Warrior Poet (11 page)

As the soldier nudged his horse forward, David saw that the African’s lips were set in a fierce, angry line.

Chapter Twelve

David’s left hand moved toward the sling at his side. He did not need to open the pouch, since he already had two flat stones ready in his palm. The braided leather thong caught against his tunic bunched around his belt. He gave two quick tugs, and it slid out. He located the supple leather cradle and fitted the stone into it with fingers slick with sweat. His breathing grew more rapid as he prepared to launch himself to his feet.

“Hands out in front,” barked the soldier in perfect Hebrew, walking toward them on his horse. Each step caused him to weave slightly. David was stunned by the man’s speech. He sounded like he could have been raised in Bethlehem.

David felt fingers on his calf. Jahra tapped him three times. David indicated that he understood. On the count of three, they leaped to their feet. Jahra had a stick in one hand and his harp in the other. He gave the strings a violent swipe. At the same moment David began twirling the sling. Startled by the noise, the horse threw his head up and skittered backward. David sent the stone flying at the mercenary. Oddly, before it struck him, he had already begun sliding off his mount.

He landed on the ground with a thud, and the animal reared and bolted into the darkness. When the Philistine made no move to get up, David hurdled the low ledge and ran toward the figure, yanking the sword from its oversized sheath. The mercenary’s face was half hidden by the bronze helmet that sat at a crooked angle. Holding the weapon overhead, David kicked the helmeted head. The lips moved, but no sound came. Jahra had hobbled up next to David. Keeping his distance from the body, he gestured to the dent on the right side of the helmet. David slid the point of the sword under its nosepiece and gave a sharp twist.

The helmet spun off.

The man’s face was dark—but with dried blood. The soldier was no African; neither was he a Canaanite. They were looking at an Israelite, his long, curly hair matted with sweat and blood. A braid was draped across his lower jaw. It was tipped with a golden clasp that looked like an eagle in flight. David was sure he’d seen it before. Again using the sword, he carefully flicked the braid aside. That was when his knees almost gave out.

Lying at their feet was Jonathan, the king’s son and his brothers’ senior commander. He had seen him from a distance on several occasions when he’d brought them food.

“Lord, have mercy on us!” The prayer burst from David’s mouth. Turning to Jahra, David hissed, “This is the prince!” Jahra gasped and took a step back. Kneeling, David placed his fingers on the prince’s wrist, then stood and grabbed one of his arms. “Hurry! We need to drag him to the fire.”

Like his father, Jonathan was tall and strongly built. They could barely move him.

“Harder!” David urged.

They pulled again, and Jahra moaned as his leg buckled. He stumbled and fell to a sitting position. Motioning for Jahra to wait, David unbuckled the Philistine armor, taking off the chest piece, the greaves, and the heavy leather belt. They were now just able to drag the prince down to their camp. They quickly folded their cloaks and laid Jonathan’s head on the makeshift pillow. By the time they were done, Jahra was gasping, and sweat was running down his cheeks.

David unplugged the water bottle, wet a cloth, and began cleaning away the blood, but Jahra nudged him aside. He took the cloth from David and began wiping the prince’s face and beard, then poured water carefully over Jonathan’s forehead, letting it run back into his hair. With gentle fingers, Jahra pulled back the strands of hair to see where the blow had landed. The prince had been struck over his right ear, leaving a vicious gash and a dark welt. Jahra dabbed it with the damp cloth. As he did, Jonathan groaned and twisted his neck, but he did not open his eyes.

“How serious is it?” David whispered.

Jahra shook his head tentatively, but his eyes were hopeful. Jahra had inherited his mother’s ability to treat wounds and intuit their seriousness. Apparently the prince’s injury was not life threatening.

“Good. Good,” David murmured, beginning to breathe a little easier. “May Yahweh be praised!”

Jahra gestured to the sound of nickering behind them. Apparently the skittish horse had returned. David looked over his shoulder and noticed a leather wine bag slung over the saddle. He ran to grab it. Jahra tore a length from the Philistine cloak Jonathan had been wearing and had David drench it with wine. He patted the wound with the wet cloth. At this, Jonathan grimaced, his nostrils flaring. David helped lift the prince’s head as Jahra wrapped the wet bandage around it. When they finished, the prince let out a groan and opened his eyes.

