Free The Secret Chord: A Novel by Geraldine Brooks

begins with that radiant boy who suddenly appeared from the hills. Do they need, I wonder, to know what came before?” She was not looking at me, but at her hands.
    “That will rest with the king,” I said. “He will decide what will be recorded, and what will be left out.”
    “Very well,” she said. Then she signaled again to the girl, and began to rise.
    “Is that all?” I said, rather more sharply than I intended. “I was hoping you might go on.”
    “Go on? Why should I go on? Shammah can better tell about the Wadi Elah. Shammah, and others who were there. My part in the story is of no significance beyond what I have told you. Be content.”
    I stood then, and bowed. The girl came and gave Nizevet her arm. The two disappeared into the house and I was left alone to gather my writing materials. The girl returned to tend to the pot. Pungent aromas—onions, cumin, coriander—wafted from her pot. My mouth watered and I realized I was very hungry. Just before sunset a noisy pair of youths returned to the compound, herding their animals before them. The younger boy, who had been dozing in a corner, rushed to spread straw in the lower stable rooms, a chore I sensed should have been done sometime earlier.
    The girl brought me a basket of flatbread, a tray heaped high with the fragrant, spiced grains, and a dish of yogurt to blend with it. It was clear I was not to dine with the rest of the family, as they had all withdrawn to an upstairs room in the larger of the three houses. I ate the food, glad of my solitude. My thoughts were occupied with the remarkable words that lay bound in my parchment, and with Nizevet’s parting advice. She was wise. It was best to speak only to those who were there when events unfolded. David’s life already was the stuff of wild elaborations. Men always make myths around their kings. I needed to be wary of such men.
    When I had done with the food, the girl was there again, at my side, holding a bowl of rosewater so that I might wash my fingers. “If you are ready, I will show you to your place.” So I was to stay. I had not been sure if Shammah would offer me a roof, or whether I should have to bespeak some dubious shelter in the town.
    “I think I will sit for a while,” I told her. And so I did, counting the stars as they twinkled alight until the sky was glittering. When a boy came with a torch to lead me to my room, it was very late. Shammah had not returned. A pale light was already seeping through the shutters when I woke from a restless sleep to hear him come in, drunk, stumbling and cursing. I heard the king’s name, and my own, interspersed with references to donkey’s balls and camel dung. I rolled over and went back to sleep, reasoning that it would be many hours before Shammah might be ready to speak with me.
    •   •   •
    The house stirred to life not long after. I dozed through the sounds of morning tasks, the animals being let out of their stalls, the men and boys leaving for pasture and field. When finally I rose, only two women were left in the courtyard, baking the day’s bread in the tannur. The one I had met the day before worked beside an older woman whom I assumed to be Shammah’s wife. She looked up for a moment from working dough, and nodded a brief acknowledgment before turning her attention to the bread. The girl peeled a hot round from the curved wall of the tannur and brought it to me, steaming, along with a handful of olives. I asked after Nizevet, as I did not see her in the courtyard. The girl replied that she was resting. She was very tired from the prior day’s long talk, the girl said, with an air of rebuke. By the time I had consumed my morning morsel, the women had finished the bread making and were preparing to milk the ewes and nannies pastured nearby. As they took up their bowls, I unrolled a hide to review what I had set down the day before.
    The sun was high in the sky before Shammah came stomping across the courtyard. He