Chapter Twenty
Lydea, of course, had been right. Giving his sister’s youngest instruction in the use of the sling was an ideal distraction from the rage that wanted to consume him. From the beginning David had been brusque, almost harsh with the young man. He did not hide his displeasure at the task imposed on him nor his impatience with the novice’s typical mistakes. But Joab’s fierce tenacity and refusal to be put off by his teacher’s irritability slowly won David over. What Joab lacked in talent he made up for with a dogged persistence that was impressive. He listened intently, accepted correction, and followed through on the instructions received.
His size and bulk had also put David off. It was due to a prejudice he knew he needed to overcome. David was usually one of the shortest in any group of boys, and he resented it. Plus, he tended to equate size with arrogance and Eliab’s nauseating swagger. Zeruiah’s son was strongly built across his shoulders and chest, having developed thick muscles lifting and hauling rocks for his father. This bulk was actually a detriment to the art of slinging, however. The best slingers were lithe and supple like David. They could easily outdistance those who relied on strength rather than speed and technique. But, though Joab would never achieve champion status, he could become proficient. That much was obvious to David.
Though old enough to marry, Joab did not seem likely to find a mate very easily. An accident splitting stone had cut his face severely. When it healed, the scar made his left eyelid and his upper lip droop just a little. It was enough to make him appear as though he lacked full mental faculties, but David had observed him measuring and meticulously cutting stone and knew better.
David had Joab set up small pyramids of stones at various distances away from the flat spot where he was standing. First with him behind and then standing beside his left side, he demonstrated the overhand and side-body techniques. Not surprisingly, Joab opted for the traditional overhead. It took less care and generated more power. After two hours he was hitting the pyramids half of the time.
“I need to go take care of my horse,” David told Joab. “Keep practicing until you can hit them at least eight times in a row.”
“Thanks for the help, David,” Joab said. “My goal is to be able to knock the top stone off. Like you can.”
“Good luck,” David said. “That will take a lot of work.”
“I am aware of that.” There was a touch of steel in the words that made David give the boy a second look. But Joab had turned his back on him and was carefully fitting a stone into his sling. David could not help the quick surge of envy at the young man’s height. The thick, corded muscles along the back and shoulders he could live without, but he would give almost anything to be as tall. For a moment he was tempted to let loose a stone and show the novice what real marksmanship looked like. He decided not to.
“If you put in the effort, you will do just fine,” he said as he walked away.
He went inside the house to get a drink from the water bucket. Lydea was still lying down. David understood why when he noticed a small stoppered vial on the floor next to her. She used it only when the pain in her knees and back had become intolerable and occasionally, like today, to help her sleep. Taking care not to wake her, he grabbed two round loaves of flat bread and cheese to put in a bag along with some almonds and dried figs. The lyre was still on the table in its bag. He picked it up and tossed it around his neck.
After giving the horse a drink, he decided to build her a simple corral near the birthing cave at the back of the pen. It was evening when he was finished. He was inside the cave, rubbing her down, when he heard the sound of clanging bells as a servant brought the sheep and goats back to their pens. Over the din, he thought he heard Shimeah’s voice. It sounded like he was calling for David.
David stuck his head out and saw his brother standing near Lydea’s house. Shimeah waved him over. “Has the army been disbanded?” David asked as he stood facing his brother on the opposite side of the pen’s stone wall. Shimeah wore an odd expression of disapproval that could not hide something resembling satisfaction.
“Not quite,” he said. “All those who remained from the beginning were let go; those who joined up after the rout were assigned clean-up detail.” He grimaced. “I walked around the bend where the bodies were piled. The stench was terrible.” His scowl had become a wicked grin. “Serves those cowards right. Teach them to stay with us next time.”
David resisted the urge to ask about Michal. “Did Saul and Jonathan return to Gibeah?” was the best he could manage.
“Of course. In fact, the prince spoke to me about you before we pulled out. He wondered why you had left in such a hurry without saying anything to him.” Shimeah’s usually warm eyes sharpened into points. “It is not wise to disappoint the royals, little brother. I would not presume on their good nature or their tolerance.”
