by Mary Burns
Without speaking, I held out my tablet to him. He took it in his hands, and sat up a little straighter against the wall. I watched his face as he looked at it, holding my breath.
“Many birds . . . morning … the city … sky . . . and a hart . . . ?” He was puzzled, and I was disappointed.
“No, no, you must think about what it means,” I said. I told him about the birds rising suddenly from the tree, and how it made my heart rise in fullness, and how I wanted to write it down, to remember it later.
Didymos was silent for a long time, so long I thought he was angry with me, or worse—that he was trying not to laugh out loud. But a closer look at his face revealed he was deep in thought. Finally he spoke.
“When I was at school in Tyre,” he said, “the masters there knew how to do such things.” I kept quiet, letting him speak in his own time. He had never mentioned his school except for that very first day, though I had asked him often.
“They called it writing. It was a great secret, and only the most skillful, highest-born boys from great families were allowed to know these things.” He touched the tablet with my crude markings. “One of them was a friend of mine, and he showed me some of the things he learned, but later, we were not allowed to be friends, and I was sent away.” His eyes had tears in them, and I didn’t know what to say. He blinked the tears away and continued talking. His speech was like a dam bursting, the river of words unstoppable after being held back so long.
“They used fine reeds and thin, pointed sticks and a liquid made of pressed oil and cumin and other things; I don’t know what. They made beautiful marks on flat pieces of eucalyptus leaves that had been specially prepared—and the marks looked like birds’ wings and tiny fingers and little hooks and swirls of water! And they stood for things like this, like your words you want to say . . . and other things, too, about God and life and healing and death. But it was all hidden away, a mystery, and not everyone could know.”
The rush of words subsided, and I watched the glow in his face and eyes fade to his everyday, colorless look. He handed the tablet back to me, struggling to get up off the ground.
“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have told you all that,” he said, dusting off his clothes. I was still sitting on the ground, looking up at him, and I grabbed his garment to stop him walking away.
“Can you show me what you saw?” I pleaded. “Do you think I could learn how to . . . write?”
His eyes were kind, but he shook his head. “No, you’re a girl, and they never let girls learn that kind of thing. It’s all for priests and the scribes of the great kings, not for such as you and I.” He gently disengaged my hand and walked over to his oven to tend the tablets that were hardening there.
I looked down at my little tablet with its poor scrawls, and my heart became determined. My father would someday be a great king, and I would be his greatest scribe.
A sudden swat at my head brought me abruptly back to reality, as my mother pulled me roughly to my feet. The tablet I had tried to invest with my poetry fell from my lap and broke in two pieces on the ground.
“Here I find you, I couldn’t believe it when Aloheth said you were hanging about with Didymos, wasting time pretending to be something you’re not and getting yourself talked about into the bargain! You’ll make your father and me a laughingstock!” My mother railed at me and pulled me along after her; I didn’t have time for a backward glance at either my broken tablet or Didymos, who was unusually intent at his oven, his head practically inside. Even so, I thought, he was feeling less heat than I was at that moment. My mother continued to upbraid me as she dragged me back into the house.
“Do you think any man would marry a girl who fills her time and her head with such nonsense? What do you think slaves are for?”
I knew better than to protest, and silently bemoaned my stupidity in not being careful enough to avoid such a scene.
“I’m sorry, mother, truly I am,” I said when she stopped to draw a breath. I looked down at the ground, and spoke with a catch in my voice; in truth, I wasn’t far from crying anyway, but I knew it would affect her. “I’m just so unhappy these days, and I need some distraction from,” I paused and wiped my eyes. “From ... you know,” I said, alluding to my delayed womanhood.
My mother softened slightly; I could feel the rigidity flee from her hand.
“Well,” she said, “well, Janaia ….” She paused, wary. “There’s plenty to distract you in the house, girl, so come along.” But her anger had melted away, and the tight grasp changed to an arm around my shoulder. I was almost as tall as she was, though I could still rest my head against her neck, which I did now, slipping my arm around her waist.
Truly, I thought, I don’t know what I want, or what I can have. I blinked at the tears in my eyes, feeling heavy-hearted and sad. Nothing seemed possible to me anymore, just a bland, barren future: no prophecies, no poetry, no husband, no children. What would become of me?
Chapter 7
“Then Samuel said to Saul, ‘Why have you disturbed my
rest, conjuring me up?’” 1 Samuel 27:15
The summons to war came in the night, with a clatter of horses’ hooves on the courtyard stone and shouting that reached every corner of the compound. Distinct in the babble of voices that rose up to my room, I could hear repeated the name Saul, King Saul, and also Achish, King of Gath. Somewhere to the north and west, a great battle was forming, and Achish was drawing all his allies and subjects to his aid. David and his six hundred men were counted among them.
Meeting in haste, my father and uncles looked over the grim situation. It had been many months since I had attended a council; I told myself I didn’t go to the meetings because they were dull and monotonous, all about trade and payments and restitution for crimes. This satisfied my mother, even though I knew better in my heart. I was ashamed that I no longer seemed able to prophesy, and at the same time, fearful that my desire to experience it again was keeping my courses away.
