Warrior Poet by Timothy J. Stoner Page A

been too embarrassed of his height to take pleasure in those exuberant displays reserved for wedding celebrations. Now, however, as he danced among the prophets, his self-consciousness was gone.
    He spun with arms extended, facing the sky. It was exhilarating. Though he’d always managed to keep his emotions in check, tears were coursing down his cheeks. At some point, he realized he could no longer feel the ground. Lost in a whirlwind of pleasure and joy, he was spiraling like a dust cloud that has lifted into the air. It might have lasted for hours. It could have lasted a lifetime. But in the end, five simple words dragged him down.
    What must I look like?
    It stopped as suddenly as it began. He found himself surrounded by eight prophets holding musical instruments. His arms were uplifted, his eyes felt swollen, his throat was raw, as if he’d been crying out at the top of his lungs. His thighs and ankles ached. He felt utterly clean and light as breath. When he looked beyond the circle of musicians, he became aware of the crowd of people who had gathered around the worshippers. They look stunned, as if they’d witnessed some kind of miracle. The heat began creeping up his neck. Scrambling to pick up his cloak, he threw it around his shoulders and shuffled as quickly as he could out of the ring.
    Upon his return home, he’d found the donkeys eating lazily in their pen. His father had gone to market without him, so it was his uncle who insisted on hearing all that had transpired. When Saul mentioned the encounter with Samuel, his uncle pressed for details. Saul related the prophet’s predictions but was too timid to say anything about the anointing.
    Less than a week later, Samuel had called for a tribal gathering at Mizpah. It seemed ludicrous to Saul now as he looked back on it, but he’d felt so overwhelmed that he tried to hide among the baggage. But he was found out and dragged into the open.
    The people were doubly enthused, mistaking his timidity for humility, and began shouting, “Long live the king!” With that phrase all hope for a subordinate role vanished. He had been forced to live a lie, pretending to a competence and a confidence he did not possess.
    But that had been a long time ago. Responsibility had been terrifying, but he’d discovered the delights of privilege and the intoxication of power. His fear was no longer exposure but usurpation. That was what robbed him of sleep.
    He jerked his head around. The moon was full and as large as the silver platter the northern tribes had given as a coronation gift. Somehow—he could not remember how—he had risen from his bed, walked past the guards, and wandered through the gates that encircled Gibeah. Saul blinked and rubbed his eyes. These episodes were becoming more common. At first he’d begun forgetting important details, including names and events; now he was taking walks at night with no memory of leaving the palace stronghold.
    His body was damp with sweat. His chest felt as if he’d been taking in great gulps of air. The branches of the trees were outlined in a menacing silver-blue light. They seemed to be reaching out for him. The road was empty, but he had a terrible certainty that he was being followed. He felt for his sword, then his dagger, but he’d left both next to his bed. He looked at his hands. His skin was the color of a corpse long dead.
    He picked up his pace.
    The sound of sandals slapping the dirt behind him confirmed his fears. His assailants were keeping pace with him. He was running now. A noose tightened around his neck. The only sound that came was a childish whimper. Rage flooded him. He would not die with the sound of an infant or a terrified woman on his lips as murderous conspirators tried to steal his throne.
    He had seen them whispering and skulking about with their hungry eyes fixed on his crown. Once the band had terrified him, but now, with its emeralds and rubies and golden filigree, it drew him with the