Читать книгу King Saul - John C. Holbert - Страница 6

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Send in the next one!” Abior reached for the tankard of beer the better to ease the work of the day. It was that time again when the village elders had to review people who wanted to join the community of Gibeah. 12 men sat at the rough table, placed in front of a large and dusty space under a tamarisk tree to provide some shade from the fierce sun that shone, as always, on the hills outside the walls of the town. It was Chislev, the year’s ninth month, and it was still hot. Abior stretched his right hand to grab the front of his best robe to pull it away from his sweating skin. “Best” was of course a relative term. His best was rude and rough, made hastily by his wife—she never was much when it came to the work of the needle, he thought. Pretty good in other ways, though, as a slightly lascivious smile creased his thin lips. Six children in ten years was not bad, he said to himself, as he sat up a bit straighter on the hard bench behind the council table, demonstrating for any who cared to see his obvious virility. He looked down the table at his fellow villagers.

There was Shmuel, too small, still unmarried. How did he ever get on the council, he wondered? Oh, yes, of course. He was rich in flocks and herds, and had just built a fine new house of four rooms, four! Such a palace was the largest in Gibeah; one could hardly deny such a formidable man a seat. But without children, well, there was talk of an unsavory sort. Still, Shmuel’s vast and healthy herds shut many a gossiping mouth.

Next to Shmuel was Carmi. Abior liked Carmi perhaps best of the councilors, because they were so much alike. Carmi had a productive wife, not so beautiful, but a superb mother of seven, including five sons, to insure the future of the village. And Carmi was a magnificent hunter, the village’s best. He went out with Abior regularly and almost never failed to bag a bear or a lion, or at least a deer to flavor the simmering pots that steamed and bubbled every evening. The thought of the pot around his own cooking fire made his mouth fill with spit and sent his stomach on the growl. Carmi’s piercing voice brought Abior back to the council table.

“Well, who is next? These last three candidates were a sorry lot, ill-clad, poorly-spoken, foul-smelling, clearly unacceptable. We need more people for the village, but they need to be respectable, productive in the fields and in the home. Big families, bigger families! Bring us more children, more sons!” It was ever Carmi’s cry when he spoke in council; more sons, more sons! Of course, whenever Carmi made his familiar speech, Shmuel blushed and looked down at his fine leather sandals, knowing that he had not done his bit to keep the community growing. Yet, even he could not disagree. After all, so many women died on the birth stools, and so many children, too. A village always needed children, and especially sons who could harvest and fight and hunt. The rest of the council grunted their agreement. They were generally good men, thought Abior, though the one at the end, Doeg, always sent a chill up Abior’s spine.

Doeg was tall, swarthy, brittle as a stalk of field thistle, and just as useless, said many in the village. He lived in a filthy hut with one disgusting room, surrounded by many children, which spoke well of him, and was tended to by a tiny woman who may or may not have been his wife. No one had seen the two marry, since they themselves had stood before the council many moons ago, having come from no one knew where. Some whispered Edom, but no one was certain. Doeg was elected to council after his heroic stand against some thieves who had threatened Gibeah sometime in the month of Sivan, the third month of the year, just six months before. It surprised the whole village to witness the ferocity of the man whom few had given a second thought to before the attack. But all knew that without Doeg’s courage, many of those who now found life and success would have surely been dead and forgotten and the village destroyed. He had been chosen for the council straight away. But Abior was hardly the only man of the village to keep a wary eye out for the activity of Doeg and his family. His seat on the council had not cleaned his hut or stopped the rumors about his peculiar relationship with the woman who tended his fires. In fact, Abior had cast one of the negative votes when Doeg had asked to join the village. But he was now on the council, and that was just the way it was going to be—at least for now.

The delay in the proceedings was too long. “Well,” shouted Abior, “Get on with it. My stomach is reminding me that council cannot go on all day!” Also, the sun rose higher and hotter in the blue sky; Abior’s very name meant, “My father is light,” which never failed to remind him of the ever-present sun, rather more present than his father who disappeared from the village long ago, never again to be seen. Abior had plainly outstripped that worthless man in every way.

Murmurs of agreement with Abior’s demand for action were whispered and hooted from every council member. Finally, a strapping man of some forty summers stepped forward.

