Warrior Poet (7 page)

Jesse took a step forward, bowing his head respectfully.

“The Lord has a special message for one of your sons,” Samuel said, evaluating the six young men standing behind their father. “He has not told me which, only that He will reveal him to me at the appropriate time.”

“You have honored me,” Jesse said, giving Samuel an appraising glance and nodding toward the one who was clearly the eldest.

Though not as tall as Saul, he had the hint of authority that Saul at his age had lacked. Samuel felt certain this was God’s anointed. He was about to motion him forward when the Voice stopped him.

Look not to his appearance and to his lofty stature, for I have cast him aside. Man sees with the eyes, but the Lord sees the heart.

Samuel waved him aside.

The son’s expectant smile dimmed. Ginath, who was standing in the corner near the broken door, nodded grimly to himself.

Jesse then presented his second-born, Abinadab, whom he referred to as Nadab. Samuel rejected him also. Jesse’s remaining sons followed according to age. After each one, Samuel’s response was the same: “This one too the Lord has not chosen.” When they had all been examined and rejected, Samuel looked at Jesse in confusion. At Jesse’s expression of embarrassment, Samuel’s jaw tightened.

“Are you sure these are all your sons?” He stared through the man, who was shifting from one foot to another.

Jesse’s consternation increased, and his stoop became more pronounced. He cleared his throat, then with a weak smile said, “There is the youngest. David. I did not think it necessary to take him away from the flocks.” He bowed ingratiatingly. “He is quite … insignificant.”

“Let Adonai decide that,” Samuel growled. “We shall not begin the feast until he has arrived. Where is he?”

“He should be on his way home. I would expect he is somewhere on the other side of that hill.”

Realizing that Jesse’s failure could be used to help maintain the secrecy of his mission, Samuel dismissed Jesse and his six sons.

“Send Hazzok’s servant to fetch him. You may go to the feast, and I will speak with David privately.”

Half an hour later, a silhouette appeared in the doorway.

As Jesse had said, he was young. He had the type of face that made it difficult to guess his age. Samuel put him somewhere between fifteen and twenty. Now it was his turn to be disappointed. David was shorter than any of his brothers. If he stood next to Saul, he would look exactly like what he was—a child.
The Lord must be playing a joke on me
, Samuel thought. As he fought to keep his feelings from registering on his face, the Voice confirmed what he had feared.

Arise; anoint him, for this is the one I have chosen.

He froze. How could this boy replace King Saul? Samuel ran his tongue over his dry lips and looked the teenager over more carefully. Like his father, David had the physique of a runner. And he was astonishingly handsome, with striking green eyes. Though he possessed nothing like the swagger of the eldest, he did have a certain confidence about him. There was a hidden strength there.

Without saying a word, he indicated that David should kneel. He took out the cruse he had not touched for three decades and poured several drops of spiced oil over the young man’s head. The fragrance filled the stuffy room.

“May Yahweh bless you and keep you,” he said, intoning the traditional blessing. “May Yahweh let His face shine upon you and be gracious to you. May Yahweh uncover His face to you and bring you peace.” He poured out a few more drops. He inhaled the luscious scent, then exhaled slowly, creating a space for the Ruah to give him the appropriate words. When he spoke, a heavy stillness settled over the room.

May Yahweh answer you in time of trouble,

may the name of the God of Jacob protect you!

May He grant you your heart’s desire,

and crown all your plans with success;

may we shout with joy for your victory,

And plant our banners in the name of our God!

May Yahweh grant all your petitions!
6

As Samuel’s voice rose and fell in a chant, he saw Ginath’s mouth drop open in amazement. He knew why. There was a presence in the stone shelter that was almost frightening.

Some boast of chariots, some of horses,

but you will boast about the name of Yahweh our God;

their confidence crumples and falls,

But you shall stand, and stand firm!
7

Then, as more oil fell on the young man’s head, Samuel spoke the words he had not wanted to utter but could no longer hold back:

Yahweh, save the king,

Answer him when he calls.

Yahweh, save the king!
8

A slight trembling seized David’s body, and he lifted his hands in the air. His head bent forward as if he was about to slump on his face. Instead, he lifted his head and stared up through the broken-down roof overhead. He was smiling through the tears that trickled down his cheeks.

