The last ray of sunset wanders in through the window, reaches the outline of my reflection, and sets the ringlets of my hair aflame. Fascinated by the red fuzz glowing around my head, and unable to control herself any longer, my bride raises her arm and reaches up to me.
I pucker my lips and stretch to kiss the bun of her hair, that towering thing that seems to weigh her down, and at once she lowers her eyelids. Knowing that her eyes have betrayed love, now her voice denies it.
She whispers., “I don’t know what came over me.”
In the failing light I can still see the palm of her hand. It is sweaty, which reveals to me how aroused she must be. Closing her eyes Michal is drawn, in spite of herself, to comb through my curls with her fingers.
“Why does it have to be this way?” she wonders. “Why, why is it so devastating?”
“What?”
“The way you are,” she seems reluctant to admit. “So handsome.”
In place of an answer I smile, feeling triumphant.
“What, in the names of all gods, is this curse?” she murmurs. “What made me want a commoner like you?”
Despite her clammy touch I bring myself to breathe in her ear, “I know I don’t deserve you.”
“Indeed,” she pulls her hand back. “You got that right.”
“Kiss me, Michal.”
And with a stiff upper lip she says, dryly, “No, not tonight.”
Then she gets up abruptly, and tosses a pillow of goat’s hair into my hands, which right away makes my place utterly clear to me. I lay down on the rug, at the foot of her bed, take in the pure, pristine smell of her sheets, and pretend not to watch her as she prepares to undress.
She goes over there, next to the window, which outlines her figure with silvery touches of moonlight. With slow movements Michal unties her silk belt. Her skirt slips, it cascades down from the waist, revealing another skirt underneath, and another one under that. Lace over silk over crinoline, each layer gives out a difference sound, a different rustle as they collapse onto the floor, creating one ripple around another around her.
Standing there she looks like the stem of a flower whose withered petals have crumpled around the rim of the vase.
I glance at her as she climbs up over me into her bed and tucks herself under the blankets, and I remember what Joav told me about girls, just a few days ago. It’s all just flesh, he said, no matter how fancy their garments. In bed, they’re all the same.
I must tell him he made a mistake. This girl is different.
With her narrow hips and her flat belly, which is matched by an equally flat chest, Michal looks like a boy. And trapped in that skinny body, pounding there with palpable longing, is the heart of a woman, a proud woman, cursed with love.
Next to the wall, moonlight glances off the silk strings of the harp. Come morning, I will do her bidding. I will play for her.
The Kish Clan
Chapter 14
I do not trust a single one of the Kish clan—not even Jonathan, who declares he loves me.
I keep him at arm’s length, and give careful thought to what his motives may be when he says things like, “My heart is knit with yours.” Being Saul’s eldest son, he is the heir to the throne, so what does he want with someone like me, an outsider?
I suspect he knows how ambitious I am. Perhaps he wants to use me to weaken his father for his own purposes.
Love is a flattering thing to hear—but a bit boring too, because it is becoming quite common nowadays, coming at me from boys and girls alike. They all flock around me, whenever I go to town to run this or that errand for Michal. They crowd me to the point that I figure I need to hire a private guard to help me make way through them.
This popularity has its perils. I have to be mindful of Saul, because when I get back to the palace he glowers at me, and starts grumbling into his beard. I think I hear him saying, “What else can he have but the kingdom?”
So I bow before him, I say, “Forgive me... What was that? Did you talk to me, your majesty?”
And he says nothing, except to grumble some more, in an even more incoherent fashion, into his beard.
And the court historian, sitting there barely seen, down in the shadow of his presence, fumbles through his scrolls, scrambling to find that sentence again, because he seems to recall that it is not the first time the king said it.
And then upon finding it he, the historian, marks a long underline under the previous long underlines under the words, to upgrade their importance once more, because if the king repeats them every so often, they must be worth emphasizing for generations to come.
From Jonathan I have learned that his father is not only jealous of me—but dangerous too. He is about to cross the line into action. Alas, things have come to a new low point. I have become notable enough to be considered for assassination.
I did not believe this at first—until I heard it with my own ears. Jonathan arranged a hideout for me, from where I could listen in on the conversation between them.
Never once did Jonathan use the word Father. Instead he said, in a highly formal, roundabout pleading manner, “Let not the king sin against his servant—”
Saul coughed, as if to require further clarification as to who that servant might be, and why in the world he should not sin against him, or against anyone else for that matter, because it is common knowledge that sinning is the king’s right, never to be denied.
So Jonathan had to start over. “I mean, don’t sin against David, because he hasn’t sinned against you, and because he served you well, because he did put his life in his hands, and slew the Philistine, and the Lord wrought a great salvation for all of us.”
There was a pause, a sullen silence. I could not tell what the king was thinking, and his son went on to say, “You saw it, and you did rejoice.”
Again the king coughed, or perhaps he laughed, as if to say, Me? Rejoice?
And his son gushed on, “So then, will you sin against innocent blood, to slay David without a cause?”
Which moved the king to swear, this time at the top of his voice, “As the Lord lives, he shall not be slain!”
