They were coming! He was coming!

  David slipped on the moss and was twisting as he struck the pool at the base of the falls …

  And now he was in the cave, and men were there, his men, telling him to strike, telling him in desperate whispers that could not be heard over the roaring water to kill this man who hunted them. David wanted to kill him now and end it once and forever, to capture the crown and hunt for leopards with Jonathan again, just the two of them, building fortresses on the trade roads and building Israelite ports on the Great Sea, driving the Philistines from their own harbors, and all he had to do was kill this man in the cave only cubits away.

  And how he wanted to. But then the dream shifted, and he saw the giant in the hot sun wearing the shining armor, and the flames roared through David’s muscles, burning away his fear with the heat of the fiery desert sun …

  Grip the stones tight. No other movement behind me. No other men coming. So I will do it alone.

  Cover me, Yahweh, in the day of war. I am alone.

  The monster is coming! No time. These stones will do. Hurry. Fit the stone.

  I feel you; give me the power now. He is so large. There is the shield bearer, not a small man either, he will move quickly to protect the flank.

  If it is your will, Father, put the fear away.

  He is coming …

  If it is your will, Yahweh, that I am hunted all of my life, so be it, just cover me in the day of war …

  David roused himself. He realized he was clenching his knees tightly to his chest, alone in the corner of the burned-out room. A pale band of sunlight streamed through the window of his bed chamber and left a golden strip directly beneath the pane. He watched the small swirls of dust dancing in the light. Some particles disappeared, then moved back into view, carried by an unseen current.

  There was noise outside the walls. Arguments. The men were not screaming anymore, though. They had been demanding that his head be cut off.

  He closed his eyes and tried to listen. Nothing yet. Sometimes he heard it alone, sometimes he needed the ephod, but he nearly always felt it.

  The men were demanding him. But he could not face them unless he heard the message. It would not work anymore to simply kill troublemakers; from now on, they would need to be convinced. They would need to be led.

  David searched himself for any remaining darkness he had not confessed that would prevent the covering from coming. There could not be vengeance or sin in his heart or Yahweh would not speak.

  Their families were alive. He believed it. There were no Hebrew bodies, except that of the old woman whose heart must have stopped beating. Slavery must have been the goal of the Amalekites. His wives, Abigail and Ahinoam, had been taken. Abigail was his favorite, and he wanted her back. She looked much like Michal had once looked. Young, lush, beautiful, but wiser.

  Vengeance began to heat him, and he resisted it, knowing that it would block the covering and the word from Yahweh.

  David knew he had been avoiding the covering for too long. It was too easy to propel himself forward in his own power. He had been successful for so long, had never lost a battle, but despite that he felt like he was running from Yahweh. That he had been too harsh, that too much blood had been spilled.

  He wiped sweat from his forehead and released his legs. It always felt good to stretch them, as it always felt good to be alone.

  He had been alone a great deal back in the days tending sheep. He had been alone in the deep woods of the hill country—no brothers, no chattering people coming in and out of his father’s home. The trees and the rocks and the mountains were part of him.

  He hadn’t minded tending the sheep. They were a pleasant audience as he tried out his songs. David smiled. Their response was somewhat lacking, but they were supportive.

  In the woods, alone with the sheep, he had always heard the covering. There had never been doubt. He had heard it in the bleating of a newborn lamb, heard it in the terrible lightning storms, heard it in the roar of the lion before it struck.

  Yahweh was in all of it; and away from his brothers and politics and armies and work, in the quiet wilderness places, David always heard him. How he longed for it again, those years of training, before he became the leader of outcasts and reprobates, before kings wanted his death for no reason. Better days.

  The shepherd’s staff he had carried as a boy was across his lap, reminding him of the day of his anointing. The old prophet had been firm but reluctant, wary of another mistake. David had been very young then—although he had felt older than he was. More had happened in his short life than many men ever saw.

  Samuel’s anointing oil had been fragrant, thick with olive scent, and the prophet had let it flow over David’s eyes and along the side of his mouth. The prophet’s hands had touched his face, and his thumbs covered his eyes as he kissed his head. He had prayed aloud in the ancient tongue of their people. The oil soothed David, and he let it stream down his chest and soak his garments. The eyes of the prophet were piercing, making David feel uneasy.

