Abigail's Story (20 page)

“The runaway slave king?” He laughed. “What could a little nothing like you offer him? Not the stingy joys to be found in your arms.”

“I offered what you owed him, my husband. The
food to feed four hundred starving men.” I watched his cheeks go ruddy. “Do you wish a proper accounting? I took two hundred loaves of bread, two skins of wine, five sacks of roasted grain, one hundred clusters of raisins, and two hundred cakes of figs. Five carcasses of mutton, your five fattest, already dressed for your feast; those I took, as well. Yehud and his sons merely killed five more to bring to your roasting spits.”

His redness deepened to purple and he shook as his voice became a whisper. “You dared steal food from my house? Out from under my very nose? That food that was meant for my feast.”

“You did not go hungry last night. There was enough to spare ten times what I took to Melekh David and his army.” I did not flinch as he seized the front of my khiton in his fist. “I was wrong, though. It was not the food, nor my obeisance to Melekh David that swayed him. It was my telling him that the future king of all Israel and Judah should not sully his hands with the blood of a fool.”

“I shall kill you for this.”

“No, Husband, you will not.” I pressed my hand against his chest. “For the Adonai came to me last night. He was pleased that I had saved His beloved son David from tainting his purity with your foulness.” I sank my fingernails into his robe. “He granted me the power of a curse on your heart, to turn it into stone. Have you felt how heavy it beats this morning? It has already begun.”

Nabal's hand went slack and then knocked mine
away so that he could prod his own chest. “No, it is fine. I am fine.”

“The Adonai despises thieves and liars, but He cannot abide murderers. You have known this since you were a boy. That is why you are afraid to die, is it not? Why you have no feelings for others? Because you have always known that someday you would be struck down for your crimes.”

“I have killed no one!” he screamed in my face.

“Yet your parents' blood cries out for vengeance. So, too, your brother's. Even poor Keseke's. All the people you have cheated and made to go hungry in your service. All those souls hanging from you like blood-filled ticks.” I watched the small red veins in his nose and eyes swell. “Do as you will to me, but it will change nothing. Your heart is turning to stone, my husband, and ten days hence you will die. That is my curse and the will of the Adonai.”

“You cannot curse me. You are no one, nothing!” Nabal's breathing became panting. “I shall summon my physician.” He groped until he found a table and leaned heavily against it. “He will cure me.”

I leaned back against the door. “How will he get into the room?”

“Move away from there.” He tried to rise and then made a strangled sound. Sweat poured down his purple face. “Lift that bar. Send for help for me. For the love of the Adonai, you are my wife!”

“Yes, I am.” I smiled tenderly at him. “And I shall not leave you, husband. Not until I hear your last breath and know my curse is fulfilled.”

Nabal fell against the table, making the dishes on it clatter as his body went into a jerking fit. He fell over atop the remains of his last feast and did not move again.

I
waited by my husband's bedside for ten days. I waited for him to speak, to move, to do anything to show that he was still the master and I, the wife who had cursed him, would suffer for what I had done.

Nabal did not speak, did not move, did not twitch.

His eyes stared up at the ceiling beams. His mouth hung slack on one side, and saliva dribbled down his neck. When he was fed anything, even a tiny sip of clear broth, he would choke on it.

I was the one to feed him, for most of his servants had run off, frightened by what I had done. The steward, who was not as superstitious, informed me that he was leaving, and took a good deal of Nabal's gold with him when he did. I did not care. It was not my gold, and after all the years he had served my husband, he likely had earned it.

Rivai came on the eighth day to plead with me.
“Come home, Abigail. There is nothing you can do for him.”

I would not speak. The last words that had come from my lips had done this thing to Nabal. I would not speak again until it was finished.

“Why do you keep silent? Why do you stay?”

I could not tell him that it was the pact I had made with the Adonai. If Nabal lived, I would be wife to him and care for him, no matter in what state his body was left. I would accept whatever punishment he gave, be it my own death.

All I had to do was wait and see how it would be.

My brother argued and pleaded and shouted, but I was not moved. At last he left, exasperated beyond words with me.

