Day of War (21 page)

He lowered his head and backed away from the ranks, pulling the wounded man behind him — less out of concern for the man than making sure no one tripped over his body. When he was far enough away, he dropped the legs and rushed back to the center. The wounded man cried out for help behind him, but Gareb ignored him. Mercy would come soon enough.

Gareb shouted to the men around him to close ranks, and they obeyed, but the surge of relentless power kept pushing them backward up the mountain, rendering useless every advantage they had
in terrain and defensive maneuvering through sheer force and number. Soon they were pushed back over the fallen man, and, screaming, he was trampled to death. The line would burst at any moment. The sound of the chariots thundering up the mountain was getting louder and closer.

A few things went right. The Israelites had been able to reach a small boulder field near the crest of the Gilboa summit, and the chariots were forced to swing farther to the east, delaying the onslaught, since the horses had to pull the rigs up steeper ground.

The ground was so rocky that the Philistines were unable to penetrate the ranks fully, being forced to scramble and climb over boulders, which were savagely defended by Hebrew fighting teams. Whenever an opening would appear, Gareb would plug it, but he knew that eventually they would be overrun. The Hebrew archers were firing into the Philistine column, but the pagans wore so much armor, it was having little effect. Eventually the archers turned and ran, and no amount of yelling stopped them.

Gareb kept the men moving and fighting, shouting at them and kicking them when they needed it. When one unit was exhausted, he replaced them with another. Still the Philistines came, and he hated them. Even though his arm felt as though it might fall off, he put the full weight of that hate into each strike.

Unsteady on his feet, Eliam tried to grasp what had just happened with Jonathan. He watched the Israelite prince run from him and felt inspired to move again. He would get water down to the line or die doing it. The loss of blood left him strangely brave and free of fear. His mind did not process things quickly anymore, only pain and sounds. Sounds hit him again and again: clanks, crashes, screams, gurgling as blood erupted through the throats of dying
men. He found himself at the line once more, near the fiercest fighting as all the ranks tried to hold back the penetration of the Philistine bludgeon formation.

It finally occurred to him what the Philistines were doing. By concentrating all their forces in one spot, they would break the line and then split, each side of the wave enveloping the remaining Israelite soldiers. The Philistine chariots would prevent any retreats.

Eliam fretted and worried over it through foggy thoughts, then gave up and decided that whatever else happened, he would bring the water.

A soldier bumped into him, knocking the water from his hands, spilling it out in the sand. It seeped into the ground and disappeared as Eliam watched in horror. Something about the empty water skin, the sound of death nearby, pain in his foot, and now Eliam was frozen.

Eliam could see and hear nothing but the flash of bodies moving and hoarse shouting. Now everything was happening so much slower, even slower than before. How odd that battles seemed to slow down so much right when they were about to be decided. He thought vaguely that there was enough time to escape.

Fear—awful, consuming fear—crept into his heart. With every lance thrust into bowels, every sword cut across a neck, courage fled from him. Eliam suddenly did not want to feel the pain. He was horrified of death. Sheol awaited him if he died, and he did not know what it would be like.

He started to reason with himself. There was no point in dying this day. There was no chance for any of them anyway. If he escaped, he might be able to come back later. Jonathan might survive, and he would need an armor bearer.

But not one who abandoned his brothers on the field. Not one who escaped.

He tried to shake off the thought but couldn’t keep his eyes from
the hills to the north. If he left now, there would be time. The line would hold awhile longer, and no one would notice his leaving. His foot would need tending, but he would undoubtedly pass through some village.

He felt the sudden coolness of the evening on his face. His eyes stung, and he wiped them, cursing his sweat and the dirt. And then he wanted to run, so quickly and so far away that it surprised him how selfish he was. He wanted nothing more than to turn and leave that field of despair and death and flee to the woods and deserts.

He looked up the slope, past the abandoned water holding spot, to the very top of the mountain. The forest bordered the field on all sides the entire way to the peak of jagged rocks far above. He could make it to the shelter of the forest if he went now, then he would get to a village for help.

Weak, desperate, slow of thought, Eliam reasoned and prodded until at last he gathered a plan of action. He would leave. Others were leaving; surely it would not be cowardly. The pain was too much now, and he did not want to die. The cause was lost.

The decision was made, and having made it, he was too tired and weak to reconsider. Eliam simply could not bear the thought of a blade piercing his gut. Gareb had said that many men die because they choked on their own bloody vomit. The vultures would eat them and peck out their eyes. The Philistines would cut off heads and arms, then parade them around the streets of their cities as sacrifices to their heathen gods. Perhaps Eliam himself, a member of the royal court, would have his body torn to pieces while still alive.

