“I decided the only way to get to the root of it was to be in that room, so in the guise of doing our judge a particular honor I took the tray from the servant and said that I would carry in the meat myself. Yishai gave me a look when I entered the chamber—I did not usually show myself there when guests were present—but he was too preoccupied to spare me more than a second’s thought. When I had handed around the dishes I took up a place in the corner, half hidden by a pillar.
“I saw Shmuel’s head turn sharply as our eldest son, Eliav, entered the room. Shmuel rose and took several steps toward Eliav, who uttered the proper salutations. The old man’s face was creased with lines of concentration as he studied my son. I could see him noting with approval the young man’s height and soldierly bearing, his handsome face, his clear, direct address. I admit it, I was proud as I observed this. Eliav had grown into a fine young man, sober, dutiful, the kind other men readily follow. Shmuel gazed at him a long time, then closed his eyes and raised his hands to heaven. A sour expression passed across his face. He opened his eyes, shook his head and turned back to Yishai. ‘This is not the one.’ Eliav looked startled at this curt response to his courtly greeting. He turned to his father, the confusion clear in his face. Yishai, in turn, looked at Shmuel in bafflement. Shmuel shrugged. ‘Not as man sees does Yah see. Yah sees beyond what is visible. He sees into the heart.’
“Yishai laid a consoling hand on Eliav’s shoulder and said softly, ‘Send Avinadav in to us.’ Avinadav was just a little more than a year younger than Eliav, and had lived in his shadow, imitating him in all ways. He, too, was an upright young man, and handsome. But Shmuel waved him off. ‘Yah has not chosen this one either.’ So it went on with all our sons, until even young Natanel, not much more than a boy, had been called for and dismissed in turn.
“‘Are these all the sons you have?’ Shmuel demanded. ‘Is there no other?’ Yishai looked down, not meeting Shmuel’s gaze. I saw him about to shake his head—for him, after all, there was no other son he fully counted as his own. But he must have sensed my eyes boring into him, or else I made an involuntary movement of which I was not even aware, for he looked over then to where I was. I had risen to my knees in a kind of supplication. He met my gaze and I saw him flinch. I did not know what Shmuel wanted with one of our sons, but clearly it was something important, something Yishai very much desired. And if he deemed it—whatever honor or position it might be—good for Eliav or any of the others, then my David must also have his chance. ‘There is one other,’ Yishai muttered. ‘But he is a boy, merely. He is away, tending the sheep.’
“‘Then fetch him. For we will not quit this place until he comes.’ I slipped out then and went downstairs to the beasts’ stalls. I did not know who Yishai would send to summon David but I wanted to be sure whoever it was went well mounted. I told the boy to saddle the mule, not to make do with a donkey. Finally, Raddai appeared, wearing a heavy cloak and a sullen expression, affronted that he had been chosen to fetch his despised younger sibling, and would have to abide a cold night with the flock in his stead.
“The hour was late when I heard the mule returning. I had sent the servants to their beds, content to sit a lonely vigil. When I heard the clop of hooves on the still air, I kindled an oil lamp and went out. David looked, as I expected, unkempt and filthy. His hair was a tangle, with bits of twig and lichen knotted into it, his skin ingrained with dirt, and to complete the picture of neglect and wildness, he had draped himself in the skin of the lion he had slain, which he had somehow roughly cured and fashioned into an outlandish kind of cloak. I had water ready, and fresh clothes of Natanel’s laid out, but Shmuel appeared at the head of the outdoor staircase, and called out to bring the boy straight up to him. Yishai had fallen asleep, sprawled out upon the cushions. Shmuel had not even dozed. He was alert and agitated. He waited by the door, the lamp held high in his hand. As David climbed up the stairs toward him, that hard old face softened. His eyes filled. ‘Bring the oil,’ he said softly. Yishai was roused now, on his feet, his mouth open, eyes wide. Shmuel’s servant rifled through his pack and pulled out a twisted ram’s horn stoppered with wax. He approached Shmuel, knelt, unstopped the horn and held it up to him. Shmuel took the vessel and raised it above David’s head. A thin spiral of golden, viscous liquid dribbled down upon David’s dusty hair. David showed no surprise or confusion. His face, tilted upward to Shmuel, was calm and grave, his eyes wide. It was as if he could see right through the walls, into the future that awaited him. ‘Behold!’ said Shmuel. ‘The anointed of the Name.’ Then he knelt. I followed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Yishai, going down on his knees before the son he had spurned.
