by Mary Burns
There was silence, broken first by Oman.
“Well, this is good news indeed,” he said, looking around with a smile. “This is a passing of the storm that will do us all good.”
“But can we trust him?” Abinadab spoke up. “David, you know as well as all of us how many times he has ‘taken you back’ only to turn on you again and again! And to go onto his own ground—too dangerous!”
Another of my uncles, Shammah, lifted his head to talk; he was soft-spoken and careful with his words. “Perhaps a meeting in a neutral place might be suggested,” he said, his eyes trained on the dusty ground in front of him, where he played with the point of his dagger. “Say, the tomb of Samuel, blessed be his memory.”
From my perch, I felt the jangle of raw nerves at this suggestion. The great prophet had only recently died; indeed, the people were still in mourning, three months after his burial, and rumors had spread that his final words to King Saul were ones of reproach and even condemnation for his attacks on David. I shifted my position slightly to catch a better look at my father’s face—calm, unreadable, as he always was when the council was giving its advice. That was his way, to let them all speak; then he would decide.
The discussion went back and forth—meetings, emissaries, times of day, places, guards, gifts, security—until I was sleepy with argument and discourse. Suddenly my father’s voice pierced the rumbling of talk.
“As I held the life of Saul precious in the sight of the Lord HaShem, so may the Lord hold mine precious and deliver me from every distress. I will meet him in the encampment at Hachilah.”
At these words, I felt a cold wind sweep through my blood, and I could not breathe. I fell backwards with stiffened limbs, unleashing a small avalanche of rocks as I slid down and out of my hiding place. As from a far distance, echoing through hills, I heard men’s voices, shouting, coming nearer, and then I saw my father’s eyes, gleaming yellow-gold in the torchlight, staring into mine. His lips moved but I could not hear his words. From deep inside me, a voice spoke.
“Beware the treachery of the one whom the Lord has abandoned! His disobedience shall be punished, and Israel will be handed over to the Philistines until the House of Saul is dead, and David becomes King over all!”
* * *
The next thing I saw was my mother’s face, anxious and fearful, bending over me in my own bed. As my eyes fluttered open, relief flooded her own.
“Janaia, my girl, ah, what a trouble you are,” she murmured, her fingers soft against my temples, arranging the pillows and blankets around me.
“Mama, what happened?’
She drew back, momentarily surprised, then nodded. “Of course, that is often the way with those of us who have the Sight; we are the reeds through which the wind blows, not knowing what sounds we have made.”
Someone shifted a lantern in the background; the light hurt my eyes. Pain pounded at my head, and I shut my eyes tight. A swirl of images and sounds rose before me in the black darkness.
“No,” I said, whispering to my mother. She bent nearer; I could feel her warm breath and smell her fragrance close to me. “I remember. I—I spoke with the voice of Samuel the prophet.” I opened my eyes, directly into hers. “Didn’t I? His voice, I felt it, somehow, blow through me like a storm, and—and—” I strained to remember, and suddenly it was clear. I grasped my mother’s arm in my fear and elation, such a heady feeling, this power! “I foretold the death of King Saul, Mama, didn’t I? That was what I said!” I sat up straight, throwing back the blanket. “I spoke those words to save my father’s life, so he would not be betrayed to his death!”
Just then, I caught sight of my father entering, his eyes fixed on me.
“Samuel, blessed of memory, spoke through you, little one, by the power of HaShem,” he said sternly, a rebuke. I held my head up higher, looking straight back at my father. I would not let him diminish me! A thin smile came and went on his lips in an instant, and he spoke again.
“Nonetheless,” he said, “you spoke words of warning that will keep me on my guard.”
“But you do not mean to go!” I addressed him as an equal, without fear. Knowledge engulfed me, and power, and I continued to speak with great confidence. “King Saul will not suffer you to live in his kingdom if he thinks he can outwit the Lord God somehow and cheat Him of his Anointed One, you, David the King!”
