Warrior Poet by Timothy J. Stoner Page A

because—” She bit off the end of her sentence.
    “I know. I know. You made a vow.”
    She looked away, her head drooping as a dirge flowed sadly from her son’s harp. All the strength seemed to have drained out of her. Another tear fell on the tabletop. There was much more, David could tell, but she had revealed all she intended to.
    Jahra’s song was becoming louder, more rhythmic and insistent. Something in the tune captivated David’s attention. He recognized it somehow, though he was sure he’d never heard it before. To his surprise, he found himself choking up, and his eyes began to sting.
    Lydea was watching him intently, deep lines etched along her face. She walked to the corner where she kept her clothes along with her few special treasures. She pulled out a leather satchel inside a rough box. Untying the cords, she opened it and pulled out a lovely, fragile ten-stringed instrument. He had seen something like it only once before—at the marriage of Sarai, the only daughter of Bethlehem’s chief elder. It bore a vague resemblance to Jahra’s harp with its smooth, flat base, except it was about half the size, and its elegant arms were bowed outward.
    “It is a lyre—called a kinnor,” she explained, sitting down next to him. Instead of holding it horizontally in front of her like Jahra’s harp, she cradled it in her lap like an infant.
    She strummed the ten strings. They produced a tone that was high and sweet. While Jahra’s harp soothed, this lyre could pierce your heart. She waited a few beats, then plucked a few notes that harmonized beautifully with Jahra’s melody. “I played this when you were a baby. If you were crying it would make you stop.”
    “Maybe it will work again,” he said with a sheepish smile, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He almost asked why she had stopped playing it, but something told him that would be one question too many.
    She adjusted the position of the lyre, then began to play. As she did, her body swayed gently like the flame of a candle.
    Jahra’s melody remained in the forefront at first, but when the music slowed, the kinnor took the lead, its high notes dominating and Jahra’s receding. They alternated like this for several measures. The instruments seemed to be speaking to each other, sharing a story of sorrow and loss, echoed back and forth in lower, then higher registers, as if consoling each other. Jahra and his mother hummed in unison as they strung together their wistful musical story.
    As the wordless dialogue moved toward its conclusion, its speed increased. Jahra’s fingers strummed madly, and Lydea was plucking the strings with both hands. The music built in intensity and volume; there was a crescendo of racing fingers, and then all came to a sudden, almost heartbreaking stop.
    David’s jaw ached. He had been biting down, resisting the emotions pooling inside him. The unexpected quiet was both a pain and a relief. Blinking back tears, he stole a quick look at Jahra and saw him give his mother a brief nod. Jahra tapped three times on the hollow base of his instrument, and Lydea began to sing.
    David remembered listening to her lullabies when he was much younger, but that was a long time ago. He had never appreciated how good her voice was. There was not a trace of the amateur’s self-consciousness. It was the voice of an assured performer. Her timing and pitch were perfect. Each musical phrase ended masterfully in that wild yet controlled ululating glide that conveyed sorrow and joy at the same moment. Her tone was husky, like her son’s, but higher, cleaner, exhilarating.
    The words she sang were perfectly suited for the rhythmic scaffolding Jahra had constructed. After each phrase, Lydea would grow quiet as her son thumped softly on his resonating instrument. After several beats, her singing continued.
    Yahweh, why do You stand aside,
    why hide from us now that times are hard?
    The poor are devoured by the pride of the wicked.
    We are caught in the