by Ann Burton
No word came from Maon, nor any of my husband’s men to drag me back. I expected them every hour of the first week, and kept close watch, but as the days passed I gradually relaxed and thought less and less about Nabal and how he might try to punish me for disobeying him. My fear I could control. Yehud and his sons would protect me until I could arrange for my divorce.
My dreams, however, did as they pleased, and brought another man into my thoughts.
Every night I dreamed of black eyes watching me, of strong, gentle hands sifting through my hair. In my dreams I heard his voice and watched him dance. Sometimes I heard him sing again, and his songs were like a golden shower over my ears. At the end of the dream, when he came to me—and he always did—I reached for him with eager, open arms. Always, always, I awoke just before I touched him. Often I opened my eyes to find my face already wet from weeping.
The shepherd of the blue mantle danced and sang in my dreams, while I cried in my sleep.
“You are very quiet lately, Abigail,” Leha said one afternoon as she helped me remove cooled pots from the oven we were using as a kiln. “Are you missing your family in Carmel?”
“Often. I wish my parents were in better health, so that I could bring them here.” I brushed a bit of ash from the lid to a soup pot and handed it to her. “You are not married yet, are you?”
Leha shook her head. “Bethel needs tending, and I am in no hurry to fall in love or begin having babies.”
Each married woman in camp seemed to treat her husband differently. Yehud’s eldest son came directly to the women’s tent to fetch his new wife, and sometimes was so eager for her that he carried her off like a raider. Such displays of passion made the other women laugh out loud, but his wife never seemed to take offense. Indeed, she would giggle herself, all the way out of the tent.
Bethel and Yehud spent their time privately, away from curious eyes, but I sensed a deep and abiding affection as well as respect whenever Bethel spoke of him. Because Yehud had more than one wife, he divided his nights among them. Bethel did not seem to resent her husband’s devotion to his other wives, and more than once I heard her urge the younger women to anoint their hair or change their khiton so that they would please the rosh’s eye.
Malme, heavy with child, did none of these things. She would sulk throughout the day, pining and sighing for her husband as if her heart was breaking. Yet when her husband came for her at night, her mood changed completely. She would frown and ignore him, complaining endlessly about carrying the burden of their unborn child. Even more astonishing, Malme’s husband did not grow angry, but acted as if at fault. He would always coax and plead with her, flattering her and plying her with treats and little gifts until she grudgingly went back to his tent with him.
Malme’s belly continued to swell, and as the days passed and her child settled low in her womb, her face, hands, and feet became bloated, as well.
“I fear she will not have an easy time of it,” Leha told me. “She has not been eating much and cannot walk more than a few paces without losing her breath.”
I had been too young to help my mother with her last pregnancies. “Does the yeled still move?”
“Yes, but not as strongly as before.” Leha grimaced. “It may be nothing. Some babies do not kick as much just before it is time for them to be born.”
Little as I knew about childbirth, this still did not sound promising. “Do you have a midwife?”
“No, but Bethel has seen to the birth of nearly everyone here. She will know what to do for Malme.” Leha moved the flat stone over the oven opening and dusted off her hands. “Would you like to go and pick some caper berries with me before you go to my aunt? I saw a ripe patch behind the terebinth grove.”
Angry shouts drowned out my answer, and we both turned to see a group of the dal dragging two strange men into the center of camp. There they drove two thick wooden stakes into the ground and tied the strangers to them.
Leha’s mouth became a flat, white line. “We must bring the little ones into the tents.”
I helped Leha and the other women herd the youngest children away from the scene. Malme began to fuss about the noise, but Bethel spoke sharply to her. When one of the strangers shouted something in a strange language, the women’s faces grew fearful.
“Thieving Philistines,” Bethel said in disgust, and took my arm. “Leha, stay here and keep the children from the flaps. Abigail will come with me.”
I did not know what to expect when Bethel and I walked outside. The shouting of the captives vied with the jeers of the dal, and many knives were drawn.
Afraid blood would be spilled, I put my arm around the older woman’s waist. “Perhaps we should go back into the tent and wait for this to be over.”
“No,” Bethel said. “Were my husband here, he would take charge. In his place, I must.”
“Hebrew trash,” one of the captives sneered in our language as he struggled against his bonds. “You only caught us because we are two. Were my kin here—”
“They would be tied up beside you, braying like good Philistine jackasses,” one of the dal said. The other men laughed until they caught sight of me and Bethel, and fell silent.
The angry Philistine glared at us. “Why do you bring out your women? Are they who you have fight your battles?”
Bethel released my arm and hobbled forward. “I do not know who brought this erwat dabar into camp,” she said to one of the dal, “but you can take them directly where you found them.”
Being called as unclean as human waste only goaded the Philistine to become more insulting. “It dresses and sounds like a woman, but it speaks like a man. I know, this must be your melekh.”
The dal raised his fist to clout the captive over the head, and then a terribly familiar voice called out, “Hold.”
The crowd around the Philistines parted and formed two lines, as soldiers would for their commander. The dal bowed their heads with respect as the shepherd with the blue mantle walked down the corridor they had formed.
