Michal (3 page)

Michal raced down the stone corridors of the dank fortress—a sorry excuse for a palace. Where could he have gone? It was not like she cared overmuch for the carved wooden doll he’d stolen from her room, but Ishbosheth had a way of irritating her, and she was tired of his games. Besides, the doll was the first toy Jonathan had carved for her, and she intended to keep it.

She spotted her older brother hunched in a corner of the hall outside his sleeping quarters. With a shake of her head, Michal smoothed her robe and walked toward him. The action made the young man jump to his feet.

“Give it back, Ishby.”

He held the doll above his head and laughed.

Michal moved closer. He tried to turn away but hit the wall. There was no place else to go.

“This is an idol.” Ishbosheth pointed to the doll, then ran his free hand through his scraggly brown hair, the way Jonathan always did.

Michal stumbled back a pace as though he’d slapped her. “No, it’s not. Jonathan wouldn’t make an idol.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve seen bigger ones like it in Mama’s room. She has them guarding the door.”

The teraphim. Michal tried to peer through Ishbosheth’s closed fingers at the carved, faceless doll, Jonathan’s youthful attempt at carving. There was little resemblance to her mother’s teraphim.

“Mama prays to the idols,” Ishbosheth said.

She did?

“How do you know that?” Adonai would not be pleased about that. If there was one commandment Jonathan had taught her, it was “You shall have no other gods before me.” “I’ve seen her.” He clutched Michal’s doll. “Now I can pray to one too.”

“No, Ishby, you mustn’t ever pray to an idol.” She patted his arm. If only he could understand. “Adonai doesn’t like us to pray to anyone but Him.”

Indecision flitted over his chunky face, and tears threatened, making the pale brown hues of his eyes glisten. “If I disobey Adonai, I could end up like Abba, couldn’t I?” He thrust his hand forward, palm open. “Take it, Michal. Hurry, before the demons come for me.”

Michal stared at the piece of wood, then at her brother. Maybe he was more aware than they gave him credit for. She took the doll from him and stuffed it into a pocket of her robe. “A wise choice, Ishby.”

Ishbosheth grabbed Michal and gave her a fierce hug, startling her with his sudden affection. “Throw it away, Michal. Hurry.”

“Good idea.” She ran off, feet flying back the way she’d come. She would hide the doll in a better place this time, to protect Ishby.

“Did you hear me, David? Or would you prefer not to answer?” Jonathan’s clear eyes never wavered, his shoulders straight as an arrow. “Did Samuel anoint you?”

The truth. There was no getting around it now. David’s gut clenched, his emotions spiraling downward. He dropped his gaze and studied the earth, assuring himself he still sat on solid ground.

Please, Lord, tell me what to do.

He lifted his head and gave the prince a slight nod.

Jonathan’s shoulders lost their military pose. He stared into the distance. “I thought so.”

Moments passed in tense silence until at last the prince stood, picked up his bow and quiver of arrows, and placed them at David’s feet. Then before David could stop him, Jonathan knelt, head lowered.

“Please, do not bow to me, my prince,” David said. “It is I who must bend the knee to you.”

Jonathan looked intently into his eyes. “Time will tell us that, now won’t it?” He stood, then gripped David’s right hand, pulling him to his feet. “Now, how about I teach you to use these things? After all, a king must be a warrior first.” He paused. “And if we consider Moses’ teaching, I suppose the Most High would want him to possess a shepherd’s heart as well.”

An hour passed. The wooden doll still lay tucked into the pocket of Michal’s robe, the weight of it growing with every passing moment. She’d been cornered by her mother as she passed the kitchens, keeping her from fulfilling her promise to Ishby. Even there, centered on a wall above the ovens, Michal noticed a carved image—another teraph. Were they everywhere? When had her mother decorated the house with them?

A troubled feeling settled in her stomach as she stumbled down the dark halls. The doll pressing against her thigh seemed to burn her flesh at the slightest touch.

She rounded a corner, her mind whirling. Where to put it? Maybe she should have thrown it into one of the ovens’ fuel supplies and let it turn to ash. But a part of her couldn’t destroy what Jonathan’s hands had made.

