Warrior Poet (10 page)

A surge of power raced up his back and through his chest and arms. He knew his mouth was open and that he was in full warrior cry, but he did not hear a sound. One swing, and a bald head was nearly sliced off a body; another, and a thick arm was severed. One more, but this time a shock of pain raced up his arm. His hand felt as if it had been broken. The blade had bounced back in his hands, having struck a bronze helmet on the head of a mercenary with a braided beard. An arrow from Asa’s bow took that soldier down as he was readying to launch his axe.

Hearing Asa’s cry and sensing an attack from behind, Jonathan spun to his right, ducked as a mace sliced past him, and twisted to drive his sword into the chest of a tall warrior swinging a sword. Another arrow found its mark in the shoulder of a Philistine aiming a bow at him. A second arrow brought that soldier to his knees. The last two soldiers had seen enough and were running toward the crevice that led to the main encampment at Michmash.

Jonathan pulled a javelin out of the hand of a dead Philistine and launched it into the air. It flew in a deadly arc, penetrating the lower back of the farthest runner. No arrow struck the second Philistine, who threw himself down, tumbling out of sight. Jonathan turned to see why Asa had failed to bring down the last soldier.

Several things registered at once: Asa on his knees, his head and body bowed, a javelin through his chest keeping him from falling on his face; his empty quiver; and the Philistine with the girl’s face coming toward him, swinging a war club, blood streaming from his nose, an arrow in his neck. Jonathan did not have time even to raise his arm, nor did he feel the blow that plunged him into the dark.

Chapter Eleven

When the fleeing soldier reported the decimation of the outpost, an uproar ensued. It was shameful to hear about two Israelites defeating a squad of soldiers, but what struck widespread terror was Jonathan’s war cry. The Canaanites were accustomed to the traditional “
Rak Chazak!
” which the Hebrews had used for generations. That was an exhortation to bravery, but Jonathan had been screaming something terrible: “
Yahweh Sabaoth Immanuel!
The Lord of heavenly hosts is with us!” And it turned their bowels to water.

The mercenaries from Egypt and Amalek were the first to panic. The significance of the phrase struck them with the ferocity of a sandstorm. Their eyes grew large, and they began to shriek as if stung by scorpions. In their haste, most forgot to grab their gear. Their terror quickly spread to the Philistine troops. Screaming, they threw themselves onto their chariots, most without buckling themselves in, and raced down the southern road toward Aijalon and the Philistine territory.

The unmistakable sounds of a routed army could easily be heard by the Israelites camped nearby. Saul immediately ordered General Abner, Saul’s second-in-command, to order a pursuit of the fleeing enemy. There were to be no captives; all stragglers were to be put to the sword. Ecstatic at the chance to finally join combat, the six hundred Hebrew soldiers raced to engage their dispirited opponents.

It was the thunder of a thousand chariots rushing to escape the wrath of Israel’s God, with ten times that number of soldiers on foot, that drove David and Jahra into the thickets.

David lost count of the number of two-wheeled vehicles that raced past him and Jahra. The horses’ sides ran with bloody sweat as the terrified drivers flayed them. Many chariots flipped over on the curve heading west toward Philistia. The soldiers who were not strapped in were flung into the air and lay moaning on the rocks that had shattered their bodies. Those who had fastened their harnesses were crushed under the weight of the rolling chariots.

As the numbers increased, the road became choked with men crying out in terror. The congestion was worse at the curve, where overturned chariots created a bottleneck. Hundreds made their way past by jumping over shrubs and rocks bordering the road. But the majority were struggling insanely, trying to force their way through.

David had to battle an irrational impulse to join the shrieking men running into the hills. His only recourse was to bite down hard and press his fists over his ears to deaden the noise that pulled at him. But this was not enough to drown out a high-pitched cry that sliced through the babble of voices like an axe. It raised goose bumps on the back of his neck. He peered through the dead fronds and saw the roiling mass of competing bodies contract and expand like a living organism. Then suddenly came the glitter of raised weapons. Knives and spears were raining down death. Archers grabbed arrows from their quivers and drove them into the faces of those swinging swords at them. Many fell dead, stabbed from behind, clutching the neck of the soldier they had just battered to death.

Then, as if responding to a signal, the writhing mass fragmented. Small groups of soldiers broke free and veered off the road. The massacre had taken only a few minutes, and just as fast, the mob dispersed. Eventually the screams died down, and the quiet was broken only by the occasional oath of a runner sliding away into the hills.