And I said to myself, hallĕlūyāh! I am safe, at least for a little while, because now Saul knows what he needs, what he must have to silence his son and anyone else who wishes to rebel against him over me. This is what the king will soon find, or else invent: a plausible cause, one that is strong enough to justify murder.
*
For an entire week following the wedding I have found myself obliged to come to the royal dining room, to be presented before the entire Kish clan as the groom, the Husband of the Princess. Tonight is the seventh night, which—to my relief—marks the end of these festivities, the last dinner.
Blessed with the questionable pleasure of addressing them I bow low, lower, lowest in the proper manner, according to the relative position of each one in the chain of succession.
Alas, there are so many of them! All sitting around, using their embroidered dinner napkins to fan their faces because of the intense heat from the fireplace, which is much too close for comfort. They are waiting tensely for the king to arrive before they may start to feast on the lavish food, heaped on elongated silver trays set at precise, measured intervals along the dining table.
The king’s wife, Ahinoam, daughter of Ahimaaz, sits next to the empty royal seat, and his concubine, Rizpah daughter of Aya, at the opposite end, far down the table. The king’s eldest son, Jonathan, sits next to his mother, followed by his brothers, Abinadav, Malchishua, and the youngest one, Ish-Boshet, who was accidentally dropped from his crib by a nanny some years ago, so his legs are broken. Rizpah’s sons, Armoni and Mephiboshet, sit opposite Michal and me.
And then, there is Merav.
Hair pointing up, bust pointing forward, she greets me by blowing a little kiss from across the table, while her husband is looking the other way.
My heart skips a bit, so I start exchanging glances with her—until Michal kicks m
e under the table, while raising the corners of her mouth into a tight lipped grin, through which she manages, somehow, to strain the words, “Enough of that.”
“Aw,” say I. “What did I do?”
“Stop making a fool of yourself.”
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you! “ She leans over and hisses in my ear, “My sister must be pregnant by now, just take a look at that fat belly of hers.”
“Really? How can you tell, from this side of the table?”
“She must be in her third month already, which explains why everyone here is so cheerful, and why they give thanks to the Lord that a new member of the Kish clan is soon to be born, and long live the king.”
I am about to counter that if this is how they look when they are cheerful, then I cannot imagine how they look when they are not—but before I have a chance to open my mouth, Michal runs out of the dining hall. And there, out in the corridor, instead of bursting into tears, she snuffles quite a bit.
I follow her and say, dutifully, “What? What is it now?”
Without moving her lips, she lets slip, “This is so unfair.”
“What is?”
“Her son,” she sniffs, “will be higher up the chain than mine. All because she is older than me. So unfair.”
I say nothing, because if I were to talk, I would have to choose between so many suggestions, such as: first, lets worry about your brother Jonathan, the rightful heir, and second, lets worry about your other brothers, Abinadav, Malchishua, and Ish-Boshet, and third, let’s worry about Merav’s baby, and forth, lets worry about Rizpah’s sons, Armoni and Mephiboshet, and fifth, these names are such a mouthful! Which means I should hire one of your father’s historians to keep track of them for my own purposes, and sixth, wow, I had no idea you cared that much about the crown, and seventh, how about this: take me to your bed, and let me make wild, passionate love to you, even though in your eyes I don’t really deserve it, and then if—God willing—you get in the family way, and the baby is born, and it is a son, then we can talk about the unfair rules of the game, and see if anything can be done to fix it.
I smile politely, and give her my napkin to blow her nose, and I go on saying nothing, nothing at all.
She smiles back, and lets me escort her back to the dining table.
Later I realize one more thing, in addition to the other things I hold myself back from saying out loud. Should I be so lucky as to get her knocked up, the baby will carry Saul’s name—not mine. He will be part of the Kish clan.
If I wait for him to be born, my claim for the crown would be on his behalf, as the father of Saul’s grandchild. This is too convoluted for my taste. I am too impatient. I am hungry now, hungry for power.
This is not about him. It’s about me.
Michal plops into her seat and graces everyone with a splendid smile. Meanwhile, an army of servants advance towards us, carrying casks of wine, and baskets laden with buttery, freshly baked pastries. She points at a steaming hot pastry, filled with crushed nuts and brushed with egg gloss, and one of the servants drops it onto her plate. She selects her wine, and with a twirly splash he fills her cup.
Then he turns to me.
“Here,” he offers, raising the basket to my eyes, and tipping it so I may make my choice. “Won’t you have this one? It’s flaky.”
In reply, my stomach starts growling.
“And,” he says, in a lower tone, “so is the king.”
“What?” I cry.
Startled, the servant looks left and right. Then he takes a deep breath, and with fear in his eyes bends towards me again.
“Shush,” he breathes in my ear. “I may be hanged for telling you this: the king spoke to me, and to all the servants, that we should kill you.”
“You sure?”
He gives me a look, “Beware.”
“Beware,” I think I hear another servant echo, as he passes behind my back.
At hearing this I lose my appetite in a big hurry, and despite a look of disapproval from Michal leap to my feet— but before I can begin to head for the nearest exit, the heavy iron doors at the far end creak open, which lets in a new sound, the sound of a ceremonial drumbeat.