Samuel reached out his hand, and David closed his eyes as the prophet’s fingers traced a symbol on the shepherd’s forehead.

“
Rae magnu u’bet Elohim Mashiach phni
.”

God our shield, now look on us and be kind to your anointed.
9

At the word
Mashiach
, David’s whole body jerked.

Samuel stepped back and pointed toward the high place. “You are to join us for the feast.” He then placed a forefinger over his bearded lips and gave David a threatening glare. “Make sure you do not speak of this with anyone.”

When Samuel, Ginath, and David arrived, about one hundred men were sitting in small groups on the ground. The eight elders were seated nearest to the stone altar. Their faces were washed, their beards were combed, but their eyes were wary. Hazzok’s face was drawn. Samuel joined them, and David sat nearby next to Ginath.

After the surprisingly brief introduction, Samuel rose and stood next to the altar with the wood and pieces of sacrificial meat on top. “When we arrived in your town, your elders were surprised to know that God had sent me to offer sacrifice here.” Hazzok shifted uncomfortably.

“But my dear friends, appearances are not what matters to God. He chooses the great and the small. Size is of no importance to Him.” His eyes drifted to David as he said these words. The grizzled prophet then drew back his shoulders and leaned forward on his staff, wanting to impress each word upon his listeners. “Let me remind you of the words that Moses the prophet spoke to the army before entering Canaan: ‘If Yahweh set His heart on you and chose you, it was not because you outnumbered other people; you were the least of all peoples. It was for love of you and to keep the oath He swore to your fathers that Yahweh brought you out with His mighty hand and redeemed you from the house of slavery, from the power of Pharaoh, king of Egypt.’”

The elders were beginning to smile, and color had returned to Hazzok’s face. Samuel raised his staff, and his voice boomed. “Let us bless this sacrifice and enjoy this feast in honor of the Almighty, who humbles and exalts.” With uplifted hands, he gave thanks over the sacrifice, then took the torch a servant handed him and set fire to the wood.

When the fire had cooked the meat and the selected pieces had been distributed, Ginath tried to encourage David to eat the thick slice that had been handed to him.

“You take it. I’m afraid I have lost my appetite,” he told Ginath. He was giving him back the meat when Ginath saw a hand descend on the boy’s shoulder. It was one of David’s brothers, the one called Nadab. There was a stiff smile on his lips.

“Brother, I’m sorry to have to bother you, but Father says it is time to bring back the sheep.” David looked up at his brother with an expression of confusion. Nadab reached down and pulled him to his feet. David gave him one more glance and trotted down the hill.

When David had gone, Nadab crouched next to Ginath. “He is an unusual boy, isn’t he? You can’t imagine how proud our father is of him.” His smile slid just a bit. “But, poor old man, he wanted to have a private family celebration.” Nadab’s head drooped sadly. “He wished to know the prophet’s message so we could rejoice properly.” He drew closer to Ginath, touching the cloth of his tunic conspiratorially. “David is such a humble lad,” he whispered. “He would never tell us. But it would make our old father so happy.”

Ginath was confused. His master had told him to keep the anointing secret to prevent King Saul from finding out. However, it certainly could not apply to David’s family, especially one that cared for him so much. This would certainly not put Samuel in danger. And it was such a pleasure to share good news.

He looked around carefully, and then, lowering his voice so Nadab had to bend to hear him, he said, “Don’t let anyone outside the family know.” He was just about to divulge everything when he recalled the forefinger over Samuel’s lips and that terrible glare. The image froze his tongue. He swallowed deeply, then added lamely, “David is to be a leader in Saul’s army.”

Nadab’s hand was gripping Ginath’s tunic as if he were about to rip it off his body. Startled, Ginath gave him an anxious look. He thought he detected anger in the man’s face. With a curt nod, Nadab stood and rushed off without saying another word. Ginath watched him leave, relieved that he’d managed to protect his master’s secret.