I kept my silence, and my vigil.

At dawn on the tenth day, Nabal's breathing changed. By the time the sun rose, his chest barely moved at all. I watched without blinking as the pulse in his thick neck slowed and faltered. The last breath he took escaped like a sigh, and then he breathed no more.

So I was wife no more, but widow.

 

I cannot say all that happened to me after Nabal died. I remember walking from his chamber and through the empty house. I took nothing, not even the things that were mine. I was not conscious of being, only of moving, and walking.

There was my walking, a great deal more, out of Maon and into the wide fields, now shorn of their
wheat. I passed gleaners picking through the stubble, and heard someone call a greeting to me. I did not answer. I walked beyond those eyes, and that voice.

I walked all of that day and night, and into the next morning. I walked until I fell down into the soft, green grass, and closed my eyes, and slept. When I woke, I stood and began walking again.

Hunger gnawed at me, but it was a distant thing. Sometimes I walked through nettles, or brushed past bushes laden with thorns. The stings and hurts they inflicted on me faded to nothing. When cramps seized my legs, I would lie down and wait for them to pass. When I could walk no more, I lay down and slept.

Bethel told me that I walked into camp at noon. My khiton hung in shreds, and scratches and filth covered my body. I walked directly to her, and fell at her feet, and could not rise again.

Yehud's women took me into their tent and washed me like an infant. They wept over me and prayed the kispu for me. One of the men was sent to Carmel to tell my family that I was dying.

But I did not die. I slept.

Bethel scolded the mourning women and tried to rouse me. When she could not, Leha later told me, she ordered that I be attended night and day.

The old woman herself sat beside me and held my hand and talked to me as if I still had my senses. She fed me thin porridge for many days, as nothing else would stay down. When she grew tired, Leha or one of the other women came and took her place.

One morning I woke and knew myself and my sanity again. I opened my eyes to see Bethel sitting beside me, her hand gently drawing a comb through my hair. “You make a habit of this, girl,” she was muttering, “and I shall beat you.”

“Wife of Yehud,” I whispered.

“Widow of Nabal.” She bent over to look into my eyes. “So you have come back to us again.”

“I bring you only grief this time.”

“No, beloved Abigail.” She set aside the comb and looked down at me with love in her eyes. “You bring that which is always with you. Joy.”

Although the women of the camp had nursed me well, I was horribly weak, and it took another day and night before I could rise from my sleeping mat, even for a brief time. Bethel, worried I might take it into my head to go walking into the desert, insisted that Leha act as my shadow.

I did not mind. If there was a balm for my spirit, it was Leha's soft voice and gentle smile.

Leha first walked with me around the camp, which was all my strength would allow. Where we went, there were smiles and nods. Everyone seemed happy to see me, but I did not know why.

“My uncle took our finest ram to the bamot in Maon,” Leha told me. “He called upon the Adonai to bless you and your house for the rest of your days. What you did, Abigail . . .” She shook her head. “I do not have the words.”

I thought of Nabal's empty, staring eyes. “I have
no more house nor husband. There will be no children, and I shall die gerusa.”

“You do not know, then. I was not certain if you heard us speaking of it; you were so ill.” Leha stopped and faced me. “We sent word to Carmel ere you came here and your brother drove out to see you. He could not stay, for he told us that after you disappeared, the shofet of Maon entrusted your husband's estate upon your family. They are keeping it for you until you return, but it is yours, Abigail.”

“I want nothing of my husband's.”

Leha made a helpless gesture. “By law it is yours.”

“By law I should be stoned to death for killing him,” I said, my voice harsh.

We had come to the edge of the forest and the path that led to the spring. I stared at it and recalled the many, happy times I had walked here.

Leha turned and listened carefully, and then said, “I think I hear my aunt calling for me.” She handed me the jug she carried. “Will you draw the water, Abigail?”

I nodded and took the jug before I started down the path to the spring.

