Warrior Poet (15 page)

“Had it not been for these two, I would not have survived,” the prince continued. David kept reviewing the lyrics as Jonathan described their encounter, overly dramatizing it for the sake of the audience. They hooted and laughed as he described the rock—“bigger than my fist”—that knocked him off his horse. David barely heard. Along his left thigh, his fingers were working out the chords of the second song.

“So when I thought about the songs I’d heard,” the prince was concluding, “I knew they were a gift, a blessing. And I knew they needed to be shared with all who fought on this brave day.” He looked down as his voice caught. “And in honor of Asa, who not only carried my armor but also was a good friend.”

When the cheering died down, Jonathan spoke to Sisha, who had the servants take the chairs off the platform and arrange them in a row facing the dais. The soldiers crowded forward, gathering in a large mass behind the line of chairs. When the prince had sat down next to Michal, he nodded at one of Michal’s servant girls. She came up to David, holding the kinnor bag as carefully as if it were the prince’s baby boy. Jonathan gave David a wink.

While the audience readied itself, David took Jahra’s crutch, laid it on the dais, and helped his friend sit on the edge of the platform. When Jahra was ready, David handed him the ornate harp, took the lyre out of the bag, and sat next to him. They ran their fingers over their instruments. Both were in perfect tune.

David leaned over to whisper some instructions to Jahra. He would sing, and Jahra would play; when David felt more confident, he would begin accompanying his friend on the kinnor. When their shoulders touched, he was startled by how warm Jahra’s skin felt. Jahra’s eyes were bloodshot and shone with the heat radiating through his body, but their calm mantled David with confidence.

Keeping his attention on the soldiers behind the row of seated dignitaries, David uttered a desperate prayer for help. He had decided that it would not be wise to look any lower lest he make eye contact with Michal and discover that his mind had gone blank.

“This is the song that came to us the evening of our enemy’s defeat,” he said while Jahra picked a few meditative notes. “I am no musician, nor really much of a singer. My friend Jahra is the one with the talent. He came up with the music.” He licked his dry lips, trying to smile. “So, if it were not for the prince, I would never be doing this.” He smiled nervously as the crowd laughed with appreciation.

“Well, here it is.”

Jahra began strumming the chords of joy and triumph. David grew still and let the words come. His husky voice was soft but grew louder as the intensity of the music overcame him.

Sing Yahweh a new song

for He has performed marvels,

His own right hand, His holy arm

Gives Him power to save.
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As he sang, again he could hear the percussion throbbing, the pipes and flutes flying high and free, complemented by trumpets and the blast of horns. There was the clashing of cymbal-swords, the crying out of stringed and woody voices. There was also a solemn, droning bass that shook his insides. The only thing he could compare it to was the deep, sustained note of a massive shofar.

Somewhere in the middle of the song, he realized that he was not only singing but accompanying Jahra on his instrument as well. He did not want to think about what he was doing. He let the music sweep him away. He had no clear consciousness of the words; they simply came. He could not hear them, and yet he could hear all of them. It was somehow him and yet not him. It was as if he were the instrument.

He felt himself floating and could see Jahra bent over his instrument, sweat dripping off his forehead. And for the rest of David’s life, every time he would recall that moment, he would swear there was light dancing around his friend, a glowing that resembled wings—and a solitary flame over his head.

The song ended joyfully with the words of the refrain.

Sing to Yahweh,

sing to the music of harps,

and to the sound of many instruments.
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When the last notes danced away into the night, the crowd made no sound. David glanced apprehensively at his friend. Jahra shrugged. David noticed the plectrum lying on the rough slats, picked it up, and plucked the strings of the kinnor. The sound seemed to jump out of his instrument, piercing the crisp night air. David strummed more cautiously, trying to recall the notes of the song he had played in the glen. His fingers felt clumsy, and the plectrum added some difficulty, but it suited the simple melody perfectly.

Jahra joined in, his harp following David’s melody in a lower register. After a stanza, David began to sing. His first line was identical to the one he had composed in the quiet glen:

Yahweh, let my words come to Your ears,

spare a thought for my sighs.

Listen to my cry for help,

My King and my God!

