Love’s Sacred Song (3 page)

Nathan and Zadok emerged from the corner, their prayers silenced by Jehovah’s whisper to the prophet’s spirit. Bathsheba’s quiet sobs turned to wails as she saw their approach. She too must have sensed the inevitable coming quickly.

Solomon leaned in to kiss his abba’s cheek, his face now almost touching Abishag’s forehead. He could feel her breath on his beard. She rolled aside, snuggling into the curve of David’s arm, leaving her lingering scent of cinnamon and saffron.

The three remained motionless, suspended in time. Each was afraid to move lest they lose the moment to eternity, each knowing death would be the victor in the warrior king’s final battle.

Gathering his last breath, David whispered, “Peace, Solomon. Seek peace, Jedidiah.”

“Yes, Abba. I will.” The young king laid his head on his abba’s chest and heard mighty King David’s last heartbeat.

•
 2 Samuel 3:1 
•

The war between the house of Saul and the house of David lasted a long time. David grew stronger and stronger, while the house of Saul grew weaker and weaker.

A
rielah searched for Jehoshaphat’s face in the crowd. Smiling to herself, she realized he had followed his usual custom—remaining silent until every other argument was heard. A hush fell over the crowd, and every face turned expectantly toward her abba. It seemed the heavens themselves drew near to hear the words of Shunem’s highest city official.

“Men of Israel,” Jehoshaphat began in low tones, “our twelve tribes have brawled and battled since the desert wanderings in Moses’s day. But Israel’s recent past is most painful. After King Saul died, do you recall the bloody civil war that consumed our country?” He scanned the crowd, and his gaze fell on a few younger officials. “Some of you are too young to remember it, but you’ve learned about it at your abbas’ knees.” Then looking at one of the older officials, he prodded, “But you, Zophar, you remember the days of blood in Israel, don’t you?”

The older man nodded and then lowered his gaze. No one wanted to speak of Israel’s dreadful days before David’s rule.

Jehoshaphat scanned the crowd, the majority of gray-bearded faces now noticeably subdued. “The tribes of Israel have always acted like a family with too many children in one tent. We bicker and fight, jealousy and suspicion fueling the fires of resentment and rage. Brothers, open your eyes and see the hand of God. The tribe of Judah has prospered and grown while the rest of Israel’s tribes have waned. God has given David success, and to the king’s credit, instead of using God’s blessing for his own gain, King David has proven faithful, seeking Jehovah’s heart and maintaining a united Israel.”

The night air fell silent. Jehoshaphat removed a torch from the hand of a man beside him and then shouted and slammed the torch against the well post, snapping it in two. “We are a holy people chosen by the Lord as the apple of His eye! We must act like it!”

Every eye was upon him, and the silence that followed echoed louder than any of the evening’s shouts. It seemed even the locusts stopped their song until Jehoshaphat spoke again.

Arielah watched Abba in stunned awe but noticed a mischievous grin working its way across his lips.

“Elder Reuben,” he said, “are you awake now?”

Laughter erupted as a drowsy elder patted out the torch’s sparks kindling in his beard. Abba’s antics had relieved the crowd’s tension like a hole in a wineskin. Yet he conveyed his point—King David deserved respect because he had received God’s favor. Arielah stifled a giggle and marveled anew at Abba’s wisdom.

Consumed by her thoughts, she didn’t feel the man’s breath on her neck until it was too late. A huge, calloused hand clamped over her mouth. Instinctively, she grabbed at the hand and turned, trying to free herself and identify her attacker. Before she could break away, another shadowy figure cast a musty woolen blanket over her head, blinding her to the direction she was now being dragged.

Her mind reeled, panic warring with reason. She dared not cry out, for if her presence at the meeting was discovered, Abba would be disgraced. So she fought silently, tenaciously; her legs and arms jerked and squirmed. The first attacker kept his hand over her mouth and carried her under his arm like a sack of grain, trapping her arms at her sides. The second man clamped her legs in the same side-armed grip and held the blanket in place to hide their identity. The elders’ voices were growing faint, and Arielah knew the men were hauling her away from the crowd.