Each step drove some of the numbness from my heart, replacing it with a pain so acute I felt it like a knife. For here was the place where I had fallen in love with my fool king, and here I had offered myself to him out of love. It was not tainted with my sin, this place. It was free of everything but the sweetest of memories.

I went through the gap, shedding my clothing as I did. Naked as a newborn, I stood by the edge of the waters.

I looked at the sky. “Adonai, hear me. In all things I have done Your will. I have been the generous one. I have given all that I have for love and honor. There is no more left of me to give now, and I would that you forgive me my sins and let me be as a child in Your eyes.”

I filled the jug and lifted it over my head, and poured it over myself. The water was cold against my heated skin, but as it rushed down my body, I felt the crushing weight of Nabal's death ease. Perhaps there was forgiveness for one such as I.

I squeezed the wetness from my hair, refilled the jug, and turned to retrieve my clothes.

David stood at the entrance to the spring, straight and tall, his black hair gleaming with blue in the sun.

I studied him. “You are staring.”

“I am.” He did not move from his place. “I have scoured nearly all of Judah, looking for you.” He held out my shift and khiton.

“I went walking. I was not myself for a time. The Adonai guided my feet to bring me here.” I went to him and took my clothes, but I did not hurry to dress. “Nabal is dead.”

“We had word of it. That is why I searched for you.” He took my shift back and pulled it over my head. “You are very thin, Abigail of Paran.”

The name startled me, but suddenly it felt right. I
was no longer tied to Carmel or Maon or any town. “You look tired, Melekh David.”

“Searching for a little dove in the great, wide wilderness is exhausting. And frustrating.” He stared down at me. “I am yet a hunted man. The king has not forgiven me for whatever he imagines my crimes. I have taken the men to Ziklag, where Samuel's kin will give us sanctuary. We still must live as nomads and take work where we can find it.”

It was not fair. “I am sorry for that.”

He helped me into my khiton. “There will be work—and pay for it—for us in Ziklag. I have given the men permission to send for their wives and children.” He touched my cheek. “You are thinner, but your eyes have not changed. They are yet as cool and peaceful as the waters of Bethlehem. My sleeping mat is empty, Abigail. I dream alone.”

“What are you saying?” I whispered.

“I shall return to my men now. There are two of them I must send back to this place, to speak to Yehud about a marriage.”

Doubtless one of his men, wishing to wed one of Yehud's daughters. I did not want to think about marriage. The wrench of losing him yet again to his duty was making me bleed inside. “I wish you good journey.”

“I would know if Yehud will give his blessing to the match.” He brushed a piece of wet hair back from my brow. “Perhaps you can advise me.”

“Who is this man?”

“Some call him an outlaw, but he is in truth only a shepherd. He has an unruly temper and needs to be reminded of his purpose when it becomes snarled. He is poor, too.” He linked his hands with mine. “Someday that will change, but for now, all he can give her is his heart.”

“And who is this woman?” I asked quietly.

“A widow recent, but the kindest, gentlest heart in Judah. She is not afraid of work or sacrifice. She was raised in town, but learned to live in the wilderness. She protects life, even if it means lying facedown in the road before an arrogant fool and calling herself a maidservant.”

I choked out a laugh. “She is hardly more than that.”

“I would rather see her a wife to the man who needs her rather more than breathing. The man to whom she was sent by the Adonai, over and over again.” He tilted his head. “What is your advice, then? Should my men come to speak to the rosh about this union? Or is it a hopeless matter, better forgotten?”

I drew my hands from his to pick up the jug of water, which I propped against my hip. With my free hand I covered my head, and turned to go. I knew I would sleep well this night, and there would be no more dreams of longing. My dream lived.

My dream also patiently awaited an answer, so I looked back and gave it to him. “Send your men, Melekh David.”

Abigail, one of the most notable women in the Bible, lived in Judah more than three thousand years ago. All we know about her is the description of a confrontation between her and David, the future king of Israel, in the twenty-fifth chapter of Samuel. From the Scriptures, we have the story of how Abigail saved the lives of many innocent people by persuading a proud and very angry David not to take personal vengeance on her foolish husband, Nabal, and his household.