Warrior Poet

by Timothy J. Stoner

  5 Psalm 90:17

  Chapter Four

  David found himself lying prone as wind whipped about him in a concentrated circle. From inside the tunnel he could make out words. Slowly, insistently, the lilting syllables became clear. They were coming from his mouth:

  Adonai ro-i, lo ira ra. Adonai ro-i, lo ira ra. Adonai ro-i …

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall no evil fear. The Lord is my shepherd …

  The words gave him strength to lift his face from the dirt.

  The bear was less than twenty paces from them, but David was startled to see that the spittle spraying from the bear’s jaws had turned a bright red. Blood was flowing from its nostrils over its curved incisors. Each movement was less coordinated. Low gasps had replaced the rumbling growls. As the bear pushed itself forward, its right leg buckled. Snorting with confusion, it slowed and shook its head wildly. With a wheezing roar, it strode heavily toward them.

  When it was within striking distance, the bear stumbled, huffing red clouds from both nostrils. It lifted its head to bellow its triumph, but no sound came. Its jaws gaped open, displaying bloody teeth, then snapped shut. As if overcome by exhaustion, the bear weaved from side to side and suddenly collapsed.

  David was staring into the bear’s gory face. Its eyes had rolled back in their sockets. He reached out his arm and placed it around Jahra’s shoulders.

  “I thought that was the end of us,” he murmured.

  Jahra barely nodded.

  They stayed like that for several moments. David was unsure he could stand. He felt as if all his strength had leaked out of him. He could feel his friend’s body trembling. Jahra turned toward him as if to say something. David waited.

  “What?” he finally asked, hoping that his friend’s tongue had been permanently loosened. “Can you still…?”

  He was interrupted by an odd movement of Jahra’s mouth. There was a quiver at the corner of his lips. It looked as though he was making an attempt to say something. With careful precision, Jahra lifted an eyebrow and gave David a dramatic wink, his upper lip curled oddly, exposing several white teeth. He looked both menacing and deranged at the same time.

  A dam burst, and the boys rolled onto their backs, laughing hysterically. Jahra’s laugh sounded like a strangled duck. It made David laugh till tears were rolling down his face. When he had wiped his eyes clear and regained his breath, he finished his question.

  “So can you speak now?” He looked over at his friend, who was leaning up on his elbows.

  Jahra stuck out his tongue and wiggled it back and forth, shaking his head.

  David hid his disappointment with a joke. “Well, I can’t tell you what a relief that is. I couldn’t imagine having to put up with your crazy antics as well as your crazy stories. I’d never get any rest.”

  They spent the next few hours gathering the flock. David made Jahra a crutch from a fallen branch so he could limp along next to David. The huddled sheep were a simple matter, but the goats took them several hours. It was not till midafternoon that they were finally heading back to Bethlehem.

  “We need to get home as soon as we can so your mother can treat your leg,” David said, noticing that Jahra’s leg was causing him serious discomfort.

  Jahra agreed, gritted his teeth, and swung out ahead of him for a few paces until David caught up. “Take it easy, wild man.” David laughed. “We don’t want to get there without the flock.”

  In his hurry, Jahra stumbled several times. Once, David had to grab him to keep him from falling into a ravine. The tug sent a current of pain into David’s shoulder and neck. That old injury brought back a bittersweet memory.

  When he was eight or nine years old, a scorpion had bitten him on the arm. While rushing to cut out the poison, Lydea had sliced more deeply than she had intended.

  “What have I done to you, my beautiful little nazir?” she had moaned in her strongly accented Hebrew. Her fingers had alternately patted and rubbed his hair. He fell asleep in her arms, feeling her bosom tremble as she tried to stifle her sobs.

  When he awoke, still in her arms, he had looked up into her tired, reddened eyes and asked, “Lydea, what is a nazir?”

  Placing her hand on his head, she smiled and said quietly, “My dear one, in your country, it means one who is a strong leader, a chief.” She bent down to whisper into his ear. “In mine, it is the son of the ruler—the king’s son.”

