Warrior Poet by Timothy J. Stoner Page B
Authors: Timothy J. Stoner
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, Historical, Christian, Courage, Faith, Shepherd, David, Saul, Goliath
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wiles that the other has devised.
Peering and prying for the unfortunate,
lurking unseen like a lion in his hide.
Questing of eye, he stoops, he crouches,
and the unfortunate wretch falls into his power.
Rise, Yahweh, God raise Your hand,
do not forget the poor! Do not forget me!
You Yourself have seen my distress and my grief,
You watch and You take them into Your hands. 10
The words were sad, but there was no quaver in her voice. Her eyes were lifted as she sang; they were clear and hard as crystal.
Break the power of the wicked, of the evil man,
seek out his wickedness till there is none to be found!
Yahweh is King for ever and ever.
Those who are cruel and proud are doomed to vanish.
Yahweh, You listen to the cries of the humble,
You bring strength to their hearts, You grant them a hearing,
judging in favor of the fatherless and the exploited,
so that the oppressor may strike fear no longer.
Yahweh, You listen to the wants of the humble,
You bring strength to their hearts,
judging in favor of the fatherless and the exploited,
so that the earthborn man may strike fear no longer,
may strike fear no more,
may strike fear no more. 11
By the end of the song, David no longer cared. Tears had pooled on the tabletop in front of him. When he had wiped his eyes clear, Lydea was standing in front of him. Her eyes were still distant, holding on to a memory she would not share but could not forget. He was surprised to also see anger etched along the corners of her eyes and at the edges of her mouth.
“That was your mother’s favorite song,” she said.
It came as no surprise; somehow he had already known. Though he knew the answer, he still needed to ask. “Did she write it?”
She did not seem to have heard him. He looked away from her to Jahra, who caught his eye and nodded. Then, as if remembering where she was, Lydea looked at the lyre in her lap and held it out to him. After clearing her throat, she whispered, “This was hers.” She drew in a deep, unsteady breath. “She gave it to me to give to her child.” She ran her fingertips along one polished side. “Her father made it. When she played and sang, he would tell her that she could make demons weep.” She laid it in his hands. “I was going to give it to you when you left home. But I think now that it is the right time.”
He looked up at her, filled with questions. Lydea patted his hair. “I will keep it here for you. Whenever you want to play it, it will be waiting for you.”
He could not stop himself. The question had torn holes in him for so long. He had to know the answer. “Yaya. What really happened to her? All I know is that she died when I was born, but I know there is more you are not telling me.”
Her voice faltered, but her response was firm. “It is enough. That I cannot say to you.” She took the kinnor, walked to the opposite end of the room, and put the instrument back inside the box. Then she lay down on her pallet and pulled her cloak over her. “Remember to blow out the lamp,” she said, gesturing to the window ledge.
When darkness had engulfed the room, he lay staring up into the blackness. In the fire pit two small embers had not yet died out. He thought about those arresting eyes he had seen, bright with tears.
He fell asleep with a hollow of sadness in his chest.
10 Psalm 10:1–2, 9, 12–14, author’s paraphrase
11 Psalm 10:15–18, author’s paraphrase
Chapter Nine
Early the next morning, after a quick breakfast, David and Jahra were checking on the sheep and goats. David heard a gate slam, and he groaned when he saw Nethanel storming toward them, trying to avoid the piles of fresh dung.
David steeled himself.
As usual, Nethanel’s hair hung in a fastidious braid the length of his back. It reminded David of a limp adder. The wooden hoe hung behind his back from a leather strap. He carried it like a weapon of war, which in a sense it was, since he kept it almost as sharp as a sword.
“Father
Peering and prying for the unfortunate,
lurking unseen like a lion in his hide.
Questing of eye, he stoops, he crouches,
and the unfortunate wretch falls into his power.
Rise, Yahweh, God raise Your hand,
do not forget the poor! Do not forget me!
You Yourself have seen my distress and my grief,
You watch and You take them into Your hands. 10
The words were sad, but there was no quaver in her voice. Her eyes were lifted as she sang; they were clear and hard as crystal.
Break the power of the wicked, of the evil man,
seek out his wickedness till there is none to be found!
Yahweh is King for ever and ever.
Those who are cruel and proud are doomed to vanish.
Yahweh, You listen to the cries of the humble,
You bring strength to their hearts, You grant them a hearing,
judging in favor of the fatherless and the exploited,
so that the oppressor may strike fear no longer.
Yahweh, You listen to the wants of the humble,
You bring strength to their hearts,
judging in favor of the fatherless and the exploited,
so that the earthborn man may strike fear no longer,
may strike fear no more,
may strike fear no more. 11
By the end of the song, David no longer cared. Tears had pooled on the tabletop in front of him. When he had wiped his eyes clear, Lydea was standing in front of him. Her eyes were still distant, holding on to a memory she would not share but could not forget. He was surprised to also see anger etched along the corners of her eyes and at the edges of her mouth.
“That was your mother’s favorite song,” she said.
It came as no surprise; somehow he had already known. Though he knew the answer, he still needed to ask. “Did she write it?”
She did not seem to have heard him. He looked away from her to Jahra, who caught his eye and nodded. Then, as if remembering where she was, Lydea looked at the lyre in her lap and held it out to him. After clearing her throat, she whispered, “This was hers.” She drew in a deep, unsteady breath. “She gave it to me to give to her child.” She ran her fingertips along one polished side. “Her father made it. When she played and sang, he would tell her that she could make demons weep.” She laid it in his hands. “I was going to give it to you when you left home. But I think now that it is the right time.”
He looked up at her, filled with questions. Lydea patted his hair. “I will keep it here for you. Whenever you want to play it, it will be waiting for you.”
He could not stop himself. The question had torn holes in him for so long. He had to know the answer. “Yaya. What really happened to her? All I know is that she died when I was born, but I know there is more you are not telling me.”
Her voice faltered, but her response was firm. “It is enough. That I cannot say to you.” She took the kinnor, walked to the opposite end of the room, and put the instrument back inside the box. Then she lay down on her pallet and pulled her cloak over her. “Remember to blow out the lamp,” she said, gesturing to the window ledge.
When darkness had engulfed the room, he lay staring up into the blackness. In the fire pit two small embers had not yet died out. He thought about those arresting eyes he had seen, bright with tears.
He fell asleep with a hollow of sadness in his chest.
10 Psalm 10:1–2, 9, 12–14, author’s paraphrase
11 Psalm 10:15–18, author’s paraphrase
Chapter Nine
Early the next morning, after a quick breakfast, David and Jahra were checking on the sheep and goats. David heard a gate slam, and he groaned when he saw Nethanel storming toward them, trying to avoid the piles of fresh dung.
David steeled himself.
As usual, Nethanel’s hair hung in a fastidious braid the length of his back. It reminded David of a limp adder. The wooden hoe hung behind his back from a leather strap. He carried it like a weapon of war, which in a sense it was, since he kept it almost as sharp as a sword.
“Father
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