David stared back at him. “I was told he wanted me to leave immediately and take Jahra’s body back home to be buried.”
“Who told you that?”
A cold ball formed inside his chest. Now it all made perfect sense. “It was Eliab and Adriel—that wily little snake who likes to hang all over Jonathan’s sister.” He kicked the ground, and a chunk of mud and manure smashed apart on the stone fence. “I should have known!”
Shimeah looked at him coolly. “Despite being annoyed at your discourtesy, the prince told me to pass the word on to you to be ready to leave quickly if he should have need of you.” Shimeah’s narrowed eyes made him look like a suspicious ostrich. “And, a word of warning: you have made enemies inside the court. This is what happens when you gain favor with Saul’s family. The greater the favor, the larger the number of those plotting your disfavor.” He pressed his finger into David’s chest. “From now on you will need to tread carefully. Favor, like beauty, is fleeting.” It seemed to David that the words were prompted as much by resentment as anything else.
“Thanks for the message and the words of wisdom,” David murmured.
“By the way, Father wanted you to know that he was not able to stay for the funeral because he had to visit Uncle Onan. They had to discuss an urgent business matter, and he had to leave so he could arrive before sundown.”
David gave him a skeptical look.
“He should be gone for several days.”
“Let the servants know that I’ll be taking the sheep out tomorrow.” David looked up at the North Star, which had just made its appearance in the evening sky. “I’ll leave early.” Before Shimeah could respond, David spun away and went to the cave. In the distance he could see a torch and a stocky figure swinging a sling. David had told Joab that at night a flame made a good target. The dedicated young man was apparently taking his advice.
He put a bucket of water in the corral next to his horse and decided to lie down next to her on a pile of hay. He opened the kinnor bag and drew out the instrument. The first thing he noticed were a broken string and an indentation on one of its arms where it had struck the wall. Guilt stung him as he thought of his grandfather’s hands carving this instrument for his daughter.
He flipped it over. The light was dim, and he could barely make out the two letters on the base. He traced them with his finger, wondering how many times his mother had done the same thing. He lay back, blinking his eyes clear. He at least knew his mother’s name: Anna Lydea. It was a lovely name.
That was the last thing he remembered until bristles tickling his head woke him. The mare was nuzzling him. He opened his eyes. The sky was a light blue; it was well past dawn. On his chest was the harp he had been holding when he fell asleep. He stretched and felt terribly thirsty. The bay had emptied her water bucket, so he filled it at the trough and brought it back to her.
“I’ll be back soon, old girl,” he said, patting her withers. As he slipped the kinnor into its bag, he noticed something he had not been able to see in the dark. There was a new scratch on the top piece. He shifted it to get a better view. He had been wrong. It was not a scratch but a carefully carved letter. It was the dalet. His initial. Lydea must have engraved it when he was out with Joab.
His eyes stung as he traced the letter with his forefinger. He needed to see how she was doing. Clutching the bag, he hurried to the house. When he shut the door, Lydea rolled over and sat up. She looked haggard, as though she had not slept well. But it was obvious that she meant to get up. David decided it would be fruitless to try to convince her otherwise.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Much better,” she whispered hoarsely. She reached out her hand, and David helped her to her feet. He led her to the stool next to the fire pit and laid some sticks on the red embers. She pointed to the kinnor in his other hand. “Play for me,” she asked. “Play for me and Jahra.” Her eyes welled with tears.
Unexpectedly, David felt a surge of resentment. He wanted to refuse. There was no song left inside him. The words lay dead within his heart, like a carcass picked over by vultures. He glanced over at this woman whom he had loved as his nursemaid but had just discovered was his grandmother as well. Her head was bowed, and both lined hands were covering her face.
