The King’s Daughter

by Tala Bar

Table of Contents
Synopsis
Chapter 9, part 1 appears
in this issue.

Chapter Nine: Death on the Gilbo’a

part 2 of 2

“Tidings of the sacrifice,” the Sibyl’s voice echoed from the temple’s walls.

I shook from head to toe; had I not been sitting already, I would certainly have fallen to the floor. “Tell me,” I begged after a pause, when I recovered slightly.

“I will show you in a vision,” she answered. “He came to me, in the dead of night,” the woman said in her dim voice.

“Who?” I was stunned. Lilit spread her wings, shining silver, flew around the room, came back and sat on the Sibyl’s shoulder.

“Sha’ul,” she answered.

“Sha’ul?” I wondered; “How? From where?”

“You have not heard of the war on the Gilbo’a?”

I had to admit I knew nothing of the war on the Gilbo’a. “What is the Gilbo’a? Where is it?” I asked.

“It is a range of mountains bordering on the Valley of Yizre’el, opposite mount Tavor,” she answered

Although all these names were strange to me at the time, my next question did not refer to them. “Whom was he fighting there?” I wondered, thinking of David, whose memory until then had been pushed under the surface of peaceful everyday life.

“The Philistines, as usual,” replied the prophetess, patiently.

“But if it was as usual,” I said, getting slightly impatient. “What was so important about it this time?”

“This time he knew his time was up.” The muted voice reverberated in the small room.

“I don’t understand,” I quivered.

“Too many alternative victims, too much avoiding fulfillment of duty,” the Sybil replied, as if reading it out.

“A duty to whom?”

“His duty to Ashtoret, to the Goddess under whose tutelage he had become king. Sha’ul had accepted the Goddess’s love but rejected her judgment,” the Sybil said with a dim, severe voice.

I fell silent. I remembered Maakha’s stories, about the times when the Goddess demanded no victims at all, when these were brought to her voluntarily, out of well-wishing and self-sacrifice.

“A short time before this war,” she continued monotonously, “he tried to turn to Yhwh for refuge, hoping a change of faith would save him from the avenging Goddess. But just before his death, Shemu’el had pronounced very clearly that Yhwh had rejected Sha’ul totally....” She paused, meditating.

“So what happened?” I asked after a moment of silence.

“The Goddess called him. She forced him to come to her, against his own will.”

I was filled with pity for that man, whose love filled the whole world for me once. “Why?” I asked softly.

“To tell him his time had come, the time of his own sacrifice,” she answered harshly.

The world stood still. Then Lilit hooted once and was also silent. The woman opened her eyes, turning her gaze at me. “Look!” She commanded, drawing me to look into the black abyss with a force I could not resist.

I stared and was drowned, seeing the sights I did not want to see. Terror gripped the night, all the devils had escaped from She’ol to see Sha’ul on his way.

“Father,” Yonatan cried, “don’t go! Look at that night!”

“I have no choice,” Sha’ul said, his voice low, hoarse, shaking with his own fears, “she is calling me.”

“Who is calling you?” Yonatan shivered.

“Ahino’am — Ashtoret — She’ol — I must go, I am bound to submit to her word.”

“But you have stopped believing in her — why don’t you put your trust in Yhwh?”

“Who?” The King stared at his son as if he had never heard that name.

Yonatan stumbled back, alarmed by what he saw in Sha’ul’s eyes. It was a black, flaming fire, which threatened to engulf him, to scorch the fair hair, to stain the blue, innocent eyes. “I shall come with you, then!” he said, decisively.

“No!” Almost shouting. And, in a quieter voice, “Keep to the way of Yhwh, and let me go in the way of Ashtoret; that is how I started, that is how I must end.”

His determination sounded in his voice and Yonatan felt powerless. “At least, wait for the morning!” he begged, “look at the night!”

“It is a very fitting night,” the King whispered. “The morning will be too late!”

What could be too late? Yonatan asked himself, trembling. But he could see he had no way of helping his father, only put his faith in the boy who accompanied the King.

* * *

The wind stormed around them as they were setting out of camp. The rain galloped, tree tops bent to the earth, threatening to catch hold of the wanderers; the heavy, muddy earth, clinging to the soles of their shoes, hung heavily on their feet, pulling them back, but Sha’ul was driven forward by the angels of She’ol. Untold time passed as they prevailed over the obstacles of the road, from time to time beckoned by the magic of flickering fires, lighting parts of the way with an illusory glitter. Lightning flared in the sky, and in the rolling thunder Sha’ul heard his name called again and again; but the word ‘Sha’ul’ interchanged sometimes with ‘She’ol’, the name of the Death goddess herself, making his skin crawl and his heart miss a beat.

