Nothing.
“I am ready for anything. I’ll make any sacrifice. Just tell me what to do.”
It is already done.
“What is done?”
Tomorrow you and your sons shall be with me. That is done. And the Lord will give the army of Israel into the hand of the Philistines. That, too, is done. All is done.
Saul fell full length on the floor and lay on his back. There was no strength left in him.
The woman looked up, then rose and ran to him and knelt beside him.
“My lord,” she said. “My lord! What is the matter?”
His great frame filled half her cottage. His hair had fallen like a shining grey splendor all around his head. He had been a handsome man.
“My lord?”
He didn’t answer. His breathing was slow and even.
“My lord, what have we done, that you can’t talk?”
The king’s eyes were open, gazing into the middle distance. His eyebrows were raised, as if he were asking a sad question.
The woman began to stroke his shoulder. “Peace, peace,” she said gently. And then she tipped her head and in the tones of a mother said, “When was the last time you had anything to eat? Can I get you something to eat?”
SIXTEEN
David
I
DAVID THE SON of Jesse sat in darkness on the brow of a cave near En-gedi. His men lay sleeping inside the cave. He had taken the last watch of the night—a solitary, moonless hour suited to his mood.
“I lie in the midst of lions,” he murmured. He sighed. He turned his head to the right a moment, to the ceiling of stars in the south, then softly he began to sing:
Be merciful to me, O God:
I lie in the midst of lions.
Protect me by the sweep of thy wing
from the ravening bite of the lions!
Their teeth are spears and arrows clashing,
their tongues the bloody sword.
David fell silent. He sank into a brooding meditation. Vagrant breezes blew up from the Salt Sea—massive, flat, black before him. High on his left a waterfall tumbled several hundred feet down into a sweet oasis.
These were the Wildgoats’ Rocks. The cave where his strong men slept was an old sheepfold, girdled by low stone wall across the entrance. David had considered this a good hiding place.
Apparently, not good enough.
For nearly a year the king of Israel had been pursuing him with horses and warriors and a fixed will to kill the man. Several times David had only barely escaped: at Keilah, by a mountain in the desert of Maon.
But yesterday, while he and his men crouched in the dark recesses of this same cave, Saul’s armies came marching past the entrance. They stopped. David could hear the shouting and the laughter of troops cooling themselves in the oasis pool.
Then someone darkened the entrance and came into the cave. Just inside, the man stripped off his robe, his tunic, and his loin cloth. He squatted between two stones and groaned.
By the size of this figure and by the heedless force of his gestures—he had flung the robe ten feet deeper into the cave—David knew who it was. King Saul himself.
No, En-gedi wasn’t good enough. David would abandon the site tomorrow. In fact, he had to find another strategy altogether. He was a renegade, an outlaw whom people might either befriend or betray. Running and raiding, then, must finally end in exhaustion or else on the point of a royal spear.
“But my heart,” David whispered, “my heart is steadfast, Lord.” He glanced up and saw that the eastern sky was lightening to grey. The smooth horizon beyond the sea was a black line visible against the dim light.
Suddenly, David drew breath and began to sing aloud:
My heart is steadfast, O my God!
My heart stands fast in thee!
I’ll sing this morning’s morning song,
dawn-dappled melody:
He stood up. He took a stance on the limestone ledge above the cave and sang:
Awake, my harp! Awake, my lyre!
My soul, look to the skies!
We’ll brighten night with a song of fire
and cause the dawn to rise!
Be thou exalted, O Lord God,
above the firmament!
Come, let thy glory walk the world
with steps benevolent.
He sang the last passage as a refrain over and over, seven times over, and when he finished, the east indeed was afire, the sea was lost in burning mist, and his young men were wandering out of the cave below, stretching and rubbing their faces.
David looked down and saw one man of bullish stature and wiry, close-cropped hair.
“Joab!” he called.
That one turned and looked up. A hard, weathered face. Smooth-shaven. As ageless as stone, though he was in fact no older than David.
“Let’s go to the Philistines,” David called down to him. “What do you think? We can offer our services to Achish of Gath.”
The man named Joab regarded David a full minute, then shook his head and shrugged and walked down to the pool.
“What then, cousin?” David called. “Are you angry with me?”
The rest of the men were already splashing morning water on their faces, blowing plumes of spray, rolling their muscles below the waterfall at cliffside. Thirty men formed the core of those that followed David, independent fellows, men of shrewdness and courage and power. Heroes.
There sat Benaiah by a new fire molding barley cakes for baking against the rocks. Benaiah—who seldom spoke, whose obedience was as sure as sunrise—had shoulders like the beam of a house. David knew that this man had slain bare-handed a lion cornered in a pit in a snowstorm. He was fearless. With nothing but a staff Benaiah would await the attack of an armed soldier, then he’d tear the weapon from his enemy’s hands and kill him with the edge of his own sword.
“Benaiah,” David said, “when you’ve eaten, take several men to forage for grain and cheeses, dates and raisins. We’re going to travel to Gath.”