Pursing his lips in frustration, he slid the instrument out. He wished more strings had been broken, rendering the harp unusable, but with nine, it could still make music. He sat down next to her, eased open his clenched jaws, and tried to expel the tension that had clamped down on him like an iron chain. He rifled through the bag and found the plectrum Saul’s musicians had given him. Playing for time, he ran it across the strings. The sound was too bright—too bold and brittle. He put the piece of bone back in the bag and strummed with his fingers. That was much better. He tried to pluck out a tune, but his fingers had no life in them.
Lydea took her shawl, draped it around her, and leaned her head against his shoulder. His fingers were moving aimlessly. Then he found he could not stop himself. The notes were taking on a recognizable shape and pattern. Spontaneously, the words Jahra had sung slid out from between his lips:
“Adonai ro-i, lo-ehsar.”
Yahweh is my shepherd; I lack nothing.
“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.
The words were sweet and lovely. They comforted Lydea—that much was clear—but they barely grazed the anger that had settled into his bones. The words lay inert, like a skim of oil on water. He was singing not for him but for her. It was the least he could do. When he reached the line “Though I pass through the valley of death,” his voice caught and threatened to break. Unable to continue, he laid the harp on the table, placed his hand on Lydea’s head, and walked out without speaking. He trudged over to the pens, pulled open the wooden gate, and followed the sheep and goats into the hills. Throughout the day, the discordant clanging of bells around the necks of the grazing animals managed to quiet the clamor of angry voices in his head.
He made sure to return late in the evening. As if reading his mind, and sensing that he needed to be alone, inside the cave Lydea had left three pieces of bread and a covered pot filled with a porridge of lentils and onion. Despite feeling as hollow as an empty grave, David still did not have much of an appetite. He took several bites, then after giving his horse some food, he lay down and fell asleep.
The following morning he again left with the flocks, this time taking the porridge with him. He spent all day in the hills and returned at nightfall. When he had put the sheep and goats in their pens, he noticed Joab standing outside the corral. He was holding a pot in one hand and the kinnor in the other.
“Lydea wanted me to give these to you. She said she does not want you to go hungry or to be lonely.”
“Thank you,” David said.
Joab did not turn away. He was looking down, marking the ground with the toe of his sandal. Without lifting his head he said, “I’m sorry about Jahra. I know you were good friends. I’m sure you miss him.” As he turned, David heard him whisper, “So do I.”
David shut his eyes and nodded to himself.
The next several days David followed the same routine but left the kinnor in the cave. Each time he left Bethlehem he looked to see if his father had returned. Jesse had been gone an unusually long time. On the morning of the fifth day, David felt something bubbling up inside him. He grabbed the harp and tossed it over his shoulder before following the sheep into the hillside.
After finding an adequate spot for the sheep to graze, he dropped to the ground and opened the bag. The complaint had been building inside him for days. He was worn down with sorrow, anger, and loneliness. He let the painful emptiness burst out of him.
My God, my God, why have You deserted me?
How far from saving me, the words I groan!
I call all day, my God, but You never answer,
All night long I call and cannot rest.35
It was like lancing a boil—as he voiced his pain, the bitterness began to dissipate. This time he nearly shouted the words: “Why have You deserted me?” Pouring out his grievance, while taking away something, had the strange effect of filling him as well. It felt like fresh water flowing into an empty pool.
“You never answer,” he repeated, and the three words doubled on themselves, echoing off the surrounding hills. He raked the nine strings as he formulated his complaint, seeking the exact words that would capture his sense of desolation. When they surfaced, they were not what he’d expected. He had intended to give full reign to his bitterness, but it had already begun losing its intensity. As he shouted his accusation, a presence seemed to be drawing near.
The next stanza was a surprise to him:
Yet, Holy One,
You who make Your home on the praises of Israel,
In You our fathers put their trust,
They trusted, and You rescued them;
They called to You for help, and they were saved.