I caught my breath as he ignored the captives and came toward us. After giving me a narrow look, he addressed Bethel.
“I regret that my men have brought violence into your camp, wife of Yehud,” he said. His black eyes did not possess a trace of kindness or humor now; the blaze of anger made them glitter like live embers.
“Now you bring, and now you regret,” Bethel muttered. “When our men are gone, when there is no one to decide what is to happen to these men.”
He stood. “That is for me to do.”
Bethel shook her head. “My husband has spoken to you before. This I know. He will not allow killing here.”
“Your husband is gone, and what men you have do not guard you as they should.” He gestured toward the captives. “These men came into the pasture and killed four of your goats. We found them roasting the meat in the forest. What if they had taken your daughters instead of the animals?”
Bethel grew furious. “You have a clever tongue, Rea, but you have no say here. You may take your captives and leave this land.”
“As you say, wife of Yehud.” The shepherd gave me another piercing glance before he walked to where the Philistines were bound to the stakes.
“We should rejoin the other women,” I suggested.
Bethel refused to leave. “I must answer to my husband for what happens here, so I must stay and watch,” she told me. “If you are afraid, you can go and hide under a blanket.”
I was afraid—terribly so, after seeing the fury in the shepherd’s dark eyes—but I could not leave her alone, or hide from what he was about to do. Like her, I would stand and serve as witness.
The shepherd said something in a low voice, and the captives were seized and dragged by the dal from the center of camp. When the men had passed outside the horoi stones, they halted and formed a wide circle with the shepherd and the two captives in the center.
“Only so far and no farther,” the old woman murmured. “I vow his pride will b
e his end.”
Bethel did not move, and I could not leave her. Helplessly I watched the shepherd as he removed his blue mantle, his simla, and all of his weapons except his staff, and handed them to one of the dal. “What will he do?”
“Fight them.” She rubbed her eyes with her twisted fingers in a tired manner. “It is the path he walks, and all he knows.”
Two knives were thrown in the dirt before the captives, who were also cut free from their bonds. Both of the Philistines immediately snatched up the knives and held them ready for stabbing.
The shepherd spoke again, and I leaned forward, trying to catch the words.
“You killed animals that did not belong to you,” he told the captives. “You ate meat that belonged in other bellies.”
“That was because we could not find you, goatherd.” The taller, younger captive made an obscene-looking gesture with his hand. “Our king will pay much gold to see you turning over his cook fire.” He turned to the other Philistine and asked loudly, “Did you know he was this puny?”
Puny? My jaw sagged. The shepherd may have only been a head taller than me, but he could not be considered small or weak, by any means. Then I realized the Philistines were trying to goad the shepherd to anger.
“You can leave this place unharmed and return to that stinking cesspit of sin you call your home,” the shepherd continued, appearing unruffled by the slurs made against him. “All you need do is kill me.”
Without warning the Philistines lunged at the shepherd, one from each side, knives flashing.
I covered my mouth with my hand to muffle my cry, and then I saw the shepherd move. He stepped out, brought his staff in a whistling arc, and knocked the first, then the second captive, off his feet. The dal shouted their approval and gathered in, closing the circle around the three men.
“I cannot see what they do.” Bethel prodded me forward. “Go to the stones. See what is happening.”
I hurried to the boundary of the camp and climbed atop one of the horoi. From there I could see beyond the round wall of men surrounding the three fighting.
The Philistines were on their backs, rolling and groaning, but instead of attacking them while they lay on the ground, the shepherd planted his staff and waited, allowing them to rise. This time the captives did not launch themselves at him together, but exchanged signals by hand and made their own circle around the shepherd.
“Jackals,” I heard one of the dal say. “Looking for a weakness.”
“They will find none,” another replied.
The fight seemed as if it might never end. My fingernails dug into my palms as I watched; my heart lodged in the back of my throat. The captives were determined to kill the shepherd, and slashed their blades in the air. The shepherd did not react until they drew close enough for him to strike, and then he moved. With his staff he dealt blow after blow, bloodying the captives’ faces and leaving large, painful-looking welts on their limbs.
He fought like a man who had thrashed a thousand opponents, yet I saw him take no joy in the fight. His expression was not that of a man prevailing over a superior enemy. He had no expression at all.
Did he feel nothing, or did he not permit himself to feel?
Whatever he felt, the shepherd wielded his staff so swiftly and viciously that he was able to strike both captives, one after the other. No matter how they dodged or ducked, neither could avoid the blows. Soon the Philistines, unable to stand straight, were staggering and dripping blood from a dozen wounds.
I nearly fell off the stone when without warning one of the captives whirled and broke out of the circle of the dal, running away and leaving his companion alone with the shepherd. None of the dal tried to pursue him, and I shifted my gaze in time to see the shepherd avoid a knife in his chest and deal a deadly blow to the neck of the captive left behind.
It had been a ruse, to distract the shepherd, and now a man lay dead.
I had never seen a killing before, and even with my distance from the sight, my stomach wanted to empty itself. I scrambled down from the stone and bent over, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths.