Kish, a Benjaminite, hoped to settle in Gibeah, to him a miniature but pleasant hillside village, a short walk from Ramah, the city of Samuel. Though the history of the tribe of Benjamin was checkered, to say the least, Kish himself was industrious, clever, and ready to put all that concubine madness well behind him. After all, that had happened long before his birth, and he now was a modern man, ready to take his own place on a well-run farm, close to a successful and growing village. He was convinced that he could become a man of stature in the place, even though his ancestors were all complete unknowns as far back as four or five generations. A respected family was very important as a key to success, particularly for one who had come to a new city. If your immediate and even distant ancestors were suspect, well, you were also suspect, not to be trusted, never allowed finally to be one of the group. When Kish first introduced himself to the city elders, his recitation of his forebears impressed the dour elders not at all.

“My father was Abiel, and his father was Zeror, his father Becorath, and his father Aphiah.”

The Gibean elders’ eyes began to glaze over as Kish droned on about ancestors who were unknown nobodies, probably village drudges, certainly hicks without pedigree. Many of the names were not known at all by the men, many of whom could trace their own families back into a past so distant as to be nearly mystical.

“Yes, yes,” Abior interrupted him, “enough of that.” Abior’s faint memory of his own father, and the man’s abandonment of his family still rankled, and he had no intention of listening another minute to a recitation of unknown and useless ancestors. “Tell us about who you are. Have you done anything of value? Are your crops lush? Are your livestock sturdy?” “Tell us of your children!” And he added with a definite sneer, “What do you know of the concubine’s story?” Carmi and Doeg were particularly keen to hear just how far this Kish might have been implicated in the monstrous tale of the concubine and the ancestral Benjaminites’ foul behavior. Every member of the council of Gibeah had proven beyond doubt that they had no connection to the story and found the actions of their forebears in the story repulsive, unacceptable in every way. The thing had happened some time ago, but the memory was so vivid that it seemed like a very modern event. All of them wished to forget, but none of them could.

Anyone who wished to join a community had to first meet with the elders of the place to determine whether or not the newcomer was worthy of a home in or near the village. This screening was doubly important for villages in Benjamin. A few elderly Israelites still vividly remembered the outrage of the inhospitable people of Benjamin many summers ago that led to the shocking abuse and murder of an innocent concubine of a wandering Levite. The story seemed to be very old, but not so old as to diminish its terror one tiny bit. Mothers in the village would often scare their children into better behavior by telling this story; act correctly or the Levite may come for you! Whenever the tale was told, the Levite grew in size and strength, his nose became increasingly knobby and wart-marked, his eyes more blazing, more penetrating, his hair more frazzled and shaggy, his arms muscular, his legs powerful, his rage unchecked. In reality, the Levite was probably a small, ineffectual man, most priestly types were, but in many of the minds of the current children of Benjamin he had become monstrous. It was certainly a terrible tale, and the elders of Gibeah were inordinately concerned with any unknown newcomer with a Benjaminite background. The new man might have some distant connection with the story, might even be a relation of the concubine, or of her father, or, YHWH forbid, the nasty priest himself. They had no intention of allowing such a person, corrupted by these undying phantoms, to live among their respectable selves.

Many versions of that story continued to make the rounds, but the facts were something like this. Many suns before Kish’s appearance in Benjamin, a Levite, a landless priest, was living in a very remote hut up in the hills above Gibeah. He had devoted himself to prayer and solitude, as many of his kind did in those days, but he soon tired of being alone. He left his hut and travelled to Bethlehem, a few days’ journey east, in order to buy a concubine, a woman who had few hopes of a real marriage, to provide a companion for his days and warmth in his bed at night. She was not much to look at, but she was willing enough; her mother had died at her birth and her father was a poor and ignorant man. She thus had no dowry to bring to any marriage. She too at first seemed glad of the company, as they left Bethlehem to return to the hut above Gibeah.

But things went quickly wrong. Some said that she tired of the life of a Levite’s companion, its poverty, its mumbled words and complex rituals, and became angry at the Levite’s constant demands on her for food and cleaning, as well as his unbridled lust for her body. Others say that she found a more congenial partner, or two or three, in the village of Gibeah. For whatever reason, she left the Levite and returned to the poor house of her father in Bethlehem of Judah.

Four moons passed. The Levite wanted her back; he was lonely again, his hut was filthy without her cleaning, his member was hungry for her flesh. So, he went to Bethlehem in the attempt to woo her back with tender words. He even changed his tunic for the first time in many years. When he showed up at her father’s door, the old and poor man was overjoyed to see him. After all, he barely had food enough to feed himself, let alone his daughter whom he thought he had seen for the last time those four moons ago. He was more than anxious to see the couple reunited so that his troublesome daughter would leave his life for good.