David came down from his perch above the cave and approached a lean man. “I’m going to talk with your brother a while,” he said. “Pass the word to everyone that we will begin to travel at dusk.” This was to Abishai, smooth as an eel, lantern-jawed, and so thin that, running, he seemed all neck, impossible to grab, cut, hit, stab, or kill. “Tell them we’ll take a hard route through the valleys, dark and treacherous but safe.”
As he passed among the men, David spoke all his words softly, as though every word were personal to the man addressed.
There was Abiathar, returning from the pool with washed clothing. David stopped him and said, “This morning and this evening, I want you to sacrifice peace offerings unto the Lord.” Abiathar nodded and smiled. He had the gift of sweetness. In spite of grief he could smile a perfect radiance upon those he loved—especially David, who was all his family now.
“Prepare us for a change,” David said. “Beg God to bless the change. I have decided to put an end to raiding.”
Abiathar was the son of Ahimelech, the priest at Nob whom Saul had murdered for giving David bread to eat. Saul had slaughtered every member of Ahimelech’s family except Abiathar, who fled to David with his father’s ephod. So David had an oracle whereby he could seek the will of the Lord.
And then there was Joab, David’s sister’s son, a warrior and a tactician who could read the field in an instant—terrain, enemy, weather, the cold political consequence of any act. David found Joab among the cypress trees on the far side of the pool, standing in shade.
“So, what do you think?” David said.
Joab was shorter than he was and stockier. His manner was gruff. David looked directly into his eyes, though he stared ever into the distance.
“King Achish of Gath,” Joab said.
“Yes,” said David.
“Why?”
“Saul must be persuaded to stop hunting us, or we will perish at his hand. He has never fought anything but a defensi
ve war against the Philistines. He won’t breach their borders by an offensive invasion. And Achish knows the enmity between us. I believe he will make space for us in Gath. What do you think?”
“Isn’t it treachery to treat with the enemy?”
“Treachery? That never bothered you before. Besides, who is our enemy? The one who would kill us, right?”
“In the lion’s den no one is the lion’s foe. Everyone’s his food.”
“I think we can deceive both Saul and the Philistines by seeming to serve Achish while actually serving ourselves in Judah. Who knows the hill country and the Negev better than we do?”
“MY COUSIN GOES around the stream he could cross in a step.”
“Joab, stop these aphorisms and speak plainly.”
“Nabal,” Joab barked. “Fool!”
“So you are angry with me.”
Now Joab looked directly at David. “If you had killed the king yesterday, there’d be no need for deception today.”
David’s face felt suddenly hot. “How could I have killed the king?” he said.
“He was squatting in the cave as dumb as a lamb at the sacrifice. If you could creep close enough to cut off the hem of his robe, surely you could have cut his throat.”
“That’s not what I mean, Joab. How could I kill the Lord’s anointed? How could I live with such a sin?”
“Is it a sin to kill a killer? Is it a sin to relieve Israel of a dangerous, maniacal tyrant”?
“Joab!” David’s voice was a whipcrack. His cousin flinched, then frowned and looked out over the Salt Sea.
David said, “The chosen one of God is the will of God made visible among us. Saul is Saul, but the king is the Lord’s, and I will not sin against the Lord.”
Joab’s hair was wiry, iron-grey. His eyes were a cold grey, his jaw strong, his cheeks soldier-seamed. He was deep-chested and bandy-legged and brusque. And now he was as mute as grey stone.
Actually, though David had just experienced his own anger, immediatelyhe liked his cousin again. Silence in this iron countenance tickled David and made him feel light-hearted.
He laid his hand on Joab’s shoulder and said, “While we are in Gath I want you to observe the organization of the Philistine army, the sizes and the purposes of its various units. Identify the ranks and authority of its officers. Memorize the weaponry. Learn its methods of supply and transport, its division of duties, its stratagems in different terrains, the most effective deployment of chariots. Everything. Steal every military thought they have. We will not waste our time in Gath, whatever happens. And I’ve made up my mind: when we are an army, Joab, you will be its commander-in-chief.”
WHEN DAVID WAS JOINED by everyone for whom he was responsible, more than six hundred people encamped around him. The entire families of his fighting men depended upon him. They were the kin of outlaws: what city was safe for them now? David’s sisters and brothers, likewise, were fugitives, their spouses and their children—and their parents, Jesse and Nahash.
But Jesse and Nahash were very old. Their bones were brittle and their eyes dim and they could not travel safely, however smooth the road or peaceful the countryside.
At noonday David sat in the shade of his father’s tent.
His mother brought them cool water to drink. She was so bent by age that her face looked straight down to the ground when she walked.
David watched how slowly she sat down, then he said: “When we strike camp and leave tonight, we cannot take a high road. We’ll climb the gorges, down one side and up the other. We are going over the mountains to Gath.”
Jesse nodded. Nahash raised bright eyes and looked shrewdly at her son. “You mean to say that we cannot come,” she said.
“Yes,” said David, “I do. I’m sorry. I think it would kill you.”
Nahash said, “Right now there is no place in Israel that will not kill us.”
David felt sad. “I’ve brought trouble to your old age.”
