Читать книгу David - Allan Boone's Wargon - Страница 3

Suddenly a new name. Never heard of before. Even the Bible has no previous record of it.

David emerged into a land that was like a kaleidoscope. A range of mountains, snowy peaks, craggy boulders, heat, palm trees, swamps, desert, rivers, and the lowest body of water on earth, landlocked and salt encrusted. And here and there, between rock outcroppings, patches of grass.

Such was the territory of the Israelites. It was penetrated and surrounded by enemies. From Dan in the north to Beersheba in the south, the land fancifully reckoned to be Israelite was less than one hundred and fifty miles. At its widest it stretched, unevenly, from thirty to fifty miles.

Yet among the mountains every valley and partly level place was cultivated, and wherever possible the hillsides were terraced. The olive and the vine grew well in that gritty soil; grains, vegetables and various fruit trees were grown. And after the winter rains the arid earth would briefly blossom in a profusion of wildflowers, and it would truly seem a blessed and beautiful land.

But scattered throughout there were still many unconquered Canaanite villages, and not far from Bethlehem, where David was born, stood high and untouched the fortified city of the Jebusites, later known as Jerusalem.

*

David was the youngest of Jesse’s eight sons. He was a child of old age, conceived after his mother was thought to be past bearing. Where Jesse got the name no one knew. He wanted something special for this unexpected babe, and fondly derived the name from a term for ‘darling’.

It was immediately resented by David’s brothers, who were older by six years and more. They were all broad and dark, like their father had been, but David was slim and fair. He had a pale complexion, reddish hair and an adorable face. This blue-eyed, blondish strain was unusual among Israelites, but not unknown; his mother’s brother had been like that. And from that uncle, who had played drums and castanets, David seemed to have inherited a feeling for music, for he quickly learnt popular folksongs. At the age of three he began strumming a small lute.

He was also clever, and could soon recognize the family signs, or brand marks, and those with which neighbours identified their belongings. Jesse talked with the little one so much that the boy quickly developed a rare fluency and grace with language. Whenever visitors came the child was stood up to play, sing or recite for their pleasure. Outwardly he responded to the attention, but soon grew tired of being used. He was aware of his talents, and didn’t like having constantly to display them. Or having his cheeks pinched. Or sometimes being given a jubilant pat on the behind. But he always returned such regard with a dimpled smile. He was already learning to disguise his feelings. Most people thought him delightful.

His brothers, however, out of jealousy and a penchant for bullying, scorned him. They called him derisive names and never included him in their boisterous councils. He was like a seeming dove among contentious geese. There were also two sisters, both married and with homes of their own. The firstborn, Zeruiah, had two sons and was pregnant again. Her oldest was almost the age of David.

Despite Jesse’s mildness, he was a good manager and one of the more prosperous and influential elders in the village. He was also unusually clean, washing himself every morning. It was considered a personal quirk. From early on David remembered his father’s smell: a rather comforting mixture of male body odour, dust and the warm scent of his beard and robe, usually faintly permeated with wood smoke.

Although Jesse had the formal authority that came with paternity, he was in truth afraid of his older sons. He didn’t often oppose their collective will. When they weren’t away to war they did the heavy labour around the house.

David, at five expected to begin sharing the work, was dismissively sent off with the goats and sheep. The two hired keepers hardly needed him. He gradually grew solitary and lonely, wandering at will. Because of his innate abilities he already had a feeling of entitlement, but it was sufficiently recognized by only his one real Friend. To Him the boy whispered the lyrical phrases and lines of verse he began forming:

I will praise You, Lord, with all my heart;

I will tell all your wonders.

One afternoon, when David was in his eighth year, and standing not far from his father’s grazing herds, a stranger appeared. He was big and fairly well dressed, though his clothes showed the dust of travel. There were also stains of sweat under his armpits, and dampness on his hairy skin. A strong stale smell came from him, which David considerately took care not to acknowledge. But the boy moved a step away.

The scene was quiet; the careless keepers were sleepily watching the animals. A hawk, perhaps a late migrating sparrow hawk, was riding the airways, but it was high, silent and far away. Traces of disintegrated clouds spread along the horizon. The herds shuffled a little as they foraged. The stranger stood looking at the sheep and goats, which were numerous, and remarked on the scarcity of pasture. The hills were already beginning to turn yellow and brown.

I know of a sweet little valley, still green. It’s hidden between rocks. There’s water there. I could show you.

The boy was immediately enticed. Such a find would bring compliments and praise, which had long been absent. Could you? he said eagerly.

It’s not far. Not too far the stranger said, smiling. He seemed friendly. Follow me, little one.

At their approach three crows flew up. Sounding their hoarse cries, they settled somewhere beyond. David hurried to keep up with the man’s long strides, which soon carried them out of sight of the flocks. The man asked what interested the boy, what he did with his time. David, scrambling around rocks, told him breathlessly how he played the lute, had learnt many of the old songs, and, from the rare clay tablets that came into Bethlehem, was learning to read. The man, smiling, nodded his head as if in approval. David was about to confide that he was also forming songs when the man finally stopped. It was a rocky defile, with only a thin twisted tabor oak.

There was no grass. Bewildered, David said Where is it?

This is it the man said. With a cruel smile he swept the boy against the trunk of the tree. It reared back, its leaves touching the man’s face as he thrust his belly against David’s chest. The stranger’s heavy, rank smell was suffocating.

The youngster could feel a hard rod beneath the other’s tunic, like a club. Don’t hurt me he said frightened, his angel face stricken with alarm.

What’s in your bag? the man said. A soft pouch held by a strap hung at the boy’s side. David turned it inside out. It contained only some smooth pebbles. And a tiny bit of flattened copper that Jesse had give him for his fifth birthday. I don’t want your toys the man sneered, but he put the token in a slung bag of his own. Still holding David pushed against the tree he pulled up the boy’s tunic. Now take off your loincloth he said, and get down on your stomach.

David had a flash of yearning for his safe bedroll at home. Before the first thick splitting thrust. The pain was excruciating, but bearable. David set his teeth hard. He tasted earth and dry leaves. A small lizard scurried away.

By now the boy understood what was happening to him. At last, after the moisture had come, he was allowed to rise. Bits of debris clung to the little one’s face and hair. Then the man picked up the boy’s loincloth from the ground and wiped his dripping penis on it. David’s utter humiliation and sense of helplessness was complete. I’ll wring your neck if you move before the sun sets the man said. Then he went on down the hill.

*

From then on David never trusted anyone, save God. The Lord was infinite, an invisible force, knowing everything, including a child’s terror.

The boy was intensely ashamed. At dusk he returned home, made an excuse for lateness, and secretly washed his loincloth. It dried quickly in the warm dark. He was filled with rage, and by night and day had dreams of revenge. He knew that if he told, his brothers would take up the cry, hunt the man down and kill him. But he told no one. He was alone, with God.