It had taken all of David’s strength to restrain himself from rushing into the orgy of killing. It was horrible yet somehow irresistible. When he was sure that the enemies had fled, he sat up. Jahra seemed unwilling to get up. David was pulling branches off his friend’s inert form when loud cries interrupted him. The soldiers were heading in their direction.

Jahra let out a groan.

David’s terror lessened when he realized that a squad of Hebrews was approaching. He wanted to jump to his feet, wave his arms, and race toward the men. But some part of him resisted. And his right arm was snagged on something. Looking down, he saw Jahra’s hand on his wrist. David let himself be pulled back down. He felt the cool dirt on his face again as Jahra quickly covered his back with palm leaves.

The oncoming men were gripped by their own kind of insanity. Some were shrieking and brandishing Philistine weapons. Their faces bore the dangerous expression of famished beasts. Jahra’s grip tightened and his eyes burned into David’s. They were wild with apprehension.

“There’s one!” the fleetest of foot shouted hoarsely, running toward the site of the massacre. David sucked in his breath. “And there’s another!” the man cried. He jumped over a chariot, its driver twisted grotesquely underneath, and kicked at a stack of bodies. Swinging his sword over his head, he screamed, “Let’s have some sport!” The response was a gleeful roar.

A band of at least thirty Hebrews flew past their hideout. Several clusters peeled away, slowing only to thrust their weapons into the bodies in their path. “We’ll teach these filthy dogs a lesson!” yelled the soldier in the lead.

The mob swarmed toward the pile at the curve of the road, howling with anticipation. David sucked in his breath. The men’s giddy excitement both sickened and frightened him. Peering through the foliage, he could make out a huddle of Hebrews hacking with swords. Another group was striking with javelin and spears. They were pummeling, thrusting, and slashing, in the grip of some wild frenzy.

“This one’s alive!” a voice cried out. His excitement made him sound like a girl playing hide-and-seek.

“Move aside!” roared one of the men, pushing past the Israelites in his path. In his hand was a bronze sword stained red to the handle. His face and chest were streaked with blood, as was the border of his tunic.

Shoving the last Hebrew out of the way, he took a position over the wounded Philistine. He spread his legs wide and lifted the weapon above his head. There was a pleading cry, rising with intensity, then silence as the sword slashed down. The mob screamed in delight as their leader brought up the head, swinging it around. Those splattered with the blood laughed uproariously.

While this was taking place, several soldiers were slicing strips of meat from a fallen horse. The soldier waving the severed head yelled at them, “Men, remember the king’s oath. Whoever eats before evening will be killed.”

“Curse that old woman,” one yelled back. “We’re famished.”

“Why should we bother obeying that crazy fool?” another said, laughing. “Come tomorrow, he’ll forget all about it.”

A third soldier responded, chewing as he spoke. “We need our strength to chase these dogs back to their kennels.” He drew his sleeve across his mouth and lifted a wet slice. “Captain, come join us. The meat is excellent.”

Hesitating for only a moment, the officer strode over and grabbed the meat. “Who ever heard of a king refusing to let his fighting men eat?” he said, taking a mouthful. “Ahhh. That is good.” He smacked his lips and gave them a wink. “The freshest meat we’ve had in weeks.” He looked down at the soldiers gorging themselves on the raw flesh. “Give me another,” he commanded. “But this stays between us, understood? You tell nobody.”

After a while, he wiped his mouth and barked, “You’ve had enough. Let’s find us more Philistines, hopefully some with a bit more fight in them.” Laughing, the men cleaned off their hands on the horse’s hide and began loping toward enemy territory.

David and Jahra did not move for a long while. David’s hands and knees were trembling. He let out several shaky breaths, trying to expel the images from his mind. He heard Jahra let out a shuddering moan of his own. David reached out and patted his friend’s shoulder. Jahra’s eyes were red and watery.

Shaking off his disgust and tired of their inactivity, David whispered, “Let’s make camp. It’s going to be dark soon. I have my doubts that Captain Eli will be coming tonight. And anyway, I need to find a tree so I can do my business.”

His friend gave a weak grin but nodded emphatically.

Dusk had come by the time they cleaned up, organized their campsite, and made a small fire. Only a ribbon of rose remained to light the horizon.

“You hungry?” David asked as he settled in front of the flames, resting his back against a low ledge. Jahra responded by rubbing his stomach.

