Free Warrior Poet by Timothy J. Stoner Page B

olives, and small gray vineyards encircled by quiet fields.
    The donkey was old and slow. He took after his master, Ginath thought, but he was extremely sure-footed. He had not stumbled once on the rocks that littered the narrow road winding its way through the bleak hills. Ginath and Samuel waved at groups of travelers on foot and were pushed aside by a caravan of six camels. Fortunately there was enough room to move to the side without falling into the steep ravine.
    As much to break the silence as to assist the prophet, after an hour Ginath spoke up. “It is terribly warm today. Would you like some water?”
    The prophet grunted his assent and, after taking several swallows, handed the bag to his servant.
    “Are we to go to Hebron, then?”
    Samuel did not respond.
    Ginath sighed, assuming the old prophet was dozing. He jerked the reins. It made no difference to the animal, but it gave him something to do. He hoped it might startle Samuel and provoke some conversation. Hebron was a safe guess since that was always their destination whenever they headed south. The trip took a full day, but as far as Ginath was concerned, it was worth the effort. It was the town where Abraham had built the first altar to Yahweh and was notorious for its abundance of lush fruit trees—Samuel had told him the story about the huge grapes as big as melons that had so amazed Joshua’s spies.
    “No,” Samuel said.
    Ginath had to think for a moment. Then he remembered what he had asked. “Where to, then?” He was unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
    “Bethlehem, a village you have never visited. We pass by it whenever we go to Hebron. It is the town near where Jacob buried Rachel.”
    “Ah yes, where the pillar stands.” He rolled the town’s name on his tongue. “It means ‘house of bread,’ no?” As a young slave learning the language, Ginath had developed an appreciation for Hebrew.
    Samuel grunted affirmation.
    Ginath knew there might not be a better moment to get the details he’d wondered about all morning. “Why are we taking this trip? It seems to have made you anxious.”
    “Hah!” Samuel barked. “You might say that.” He groaned as he stretched his back. “I suppose you should know. After all, it could mean my death—and yours.”
    Ginath’s hands jerked, and the donkey came to a sudden stop. Both Samuel and Ginath nearly toppled to the ground. “No need for that,” Samuel growled, but there was a note of satisfaction in his voice.
    “What is going to happen in Bethlehem?”
    As if sensing the sudden tension, the donkey began moving forward at a trot. Samuel explained their mission. When he was finished, every bit of excitement had seeped out of Ginath.
    “So you have come to anoint the rival of King Saul.” Ginath could not hide the quaver in his own voice.
    Samuel said nothing.
    “Do you think that is … wise?”
    “Of course it’s not!” Samuel exploded. “What do you think has made me so out of sorts?”
    Ginath was desperately trying to think of ways to minimize their danger. “But must you complete this mission in front of every person in the village?”
    “The instructions were not specific,” Samuel admitted. “God commissioned me to anoint Saul’s successor, but, no, He did not say it had to be done at a public ceremony.” Ginath felt Samuel sit up straighter behind him. “There may be a way to save our skins after all!”
    It was late afternoon when they arrived at the gate. The village elders greeted them, inviting them to dismount and refresh themselves with some wine and olives. The elders were gracious, but the surprise visit of the prophet clearly unnerved all of them.
    Eventually, Hazzok, the head elder, turned his thin, weathered face toward Samuel. He rubbed his hands nervously as he spoke. “Do you come in peace?”
    Samuel smiled reassuringly and gave the agreed-upon explanation.
    “A sacrifice?” asked the elder, his eyes widening. “In our small town?”