Warrior Poet

by Timothy J. Stoner

  It seemed he had lived his whole life torn between those intent on proving his inferiority and those anxious to weigh him down with their expectations. His height and physique, combined with the curse of an exceptionally handsome face, caused people to look to him for something he did not possess. Every time they got that expression or took that tone, his insides would tighten.

  It was innocent enough: “What do you think, Saul? What should we do?” they would ask. But it was those trusting, dependent eyes—the eyes of brainless, needy sheep—that made him want to shake them and scream, “Why are you asking me? I have no idea!”

  He never did, but his response was always the same: his face would burn and he would look away, mumbling, “I don’t know.” It made him feel inept and angry. What makes them think I’m their judge? he’d wonder miserably. Though no one had yet said it, he knew they had convinced themselves that God had selected him to join the ranks of Israel’s deliverers.

  But he would have none of it. Why can’t they leave me alone? Can’t they see I’m just a farmer?

  Wanting to put a halt to any grandiose schemes the old man might be hatching, Saul strode next to Samuel, who was again making his way up the hill, and spluttered, “I’m only a Benjamite. We’re the smallest tribe in Israel, and my family is from the least impressive clan of all.”

  There was no indication that the seer had heard a word.

  Saul plunged on. “Since there is nothing at all to distinguish us, why have you spoken to me like that?”

  Samuel’s expression and his gait told the same story: he was a man intent on ridding himself of an obnoxious duty as quickly as possible.

  But during the feast, the seer’s attitude underwent a dramatic change. He became almost charming. But Saul’s embarrassment grew even more acute when the elders set the thigh of the sheep before him. It was the choicest piece, reserved for the guest of honor.

  “Enjoy,” Samuel had murmured with an expression either kindly or mocking. Samuel then bent over to whisper, “It has been kept for you for this appointed time.” Saul sensed the villagers’ questioning eyes on him, lifted the piece of mutton with what he hoped was an appreciative gesture, and took a bite. The delicacy was wasted on him. His mouth seemed filled with vinegar.

  After the meal, the prophet and his servant led them to an unexpectedly spacious house. “Show them where they will sleep,” Samuel told his servant as he opened the front door. These were the first words he had spoken since offering him the meat hours earlier. Samuel’s servant ushered Saul and Tishri to the roof of the dwelling, where mats, a jug of water, and a clay washing bowl had already been prepared.

  It was barely dawn when he was awakened by Tishri’s hand shaking his shoulder.

  “The seer is calling for us.”

  Saul could just make out Samuel’s rough whisper at the foot of the outer stairs. “Arise quickly, and I shall send you off.”

  Saul threw some water on his face, wrapped himself in his cloak, and went to meet Samuel. The seer jerked his staff, indicating that they should follow him. When they were a few paces outside the town gate, Samuel told Saul to let Tishri go on ahead. “As for you,” he said, “stand now that you may hear the word of God.”

  Saul steeled himself for some weighty pronouncement. Instead the prophet reached into his pouch and pulled out a delicate cruse. On the thin-necked vessel was etched the ornate, holy letter shin. Saul was too stunned to speak. When Samuel pulled off the topper, Saul’s nostrils were filled with the sweetest scent he had ever smelled. There was a delicious overlay of myrrh and calamus and what he guessed might be cinnamon. The smell was so pungent, it made his head reel. It was the scent on the robes of the head priest who presided over the tabernacle at Bethel. Only those who were from the tribe of Aaron were allowed to be priests.

  Has this crazy prophet gotten me confused with a member of the priestly house? Why did I listen to that fool Tishri?

  But, rather than objecting, he found himself dutifully bowing his head. Samuel reached up and, with a hand pressing down on Saul’s shoulder, said, “Kneel, chosen of God.”

  The hair on Saul’s neck stood up. The unexpected gentleness only increased his consternation. Chosen? That was the precise description he had been evading since childhood. Samuel’s voice changed in tenor; there was a deep timbre that gave his words a solemn weight. All traces of a rasp had disappeared.

