Abigail's Story (17 page)

I smothered a chuckle. It would seem that Keseke, who claimed she had no heart, was yet the owner of a very guilty conscience.

Once the children were all on their mats, and the last of the daily chores completed, I slipped out of the tent and went to walk along the perimeter of the
camp. As no one had come from Maon for me, I no longer felt afraid of being alone, even in the darkness.

I meant only to speak to one of the dal about the abandoned farm, but as soon as I called to the patrol, a familiar figure came out of the shadows.

“Melekh David.” I bowed my head with deliberate, deep respect. Such respect would have to remain like a wall between us until the time I returned to my family. “I have learned of something that may be helpful to you.”

His mouth formed a bitter curve. “Is it the arrival of forty wagonloads of grain, sent from the king's silos, along with a royal pardon for imaginary crimes?”

“No, but should such come along, you will be the first to hear of it. Unless I encounter another army of men in need of food and forgiveness.”

My serious response made him utter a short laugh. “Oh, my dove, you always bring gladness to my heart.”

While he was in this better mood, I related what Keseke had told me and pointed in the general direction of the farm. “She says it may not be enough, but I thought you might use what was there for your journey.”

The good humor left his eyes. “We cannot leave until the flocks are driven to Maon.”

I grew angry. “David, we are all aware that your men are starving. Are you?”

“I suffer with them every day, little dove. The Adonai shall keep us safe and whole.”

“The Adonai does not have to march on patrol each day,” I said. “You know that you and your men cannot stay here. Yehud and his sons will look after my husband's flocks. Go, before the shadow of death steals into the valleys and your men begin dying.”

“What of you?” He glided the side of his thumb over my cheek. “Who will look after you, care for you, little dove? Who will warm your sleeping mat at night, and wake you to joy in the morning? Not this husband who abandons you like this.”

If he thought me unhappy, he might never leave me alone. Better he think me a content wife, eager to return to her husband. “No one. I choose to be here, in my husband's place. In all things, I do my husband's will.” I took a step back. “Do not ask me to say more, Melekh David. I must go. Peace be upon you.” My khiton flared out as I showed him my back.

Hands caught my shoulders and held me in place. “Do not fly away yet,” he murmured. He pulled away my head cloth and buried his face in my hair. “When the flocks go, so shall you, back to your husband. Is it not so?”

“I must.”

“I would keep my promise to you, Abigail.” David tucked my head cloth in my hand and closed my fingers over it. “Will you come to the spring tomorrow at dawn?”

I could barely force the words out. “I cannot. I
dare
not.”

“I give you my word; all I shall offer you is that which I promised.” He hesitated, digging his fingers
into my shoulders. “Let me do this, little dove. Let me have this moment with you, and that will be all I ask of you.”

“Dawn, I shall be there.” I felt his fingers slip away, and hurried back into camp.

CHAPTER
16

I
did not sleep that night, tormented as I was by my own thoughts. I knew going to the spring was unwise, even foolhardy, considering what had happened between us there. A man might make promises, but desire was like a veil of forgetfulness. I could not let David wrap that around me again.

My life was not a dream.

The accounting was finished, and the disks I would give my husband lay in a sack by my sleeping mat. Yehud had been rigorous about the precise count of adult animals, new lambs, and the winter losses. His counts and mine matched down to the last animal, and I wondered if it would please my husband to know that his flocks had increased by a full one-third over the winter months.

Nothing pleases him unless he can have it to himself.

Nabal had been willing to allow his herdsmen to starve because it would save their pay. He had ordered Keseke to kill me so that he could have my
zebed without the inconvenience of keeping the wife that went with it. He had, I felt sure, swindled my brother into losing the eight maneh of gold—if that was even the true amount. Rivai had been made to drink himself senseless that night; Nabal could have invented any figure that pleased him, and my brother would likely not have known the better of it.

My husband had a great deal for which to answer, and repent. And I knew in my heart that he would not. Such a man did not have a conscience. Even if my petition of divorce was granted, he would find some way to take vengeance on me and my family.

I rose before dawn and dressed in my best khiton. I brushed my hair until it shone, but I did not braid it or bind it to my head. I made my way past the sleeping women to the tent flap and stepped out into the darkness.

I had not gone ten paces before Keseke whispered my name furiously. I sighed but did not turn around. “Go back to sleep. I am going to fetch water.”

