A War of Gods

A War of Gods

Retelling the most famous story in the world.

The small and lean shepherd’s rough hands gently caressed the five smooth river stones in his waist-pouch, looking for the perfect one. So much depended on his choice. In fact, it was a matter of life or death for him, and for many more.

“In you oh Yah I put my trust, let me not be put to shame…” His youthful voice sang the familiar words in faltering tones. He could hear the shaky hoarseness of it, despite having so often intoned that same hymn. There was a tightening sensation in his stomach – a peculiar mixture of apprehension and determination, as he raised his eyes toward his foe. His fingers reached to touch the last stone: the perfect one at last.

The war had been at a standstill for forty days. Israel’s army had camped on a hillside overlooking the valley of Elah, drawn up in full battle array, an impressive conglomeration of tents, donkeys and men. On the opposite hill stood the enemy’s camp, a vast assortment of shelters of various kinds, cooking pits and fighting sandpits for daily practice. It was a well-armed and well-trained army, this enemy, Philistines whose tall, fair-skinned ancestors had come over the sea many centuries before. They were strong brawny men, every soldier competing for a chance to fame and renown through his skill and mastery. From afar one could hear the shouts and cries as the champions trained with wooden sword in the pits, the sparkle of their armor of leather and polished bronze shining in the springtime sun.

In comparison the Israelites would seem a rag-tag band of ruffians. The few that had armor – mostly the king and clan chieftains, had the most varied patchwork of leather creations, some more ungainly than others. The few swords they had were bronze—easily notched and bent in battle. The rest fought with crude hand-made weapons—flint-tipped javelins, arrows and even farm implements. But what they lacked in armor and weaponry they made up for with their raw intensity and drive. They were rough, swarthy men but practiced and deadly. Part of the king´s special guard was the famous Benyamin marksmen, lethally accurate sling fighters. Their tradition and secret techniques had been passed down several generations in the king’s own tribe after almost being extinguished in a civil war years before.

Despite the evident military superiority, the Philistine commander had begun the battle, first of the customary springtime wars, by proposing a trial by single combat. The terms of such a combat were that each army would put forth a champion; the resulting duel deciding the fate of the entire battle. Each champion could be assisted by a squire or armor-bearer, but said assistants could take no part in the duel except to assist in the preparation of the combatant’s weapons.

“It is our wish to save the lives of our men and yours,” said the grim-faced emissary who accompanied the standard-bearer and four fighters in polished bronze. Obviously a high-ranking combatant himself, he grinned to show a row of broken front teeth through his scar-marked shaven face. Champion combat was not the way the Israelites liked to fight, being a Philistine custom brought from their homeland across the sea, therefore the king was naturally wary of the offer. Following the defeat of an Israelite champion would the enemy content itself merely to the traditional tribute in silver and slaves? Could there truly be satisfaction at such a combat? He knew the Israelites would not stay at that, and he suspected the enemy would not either. There would be thousands of dead on both sides, especially the Israelites’.  Nevertheless he decided to concede. Full-scale battle was bound to unfold at any rate, and time could possibly give them some advantage, though the signs and oracles had not been forthcoming for some time and the king was left to decide without divine guidance.

As soon as the news made its way through the army ranks, several volunteers stepped forward to claim championship including not few from the king’s guard. Strong, practiced men they were, many of them sung about in the songs about the battles of Jabesh Gilead and the rout of Amalek.  Nevertheless it all changed when the Philistine champion stepped forward.

He was a giant man, a descendent of the Anakim of old, over twelve feet tall. The sight of him melted the courage of the Israelite champions and they hurried to withdraw their bid to champion the battle. The giant strode from the Philistine camp, his armor like a mirror of polished metal as tall as a man, engraved with the fish-headed god of the Philistines and the giant tree of the Anakim. The javelin alone sheathed on his back weighted more than any weapon in the Israelite arsenal, not to mention his sword and the giant shield that dwarfed the armor bearer that carried it by his side.

This was an enemy that no Israelite man dared face. Inhuman in his apparel, and in a menacing growl the Philistine challenged any and all for forty long days. He marched around the sandpit that had been prepared in the valley for the duel, cursing the Israelites, calling out foul epithets for their god, their mothers, their children, their manhood and anything else they held dear.

Daily the stakes rose. The king of Israel put out rewards for any willing to risk life and limb in defeating the champion but no amount of gold could buy the courage of men who believed themselves defeated before the battle was even fought.  Even his own daughter, a beautiful young woman—the princess of the land—was in the bargain for any man who could muster the mettles to face this unmatched opponent. Yet not even this availed. The challenger remained unmet.

David’s feet picked between the brambles and grasses, avoiding loose stones as he made his way warily toward the clearing. As he drew nearer he could feel the foreboding chill of fear creeping up his back, trying to envelope and overtake him. He steeled his nerves as he glanced down at his trembling hands. Victory depended on more than his marksmanship alone. After all, he was only a boy, not even old enough to be taking part of this battle in the first place. He had no rank, no credentials and not training as a warrior. He was a shepherd, trained only in the shepherding and tender care of sheep.

In an odd twist of fate, he found himself here, thrown in the middle of a full-scale battle, thrust forward by circumstances he was still groping to comprehend. Surely a greater will was at work. This was no desire for power and recognition neither an attack of suicidal madness. The memory of the last few hours rushed by him in a mental search for confirmation, as he stepped to what seemed to be certain doom.

It was early dawn as he had set out, four pack donkeys laden with cheese, bread and drink walked behind him swaying their heads. They passed over the hills, the roads deserted as all the men of fighting age had gone off to war. He hummed a merry tune in the morning sunshine, skipping across swollen wadis full of waterfowl. He thought of what it would be like to be warrior in the army—not a part-time draftee like his brothers, but part of the King’s core force always ready to fight for their country. He was destined for great things, the prophet had told him, but at the end of these daydreams, usually as the sun dipped low and he watched his sheep lazily graze, he preferred his simple life as a shepherd. There was something special about caring.

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