“Shmuel gestured to David then, and the two of them walked out together, down the stairs, into the cold night. I do not know, to this day, what was said. But when they came in, Shmuel went straight to his rest and David allowed me to help him bathe and change into a clean night robe. We did not speak much, and nothing at all to the purpose of the strange events of the night. He answered me when I spoke to him, but he was off in the distance somewhere, far beyond my reach. I steered him to Raddai’s empty pallet, in the room where four of his brothers slept on, oblivious.
“In the morning, Shmuel and his servant left for Ramah, and David went back to the sheep, and it was as if the whole uncanny business had never taken place. I did not speak of it to my other sons, and when I asked Yishai if they knew what had occurred he said that if they did, they knew better than to own to it, and urged me to put it out of my mind also. He said that Shaul was still our king, and while that was so it did no good to speak, or even think, about David’s anointing.
“But of course, not a day passed when I did not think about it, and wonder. And then, soon enough, we were at war again with the Plishtim, and my older sons were called by General Avner to join the king, in battle, in the Wadi Elah . . .”
IV
Her voice trailed off. She reached for her wine cup, but found it empty. She waved for Shammah’s girl, but there was no need. The girl had been tending to the making of a small cook fire and had set a large pot on a tripod of three stones. But as soon as she sensed her grandmother stir, she was at her elbow, filling our cups. She placed the pitcher, which was beaded with moisture in the afternoon heat, on the table between us. It had grown late as we talked. The twisted shadows of the citron boughs elongated in dark knots upon the ground. Nizevet put her cup down and lifted her hand to her brow.
“I have tired you,” I said. “I am sorry.”
“No, I am not tired. It is not that. It is just that it is difficult for me to speak of things that I have kept close to me for so long. I see you writing down my words, and I—and I—I feel such shame, such shame—”
I started to speak, to reassure her, but she hushed me with a wave of her hand. “I know my son has sanctioned this, for reasons that must seem wise to him. But the common people know his story so differently. Their story begins with that radiant boy who suddenly appeared from the hills. Do they need, I wonder, to know what came before?” She was not looking at me, but at her hands.
“That will rest with the king,” I said. “He will decide what will be recorded, and what will be left out.”
“Very well,” she said. Then she signaled again to the girl, and began to rise.
“Is that all?” I said, rather more sharply than I intended. “I was hoping you might go on.”
“Go on? Why should I go on? Shammah can better tell about the Wadi Elah. Shammah, and others who were there. My part in the story is of no significance beyond what I have told you. Be content.”
I stood then, and bowed. The girl came and gave Nizevet her arm. The two disappeared into the house and I was left alone to gather my writing materials. The girl returned to tend to the pot. Pungent aromas—onions, cumin, coriander—wafted from her pot. My mouth watered and I realized I was very hungry. Just before sunset a noisy pair of youths returned to the compo
und, herding their animals before them. The younger boy, who had been dozing in a corner, rushed to spread straw in the lower stable rooms, a chore I sensed should have been done sometime earlier.
The girl brought me a basket of flatbread, a tray heaped high with the fragrant, spiced grains, and a dish of yogurt to blend with it. It was clear I was not to dine with the rest of the family, as they had all withdrawn to an upstairs room in the larger of the three houses. I ate the food, glad of my solitude. My thoughts were occupied with the remarkable words that lay bound in my parchment, and with Nizevet’s parting advice. She was wise. It was best to speak only to those who were there when events unfolded. David’s life already was the stuff of wild elaborations. Men always make myths around their kings. I needed to be wary of such men.
