J: The Woman Who Wrote the Bible

by Mary Burns

  “Nathan?” I took his hand and held it tightly, my fear rising. “Tell me everything. Start at the beginning, and tell me what happened.”

  With a deep sigh, he told me all, and I did not interrupt until he stopped speaking.

  * * *

  We met at the Pool of Gibeon, Abner and his army on one side, Joab with his men on the other. It is a rock-strewn place, and the pool itself is a deep hole cut into the granite with roughly hewn steps leading down to a spring of water that rises and falls with the seasons and fills the pool; the people of Gibeon use it as a water supply. Gibeon is not far from Mahanaim, where Ishbosheth son of Saul lived, so Abner’s men had not traveled nearly as far as we had. In fact, it seemed as if they were there waiting for us.

  At first I was in awe of the place—it is where Joshua, of blessed memory, asked HaShem God to hold still the sun and the moon to give him time to kill the Amorites, the enemy of the Gibeonites, whom Joshua had sworn to defend. But later, there seemed to me to be little enough of holiness there.

  Joab called across the pool to Abner. It is not very wide; you can look a man in the eyes and see if he is lying or not, at such a distance.

  “Abner, I am here for David, King of Judah, to settle matters between us.”

  Abner looked surprised at this statement, as well he might.

  “Joab,” he said, “I am here for Ishbosheth, King of Israel. What matters are there between us that you think you can settle here today?”

  We could hear the laughter and snickering of Abner’s men behind him, men who are kin to us! But Joab did not take offense.

  “Abner, in the name of King David, I challenge you to fight with me, and me alone, here at the Pool of Gibeon, and the man who loses must bow to David the King.”

  Abner laughed, though I could see his face, and he clearly was not amused.

  “You are very sure of yourself for such a young pup,” he said to Joab. The men behind Abner began whispering among themselves, and one stepped forward and said something in a low voice to him. He nodded.

  “Joab, I have a counter-offer for you. Let us each choose twelve of our best men to meet on the field over there, and they will fight each other, one-to-one.”

  Our men were ready and eager to fight, and they pressed Joab to agree. “We’ll dispatch them all in the wink of an eye,” one said.

  I was standing near Joab, and I was filled with fear. “Let me first consult the Lord,” I told him, “as King David does, always, before he sets a course for war or a contract.”

  But Joab spurned my request, saying, “We have already consulted HaShem our King’s God, before we left Hebron, and He approved this course.”

  “No,” I insisted, “this is different. This is not just you and Abner now; this is not what David agreed to.”

  But he cut me off and would not listen to me.

  “Abner,” he said, “let the twelve come forth to the field.”

  A great cheering went up from the men on both sides of the pool, and we all went to the field, a hard flat place nearby with olive trees around it and a few early spring poppies making their way out of the earth. Our men clamored to Joab to be chosen; they all wanted to fight and prove themselves and win Israel for David.

  Joab decided to make the choice by lots from among twenty-four of his best fighters. Needless to say, I was not among the twenty-four. He sent his aide to collect twelve dark pebbles and twelve light ones from under the trees, and he put them in a bag. Then each of the twenty-four men chose a stone, and the ones with the dark pebbles were the ones who would fight.

  By this time, Abner’s twelve men had been chosen as well, and were lining up on the field. Among our men, there was some trouble, because Joab’s brothers, Abishai and Asahel, had selected light-colored pebbles and were arguing with Joab that they should get to fight anyway. He silenced them finally, though I couldn’t hear what he told them, and gestured to the twelve for them to line up, each one opposite one of Abner’s men. Each man had a long knife at his side, for close-in fighting.

  My heart was sick. I saw Talmai, a good friend of mine and a valiant youth, standing opposed to a young Benjamite whom I knew to be his kin, through their mothers’ uncles. And another one, Adonijah, a seasoned warrior, chosen to stand across from a man of size and strength equal to him, but one who had the very look of David’s brother Eliab about him, surely a relative. The longer we all stood there, the more awful the scene became, and the more our hearts were torn.

  Abner raised his sword and looked across the field at Joab, who also raised his sword. They each shouted the names of their kings, and their swords flashed downward.

  The struggle of the twenty-four was intense, but mercifully it was brief. Before our astonished and grieving eyes, each man seized his opponent by the head and thrust his sword into his side—and thus they fell together, clasped in each other’s arms, blood mingling with blood, final breath with final breath.

  When it was clear that all of them were dead, the stunned armies on both sides raised a great shout, drew their swords, and ran against each other. I too joined the fight—how could I not? We chased Abner and his men far off the field, into the hills going back to Jerusalem. In the end, only nineteen of our men were killed, including the first twelve, yet more than three hundred of Abner’s men were slain by us that day.

  * * *

  Saying this, Nathan paused for a moment, his voice failing. I touched his hand, and started to speak, but he stopped me.

  “There is one more horror to be told,” he said.

  * * *

  As we pursued Abner’s army into the hills, Joab’s young brother Asahel, so quick to run, followed closely on Abner’s heels. From my vantage point not far behind, I could see the two of them running up a path into the hills, Abner fast for his age and size but no match for the Gazelle. Asahel swerved neither to right nor left, not stopping to engage any other fighter, but just headed straight for Abner. I saw Abner turn and call out, “Is it you, Asahel?”

