Warrior Poet (5 page)

Samuel’s voice grew soft, as if all the speaking had exhausted him. Saul had to strain to hear what the prophet would say next. He was scared and confused, hoping for some clear instructions. But that guidance did not come.

“When this occurs, do whatever your hand finds to do, for God is with you.”

Samuel stopped, took a trembling breath, then continued. “After time has passed, go down before me to Gilgal, and look, I shall be coming down to offer burnt offerings and to sacrifice communion offerings. Wait there seven days until I come to you, and I shall tell you what you must do.”

That was it—a bit of direction mixed with a potful of uncertainty.

As Saul had suspected, the prophecies had proved accurate, including, to his chagrin, the embarrassing frenzy. It had overtaken him when he heard the instruments played by the prophets coming down from the high place at Gibeath-Elohim.

He had never experienced anything similar. Something about the beat of the drum and the cymbals quickened his pulse. As the band drew nearer, he heard the infectious sounds of harp, flute, and lyre. The cadences of the singers sent a tingling from the top of his head to his fingers and toes. Something strange and terrifying and huge was boiling up inside him. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. He gasped, the pressure rising up in his chest. His right hand started to tremble, followed by his entire body.

What happened next was unclear. Unintelligible sounds burst from his mouth. He had never been much of a singer, but the sounds felt sweet and lovely and light, like a lover’s song. As the words rose, riding upon a musical, rhythmic chant, he spun and jumped with an abandon he would have thought ridiculous only moments earlier. He’d always been too embarrassed of his height to take pleasure in those exuberant displays reserved for wedding celebrations. Now, however, as he danced among the prophets, his self-consciousness was gone.

He spun with arms extended, facing the sky. It was exhilarating. Though he’d always managed to keep his emotions in check, tears were coursing down his cheeks. At some point, he realized he could no longer feel the ground. Lost in a whirlwind of pleasure and joy, he was spiraling like a dust cloud that has lifted into the air. It might have lasted for hours. It could have lasted a lifetime. But in the end, five simple words dragged him down.

What must I look like?

It stopped as suddenly as it began. He found himself surrounded by eight prophets holding musical instruments. His arms were uplifted, his eyes felt swollen, his throat was raw, as if he’d been crying out at the top of his lungs. His thighs and ankles ached. He felt utterly clean and light as breath. When he looked beyond the circle of musicians, he became aware of the crowd of people who had gathered around the worshippers. They look stunned, as if they’d witnessed some kind of miracle. The heat began creeping up his neck. Scrambling to pick up his cloak, he threw it around his shoulders and shuffled as quickly as he could out of the ring.

Upon his return home, he’d found the donkeys eating lazily in their pen. His father had gone to market without him, so it was his uncle who insisted on hearing all that had transpired. When Saul mentioned the encounter with Samuel, his uncle pressed for details. Saul related the prophet’s predictions but was too timid to say anything about the anointing.

Less than a week later, Samuel had called for a tribal gathering at Mizpah. It seemed ludicrous to Saul now as he looked back on it, but he’d felt so overwhelmed that he tried to hide among the baggage. But he was found out and dragged into the open.

The people were doubly enthused, mistaking his timidity for humility, and began shouting, “Long live the king!” With that phrase all hope for a subordinate role vanished. He had been forced to live a lie, pretending to a competence and a confidence he did not possess.

But that had been a long time ago. Responsibility had been terrifying, but he’d discovered the delights of privilege and the intoxication of power. His fear was no longer exposure but usurpation. That was what robbed him of sleep.

He jerked his head around. The moon was full and as large as the silver platter the northern tribes had given as a coronation gift. Somehow—he could not remember how—he had risen from his bed, walked past the guards, and wandered through the gates that encircled Gibeah. Saul blinked and rubbed his eyes. These episodes were becoming more common. At first he’d begun forgetting important details, including names and events; now he was taking walks at night with no memory of leaving the palace stronghold.

His body was damp with sweat. His chest felt as if he’d been taking in great gulps of air. The branches of the trees were outlined in a menacing silver-blue light. They seemed to be reaching out for him. The road was empty, but he had a terrible certainty that he was being followed. He felt for his sword, then his dagger, but he’d left both next to his bed. He looked at his hands. His skin was the color of a corpse long dead.

He picked up his pace.

The sound of sandals slapping the dirt behind him confirmed his fears. His assailants were keeping pace with him. He was running now. A noose tightened around his neck. The only sound that came was a childish whimper. Rage flooded him. He would not die with the sound of an infant or a terrified woman on his lips as murderous conspirators tried to steal his throne.

