Warrior Poet

by Timothy J. Stoner

  He could not look away.

  They appeared to lift their wings slightly, and his body followed. He was off the ground and beginning to spin. His arms were stretched out; his hands rested on warriors’ shoulders, and their muscular hands were resting on his. He was in a circle. There could have been three with him, but he could not be sure. He was caught up in a rhythm of movement that was ecstatic and sublime and timeless.

  Speed increasing.

  A chanting, a thudding of feet, yet a sense of floating.

  Laughter.

  Joy.

  Fire.

  Rumbling and pounding now of thousands in perfect rhythm, in perfect unity. It sounded like war. It felt like victory. It was the release and the ravenous embrace of an unflinching, holy love. His chest ached with the terrible thrill of it.

  An abandon of wild, fluid movement.

  Ecstasy.

  Spinning, arms wide, then extended, then no movement, as if in the stilled center of a cyclone, everything circling as he remained stationary. He was drinking in light and sound.

  Then a voice broke through. It came from far away. It was harsh, and even though he could not decipher the words, they stung. The spinning ceased, and he was lying on his back on the ground. It struck him with a jolt. It was the grating voice of his oldest brother, Eliab.

  “How … dare … you!” Eliab’s voice shook with fury. “Are you mad? Do you now think yourself a priest as well as a king?” His voice burst out in explosive gusts. “Two stupid songs … and you make sport … in front of the ark? You arrogant … filthy … dog!”

  He could see Eliab’s dark face twisted into a grimace of fury through the opening in the blue curtain. “Get out! You are leaving immediately,” he roared.

  David’s feet were again touching the ground as he made his way toward his brother. He felt his arm gripped by a hand intent on breaking bone. His brother yanked him through the curtain and dragged him out of the tent. Eliab stood in front of him, outlined by the torch that stood sentinel outside the entrance. David stared down at Eliab’s clenched fists. The ground was rolling. He braced himself to receive the blow. It did not seem to matter a great deal.

  He could not tell how long he stood there, swaying. Eliab was speaking, pointing toward a horse tethered to a tent peg. “The prince wants you to take the boy to his mother.” Eliab was trying to whisper to avoid waking the soldiers in the tents around them. “Leave now, before I make you sorry you were ever born.”

  David heard the words, but they seemed to be staggering toward him through a long tunnel. He blinked, trying to clear his head. He was surprised to find he was not angry. What did he feel? It was not altogether clear. He still seemed to be floating. Then the realization hit him, and his mouth dropped open in amazement.

  I never asked the angel about Jahra! He found this so amusing, he almost laughed out loud.

  34 Psalm 2:7–9, author’s paraphrase

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was not until David was halfway home that the fog in his head began to lift. Though the events inside the sacred chamber remained blurred, he was beginning to remember what happened after Eliab left.

  Adriel had led David to his bay mare and pointed to the large bundle strapped to its back. It was Jahra’s body wrapped in animal hides. Then he showed David a parcel that was strapped to the saddle and said it was a gift from Jonathan. David had been too disoriented to ask why it was necessary to leave at night.

  As his head began to clear and the dawn lit the sky, his spirits dropped. With every nudge of the bundle against his lower back, he became more despondent. Inside the holy chamber, his sorrow had melted away, but with each jolting stride his sorrow pierced him like a jagged splinter. When the sun had crept fully over the distant hills, he realized he should be nearing the fork in the road that led south toward Bethlehem. The sound of growling and jaws snapping woke him from his disoriented lethargy.

  Around the curve just ahead of them, he heard a rumbling and the tearing of flesh. His head jerked up. He’d forgotten about the mass of soldiers who had slaughtered one another two days earlier. He pulled back on the reins. It was at that moment that the lion sprang, and so rather than driving its claws into David’s body, it landed on the bundle of skins behind him. Terrified, the bay reared, neighing loudly, tossing David to the ground. The lion’s weight tore the bundle from the back of the horse, which fled bucking and whinnying up the hill.

  David leaped to his feet. The lion was several paces away, trying to tear through the hides. There was a terrible ferocity to the lion’s savagery, as if more than hunger was driving it. The acrid smell stung David’s throat, but his mind was clear. He was too close to sling a stone, but it could still serve an unconventional purpose. He grabbed a rock twice as big as his fist and thrust it into the leather pouch.

  Growling, the lion continued chewing and raking his claws on the roll of leather. David ran toward it, his sling thrumming in heavy circles overhead. As the animal lifted his tawny head to face him, David adjusted the sling’s trajectory and slammed the rock against the lion’s skull. The lion fell to its side, blood streaming from its nostrils.

  David sensed an aura of malevolence. He whirled to see the lion’s mate charging at him, its fangs bared, its face contorted into a mask of hatred. He barely had time to yank Jonathan’s knife from his belt as the animal leaped, driving him to the ground. The weight of the lion’s body and the hard-packed ground knocked the wind out of him. There was pain in his shoulders where claws dug into his skin. His hands and chest were wet. Warm, viscous liquid was pouring down his sides, and he could feel it pooling alongside him.