He looked at the battle one more time — the lines of brave men, still holding together, driving their weapons forward with weariness and heart. They deserved songs and honors and praises. He felt a throbbing in his head.

He deserved none of that. He could not disguise from himself his cowardice. How he had wanted to be brave. He would leave them
on this field of honor. He would not disgrace them with his presence. He hated himself. His father would be angry. No, not angry. Only sad.

Eliam took a bandage strip from his waist pouch and tied a new knot on the arrow wound in his foot. It would be enough to show that he’d been here. He would tell the people of the brave warriors who died in this place, how he had been charged with carrying the message of defeat.

In a fog, Eliam staggered toward the distant trees. He shouted at himself to turn around and die like a man. He cursed his foot. He was thirsty.

He gave a last glance to the lines where the brave men were and then walked into the forest, sobbing.

Jonathan felt it once more. It had not been there in so long, but it was there now, as the suddenly cool evening breeze revived him while he and his brother leapt from rock to rock back down the mountain. The great army winding up the valley below them was biding its time, knowing it could not fail. The chariots lurked.

Jonathan had not felt the surge in his breath and quickening of his heart in so long that he almost did not recognize it at first. But it was there, and it spoke to him and pushed him forward to his death.

The covering had returned.

The men saw Jonathan and Abinadab running along the edge of the Israelite lines and began to shout. Their voices were weaker than before; after the afternoon’s slaughter, fewer remained. But they sensed his heart and fire. His body protested, but he kept it moving because he needed it one last time.

The Philistine archers were ready for them. They had learned a lesson earlier, and this time Jonathan was in the open where they
could fire freely. They did. He saw the swarm of arrows rise up from the metallic snake of the enemy forces and descend on them. It would be over soon.

But as the arrows landed, nothing happened. He felt no piercing of his flesh, no thrust of force knocking him back. Not a single arrow had struck them; they only clanged harmlessly against the rocks. He raised his eyes and screamed to the sky, feeling the covering in his blood and courage in his step. Shouts and war cries reverberated everywhere from his men up the slope, and he drank them in like cool water, letting them fuel him as he descended with his brother on the black masses of soldiers.

He hit them at full charge, an attack so brazen that the Philistines shirked away. A few men tried to swing a blade at them but were quickly cut down. The two brothers kept close and penetrated deep into the lines of the enemy, neatly separating the archers from the main force for the second time that day.

Jonathan tore at them with his sword. The power was coming, ever more, wrapping him in its terrible strength, and many Philistines fell before they knew they had been hit. The enemy was so intent on what was in front of them that they were not expecting an attack by two men on their flank twice in the same battle.

Jonathan and Abinadab breached the far side of the line. The archers had backed away from the fight and regrouped while the infantry pressed on ahead unaware. Jonathan’s men saw him again and the yelling continued louder. He laughed with battle rage and looked for his brother—then saw the body lying on the ground behind him.

He turned away and kept running. Abinadab gone. Soon he would be gone himself.

Jonathan felt his terror return. His attack slowed. Many Philistines lay dead in front of him. Suddenly, oddly, he regretted their
deaths. It was a strange thought, and he pushed it away. The smells of blood and metal hung in his nostrils. He charged again.

This time they were ready and formed a line on their flanks to receive him. He stumbled toward it, picked up a spear, and threw it into the ranks. It struck a shield and fell harmlessly to the ground. He raised his own shield to dodge the lances that flew toward him in response. Then a group of men broke away from the Philistine ranks and charged him. The shouting from the Hebrew lines died. No doubt they thought this was the end. And no doubt they were right.

He found strength and swung the blade. As each man came, he dodged just enough, ducked enough, and avoided each blow while delivering his own. He was weaker now, but he aimed well and men fell. The fire of Yahweh poured through him in a final rush. There was a line of men directly in front, and he crushed them, picking up a broken shield and flinging it at an officer’s head, then driving the end of a lance through the eye socket of another in one motion.

Philistines died all around him, terrified of him but sent forward with the threats of their commanders.

Jonathan was not on the slopes of Mount Gilboa but out in the valleys with David, living in the days of fire, the old times, feeling the warmth of springtime and hearing the songs of his friend as they plotted campaigns and admired women in the villages. He saw his father in the old days as he destroyed the enemies of Yahweh, back when he was worthy of the crown, and the good times when David came and went from the royal court with tales of his exploits.

