Abigail's Story (15 page)

The dal raised his fist to clout the captive over the head, and then a terribly familiar voice called out, “Hold.”

The crowd around the Philistines parted and formed two lines, as soldiers would for their commander. The dal bowed their heads with respect as
the shepherd with the blue mantle walked down the corridor they had formed.

I caught my breath as he ignored the captives and came toward us. After giving me a narrow look, he addressed Bethel.

“I regret that my men have brought violence into your camp, wife of Yehud,” he said. His black eyes did not possess a trace of kindness or humor now; the blaze of anger made them glitter like live embers.

“
Now
you bring, and
now
you regret,” Bethel muttered. “When our men are gone, when there is no one to decide what is to happen to these men.”

He stood. “That is for me to do.”

Bethel shook her head. “My husband has spoken to you before. This I know. He will not allow killing here.”

“Your husband is gone, and what men you have do not guard you as they should.” He gestured toward the captives. “These men came into the pasture and killed four of your goats. We found them roasting the meat in the forest. What if they had taken your daughters instead of the animals?”

Bethel grew furious. “You have a clever tongue, Rea, but you have no say here. You may take your captives and leave this land.”

“As you say, wife of Yehud.” The shepherd gave me another piercing glance before he walked to where the Philistines were bound to the stakes.

“We should rejoin the other women,” I suggested.

Bethel refused to leave. “I must answer to my
husband for what happens here, so I must stay and watch,” she told me. “If you are afraid, you can go and hide under a blanket.”

I was afraid—terribly so, after seeing the fury in the shepherd's dark eyes—but I could not leave her alone, or hide from what he was about to do. Like her, I would stand and serve as witness.

The shepherd said something in a low voice, and the captives were seized and dragged by the dal from the center of camp. When the men had passed outside the horoi stones, they halted and formed a wide circle with the shepherd and the two captives in the center.

“Only so far and no farther,” the old woman murmured. “I vow his pride will be his end.”

Bethel did not move, and I could not leave her. Helplessly I watched the shepherd as he removed his blue mantle, his simla, and all of his weapons except his staff, and handed them to one of the dal. “What will he do?”

“Fight them.” She rubbed her eyes with her twisted fingers in a tired manner. “It is the path he walks, and all he knows.”

Two knives were thrown in the dirt before the captives, who were also cut free from their bonds. Both of the Philistines immediately snatched up the knives and held them ready for stabbing.

The shepherd spoke again, and I leaned forward, trying to catch the words.

“You killed animals that did not belong to you,”
he told the captives. “You ate meat that belonged in other bellies.”

“That was because we could not find you, goatherd.” The taller, younger captive made an obscene-looking gesture with his hand. “Our king will pay much gold to see you turning over his cook fire.” He turned to the other Philistine and asked loudly, “Did you know he was this puny?”

Puny?
My jaw sagged. The shepherd may have only been a head taller than me, but he could not be considered small or weak, by any means. Then I realized the Philistines were trying to goad the shepherd to anger.

“You can leave this place unharmed and return to that stinking cesspit of sin you call your home,” the shepherd continued, appearing unruffled by the slurs made against him. “All you need do is kill me.”

Without warning the Philistines lunged at the shepherd, one from each side, knives flashing.

I covered my mouth with my hand to muffle my cry, and then I saw the shepherd move. He stepped out, brought his staff in a whistling arc, and knocked the first, then the second captive, off his feet. The dal shouted their approval and gathered in, closing the circle around the three men.

“I cannot see what they do.” Bethel prodded me forward. “Go to the stones. See what is happening.”

I hurried to the boundary of the camp and climbed atop one of the horoi. From there I could see beyond the round wall of men surrounding the three fighting.

The Philistines were on their backs, rolling and groaning, but instead of attacking them while they lay on the ground, the shepherd planted his staff and waited, allowing them to rise. This time the captives did not launch themselves at him together, but exchanged signals by hand and made their own circle around the shepherd.

“Jackals,” I heard one of the dal say. “Looking for a weakness.”

“They will find none,” another replied.

The fight seemed as if it might never end. My fingernails dug into my palms as I watched; my heart lodged in the back of my throat. The captives were determined to kill the shepherd, and slashed their blades in the air. The shepherd did not react until they drew close enough for him to strike, and then he moved. With his staff he dealt blow after blow, bloodying the captives' faces and leaving large, painful-looking welts on their limbs.

