Warrior Poet by Timothy J. Stoner

and pulled out a delicate cruse. On the thin-necked vessel was etched the ornate, holy letter shin . Saul was too stunned to speak. When Samuel pulled off the topper, Saul’s nostrils were filled with the sweetest scent he had ever smelled. There was a delicious overlay of myrrh and calamus and what he guessed might be cinnamon. The smell was so pungent, it made his head reel. It was the scent on the robes of the head priest who presided over the tabernacle at Bethel. Only those who were from the tribe of Aaron were allowed to be priests.
    Has this crazy prophet gotten me confused with a member of the priestly house? Why did I listen to that fool Tishri?
    But, rather than objecting, he found himself dutifully bowing his head. Samuel reached up and, with a hand pressing down on Saul’s shoulder, said, “Kneel, chosen of God.”
    The hair on Saul’s neck stood up. The unexpected gentleness only increased his consternation. Chosen? That was the precise description he had been evading since childhood. Samuel’s voice changed in tenor; there was a deep timbre that gave his words a solemn weight. All traces of a rasp had disappeared.
    “The Lord has anointed you over His inheritance as a prince,” Samuel intoned as if reading from a holy script. The words, together with the pungent oil, rolled onto Saul’s head and down over his shoulders in thick, heavy drops.
    A seed of hope sprang to life. Saul sighed with relief. There had been rumors that the elders of the twelve tribes had made a public demand for a king, but the term Samuel had used was nagid —ruler or captain—not melekh —king. Maybe the old man was only indicating that Saul had been chosen for a military position in the new government.
    Sweat broke out on Saul’s forehead as he drew a deep breath. As long as he meant only a captain in the army—anything but king.
    Samuel then uttered an extended prophecy. Upon Saul’s arrival home, he would find the donkeys returned to his father, but on the way, he would meet three men who would offer him two loaves of bread. Most dramatically, though, he would encounter a band of prophets, the Spirit of God would seize him, and he would experience some kind of spiritual transformation.
    Samuel’s voice grew soft, as if all the speaking had exhausted him. Saul had to strain to hear what the prophet would say next. He was scared and confused, hoping for some clear instructions. But that guidance did not come.
    “When this occurs, do whatever your hand finds to do, for God is with you.”
    Samuel stopped, took a trembling breath, then continued. “After time has passed, go down before me to Gilgal, and look, I shall be coming down to offer burnt offerings and to sacrifice communion offerings. Wait there seven days until I come to you, and I shall tell you what you must do.”
    That was it—a bit of direction mixed with a potful of uncertainty.
    As Saul had suspected, the prophecies had proved accurate, including, to his chagrin, the embarrassing frenzy. It had overtaken him when he heard the instruments played by the prophets coming down from the high place at Gibeath-Elohim.
    He had never experienced anything similar. Something about the beat of the drum and the cymbals quickened his pulse. As the band drew nearer, he heard the infectious sounds of harp, flute, and lyre. The cadences of the singers sent a tingling from the top of his head to his fingers and toes. Something strange and terrifying and huge was boiling up inside him. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. He gasped, the pressure rising up in his chest. His right hand started to tremble, followed by his entire body.
    What happened next was unclear. Unintelligible sounds burst from his mouth. He had never been much of a singer, but the sounds felt sweet and lovely and light, like a lover’s song. As the words rose, riding upon a musical, rhythmic chant, he spun and jumped with an abandon he would have thought ridiculous only moments earlier. He’d always