“Should I go and cut some nice, juicy strips off that horse?” David asked.

Jahra looked at him, aghast. Lifting his hand, he moved his fingers to imitate the prancing legs of a horse. Then he pointed at his fingertips.

“I know. I know.” David laughed. “Don’t get your loincloth tied into a knot. I know perfectly well that they don’t have cloven feet.
I’m
the Hebrew, after all.”

Jahra bent his head slightly, touched his chest, and moved his hand in elegant little circles in front of him, making a sign of exaggerated respect. Then he opened the food bag.

When their meal of goat cheese, pickled olives, and bread was done, David took a long drink from the water bag, laid it down, and leaned on his elbow, facing the fire. “Fresh meat would have been better.”

Jahra, on his back, did not look at him. He simply lifted his hand and pranced his fingers in David’s direction.

“Yes. Unclean. Not to mention raw.” He threw a stone at the reclining figure. “It may surprise you to know that I’m aware of the kosher laws. Still, a nicely roasted flank would have been much more satisfying.”

Jahra shook his head and reached for the leather pouch lying between them. Jahra untied the knot and drew out his harp. David threw a few more sticks onto the fire and lay back against the ledge. Jahra plucked the strings, adjusted the tension, and ran his hand over them. The sound reverberated in their mini amphitheater.

He was composing a new song and began cautiously, feeling his way toward a refrain. Experimenting with different notes, he quickly found a tune he liked. Oddly, despite what they had witnessed, the song was filled with a subdued joy. It was a song to dance to.

David’s legs were drawn up against his chest. Impulsively he grabbed two chunks of wood and began striking them against each other in time with the music. Dissatisfied, he tossed them into the fire. Sparks leaped up into the dark night like a host of twirling fireflies. What was needed was the percussive sound of cymbals. Reaching down, he yanked two of the largest stones out of his pouch. The crisp clacking was perfect. His right hand held steady as with his left he struck the rat-a-tat-tat of a drumbeat that provided a jaunty counterpoint to the song’s martial rhythm.

As he rapped out the beat he began hearing the music of other instruments in his head. There was the trill of a flute, like a darting swallow, and a shofar trumpeting three shattering notes, followed by a group of harps, lyres, and other stringed instruments. There was also a wind instrument with a low, breathy timbre he could not identify.

He did not know at what point he began to sing, but on their own, words began to flow. It was as if another singer had taken over his body and was moving his tongue and mouth. Lyrics poured effortlessly out of him. He sang without giving his vow a thought.

Sing to Yahweh a new song

for He has performed marvels,

His own right hand, His holy arm,

gives Him the power to save.

Yahweh has displayed His power;

has revealed His righteousness to the nations.
12

David grew quiet, listening to the military cadence of a score of drums in unison. There was the thunder of thousands of feet—an army on the march, but in perfect coordination. They drove the song and lyrics forward exultantly.

Sing to Yahweh, sing to the music of harps,

and to the sound of many instruments;

to the sound of trumpet and horn

acclaim Yahweh the King!

Let the sea thunder and all that it holds,

and the world, with all who live in it;

let all the rivers clap their hands

and the mountains shout for joy,

at the presence of Yahweh, for He comes

to judge the earth,

to judge the world with righteousness

and all the nations with strictest justice.

Acclaim Yahweh, all the earth;

burst into shouts of joy!

Acclaim Yahweh, all the earth,

acclaim Yahweh the King!
13

On the last phrase, a clapping sound joined the other instruments he was hearing. Jahra’s fingers froze. It continued, slowly, methodically as if in derision. With a rush of shame that was instantly transformed into terror, David realized that it was coming from the trees behind them.

He jerked around and raised his head to peer over the ledge. Less than thirty paces away, firelight glinted off the bronze of a Philistine helmet and the hilt of a sword. The soldier was huge, easily twice as tall as a normal-sized man. David gasped as if ice water had been poured on his head. They had been ambushed by one of the Gittites! All David knew of them was that they were noted for extraordinary height and were rumored to enjoy human flesh.

As dread tightened its hold on him, David heard a quiet nicker and the swish of a long tail. The Philistine was not a giant after all, but a soldier mounted on a horse so dark as to be nearly invisible in the dim light. Behind the bronze nosepiece, David could just make out a swarthy face. The man must be an African mercenary. According to David’s brothers, they were even more brutal than the Philistines.