The first man stumbled over a rock in the street, and the blanket swayed just enough for her to glimpse their surroundings. Old Ruth’s small home was directly beside them, just past the baker’s market stall. Fear rose to terror when she realized these men were carrying her toward the city gate. She couldn’t let them violate her—or worse.

Lord Jehovah
, she prayed silently,
if they carry me outside the gate, I have no hope of rescue.
Certain Abba would rather forgive her for disgracing him than attend her funeral or mourn her lost honor, Arielah fought like an animal against the men whose plans were unclear but unthinkable. She bit the hand covering her mouth and released the screams he’d held captive.

“Ouch!” came a muffled voice, just before she felt a blow to her cheek. “Shut up, you little fool,” he whispered, replacing his hand over her mouth.

The familiar voice robbed her of breath.

“See how she fights, this little lion of God.” The other man chuckled, low and foreboding. “Abba named her well.”

Arielah’s body went limp. Kemmuel. Igal. She could never overpower her brothers.

“What’s the matter, little sister? Why not fight like a man if you want to attend a man’s meeting?”

Like a limp rag, Arielah lay motionless in their arms, afraid to move or speak. Her submission seemed to fuel their fury, for Kemmuel suddenly yanked her legs, pulling her from Igal’s grip. Her shoulders and head hit the ground with a thud.

Kemmuel released her legs and tore away the blanket, staring down at her with hate in his eyes. Arielah tried to scurry to her feet, but he lunged forward. “Oh no you don’t.” His hand clamped onto her wrist like a vise.

“No! Please!” she said, sobbing. Searing pain shot up her arm.

“Grab her other wrist,” he ordered Igal. “We’ll drag her outside the gate, where no one can hear her scream.” When Arielah tried to twist away, they tightened their grasps, painfully crushing the delicate tendons and bones in her wrists. They yanked her backward, her arms extended overhead. She left a single, meandering trail in the dark, dusty street of Shunem.

Why? Why do you hate me?
She wanted to plead, but she knew they would only laugh and prolong the ridicule. Her brothers had always been cruel, but their cruelty had lately intensified to violence. They were careful to leave wounds and bruises Abba couldn’t see.

“Oh!” she cried out as a discarded piece of pottery tore into her robe and flesh.

“Ah, little sister found her tongue, Igal. We’ll have to make sure she doesn’t tell Abba.”

Jehoshaphat knew of his sons’ failings but didn’t realize the extent of their brutality. Abba had disciplined and taught all three children as a wise abba should, but rather than accept his love, Kemmuel and Igal shunned familial ties and blamed Arielah for every hardship in their lives.

“Please, brothers,” she whimpered, “I won’t tell Abba. Please let me go. Stop before you do something you’ll regret.” Arielah wriggled in their grasp, trying to position her torn robe between raw flesh and the littered street.

Kemmuel spit in her face. “My only regret is that you were born. Before you came along, Igal and I held at least a portion of Abba’s heart.” Arielah saw a moment of vulnerability on the moonlit features towering above her—just before an iron gate slammed shut on Kemmuel’s emotions.

Her heart broke at the pain beneath his hatred. At least now she understood the source of her brothers’ cruelty. But they believed a lie. Abba loved his sons deeply. Could anyone convince them they’d cheated themselves all these years?

When they were finally beyond Shunem’s walls, the men released her. She rolled on her back, appreciating the softness of her woolen robe.

The brothers positioned themselves at her hands and feet. “You take her wrists, Igal, and I’ll grab her ankles.”

Arielah’s reaction was quick and instinctive. Like a crab beside the Great Sea, she pulled her hands and feet under her and tried to scoot away. But before she could escape, Igal’s meaty hands found her wrists again, and Kemmuel grabbed her ankles.

“Let’s see how high our sister can fly, Igal!” The two swung Arielah from side to side, lifting her higher with each rhythmic sway. Finally, Kemmuel began the count. “One, and two, and threeeeee!”

Arielah sailed into the air and hit the cold, unyielding ground with a sickening thud. She saw torchlight flash at the corners of her vision and then welcomed the sweet darkness that would spare her further torment.