  He was floating once again. And again he could have laughed. This was a strange kind of irony. A few hours earlier, he’d heard words he’d been longing for his whole life. They were a banner of divine favor, but now here he was, with his chest torn open, a wild animal savaging his body as he slowly bled to death.

  If this was how Yahweh treated His sons, one might prefer to remain a stranger.

  David’s left hand was cramping. It was clenched in a fist, bent at an odd angle, crushed between his chest and the lion’s. Surprisingly, the beast was not moving. In fact, it had not shifted its weight since landing on top of him. His fingers could feel blood as well as the polished hilt of the knife.

  The muscled body twitched several times, and David felt liquid flow over his hips. It felt more like warm water. He rolled sideways, shoving the limp animal off his chest, and kicked free of its large back legs. The beast lay on its back, blood still flowing around the knife hilt sticking out of its chest. A snarl was frozen on its face, exposing its two curved teeth.

  David ran his hands down the front of his soaked tunic and felt no wounds. Although he was covered in blood, most was not his own. The puncture wounds on his shoulders had bled a little but did not seem serious. He ran to examine the bundle of hides. There were several long tears and a flap where the lion had ripped loose a triangle of leather, but that was as far as the violation had progressed.

  Falling on his knees next to his friend’s body, David whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. Then, unable to stand it any longer, he tore off his soiled belt and clothes. As he tossed them to the ground, he heard a familiar whinny. At the top of the hill stood his mare. She was shaking her head; her ears were erect, and her tail was switching nervously. Despite her skittishness, it was not difficult to coax her back. She seemed to want to be near him.

  When he had stroked away the last of the bay’s anxiety, he pulled the water bag from the saddle and poured it over his head, letting the blood and urine run off onto the road. Opening the burlap bag, he found a packet of clothes. He untied the packet and took out a belt and an elegant yellow tunic. The tunic’s only affectation was an intricately embroidered collar stitched with gold thread. It was the most beautiful piece of clothing David had ever touched. It seemed to f
low over his body. He strapped on Jonathan’s wide leather belt with its empty sheath.

  He nodded grimly, placed a foot on the tawny carcass, gripped the bloody handle with both hands, and tugged the dagger free. It slid easily from the lion’s chest. Some more water and a corner of his old tunic were sufficient to clean it off before he placed it into its leather compartment. After letting the bay drink, he opened the food sack. The tension from the attack had begun to dissipate, and he was feeling weak with hunger.

  He was disappointed. All he could find were three large husks of bread and some chewy strands of goat meat. The stale food tasted like an insult. But it was all he had, so after giving some to his horse, he climbed onto her back and ate the remainder as they made their wide circuit around the bend. He kept away from the road as long as he could hear buzzing, snarling, or growling. By late morning, he was on his way south, away from Gibeah, home of the beautiful young woman he had managed to offend. A blush crept up his cheeks as he recalled what he’d done. There was no question that he had ruined any chance he might have had.

  An hour later, before the midday meal and as the day’s heat was becoming oppressive, he was riding into Bethlehem. Villagers waved at him as he passed them. The women muttered among themselves, pointing at his tunic and then at the bundle strapped behind him. Some called out for news about the army, but he did not respond. He waved and kept going. If he answered one question, he would have to answer a hundred, and his first priority was to bring Jahra to his mother. In any event, the last thing he wanted was to talk about his friend’s death.

  He jumped off in front of Lydea’s stone dwelling and tied his horse to the sycamore. It was late summer, and there were only a handful of shriveled clusters of yellow fruit left. He was gathering himself to enter the door when it was flung open. Lydea was racing toward him, her hair in disarray. She looked as if she had not slept for days.

  “Where is he?” she cried, grabbing David’s arms.

  David looked down at her mutely, glancing over his shoulder at the back of his horse.

  She collapsed and began to sob. She uttered only one word, a moan stretched out with the agony of a shattered heart: “Nooo!”

  He bent down and wrapped his arms around her. From her mouth came that one incredulous cry. As he held her, David swore at himself for failing to take Jahra’s body down when he’d arrived.

  Wanting to get her away from the neighbors’ inquisitive ears, he lifted her to her feet and walked her back inside, his arm tight around her waist to keep her from falling. He sat next to her on the bench she had shared with Jahra as they played and sang together. There was an empty cup on the table. David took it to the water pitcher in the corner, filled it, and set it in front of her.

  Gradually her sobbing ended, and she grew quiet. She sat staring at the wilting flowers he had brought to her just a few days earlier. It felt like a year. The silence in the house was so heavy it hurt his ears. Needing to do something, David went to the water bucket and took a drink from the ladle. Her bleak voice interrupted him.

  “How did it happen?”

  How much should I tell? he asked himself desperately.

  Before he could answer, she continued. “I dreamed it last night. I saw him lying in a room with beautiful curtains. He was bathed in a purple light—the color of royalty.” Her eyes pooled with tears, but she kept speaking. “Two golden cherubim, one at his head and the other at his feet, were standing over him.” Her voice had become nearly inaudible. “Their swords were held out as if they were saluting him.” She swallowed hard. In her eyes was a glint, either of rage or resignation. “That’s when I knew I would not be seeing my son again.”