“In your finest robe, with your hair down? I think not.” She came to me and thrust an empty jug into my hands. “Here. At least make it
appear
as if you are going to fetch water.”

I curled my hand around the wide belly of the jug. “My thanks.”

“Thank me in nine moons, when you are pushing a child from your womb and cursing him for abandoning you,” she snapped.

“There will be no child.” There would never be. I would not lie with David. No man would have me
after I divorced Nabal. It struck me what that would mean in my life. A divorced woman was only little better than an outcast. Like the gerusa, I would be fortunate if people even spoke to me.
If Nabal does not have me killed.

Keseke waved me on. “Go. You must return soon, or the others will suspect.”

My steps dragged as I walked to the spring and grew slower the nearer I came to it. I did not want this to be the last time I saw David. I did not want to see him now, and love him any more than I did. I bounded from one side of my heart to the other, uncertain and afraid.

The spring was deserted, and so I had a little time to compose myself. I filled the jug, lest I forget to do so later, and set it aside. Then I removed my head cloth and shook out my hair. This once, he would see me as a husband would.

“You are early this morning, little dove.”

I turned around in a circle, but saw no one. “Where are you?”

“Look up.”

I did, and saw him perched on the top of the tallest of the rocks surrounding the spring. “David, what are you doing up there?”

“Leading us not into temptation.” He produced a small lyre, and glided his fingertips across the strings. “I did not sleep last night, for the words that rushed into my head. I cannot dance, not now, but I would sing the song I made of them for you now, Abigail.”

I sat down at the edge of the spring.

David plucked a few strings, finding the softest, lightest of notes, and then nodded to himself and strummed his fingers across them. The sound of the lyre was honey to the ears, and made me smile in spite of myself. Watching my eyes, he sang:

Adonai 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 shall fear no evil;

For You are with me;

Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;

You anoint my head with oil;

My cup runs over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

All the days of my life;

And I shall dwell in the house of the Adonai

Forever.

I found myself sitting as one of the children did when Leha told a tale, so rapt was I. As the final golden notes from the lyre slipped away, I sighed my delight.

“Does my song please you as well as the last?” he asked me.

“It is lovely, David. More beautiful than I can say.”

“It will be my memory of you, and my comfort when we part.” He set aside the lyre, and his face became a mask of grief. “I shall try hard to believe the words, for they surely come from the Adonai. He is my only haven now.”

I wished that I had something of his poetry and music, so that I could give him the same in return. All I could offer was a smile, and it was a pitiful one, indeed.

“Will you promise me something?” he asked. “If there is ever a need in you for something only I can give, will you come to me?”

“You are to be king. I would not presume—”

“You have a rich husband, and I may be dead before winter.” He made a careless gesture, as if his life meant nothing. “Promise me anyway. Promise that if I am alive, you will find me.”

I would never go to him. “I shall.”

He nodded and tucked the lyre into his hagor. “We are sending for supplies and expect them to arrive shortly, and then we will journey to Ziklag. I shall think of you often, little dove. Do not forget your vow.”

David did not climb down to embrace me, as I had hoped. He bowed to me, as if I were some queen, and then slipped away.

I sat until the sun was full up, softly repeating the
words of his song to myself until they were burned forever upon my heart.

 

The time to drive the sheep to Maon came two days later, and I readied myself for the journey. Yehud and most of his sons would not only drive the sheep, but would shear them when they arrived at my husband's house. That, too, was part of the service Nabal demanded of the herdsmen, and they would not be given their portion until that last fleece was sheared.

“You should remain here,” Bethel fussed. “I do not trust your husband to leave you alone.”

“He might yet send men here to retrieve me,” I reminded her.

“If he does, they will have to go through the dal. They intend to remain here to protect us until Yehud and the men return.”

I was surprised to hear that. After the farewell we had exchanged at the spring, I thought David and his men would leave as soon as the flocks had.

“I must settle things with my husband and family,” I told her, “but I shall not stay away long.” I hesitated. “Bethel, both my parents are old and ill. If it seems that Nabal wishes to take revenge on us for what I have done—”

“Bring them with you,” she said firmly. “I would appreciate the company of a few more people my age, and they are kin now, as you are. Make no protest, for I know Yehud would say the same.”

I embraced her. “My thanks.”

