Dahveed, Yahweh’s Chosen (Book One) – by Terri Fivash

Chapter One

      Gripping my belt knife, I looked down at the man lying on the floor at my feet, the blood seeping from the wound on his shoulder. What should I do, now that I had King Shaul’s oldest son, Jonathan, at my mercy here in the throne room of Gibeah’s fortress? It would only take a quick slash of the blade in my hand to remove the biggest obstacle to Yahweh’s destiny for me.
      I studied the handsome face of Israel’s beloved Hassar or Crown Prince. He was more than 20 years my senior, as old as my oldest brother, Eliab, Jesse’s bekor. I’d never seen the hassar’s face before, but I’d heard his rich, distinctive voice for the first time a year ago, in the blackness before dawn outside the walls of this very town. He had taken my hand and wished he could claim me for his service. Tears pricked my eyes at the memory. I could never fully repay him for that wish, even though it probably meant very little to him. He was the first man to ever want me, for even my own father hadn’t claimed me until just months ago, and I’d lived in Jesse’s house for 10 of my 15 years.
      This man had saved Israel at the battle of Michmash, had taken this very fortress from the Philistines, had won the hearts and loyalty of every man in Israel, including mine. Just three nights ago I had stood on the eastern height outside of town, riveted by the cry of anguish and despair I had heard come from his throat, and I had trembled as Yahweh’s presence wrapped the hilltop in His embrace as He came personally to hear. And this was the man whose honor and throne it was my destiny to take. Yahweh’s command or not, I didn’t want to do it!
      My hand tightened around the hilt of great-grandfather Boaz’s knife, irony twisting my insides. The blade had been forged to protect Boaz’s bloodline, but I was incapable of using it against the greatest threat to that bloodline in generations, for I stood in treasonous opposition to the king, and if this man knew of it, he would be honor-bound to slay me and all my family. How had I gotten here? What had happened to bring the two of us to such an encounter?