I sing this prayer to You, Yahweh.
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Before he could begin the second phrase, new, fresh ideas surged into him. There was a moment of exquisite tension when he felt himself stepping onto a rope stretched taut over a deep canyon. He swallowed hard, and at that moment Jahra hit a chord that was strange and discordant—and then modulated it, beginning a new melody line that was powerful yet foreboding. The lyrics that flowed from David fit perfectly.

Why this uproar among the nations?

Why this impotent muttering of pagans—

kings on earth rising in revolt,

princes plotting against Yahweh and His chosen one:

“Now let us break their fetters!

Now let us throw off their yoke!”
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The song was pouring out of him like winter’s wine.

The One whose throne is in heaven sits laughing,

Yahweh derides them.

Then angrily addresses them,

in a rage He strikes them with panic.
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At this, the soldiers howled with pleasure.

Jahra’s hands began beating out a rhythm. It was the premonition of thunder. David heard that familiar drumming of a thousand feet, dancers stamping in concert, and sang out:

You hack all my enemies to the cheekbone,

You break the teeth of the wicked.

From Yahweh, rescue.

On Your people, blessing!

Rise, Yahweh!

Save me, my God!

Rise, Yahweh!

Save me, my God!

Earthly rulers, be warned:

serve Yahweh, fear Him.

Tremble and kiss His feet,

or He will be angry and you will perish,

for His anger is very quick to blaze.

Happy all who take shelter in Him!

Happy all who take shelter in Him!
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The last phrases were louder than the ones preceding them. By the final one, David was almost shouting.

Happy are all who take shelter in Him!

The soldiers were jumping, thrusting their arms in the air. The commanders in the front row had joined them, pounding their hands together. Jonathan was standing with his arms upraised. King Saul sat with his head in his hands. Michal stood staring up at David, frozen, tears pouring down her cheeks.

Chapter Seventeen

The acclaim was gratifying and confusing. While a part of David enjoyed it, another part felt ashamed—as if he were being praised for someone else’s triumph. The longer it lasted, the more uncomfortable he became. Suddenly, all he wanted was to disappear among the men and be forgotten.

He was halfway to his feet when he heard something that made him freeze. Jahra had strummed an emphatic introduction on his harp, and everyone sat down as if on command. The soldiers were drawing their cloaks around themselves as the evening grew cooler.

A few simple notes followed, these more quiet and thoughtful. It sounded like Jahra was strumming a lullaby—a song that a mother might play to soothe a restless child. David closed his eyes as he let the notes carry him away.

His eyes flew open when he heard his friend begin to sing. And the words were the same ones David had heard as the ravenous bear charged up the hill toward them.

“Adonai ro-i, lo ira ra.”

The Lord is my shepherd; no evil shall I fear.

He was sure he had not spoken them aloud.
Did Jahra hear them as well?

Jahra repeated the lyrical phrase several times, his unused voice awkward yet quickly becoming more resonant, its roughness an interesting contrast to the tender tune. His body swayed with the rhythm. Not content with the introductory rhyme, he began again.

“Adonai ro-i,
lo-ehsar.”

Yahweh is my shepherd; I lack nothing.
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His confidence increasing with each word, Jahra sang out a child’s song of comfort and confidence. Stillness blanketed the encampment. Crackling fires lent support to the words of a song that was causing more than one man to wipe his cheeks.

“
Bin-ot desheh yarbitzayni.”

In meadows of green grass He lets me lie.

“Al may m’nuchot y’nahalayni.”

To the waters of repose He leads me.

“Nafshi y’shovayv.”

There He revives my soul.
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Jahra ran a pensive hand over the fourteen strings, waiting for the next phrase to come. In the quiet interlude, David felt the song bubble out:

“Yanchayni v’ma-g’lay tzedek
…”

He guides me by paths of virtue …

“… l’ma-an sh’mo.”

… for the sake of His name.
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Without missing a beat, Jahra continued the thought:

“Gam ki aylaych b’gay tzalmaves …”

Though I pass through the valley of death …

“…lo ira ra ki atah imadi.”

… I fear no harm, for You are beside me.

“Shivt’cha umish-antecha, haymah y’nachamuni.”

Your rod and staff are there to hearten me.
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Jahra’s pace was slowing. He was taking longer pauses between words, as if he were running out of breath. David did not want to look at his friend, afraid he might lose his composure. Unexpectedly, he felt tears stinging his eyes.