I crept down from my bed and slipped into the council room, unseen behind a large chair near where the men stood in a circle, talking.
“We are called to fight against our own people!” Abinadab was speaking, though without his usual heat and swagger. “David, how can this be reconciled?” All eyes were upon my father, whose face showed the conflict all were feeling.
“Things are moving swiftly, I know,” he said after a tense moment. His eyes this night were deep blue-gray, like the sea when a storm is brewing off the horizon. He placed his right hand, curled into a fist, on his heart, and closed his eyes. “I feel that HaShem is with me, with us . . . He will not fail us . . . He will not leave us with a name to be spat upon or a reputation that is but a howling in the dark!”
I did not realize that I had stepped out from behind my protecting chair, and when David opened his eyes again, he looked directly into mine.
“Hokhma Janaia,” he called to me, quietly and irresistibly. I walked into the center of the circle of warriors, my uncles and cousins, a girl among men. David knelt on one knee before me, lightly grasping my shoulders—now we were eye to eye. “Tell me what you see,” he said, as if inviting me to tell him how I’d spent the day.
Our eyes did not waver or blink. I looked into the depths and shadows of my father’s eyes, and suddenly a sound like a high wind roared through the room. My father’s face faded from my view, and all I saw was darkness, with a dark fire in the void. The voice of the prophet Samuel—thin and ghostly—spoke through me.
“Saul, Saul, why do you disturb me from my rest? Why have you brought me up from the earth?”
A second voice, full of grief and despair, a deep voice, answered through me also.
“I am in great distress; the Philistines are pressing me and God has turned away; He no longer answers me through prophets or through dreams, and I have summoned you to tell me what I should do.”
“Why do you ask me, now that the Lord has turned from you and become your adversary? He has done w
hat He foretold through me. He has torn the kingdom from your hand and given it to another man, to David!”
“Why has the Lord done this to me?” An anguished cry, a man at the bitter end of every hope.
“You have not obeyed the Lord, and He will let your people Israel fall into the hands of the Philistines. Yes, he will give the Israelite army into the hands of the Philistines.” There was an ominous pause, and the ghostly voice spoke one more time. “Tomorrow, you and your sons shall be with me.”
The darkness before my eyes gradually thinned, to be replaced by my father’s face, wonderstruck and pained, and slowly the room came back into focus. This time, though, I did not faint or fall to the ground. I gritted my teeth and remained standing until my head thoroughly cleared, and the swirling sensation inside me died down.
“Are we to be responsible for the death of Saul?” Eliab spoke first.
“No, no, you heard the prophet,” Shammah broke in. “Saul dies tomorrow! Even if we rode out this very moment, we could not reach the ground of Jezreel in time to fight tomorrow. The Philistines will do it, not us!”
They all started talking at once, debating again whether and how to answer the call of Achish to join his army. Finally, David rose from his knee, where he still bent before me, and raised his hand for silence.
“We will go to Achish, as ordered,” he said. “We will trust in the Lord to make it right.” He looked around at the men, and then placed his hand on my head gently. “We have been given a sign and a renewed promised from the Lord, that I shall be king of Israel. We must trust that He will accomplish this as He sees fit.”
The door to the council room opened, and my mother appeared, looking for me. Her eyes widened when she saw me in the midst of the council, and she hesitated.
“Abigail,” said David, smiling at her, then at me, “here is our little prophetess; you may take her back to her bed. She has told great things this night.” And he stooped and kissed me on the forehead before turning me over to my mother.
The men and older boys—all six hundred—were gone within the hour.
* * *
I was bundled off to bed, wrapped in warm blankets and soothed by herbs and spices steeped in hot water—and not a hint of scolding from my mother. My father’s words held great weight with her, as with everyone, and as the news spread about my “prophecy” in the voices of Samuel and Saul, I noticed a change in people’s behavior toward me. My earlier visions had been little talked about, and were over-shadowed by the momentous event of our leaving the caves and coming to Ziklag. But this! This could not be overlooked.
In the days that followed our men leaving the town to fight, the story of that night grew great in the telling. I was amused to hear that the ghost of Samuel himself, blessed be his memory, actually appeared at the council meeting, sat down with my father, and spoke to the men. In another recounting, my face had turned white, then blue, and I rose up off the floor several feet, my hair burning in cold flames, as the voice of Saul came from my lips. How people exaggerate and fear the unknown! Everyone stepped aside when I walked through the house, and soon after, in the town as well, some giving a slight bow or nod of their head as I passed by.
Everyone, that is, except Didymos. He remained my friend and quite unimpressed. I was glad of it, since I was as uneasy with my powers as others felt around me. I talked to him about the way I felt, and he always gave me common-sense answers.
“You have the Sight,” he said. “It is a gift from God, like your name, Janaia.” We were sitting near the fruit tree by his oven, watching over some tablets in it. “You must learn to use it wisely, and not just let it use you.”
This puzzled me. “What do you mean, use it? I do not control when the Voice will speak, or when I will see anything. Can I really have any say in the matter?”
