Warrior Poet

by Timothy J. Stoner

  Her voice faltered, but her response was firm. “It is enough. That I cannot say to you.” She took the kinnor, walked to the opposite end of the room, and put the instrument back inside the box. Then she lay down on her pallet and pulled her cloak over her. “Remember to blow out the lamp,” she said, gesturing to the window ledge.

  When darkness had engulfed the room, he lay staring up into the blackness. In the fire pit two small embers had not yet died out. He thought about those arresting eyes he had seen, bright with tears.

  He fell asleep with a hollow of sadness in his chest.

  10 Psalm 10:1–2, 9, 12–14, author’s paraphrase

  11 Psalm 10:15–18, author’s paraphrase

  Chapter Nine

  Early the next morning, after a quick breakfast, David and Jahra were checking on the sheep and goats. David heard a gate slam, and he groaned when he saw Nethanel storming toward them, trying to avoid the piles of fresh dung.

  David steeled himself.

  As usual, Nethanel’s hair hung in a fastidious braid the length of his back. It reminded David of a limp adder. The wooden hoe hung behind his back from a leather strap. He carried it like a weapon of war, which in a sense it was, since he kept it almost as sharp as a sword.

  “Father wants you to take food to the … and Shimeah’s boys …” he muttered, his words growing more unintelligible the longer he spoke. David almost laughed. The fourth sibling in the pecking order dragged a load of resentment everywhere he went, and the angrier he became, the more incomprehensible his speech.

  Nethanel stood poised, waiting for David to request clarification. Unwilling to take the bait, David turned away and bent down to examine a goat’s hind leg. Jahra followed his lead, running his hand over the perfectly fine limb.

  “Well?” came a gruff demand behind them.

  Not looking up, David nodded.

  Whenever the oldest three were on extended maneuvers, as they had been for the past week, Jesse would send food for them. This is what most families did to keep hungry soldiers from pillaging local farmers. It also was the best method of obtaining updates on the campaign and the welfare of those fighting. Since his sons were fighting Philistines, apparently, Jesse wanted David to take provisions to them while Shimeah’s two sons would take care of the flocks while he was gone.

  Suppressing his annoyance, David responded, “Tell Father I will do as he said.” David looked over at Jahra, who had made a strange sound. He was staring into the animal’s mouth as if he’d never seen a goat’s tongue before. Without turning to look at Nethanel, David added, “And tell him I will be on my way as soon as Mattai brings me the food.”

  As his brother was walking away, David yelled after him, enunciating each word with exaggerated care, “And thank you for delivering the message so clearly.” Nethanel’s only response was to jerk his head in exasperation. With each careful step, the long, oiled strand of hair snaked angrily above his narrow hips.

  Jahra’s elbow knocked David sideways. He was able to steady himself, but only by thrusting his hand into a pile of fresh goat droppings. He tried to wipe it off on Jahra’s tunic, but Jahra had jumped up, anticipating the move, and placed a large sheep between them. David picked up several hardened pieces of dung and hurled them. When Jahra dodged, bending over to grab some more dung to retaliate, David saw him favoring his right leg.

  “Truce!” he yelled. He knew that if the battle escalated, Jahra would forget himself and reinjure his leg.

  “Get your things ready,” David said. He had decided to impose on Nethanel’s message the meaning he wanted. “You’re coming with me.”

  If this violated his father’s wishes, he would blame the incompetent messenger. There could be no parental recourse, since Nethanel’s slurred speech was a family joke. In any event, when dealing with his father, David avoided asking permission at all costs. If he was wrong, he would simply offer an apology and be done with it.

  “Is it okay?” David asked him, pointing at Jahra’s right ankle.

  Jahra spun around, then crossed his left leg over his right, resting his full weight on the one leg. He flapped his arms, imitating a stork standing erect on a brown leg.

  David waved him off, shaking his head as he walked toward the gate. “Make sure you have Lydea prepare enough food for three days, in case the army has moved,” he ordered. The last time the army had battled the Philistines, he’d spent an entire day searching aimlessly until he’d been told that the army had pursued their enemy north to Aijalon. That trip, which he’d expected to last two days, had taken four.