  “What is a king?” he’d murmured, half awake.

  “You have heard of Saul, the son of Kish, who lives in Gibeah? Is this not so?”

  He had nodded, his eyes fixed on hers.

  “Before you were born, Prophet Samuel anointed him king—the chief of your people. And Jonathan, his boy—he is the nazir.” She winked slyly.

  He looked into her lined face. “But I’m not—” he had begun.

  She’d stopped him with a hand over his mouth. Glancing at the cloth covering the entrance of the stone hut, she shook her head and said, “Oh, but you are, my ahuvee—you are.”

  He did not know why, but at these words he had felt the hairs on his forearms prickle.

  Jahra’s gasp and soft groan awakened David from his reverie. His friend had almost fallen again. Looking ahead, David realized that Bethlehem was near. His stomach tightened into a knot, one worry chasing all the others away. What will Father say about more dead sheep? And what will he do about missing the auction?

  The horizon had turned a pale pink as the sun set over the Great Sea far in the distance. David knew that by the time they arrived, the evening meal would be finished. Though everyone would be inside their homes, sneaking the animals into their pens would be impossible. There was no way to keep nearly the herd of sheep and goats quiet as they approached their pens.

  As expected, the clanging and bleating betrayed their presence. The two shepherds were within sight of his father’s house when light from Jesse’s door split the darkness. Jahra squeezed David’s arm reassuringly. When David saw Shimeah, the third-born, silhouetted in the doorway, he sighed with relief. He must have returned to be with his wife, who was about to give birth. Of the gang of six, he was by far the kindest. And there was an occasional sympathy in his eyes.

  Holding a small oil lamp, Shimeah approached with quick, compact steps. Barely taller than David, he had begun to develop a paunch since his marriage three years earlier.

  “What happened?” he asked, looking over his shoulder. “What took you two so long? Father was expecting you first thing. He is furious about the auction.” David could see several faces peering out of the doorway behind his brother. In the front of them all, David could make out the head of his father.

  He steeled himself.

  Jesse’s nasally voice cut the darkness. It shook with suppressed anger. “Shimeah, tell me—” Jesse stopped to control his rising indignation. He apparently preferred not to have all his neighbors hear him upbraiding his child. “Why were the flocks not here in time?”

  David took note of whom his father was addressing.

  “I don’t know, Father,” Shimeah responded. “Let me find out.”

  With a flick of his hand, David gestured at Jahra’s leg. “That’s why,” he muttered.

  “What?” Shimeah asked, leaning forward.

  Jahra hobbled up. Shimeah stuck out his lamp, then drew back slightly at the sight of the bloody cloths. Jahra glanced at David and began to mime the bear’s raking claws and fierce expression.

  “Looks like they ran into an animal,” Shimeah shouted at Jesse.

  “A bear,” David said.

  “And it looks pretty serious,” Shimeah continued.

  There was silence as they waited for a response. Jesse seemed to shrink a little in the doorway.

  “How are the flocks?” he finally asked.

  David smiled grimly. “Good to know he has his priorities
in hand,” he murmured, hoping his voice would carry. “Let him know that the bear that almost killed Jahra only managed to take down two of his precious sheep. If you think he cares, you might mention that I risked my life to kill it.”

  Shimeah decided to summarize the bad news. “Only two.”

  “Did you say two?” David knew there was nothing wrong with his father’s hearing. “So, next time out, will he lose three?”

  David was about to spit out his defense when Jahra dropped his hand to his thigh and bent over, moaning.

  Jesse’s voice pierced the darkness. “Have David put the flock in their pens, and you take the servant boy to his mother.”

  “How are you?” Shimeah whispered, looking at David with a touch of pity and embarrassment.