Keseke would not allow me to journey back to Carmel by myself.

“My ankle is better, and you will need a witness to aid your petition. I shall tell the shofet all that the master has done.” She sighed. “Though it means my imprisonment for harming you, I deserve it.”

“I recall no time that you harmed me,” I said.

She gave me a suspicious look. “You would lie for me?”

“It is not a lie. You never succeeded.” I gave her my surliest look. “It is the only way I shall allow you to come back with me, so you may as well agree now. Or you may stay here and help the women prepare to move the camp when we return.”

“Queen of Heaven, do not leave me here.” She sent a nasty look to the milk-filled goatskin churn suspended from poles outside the tent. “They intend to make liters of that wretched sour milk for the journey, and who better than an old woman to sit and rock the churn?”

“I would not subject you to such torment.” I shooed her along. “Go, pack your things. We leave at dawn.”

 

Driving the herd made the journey twice as long as it took by wagon, but Yehud and his sons insisted we ride their mules while they walked most of the way. Long years of herding made their legs accustomed to the distance, and they seemed to prefer staying close to the flock.

Making camp was enjoyable, and the task of preparing food for the men easy with the stores Bethel had sent along with us. The tents the men had brought were so small they were suitable only for sleeping, and even so, the one Keseke and I shared barely had room for that.

“If you snore, I shall shake your shoulder,” I told her as we curled up together.

“If I do not snore, shake my shoulder,” she snapped, “for I shall no longer breathe.”

We remained together with the men and the sheep as far as the outskirts of Maon, where we parted ways.

“I will tell the master that we left you back in Paran,” Yehud said as he bid me farewell.

“Would it be better, perhaps, not to speak of me at all? If Nabal asks, you can say you do not know where I am.” That would not be an untruth, for Yehud did not know the location of Cetura's house in Carmel.

He reluctantly agreed. “But when we return to Paran, you will come with us, Abigail. Were I to leave you here, Bethel would beat me without mercy.”

I smiled. “I would not see her make you suffer so.”

Keseke and I walked the road between towns, and I noticed that the closer we came to Carmel, the more silent she grew.

“I shall explain everything to my family,” I assured her. “They will not resent you.”

“You have a forgiving family.”

The sun drew near its zenith by the time we reached town. The market was just closing, so I was able to greet my friends among the merchants packing up their goods. The warm welcome they gave me was punctuated by demands that I visit their households. Shomer was especially adamant.

“Cetura told us of your seeking divorce from Nabal,” he said. “Until the petition is granted, it is best if you not be where your husband can find you.”

“Shomer, was he very angry about the debt of food?” I asked.

“He came here himself to argue over the bills he received. The fruit seller had to summon the shamar when he threatened to have his men tear down his stall. He would not pay until the shofet threatened to take his land and house from him.” The rug seller sighed. “Truly, Abigail, I had hoped this man would be good to you, but I have never known such a jackass. I prayed to the Adonai you would not forgive him and return to his house.”

Keseke listened closely to every word Shomer uttered, but remained silent, casting only a few odd glances at me.

“That will not happen.” Dread forced a cold knot in my belly. “I shall come to visit tomorrow, if I may.”

“You must. We have a new grandchild to present to you, and my wife wishes to hear all about the hill country.” He held his hands up as if beseeching the Adonai. “And you know what she is like when she is denied that which she wants.”

We left the market and went on to Cetura's house, where Keseke paused outside the door. “I would go and see a friend of mine, Abigail. We have not met since last winter, and she lives in a house but two streets from here.”

She was yet nervous about meeting my family. “My friend, you will not be treated badly here. I shall tell them everything you have done, and they will see you as I do.”

“Yes, yes, but I would see my friend first.” She gave me a long-suffering look. “You would not deny me this small pleasure, would you?”

She had had so little in her life that I could not. “You will come here directly after,” I said. “I do not want you where Nabal or his men might see you.”

“They never noticed me before; they will not see me now.” As if on impulse, she leaned over and kissed my cheek. “I shall not fail you, Abigail.”

“Of course you won't.” I smiled at her. “Only remember that you are among friends here.”

After Keseke went off to visit her friend, I went into the house. Cetura and my mother greeted me, but my father and Rivai were gone for the afternoon.

“Amri needed help sorting goods he bought from an Egyptian,” the widow explained, “and your father wanted the walk.”