They never trusted You in vain.36
But at that moment, whatever consolation he was feeling was swept away by images of his brothers with their seething jealousy. Above them rose his father’s condemning face—and alongside it, Adriel’s furtive, ferret eyes:
A pack of dogs surrounds me,
A gang of villains closes me in;
They tie me hand and foot
And leave me lying in the dust of death.37
From his long years of desolation he sang. It was his story, but now no longer an accusation as much as a lament. He described being surrounded by bulls, by lions ripping and roaring, being torn so that his bones were disjointed and his heart melted inside him. He sang about his enemies gloating over his broken body, their hatred so intense that they would go so far as to cast lots for his new tunic. He wept as he poured out his heart:
Do not stand aside, Yahweh.
O my strength, come quickly to my help;
Rescue my soul from the sword,
My dear life from the paw of the dog.
Save me from the lion’s mouth,
My poor soul from the wild bulls’ horns!38
Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone approaching. It was Joab. David wiped his eyes but continued, unable to prevent himself from bringing the song to completion.
Then I shall proclaim Your name to my brothers,
Praise You in the full congregation;
You who fear Yahweh, praise Him!
Entire race of Jacob, glorify Him!
Entire race of Israel, revere Him!39
When he was finished, the tall young man with his sling draped over his belt just like David’s was standing behind him, not making a sound. “I liked that,” he finally said. “I liked that very much,” he added in a pensive voice.
David placed the harp in the bag, nodding his appreciation but averting his eyes.
“A messenger has come from Prince Jonathan. He wants to see you at once,” Joab said.
David jumped to his feet. “Did he give an explanation?”
“He only said that he had to get you back without the slightest delay.” Joab gestured at the flock. “I’ll take care of them. You should leave now. The messenger was very anxious—he looked almost afraid.”
Impulsively, David reached out and gripped his nephew’s arm. “Thank you for delivering the message and watching the flock.”
Joab grinned sheepishly. “Don’t mention it.”
When David arrived back in Bethlehem, the messenger was standing under the sycamore, shifting from one foot to another. David’s bay was next to the messenger’s long-legged gray mare. Both animals were packed and saddled. The moment he saw David running toward him, he jumped on his horse. “There is no time to waste,” he said, beginning to trot away.
“Wait!” David called out. “Let me first say good-bye to—to my grandmother.” The messenger kept moving.
Lydea met him at the door. “I know,” she told him before he spoke. Her cheeks were flushed. He was surprised at the brightness in her eyes as she kissed him on both cheeks. “The messenger told me. Hurry now, and God be with you.”
David caught up with the messenger on the outskirts of the village. Passing the cemetery, he wanted to look away but was unable to avert his eyes. He wished he had. On the almond tree overlooking the new grave sat two fat crows. It made him feel ill.
Soon after they had passed Jebus and were bearing east toward Gibeah, David heard the sounds of travelers approaching and slowed. He and the messenger were on a rugged, winding path dug alongside hills covered with pine and oak trees. To their right was an olive grove in whose flickering shade grazed brown sheep.
“Make way! Make way! The messenger of the king!” Jonathan’s messenger shouted. It seemed to David that, rather than slowing, he had increased his speed.
Around the bend David saw the twins seated on the front of a cart pulled by two donkeys. They were hastily guiding their wooden vehicle off the road to give them as much room as they could. The back wheels were dangerously near a steep gully. There was a flash of recognition as David raced past. He caught a glimpse of his father lying in the back, his face contorted with pain. They rode by so quickly, there was no time to call out a greeting. The two picked up their gallop and arrived at Gibeah’s gate in less time than David thought possible.
Saul’s walled city was well fortified, but not as large as David had expected. The stone walls were thick and well maintained, but still, he had expected something more imposing—something more grand. The guards opened the sturdy double gates that were nearly twice his height and waved them through. At least the gates are impressive, David thought.
At the entrance to Saul’s fortress they dismounted and handed the horses to the servants. It was the tallest building David had ever seen. It dwarfed the tabernacle in Nob. Before they reached the guard at the front door, it burst open and Michal ran out. She looked panic-stricken, too distraught to betray any awkwardness. Her beautiful brown eyes were red rimmed and haunted.
“Follow me, David,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Father tried to kill Jonathan!”