  David shrugged, then turned and headed to the pens, the flock trotting behind him. After making sure the animals were secure, David stalked toward the low, flat hill that ran along the back length of the enclosure. He pulled away a small piece of fence and ducked his head to make it through the low opening that led into a cave where he took the ewes during birthing season. The hideaway was filled with clean straw, and a crevice in the ceiling gave a view of the stars.

  This was where he stayed when he wanted to get away from everyone. Kicking a mound of straw into the middle of the cave, he threw himself down and stared up at the stars. One, larger than the others, winked at him. He shoved aside a wooden manger that was crowding his feet. Then, jerking himself onto his side, he threw a cloak over his head and shoulders and closed his eyes. He had, early on, learned the solace of plunging swiftly into the oblivion of sleep.

  Chapter Five

  Saul’s eyes flew open.

  He cursed whoever had awakened him. He had no idea what had disturbed his slumber. Who in his household would dare? After he’d had a clumsy guard flogged for the offense, the word was out: if the king was asleep, you roused him at peril to your life.

  Only right, Saul mused, his head slowly coming out of the fog. A king has his burdens and his prerogatives. No commoner could understand the crushing weight a crown imposed; none could appreciate that a king deserved every pleasure that power could offer.

  Throwing himself on his back, Saul stared at the ornate canopy over his large bed. He had designed it himself and had recently added an extra mat filled with feathers in hopes of better rest. It had not helped. During these fitful nights, as his mind wandered restlessly, he would always wind up at the beginning. It had been an impossible journey—from farm boy to leader of a young nation. He had gained so much, but at what price?

  Once, he had been able to lie down and sleep anywhere, anytime. But those blessed days were long gone. Now the anxiety and fear caused by his increasing vulnerability had robbed him of that. The pain in his head was at times intolerable. He would sometimes get up from his bed, wondering if one of his rivals had driven a spike through his temples.

  He had never harbored any grandiose ambitions. He was a simple country boy with simple dreams. Sure, he had been notorious in Benjamin for his unusual height, but this was no blessing. Being the tallest boy in the region had precipitated endless confrontations with other youths anxious to prove themselves stronger. In his early years, his height had robbed him of muscle and coordination. The others would shove him or trip him then run away mocking: “Dak timora, dak timora.” Shriveled palm tree. How he had hated that phrase.

  Even now, half a century later, the mention of a palm could make him cringe.

  He rolled back onto his side and looked over at where his wife, Ahinoam, slept. When his nightmares had become intolerable, the physicians had prepared a drink so potent that not even the roar of a lion could awaken her. As usual, her back was to him. Have I lost her as well? he wondered.

  All he had ever wanted was to take over his father’s spacious olive groves, to marry the young girl whose smile had captivated him, and to raise a big family. Prior to his encounter with that wily prophet, Samuel, his greatest pleasure had been coaxing the plumpest olives from the gnarled gray branches. Afterward it had all changed.

  “This is what the Lord has said, and this is what you are going to do.” There had been no discussion. He was not asked his opinion. Instead he’d been manipulated into becoming someone he’d never wanted to be, doing things he’d never imagined, changing in ways he’d never dreamed of.

  He had married Ahinoam. That at least had not been taken from him. And she had given him a family, neither large nor small—four sons and two daughters. But the weight and the worry of kingship had stolen from him even the pleasure of these offspring.

  Would you do it again? he asked himself.

  He was unsure. Power had its advantages. And although its price was steep, he couldn’t imagine walking away. There was something delicious about the fawning of courtiers and commoners alike, who approached him now in fear rather than insolence. Using brute force on those who had once made his life miserable was a royal pleasure not easily surrendered.

  And to think it all started with those cursed donkeys.

  It had been the spring of his twentieth year. He was anticipating his wedding in six weeks. He should have been preparing their house, but instead he’d wasted nearly four days hunting three asses. Despite his best efforts, he’d been unable to find any clue to their location. He had never been good at finding lost animals; he was a farmer, not a herder.