“Who are you?’ he rasped. Before they had time to answer, he whispered again. “Do you have any water?”

There was a glint of humor in his dark eyes. “I know you have more than enough wine.” His lips cracked in a weak smile as he caught his breath. “You may have caused me to swear it off forever.” He had a crooked grin that made David think that were Jonathan not the heir to the throne, they might have become friends.

David clambered to his feet, grabbed the water bag, and unplugged it. He held it up so the prince could drink from it. Jonathan pushed himself into a sitting position and waved the bag closer. “Give it to me,” he croaked. Lifting it over his head, Jonathan let the stream flow into his mouth. It splattered over his neck and chest. After several deep draughts, he handed it back.

“That’s better,” he said. “I may have been foolish enough to get knocked over the head—and fall off my horse—but I am still capable of giving myself a drink.”

He looked pointedly at David and then at Jahra. “So, do you plan on answering my question, or is your intent to keep your identities secret?”

David’s tongue felt like a slab of dried mutton. The question hung in the air. Jonathan’s eyes narrowed. “You are not deserters, are you?” he asked, his hand feeling for his weapon. His tone was cool but as sharp as a dagger.

“No. No, my prince,” David responded, finally finding his voice. It quavered like that of a girl. It was mortifying.

“Here, take a drink,” the prince said, holding out the bag with a half smile. “Sounds like you need it.”

Jonathan looked at Jahra. “How about you? What name do you go by?”

“He does not speak, my prince,” David told him, choking a little on the water he’d not quite been able to swallow. “His name is Jahra, and mine is David. My prince—”

“Jonathan,” the prince interrupted, waving his hand. “My name is Jonathan. While we share this solitary refuge, you may use my given name. It will make conversation much easier.”

David murmured his agreement.

Jonathan continued, “If you are not deserters, what brings you here into the middle of this battle? You would not be spying for our enemies, would you?” Before David could answer, Jonathan laughed. “Take a breath, young man, and tell me your story.”

David let the panic subside and related their mission.

“Yes, I know the three sons of Jesse,” Jonathan said. “They are under the command of Manoah. The oldest is Eliab, is he not?”

David nodded, growing tense.

“He has a certain reputation,” the prince added.

David felt his face flush.

“Do you favor him?” the prince asked, but he interrupted before David could respond. “Don’t answer. A temper is neither good nor bad. It is a necessary tool for a warrior, but one must know when and how to use it to advantage.”

David swallowed the defensive words he’d been about to utter.

“I know a thing or two about hot tempers,” the prince said, his voice sounding distant. He grew quiet and stared pensively at the fire.

David could not think of a way to break the uncomfortable silence. His thoughts were as jumbled as an overturned beehive.

Finally the prince spoke again. “And that brings to mind the song I heard you singing. It was beautiful.” He lifted himself up on one elbow. “Where did it come from?”

“It just came to me, my prin—ah, Jonathan.”

“You never sang it before?” He looked at David curiously.

David nodded, his cheeks hot.

“So I take it that you are a minstrel. Have you many other songs?” Jonathan was looking at him with strange intensity. It made the skin of David’s neck itch.

“No, I have no other songs. I am simply a shepherd.”

“A mere sheep herder? The last thing I remember thinking before exiting my horse was that you were one of our expert Benjamite slingers.”

Jahra’s muffled chortle startled the prince, who looked at him in surprise. David shot Jahra a warning glance, but on seeing the amusement in the boy’s face, the prince threw back his head and joined him in laughter. He stopped with a grunt, running a hand over his temple. He slowly laid his head back on the cloaks.

“You have me at your mercy. You may ask me anything, even up to half my kingdom, for your promise that you will not mention that unprofessional descent. If the men found out, I would have to live with it till my dying day.”

David and Jahra nodded solemnly. “You can trust us; we will say nothing,” David said, unsure whether to treat the remark as a joke.

They sat in awkward silence.

Jonathan looked at the boys. “What? No request from your prince?” He leaned back with a groan. “Good. In any event, I extorted your promise on false pretenses, not having any kingdom at my disposal.” He winked at them. “It is all my father’s until such time as he has passed.”