  “The Lord has anointed you over His inheritance as a prince,” Samuel intoned as if reading from a holy script. The words, together with the pungent oil, rolled onto Saul’s head and down over his shoulders in thick, heavy drops.

  A seed of hope sprang to life. Saul sighed with relief. There had been rumors that the elders of the twelve tribes had made a public demand for a king, but the term Samuel had used was nagid—ruler or captain—not melekh—king. Maybe the old man was only indicating that Saul had been chosen for a military position in the new government.

  Sweat broke out on Saul’s forehead as he drew a deep breath. As long as he meant only a captain in the army—anything but king.

  Samuel then uttered an extended prophecy. Upon Saul’s arrival home, he would find the donkeys returned to his father, but on the way, he would meet three men who would offer him two loaves of bread. Most dramatically, though, he would encounter a band of prophets, the Spirit of God would seize him, and he would experience some kind of spiritual transformation.

  Samuel’s voice grew soft, as if all the speaking had exhausted him. Saul had to strain to hear what the prophet would say next. He was scared and confused, hoping for some clear instructions. But that guidance did not come.

  “When this occurs, do whatever your hand finds to do, for God is with you.”

  Samuel stopped, took a trembling breath, then continued. “After time has passed, go down before me to Gilgal, and look, I shall be coming down to offer burnt offerings and to sacrifice communion offerings. Wait there seven days until I come to you, and I shall tell you what you must do.”

  That was it—a bit of direction mixed with a potful of uncertainty.

  As Saul had suspected, the prophecies had proved accurate, including, to his chagrin, the embarrassing frenzy. It had overtaken him when he heard the instruments played by the prophets coming down from the high place at Gibeath-Elohim.

  He had never experienced anything similar. Something about the beat of the drum and the cymbals quickened his pulse. As the band drew nearer, he heard the infectious sounds of harp, flute, and lyre. The cadences of the singers sent a tingling from the top of his head to his fingers and toes. Something strange and terrifying and huge was boiling up inside him. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. He gasped, the pressure rising up in his chest. His right hand started to tremble, followed by his entire body.

  What happened next was unclear. Unintelligible sounds burst from his mouth. He had never been much of a singer, but the sounds felt sweet and lovely and light, like a lover’s song. As the words rose, riding upon a musical, rhythmic chant, he spun and jumped with an abandon he would have thought ridiculous only moments earlier. He’d always been too embarrassed of his height to take pleasure in those exuberant displays reserved for wedding celebrations. Now, however, as he danced among the prophets, his self-consciousness was gone.

  He spun with arms extended, facing the sky. It was exhilarating. Though he’d always managed to keep his emotions in check, tears were coursing down his cheeks. At some point, he realized he could no longer feel the ground. Lost in a whirlwind of pleasure and joy, he was spiraling like a dust cloud that has lifted into the air. It might have lasted for hours. It could have lasted a lifetime. But in the end, five simple words dragged him down.

  What must I look like?

  It stopped as suddenly as it began. He found himself surrounded by eight prophets holding musical instruments. His arms were uplifted, his eyes felt swollen, his throat was raw, as if he’d
been crying out at the top of his lungs. His thighs and ankles ached. He felt utterly clean and light as breath. When he looked beyond the circle of musicians, he became aware of the crowd of people who had gathered around the worshippers. They look stunned, as if they’d witnessed some kind of miracle. The heat began creeping up his neck. Scrambling to pick up his cloak, he threw it around his shoulders and shuffled as quickly as he could out of the ring.

  Upon his return home, he’d found the donkeys eating lazily in their pen. His father had gone to market without him, so it was his uncle who insisted on hearing all that had transpired. When Saul mentioned the encounter with Samuel, his uncle pressed for details. Saul related the prophet’s predictions but was too timid to say anything about the anointing.

  Less than a week later, Samuel had called for a tribal gathering at Mizpah. It seemed ludicrous to Saul now as he looked back on it, but he’d felt so overwhelmed that he tried to hide among the baggage. But he was found out and dragged into the open.