He fought like a man who had thrashed a thousand opponents, yet I saw him take no joy in the fight. His expression was not that of a man prevailing over a superior enemy. He had no expression at all.

Did he feel nothing, or did he not permit himself to feel?

Whatever he felt, the shepherd wielded his staff so swiftly and viciously that he was able to strike both captives, one after the other. No matter how they dodged or ducked, neither could avoid the blows. Soon the Philistines, unable to stand straight, were staggering and dripping blood from a dozen wounds.

I nearly fell off the stone when without warning one of the captives whirled and broke out of the circle of the dal, running away and leaving his companion alone with the shepherd. None of the dal tried to pursue him, and I shifted my gaze in time to see the shepherd avoid a knife in his chest and deal a deadly blow to the neck of the captive left behind.

It had been a ruse, to distract the shepherd, and now a man lay dead.

I had never seen a killing before, and even with my distance from the sight, my stomach wanted to empty itself. I scrambled down from the stone and bent over, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths.

“Give me a sword.”

It was as if the shepherd had commanded me, and I opened my eyes and straightened in time to see the circle of dal part and the shepherd run out toward the trees. The escaping captive was almost to the forest now; a few more feet and he would be lost from sight.

The shepherd ran so quickly that he crossed half the distance between them before the captive left the clearing. With a fluid motion, the shepherd lifted the long, gleaming sword and threw it. It landed in the back of the escaping captive, who gurgled out a cry and fell over into the grass.

The shepherd slowed to a walk and went to the fallen man. With the efficiency of a herdsman, he took the sword from the captive's back and used it to slit the dying man's throat.

This was the same man who had danced in the rain.

What I felt at that moment made me back away, stumbling over my feet, and then I turned and ran into the camp. Bethel stood waiting where I had left her, and from the paleness of her face I knew she had seen the last man die as I had.

“It is done,” she said, the words a bitter rasp. “Come, Abigail. I must send word of this to Yehud. He will make this rabble leave our land before they begin killing us.”

“Their leader is the man with the blue mantle, is he not?” When she nodded, my heart constricted. “Who is he?”

The old woman gave me a withering look. “He is David, Abigail.”

“David.” Surely not—

“Yes, David, son of Jesse, anointed by Samuel, slayer of Goliath. Now David the outlaw, the despised of the king, the hunted."

Leha came out of the tent and hurried over to us. “Malme has passed water and blood, and her pains have started. The babe is coming.”

CHAPTER
14

T
he confrontation with David and the dal left Bethel exhausted, so I agreed to stay and help Leha with the birth. One of the younger women herded the children from the tent, but most of the married women stayed.

Birth was a dangerous time, one the women of the family shared together to the end.

Leha and I propped Malme between us and carried her to the moon tent, where women stayed segregated during the time of their monthly bleeding or when babies were born. Men were not permitted to step foot inside the moon tent, so Malme's husband would not be able to see her when he returned from the herd lands with Yehud.

It was perhaps a good thing that Malme's husband was away, for the young woman screeched vile curses upon his head with every wave of pain. At last, weary of the noise, Bethel told me to fetch a
piece of leather and instructed Malme to bite down on it when the pain came on.

“No more curses,” Bethel said, “or the Adonai might mishear you and heap them on the head of your son.”

“It hurts, it hurts,” Malme moaned.

“Silence,” the old woman snapped. “Do not shame the women of this family. You bring a child into the world. It is
supposed
to be painful.”

Leha exchanged a look with me before she rose and took Bethel's arm. “You should rest now, Aunt. We will call for you should you be needed.” She led her over to a comfortable mat and helped her settle.

I dampened a cloth and wiped the tears from Malme's cheeks. “The little one will be here soon,” I told her. “Do you wish for a son or a daughter?”

“I wish this baby never to come,” she said, her voice tight. “For it will kill me, and then that old witch will raise it to hate me for dying.”

“Then you must live, if only to tell it your side of the story,” I said, gently blotting the sweat from her brow. I was trying desperately to remember what Cetura had said about this business of birthing babies. All she had mentioned was that the pains were terrible and that losing too much blood after was what killed the mothers.
Please, Adonai, enough have died on this day.
“Have you and your husband decided on names?”

“He wishes Ephron for a boy,” Malme panted out as the next pain gripped her, “and Luz for a girl. They are ugly names. I hate them. I hate
him
.”