“Give me a sword.”
It was as if the shepherd had commanded me, and I opened my eyes and straightened in time to see the circle of dal part and the shepherd run out toward the trees. The escaping captive was almost to the forest now; a few more feet and he would be lost from sight.
The shepherd ran so quickly that he crossed half the distance between them before the captive left the clearing. With a fluid motion, the shepherd lifted the long, gleaming sword and threw it. It landed in the back of the escaping captive, who gurgled out a cry and fell over into the grass.
The shepherd slowed to a walk and went to the fallen man. With the efficiency of a herdsman, he took the sword from the captive’s back and used it to slit the dying man’s throat.
This was the same man who had danced in the rain.
What I felt at that moment made me back away, stumbling over my feet, and then I turned and ran into the camp. Bethel stood waiting where I had left her, and from the paleness of her face I knew she had seen the last man die as I had.
“It is done,” she said, the words a bitter rasp. “Come, Abigail. I must send word of this to Yehud. He will make this rabble leave our land before they begin killing us.”
“Their leader is the man with the blue mantle, is he not?” When she nodded, my heart constricted. “Who is he?”
The old woman gave me a withering look. “He is David, Abigail.”
“David.” Surely not—
“Yes, David, son of Jesse, anointed by Samuel, slayer of Goliath. Now David the outlaw, the despised of the king, the hunted."
Leha came out of the tent and hurried over to us. “Malme has passed water and blood, and her pains have started. The babe is coming.”
CHAPTER
14
The confrontation with David and the dal left Bethel exhausted, so I agreed to stay and help Leha with the birth. One of the younger women herded the children from the tent, but most of the married women stayed.
Birth was a dangerous time, one the women of the family shared together to the end.
Leha and I propped Malme between us and carried her to the moon tent, where women stayed segregated during the time of their monthly bleeding or when babies were born. Men were not permitted to step foot inside the moon tent, so Malme’s husband would not be able to see her when he returned from the herd lands with Yehud.
It was perhaps a good thing that Malme’s husband was away, for the young woman screeched vile curses upon his head with every wave of pain. At last, weary of the noise, Bethel told me to fetch a piece of leather and instructed Malme to bite down on it when the pain came on.
“No more curses,” Bethel said, “or the Adonai might mishear you and heap them on the head of your son.”
“It hurts, it hurts,” Malme moaned.
“Silence,” the old woman snapped. “Do not shame the women of this family. You bring a child into the world. It is supposed to be painful.”
Leha exchanged a look with me before she rose and took Bethel’s arm. “You should rest now, Aunt. We will call for you should you be needed.” She led her over to a comfortable mat and helped her settle.
I dampened a cloth and wiped the tears from Malme’s cheeks. “The little one will be here soon,” I told her. “Do you wish for a son or a daughter?”
“I wish this baby never to come,” she said, her voice tight. “For it will kill me, and then that old witch will raise it to hate me for dying.”
“Then you must live, if only to tell it your side of the story,” I said, gently blotting the sweat from her brow. I was trying desperately to remember what Cetura had said about this business of birthing babies. All she had mentioned was that the pains were terrible and that losing too much blood after was what killed the mothers. Please, Adonai, enough have died on this day. “Have you and your husband decided on names?”
“He wishes Ephro
n for a boy,” Malme panted out as the next pain gripped her, “and Luz for a girl. They are ugly names. I hate them. I hate him.”
“Then you must forgive your husband for being a man and persuade him to give your babe a name that sounds joyful to your ears,” I told her as I arranged the blanket over her trembling limbs.
The pains were not steady and seemed to subside after a time. Leha joined me and soothed Malme until the young woman drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep.
“I wish we were not so far from a village or town,” Leha said quietly. “Pains that come and go as this mean the birth will take at least a night and a day, and she is already so weak.”
Part of her weakness was due to lack of food, something everyone in the camp had suffered. But Malme had been eating not to feed only herself, but her child as well. Yet another life my husband has damaged.
We watched over Malme and kept her dry and clean. As the sun began to set, two of the other women came to take a turn so that Leha and I could eat and fetch fresh water. We talked as we shared a half loaf of barley and a bowl of bean porridge, and Leha asked what I had seen happen with the dal and their captives.
I told her all, leaving out only the most ghastly details of how David had killed the two Philistines. She paled as she listened, but she did not seem as shocked as I had been by the dal’s brutal treatment of their captives.
“They mean to protect us,” she said when I had finished. “I know their ways are hard and rough, but my uncle and cousins would have done the same.” Her mouth twisted. “Almost the same. They would have taken the thieves out of sight, so that none of us would see the killing.”
“Leha, why did David and his men come here? Why do they stay?” I saw her stiffen. “Your aunt will not tell me, and everyone avoids mention of them. You know the stories of David; to think he is here . . .” I still could not quite believe it. David truly was a legend, the chosen of the Adonai. He may have once been a shepherd, but he was now the future king of our people.
Or was he what Bethel claimed, an outlaw?
Leha avoided my gaze. “My aunt would not be pleased to hear us discussing David. Bethel says it is not a matter for women.”