  The people were doubly enthused, mistaking his timidity for humility, and began shouting, “Long live the king!” With that phrase all hope for a subordinate role vanished. He had been forced to live a lie, pretending to a competence and a confidence he did not possess.

  But that had been a long time ago. Responsibility had been terrifying, but he’d discovered the delights of privilege and the intoxication of power. His fear was no longer exposure but usurpation. That was what robbed him of sleep.

  He jerked his head around. The moon was full and as large as the silver platter the northern tribes had given as a coronation gift. Somehow—he could not remember how—he had risen from his bed, walked past the guards, and wandered through the gates that encircled Gibeah. Saul blinked and rubbed his eyes. These episodes were becoming more common. At first he’d begun forgetting important details, including names and events; now he was taking walks at night with no memory of leaving the palace stronghold.

  His body was damp with sweat. His chest felt as if he’d been taking in great gulps of air. The branches of the trees were outlined in a menacing silver-blue light. They seemed to be reaching out for him. The road was empty, but he had a terrible certainty that he was being followed. He felt for his sword, then his dagger, but he’d left both next to his bed. He looked at his hands. His skin was the color of a corpse long dead.

  He picked up his pace.

  The sound of sandals slapping the dirt behind him confirmed his fears. His assailants were keeping pace with him. He was running now. A noose tightened around his neck. The only sound that came was a childish whimper. Rage flooded him. He would not die with the sound of an infant or a terrified woman on his lips as murderous conspirators tried to steal his throne.

  He had seen them whispering and skulking about with their hungry eyes fixed on his crown. Once the band had terrified him, but now, with its emeralds and rubies and golden filigree, it drew him with the languorous glances of an Egyptian prostitute. The feel of it was almost erotic. He had come to recognize that constant, ruthless vigilance was the price for preserving the crown for himself and for his firstborn son, Jonathan.

  A trickle of sweat ran down his spine. The footsteps were gaining on him. Light glinted off unsheathed swords. Maybe it wasn’t swords. It could be eyes: wolves chasing him down for the kill. His chest was heaving. It had been too long since he’d needed to exert himself. Royal food and indolence had joined the conspiracy, rendering him defenseless.

  I … am … the … king! his mind screamed through ragged breaths. I will fight and die like one! He halted in the middle of the road.

  The sounds of laughter stung him, engulfing him like a flock of crows. He spun, trying to locate his attackers. He was lying on his back, moaning. Tears running down his cheeks drenched his beard. A grotesque human face was peering hungrily at him, its lower jaw disjointed and protruding. The muscles in the lower part of its face were contracting. Like living clay, its mouth was shifting and sliding, assuming a reptilian shape. Its eyes were now red and hooded, and from the impossibly distended jaw a red tongue darted and wrapped around his crown. He thrust his arms over his head so it could not tear away the golden circlet.

  The reptile had incredible strength. It was prying his fingers loose with inexorable force. He thrashed against it, wanting to scream, but his mouth felt glued shut. Saul was mesmerized by the amber eyes boring into his, eyes filled with loathing and a poisonous cunning. Though the man’s face was twisted and swollen, Saul recognized it immediately.

  It was Jonathan! He had orchestrated this ambush. Saul wanted to vomit, but he began to tremble violently instead. He stared around uncomprehendingly. He was in a room. A broidered cloth spanned the posts above his head. It was familiar. The pillow beneath his head was wet, and a water jug was overturned on the bedcovers. His wife was huddled on the floor, crying, welts on the side of her face. His own hands were around someone’s throat.

  Finally completely conscious, he dropped his hands from Jonathan’s neck. Then, with a shuddering breath, he screamed, “Leave my room, all of you! Curse you! Leave me alone! I will not let you have it!”

  Chapter Six

  Samuel had not slept at all. He was inside his house, trudging stiffly from one side to the other. The floor was hard-packed earth. Thanks to Ginath’s dedication, it was clean and as smooth as polished wood. He took in a painful breath and rested his hand on the rounded stones that made up the walls of his compact home.