He had seen them whispering and skulking about with their hungry eyes fixed on his crown. Once the band had terrified him, but now, with its emeralds and rubies and golden filigree, it drew him with the languorous glances of an Egyptian prostitute. The feel of it was almost erotic. He had come to recognize that constant, ruthless vigilance was the price for preserving the crown for himself and for his firstborn son, Jonathan.

A trickle of sweat ran down his spine. The footsteps were gaining on him. Light glinted off unsheathed swords. Maybe it wasn’t swords. It could be eyes: wolves chasing him down for the kill. His chest was heaving. It had been too long since he’d needed to exert himself. Royal food and indolence had joined the conspiracy, rendering him defenseless.

I … am … the … king!
his mind screamed through ragged breaths.
I will fight and die like one!
He halted in the middle of the road.

The sounds of laughter stung him, engulfing him like a flock of crows. He spun, trying to locate his attackers. He was lying on his back, moaning. Tears running down his cheeks drenched his beard. A grotesque human face was peering hungrily at him, its lower jaw disjointed and protruding. The muscles in the lower part of its face were contracting. Like living clay, its mouth was shifting and sliding, assuming a reptilian shape. Its eyes were now red and hooded, and from the impossibly distended jaw a red tongue darted and wrapped around his crown. He thrust his arms over his head so it could not tear away the golden circlet.

The reptile had incredible strength. It was prying his fingers loose with inexorable force. He thrashed against it, wanting to scream, but his mouth felt glued shut. Saul was mesmerized by the amber eyes boring into his, eyes filled with loathing and a poisonous cunning. Though the man’s face was twisted and swollen, Saul recognized it immediately.

It was Jonathan! He had orchestrated this ambush. Saul wanted to vomit, but he began to tremble violently instead. He stared around uncomprehendingly. He was in a room. A broidered cloth spanned the posts above his head. It was familiar. The pillow beneath his head was wet, and a water jug was overturned on the bedcovers. His wife was huddled on the floor, crying, welts on the side of her face. His own hands were around someone’s throat.

Finally completely conscious, he dropped his hands from Jonathan’s neck. Then, with a shuddering breath, he screamed, “Leave my room, all of you! Curse you! Leave me alone! I will not let you have it!”

Chapter Six

Samuel had not slept at all. He was inside his house, trudging stiffly from one side to the other. The floor was hard-packed earth. Thanks to Ginath’s dedication, it was clean and as smooth as polished wood. He took in a painful breath and rested his hand on the rounded stones that made up the walls of his compact home.

He was listening.

The dialogues had begun when he was a homesick little boy serving Eli the high priest in the tabernacle at Shiloh. It was before the Philistine attack that had forced the move to Bethel.

His favorite chore was to walk the perimeter of the rectangular inner court and locate any tears in the linen curtains that hung between the twenty posts on the north and south sides and the ten posts on the east and west sides. He counted his steps each morning: seventy-five paces for each of the long ends and thirty-seven for the short ends. Two hundred and twenty-four paces. When he did find any tears, he was to report them to the embroidery women.

When Eli had begun to lose his sight, Samuel had been given the task of helping the high priest count the money. He had not been told why he had not asked his own sons.

He could remember it as if it had happened last night. It was on his eighth birthday. He and Eli were asleep on their mats in the tent outside the front entrance to the tabernacle court that served as their eating and sleeping quarters. A veil intersected the tent into two separate chambers.

“Samuel,” a Voice had whispered. He’d gotten up immediately to see what Eli wanted. The priest was not one to be kept waiting, and there was a note of urgency that made Samuel’s heart race.

“Here I am, for you called me,” Samuel said.

“I did not call,” the old man replied groggily. “Go back and lie down.”

Once more the Voice had called. Again Samuel had run to Eli’s side. “Go back to bed, my son; you must be dreaming,” Eli said—but this time with less conviction.

The third time, Samuel had tentatively pushed aside the veil and shuffled back to Eli, worried that the priest would lose his temper. When he approached, Eli was wide awake. Propped up on one arm, the old man, who was now almost completely blind, gestured for his servant boy to come closer.

“Samuel, go back and lie down,” he whispered, “and should someone call to you, say this: ‘Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening.’” Eli’s face held a wistful expression. He clutched Samuel’s arm so tightly, it hurt.

This time his name was repeated twice, and he responded as Eli had instructed him. But what the Voice told him so shook him he covered his head with his cloak to muffle his sobs. The next morning, Eli forced him to disclose what he’d been told: Eli and his house would be wiped out. God was going to judge the high priest for refusing to restrain the wicked behavior of his two sons. Samuel had no idea what this meant.