Midnight came, and they heard a distant cry calling the watch. There was a lull in the storm, and they paused, catching their breath, looking for the right direction. A sudden lightning pierced the blackness, in which they discerned a lone building a short distance away, clinging to the side of mount Tavor.

“This must be it,” Sha’ul murmured to himself, starting reluctantly toward the temple.

Quivering light flickered in the window, twinkling and beckoning, the only fixed point in the midst of a shattering reality.

Reaching the house, Sha’ul signed the boy to knock on the door, but this opened before he touched it. An oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, rocking in the wind, threw shaking shadows on the walls. No one was in the entrance room. Sha’ul closed the door against the powers of the night. They removed their wet outer garments, and Sha’ul hinted to the boy to sit in a corner and wait for him; he had already noticed the other door in the opposite wall. A monotonous sound of nasal chanting came from behind the door and filled the silent anteroom; the boy shrunk in his corner, trying to hide himself from any myterious entity, which might approach him. Sha’ul ignored him, went to the door which must have led to the actual shrine, opened it with a shaking hand.

* * *

He stopped on the threashhold, as if physically prevented from entering. It was a bare, windowless room, full of smoke. Fire burned in a pit at its center, and by its side stood a bending black-clad figure, chanting incantations in a strange, murmuring voice. From time to time she put her hand in her dress pocket, taking out a closed fist and scattering some powder over the fire; the flame would burst with flashing, glimmering sparks, then sink down again.

“Sha’ul, Sha’ul,” the woman hissed as he paused at the entrance, “come closer, come closer.” As he approached, hesitant, the smoke rose, curling over the fire like a hissing serpent, rising and twisting over the heads of the prophetess and the King.

“Sha’ul, Sha’ul,” she whispered, “come and I shall tell you your future, come and I shall show you your destiny...”

Slowly, he stepped up and stood by the Sibyl’s side, near the fire.

“Come and I shall tell you what the Goddess has in store for you...” she whispered, chanting nasally.

With a sinking heart Sha’ul shut his eyes; he breathed in deeply, chocking on the stench of the smoke rising from the belly of the earth. “What is the Goddess saying?” he asked, his throat grating, his breath gasping.

“Come and I shall show you your destiny in the fire.” The woman repeated as she waved her hand, scattering the mysterious powder on the fire; the flames rose and shone for a moment, then sank back.

“Whom will you see? Whom do you want to see?” she asked in a whisper, her voice rising and curling in the smoke over the fire.

“Can I see Maakha —”

The priestess dropped to the floor, her head bent between her knees. The fire flared out, throwing a cluster of thick smoke, then retreated; inside the smoke a dim dark figure appeared, quivering in the rising smoke.

“Grandmother!” The King cried out, full of hope.

“Sha’ul, Sha’ul!” The voice was thick and unnatural, nothing like Maakha’s.

“What’s going to happen to me, Grandmother? What future is in store for me?”

“Your life is over, my grandson,” the voice burst out of the image, “your destiny is marked, your future is signed, there is no return.” Then the image dissolved in the smoke and vanished with it.

“Grandmother —” Sha’ul begged, not wanting to let her go.

“Whom will you see? Whom do you want to see?” He heard again the dim voice of the necromancer crouching by the fire.

“Re’uma, my wife?” Sha’ul said, hesitating.

Again the fire flared out, emitting thick smoke, sinking back. It left behind a bright figure whose sight made his eyes shine for a moment.

“Re’uma, is that you, my wife?”

“No more your wife — the wife of She’ol is waiting for you there!” The sound was as dim and thick as the prophetess’ voice, nothing like Re’uma’s high, clear articulation as he remembered it.

“Re’uma, please —” he started begging.

“You see my two sons —” two more figures appeared beside the first one, “my two sons you sacrificed in your place. Here they are, with me, comforting me in my sorrow. All of us are waiting only for you now, Sha’ul.” The figures were absorbed in the smoke and disappeared.

“Whom will you see? Whom do you want to see now?” The priestess asked again in her muted voice.

“Who else can I see?” Sha’ul uttered sorrowfully. “Maybe my father, maybe Kish will stand by me?” Doubt and despair filled his heart and his voice.

The priestess waved her hand, the fire flared again, then sank and left behind it the twisting smoke. “My son —” he heard the same thick voice, softened a little.

“Kish, Father! I am so tired. Why don’t they leave me alone, all of them?”

“Why do you complain, Sha’ul? You chose the way of your life. Your mother and I will be happy to receive you in She’ol!”

“But I am not ready yet!”

“King Sha’ul!” Kish’s fatherly appearance suddenly changed into a tall, harsh and splendid figure.

