Читать книгу David - Allan Boone's Wargon - Страница 7

Saul still lived in his old house in Gibeah. The town had gained renown as the home of the king. But generations ago, in the time of the earlier Judges, it had witnessed a vicious gang rape, causing the woman to die. Evil as the perpetrators had been, tribal loyalty was such that the Benjamites had refused to hand them over when other Israelites demanded justice. That had led to an unfortunate civil war. Many men had died. The Benjamites had been thoroughly beaten, but there were families on both sides who retained a lingering resentment for the loss of their forebears.

The king’s home was now regarded as a palace. Two more mud-brick storehouses had been added. The front yard was planted as a garden where people could be received. And the main room was later panelled. But essentially the house remained unchanged. His four sons now had their own homes nearby. That left only him and his wife, their two daughters, his concubine, the children he’d had by her, and the servants. It had been a large full house when the grown sons were at home, and without them there was room enough. Saul didn’t care for, and even disliked, ostentation.

Until Samuel had chosen him for king, Saul, like his father before him, had been a farmer. He still took much interest in his fields and herds. There were now three fields as well as his own, for only the oldest son, Jonathan, had assumed his father’s new profession of soldiering. The others joined them whenever there was a major battle.

Saul was normally good hearted and jovial, kind and generous. He would sometimes let his two sons by the concubine play on his lap, hug his arms and tug at his beard. Or allow his teenaged daughters to make comments that were gently teasing. Usually, when called upon for action, whether physical or judgemental, he was clear headed and decisive. But in between he suffered from a decline of disposition.

The break with Samuel bothered him deeply. He had not wanted a quarrel with the old man. Saul had done almost everything Samuel had asked. But some of the prophet’s demands and behaviour had gone far beyond what was reasonable. The king had been respectful and had tried to be obedient, but he was not a mindless puppet. He hadn’t asked to be king. Yet he had earnestly taken on the role and had prospered. And with power 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.