I rose from my bed of blankets and pillows, and I stood, facing my father who held his own counsel, listening to me, allowing me to continue like one of his brothers. “The Philistines are massing against his army, and they—they will defeat him, he will die in their midst, as will—” I broke off, dreading the next words. My father looked hard at me. “As will many others,” I finished, and tried for a better ending. “But not you! You will one day be King yourself, though not yet of all of Israel.”
My mother and the servants stood aghast at my boldness, and looked from me to my father and back again, fearful of what might happen next. My father’s face was shut, though his eyes, green as a cat’s, gleaming with an inner light, continued to search my face. He took a step nearer, knelt down on one knee so we were face to face. He lifted his hand, cupped my chin, and held it firmly so I could not look away. I did not blink; my face was as motionless as his. After a moment so long I thought it would not end, he nodded his head slightly and turned his gaze away. We understood each other. Nothing but truth would ever exist between us, no matter the cost.
The next moment, he was gone, and my knees gave way.
Chapter 3
“Saul has killed his thousands, and David his tens of
thousands.” 1 Samuel 21:11-12
David decided not to go to Saul. Instead, we left the hills and caves we had dwelt in for more than ten years to seek a peaceful if wary co-existence with the Philistines of Gath, across the frontier from our homeland of Judah. David knew Achish, son of Maoch, king of Gath; as children, they had been friends, and fellow-feeling still existed between them, despite the constant warring among the central and northern tribes. Jonathan had assured David that Saul would cease to hunt him once we moved away and Saul heard we were gone.
So, only a few days after my first prophesying, on a day early in spring, the six hundred men of David’s camp rose and moved down from the hills, with nearly twice that number of women and children. We were loaded down with provisions, household goods, pots and blankets; the sheep and goats followed behind or ran ahead, bleating and scampering. To me, it was an adventure of the highest order—finally, to go somewhere, anywhere! To see somewhat of the wider world, a different land, people who spoke a language unlike ours, with customs different and strange. I’d heard enough stories to whet my appetite, and I longed to see for myself.
David had sent couriers on ahead, of course, to announce his arrival and more importantly, to test the state of friendship with Achish, now king after his father’s death a few years before. I heard the men’s talk about it—for despite my mother’s disapproval, my father let me sit near him quietly during council meetings now—and there was grudging assent to this removal, though most were silent, trusting David to know what was best. The last meeting in the hills, the night before we left, was tense.
“How are we supposed to live, like beggars in another man’s land?” This from Abinadab, always opposing, always impatient. “Currying favor with Philistines left and right . . . pah!” He sat down at the campfire, brooding. Another brother spoke up, Eliab, the eldest. He was tall and lean, and his face showed the signs of much inward suffering, though he was stalwart and did not complain. He walked with a noticeable limp from a wound that had never completely healed, dealt him in a battle a few years before I was born. His brow was dark, his tone passionate.
“It will seem to them that we are cowards, running away from our own king! Afraid to stand up for what we believe in!” Murmurs of assent grew; the men pulled their lips tight, frowning.
“We are but six hundred, at most, against Saul’s six thousand men,
” Oman, the peacemaker, said calmly. “A lone jackal does not attack a pride of lions.”
“We are no jackals!” Abinadab scowled and threw down his plate of food. “Brother, we are no jackals!”
Oman started to protest, and David’s voice cut in. He had appeared at the edge of the campfire and drew near.
“No, not jackals,” he said, placing a hand on Oman’s shoulder, “rather say, hawks.” He looked at each man in turn. “A single hawk cannot take down an eagle, but many hawks together can drive him away.” Abinadab looked slightly appeased, then shrugged his shoulders. David spoke again. “Trust me, my brothers.” He held his hands out, palms up. “Trust HaShem our God, who anointed me King of Israel.” Again he looked around the campfire at his kin. “You were all there, each of you heard it said.” One by one, they nodded, and at last, grinned and clapped each other on the shoulders.