Then, two guards holding flaming torches step in to announce, “Long live the king!”
And all the servants bow deep while they do their best to balance the baskets and casks.
“Long live the king!”
And his wife, his concubine, his sons, his daughters, and anyone connected to any one of them by ties of marriage—the entire Kish clan—they all rise up, chairs squealing against the floor and knocking against each other, and they clap their hands and call, “Long live the king,” because there, there he is, towering over the shoulders of his guards.
He is marching in with a heavy step, with his spear at his side, flashing in the air.
I raise my empty wine cup.
“Long live the king!”
Heading for the fireplace Saul unties his mantle. Its folds ebb and flow, rolling in and out of one another until they freeze. He wipes the sweat off his brow, and with a clouded look he scans the entire length of the table, giving a slight nod to each one of the guests—until, at long last, his dark eye falls on me.
Even to the Wall
Chapter 15
This is the moment when Michal draws near me and clasps my hand. Perhaps she senses that something terrible is about to happen, because she must have heard several of the servants whisper ‘Beware’ in my ear, and because under her father’s gaze, my wine cup has fallen to the floor.
I glance at the guards, who are busy pushing shut the heavy iron doors. I turn the other way to look at the narrow opening of the each of the windows. I am looking for an escape route, some way to reach over the palace walls, and then down to the faraway vineyards and beyond—but all I can find out there is rain, thick rain coming down sheet after sheet, each one dabbed with darkness.
“David,” says Michal, and her voice is soft, barely audible to others around us, so I know that this time, it comes straight from the heart. “Don’t leave me.”
With that, she twirls her skirt this way and that to try to sweep the shattered glass under the table. When this fails, she looks left and right to see if anyone is watching, and then raises the corner of the tablecloth, so both of us can take a peek down there to survey the damage.
It is there, hidden under that canopy, that we are faced with each other.
“Leave the cup alone,” I tell her. “The wedding ceremony is over.”
She shakes her head, refusing to understand.
I raise her hand, and hold it to my lips. “We both know it’s time,” I say. “I must go.”
“No, no, no.” A tear wells in the corner of her eye. “I know nothing of the sort.”
“Don’t play games with me.” I kiss her. “The secret’s out.”
She plugs her ears. “No, no, no. I don’t want to hear it.”
“I wish I could avoid listening,” I whisper. “But I can’t. We both know: my life here is in danger.”
She counters, “And what about me? I have no life without you.”
To which I say, dutifully, “I love you.”
And she says, “No, you don’t,” to which she adds, softly, “stay with me.”
With an unexpected sob she pulls her hand out of mine, and I am left kneeling there, holding air. Which is when I hear a new kind of sound that can only be described as choked silence, and I bang my head under the table on my way to stand up.
Now I look at the Kish clan gathered around the table, and what do I find? Mouths being dropped, eyes bulging. In quite a shock, they are watching my bride running all the way around the table and across the dining hall to the hearth, to her father. Upon reaching him she falls to the floor at his feet.
He offers her a hand. She refuses it.
“What is it?” asks the king. “You crying? What is it, Michal? What happened?”
She looks up at him and blushes, p
erhaps because she is too close to the blazing fire.
“Forgive me, father,” she says. “It’s just… I’m overcome, overcome with joy.”
“Joy?” He takes a step back. “That’s the one thing I can’t share with you. Can’t allow myself to be conquered.”
She throws her hands around his boots. “Oh,” she says, clinging to him, as if for dear life. “How well I understand this. How well know you.”
His face softens a bit, so she goes on to plead, “I know the bad spirit has come back, it’s here again, to trouble you. I can see it’s the thing darkening your eyes, clouding your mind, weighing heavily upon your heart. Let me help, daddy... Let me do what I can to lift it away!”
The king reaches down and helps her to her feet.
“Rise up, Michal,” he says. “It’s not becoming a daughter of mine to lay on the floor, pleading like that, even before me.”
“You’re my rock,” she smiles through the tears. “My salvation.”
The king takes the mantle off his shoulders and wraps her with it, because despite the heat of the flames in the fireplace next to her, she seems to be trembling.
“You,” he says, “are such a fearless young woman. I don’t know what you have in mind, exactly—”
“Oh, but I do,” says Jonathan, stepping forward from the sideline to face his sister.
She looks at him, startled.
“Don’t go where you’re headed,” Jonathan begs her. “Stop while you still can. Michal, this is ill advised—”
“Don’t you tell me what to do,” she counters, in a stubborn tone of voice. “I’ll do as I please.”
He hints in my direction. “If you love him, stop.”
Meanwhile, the king starts fuming.
“Goddammit, Jonathan,” he bursts out. “Sit down! And don’t cut in when I’m talking to someone else.”
“Forgive me,” says the son. “Please, forgive your servant.”
With a wave of his hand Saul dismisses him, because forgiveness is hard, especially when the bad spirit is upon him. He glances at the guests, who are sitting some distance away at the dining table, and with an acid smile he asks them, “Isn’t it terrible for a man like me, to have a son like that.”
Rise to Power (The David Chronicles) (Volume 1) Page 11