  Behind him came the crisp snap of leather against leather as sandaled feet struck each other. This was followed by an explosive military growl. David did not need to turn his head to know that his friend was imitating a soldier saluting his commander.

  “You’re hopeless,” he said, laughing. “I’ll fill the water bag, but for that, clever one, you get to carry it.”

  When he returned from the well, he picked up the food satchel Mattai had left at the base of the sycamore. Inside the house Lydea had finished wrapping pieces of cloth around the food she had prepared. These he placed into the large satchel. Jahra adjusted the straps holding the harp and the bloated water bag so that they crisscrossed his chest. He swaggered as if he were a fierce warrior laden with weapons of war.

  “Watch out for each other,” she told them, looking pointedly at David, who nodded dutifully and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “And you be careful. No running like a wild goat,” she admonished her son as they walked out the door. They both gave her a hug, and David had to hurry to catch Jahra, who had set off ahead of him, flicking his walking staff jauntily.

  It was midmorning by the time they were on the north fork, heading toward Gibeah of Saul. According to the last reports, that was the location of Jonathan’s division. The prince had chosen David’s cousin Manoah as one of his commanders, so this was where David’s brothers were likely posted. Rumor had it that the bulk of the force was half a day’s march north in Migron, near Michmash, the Benjamite town the Philistines had recently captured.

  Soon they were climbing the narrow uphill path that skirted the valley of Hinnom, which bordered the fortified city of Jebus to the north and west. This stronghold sat smugly on its five hills, one of which was the mount where the patriarch Abraham had offered Isaac. The tribe of Judah had taken it over during Joshua’s conquest, but a few centuries later the Jebusites had wrested the city back. This emblem of his tribe’s defeat rankled David each time he passed by it on the way to Nob to make sacrifice with his family.

  “There is that cursed Jebusite city!” he muttered. “Instead of going after the Philistines, King Saul should have first destroyed those arrogant Canaanites.”

  Jahra spit on the ground in affirmation. Sliding the water bag off his back and on to the road, he walked to a ravine and picked up a rock. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he spit on it, then launched it up the hill with a growl of disgust.

  “That’s the spirit!” David said, slapping his friend on the shoulder. He slipped a stone from his pouch into his sling. “Look at this. Watch how a real warrior does it.”

  Standing in the middle of the road, he spun the sling next to his body, then let the stone fly. It reached almost halfway to the summit and bounced off a boulder, loosening a shower of dirt and gravel that fell back down at them.

  Laughing, Jahra stepped aside, then picked up another rock and threw it.

  “Watch yourself, or you’re going to start a landslide,” David said, grinning at his friend’s insulting gestures. With a chuckle, he added, “It’s too bad you and I aren’t army commanders. We’d show those Canaanites a thing or two.” He glanced up at the position of the sun. “We’d better get moving.”

  Jahra reached down for the water bag, but David was quicker. He slung it on his own back, leaving one of the food bags
on the ground for Jahra, who’d been trying to cover up an occasional limp. Jahra protested, raising his thick walking staff over his head. David feinted, bent down, and threw dust in his face. Spluttering and wiping his eyes, Jahra lowered his weapon.

  “Yes, I know you are a deadly fighter,” David assured him. “But it’s my turn now.” He forged ahead with a swagger. “A good leader never asks his men to do what he won’t do himself. You carry our supplies.”

  As they walked out of the valley, David looked back, admiring the location of the enemy city, which was protected by the rugged, steep terrain. “The Jebusites would be a tough fight, but when King Saul conquered them, he could make it an excellent fortress.” He shrugged. “At least that’s what I would do.”

  By early afternoon, they had arrived at Gibeah, Saul’s birthplace. It was an acceptable stronghold but much less formidable than that of the Jebusites since its elevation was far less imposing. After walking around the closest hills, they found no sign of Jonathan’s division. They approached the guard posted outside the large wooden gate, the town’s only entrance.