“To David, King of Israel!” The shout was taken up by all until it became a mighty crescendo that echoed in my head and chest like thunder.
When they fell silent, my father turned to me and touched my face tenderly. He was smiling.
“What does my little seer behold?” His eyes, dark in the firelight, bore into me. I wanted more than anything to see something for him, to tell him what was coming. I closed my eyes and concentrated until sweat broke out on my brow. But there was nothing.
“Nothing, Papa. I’m sorry,” I whispered, ducking my head. He kissed me on the forehead. “All in good time,” he said. “At the will of HaShem.”
* * *
King Achish was more than generous and, I came to understand, clever as well, but ultimately, a little too trusting. The two men— both tall and well-built, though Achish was heavy-set, a dark, hairy man, while David seemed made of smooth bronze—met openly on a plain before the city of Telaim. Here Achish had built a massive house of stone and wood, set on a rise buttressed by man-made hills and ditches. All around it huddled the dwellings of his people in the town, and around them all stood a great wall of stone and wood and iron gates. In war, it was a fortress.
When I first saw it, there had been peace for a time. The great iron gates were open as people went about their business in and out of the town, and there was altogether an air of comfortable bustle and well-being. To me it seemed an incomparably great city, with throngs of colorfully dressed people and a huge market place set before the main gates where travelers and country folk came to exchange goods and services.
I was not allowed to be present when Achish and David talked, but I heard about it later that night from my mother. Her eyes were bright, and she was laughing with the other women as she related the encounter to them. I had never seen her so happy.
“. . . and then King Achish asked David what he had done to make Saul so angry with him! David’s face grew dark and troubled, and I actually trembled, thinking how he might respond. But as he was about to say something, the King’s son interrupted—rudely, I thought!—and starting chanting, ‘Saul has killed his thousands, and David his ten thousands!’ And King Achish cuffed him up the side of the head and told him to be quiet.”
“What did David do then?” The women were all leaning forward eagerly. I watched my mother’s face closely.
“He nodded slightly,” she said, drawing herself up and imitating her husband, “as if to say, ‘well, yes, that’s how it was’ and I saw that King Achish was pleased with his modesty.”
Modesty! My father, modest? I saw strategy in his behavior; seeming is as good as being, sometimes.
“And we’re going to live in a house, a real house, in a real town!” my mother continued, pulling me to her suddenly and kissing me. “King Achish has given your father the town of Ziklag for all of us to dwell in!” I pondered this, wondering at the great power of kings, to just give someone a whole town.
“What about the people who already live there?” I asked. “Won’t they mind?”
“Oh, child, what thoughts you have!” my mother looked at me, shaking her head. “People do as they’re told.” She peered more closely into my face, and spoke again. “I understand that the chieftain of Ziklag has somehow displeased King Achish, and he and all his family were … banished.” She patted my hand. “Your father will be an excellent replacement, I’m sure.” She stood up and gave me a little push. “Now go and get yourself to bed, you shouldn’t be up this late.” She looked around at the other women, a smile still playing about her lips. “I’m afraid we won’t get much sleep tonight—there’s so much to think about!”
I made my way to the pile of blankets in a corner of our tent, thinking hard. Young as I was, I knew that people—especially kings—don’t just give things away without expecting something back. My heart feared for my father, and for all of us. What would be required of us in payment for this town?
Ziklag
Chapter 4
“So that day Achish gave him Ziklag, and for this reason
Ziklag has been the property of the kings of Judah to the
present day.” 1 Samuel 27:6
Ziklag lay a long day’s journey south and east of Telaim, nearer Beersheba, where the boundaries of Philistia, Amalek, and Judah, our beloved land, intersect. Ziklag was a good-sized market town set on a well-traveled road traversing three low-rising hills; it had been passed among Philistines, Amalekites, and Judeans many times over the years. How strange that now it had an Israelite chieftain, David, yet was claimed by Achish, a Philistine, as his war booty.