      “Here now! Off with you! Leave the boy alone!”
      The commanding voice above my 5-year-old head frightened me as much as the chase had. I shivered in the dust of the street in Bethlehem, holding my side where the stone had hit and rubbing at the tears with my other fist while I tried to choke back more sobs.
      “His mother has no man, and he has no shame!” Balak taunted, throwing a handful of dust. “How dare he speak to me! He has no place here, and I come from an honorable family!”
      “Where is your own shame? Do you preserve family honor by striking someone half your size?” the man standing over me accused. “Get yourself gone, Balak ben Hod.”
      “Come on,” another boy urged, tugging on Balak’s arm. “That’s Ethan!”
      The boys disappeared so quickly, I wondered who Ethan could be.
      “Stand up so I can see if you are much hurt, young one,” he said gruffly.
      I crawled to my feet, tears spilling from my eyes once more with the pain of my knee that now bled from the rough stone Balak had pushed me against. When I opened my eyes, I saw not the robes of a townsman, but a black kilt. A Habiru. One of the murderous nomads Immi often warned me against!
      My knees shook, and I bolted. Something slammed into me, knocking me flat. Dazed, I curled into a ball, scared of the salty taste in my mouth, and wondering if I would ever see Immi again. I kept my eyes shut tight, hoping the Habiru would leave me alone.
      “You’re a fast one, lad,” the warrior said as he sat down in the street beside me. “But walls don’t give way for tadpoles like you. Next time you run, look where you’re going.”
      I was too scared to answer.
      After several minutes, his large, rough hands picked me up and set me against the wall. “I’m not going to eat you, boy, in spite of what your immi probably told you. It’s true, some Habiru would hurt a strong young fellow like you, but I’m not one of them. And right now it looks as if you need to be cautious of the town boys, not Habiru.”
      The chuckle in his voice stilled some of my fear.
      “Now, why were those boys chasing you?”
My lip trembled again. “Immi came to the market, and I only asked to play.”
      “Where do you live?”
      “Immi said we’d find a place, and now I can’t find her.” I rubbed another tear off my cheek. My whole face hurt, and a drop of red hit my toe.
      The man’s hand raised my head. “Bloodied your nose nicely on that wall,” he commented. Fishing a piece of cloth out of a small pouch, he held it to my face.
      When he took it away, I looked at him for the first time. He had dark hair, a trimmed beard, and sharp gray eyes that stared into mine.
      His mouth dropped open. Turning my face into the afternoon sun, he studied my eyes intently. Then he spread the fingers of my left hand, lightly touching the higher-than-normal webbing between my second and third fingers. “Well, young geber, I think I know exactly where you belong,” he whispered. Swinging me up in his arms, he marched down the street.
      As I pushed away from his black shirt, I looked frantically for Immi. Where would this Habiru take me?
      He carried me down a quiet street to a wooden gate. Inside the walled courtyard the smell of the couscous a young woman was cooking made me hungry in spite of my fright. She watched over the low wall that enclosed a big, two-story house as the man carrying me strode straight across the common courtyard to a one-story house and climbed the outside stairs to the roof.
      “Hassarah Ruth?”
      “What is it, Ethan?”
      “I have someone here I think you should meet.”
      At the sound of the female voice, I twisted around, hoping it would be Immi. Instead I looked into two eyes exactly like my own light brown ones, even to the flecks of darker brown.
      The woman’s eyes widened in amazement, then lit up with joy. I forgot my fear and hunger and held out my arms. She hugged me, heavy as I was, and I knew everything was going to be all right.
      The hassarah sat down in a three-legged chair and settled me in her lap, handing me a fig from the bowl on the small table next to her. It was the sweetest fig I’d ever had, and I ate the rest of them, hardly listening to the comments of the two adults.
      “Where did you find him, Ethan?”
      “In an alley where Balak and his crowd had chased him. I put a stop to it, but when he saw I was a Habiru, he bolted straight into a wall and bloodied his face. Apparently his Immi was in the market.”
      “Find her and bring her here.”
      “Yes, Hassarah.”
      Having eaten all the figs, I pulled another bowl toward myself, looking for more to eat.
      The woman laughed softly. “Just like a man. Fill your tummy and you forget your troubles.” She handed me some bread.
      Just then, a breeze sprang up, and, very faintly, I heard something sing. I dropped the bread, cocking my head to listen. The fascinating sound came from a strange-looking thing on the table.
      The woman became very still. “You heard that?” she murmured.
      Standing up in her lap, I reached for the polished wood that shone on the thing.
      With an exclamation, the hassarah grabbed my hand and spread my fingers. Then she smiled a little and showed me her left hand, which had the same kind of webbing that mine did. Dropping a kiss on my head, she drew the thing closer and plucked a string.
      I stopped breathing at the sound, then, hesitantly, followed her example.
      “So, my harp sings for you, little man,” she said in a hushed voice.
      I didn’t answer, too fascinated by the sounds coming from the strings.
      We were still making them when my immi rushed across the roof to hug me tightly, laughing and crying at the same time.
      As I hugged her back, she scolded me for leaving the market and thanked El that I was safe all in the same breath. Reassured by her hugs, I pushed myself away, reaching for the harp again.
      The hassarah set it on the floor, and I squatted beside it, plucking each string in turn. The man named Ethan sat on a stool next to the low wall around the rooftop and Immi still knelt where she’d hugged me.
      “Thank you, geberet, thank you,” she was saying. Then she gasped, “Ruth!”
      I looked up in the sudden silence.
      “Hassarah! I had no idea this was your house . . . you shouldn’t have been bothered . . .” My mother’s voice trailed off as she blushed.
      “It was no bother. Your son has entertained me nicely. What is his name and clan?”
      Immi gulped, looking around uneasily. “I--well, we couldn’t decide at first, and just called him Ben-geber until we found something we liked.”
      “And what did you decide on? ‘Son of the master’ would have done for a while, I suppose.”
      Immi blushed again. “Well, that is, we--we never actually did decide,” she quavered, and rushed on. “Please, do accept my thanks for taking care of him. I was, well, distracted by my business in the market, and he wandered off. We will not impose on you any longer.” She stood. “Come now, Ben-geber, we must go,” she said, reaching for my hand.
      Then she saw what I was playing with. “You mustn’t touch the hassarah’s harp!” she exclaimed in horror, pulling me quickly away. “Hassarah, please let me apologize for him,” she added, turning to Ruth again.
      “I allowed him to play it,” the older woman replied, watching my immi closely. “It sings for him, as well it should. Please allow us to offer you something to drink at least. You look hot and tired.”
      Immi’s hand trembled in mine. “I am very grateful for the offer, Hassarah, but we must go. My business shouldn’t wait.”
      “Is the hospitality of our house unacceptable to you?”
      As Immi’s hand tightened around mine, I looked up anxiously. Refusing hospitality could make a lot of trouble, and I liked the hassarah.
      “Of course not, Hassarah,” Immi replied, looking trapped. “But I do not wish to cause you trouble or inconvenience. My house’s honor is nothing compared to yours and . . .”
      “. . . and you don’t think you are worthy to share my table,” the hassarah finished. “And yet, one male in this house found you honorable enough. Who fathered the boy? Eliab? Or Shammah?”
      My Immi burst into tears. “It was Jesse, Hassarah.”
I stood uncertainly, watching. Why was Immi crying now? I was all right and back with her.
      “Sit down here and tell me about it,” the hassarah said.
      When Immi perched on a cushion, I crawled into her lap for another hug and then went back to the harp.
      “It was at the harvest festival six years ago. It was just after my own immi died, and Jesse—I—that is, we liked each other and—and--”
      ”And you needed comfort and things developed from there,” Ruth nodded in understanding. “I’m not surprised, although he must be twice your age. Has he supported you in any way?”
      “I didn’t tell him about my son,” Immi confessed. “Abbi and my brother, Jonathan, both loved little Ben-geber, so things were all right. But then two and a half years ago, when Jonathan was on his way to the scribes’ school in Beth-Shean, Habiru attacked his caravan. Abbi was never the same after that. He died last winter. That’s when I learned no one else in the clan would accept me since I’m unmarried.”
      She started sobbing again.
      I went to her and put my arms around her. Immi was always sad when she talked about my Dodi Jonathan. I didn’t remember him anymore, except that he had had a wonderful funny smile when he tossed me into the air.
      “Calm yourself, geberet,” the hassarah said gently. “Your son belongs to this clan, and therefore, so do you. You can move in immediately, and—”
      “Oh, I can’t!” Immi said, crying harder.
      “Why ever not? There is plenty of room.”
      “It’s not that,” she interrupted wildly. “I can’t.”
      “Nonsense. Of course you can. And the usual arrangements will provide for Ben-geber’s place in the house also.”
      “Hassarah, you don’t understand! I met Geber Hod in the market this afternoon. His wife needs someone to help, and he’s willing to take Ben-geber also. His son, Balak, will soon be old enough to have a servant.”
      “None of that need stand in the way—” Ruth began.
      “But I sold myself to him!”