Jonathan no longer felt the impact when his sword struck. A dull throb had entered his head, blocking the noise of the clanging metals and the smell of dead flesh and smoke. He killed them, these brave men who had families, but he struck them down regardless. David was there smiling with him, and they gazed at the fire and talked of Yahweh and things too deep for words.

There was a shout and a grunt, and he felt the shaft of a lance enter from behind and exit his belly.

All fight left him, and he fell to his knees. The Philistine who had impaled him gave another shout. He heard, dimly, the line of Philistines cheering his demise. He tried to move his arms, feeling the need to kill the man who’d killed him, but they would not move. All strength was gone.

Jonathan’s face struck a rock as he fell, and it put him in a mist, sounds no longer cohesive and his body suddenly numb. He tried to resist, tried to yell, but it came out as a mumble.

The Philistine pulled and wrenched the lance from his body, and Jonathan felt no pain, only the dull sensation of the shaft tearing loose. The soldier ran back to his place in the lines. There was no more shouting from either side then, only the grim silence of men trying to kill one another. Jonathan listened to it, the mosaic of noises that told him the battle was almost over and there would finally be rest.

He was so very tired. No pain, just exhaustion. He was relieved that the lance had ended this war for him, for he would not have stopped. But now there would be rest. There would be warmth and fires and laughter again. His blood was filling the earth around him. He did not care. He only wanted rest.

Yahweh had been there at the end. Jonathan had felt him in his spirit and let him move the blades. The covering had given him one final charge for the men to see, for his father to see. He chuckled, blood filling his throat.

His father would not have watched. His father had never been proud of him.

But perhaps his father
had
seen. Perhaps he
had
been proud.

Perhaps there had been a moment when his father watched him run courageously through the ranks, trusting only in the urge of the covering in his spirit that had so often come upon him, and was
proud of him. Jonathan’s father no longer understood that urge. He did once. Not anymore.

The sounds were gone at last, and Jonathan was thankful. He was weary of the sound of war. He had known it all his life. He wanted rest now. Perhaps his father had seen him.

Perhaps Yahweh will be with us.

In his daydream, David was climbing, but he had paused to peer up and around a tangle of wet brush that clung to the edge of the rocky face. The sun and the smell of salt; he could see far to the distant peaks of Moab, and he was calm for a moment. Calm because the place was perfect and beautiful, as though Yahweh had dipped a mighty finger into the nearby sea and shaken it clear of the death salt before touching this wadi, its bright water erupting out of the stark side of the mountain. He tried not to think of Michal and her touch, her skin, her soft body that he had taken so much delight in, before she was torn from him.

He touched his cheek to the moss, letting the cold stream cleanse his head as he clung to the brush. Then, in an instant, he remembered where he was and what was happening, and panic gripped him. He froze, listening. The sound of water, birds, hyraxes squealing nearby.

And he heard voices, violent and full of anger, coming closer, and he scrambled up the rocks beneath the waterfall as fast as he could scrape his fingers into the moss.

They were coming.

They were coming!
He was coming!

David slipped on the moss and was twisting as he struck the pool at the base of the falls …

And now he was in the cave, and men were there, his men, telling him to strike, telling him in desperate whispers that could not be heard over the roaring water to kill this man who hunted them. David
wanted
to kill him now and end it once and forever, to capture the crown and hunt for leopards with Jonathan again, just the two of them, building fortresses on the trade roads and building Israelite ports on the Great Sea, driving the Philistines from their own harbors, and all he had to do was kill this man in the cave only cubits away.

And how he wanted to. But then the dream shifted, and he saw the giant in the hot sun wearing the shining armor, and the flames roared through David’s muscles, burning away his fear with the heat of the fiery desert sun …

Grip the stones tight. No other movement behind me. No other men coming. So I will do it alone.

Cover me, Yahweh, in the day of war. I am alone.

The monster is coming! No time. These stones will do. Hurry. Fit the stone.

I feel you; give me the power now. He is so large. There is the shield bearer, not a small man either, he will move quickly to protect the flank.

If it is your will, Father, put the fear away.

He is coming …

If it is your will, Yahweh, that I am hunted all of my life, so be it, just cover me in the day of war …

David roused himself. He realized he was clenching his knees tightly to his chest, alone in the corner of the burned-out room. A pale band of sunlight streamed through the window of his bed chamber and left a golden strip directly beneath the pane. He
watched the small swirls of dust dancing in the light. Some particles disappeared, then moved back into view, carried by an unseen current.

There was noise outside the walls. Arguments. The men were not screaming anymore, though. They had been demanding that his head be cut off.