  A sudden, inexplicable burning tore at David’s face, forcing him to fall backward. Fire was everywhere, consuming the air around him with impossible heat. It snaked into his chest, and he felt as though it would erupt out of his lungs. David yelled in pain, and then realized that it was not pain but something else. The burning poured out of his ears. He opened his eyes, although the oi
l stung them, and saw the prophet, one moment facing him and the next lying on his face wailing aloud.

  His brothers and his father were watching him, bewildered, and he could not understand why they did not run from the flames engulfing the room, but he had no energy to speak. He let himself lie with his face buried in the dirt, reaching for anything to hold on to.

  The images of fire, so real, flowed through his mind and chest. Etched in flame against the darkness of his mind’s eye, he saw the Lion. It roared at him, and in the quiet of the room he fell through its open mouth, helpless to resist … and then he was in the woods once again …

  There is a monster, a black mass moving toward my sheep, and I am running. I have only my sling. The stone is ready. I am terrified—terrified that I cannot get there soon enough. My yell chokes in my throat. I throw the stone, a hit! The monster rolls to its side. There! A branch on the ground, grab it! Leap onto its back. It struggles and tries to toss me, but I reach around its hideous neck and pull the piece of wood hard against the flesh. The bear swipes and claws, and I keep pulling as hard as I can. The fire pours into my chest, and I scream with it. The fire comes and comes and comes, and I shout more. The bear struggles for breath … I hold …

  The lion comes at me. The sheep are behind me, and it leaps. I miss with the stone and feel the stench of its breath right before it collides with me. It crushes me; I cannot hold it off any longer. Find the weapon! Hurry! There it is! Fire races into my lungs and through my eyes, and I seize the golden hide and throw it away from me. It rolls. I am upon it. I strike it with my fist, and the creature shrieks away from me. I catch it and squeeze the throat, claws and roars covering me, and I pull as hard as I can. No, the fire pulls through me. I have his neck in my hands, Yahweh cover me. I hear and feel a snap. The beast goes limp …

  Fire again. Through my arms it rages this time. The stone flies and strikes the giant. He grabs at his face, blood everywhere down the front of his armor. Need to hurry, need to run, I reach him and kick his knees. He falls to the ground, screaming, cursing. His sword. I grab the hilt from the scabbard. Fire in me, your fire Yahweh, let me slay this man who would curse you; let me show these people what happens when you are profaned. The armor bearer moves to flank, aware of the blow, and he is running from me as he should, for I will slay him and all his brothers. Fire burning through my heart and out my arms. His sword lies at his side. I seize it, so very heavy, swing with the fire, and it severs his neck, bright red blood spraying my face, warm and good. The armor bearer is gone. I grab the hair, hold up his head, and feel the blood drenching me, drenching me like the oil, and it feels good. But then the fire leaves, flickers away from the depths of my soul, and escapes my mouth. I am standing with the head, with the sword, with the shouts of the armies behind me. They are running. We will slaughter them; we will kill so many of them that no man of Philistia will ever be bred again. Behind me comes the army … free men … send the fire again …

  There was a gentle scratching at the doorway, startling him. His eyes were blurry at first, and he blinked to clear them.

  “Come in.”

  A man wearing elaborate garments came in. Abiathar, the priest who traveled with the army, who had loyally followed David everywhere he had fled, bowed his head. The two had been together a long time, and their affection was warm and genuine. Abiathar was one of the few men David could completely trust, and he was grateful for his companionship now.

  “How are you?” David asked.

  Abiathar hesitated. “The men are distraught. You will not live this day unless you have answers.”

  “That is why I have you.”

  “The ephod?”

  “Yes, I need the Urim and Thummim,” David said.

  The priest nodded. His beard spilled over the front of a multicolored breastplate embroidered with elaborate threadwork. Jewels and gold were spaced apart in the cloth. The breastplate hung over his shoulder by two straps, fastened to a girdle with golden rings, giving the exact appearance of a gilded suit of armor.

  Below the breastplate was an ornately woven pouch that hung directly over the priest’s loins. Gold rings attached it to the belt around his waist. Blue, purple, and scarlet threads of fine linen were woven with precious stones, ending with a dark opening facing upward toward his chest. There were two jewels on the straps, inscribed with the names of the twelve tribes.

  David held his breath a moment and looked away from the brilliant craftsmanship of the priestly garment. It was never easy for him to do this. His fists were clenched. He looked at the priest and nodded his head slightly. The two men knelt and held their arms out while facing each other. David closed his eyes and let the silence of the room cover him. The priest held still as well.

  David searched his heart for any remaining hate or vengeance, anything that would prevent Yahweh from speaking to him. He repented of it once more in his spirit and listened to the quiet murmur of the insects in the window.