Arielah’s eyes opened slowly as from a dream, but her throbbing head reminded her of the nightmare she’d endured. Nervously glancing right and left to be sure her brothers were gone, she stood on wobbly legs. The blood rushing to her head pounded like a wooden spoon on Ima’s cooking pots. The fresh wounds on her right side and leg stung like a thousand bees. Her robe, shredded by the dragging, offered no protection from the cool night air.

Arielah slowly regained her bearings. Outside the city gate, she saw torches amid the distant crowd gathered at the well. Moonlight surrounded her, casting an eerie glow on her torn robe and bloodstained mantle. Beneath her mantle, the headpiece binding her hair was soaked with blood, and she could feel a warm trickle seeping down the back of her neck. Touching a lump on the back of her head, she winced when her fingers found a small cut in its center.

Not so bad this time
, she thought, making her way toward the gate. She would slip quietly back to their home and wash her wounds using the water jar in the far corner of the courtyard. Hopefully Ima would be busy inside and wouldn’t notice her return. The cuts and scrapes from her dragging would be easy enough to clean up, but the head wound would require more care. She must hurry. When Abba presented his plan, she must be ready. Israel’s treaty bride could hardly appear to the northern officials looking like a tattered beggar.

Arielah limped back toward the city, thankful their house was one of those nestled within the high protective walls surrounding Shunem. Entering the southern gate, she walked a few paces toward their courtyard, where a fenced garden lay just outside their home. Here Arielah could tend her wounds and still faintly hear some of the elders’ meeting. Pausing just a moment before entering the courtyard, she heard Abba’s raised voice wafting on the crisp night air.

“My northern brothers, we have fought our Judean brothers and eyed them with suspicion for too long. We are too quick to condemn, too slow to listen.”

Arielah hurried into the courtyard to retrieve the water jar and stool. Picking up an old rag, she began washing the wounds on her right leg and ribs, wondering all the while how she might slip into the house unnoticed for a fresh robe and headpiece.

The sound of hoofbeats intruded. They were approaching the city, heavy and pounding. The lumbering gallop of a camel, not the clipped pace of a mule or horse. She stood and limped toward the city gate as quickly as her bruised leg would carry her. Just as she reached the gate, a camel and rider bearing King David’s banner passed in a flurry of dust.

What is a royal messenger doing alone in Shunem—at night, on a camel?
With the known tension between the king’s household and Shunem, sending a royal representative alone was unusual. “But to come at night . . . and on a camel rather than a horse.” She whispered her confusion to no one.

The messenger and his rumbling mount raced toward the well and awkwardly halted—but not before knocking over four or five slow-moving officials. The men seemed about to raise a fuss, but the messenger atop his perch cried out, “My lords!” The panic in the young man’s voice gave everyone pause.

“Speak, sir,” Jehoshaphat said from the front of the crowd.

“King David is dead!” the young man sobbed more than shouted. He tapped the camel on the shoulder, and it knelt. The messenger rolled off the beast and made his way to the front of the gathering, where Jehoshaphat awaited him.

Confusion reigned, giving Arielah a chance once again to slink to the same donkey cart where she’d found cover before her attack.

The torchlight revealed the royal messenger as a chubby young man who must have been twenty years old to be in the king’s service, but he looked more like twelve. Tears streamed down his round cheeks. “Our king is dead!” he cried. “King David rests with his abbas and will be buried in the City of David tomorrow morning.”

Silence hung like a shroud as each man weighed the effects of those words. David had reigned in Israel for forty years, and his would be the first royal burial in Israel. Saul, the nation’s first king, had been killed in battle by the Philistines and his bones buried in Jabesh-Gilead.
How does one bury a legend?
Arielah wondered.

What do we do?
was echoed in the chill wind of silence.

What do we do?
was written on the furrowed brows of the elders.

What do we do?
was even etched on the faces of Jehoshaphat’s rebellious sons. They too had found their way into the noble crowd.

What would become of God’s chosen people now that God’s chosen leader was dead?

What do I do?
Arielah’s question was more imminent. Would Abba reveal his plan tonight? Would her future still be decided at this meeting of Israel’s northern officials?