He closed his eyes and tried to listen. Nothing yet. Sometimes he heard it alone, sometimes he needed the ephod, but he nearly always felt it.

The men were demanding him. But he could not face them unless he heard the message. It would not work anymore to simply kill troublemakers; from now on, they would need to be convinced. They would need to be led.

David searched himself for any remaining darkness he had not confessed that would prevent the covering from coming. There could not be vengeance or sin in his heart or Yahweh would not speak.

Their families were alive. He believed it. There were no Hebrew bodies, except that of the old woman whose heart must have stopped beating. Slavery must have been the goal of the Amalekites. His wives, Abigail and Ahinoam, had been taken. Abigail was his favorite, and he wanted her back. She looked much like Michal had once looked. Young, lush, beautiful, but wiser.

Vengeance began to heat him, and he resisted it, knowing that it would block the covering and the word from Yahweh.

David knew he had been avoiding the covering for too long. It was too easy to propel himself forward in his own power. He had been successful for so long, had never lost a battle, but despite that he felt like he was running from Yahweh. That he had been too harsh, that too much blood had been spilled.

He wiped sweat from his forehead and released his legs. It always felt good to stretch them, as it always felt good to be alone.

He had been alone a great deal back in the days tending sheep. He had been alone in the deep woods of the hill country—no brothers, no chattering people coming in and out of his father’s home. The trees and the rocks and the mountains were part of him.

He hadn’t minded tending the sheep. They were a pleasant audience as he tried out his songs. David smiled. Their response was somewhat lacking, but they were supportive.

In the woods, alone with the sheep, he had always heard the covering. There had never been doubt. He had heard it in the bleating of a newborn lamb, heard it in the terrible lightning storms, heard it in the roar of the lion before it struck.

Yahweh was in all of it; and away from his brothers and politics and armies and work, in the quiet wilderness places, David always heard him. How he longed for it again, those years of training, before he became the leader of outcasts and reprobates, before kings wanted his death for no reason. Better days.

The shepherd’s staff he had carried as a boy was across his lap, reminding him of the day of his anointing. The old prophet had been firm but reluctant, wary of another mistake. David had been very young then—although he had felt older than he was. More had happened in his short life than many men ever saw.

Samuel’s anointing oil had been fragrant, thick with olive scent, and the prophet had let it flow over David’s eyes and along the side of his mouth. The prophet’s hands had touched his face, and his thumbs covered his eyes as he kissed his head. He had prayed aloud in the ancient tongue of their people. The oil soothed David, and he let it stream down his chest and soak his garments. The eyes of the prophet were piercing, making David feel uneasy.

A sudden, inexplicable burning tore at David’s face, forcing him to fall backward. Fire was everywhere, consuming the air around him with impossible heat. It snaked into his chest, and he felt as though it would erupt out of his lungs. David yelled in pain, and
then realized that it was not pain but something else. The burning poured out of his ears. He opened his eyes, although the oil stung them, and saw the prophet, one moment facing him and the next lying on his face wailing aloud.

His brothers and his father were watching him, bewildered, and he could not understand why they did not run from the flames engulfing the room, but he had no energy to speak. He let himself lie with his face buried in the dirt, reaching for anything to hold on to.

The images of fire, so real, flowed through his mind and chest. Etched in flame against the darkness of his mind’s eye, he saw the Lion. It roared at him, and in the quiet of the room he fell through its open mouth, helpless to resist … and then he was in the woods once again …

There is a monster, a black mass moving toward my sheep, and I am running. I have only my sling. The stone is ready. I am terrified—terrified that I cannot get there soon enough. My yell chokes in my throat. I throw the stone, a hit! The monster rolls to its side. There! A branch on the ground, grab it! Leap onto its back. It struggles and tries to toss me, but I reach around its hideous neck and pull the piece of wood hard against the flesh. The bear swipes and claws, and I keep pulling as hard as I can. The fire pours into my chest, and I scream with it. The fire comes and comes and comes, and I shout more. The bear struggles for breath … I hold …

The lion comes at me. The sheep are behind me, and it leaps. I miss with the stone and feel the stench of its breath right before it collides with me. It crushes me; I cannot hold it off any longer. Find the weapon! Hurry! There it is! Fire races into my lungs and through my eyes, and I seize the golden hide and throw it away from me. It rolls. I am upon it. I strike it with my fist, and the creature shrieks away from me. I catch it
and squeeze the throat, claws and roars covering me, and I pull as hard as I can. No, the fire pulls through me. I have his neck in my hands, Yahweh cover me. I hear and feel a snap. The beast goes limp …