  David took his seat next to her. She was still staring at the drooping centerpiece. “I never thanked you for them,” she said. She placed her veined hands on his cheeks and pressed her lips, wet with tears, to his forehead.

  He did not think he could speak. He bit his lower lip to keep it from quivering. Letting out a shaky breath, he began to tell her the story. Somewhere toward the end, he heard one of the twins calling Lydea’s name, then his horse whinnying, the sounds of running feet, and voices crying out the news of Jahra’s death. With the shouting, the entire town would soon be alerted. They had very little time before the house would be filled with the wails of mourning women.

  He finished hurriedly. Lydea leaned her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. He felt her push down a sob, and she sighed deeply. “The last song he played, was it the one about the Lord being his shepherd?”

  The question stunned him. He could not have answered even if he’d wanted to.

  “And did he sing it too?” she murmured.

  Still unable to speak, he nodded, a tear running down his face.

  “Jahra sang it for me, too, while he was waiting for his leg …” Her voice broke, and David tightened his grip around her shoulders. Her lips trembled, but she steeled herself and went on. “It was only once, but I am so glad. I know now it was a special gift for good-bye.”

  From the narrow streets of Bethlehem could be heard the sound of high-pitched voices crying in sorrow. Lydea looked up at the door, and David knew what he needed to do. He walked quickly out to his horse, cut the thick strands from the bundle, and brought it inside. When the wailing women walked into the dim room, Jahra’s body was lying with a sheet over it on a bed of animal skins.

  The keening was too much for David to bear. He had to leave the room and go to the quiet of his cave. Later that afternoon, Joab, his sister Zeruiah’s youngest, came to get him. He was one year younger than David but several hands taller. He had broad shoulders and powerful hands from working with his father as a stonemason.

  “The elders have come,” said the muscular young man. “They said you can help bury Jahra.” He bit his lip nervously, unable to meet David’s eyes. He had a sling in his belt made from woven reeds. It was in the same position that David carried his.

  David followed Joab to the burial ground at the outskirts of the village. A large crowd was gathered under some nut trees. Several of his brothers’ wives were there, along with most of the village women. They were still wailing loudly. The shrill sound cut him like knives. Lydea was on the ground, her head resting on Jahra’s bound body. He was encased in damp cloths that gave off a pungent, spicy smell. Around Lydea’s head and shoulders was draped a torn sackcloth bag.

  David was going to join the four grave diggers who were pounding picks into the ground, but Lydea pulled him down next to her. She leaned her head on his shoulder but did not say a word. As the hole deepened, the sounds of mourning were replaced by the music of a flute.

  When the hole was dug, Hazzok, the head elder, lifted his hands to quiet the gathering and prayed the kaddish, the ancient prayer for the dead: “God, filled with mercy, dwelling in the heavens’ heights, bring proper rest beneath the wings of your shekinah, amid the ranks of the holy and the pure, illuminating like the brilliance of the skies the soul of our beloved and our blameless who went to his eternal place of rest. May You who are the source of mercy shelter him beneath Your wings eternally, and bind his soul among the living, that he may rest in peace. And let us say: amen.”

  The words of the prayer had stuck in the back of David’s throat, and he remained mute as the crowd repeated the Shemah seven times. Still unable to speak, he helped place the body in the grave, filled the hole with earth, and covered it with stones. He walked back to the house, holding Lydea as the villagers followed to eat the food the women had prepared.

  Three days of mourning passed, during which Lydea had remained silent. Unwilling to leave her alone, David had not gone out with the flocks. The morning of the third day, when he awoke he found her sitting staring at the kinnor bag in the center of the table.

  He was trying to get a fire going when she spoke. “I can’t wait to see him again.” Startled, he dropped the flint on the
floor. He turned to look at her. She sat staring out the window at the sycamore.

  “Are you sure you will?” he asked. He was not so much interested in her answer as in keeping her talking.

  “I have no doubt,” she responded.

  “How can you be sure?” Most of the teachers he’d heard were unsure that there was such a thing as an afterlife.

  She closed her eyes, as if arranging her thoughts. “Because of Job who lived in Uz, where I was born. I told you his story when you and Jahra were little ones.”

  “Was he the rich man who lost all his children and all his money and became very sick?”

  She nodded and sighed. “You both so much loved to hear it …”

  “I’d forgotten. Our favorite part was when Job lets his stupid friends really have it.”

  A sad smile flitted over her lips.

  “When you got to that part, you would stand up with your hands made into fists and look very upset. Remember?” He was speaking excitedly, trying to deflect her sadness.

  She rewarded him with a wan smile.

  “That’s when we would beg to hear what Job told them.”

  Lydea bit her lip as she kept her gaze fixed on the tree outside the window. “Yes,” she said. “Then I would say to you his words: ‘This I know—my Avenger lives, and after my awakening, He will place me close to Him. And in my flesh I shall look on God.’” Her last words were almost a whisper.

  David reached past the kinnor and laid his hand on her arm. He could not remember it ever feeling so frail. She seemed lost in her memory. “I would shake my finger like you were Job’s friends. You and my Jahra would laugh so very hard you could not stop.” Her voice quavered as a tear slid down her cheek.