Chapter Eight

It had been over a week since Samuel’s prayer in the stable, and nothing had changed. Lydea had treated her son’s wound and forbidden him to go on long walks until the gash closed. Each morning David led the sheep out, and each night he brought them home.

There was only one noticeable difference other than that David was once again being left to care for the sheep alone: his father’s attitude toward him. Frequently he would find Jesse staring at him with an unusual intensity. It made him feel awkward—ashamed somehow, as if he’d been disloyal. It could not be due to what Samuel had prayed over him since he had not mentioned it to anyone.

Even if he had wanted to, he did not know what he would say about that strange incident in the stable. One week had passed, and he still felt stunned by it. Although the encounter with Samuel was beginning to feel like a dream, David had noticed some kind of internal change. It was a sensation of warmth and sweetness, as though a pot of honey had spilled and drenched him. Lydea had once described what it felt like when she met her husband and knew she wanted to be his wife. This feeling reminded him of that, except it had nothing to do with a girl.

It was a type of hunger. He wanted to be near God, and at the same time he seemed to feel His presence more tangibly than he ever had before. When he was alone, he found himself in conversations with Him, sharing things he had never dared say to anyone.

And then there was the music.

He had always loved the sound of instruments and voices in song, but now he’d begun hearing melodies in his head, along with snatches of phrases. While counting the flocks, he would find himself listening to cadences and rhythms of words, keeping time with the animals passing under his hand. He had even started writing some of the words down on patches of cloth. When away from Bethlehem, he would madly scribble on the ground to keep from forgetting the songs.

Most surprisingly, he had begun taking Jahra’s harp with him when he went out with the sheep. He simply had to find out if he could pluck the melodies that were flowing within him. While he wasn’t as proficient as Jahra, he’d started seeing results after a week of steady practice. This was the only reason he was glad his friend could not accompany him. It was much easier to experiment and stumble over the strings alone. And it was becoming easier each day. Now he looked forward to the long, quiet hours as an opportunity to play the instrument he was learning to love and slowly master.

On the eighth evening, as he walked to Lydea’s house after the flocks were counted and safe in their pens, he heard the sound of an instrument. He had Jahra’s harp in his hand and wondered what his friend was playing. Stopping so he could listen better, he noted its richly textured sound and realized it was Lydea’s fourteen-string harp. He could not remember the last time he had heard it being played.

As he neared the house, something even more inviting joined the sound: an aroma that made his stomach rumble and his mouth water—garlic, onion, and beans sizzling in olive oil. It made his insides ache. He had not eaten since late morning and had not realized till that moment how hungry he was. There was no denying it; he was famished.

This was no ordinary dish. Lydea was preparing one of her specialties—lentil stew. It surprised him since it was usually reserved for special occasions. Whatever the cause, such a dinner demanded that he bring her some sort of gift.

When he pushed back the door, he was holding a small bouquet of bright wildflowers behind his back. Lydea was kneeling over a simmering pot filled with a reddish brown liquid, ladling crushed tomatoes into it. She was humming happily and smiled at him as he walked in. Jahra was on a stool on the other side of the fire pit, playing his mother’s harp. Too large to hold on his lap, it rested on the floor between his legs. Both hands were strumming the instrument in smooth, rhythmic motions.

David stood behind Lydea, peering around her shoulder to get a closer look at the pot. “Yaya”—it was what he always called her when attempting to wheedle some favor out of her—“I can sympathize with Esau.” He bent over and sniffed dramatically. “If Rebecca’s stew was anything like yours, I can see why he was willing to sell his birthright for it.”

She was about to jab at him with her spoon when he pulled out the flowers. Her expression softened, but she did not lower her weapon. “Put them in that jar,” she said, pointing at a clay vessel on the shelf behind her. “And don’t think I will let you taste it. You wait patiently like Jahra.”

He unslung the bag holding Jahra’s harp, laid it on his sleeping mat, then walked over to the shelf to place the bouquet in the crude, hand-painted vase. He went over to the water pot, filled it with water, and set the vase on the table in the center of the room.