Jahra grew quiet, still strumming. David realized that his friend was waiting for him. A few measures, and the next stanza took shape. He sang, dredging hope from the depths of his own experience.

“Ta-aroch l’fanai shulchan …”

You prepare a table before me …

“… neged tzor’roy.”

… under the eyes of my enemies.
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As soon as David finished, Jahra inserted another phrase.

“Dishantah vashemen roshi.”

You anoint my head with oil.

“Kosi r’vayah.”

My cup brims over.
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David’s stomach clenched at the words.
Is Jahra singing about what Samuel did in the stable? But how would he know?
Without moving his head, out of the corner of his eye David could see Saul’s head bowed and his chest moving rhythmically. He let out a sigh of relief. Mercifully, the king seemed to have been overtaken by the wine.

Jahra’s notes were growing so faint, David was forced to glance toward his friend. He choked down a cry of dismay. Jahra’s face was the color of slate and covered with a sheen of sweat. The look in his eyes was that of someone seeing far off into the distance.

Before David could say anything, Jahra’s gaze cleared; he took in a deep breath and began to sing again. This time, his mouth and tongue no longer seemed to be cooperating. The words were labored, but his friend was determined to finish the haunting song. His voice was raw, but the words were so lovely, they made David’s chest ache with longing.

“Ach tov vachesed yird’funi …”

Ah, how goodness and kindness pursue me …

“… kol y’may chayoy.”

… every day of my life.

“v’shavti b’vayt Adonai…”

My home, the house of Yahweh …

“… l’orecha yamim.”

… as long as I live.

“L’orecha … yamim.”

As … long … as … I … live.
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Jahra pushed out the last five words, repeating them with what sounded like defiance. David squeezed his eyes shut against the tears forcing their way out. The last note was trembling in the air when he heard a discordant twang and a thud. He twisted in time to grab his friend and keep him from sliding off the platform.

Jonathan was the first to move. He ran to David, pulling the inert body from his arms. “Adriel, stay with Michal!” he ordered. “And, Ahimelech, bring Eleazar with you. Now!”

Disoriented, David clambered off the dais and ran after the prince, who was heading to the large tent that housed the ark. The guards pulled the flap back, revealing a room that had been converted into the prince’s bedchamber. Jonathan laid Jahra on his mat as carefully as if he had been his own child. Light was coming from oil lamps on tables flanking the entrance. Through the partition in front of them, David saw a flickering light. Behind it he could make out a lit sconce and prisms of light reflecting off a metallic surface at the far end.

Jahra’s face and chest were drenched with sweat. His mouth was slightly open and his lips were slack, but his chest was moving. From behind David came the sound of approaching feet.

“Hurry!” Jonathan shouted. “There is not much time.”

Ahimelech, Saul’s physician, entered holding on to the arm of the wiry man with the purple headdress. He reminded David of a falcon with his sharp nose and sparkling dark eyes. His tunic and headdress were the same color as the curtain that divided the tent. Ahimelech leaned heavily on him as he knelt beside Jahra.

“Eleazar, bring water and a cup,” the physician said, feeling his patient’s forehead, throat, and wrist. Shaking his head, he lifted one of Jahra’s eyelids. Clucking his tongue softly, he took the bowl and from a bag in his tunic shook powder into the water, stirring it with his finger. Holding Jahra’s head in the crook of his arm, he pried the boy’s lips open further and dribbled the liquid into his mouth.

“Drink. Drink,” he murmured, massaging the boy’s throat.

After a few moments, Jahra coughed, but his eyes remained shut.

“We need to take a look at his leg,” Ahimelech said, unwrapping the bandage.

David’s stomach lurched when he saw the distended flesh. The right ankle was more than twice its normal size, and the swelling had streaks of yellow and purple extending to his knee. Just looking at it made David want to groan.

Eleazar pointed at the ugly red scar visible on Jahra’s upper thigh. “Did an animal do this?”

David nodded numbly. “A bear.”

Eleazar adjusted his turban, squinted his eyes, and bent down to look more carefully at the old wound. He traced a line down from it to the swollen angle, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

Ahimelech forced a few more mouthfuls of the liquid into his patient, then placed a piece of wood between Jahra’s teeth. “He can bite down on it if he wakes,” he explained to Eleazar, who had taken off his headdress so he could observe more carefully.