As we entered the main part of the town, the sun was nearly set, fires had been lighted against the cool of the spring evening, and we could smell roasting meat as we passed by the houses and dwellings. Men, wary and silent, stood in doorways, watching this next revolution in their fortunes roll by, this next chieftain to rule them. Most of them acknowledged David’s passage with a slight inclination of their heads, their faces unreadable. After several generations of changing governance, I guessed that the people were rather stoic about it, giving allegiance to whoever was in power at the time; after all, with years of inter-marriage and breeding, they themselves were an entwined mix of the many tribes who had come and gone for so long. What gods did they call their own? I wondered. And in their hearts, did “Judah” mean anything to them, or even “Israel?”
A stout, middle-aged man, his head wrapped in a cloth of dark blue, came running down the street toward our procession. My father was at the front on a tremendous black horse he had named Ruwach, our word for the north wind, fierce and strong. My mother, with Amnon in her arms, and I were in a cart right behind him. She was wearing jewelry that made me gasp when I first saw it, rubies in her ears and a gold necklace gleaming around her throat, things I had never seen before. The stout man approached us, trying to walk and bow at the same time, which made me want to laugh, though I did not.
“Welcome, my lord David, you are most welcome to Ziklag!” The man puffed the words, out of breath from haste and excitement. “I am Doeg, constable of Ziklag, and my lord’s most humble servant!” I did laugh out loud then, and whispered to my mother, “More dog than Doeg, yes?” She shushed me with a look, but with a twinkle in her eye all the same.
My father made a civil response and allowed Doeg to lead us through the gates of the chieftain’s house, set against the base of one of the three hills that circled the town. My mouth fell open as, even in the dusky light, I perceived terraces with flowers pouring down the sides, archways and walkways blending into the rock of the hillsides, a large fountain with water chuckling and gurgling from a trumpet-shaped spout, three levels up, and a stream of clear water spilling into a pond at the entrance to the house. This was where we were to dwell!
My mother’s arm tightened around my shoulders, and I thought she would cry from happiness. She sprang from the cart as soon as it stopped, handing Amnon to his nurse, and immediately began instructing women and men to unpack and take things into the house. She sent Aloheth to the kitchen with several of the women and girls to prepare food for a great feast. C
attle were lowing, and the goats and sheep bleated as they were led away to stables around the side of the courtyard.
I saw my father and several of his brothers follow the ever-bowing Doeg into some inner recess of the house, while the other men with their families and goods began to dispose themselves in various places around the courtyard, and even out into the open spaces of the town. I couldn’t imagine where everyone was going to sleep that night but soon decided it was not something I needed to worry about. With my mother completely occupied as head of this new household—a position, I noticed, that she assumed immediately and with quiet competence—I was free to explore our good fortune, this great gift of a house.
I wandered for some time along the terraced front, laced with trees and flowers. Servants appeared with torches and set them in stone sconces attached to the walls, both inside and out, bringing a warm and flickering light against the darkening night sky. All around me was noise and bustle, running and shouting, babies crying and men laughing loudly. In my arms I held a small wooden box my uncle Oman had carved for me, in which I kept my prized possessions—the silver ring, the bit of red cloth, other treasures from my cave—safe inside.
It occurred to me I didn’t know where I would sleep, so I went inside to see if I could find my mother (while trying to stay out of her way) and so discover our rooms. I felt bewildered and overwhelmed, and suddenly I longed for the peace and stillness of our caves under the stars. There was a hollow feeling in my bones, as if they had been sucked of the marrow, leaving me dry and light as a bird on a tree branch in winter.
A warming glow from some inner window along a colonnade drew me from the night air, and as I approached I heard my father’s voice, rising above the excited talk of the other men around him. I had not been invited to attend this meeting, but I was curious, and crept nearer.