“Then you must forgive your husband for being a man and persuade him to give your babe a name that sounds joyful to your ears,” I told her as I arranged the blanket over her trembling limbs.

The pains were not steady and seemed to subside after a time. Leha joined me and soothed Malme until the young woman drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep.

“I wish we were not so far from a village or town,” Leha said quietly. “Pains that come and go as this mean the birth will take at least a night and a day, and she is already so weak.”

Part of her weakness was due to lack of food, something everyone in the camp had suffered. But Malme had been eating not to feed only herself, but her child as well.
Yet another life my husband has damaged.

We watched over Malme and kept her dry and clean. As the sun began to set, two of the other women came to take a turn so that Leha and I could eat and fetch fresh water. We talked as we shared a half loaf of barley and a bowl of bean porridge, and Leha asked what I had seen happen with the dal and their captives.

I told her all, leaving out only the most ghastly details of how David had killed the two Philistines. She paled as she listened, but she did not seem as shocked as I had been by the dal's brutal treatment of their captives.

“They mean to protect us,” she said when I had finished. “I know their ways are hard and rough, but
my uncle and cousins would have done the same.” Her mouth twisted. “Almost the same. They would have taken the thieves out of sight, so that none of us would see the killing.”

“Leha, why did David and his men come here? Why do they stay?” I saw her stiffen. “Your aunt will not tell me, and everyone avoids mention of them. You know the stories of David; to think he is here . . .” I still could not quite believe it. David truly was a legend, the chosen of the Adonai. He may have once been a shepherd, but he was now the future king of our people.

Or was he what Bethel claimed, an outlaw?

Leha avoided my gaze. “My aunt would not be pleased to hear us discussing David. Bethel says it is not a matter for women.”

“But this land belongs to my husband,” I made the excuse. “If there are killings and strife here, he must be told. He must do something about it.”

“Very well.” Leha looked from side to side. “Some say David is an outlaw, and his men are slaves, run away from their masters. Just as David runs from King Saul.” She made a quick gesture. “I do not think that, for David has always been a lawful man. Besides, they are too many. Would not four hundred slaves be hunted by their masters?”

I had to agree with her—no one would allow so many slaves the freedom to wander or form an army. It would incite other slaves to do the same. Was that what David had done, to make up this army? “Why does the king hunt him? Did he violate the law?”

“No one knows, but there are whispers about the king. They say the spirit of the Adonai has abandoned him from the time Samuel died. That his moods are frightening and change as the weather does. Yehud's cousin Avril has been to court and seen the king with David.” She lowered her voice. “Avril says King Saul sometimes acted as if possessed by demons. In his darkest moods, the king would not be soothed by anything but David's songs. Until he picked up and threw a spear at David one day, trying to kill him.”

I thought of what David had said at the spring. “Is the king truly hunting them now?”

Leha nodded. “It is why my uncle forbade us to have anything to do with David and the dal. He is a dangerous man, Abigail. King Saul commanded him to slay a hundred Philistines, to prove his loyalty. It is known throughout Judah that David slew
two
hundred and sent their heads to the king.”

Small wonder he slit the throat of the Philistine with such ease—he had much practice at killing.
But he took no joy in it, and it was not an even fight,
my heart argued.
There were two of them, armed with knives, while he had but a staff.

“But if David is so loyal, why does King Saul yet hunt him and his men?” Even for a king obsessed with dark moods, it seemed unreasonable. “What does he think they will do?”

“We cannot know his thoughts.” Leha sighed. “But I think it is as Bethel and Malme are. Malme is not so bad as my aunt makes out, you know. A bit
spoiled, but her heart is good. When Bethel looks at her, she sees Malme is young and beautiful and soon to be a new mother, and it tears at her heart.”

Because Bethel would never again be any of those things. “Jealousy.”

“Leha?” Bethel called.

The younger woman grimaced as she picked up the empty water jug. “I shall have to go to the spring later, I suppose. She will not wish me to leave now.”

I looked at the flap of the moon tent. I could stay in here and never face David, or I could help my friend and take the chance of seeing him.

A strangeness twisted in my heart, and I held out my hands. “Let me fetch it.”

 

The bodies of the two slain men had been removed, and the dal resumed their patrol as if nothing had happened. Indeed, there was no sign of what had occurred except for some scuff marks in the dirt at the center of camp. Perhaps David had instructed his men to remove all traces of the incident.

They could not do the same for the images I carried in my mind.