She had to hide it one way or the other.

She sprinted to the outer court. Passing through the door, she tripped, righted herself, and nearly banged into David.

“My lady! Are you hurt?”

She looked into David’s vivid dark eyes and thought she might faint.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?”

His smile sent her heart into a wild gallop. She released a long, slow breath. “I was taking care of something.”

“I see. It must be urgent.”

“Yes—no—not exactly . . .” Warmth crept into her cheeks. She should love the chance to talk with him. So why did she suddenly feel like a lost little girl, tongue-tied and nervous? “I . . . it’s a family matter.”

“It’s not your father again, is it?” A muscle worked along his jaw, and he shifted as though ready to move—to hurry to the king’s side.

“No, no, it’s not that.” She glanced at the leather sandals strapped to his dusty feet. Had no one offered to wash them when he entered the palace? Lazy servants! If she were in charge . . .

“I’m glad.” His words brought her wandering thoughts back to him, and she found herself gazing into those fathomless eyes.

“What? Oh yes, so am I. Glad, I mean, about my father.” She stopped short, cheeks flaming. Placing a hand over her fluttering heart, Michal drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I must sound like I’ve lost my mind.” She summoned her courage and offered him a warm smile.

“Not at all, Princess. Just distracted.” He smiled in return, clasped his hands behind him, and took a step backward. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

“Yes, of course.”

He turned, heading down the hall away from her.

“David?” There was so much more she wanted to say in such a rare moment alone.

He swiveled around, keeping his distance.

“Despite what everyone thinks, I’m not a child.”

David looked at her, head tilted, brow lifted in question. Was that pity in his eyes? “Indeed.”

“I mean . . . in case Jonathan or Father treats me like one . . . I’m not.”

“That’s quite obvious. And I understand. You are the youngest—as am I.”

She let her eyes meet his and linger for a moment. “You are?”

He nodded, his ever-charming smile making her heart skip another beat. “Considered the runt of the litter, left out of important decisions, stuck with the sheep.”

Michal’s eyes widened. “Truly? So am I. I mean, my family is always calling me ‘little sister,’ as though I’m never going to grow up.”

“Maybe you run too much. Don’t most grown women walk with dignity—you know, head held high, chin tipped up?”

Michal giggled at his imitation, wishing the laugh had come out sounding more sophisticated. “Perhaps I do. I guess I’ll have to become dull and elegant if they’re ever going to see me as a woman.”

David’s look made Michal’s palms moisten. “You’ll never be dull, Michal.” He moved farther away from her. “I will let you get back to wherever it is you were off to.”

The field scent of him remained when he slipped from sight. Michal drank it in, wishing for all the world that he could stay and talk with her forever. She felt the wooden doll press against her thigh and pulled it from the folds of her robe. David’s devotion to the God of Israel would never allow him to keep an idol.

She watched his retreating back, listening to the fading sounds of his footsteps. Then she walked with grace to the garden—head held high, chin tipped up. Once there, she got down on her knees and used a sharp stone to carve a hole in the dirt. With a vow never to go near an idol again, Michal dropped the image into the space and buried it.

3

Twelve uniformed jugglers, each wearing the embroidered insignia of an Israelite tribe, lifted a round, red pomegranate in their right hand high over their heads. Miniature, red-plumed helmets representing Philistine soldiers rested in each juggler’s left hand.

A hush settled over the packed banquet hall. With rhythmic motions, one performer after another placed the tiny helmet on the fruit and tossed the overripe pomegranates into the air, then caught them and smashed them into the center of Saul’s banquet hall. Each splat and spillage of the seeded fruit brought a cheer from the crowd and outright laughter from the king.

“And we’ll slaughter you again, you Philistine dogs,” Saul shouted when the last leathery skin split like an enemy head crushed in battle. “You think you can summon us to Elah and win? You dare come against the armies of Saul? We’ll grind you to dust.” Saul’s voice rose with each syllable, his hardened face growing crimson with rage.

David sat in one corner of the room, his lyre resting on his knees, his eyes on the king. Saul’s expression darkened, and his fingers rose to his temples.

“My harpist. Where is my harpist?”