  “We are looking for Jonathan’s army,” David said. The soldier was stout and hairy. The ends of his bushy beard and long curly hair were tied with greasy leather thongs.

  “And what business is that of yours?” was the gravelly response. Jahra wrinkled his face. A strong smell of urine was emanating from the bushes nearby.

  David opened the bag and showed the guard its contents. “We are bringing food for my brothers. Perhaps you know them: Eliab, Abinadab—he goes by Nadab—and Shimeah. They are from Bethlehem.”

  The guard shook his head. “Never ’eard of ’em.” It was obvious that he came from one of the tribes in the north, perhaps Zebulun or Naphtali near the Sea of Galilee. They had the most pronounced accents of all the twelve tribes. They were also known as the most fiercely independent. Several of Saul’s mighty men came from that warlike region.

  The guard looked at them suspiciously. “Where did you say you were from?”

  “Bethlehem. A little town in Judah. They are with Commander Manoah’s division.”

  “Yep, him I know, of course.” The guard scratched his whiskers pensively, loosening the knot at the tip of his beard. “Seems like they had a lick o’ trouble with one of ’em cap’ns. He lost his commishun. Word was, he was a hothead and kinda liked pushin’ his weight around some. And come to think on it, his name mighta been Elee-yab.”

  David smiled apologetically. “Well, there you’ve described my brother perfectly.” He reached into the bag. “Here’s one of my father’s cheeses.” He handed him the smallest. “It is said that our cheese is as good as our fighters.”

  “Thankee kindly,” the guard said, giving him a broad wink as the white brick disappeared in his dirty fist. “I will let on that the army headed off yesterdee for Michmash. Go by way of Ray-ma,” he said, mispronouncing the name of Samuel’s hometown, Ramah, less than one hour’s walk north. “That’s where that ornery prophet lives,” the guard continued. “But then head east through them hills quick-like, or you may run into a passel of Philistines.” He laughed uproariously, pointing at the sling’s leather braids. “Maybe you’ll get to find out what a little boy’s toy does against a company of brass heads.” He winked again, taking a huge bite of cheese.

  David looked at him coolly. “Thank you for the information. I will let Commander Manoah know what a great help you’ve been. Who should I say directed us?”

  The guard took a moment to swallow the sticky mouthful. “Just tell him it was Meesha, General Abner’s cousin. He knows me.” He gave them a mock salute. “And thank you. The cheese was good. But nothin’ like they make back in Nazareth.”

  Jahra grimaced and made gagging sounds.

  “Get on with you,” the guard barked, “or I’ll treat you to a taste of my spear’s shaft!” He spit at the ground. “What do uppity Judites know about good home cookin’ anyway …”

  The sun was at its peak, and since they had not yet eaten, when they were out of sight of the walled city they began scouting for some shade. “Let’s sit under those Abraham oaks,” David said, pointing at a copse of trees with small, prickly leaves. Mount Hebron, where Abraham had built an altar in honor of God’s promise to give him the land of Canaan, was covered with them. That was where the name had come from.

  Jahra stretched out his legs, wiggling his right ankle carefully. David heard him catch his breath. After untying the water skin, David handed it to him. Jahra lifted it overhead and drank deeply, letting the water splash off his face and head. David did the same.

  When they were done eating, Jahra began to push himself off the ground. “Stay down,” David told him. He undid Jahra’s right sandal but could not help chuckling at his friend’s aggrieved expression, which was a perfect imitation of Nethanel’s.

  “All you need is a braid down to your butt,” David said. Though he was smiling, the color of Jahra’s ankle disturbed him. It looked bruised. “Did you twist your ankle?”

  Jahra shook his head vigorously.

  David took the strip of oiled cloths from the bread they’d eaten and wrapped it around the swollen ankle. Jahra closed his eyes and set his mouth in a grim line. He was no longer playacting. When the cloth was knotted and the sandal’s thongs rewrapped, David pulled Jahra to his feet.