When I had done with the food, the girl was there again, at my side, holding a bowl of rosewater so that I might wash my fingers. “If you are ready, I will show you to your place.” So I was to stay. I had not been sure if Shammah would offer me a roof, or whether I should have to bespeak some dubious shelter in the town.
“I think I will sit for a while,” I told her. And so I did, counting the stars as they twinkled alight until the sky was glittering. When a boy came with a torch to lead me to my room, it was very late. Shammah had not returned. A pale light was already seeping through the shutters when I woke from a restless sleep to hear him come in, drunk, stumbling and cursing. I heard the king’s name, and my own, interspersed with references to donkey’s balls and camel dung. I rolled over and went back to sleep, reasoning that it would be many hours before Shammah might be ready to speak with me.
• • •
The house stirred to life not long after. I dozed through the sounds of morning tasks, the animals being let out of their stalls, the men and boys leaving for pasture and field. When finally I rose, only two women were left in the courtyard, baking the day’s bread in the tannur. The one I had met the day before worked beside an older woman whom I assumed to be Shammah’s wife. She looked up for a moment from working dough, and nodded a brief acknowledgment before turning her attention to the bread. The girl peeled a hot round from the curved wall of the tannur and brought it to me, steaming, along with a handful of olives. I asked after Nizevet, as I did not see her in the courtyard. The girl replied that she was resting. She was very tired from the prior day’s long talk, the girl said, with an air of rebuke. By the time I had consumed my morning morsel, the women had finished the bread making and were preparing to milk the ewes and nannies pastured nearby. As they took up their bowls, I unrolled a hide to review what I had set down the day before.
The sun was high in the sky before Shammah came stomping across the courtyard. He snatched up a round of the fresh bread and threw himself down heavily into the chair opposite me, gnawing on it. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and fixed me with a glare of complete distaste. “I’ve never understood why my brother puts up with you,” he blurted. “The things you say to him. It’s a wonder he hasn’t put a spear right through you.”
There was no answer to this, so I gave none. I carefully rolled up the skin I had been reading and drew out a blank one. Shammah snorted. “So you wrung my mother out like a filthy rag and now you propose to begin on me, to see what more dirt you can squeeze?”
“Your brother . . .”
“Ah, yes, my brother wants it. My holy, miraculous, mighty brother, beloved of all—men, women—even Yah. He wants it. And he gets what he wants, always. Well, now you know that wasn’t always how it was. Until that old man and his oil pitcher showed up here, that boy knew his place—and a dung-spattered, dusty place it was.” He grinned to himself, a mean, private mirth. “I can still see the look on Eliav’s face—and Avinadav’s, for that matter . . .” He gave a throaty laugh, and then winced, and put a hand to his temple. The previous night’s excess was claiming its usual price.
“Well, none of us believed what the old man said. How could David, that worthless little turd—don’t look at me like that. It’s how we thought of him; I know she told you that. But I’ll bet she didn’t tell you that he well earned his reputation. No. I bet she told you he was her perfect darling. Well, he wasn’t perfect. He was a sly little shit. He’d learned to be. He knew how to keep an eye to the merest advantage and he did not scruple to take it, once it showed itself. He was like you in that way.” He scowled at me, malice in his face. His mouth twisted into a grin. “You forget. I was there that day he killed your father. I saw your wonderful piece of playacting. It was well done, I have to give you credit. I thought at the time, that boy’s got balls. How you came up with it—kingdom, crown, all that stuff—and had the front to put on that show with your father’s blood up to your ankles. It won you your life, and now look at you. The king’s prophet. A man to be reckoned with. Well, you might have suckered my brother but you don’t fool me. I thought you were a clever little fraud that day you saved your skin, and I think you’re a cunning charlatan now. But no one gives a shekel for what I think. I’m just the king’s old drunkard of a brother. So I keep my mouth shut and stay out of my son’s way so he can do what you’ve done, and be someone at court when Prince Amnon comes into his own.” He picked up the bread and gnawed at it.