  Tentatively, David spoke. “Should I chase them? Will I catch them?”

  There was more silence. The priest moved. David opened his eyes and saw the man’s hand go into the pouch. Only one stone would be in his hand when it came out. Would it be the black one? The white one? Everything depended on it.

  Abiathar shuffled the contents, then came out with a black stone.

  Urim.

  Yes.

  David held himself as still and as reverently as possible. Yahweh was speaking, and he did not want to anger him. He wanted to know details, but he was afraid to ask. He meditated on the meaning of it. With his eyes closed, he prayed silently that Yahweh would reveal something else to him.

  Then, in his spirit: Go after them. You will recover everything that was taken from you.

  Many times in his life David had wondered when it was really Yahweh speaking. There was no question now.

  “Thank you, great Father. Your name is above all others,” he said aloud. The cloud in his mind dissipated immediately. He had heard. No more sulking and waiting.

  David stood, as did Abiathar, who smiled at him. “Follow Yahweh, my future king, and we will follow you.”

  When the priest had left, David walked to a corner of his room and saw the men in the streets below gathered with their weapons, waiting for him. They had been ready to butcher him earlier in the day and might still be. His own men. It was the blackest day of his life. His wives were missing, his town destroyed, and his own war brothers were plotting against him. He had told them he would ask Yahweh about their situation, and when his words were reinforced by the threats of his most loyal troops, they had conceded. But now it was time to face them again.

  He felt older than he was. So long ago were the days of tending sheep. The men acted like sheep sometimes, and leading them was not so different, but he was coming to realize how much he had been behaving like a foolish sheep himself.

  He picked up the enormous iron sword captured that day in the Elah Valley, the one he had used to behead the vanquished giant. It too would have been taken, if the raiding Amalekites had found the secret compartment in his bedchamber.

  There was no practical purpose for this sword: too large to maneuver for quick blows between the ranks and too heavy to use in open combat. Without the covering, he would not be able to use it.

  But David did not rely on practical purpose.

  Joab grabbed the man by his vest.

  “Say it again and you will die. My vow.”

  The foreigner glared at him but said nothing further. The rest of the group was crowded around the entrance to David’s home. The Three, along with Benaiah, Joab, and Keth, stood shoulder to shoulder at the entrance. Stone walls twelve cubits high were wrapped around the dwelling, but the gate was missing. David had entered soon after they arrived at the ruined city and had not been seen since. The men were plotting to kill him out of grief, and the only thing that had spared him was their fear of his Three.

  It had been hours since their arrival at Ziklag, to find
their worst fears confirmed. All order and discipline was lost when they reached the city, each man wandering off to his home to suffer alone. The men had wept and shouted, tearing at their clothing in grief.

  Many yelled about David’s alliance with the pagan, uncircumcised King Achish. Others, usually loyal, had fastened on this accusation and spread it throughout the ranks.

  Benaiah was surprised that he was not angry with David himself. He felt too numb to be angry; besides, he knew it was not David’s fault. It was his own. He’d had many chances to be there for them. He never was.

  A man shouted that David had better come out soon or he would be stoned.

  “Stone him, and I will send your head back to your father with my condolences,” Josheb answered calmly. Even though his own wife was missing, Josheb was keeping his usual casual demeanor.

  There were fifty men demanding to go after David. It was stunning that so many would turn on their leader so quickly, especially after all they had been through. To Benaiah, the worst of it was that the men of the tribes had been the first to threaten him. The foreigners were more loyal than his fellow Israelites.

  A few of them charged toward the burnt doorway. Those still loyal to David pulled their weapons and prepared to make their stand, but just then an enormous sword crashed into the cedar beams in the doorway. It struck with such force that the men running stopped on their heels. The shouting died. Heads turned toward the doorway of the house.

  There was David, holding two spears, aiming one of them at the mass of men and holding the other over his shoulder.

  David propped one spear against the gate and pulled the great sword out of the cedar beam. The men had gone quiet. He walked in front of them, eyes blazing, terrifying, and the fighters backed away.

  “Do you know what this is? Anyone. Tell me.” He held up the sword by the blade.

  “It is the sword of the Philistine giant you killed,” said Joab, loud enough that the men would know he was pointing it out for their benefit. David walked down the line of men, showing each of them the sword. Most had never seen it, some only from a distance. No one had ever known where it came from. Benaiah felt the tension begin to ebb.