  And he answered, “Yes, it is Asahel who pursues you.”

  Abner called out again, “Turn aside to right or left, tackle one of the young men and win his belt for yourself!” But Asahel would not abandon his quarry. Again, Abner shouted, “Leave off this pursuit! Why should I kill you? How could I look Zeruiah your mother in the face?”

  But Asahel came on and caught up with Abner, on his heels. Seeing this, Abner struck at Asahel with a back-thrust of his spear, a blow that in itself would not have killed him, but then Abner stumbled, and the spear caught on a rock. Asahel fell into it hard, and it pierced his stomach and thrust through to his back; he fell dead in his tracks.

  It was nearing sunset. Abner and his men, joined by a new force of Benjamites, rallied at the top of the hill of Ammah, where he called down to Joab. “Must this slaughter go on forever? Can you not see that it will be all the more bitter in the end? Will you never recall your men from the pursuit of their kinsmen?”

  Joab answered, all of us weary and grief-stricken around him, “As God lives, if you had not spoken, my people would not have given up the pursuit til morning.” And he at last sounded the trumpet; we left off killing our kinsmen, and the fighting ceased.

  * * *

  I put my arms around Nathan’s shoulders, and together we wept for the deaths of our young men, for Asahel, brave and unknowing of the tragedy of his fate, and for the waning hope of an Israel united and at peace.

  Chapter 14

  “Yahweh, more and more are turning against me, rebelling

  against me, more and more are saying about me, ‘There is

  no help for him in his God.’” Psalms 3:1-2

  My father was not pleased. After the shock of seeing the nineteen dead men—Asahel’s body first—carried into the courtyard, and hearing in silence Joab’s explanation of the battle, David turned without a word and retreated to his inner room, his features set in anger. He sent word to his brothers there would be a council the next day, but in the m
eantime, the people were commanded to fast and mourn the young warriors who had died.

  Nathan, too, had withdrawn, from everyone, even me.

  I wandered around the house, lost and weary, waiting for the time the council would begin. The warmth of early spring made itself felt in the tender green of leaves on the trees outside the windows, and the welcome heat of the stones where the sun shone on them. We had been in Hebron now nearly four years, and this unhappy turn of events seemed to presage an even longer stay.

  As I mused on these thoughts, standing in the sunlight in the walled garden, Joab suddenly appeared under the archway. We stood warily, watching each other from a distance of about twenty feet. His black eyes were wild and angry, his face tight with grief. I stood quietly, my head held high. We gazed at each other for a full minute, and then he turned away. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until I was released from the spell of his eyes; then I drew deeply of the spring air. I could not imagine ever being his wife, and at this point, I felt fairly sure it would never happen. But I remembered the prophecy I had proclaimed to my father, that this fateful encounter was a sign of coming grief to his own house, and I knew it was not over yet.

  The council room was quieter than usual, although most of the members were already seated, waiting for my father. I sat in my chair and scanned the faces of the men around the table. Joab was not there, but his brother Abishai was, looking both forlorn and wild. The door to David’s inner room opened, and he and Joab walked out. So, they’d been having a private talk. Nothing could be learned from David’s face; I knew that from long ago, and even Joab looked more mask than living man, with only his eyes giving away the passion banked inside him. A third person then came out of the room, and I almost gasped to see Nathan. His face was weary but calm, as if he had weathered a severe illness that had left him weak but healed.

  Everyone was alert and attentive, waiting for David to take his place and speak.

  “My brothers.” David spoke, as he often did, while walking slowly around the table. “We have come to the crossroads which we have feared, which we have tried to avoid, and could not.” He paused at the place where Asahel had sat only a week ago, where his brother Abishai was now. David placed a hand on Abishai’s shoulder, then moved on. “I will not cease trying to come to terms with Abner, or with Ishbosheth, I should say”—a grim smile here—“but here is my word. As the Lord our God lives, if they come for us, we will meet them.” He paused a moment, looking around at his men. His voice grew harder. “We will not go after them. We will not seek a fight.”

  All were held captive by his words. I could see in their faces, especially the younger men, that many did not like this defensive position. They had been victorious, they had slain more than three hundred of Abner’s men—why should they not pursue the fight to take advantage of the turn of events?

  But David was not asking their opinions this time. I saw the knowledge of this gather in the eyes of his brothers and council members, how they shifted in their seats, glanced at each other with the bare lift of an eyebrow, a slant of their eyes downward and a slight pursing of their lips, as if to say, this is different.

  “Does anyone wish to oppose me?” David threw out the question, and even I was surprised at so imperious a gesture.

  With the question ringing in the air, a voice called out in answer, a strong woman’s voice.

  “I ask the King to avenge the death of my son by the hand of his own father!”

  Zeruiah had entered the council room unseen and unheard. She walked forward swiftly, her eyes blazing, her stance defiant. She looked, I thought, like a woman who had nothing to lose.