“I believe,” I said, “that we were discussing your brother at Wadi Elah. Not your opinion of me, or your ambitions for Yonadav.”
He gave a dramatic sigh. “All right. Let’s get it done with, then.” He mimicked my haughty tone: “My brother at Wadi Elah. The mean little mamzer making his name. To be fair. He had reason to be the way he was. He had cause, ample cause, as a beaten mule has cause to be sour and malicious, just looking for the chance to land a kick. We—all of us—would’ve done anything to earn our father’s approval, and if he treated David like a mangy cur dog, then we would, too. We never showed that boy a cup of kindness. He had to use his wits to survive out there in the hills and he did, with no man’s hand to guide him. So when he came to the Wadi Elah, he swooped in like a buzzard, looking to feed himself on the misery of that battlefield. And what a ripe corpse he found there, and what a meal he made of it.”
I scribbled furiously to get these words down, words as sour as the gall ink in which I wrote them. As frank as Nizevet had been, this was another kind of truth telling entirely. Shammah had been restless in his seat, shifting his great bulk, working the knot in his shoulders. He got up and began to pace, wearing the same track in the yard that I had noted the day before. He pulled down a switch from the citron bough and beat it against his thigh as he walked.
“I suppose you have some picture in your mind of how it was that day. Who doesn’t? The cloth of that story is threadbare with the telling. It has been an amusement to me, who was there, to have it told to me fashioned thus and so, restitched until I do not know that the events described are the ones I stood and watched with my own good eyes. Every time I hear it, the Plishtim champion has grown a cubit in height and my heroic little brother has lost a year in age. After all this time, I think I can see him as you see him on that day. You see a shining boy, don’t you? Here he comes, dancing out of the ranks of common men. What a beautiful, brave boy you see. You can own to it. You are not alone. That is what everyone thinks. Well, for one thing, he was scarcely a boy. My brother had reached his fourteenth year. There were many of his age already in the ranks, battle tested, counted as men. And he’d grown as a cactus grows, bitter and prickly and tough enough to survive what came his way.
“But my brother has fed the other legend. Indeed, by feeding it in others, I think he has grown it within himself. Even he probably now believes the story of the glowing, blessed boy and the hideous, looming giant. Not true. That gloss and polish all came to him later, after Shaul and Yonatan took him up and made much of him. Gave him, to be frank, the love that we—his own family—had held back from him. Shaul’s court was nothing much, in those days. No singing men and women, none of the finery that David fills his ha
ll with these days. Shaul’s was a simple chieftain’s headquarters. Nothing more. There was none of this prideful pomp then. Most of the time he held counsel under a tree, like a soldier. But for a love-starved urchin from a mud-daubed sheepfold, Shaul’s so-called court was the garden of paradise and, thanks to Yonatan’s folly and excess, David flourished there. And was corrupted there, too. Oh, don’t you give me that look. Not you. I’ve heard you say worse, and to his face. . . .
“In any case, there we were, our ragtag troops up on one hill and their forces across the valley on the other. Everyone makes out it was a massive standoff—two great armies—but that’s not true. Never happened. It was just another skirmish in a long, boring season of skirmishes. They were always at us in fighting season, trying to pick off a village here, a hamlet there. Steal the livestock, disrupt the harvest. They were good at it, and they had better arms than we did. It had been going on for months, and we were all of us done in. Seemed like neither side wanted to sound the battle horns. And Shaul was canny, in those days. He knew that a standoff served us just as well as a victory. If the Plishtim fighters were pinned down in Wadi Elah, then they weren’t running about the Shefala looting crops and raiding cattle. I think it suited him just fine to sit out the season until the villagers got their harvests in. Then the weather would change and we could all go home.
The Secret Chord Page 6