Apparently Eli understood, for his shoulders had slumped and he’d lifted his face to the sky, murmuring weakly, “He is the Lord. What is good in His eyes, let Him do.”

That was almost seven decades ago. Ever since, Samuel had slept lightly, on alert for another summons in the night. Over the long years, the prophet had tried to come to terms with fitful sleep and regular interruptions, accepting it as an occupational hazard. As he crossed into his eighth decade, and as sleep became more fitful, he had become more cantankerous. Losing Siphora, his companion for over fifty years, had not helped.

It was something only his servant understood. Ginath had been a mercy. From the moment he’d joined the household, Ginath had watched over the bereaved old prophet with uncommon solicitude. He moved with alacrity and ignored Samuel’s temper. Also, since he was Ginath was in his middle years, he was a welcome sounding board. Samuel considered him a gift from the Lord to compensate for his wife’s death and for his two lazy, selfish sons, around whom rumors of dishonesty swarmed like gnats.

His boys, Joel and Abijah, had been such disappointments. He had dreamed of passing his prophetic mantle on to them, as well as his role as judge. But their habit of taking bribes from worshippers had disqualified them.

At least his boys were nothing like Eli’s. Hophni and Phineas had been perverse as well as incorrigible. They not only stole the choice meat from the sacrificial pots but also enjoyed illicit relations with the embroidery women.

Samuel grimaced as he straightened his stiff back and turned to pace across to the other side of his house. While there was no question that taking a bribe here or there was an offense, he was hopeful that Joel and Abijah would not be punished as severely as Eli’s boys.

“Lord, have mercy,” he prayed for the thousandth time as he made his turn one pace away from the far wall with its open window. “Do not treat my sons as their sins deserve. Do not cut them or their families off from before You. Remember my service and my devotion to Your name. El Shaddai, leave me a place among Your chosen people for generations to come.”

Ginath raised himself from his pallet and looked toward the horizon. It was too dark to make anything out. In warm weather he slept on the roof under the stars. His head rested against the low wall that ran along its border so he could hear Samuel’s voice through the window beneath it. Ginath was a light sleeper, and when the prophet prayed, his quavering voice would rise with emotion. Samuel was awake, and Ginath had to care for the needs of his master.

The old prophet did not indicate that he’d noticed Ginath’s entrance. Ginath took the lamp to the fireplace at the opposite wall, where another window also stood open, and lit it from one of the embers. He set it on the table near the center of the room and hurried toward Samuel. The Ethiopian had a sense about these things. He knew where all this pondering about disobedient children would lead. This morning, it came sooner than expected. Samuel halted his pacing and pressed his palm over his mouth to stifle a sob. Ginath caught the prophet as his knees buckled and he began toppling to the stone floor.

“Why, O Lord? Why?” Samuel moaned.

Ginath sat him down in the chair next to the fireplace. Samuel put his elbows on his knees and rested his head on both hands, staring at the glowing coals.

“Lord of heaven and earth,” Samuel cried out suddenly, “why should I have lived to see this day? I warned Your people, and they did not listen. They would have a king, You gave them one, and so I anointed him to lead the nation.” He wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his tunic.

Ginath placed several dry sticks on the embers and stirred them into flame.

“They would not have You lead them; they wanted to be like the Gentile nations, so they rejected You and refused to have me serve as their judge. You raised up Saul from the tribe of Benjamin, one who was once small in his own eyes. But now—” Samuel’s voice choked.

Ginath brought a cup of water from the jug in the corner. Samuel emptied it and handed it back.

The Ethiopian set the cup near Samuel’s feet, pulled over a rug, and sat down. “Master?” he said, gently trying to get Samuel’s attention. The old man remained still.

“Master?” he repeated. The prophet’s head turned, and his bushy eyebrows lifted slightly as he focused on Ginath. “Please tell me: What did King Saul do?”

Samuel looked down at his hands clasped tightly in his lap, then lifted them to look out the open window in front of him. His eyes were red and vacant. His weeping had nearly exhausted him. Though worn out with sorrow, his voice was brusque.

“More to the point,” he growled, “is what the Lord said.” He gathered his strength, then continued. “Before their last battle, I said to Saul, ‘Thus says the Lord God of Israel, “I have not forgotten what the Amalekites did in slaughtering My people when I brought them out of Egypt into the land of promise. Now, go and strike down Amalek, and put under the ban everything that he has.”’”