From another bag, the physician pulled out some white cloths and placed them in the bowl. He then drew a silver knife from its sheath. It was no wider than David’s forefinger and looked razor sharp. “You may wish to move away a few paces,” Ahimelech told the prince. “Sometimes the flow can be rather strong.” Not knowing what to expect, Jonathan and David took a quick step back.

“Eleazar, you hold the cloth above my knife.” The guardian of the ark knelt beside him, pushing his hair behind his ears so as not to obscure his vision. He was peering intently at the blade, his eyes wide. With careful precision, Ahimelech set its tip at an angle in the middle of the swollen ankle, then with the palm of his other hand drove it deep into the flesh. Jahra screamed around the piece of wood as a yellowish-red fluid spurted from the wound, drenching the cloth held over it. There was a foul odor, and David felt his knees grow weak. His ears buzzed, and all went black.

A slap on the cheek awakened him.

“Here, drink this,” Jonathan ordered, putting a cup to his lips. It smelled of wine and pepper. The liquid burned his throat and took his breath away. A warm glow spread through his body. Before he could speak, he heard Jahra groaning nearby.

“He’s much better,” the prince whispered.

David pulled himself into a sitting position and slid next to his friend. Ahimelech was standing by Jahra’s side. Jahra’s eyes were open, and his color had improved significantly.

“He is greatly improved,” the physician said. “But what he most needs is sleep.” Then he turned toward Jonathan, who was sitting in a chair behind him. “My prince, the king said that when we were done, you were to join the senior staff.” Ahimelech was fingering his tunic nervously. “He said you were needed to help plan tomorrow’s strategy.”

Jonathan looked at him sharply, then turned to David. “Jahra can sleep here tonight. Stay with him. My servants will bring another mat.” He pointed at one of the tables next to the entrance. “There is food and drink if either of you want some.”

As the priest started to exit the tent, Jonathan snapped his fingers to halt him. “Ahimelech, give David the bag; Jahra may need more.” The priest handed the bag of powder to Eleazar, who stumbled in his hurry to bring it to David.

“Five pinches of medicine is all he will need,” he said, handing it to David. Then he whispered, “I wanted to thank you for your songs this evening.” He stared through the translucent curtain at the light on the other side. “Prince Jonathan is right. The Spirit of the Lord sings through you.” His eyes were red when they met David’s. “I have longed for something like it my whole life.”

Before he could explain, Jonathan barked, “Come! Let him rest!” Eleazar nodded apologetically and followed the prince out.

When the flap closed, there was no sound in the tent except for the sound of Jahra’s slow, shallow breaths. The medicine he’d swallowed had taken effect. Reaching for the bowl and not seeing a rag, David yanked off his striped belt, thrust it into the water, and began mopping Jahra’s forehead. During the lonely nights on the Judean hillside, David had composed various prayers. He had repeated them to himself so many times he’d memorized them. He now prayed one of his favorites.

Yahweh, hear my voice as I cry!

Pity me! Answer me!

My heart has said of You,

“Seek His face.”

Yahweh, I do seek Your face;

do not hide Your face from me.
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Usually, this prayer was for his own needs; tonight he was including Jahra.

Do not repulse Your servants in anger;

you are our help.

Never leave us, never desert us,

God, our Savior!

If our father and mother desert us,

Yahweh, You will care for us still.
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He looked up at the shimmering glow visible through the azure sheet in front of him. He knelt facing the ark and assumed the posture of surrender: arms upraised, hands open, palms out. His throat thickened, and he was barely able to get out words he had never prayed before.

Hear my voice, which I raise in petition, as I cry to You for help,

as I raise my hands, Yahweh, toward Your Holy of Holies.
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He was quiet for several long moments. He heard the tent flap open and the sound of a servant unrolling a mat behind him. Jahra stirred and let out a whimper that turned into a sigh. The flap closed quietly as the servant left. There was quiet, and then another sigh escaped from Jahra. David turned to look at his friend. Jahra’s eyes were open and locked on his. They were wide and clear. The lines on his face were gone. His pain seemed to have evaporated.

David’s heart leaped, and grateful words burst from him as he bowed his head toward the ark.

I bless You, Yahweh, for You have heard my petition.