Fire again. Through my arms it rages this time. The stone flies and strikes the giant. He grabs at his face, blood everywhere down the front of his armor. Need to hurry, need to run, I reach him and kick his knees. He falls to the ground, screaming, cursing. His sword. I grab the hilt from the scabbard. Fire in me, your fire Yahweh, let me slay this man who would curse you; let me show these people what happens when you are profaned. The armor bearer moves to flank, aware of the blow, and he is running from me as he should, for I will slay him and all his brothers. Fire burning through my heart and out my arms. His sword lies at his side. I seize it, so very heavy, swing with the fire, and it severs his neck, bright red blood spraying my face, warm and good. The armor bearer is gone. I grab the hair, hold up his head, and feel the blood drenching me, drenching me like the oil, and it feels good. But then the fire leaves, flickers away from the depths of my soul, and escapes my mouth. I am standing with the head, with the sword, with the shouts of the armies behind me. They are running. We will slaughter them; we will kill so many of them that no man of Philistia will ever be bred again. Behind me comes the army … free men … send the fire again …

There was a gentle scratching at the doorway, startling him. His eyes were blurry at first, and he blinked to clear them.

“Come in.”

A man wearing elaborate garments came in. Abiathar, the priest who traveled with the army, who had loyally followed David everywhere he had fled, bowed his head. The two had been together a long time, and their affection was warm and genuine. Abiathar was
one of the few men David could completely trust, and he was grateful for his companionship now.

“How are you?” David asked.

Abiathar hesitated. “The men are distraught. You will not live this day unless you have answers.”

“That is why I have you.”

“The ephod?”

“Yes, I need the Urim and Thummim,” David said.

The priest nodded. His beard spilled over the front of a multicolored breastplate embroidered with elaborate threadwork. Jewels and gold were spaced apart in the cloth. The breastplate hung over his shoulder by two straps, fastened to a girdle with golden rings, giving the exact appearance of a gilded suit of armor.

Below the breastplate was an ornately woven pouch that hung directly over the priest’s loins. Gold rings attached it to the belt around his waist. Blue, purple, and scarlet threads of fine linen were woven with precious stones, ending with a dark opening facing upward toward his chest. There were two jewels on the straps, inscribed with the names of the twelve tribes.

David held his breath a moment and looked away from the brilliant craftsmanship of the priestly garment. It was never easy for him to do this. His fists were clenched. He looked at the priest and nodded his head slightly. The two men knelt and held their arms out while facing each other. David closed his eyes and let the silence of the room cover him. The priest held still as well.

David searched his heart for any remaining hate or vengeance, anything that would prevent Yahweh from speaking to him. He repented of it once more in his spirit and listened to the quiet murmur of the insects in the window.

Tentatively, David spoke. “Should I chase them? Will I catch them?”

There was more silence. The priest moved. David opened his eyes and saw the man’s hand go into the pouch. Only one stone would be in his hand when it came out. Would it be the black one? The white one? Everything depended on it.

Abiathar shuffled the contents, then came out with a black stone.

Urim.

Yes.

David held himself as still and as reverently as possible. Yahweh was speaking, and he did not want to anger him. He wanted to know details, but he was afraid to ask. He meditated on the meaning of it. With his eyes closed, he prayed silently that Yahweh would reveal something else to him.

Then, in his spirit:
Go after them. You will recover everything that was taken from you.

Many times in his life David had wondered when it was really Yahweh speaking. There was no question now.

“Thank you, great Father. Your name is above all others,” he said aloud. The cloud in his mind dissipated immediately. He had heard. No more sulking and waiting.

David stood, as did Abiathar, who smiled at him. “Follow Yahweh, my future king, and we will follow you.”

When the priest had left, David walked to a corner of his room and saw the men in the streets below gathered with their weapons, waiting for him. They had been ready to butcher him earlier in the day and might still be. His own men. It was the blackest day of his life. His wives were missing, his town destroyed, and his own war brothers were plotting against him. He had told them he would ask Yahweh about their situation, and when his words were reinforced by the threats of his most loyal troops, they had conceded. But now it was time to face them again.

He felt older than he was. So long ago were the days of tending
sheep. The men acted like sheep sometimes, and leading them was not so different, but he was coming to realize how much he had been behaving like a foolish sheep himself.

He picked up the enormous iron sword captured that day in the Elah Valley, the one he had used to behead the vanquished giant. It too would have been taken, if the raiding Amalekites had found the secret compartment in his bedchamber.

There was no practical purpose for this sword: too large to maneuver for quick blows between the ranks and too heavy to use in open combat. Without the covering, he would not be able to use it.