He reached down for the water, but Ginath anticipated him. Samuel took two large swallows, then said, “Let me explain. When our nation was delivered from the hand of Pharaoh, we passed through the land of Amalek. Their raiders ambushed our stragglers—the women with small children struggling to keep up—and killed them all. It was to avenge their deaths that the Lord imposed the ban. Oxen, sheep, camels, and donkeys were to be destroyed, as well as every Amalekite—without exception.”

Samuel looked steadily into the eyes of the Ethiopian, as if defying him to object. “I told Saul that the Lord had commanded the death of every living thing, including the king.” He handed Ginath the cup. “After the battle, the Lord told me that Saul had turned back from Him by refusing to obey His words. And such was the Lord’s grief that He regretted having appointed Saul king. When I arrived to confront Saul, he told me he had fulfilled the word of the Lord!” Samuel shoved loose strands of hair out of his eyes with an impatient hand as if trying to push away a distasteful memory.

“That made me furious! The noise of thousands of animals was almost drowning out his words, yet here he was boasting about his obedience.” Samuel lifted his staff and shook it. “I wanted to club him with this; instead I demanded that he explain their presence. He said that the soldiers had killed most of the animals but had spared some as a sacrifice to God.”

With Ginath’s help Samuel pushed himself up from his chair and resumed pacing. “I asked him why he had not listened to the voice of the Lord. But instead of confessing his sin, he assured me that he
had
obeyed, since every Amalekite had been placed under the ban. Then, as if mentioning a trifle, he added, ‘All except Agag the king.’”

At this, Samuel hit the wall with his staff.

“This time, I could not help myself; I lifted my stick to him, but one of his guards restrained me.” Samuel grew quiet at the memory. A look crossed his face that Ginath had never seen. It was an expression of confusion, disbelief, amazement.

“I will never forget it,” Samuel continued, his voice growing small. “There was such hurt in Saul’s eyes, as if he were more shocked than I. And then he asked me something that staggered me. ‘What more does your God want?’ Saul asked. ‘Is Lord Sabaoth not a God of war? Does He not command sacrifice? Does He not derive pleasure from the death of His enemies?’” Still holding his staff, the prophet shook his head in disbelief. “I will tell you, Ginath, at that moment I felt sympathy for him. He was like a confused child. Before I could respond, the king was shouting: ‘I obeyed what He commanded and kept only the best sheep to sacrifice to your God at Gilgal. I thought He—and you—would be pleased with that!’”

Wrapping the gnarled fingers of his free hand around Ginath’s wrist, Samuel looked at him with tears in his eyes. “Gilgal is where Saul disobeyed many years ago by making a sacrifice without waiting for me as I had commanded. I suspect he was intending to make up for that act. That saddened me, but it was his next question that broke my heart: ‘Why is not your God pleased with me?’”

Samuel bowed his head but did not let go of Ginath’s arm or the staff. “It was then that the Spirit of the Lord came upon me, and I declared: ‘Is the pleasure of Yahweh in holocausts and sacrifices or in obedience to His voice? Be assured of this, obedience is better than sacrifice, submissiveness better than the fat of rams.’”

The staff slipped out of Samuel’s hand and clattered to the floor. “I grabbed his arm like I am grabbing yours, and I said, ‘Do you not know that defiance is as great a sin as idolatry?’”

Ginath tried once more to lead Samuel back to the chair in front of the fire, but the prophet would not move. “Saul made a weak apology, trying to justify his disobedience, but I would have none of it. The Lord had made His choice.” Samuel’s voice broke, and as tears slid down his cheeks, he said, “I had to deliver the message. I told him that since he had cast off the word of the Lord, the Lord had cast him aside as king.”

The old prophet’s head drooped, and his hand slid off Ginath’s arm. From underneath the great mane of hair came Samuel’s voice. It was weak and thin.

“When I turned to leave, Saul reached for my cloak, and it tore.” He waved his fingers at the folded material on the table. “I knew it was a sign.” This last word was barely decipherable.

“‘This day, the Lord has torn the kingship of Israel away from you,’ I said. ‘He has given it to a fellow Israelite, who is better than you. And what the Lord has said … He will do.’”

Samuel gestured for the cup. He turned it over slowly, spilling the contents onto the hearth. “And now,” he intoned with a weary sadness, “I shall never see Saul again.” He threw the empty vessel and broke it against the blackened stone.

Placing an arm around the prophet, Ginath waited for the old man to compose himself. When Samuel was ready, the Ethiopian led him to the sleeping pallet in the separate room, adjusting the goatskin filled with wool he used for a pillow. Before closing his eyes, Samuel whispered, “I know what you are wondering. And the answer is, I don’t know. The Lord only told me he will be from the tribe of Judah.”