For three days the father and the Levite ate and drank together and told stories of their difficult lives. The father spoke sadly of the death of his wife who was a good woman, and a fair one. The Levite spoke of his calling as priest, of his lonely hut, of the brief time with the father’s daughter, which he remembered with some fondness, though she had surprisingly left him alone for reasons he could not understand. But on the fourth day, when the daughter had not yet made an appearance at the table or in the house, the Levite decided to give up and go back to his hut alone. But the father said, “Why not sit again and have some more food; it is a long journey, and you will need strength? In fact, the weather is so foul today”—it was raining big cold drops—“why don’t you stay one more night? Perhaps she will soften her heart and go with you.” The old man was more than anxious to be rid of his daughter, whom he loved not at all. The Levite was willing to give it another day, so he stayed. And he stayed again.

The daughter knew well who was sharing her father’s table, and she hid in her room, hoping that the execrable Levite would go back to that miserable hut that she had no desire to see ever again. As the days passed, one, two, three, she could not believe that the priest had not given up. But, of course, she heard all too clearly how anxious her odious father was to get her off his dirt-caked hands, how he cajoled and pleaded with the Levite to stay, and stay, and stay! Would he never leave? She did, however, remember the lusty fun she had had in Gibeah with a supple young boy or two, when the priest was taken up with his weird mumbo-jumbo, so as the days became four and five, she thought that perhaps she could reacquaint herself with one boy or another, or perhaps even a fresher one or two if she could survive the priest’s incessant demands on her for constant work and unpleasant sexual needs, both of which she had no interest in at all. Maybe, she thought, life with the Levite, with its potential for some joy and fun on the side, would be better than her current life with a loveless father and few local fleshly attractions.

So, finally, on the sixth day, the girl came to the table to eat with her father and the Levite, and the two men convinced her to go back to the hut with the eager priest. Well, unbeknownst to them she had already made up her mind to go with the man, so she needed little convincing. But there was little use in telling either of the stupid men about that.

She was hardly overjoyed to be going back to her lonely life as priest’s companion, but her father clearly did not want her with him, and at least the Levite showed some sign of caring for her, however selfishly, however crudely. The woman was trapped between an inattentive and uncaring father and a dangerously demanding and too attentive man, who smelled of goat and often acted like one. Well, she sighed, at least he had changed his filthy tunic! Scant hope for a changed life, but more hope than life with father. And there were those nubile Gibean boys!

So they left to return to Gibeah. But since they made such a late start, they only got as far as Jerusalem before the sun was about to slip below the mountains of the west. “Let us stay here in Jerusalem tonight, and we can complete our journey tomorrow,” said the servant, Lemuel by name, whom the concubine’s father had loaned to them for the trip. But the Levite said, “We will certainly not spend the night in a city of foreigners; it is hardly safe to bed down with these foul Jebusites!” Levites were often very particular about those they rubbed shoulders with. It always struck the concubine as very odd how haughtily the man acted, given his tiny hut, his pathetic resources, not to mention his foul odors. So they pushed ahead, moving quickly toward Gibeah. By the time they reached the village, the sun had been down for some time, the stars were out in full, and a bright moon bathed the familiar city square.

It is customary in Israel that when strangers appear they are to be treated as honored guests, to be brought into someone’s home, to be fed and housed for the night and sent safely on their way in the morning. In modern Gibeah a stranger was assured of a warm and congenial welcome, partly because of the memory of this tale. But when the three travellers entered the square of Gibeah back then there was only silence; no one came to care for them or their beasts. Well, they thought, it is very late, though they had rightly expected someone to appear to offer them help.

Finally, after almost deciding to leave the village and trudge on to their remote hut, though they were nearly asleep standing up, an old man walked slowly into the village after a long day’s work in the fields. They were in fact amazed to see a single man returning from his work so late and so alone. His back was bowed with the hard labor of farming, his hands caked with the mud of the field. He was less than eager to spend another minute away from his waiting fire and simple food, but when he saw the strangers, the ancient and hallowed demand for hospitality overcame his exhaustion. He politely asked them where they were from. The Levite told him their story, saying that they needed no food either for the donkeys or themselves, but they did desire a roof for the night. The old man replied, “Shalom to you! I will care for all of your needs, but you must not spend the night in this square!” His tiredness dissipated and his back straightened when he uttered the last part of his sentence with real vehemence, shuddering as he glanced furtively around the village center, bathed in the lovely, soft moonlight. The travellers felt very uneasy as they watched the old man’s eyes dart in the light. He urged them to follow him quickly to his house, and moved off much more swiftly than his age would have suggested.

