Warrior Poet (18 page)

She rewarded him with a wan smile.

“That’s when we would beg to hear what Job told them.”

Lydea bit her lip as she kept her gaze fixed on the tree outside the window. “Yes,” she said. “Then I would say to you his words: ‘This I know—my Avenger lives, and after my awakening, He will place me close to Him. And in my flesh I shall look on God.’” Her last words were almost a whisper.

David reached past the kinnor and laid his hand on her arm. He could not remember it ever feeling so frail. She seemed lost in her memory. “I would shake my finger like you were Job’s friends. You and my Jahra would laugh so very hard you could not stop.” Her voice quavered as a tear slid down her cheek.

She wiped a hand across her face. “Job was a very wise man who knew God. I think he was right. After death, we shall see God, and each other.”

“Do you want more water?” David asked, gesturing to the empty cup.

“I need to say to you something,” she said, ignoring his question.

“What is it?” he asked, suddenly apprehensive.

“Your grandfather made this,” she said, staring at the pouch in front of her.

“Which one?” he asked incredulously, thinking of the tough men of business on both sides of his family.

“No. Not them.” She was silent for a few moments. When she spoke again, her voice was soft but firm. “Before I explain, I must ask forgiveness of you. I know you wanted to know these things for a long time, and perhaps I think now I should have told you, but … I—I was afraid.” She lifted her hand to keep him from interrupting. “You will understand after I finish.”

Lydea smoothed her dress in a nervous gesture; then, as if she needed to occupy her hands, she took a rag out of her pocket and began twisting it. “I did not tell you the truth—not all of it. But before I do, you will promise me something.”

“What?” was all he could manage to say.

“You must swear not to return an evil for an evil.” She stared at him. “If you do not, then I cannot go on.”

He had no other recourse but to comply. “I promise.”

“Say the words,” she prodded.

“I will not seek revenge because of what you are about to tell me.”

She looked at him hard for several long moments, then began to speak. “I knew your mother, and she died giving you birth, that is true. She was fifteen years of age, and her name was Shohanna. I called her Anna Lydea.” Her voice quavered momentarily. “She was my daughter.”

He gaped at her, feeling the color drain from his face. She hurried on. “My husband was killed by the Assyrians who captured us. When Jesse became my master, Anna was fourteen and I was with child—with Jahra. He was born a year before you.”

David wasn’t listening. “Fourteen?” he asked, thinking of the ages of his brothers. “So did my father have two wives? What happened to—”

She raised her hand again. “Anna was the most beautiful girl in Judah. She had eyes the same color as you, and she was also a wonderful singer. In the evening, she would play the kinnor, and we would sing together for hours. In Luz, our family was very famous. My father’s—your great-grandfather’s—instruments sold in Babylon and Persia. This kinnor was a special gift for your mother,” she said, looking at the bag in front of them. “So, David, you can be proud—in you is the blood of great musicians.”

David was still trying to make sense of Lydea’s words. “I don’t understand. When did my father marry her?”

“He didn’t,” she snapped, twisting the rag into a knot. She stopped David’s question with a glare and a fierce shake of her head.

“Anna loved to sing, but how she loved dancing so much. Whenever she did, her eyes would shine like … like … precious stones. It was a gift—a gift from God. My grandmother also had it. It could make people cry. Anyway, after the twins were born, Jesse’s wife became very sad. She was not a strong woman. During the feast to celebrate their circumcision, one of your brothers asked Anna to dance for them.”

She smoothed out the rag and spread it carefully in front of her, as if covering a stain. “I did not want her to. It was special, only for the family, but I had no choice. So I played, and she danced.” David heard her take in several quavering breaths. “From that moment, your father wanted my Anna.” She lifted her face to David. “I thought I could protect her.” The shame David read there made him want to retch. “I was wrong.” She was staring at the square cloth, her words brittle. “Eventually, he came into the house and forced her. A month later she told me she was with his child.”

A black fury flooded him. He grabbed the kinnor bag and threw it across the room. There was a snap and a muffled twang as it bounced into the air and dropped to the ground. He jumped up and kicked it as hard as he could, screaming, “Curse him!”

Lydea gave him a stricken look but remained quiet, waiting for him to sit down.

With a thrust of his forearm, David wiped his eyes. He wanted to tear something apart. He wanted to choke the life out of his father. Instead, he dropped back down on the bench. A groan broke from him as his head fell forward on top of his arms.

Lydea cleared her throat, tried to speak, and cleared it again. “So, almost a year after Jahra, you were born. Anna was too young and small-boned. It was very difficult for her. She died a few days later.” Pain was now etched along the sides of her face. “Jesse’s wife knew everything and began to spread lies, saying Anna tempted him. She told everybody so many lies, and one night she left and nobody found her again.”

David lifted his head, understanding beginning to dawn on him. “But why couldn’t you tell me?” He felt a pang of dread, then asked, “Did my father threaten you?”

She parceled each word out as if wanting to prevent another outburst. “Yes—he said we could stay here—only as long as I did not say to you anything about your mother. If I did—he would send me and Jahra away.”

“And now that Jahra is dead, you no longer care.” It was a statement, not a question.

She did not bother to nod. Instead she stood, walked slowly toward the far wall, bent over, and picked up the kinnor bag. She untied the string at the bag’s mouth, exposing its polished base, and brought it back to the table. “Look at its bottom,” she said.

Listlessly David drew it to him and turned it upside down.

“You see those letters?”

They were obvious now that she had drawn his attention to them. He traced his finger over the
shin
and the
lamed
.

“They are your mother’s initials. Your grandfather carved them. He gave it to her when she turned fourteen years.”

Something stirred inside him.

Lydea rested her fingertips on the letters, as if giving a blessing, then tied the bag shut. “It was your mother’s; now it is yours. Whenever you hold it, remember her.” She looked intently at him. “And Da-veed”—she emphasized each syllable, as Jahra had done—“remember also that—that you are—loved.” There was an almost frightening intensity in her eyes. “And do not forget the promise to me. No matter what, Jesse is still your father.”

She grew quiet. When she spoke again, her voice had taken on the edge it assumed when she was about to assign him an unpleasant task. “I know you wish to be alone, but you need to do something for me. When you were gone, I also made a promise. You know Joab wants to learn to use the sling.” She rushed through his protest. “I told him that when you came back, you would do this thing. I made a promise.” He started to protest again, but she waved it away. “Do it for me, please. For your
grandmother
.”

He did not know what to say. This was the last thing he wanted to do.

Lydea leaned toward him, resting her weight on the table. She seemed to have aged several years. She motioned for him to stand by her. Walking around the table, he put his arm on her shoulder. She turned toward him. “Remember your name,” she said. Then, pulling his face toward her, she pressed her lips to his forehead and repeated, “Remember your name, my precious
nazir
.” Her words enfolded him like a prayer shawl.

David did not move. He had to ask the one question that had been hammering at him since the secret had been revealed. Lydea grew very still. Her eyes were begging him not to ask, but he had to know. When he was certain he could speak, he choked out the words. “Did my mother want me?”

She did not answer.

The fear was like a vise squeezing his heart. “Did she give me my name?”

Her eyes widened slightly. She was about to speak but stiffened, her mouth a thin, defensive line as she gestured toward the door. “That is enough for one day. Find Joab. I must lie down and rest.” There was sorrow in her voice that she could not keep from her eyes. “If you will not do it for me, do it for your mother who gave you birth.”

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,