  Jahra gave an exaggerated bow, then lifted his staff overhead with both arms, swung his hips, and pranced like a dancing girl. He was a bit cautious, but his mobility seemed to have improved.

  “You smell like spoiled cheese,” David told him, “and your dancing is making me sick.”

  As they turned east from Ramah, they began to encounter injured soldiers returning home to have their wounds treated. Most carried wooden farm implements, symbols of their subjugation to the Philistines, who refused to allow the Israelites their own smithies. It made David’s blood boil to see this shameful equipment; yet at the same time it also made him proud. It required a special kind of courage to take on an enemy sheathed in bronze and armed with glittering weapons of steel while holding only rakes, hoes, scythes, and ox goads.

  From these limping, bandaged soldiers they learned that Michmash, which Saul’s army had captured several days earlier, had been retaken and was again a Philistine base camp. Their enemies had made Geba, on the opposite ridge, an outpost from which raiders were launching incursions throughout the surrounding area.

  “Where is Jonathan’s division encamped?” asked David.

  “They joined the main army at Gilgal,” answered a soldier, shifting his makeshift crutch to the other arm. “They marched together. Saul, with the main force, took a position at Migron, south of Michmash, while Jonathan circled around and is camped in the foothills between Geba and Gibeah.”

  “We just came from there this morning and did not see any troops. How is it possible for us to have missed an entire division?” David asked.

  The crippled soldier was suddenly unable to meet David’s eyes.

  Another warrior stepped forward. He was tall and bony with a mop of curly black hair. It not only covered his head but also ran over his arms and legs. He looked like a bear on the verge of starvation. David wondered why he was not with the fighters. His only injury was a bloody bruise on his forehead.

  “It was a bad business,” the soldier said. He stopped himself and extended his hand. “Oh, by the way, I am Eliam ben Ahithophel the Gilonite, Eli for short.” Despite his gaunt appearance, he had the booming voice of a much larger man.

  “The majority broke ranks when they saw the chariots,” Eli continued. “Most of the army had never seen them before. Too many ran for me to count.” Clucking his tongue, he shook his head sadly. “Bad business.”

  David was stunned. Saul’s soldiers running away? He was unable to take in the image of Israelite warriors deserting the field of battle.

  “How many were there?
” he asked.

  He had meant how many soldiers remained to Saul but Eli misunderstood the question. “I lost track after two hundred chariots.” He turned toward the cart. “Micaia will know, though. He has a gift with numbers.”

  “Mika!” he yelled, directing his question at a wiry soldier who had lost his left hand. He was sitting on the end of the cart, staring at the ground, his legs dangling listlessly. “How many chariots were there?”

  “I counted nearly a thousand, Captain,” he said after a few moments. “It is the largest force the Philistines have ever sent against us. I think they mean to wipe us out once and for all.”

  “What I meant was, how many soldiers are yet with Saul and Jonathan?” David said.

  Eli looked over at Mika, who responded, “I think around six hundred, give or take. But most are with Saul.”

  “No wonder we were able to pass by Jonathan’s troops without seeing them,” David muttered.

  Captain Eli went over to consult quietly with the soldiers, then walked back. “My men have agreed that I need only accompany them to Gibeah. After I have them situated, I will be returning to join the force.” He pointed to a stand of palm trees. “If you want to wait for me there, I will return and take you to where the army is camped. It should be around sundown.”

  “Thank you—Captain,” David said. “It will be safer to come with you. We would hate to be mistaken for Philistines.”

  “No chance of that,” the man said, laughing as the cart pulled away. “I have yet to see a Philistine without a metal pot on his head, holding a slingshot.”

  They were resting beneath a palm tree several paces back from the road when they heard screaming, the clanging of metal and shrieks of panic in the distance. It was the sound of an army in full retreat. David’s heart sank. The Philistines must have overwhelmed the Israelites.

  “It can’t be!” he spit out, unwilling to believe that the army of Israel had been defeated by uncircumcised Philistines.