“King Saul has troubled our old age.” Nahash said. Her tone was strong, her eye direct. Only her body was infirm.
“But then where can you go?” David said. “If all of Israel is deadly to my parents, where can they find refuge?”
Nahash said, “Send us to Moab.”
“Moab, Mother? Moab is an enemy of Israel.”
“No, an enemy of Saul. Moab is your lineage, my son.”
“What?”
“There is Moabite blood in your veins.”
“How—?”
“Not every truce is won by fighting. Some are by discussion. And some by love. Send us to Moab.”
Then, without moving her old bones, Nahash told David a tale of his heritage.
Long ago there was a famine so severe in Israel that Elimelech of Bethlehem took his wife and his two sons to Moab, to survive there until rain returned to Judah.
Soon after their journey Elimelech died, and his wife Naomi was left to raise her sons alone.
In time each man married a Moabite wife, one whose name was Orpah, one whose name was Ruth.
But then her sons died, too, and the woman was bereft altogether. In sorrow she decided to return to her own people.
Naomi said to her daughters-in-law, “Go back to your mothers’ houses, and may the Lord deal as kindly with you as you have dealt with the dead and with me.”
She kissed them, and they began to weep. “We will go with you to your people,” they said.
Naomi said, “Do I have more sons in my womb? Daughters, I am too old to marry, but you should not refrain from marrying again.”
So Orpah kissed Naomi and departed. But Ruth clung to her.
“Entreat me not to leaveyou or to return from following you,” Ruth said. “For where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there will I be buried.”
Naomi saw that Ruth was determined. She said no more.
David watched his mother tell this story. Ancient, bent and wrinkled, she took such delight in the remembrance and in her words that her voice had a husky quality.
If David had an aptitude for language, he had received it with this mother’s milk.
When the two women arrived in Bethlehem, the people said, “Is this Naomi?”
“No, no, don’t call me Naomi,” she said. “Call me Mara, bitter, because the Almighty has dealt bitterly with me.”
Now, they had returned at the time of the barley harvest.
Naomi said to Ruth, “My husband’s cousin owns fields outside the city. His name is Boaz. Go, daughter. Glean ears of grain and bring us enough to grind for cakes.”
So Ruth went and gleaned after the reapers.
Boaz himself came walking in the fields that day. When he saw Ruth, he said to the supervisor, “Whose maiden is that, so lovely and so alone?”
The supervisor said, “She is the Moabite who came with Naomi. She has worked since the dawn without a rest.”
Boaz went to her and said, “What is your name?”
She bowed and said, “Ruth.”
“Ruth,” he said. “Ruth, do not go into anyone else’s fields. Glean in mine beside my servants. They will protect you. If you get thirsty, drink from our vessels.”
Ruth whispered, “Why should you notice me, a foreigner?”
Boaz said, “Because of all you have done for your mother-in-law.”
“You are most gracious to me, my lord.”
In the evening Ruth beat out what she had gleaned. It was about an ephah. And Naomi said, “Blessed be Boaz by the Lord, whose kindness has not forsaken the living or the dead.”
Now, when the barley had been reaped, Naomi said to Ruth, “Shouldn’t I seek a home for you, that it may be well with you? Daughter, tonight Boaz will be winnowing his barley at the threshing floor. Wash and anoint yourself. Put on your finest clothes and go to the threshing floor, and when he lies down to sleep, uncover his feet and take your place beside him. He is one of our nearest kin
. He will tell you what to do.”
So Ruth went to the threshing floor by night.
When Boaz had eaten and drunk and his heart was merry, he lay down by the heap of grain. Then she came softly and uncovered his feet and lay down.
At midnight the man was startled. He turned over and found a woman lying at his feet.
“Who are you?”
“I am Ruth. Oh, sir, spread your protecting skirt over your maidservant, for you are my next of kin.”
“Ah, daughter, bless you,” Boaz said. “You’ve made this last kindness greater than the first, because you haven’t gone after young men, rich or poor. Yes, I will try to do for you all you ask. But you have a nearer kin than I. If he chooses to marry you, I must let you go. But lie here until the morning, and I will see what I can do.”
So she lay wakeful at his feet until the morning and arose and departed before anyone could recognize her face.
That day Boaz went to the nearer kin of Naomi. “I have a matter to discuss with you,” he said. “We need ten men to witness the decision you are about to make.”
The kinsman thought that Boaz’ proposal must be serious.
When the ten men had been gathered, Boaz said, “Naomi is selling a parcel of land. If you want it, buy it. If not, I will buy it because I am next in line.”
Quickly the kinsman said, “I want to buy it.”
Just as quickly, Boaz said, “One more thing: he who buys the field also buys Ruth the Moabite, and he must have children with her in the place of her first husband, so that his lineage can continue.”
“What?” cried the kinsman. “Then the land will go to her children?”
“Any son of Ruth’s must be the son of her first husband.”
“In that case,” said the kinsman, “take the field.”
“You give up all rights?” Boaz said in front often men. “Even your rights to Ruth the Moabite?”
The Book of God: The Bible as a Novel Page 26