  His father had a modest herd of animals, but the family’s real wealth was in olives. Thanks to Great-grandfather Zeror’s talent for farming and producing shekels out of thin air, the family had been set on a solid financial footing. Their ancestor’s wisdom had become a family motto: “Treat the olives like your mistress, and they will treat you like a lover.” Zeror’s son Abiel and his grandson, Saul’s father, Kish, had inherited a sufficient amount of sagacity to keep expanding the farm. While not the largest in the tribe of Benjamin, they were among the top five.

  Though Saul had an aversion to the dim-witted sheep and the willful goats, he felt a particular loathing for the donkeys, which combined the worst qualities of both. They were stubborn, ornery, and adamant in their stupidity. But despite Saul’s protests, his father had given him oversight of the headstrong animals.

  “These brutes are no mistresses,” Saul had grumbled. “They’re more like vicious wives. God preserve me from the like.” His father choked with laughter. Saul had always been able to make his father laugh.

  The six beasts, though fiercely independent, had apparently agreed among themselves to make Saul’s life miserable. His shin still carried an indentation from a hoof that had nearly broken the bone. He’d returned the favor by grabbing a thick branch and smacking the animal between the eyes.

  Saul had cursed the obstinate animals as he and his servant headed northeast from Gibeah, wandering across the border into the hill country of Ephraim, through Shalisha and Shaalim. Eventually they circled back to the district of Zuph, having exhausted their provisions and lost any hope of locating the beasts.

  “We should go back,” he’d told Tishri. “Father will now be more worried about me than about those demon-infested animals. If we walk quickly, we can be home by evening.”

  The servant had shaken his head. “Ramah is less than an hour from here. That is where that seer—Samuel—resides. Let us go and consult with him. Surely he can tell us where those she-asses have hidden themselves.”

  “But we have nothing to pay him with,” he’d protested.

  Tishri had drawn a coin from his pouch. “I have a quarter of a shekel of silver. That will be sufficient.”

  Saul had agreed. He’d never been confident in issuing commands. At the well near the town gate, two young girls told them that the seer was on his way to the high place to bless a sacrifice for some special feast. Hurrying to find him before the festivities began, Saul and Tishri almost tripped over the grizzled prophet, who was standing alone in the
path, resting his weight on a staff. He looked as though he had been waiting for them.

  His formidable mane, tied back with a leather thong, hung down to his waist. Judging by the length of his hair, Saul concluded that he must have been a Nazirite since childhood. The stern-faced man looked like a poorly fed lion. Old and lean, but not to be taken lightly.

  Saul had seen only two Nazirites before. They were strange, extreme characters, swearing off wine and vinegar and anything made of grapes—including raisins—and refusing to cut their hair. Saul had given them a wide berth. Religious fanaticism had always made him uncomfortable.

  Samuel was staring intently at him as Saul and Tishri approached. Saul became increasingly self-conscious the closer they came. He was not good with strangers anyway, and this one was making him feel like a fool. The seer’s watery eyes narrowed as he took in Saul’s height. Saul’s mouth went dry. He knew he would start stammering like a small child if he tried to say anything, so he kept quiet, feeling his cheeks grow red.

  Samuel made a wet coughing sound, wiped his mouth, then spoke in a gravelly voice. “Follow me. You will eat with me at the bamah.” He jabbed his staff impatiently toward the top of the hill.

  Saul wondered how he should go about asking the seer’s help. As if reading his thoughts, Samuel growled without looking back, “Don’t fret about the asses you’ve been hunting these past three days. They have been found.” Still forging ahead stiffly, the seer then made an odd remark: “You will stay with me, and in the morning I will tell you all that is in your heart.”

  Saul was afraid to ask the irritable old man for an explanation. Again Samuel stopped suddenly, and Saul almost stumbled into him. Samuel turned stiffly. His eyebrows were bunched, and his lips were twisted in distaste. His words sent a chill through Saul.

  “After all, who is the treasure of all Israel if it is not you and all your father’s house?”

  Saul clenched his teeth in dismay. No. No. Not another one! he moaned to himself.