His hut was small but neat. His aged wife, or sister, or companion, YHWH alone knew which, had tended the small fire well, and it crackled with a cheery flame, nicely heating the tiny space. It was a farmer’s house, various implements of that life leaning against the shadowy walls, two hoes with metal tips, an old bronze sword, dull and ill-used, several clay jars, poorly made and weathered with cracks, leaking liquid down their sides. A wooden bench served as the only place for a seat, and the old man fell heavily onto it, the woman scurrying to bring the food to the large wooden table, three rough boards held together with what looked like camel ropes, replacing the metal clamps that had long ago rusted away.

As they were eating a small meal, bread from gritty flour, a few dates and olives, meat from an unknown and stringy animal, the people of Gibeah encircled the house of the old man and began pounding on the door. “Bring that man who is visiting you outside now. We wish to have our way with him!” But the old man bravely confronted the mob, and said, “My neighbors, do not act with such wickedness. This man is my guest; you well know the demands of hospitality. When a stranger comes, the custom stipulates their complete protection and safety. I have a virgin daughter and this man has a concubine. I will bring them out to you, and you can do with them whatever your filthy imaginations can conceive.” The crowd was plainly a depraved lot!

But the mob would not listen, so the Levite pushed his screaming concubine out to the mob and slammed the door after her. The old man, his daughter, and the Levite retired to bed, while the cruel mob of Gibeah, the men, the women, and even some children, attacked the concubine all night long, raping her and assaulting her in ways too appalling to recount. (At this point in the telling, how graphic the details became was dependent on the character of the teller and on the number of cups of wine consumed.) As the sun rose, they let her go, throwing her down on the ground, not knowing or caring whether she was dead or alive. The poor woman crawled feebly toward the house, stretched out her hand to grasp its threshold, and collapsed unconscious.

And in the morning, the Levite got up and opened the door. There, lying on the threshold, was the concubine, bloody and bruised, her tunic ripped, most of her body exposed to the sun’s first light. “Get up,” he said to her, “We are going.” He offered no comfort; he expressed no surprise; he showed no anger at the monstrousness of the deed. He merely wanted her to get up and go with him to his hut.

But she did not answer. Was she dead or just nearly dead? Some say one, some the other. In any case, the Levite lifted her limp body onto his donkey. And then he did the thing that so terrifies young and old whenever the story was told. When he arrived back at his hut in the mountains, he grabbed the concubine, and taking a huge knife, the one with which he regularly butchered his meat, he cut her into 12 pieces, limb by limb, and sent the bloody chunks throughout all the land of Israel. He commanded each man who carried a piece of the concubine as follows: “Say this to all Israelites; ‘Has such a thing ever happened since the day the Israelites came up from the land of Egypt until this day?’ Consider well, take careful counsel, and then act!”

With every telling of this unforgettably brutal story the Levite became larger, uglier, more terrifying. But the upshot of the Levite’s action was particularly well remembered. Israel had nearly descended to outright civil war, its tribe of Benjamin almost wiped from the earth. Because of all this it was crucial that any would-be member of the territory be closely investigated; it would hardly do to be neighbors with anyone who did not ascribe to the very highest standards of morality, and morality was identical to village custom. They needed no more mobs to deny the sacred rights and agreed upon customs of a respected Israelite village. It was that story that lay behind the elders’ careful questions of any newcomer.

So they questioned Kish closely as he applied to join the elders in Gibeah. Carmi wanted him to repeat that long list of unknown forbears, but Abior quickly rejected the idea as unnecessary, thinking to himself that he simply could not listen to the vapid names one more time! Shmuel asked about Kish’s religious beliefs, although one could always say the name YHWH enough times to convince anyone that he was safe enough as a believer. Abior asked if there were any more questions, and hearing none, asked for a vote. On certain occasions, when the council was badly divided they would cast lots, ancient animal bones that the priests said could reveal truths that simple humans could not, but in the case of Kish, there was no need for the rattle of the bones. They finally accepted him, nearly unanimously, but, as usual, some with reluctance. The elders always acted with reluctance whenever anyone asked to live in their Gibeah, clearly the best village in all of Benjamin, if not in the whole land. But Kish was accepted at the last and found a good plot of land quite close to the village, no more than half a morning’s walk. Kish , his wife, and young sons, soon made their way to their new farm and settled in to a fresh life on the outskirts of Gibeah.