  Abishai leapt from his seat to go to his mother’s side, but Joab stayed where he was. His eyes, like everyone else’s, were fixed on the woman as she strode across the room, her hair undone and loose on her shoulders, the gray overcoming the black, and her clothing dark and flecked with ash.

  “I demand vengeance for my son!” She had walked right up to David and stood facing him, nearly as tall as he, and unafraid. David, though clearly moved, maintained silence.

  “It was an accident!” Nathan’s voice split the growing tension, and he stood up to continue speaking. “I was there, Zeruiah; I saw it all. Abner pleaded with your son to swerve from his path of death, to leave off chasing him. The spear, he only thrust it backwards, to wound Asahel, if that, but it caught on a rock, and . . . ” For a moment his voice failed him, the memory too harsh. “And Asahel fell forward onto the spear and was slain.” He looked at Zeruiah and Abishai. “I saw Abner’s face when it happened; he shouted out a mighty curse on his own head, and his men had to drag him away.”

  In the awful silence of the room, the lilting song of a sparrow lit up the air, and a sunbeam parted the clouds and shone into the room, but I think I was the only one who noticed. How life goes on, unheeding the dramas of men and women!

  Zeruiah pulled herself up proudly. “I do not believe you.”

  “Believe him,” David spoke at last. “He is the King’s priest, and he does not lie.”

  With a look that would have devastated a lesser man, Zeruiah turned from my father and left the room as swiftly as she had come. Abishai, with a backward glance at David, from whom he received a gracious nod, ran after her. David glanced at Joab, but he was sitting like a stone statue, his eyes blank and staring, and he did not stir.

  * * *

  Late that night, my father sent for me to come to his room and play my harp with him. I think he found it soothing to concentrate on making music, just the two of us, joined together in a harmony he had not been able to reach for a long time. But after a while, he began to sing, a low lament, and I left off playing to listen to him go where I could not follow. I kept the words in my heart, and when I went back to my own room as day was breaking, I wrote it down as best I could.

  David’s Song of Sorrow

  Chapter 15

  “David then sent messengers to Ishbaal son of Saul. ‘Give

  me back my wife Michal whom I won with a hundred

  foreskins of the Philistines.’” 2 Samuel 3:14

  By the middle of summer, there was constant fighting. We would get word of a raid on a village to the north of us, then one to the south, sending our men scurrying from place to place. Often they met the men of Israel on the road back from a foray, and there would be a battle on the instant, but David’s men would always prevail. Still, David would not allow his army to march on Abner and his men; they could only defend and pursue, not attack.

  One day a messenger came for my father, not an unusual occurrence; in fact, I was rarely aware when it happened, but I had just walked by a window and saw the lone horseman as his steed galloped into the courtyard. He nearly leaped from the saddle in his haste to enter the house. A short time later, a servant came to the room where I practiced my music, and asked me politely if Nathan were there. He’d left some time before, leaving me alone with my songs and my music—something he had been doing frequently, ever since that day he came home and told me of Asahel’s tragic death. There was a wide gulf between us now, and I did not know why.

  I told the servant I didn’t know where Nathan was.

  “Pardon, my lady,” he said. “Then I am to ask you to come.”

  “Come where?” I said, though I knew he was David’s servant, a clear-eyed, lovely lad named Ithream, with tousled curls and a light step. I liked to tease him, as he blushed easily, making him even prettier.

  “To m-my Lord the King,” he said, the flush on his cheeks rising as he stuttered slightly.

  I took pity on him, and put my harp aside. “I will come immediately.”

  I walked back with him, asking him idle questions about his family and such, which he answered readily in a soft, clear voice. Suddenly I felt older than I had ever noticed before—I was nearly seventeen—and something about the young boy made me feel protective toward him. All at once I felt a rush of longing to hold a child in my arms, a child of my own.


  Ithream opened the door to my father’s council room and closed it behind me as I entered, then he took up his place sitting on a low stool in a corner of the room, his eyes ever on his king, should he need him.

  David sat at his great worktable, which was, for a rare change, bare of gifts and scrolls. His usual scribe, a lean and silent man who often reminded me of my dear friend Didymos, the scribe in Ziklag, was absent. My father, I knew, did not read; most great men did not, that’s what scribes were for, but he held in his hand a rolled and sealed scroll. I walked up to him, kissed his cheek, since no one else was in the room but Ithream, and he took my hand and bade me sit.

  “Here is a message from Abner,” he said. “Can you read it?”

  My heart was beating wildly; how did he know I could read? A moment’s clear thought, however, and a look at my father’s amused face, told me what I should have known: nothing happened in his household, or his kingdom, without his knowledge. And yet, he did not forbid it! Trying to keep my elation under control, I nodded, and he cut through the seal with a small knife, unrolled the scroll, and handed it to me.

  It was short and to the point.

  “To David, King of Judah,” I read aloud. “Let us come to terms, and I will do all I can to bring the whole of Israel over to you. Signed, Abner, Captain of Israel.”

  I looked up at my father in wonder. “What can have brought him to make such an offer? Can you trust him?” I spoke as I thought, not thinking whether it was my place or not.

  My father didn’t smile and dismiss my questions, as he might have done.