He sat down on the floor next to his friend, who cocked a knowing eyebrow in his direction but kept playing. His instrument had seven double strings strung on a traditional frame a cubit and a half long. Its top was nearly twice as long as its base and was a full handbreadth taller than the harp David had been practicing on. The tune Jahra was playing was new yet oddly familiar, and though it was melancholy, Lydea was smiling as she hummed.

At the end of the stanza, Jahra stopped and was about to set the harp down when David waved him on. “Keep playing,” he said, ruffling his hair. “It’s nicer than the sound of bleating sheep and goats I’ve had to listen to all day—though just barely.” Lydea clucked her tongue reproachfully and waved her spoon at him with feigned indignation.

Jahra resumed playing. His fingers were light and fluid and confident. David envied them
. In time
, he told himself.
In time
.

“Don’t make fun. This is my most favorite song,” Lydea said, her eyes closed and her voice lilting, as if her words were part of the song. “I tell you this, young, clever man: if you ruin it, you will get no stew.”

Jahra kept playing but taunted David by crossing his eyes at him and blowing out his cheeks.

“I don’t know how I put you two up,” Lydea huffed impatiently. “I mean, put up with you two.” David walked over to her and kissed the top of her head as she bent to put more wood on the fire.

“Because you are our favorite woman in the world, and your singing melts our hearts,” he cooed.

“Bah!” she said, pushing him away. “Try your fancy talk on the innocent girls with not much experience with pretty boys and their smooth tongues. Now you sit down,” she ordered, “and let me finish the cooking.” She walked to the table and began chopping potatoes and carrots.

David sat on the floor next to Jahra’s stool. His back was resting against the warm wall next to the fire pit. Lydea began to hum again, and Jahra joined her in a much lower register. Some songs had this odd effect on his mute friend. Jahra’s voice was husky, a perfect counterpoint to Lydea’s and to the crisp clarity of the strings.

David listened with eyes closed. The song brought to mind impossibly lovely girls with long dark hair and thick lashes. Slowly these images faded, replaced by a graceful beauty—elegant neck with proud, erect posture. She moved like a dancer. She swayed toward him, then began to turn away. Something in the slant of her shoulders and the angle of her body made him want to reach out and stop her. There was an ache in his chest.

He tried to grasp her arm, which she held out from her body, but he could not move. As she lowered her arm, she pierced him with sorrowful green eyes filled with tears. They were the color of the emeralds on the high priest’s ephod. The girl lifted a slim hand in a motion of dismissal or farewell. His throat tightened, and his chest burned as she moved away.

The tang of ground lemon peel brought David back. Lydea was bent over the table, finalizing the component of the recipe on which, according to her, the entire dish depended. Her back was to him, so she did not notice David quickly wipe moisture from his face.

“Can I help with the lemons?” he finally managed to say over the lump in his throat.

She lowered her head and nodded, making room for him at the table.

Gratefully, he stood next to her, cutting the yellow fruit into even sections and squeezing the juice into the grated rind. Taking the bowl from his hands, Lydea let her fingers rest on David’s for a moment. But she said nothing. She broke pieces of dark spinach leaves into the bowl, sprinkling in salt, pepper, and some spices, and poured it all into the simmering pot.

Jahra’s music had not so much ended as petered out. He stood the harp on the floor next to the wall and dragged his stool toward them.

“Go get the cheese,” Lydea told Jahra. “Also the bowls. And you,” she said to David, “wash the lemon from your hands and sit.” While he cleaned his hands, Jahra placed three clay dishes on the table along with a small plate with goat cheese. David uncovered a larger platter with flat loaves of bread, positioned it in the center next to the vase, and sat down.

When Jahra drew up to the table across from him, he made a point of jiggling it, as if testing to see if it was about to collapse. Briefly forgetting his friend’s injury, David aimed a kick at his shin. But Jahra had slid his legs to the side. Lydea’s eyes flashed, and the boys turned into statues as she spooned out the reddish stew with its small round beans, bits of bright orange and red, and tendrils of green. They reached for the cheese at the same time. Usually, David would have made a point of grabbing it away, but this time he let Jahra take it and crumble pieces into his bowl. It was the cheese that turned the delicious concoction into something unforgettable.

