David. Allan Boone's Wargon
he had developed tyrannical tendencies.
These seldom surfaced at home, yet when he sank into a dark mood nothing could rouse him. Not his family, nor anyone close to him. Lately he had fallen into such a profound depression that Abner, the commander of his army, and his closest comrade, had become alarmed. Abner was also his uncle. But as he was the youngest brother of Kish, Saul’s father, and Saul was the oldest son, there wasn’t much difference in age. Abner had asked the servants if they could suggest anything that might distract the king. They heard all the going gossip, and one had mentioned the lutist of Bethlehem. Abner had immediately sent the messenger.
*
Through a raised curtain that dropped behind him David was shown into the main room. It had been darkened, because Saul shrunk from light when he was depressed. In the dimness he would brood about unreturned favours or imagined slights. Sometimes he was tormented by hateful demons rising from his sick mind.
David was excited by the turn of events and eagerly hopeful of the outcome. To go from obscurity to the presence of the king was just the sort of thing he had long been craving. He had never before seen Saul, but had thought that he would kneel before the monarch, who would be on his throne amid a circle of important courtiers.
What he saw at the end of the space was the back of a very big man standing against the far wall. The head was forward, the brow touching the rough whitewashed mud stucco. The figure seemed enveloped in sadness. At David’s movement Saul glanced back over his shoulder. But then the indifferent eyes drooped again. The impassive face turned back to the wall.
David realized, with tense misgiving, akin to fright, that the king was not praying. Nor was he meditating or examining something. He was simply staring at nothing at all. Cautiously, David started to unwrap his lute. Your majesty, he said quietly I’ve come to play for you.
Saul looked about, and sighed. He slowly moved a few steps closer and sat down on the bench flanking the long table. Then reached for his spear, which was leaning against the wall. It represented the power that was dormant when he was immersed in melancholy.
David secretly glanced at him.
The big man’s hair was unkempt. His indigo robe was creased, and showed traces of food. He wore his crown, a band of copper that crossed his brow, and the copper armband that was the other sign of royalty, but there were no other adornments. From the shielded windows, his pale multiple shadows, larger than life, were bent like the back of a man under a lash.
At last David understood that he was there as a kind of physician to a patient. He plucked a few strings.
Saul raised his head at the sound, but soon sank back into an incurious state.
The young musician played some familiar folk melodies, and after about ten minutes the king seemed to be listening. Then David decided on a bold plunge. He had a new song that he had intended only for the Lord, but perhaps, in these circumstances . . . Accompanying himself, he began, in his clear young voice, which had already changed and deepened:
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He makes me to lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside the still waters.
He restores my soul: He leads me in the paths of righteousness
For His name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: Your rod and Your staff comfort me.
The effect on Saul was almost immediate. He straightened up and his eyes cleared. He listened intently to the rest of the song. The line about the valley of the shadow of death had been particularly meaningful. But there had been an element he had never heard before. There had been songs about the people and the Almighty. And all the surrounding peoples, and any the king had ever heard of, collectively worshiped their gods. But David, in his aloneness, had artlessly said I. Had spoken, or sung, as an individual, as an individual communicating with God. That was a startling notion.
Saul didn’t reason out the implications of it. He was not an intellectual. But those words had roused him. He perceived that he had heard something totally new. He said Again. Sing it again. David repeated the song three times. The king sighed deeply, strange and unplumbed impressions crowding his mind. But he had no patience to go into them. The immediate thing was that he was again alert, and there were a hundred issues to attend to.
Saul stood, a changed man, exhibiting once more the erect height and bearing that everyone esteemed in him. With a smile he nodded at David and strode to the doorway, where Abner was peeking in. They conferred together.
David rewrapped his lute and waited. After a few minutes Abner entered, thanked David, gave him a few gifts of food for his father, and sent him back to Bethlehem.
*
On the trail home David was alternately crestfallen and satisfied with his accomplishment. But generally he was acutely disappointed. His high hopes at being summoned had, in the end, come to nothing. Like pounded grain that finally turns out to be mildewed and unusable. The farther he went from Gibeah the more his thwarted presumptions ate at him. He had no idea, and Saul had only the vaguest inkling, that he, David, the boy, in forming a personal relationship with God, had furthered something that would affect and change the whole of world thinking.
According to the old stories, the Lord had spoken to individuals before, to Abraham, Jacob and Moses. But that had been like thunder to the hearing of an ant. No one had previously become God’s friend. Not that a person was remotely in the same realm as the Almighty, but yet was someone who could speak intimately and directly to God. Who could say to Him, as David had, I.
However, the boy’s feeling, as he trudged among the stones, carrying his lute and balancing with his stick, his bag of goods slung over his shoulder, was that he had been lifted up only to be dashed down once more among the sheep and goats.
6
Alarming news of war spread through the land. The Philistines, annoyed by their loss of sovereignty over Israel, had come up from the plain. They had driven their broad-wheeled chariots into the foothills as far as they could. Then they had marched farther inland and set up camp on the slope of a small valley. Saul and Abner and the Israelite host had camped on the opposite incline, facing them. At the bottom of the valley was a small stream, flowing in wet weather but now almost dry.
The Philistines were eager to regain their lost advantages, and this time they had a new strategy. A champion had arisen from Gath, one of their five cities, and he was said to be a giant. He was certainly large; he stood even higher than Saul, and was arrayed in shining protective sheathing. He wore chain mail on his wide upper body, a heavy bronze breastplate, brass greaves on his legs, and an elaborate helmet that covered the back of his neck and came down between his shoulder blades. He was like a splendid idol in armour.
But his nature was crass. Force was what he depended on. He liked others cowering before him, which they invariably did. He ate and drank sumptuously, like three men, and enjoyed crude, bawdy jokes. He was married and had children but freely indulged in the wives and daughters of lower-rank soldiers, almost as the whim took him.
For days he had been swaggering in front of the Philistine army, hurling insults at the other side. He had offered to settle the battle with a single one-to-one conflict. His name was Goliath. He had been out there long enough to bore him and thoroughly frighten the Hebrews.
The Philistines, confident of the result, were merry. They had meanwhile been bringing up supplies and strengthening their camp.
Saul’s army was disconsolate and perplexed. The clans were willing to fight as one, but left alone they tended to gather into their own tribal groups. David’s three oldest brothers were with the army, and they huddled with the Judahites. Supplies had been running low among all the tribes and the men were beginning to feel hunger. There had even been some deserters.
*