I did not speak to anyone as I left the camp, and I ignored the eyes that watched me go to the spring. No one came to stop me. Why should they? I was only a woman. A fearful, powerless woman who lived among strangers and had no means to protect herself, not even the presence of a caring husband.

I came through the gap and saw David sitting
beside the water's edge, his arms resting on his knees, his hands linked. He was staring at his reflection on the surface of the water.

I was not startled. Some part of me had known he would be waiting. My skin, perhaps. It had prickled all over with knowledge of him as soon as I entered the gap.

David stood. “Abigail.”

“I am only here for water.” I could not look into his eyes. I walked to the edge of the spring.

“You were watching me again.”

I caught my lip with my teeth and gave a single nod.

“I am sorry for that. Death is not for the eyes of women.”

“Women see death every day.” I thought of poor Malme, and the struggle she faced to birth her child. Would I have to watch her die, too? “We do not kill people, but we are the ones who must wash and wrap the bodies of the dead.” A harsh note entered my voice. “Will we have to do that for the men you slew?”

“We shall burn the bodies,” he said softly. “It is the custom of their people.”

Did he wish me to praise him for sparing us the funerary duty?

I bent to draw the water Leha needed. I felt awkward and uncomfortable, crouched as I was, for it was as if I made obeisance to him. I went still as David came down beside me.

“Abigail, will you never look upon me again?” He took the jug from my hands before I could fill it and set it aside.

“I dare not.” For my faithless heart wanted to do nothing more. “You are the melekh.” I said it as much to him as to myself.

A humble potter's daughter had no business speaking to an anointed king.

“I am the same man I was when you saw me dance in the rain.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “That man was a shepherd who sang praise to the Adonai.” I looked at him. “You are David, slayer of giants and Philistines. A king to be.”

“They are all the same man.” A shadow of grief passed over his face. “And an outlaw as well.”

“I know.” When he reached out to me, I stood and stepped away. “Please, I do not know what to do, or to say. I have never seen a man slain. I have no knowledge of kings.”

“I am a shepherd, Abigail.” His hand fell to his side. “Now I must lead men, and protect Israel, but it is not so different. What the Adonai asks of me will not change who and what I am.”

I thought of the terrible blankness in his face as he fought the Philistines. “I was so afraid today,” I whispered.

“I know. I would you not have seen it. But know I am not a monster—”

“No.” My fingertips rested against his lips. I looked all over his face, memorizing every line, every
color of him. “I was afraid for you. That I would see you slain by those men, with nothing I could do to save you. How could you be so reckless? To give them knives, to fight them both at once?” My voice grew choked. “Don't you understand? I was not afraid of you, but
for
you. The Adonai forgive me, but I was
glad
when you killed them.”

My own words shamed me to my bones, and I burst into tears.

“Shhh.” His arms came up around me, and he held me tenderly.

When I could control my emotions, I pulled back and dashed the tears from my face. “I must go,” I said, blindly reaching for the jug.

“Wait.” His palm cradled my damp cheek as he made me look at him. “In this moment, I could compose a thousand songs about the beauty of your eyes.”

“They are not beautiful.” I sniffed. “They are red and swollen.”

“So they are, and still they haunt my dreams.”

He dreamed of me. No, no, he could not. Kings did not dream of common maidens.

“I came to tell you that my men and I must leave here when the sheep are driven to Maon for shearing.” His thumb traced my bottom lip. “Abigail, when we go, will you come with me?”

Go with him? The heat ebbed from my limbs as quickly as he had awoken it with his touch. By asking me to go with him, David was inviting me to be his lover, perhaps even his wife.

Yet I was already married.

Everyone knew the law over the respectability of women. A man might take more than one wife, but a woman could not have more than one husband. A married woman could not take any man other than her husband as her lover.

Any woman who did not follow the law was an adulteress, and as such sacrificed all she had brought to the marriage to her husband, as well as what she had gained from him.

Such as a debt she had married him to pay, or a debt he had been forced to pay for her.

“I cannot.” I moved away. “You know nothing of me.”

His mouth curved. “I know that you are my little dove of peace. I would spend a thousand nights in your gentle arms.”

This had to end. “We will never spend a single night together. David, I am not free. I belong to another man. I am married.”

“What?”

I met his bewildered gaze. “I am Abigail of Carmel, wife of Nabal. My husband owns the flocks you have been guarding, and this land you and your men patrol. He is master of these people, and me.”