Jahra was making a production out of the whole process, putting the bowl up to his face to breathe in the aroma, then crumbling the cheese into miniscule grains, as if he were portioning gold dust into his dish. David could barely restrain himself from pulling the white chunk out of his friend’s hands. He pursed his lips impatiently, but when he noticed the corners of Jahra’s mouth twitch, he lunged and tugged the cheese from his fingers.

“David!” Lydea scolded. “I think maybe you were born in a cave and grew up with wolves!”

David was too busy breaking small pieces of cheese into his bowl to answer. When he lifted his spoon to his mouth, Lydea interrupted him. “David!” she said in a shocked voice. “The prayer of blessing!”

He dropped his hand, letting the spoon rest on the edge of the bowl. Without looking at Jahra, who had nudged him with his good foot, David let out a breath and gave thanks. “Blessed are You, God, O Lord God of the universe, who brings forth the bread from the earth and who creates the fruit of the ground. Amen.”

Both boys picked up their spoons, which were dripping with cream-colored strands, and shoved them into their mouths. “Ahhh,” David sighed, savoring the stew. There was no further conversation until they had emptied their bowls. “Mama Lydea,” David groaned, “nothing can compare with this. Now I will have to kill myself—but only after another serving.”

Jahra also let out a moan, which sounded more like a growl, his face a parody of David’s. He swayed in his seat, his palm on his forehead as if he were ready to faint.

“You boys!” Lydea said, filling their bowls again. “I think I am with two crazy people.” They looked up at her, trying to appear chagrined, and began shoveling the food into their mouths.

When David finished, he wiped his bowl with a piece of flatbread and leaned back on his bench, his head resting against the wall. “Thank you, Yaya. That was the best stew I’ve ever eaten.”

Jahra sniffed.

This is what David always said, and he always meant it. Lydea nodded curtly. “If you do not mind your manners, maybe you will not have more.” She stood up to take the bowls to the large bowl she used to clean dishes. “And do not be leaning on the bench. You will make the legs bad.”

When the plates were cleaned, David leaned over, resting his elbows on the table. “Mama Lydea?” He had been holding the question in for what felt like an age. She was folding the cloth she had used to wipe the table. Lydea stopped, and her fingers froze.

“Did my mother have green eyes?”

Jahra pulled his bench away from the table and began tuning the strings of Lydea’s harp with unusual concentration. Hunched over the instrument, he seemed to be listening intently as he plucked each string repeatedly, twisting the knobs with exquisite care. Looking at his friend, David wondered for the first time whether Jahra knew more about his birth than he did.

David’s glance shifted back to Lydea. She was staring at the spray of yellow, white, and blue flowers on the table. The rag in her hand was now being twisted into a rope. Her face and eyes were hollow.

“Why can’t you tell me?” he asked.

She did not answer.

“Mama Lydea, you said that someday Father would tell me, but you know that will never happen.” He put his hands over hers. Her fingers continued working the rag, as if disconnected from her. She was fixated on the small bouquet but seemed to be remembering something long past.

“I must know about her,” he said through clenched teeth. His hands closed hard, and the movement grew still. “All I have been told is that she died giving me birth. That’s it, nothing more. And my brothers act as if it were my fault.”

He felt her hand shake.

“Was it?” he whispered, his voice cracking.

It looked as though she were trying to speak but could not. Her eyes brimmed, and David saw her bite her lower lip to keep the tears at bay. One escaped and ran down her lined, brown cheek. She looked up at him and softly uttered one word.

“No.”

Something seemed to melt inside David’s chest. His mouth felt parched. He wished he could stand and get some water, but his legs felt too weak. The last time David had seen Lydea cry was when she had cut the poison out of his arm. That had been almost ten years ago. He waited, growing impatient, but she said nothing further. Jahra leaned over the tall instrument he was holding and quietly began to play the tune David had heard when he entered the house. But this time the tempo was slower, transforming the song into a lament.

David kept quiet, afraid that one wrong question would ruin the moment. Finally Lydea spoke. “She was a beauty. And, yes, she had green eyes. Similar to yours.” Her voice caught. “They were so beautiful, you can’t imagine it. I think that is what your father”—she paused, considering her words carefully—“noticed first.”