Didymos continued scraping away at an old tablet he wanted to re-use, then stopped and looked around. We were quite alone. His eyes beckoned me to draw nearer, and he spoke in a whisper.
“You remember the writing I told you about?”
I nodded, my heart thumping fast.
“Well, it is said that certain letters or words, written down, can bring the dead back to life or cause a living man to shrivel and die on the spot!”
I looked closely at him, to see if he was trying to fool or scare me. But he looked a little scared himself.
“It is through the wisdom and the power of the letters,” he whispered again, “that the great priests can summon the dead, and ask the gods themselves about the future.”
“How do you know this?” I asked, looking around to make sure my mother wasn’t about to pounce on me this time. “Have you seen this yourself?”
He opened his mouth to answer, when a sudden noise made us turn our heads toward the front of the courtyard, a noise of shouting and then, women screaming. The gates were wide open, it being the middle of the day, and as I rose to get a better look, dozens of armed men on horses burst through the entrance and overran the courtyard in a moment.
It all happened so fast, and yet it felt like the slightest motion took hours. I saw one rider, his black hair long and unbound under a helmet of leather and iron, charge right at the well in the center of the courtyard, scattering the women and children. His horse leaped over the well like it was a shallow ditch. The rider then turned to the main staircase and actually spurred his horse up the stairs to the entrance of the house! I saw all this in exquisite detail, as if there were no other action occurring, and the shouts and screams of my family were all like bird calls in the distance.
I snapped out of my dream state to see another horseman bearing down on Didymos and me in our little corner of the courtyard. He was an evil-looking man, with a brown beard and thick lips and small piggy eyes. He pulled harshly at the bit in his horse’s mouth—poor thing, I could see its startled, wide-open eyes and foam flecked with blood around its muzzle. The rider ground the horse to a halt and leaped from it in one quick motion. Without a word, sword in hand, he advanced toward me, towering like a sheer rock wall. I was frozen in terror, expecting him to lift the sword and bring it down on my helpless neck when I was shoved aside by a swift blow from behind me— Didymos!
He threw the clay tablet in his hands at the invader, hitting him square on the forehead. The man staggered back a few steps and roared as he wiped blood from the gash on his head. The sword was raised, the sword fell, and my friend Didymos was cut in two before my eyes. His blood splashed on my dress, his body was thrown several feet from the force of the blow, and the last thing I remember was screaming and screaming as Brownbeard grabbed me and slung me over his shoulder, then everything went black.
Unfortunately, I came back to my senses all too soon. The women in our compound, and from the town as well, had been corralled outside the gates of the city in a large open space but surrounded by many men and horses. I awoke on the ground where the soldier dumped me. I couldn’t see my mother anywhere, though many of the women who served in our household were gathered around me, weeping. Some of them were asking me to “do something,” as if I knew what to do! I tried to calm them; I tried to strengthen their spirits, to remind them that all of David’s people were warriors, and not to let the enemy know they were afraid, but that only made some of them weep the more. Others took heart, though, and shushed the ones who were crying.
Terrible sounds were coming from inside the city walls, men’s shouts and dying screams, swords hacking at limbs. How strange that we stood in the sunlight, on a day early in summer, and the birds still sang in the distance, with all this horror around us! I saw no sign of Brownbeard or the black-haired warrior who had charged up the stairs. The men surrounding us spoke a language not unlike ours, and from their clothing, I knew they were Amalekites. I was adept at languages, and I could pick up most of what they said.
“Almost too easy,” said one. “This David is no great protector, leaving his women and children unguarded.”
His companion muttered somet
hing I could not hear, and they both laughed. Then, clear as a bell, the first one said, “Achish will thank us for this, once he knows that David has been lying to him. There’s no loyalty there, despite what he thinks.”
They moved away, and I was left with a cold terror in my heart. Was my father about to be caught in a trap? If these men got to Achish while David and his six hundred were with him, surrounded by thousands of Philistines, how could they fight so many?
“Janaia! Janaia!” I heard my mother’s voice, close at hand. She had Amnon with her, slung in a blanket tied around her shoulders. “Thank God, child, you are alive!”
Just then the black-haired rider broke through the ranks of the men who encircled us, and he walked his horse slowly to where my mother and I stood. The women and children fell back behind us—we were their shield in David’s place. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin. I would not be a cause of shame for my father. The captain of the Amalekites, for so I took him to be, dismounted and spoke in a loud voice to all of us.
“You, women of David’s tribe, abandoned by your men, know this! The traitor David and his six hundred will soon be dead at the hands of the Philistines of Gath! The great King Achish will know of his treachery, and he will die the death of all such men, and will be left in the field for birds of prey to pick his bones.”
My mother’s hand tightened on my shoulder, and I heard a low moan begin to rise from the women and children behind us. My heart burned in my breast, and I could not help myself.
“You are wrong, Amalekite!” I cried out. His head whipped around in my direction, and he took a step nearer, clearly amused. “The women of David’s tribe can defend themselves quite ably until their men return to sever your ugly heads from your bodies.”
“And who is this, who speaks so boldly?” The captain came very close, looking first at me, then at my mother. “It must be a whelp of David himself, so defiant in the face of certain death.”