“Shemu’el!” The King fell on his face before the image; “can you help me, in the name of Yhwh —”

“You have deserted Yhwh!” The dim voice thundered, its sound filling the room. “You chose to go in the ways of Ashtoret; you did not obey, you did not keep the commandments, you did not maintain your ways pure, you did not —”

“Stop! Enough!” Sha’ul raised his head pleadingly; “you have always been too harsh. Yhwh did not help me, did not support me, why should I cling to him!”

“Your time has come!” The thick voice rolled over his head. Suddenly, the fire burst out of the pit, filling the room, scorching Sha’ul’s hair. He fell on his face and the fire sank again, the smoke evaporated; only ashes were left, and some glowing embers.

In their light I saw the priestess rising from the floor, standing and watching Sha’ul with her dark gaze. She came out into the entrance room, where dawn shone at the window. The storm had subsided, the boy was dozing in his corner. The Sybil woke him up, and together they raised Sha’ul from where he had fallen by the pit, washed his face with water from a bowl standing in corner of the entrance room. When Sha’ul recovered a little, she sent them on their way — and the vision vanished.

III

Breathing heavily like Sha’ul, I was absorbed in his feelings of depression and despair. “But what happened afterwards?” I asked at last.

“Look into my eyes!” The Sybil commanded.

Against my inclination I looked again, because I had to know the end of the story; I had to find out what had happened to my father.

The Philistines were deployed for battle at the foot of the Gilbo’a. The Israelite army was spread over them on the slopes of the mountain. I saw the people waiting, worried. As the sun appeared over the mountains of Gil’ad in the east, Sha’ul arrived and stood in front of his men, wrapped in prayer — I could not tell whether it was to Yhwh or to Ashtoret. Suddenly, I was astonished to see a wonderful sight: the spirit of some divinity had come to rest on Sha’ul and he began to prophesy, losing all physical control. Yonatan approached him, trying to calm him down, but Sha’ul raised his sword.

In one blow he sank it into his son’s heart. “Receive, Oh Goddess, the offer of my most precious son!” He cried out, then he raised the sword again and plunged it into his own heart.

“The offer of my life, Oh Goddess! Receive the offer of my life!” he screamed to his death. I screamed with him.

“How awful!” I whispered, quivering all over. “Is that how Sha’ul died? Is that how Yonatan died?”

* * *

My heart turned to stone, my eyes still gazing into the eyes of the black Sybil. I saw Sha’ul’s men, stunned, screaming horror; then they raised their feet and ran for their lives. The Philistine soldiers, watching all this in wonder, ran up the slope with shouts of war, their spears waving to no purpose. In a few moments they found among the bare rocks the bodies of the King and his son. I heard the sound of a foreign command, then I saw a soldier waving his sword and cutting off the heads of Sha’ul and Yonatan. The men raised the bleeding heads up to heaven, then, in a procession, carried them to the nearest town and stuck them on the wall surrounding it.

“What are they doing?” I asked the woman, watching the fearful sight in horror and amazement.

“These are sacred heads,” she explained complaisantly, “they will be prophetic guardians to the city, keeping evil away from it and warning against any attack.”

“I don’t understand.” I shook myself out of the vision, turning a questioning glance at the priestess, whose face had assumed again the regular appearance of a woman of many days and troubles.

“The Philistines admired Sha’ul and Yonatan for their courage in battle and their wisdom in judgment,” she explained to me with a softened voice, reminiscent of Maakha’s in her better days. “In their death as victims of Ashtoret, the Goddess had sanctified them, made them her prophets.”

“But to put their heads on the city wall?” I asked, shocked. “I’ve never heard of that custom.”

“It is a very ancient one. We had taken the heads of your brothers, Avinadav and Malkishua, to the temple of the Three Asses, where they prophesied in the name of the Goddess.”

I stared at her. “And the babies —” I asked, my voice strangled.

“These were buried under the wall of Naaman’s temple, to protect against enemies.”

And what help was that to the temple when it was destroyed, as I heard later from my mother? My abhorrence of rituals strengthened even more after hearing those words.

* * *

Indeed, nothing was left for me then but Palti’s love. He was still waiting for me outside, patiently, when I left the temple when evening came. When he saw me, pale and shocked, he gathered me in his arms, and we stayed like that, silent, for a long time, before leaving for home. Only at night, in the darkness of the room and the warmth of our bed and my husband’s body, I was able to loosen my tongue and tell him the atrocities I saw in a vision in the Sybil’s eyes.

With Palti I found that good, warm, true love prophesied to me by Devora at Naaman’s temple without even remembering that prophecy. Years earlier I thought it referred to my life with David, and was greatly disappointed when it did not come about. With time I learned the lesson of the ambiguity of prophecies and did not trouble myself about them any more.

To be continued...