  He was listening.

  The dialogues had begun when he was a homesick little boy serving Eli the high priest in the tabernacle at Shiloh. It was before the Philistine attack that had forced the move to Bethel.

  His favorite chore was to walk the perimeter of the rectangular inner court and locate any tears in the linen curtains that hung between the twenty posts on the north and south sides and the ten posts on the east and west sides. He counted his steps each morning: seventy-five paces for each of the long ends and thirty-seven for the short ends. Two hundred and twenty-four paces. When he did find any tears, he was to report them to the embroidery women.

  When Eli had begun to lose his sight, Samuel had been given the task of helping the high priest count the money. He had not been told why he had not asked his own sons.

  He could remember it as if it had happened last night. It was on his eighth birthday. He and Eli were asleep on their mats in the tent outside the front entrance to the tabernacle court that served as their eating and sleeping quarters. A veil intersected the tent into two separate chambers.

  “Samuel,” a Voice had whispered. He’d gotten up immediately to see what Eli wanted. The priest was not one to be kept waiting, and there was a note of urgency that made Samuel’s heart race.

  “Here I am, for you called me,” Samuel said.

  “I did not call,” the old man replied groggily. “Go back and lie down.”

  Once more the Voice had called. Again Samuel had run to Eli’s side. “Go back to bed, my son; you must be dreaming,” Eli said—but this time with less conviction.

  The third time, Samuel had tentatively pushed aside the veil and shuffled back to Eli, worried that the priest would lose his temper. When he approached, Eli was wide awake. Propped up on one arm, the old man, who was now almost completely blind, gestured for his servant boy to come closer.

  “Samuel, go back and lie down,” he whispered, “and should someone call to you, say this: ‘Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening.’” Eli’s face held a wistful expression. He clutched Samuel’s arm so tightly, it hurt.

  This time his name was repeated twice, and he responded as Eli had instructed him. But what the Voice told him so shook him he covered his head with his cloak to muffle his sobs. The next morning, Eli forced him to disclose what he’d been told: Eli and his house would be wiped out. God was going to judge the high priest for refusing to restrain the wicked behavior of his two sons. Samuel had no ide
a what this meant.

  Apparently Eli understood, for his shoulders had slumped and he’d lifted his face to the sky, murmuring weakly, “He is the Lord. What is good in His eyes, let Him do.”

  That was almost seven decades ago. Ever since, Samuel had slept lightly, on alert for another summons in the night. Over the long years, the prophet had tried to come to terms with fitful sleep and regular interruptions, accepting it as an occupational hazard. As he crossed into his eighth decade, and as sleep became more fitful, he had become more cantankerous. Losing Siphora, his companion for over fifty years, had not helped.

  It was something only his servant understood. Ginath had been a mercy. From the moment he’d joined the household, Ginath had watched over the bereaved old prophet with uncommon solicitude. He moved with alacrity and ignored Samuel’s temper. Also, since he was Ginath was in his middle years, he was a welcome sounding board. Samuel considered him a gift from the Lord to compensate for his wife’s death and for his two lazy, selfish sons, around whom rumors of dishonesty swarmed like gnats.

  His boys, Joel and Abijah, had been such disappointments. He had dreamed of passing his prophetic mantle on to them, as well as his role as judge. But their habit of taking bribes from worshippers had disqualified them.

  At least his boys were nothing like Eli’s. Hophni and Phineas had been perverse as well as incorrigible. They not only stole the choice meat from the sacrificial pots but also enjoyed illicit relations with the embroidery women.

  Samuel grimaced as he straightened his stiff back and turned to pace across to the other side of his house. While there was no question that taking a bribe here or there was an offense, he was hopeful that Joel and Abijah would not be punished as severely as Eli’s boys.

  “Lord, have mercy,” he prayed for the thousandth time as he made his turn one pace away from the far wall with its open window. “Do not treat my sons as their sins deserve. Do not cut them or their families off from before You. Remember my service and my devotion to Your name. El Shaddai, leave me a place among Your chosen people for generations to come.”