He sat up, looking around. “Where is that wine bag? We need something more substantial than water to formalize our agreement.” David handed it over, and they each took drinks from the bag. Jonathan passed it around several times. David was accustomed to drinking wine mixed with water; drinking it straight was making his head spin.

The prince slid back down on his mat, letting out a contented sigh. “I hate to say it—and I will deny it if you ever repeat it—but those uncircumcised Philistines know what to do with grapes.”

While they were passing the bag around, David had thought of a reasonably intelligent question. “Prince Jonathan,” he began, “what caused the Philistine army to panic? It was as if they had lost their minds.”

“You saw this yourselves?”

David nodded, then turned to point behind him. “Over there, at the bend in the road.” He described the carnage they had witnessed. He was growing more confident the more he spoke and was about to relate what the Israelites had done but decided against it. The words of a Galilean fisherman came to mind: “The fish is caught because he opened his mouth one time too many.” David closed his.

“That
is
unusual,” Jonathan muttered, staring into the sky. Reaching for the wine bag, he took a thoughtful drink. “I wonder.” He stopped himself. “Come to think of it, there was that one Philistine who managed to avoid Asa’s arrow.”

The hairs on David’s arms bristled. There was a war story coming. David’s fingers were drumming on the ground excitedly by the time Jonathan was ready to continue.

“This is a three-stick story,” Jonathan said, and David hurried to throw more wood on the fire.

Jonathan leaned back against the ledge and gingerly kneaded his bandaged head as he recounted how he and his shield bearer, Asa, had attacked the Philistine outpost.

“How many troops were stationed there?” David asked.

“I was not sure at the time. But as it turned out, there must have been nearly two dozen.”

“And you decided to attack it alone?”

“Not quite,” Jonathan said, laughing. He explained how they had baited the hook to see whether Yahweh would support their assault. “When they told us to climb up to fight them, I knew that the Lord Sabaoth had given them over to us.”

David’s eyes stung with pride.

Jonathan’s voice grew soft. “Sadly, one of them got to Asa. There was not a better archer in all the land. He would not have been killed had he not emptied his quiver.”

“But what routed their army?”

Jonathan did not respond. He only looked at David with his eyebrows raised.

David recalled his own almost uncontrollable impulse to throw himself into the frenzy. “You mean? Oh, that’s what I … what caused …”

“Of course. Don’t you remember what Moses told the armies as they prepared to enter Canaan?” The timbre of Jonathan’s voice changed as he recited the incident. “‘The Lord shall send hornets in front of you to drive the Hivite and Canaanite and Hittite from your presence. He shall spread panic ahead of you and throw all your enemies into confusion.’”

Jonathan glanced at the young men and spread out his hands. “How do you think the Lord managed that in Joshua’s day? By sending buzzing insects to frighten trained warriors?” He sniffed dismissively. “The God who sent His wind to part the Red Sea and drown the Egyptians can send a nameless terror to drive men out of their minds.”

David and Jahra nodded, encouraging the prince to continue.

“Which reminds me,” Jonathan said, looking at David again with that strange expression. “I think my father could benefit from your music.” He yawned, pushing himself carefully away from the ledge and lying down on the cloaks. “I am a good judge of such things, and there is something in your music that could do him a great service. The God who can drive men mad can also heal from madness.”

Jonathan seemed to sense David’s bewilderment. “God gave you that victory song. And let me tell you, I’ve heard some of the best at Gibeah. Musicians are drawn there like flies to carrion. Your song was unlike any of theirs. He who inspired those words of triumph can just as easily give you words to comfort—even to heal.”

He turned on his side, facing the boys as they huddled by the fire. “Where are your cloaks?” he asked. He looked around, then patted the material underneath his head. “No. No,” he said, pulling at them so he could hand them back. “I appreciate it very much, my young friends, but I shall not allow you to freeze on my account. My own cloak will suffice.”

The boys were about to lie down when Jonathan spoke again. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but with all this talking, I forgot how little I’ve had to eat. The honey I ate this afternoon after I came down from the Philistine stronghold gave me just enough strength to make it to your camp. And as you saw, it was barely enough for that.”