NINETEEN

David’s troops saw smoke on the horizon when they were still half a day away.

Some claimed it was a fire in the grasslands, started by herdsmen trying to clear bad ground or a carelessly tended campfire. But Benaiah knew exactly what it was, and through a fog of descending darkness in his mind he sprinted ahead.

This was just how he had come upon it before. He had approached from the Way of the Sea, weary but eager to see his neglected children and wife, and the smoke had appeared, and he had run, found the people crying, screaming, fires burning, and smoke filling doorways. He had burst through his door, and there in the corner was Sherizah, shaking, blood on the stones of his entry-way, no daughters.

And now Benaiah found himself staggering through the burned and broken gates of another city, and he found himself again shouting for Sherizah, calling for her as he stumbled down the alleys and corridors that led to his home. Every building had been burned. There were no people anywhere, all were gone except for the corpses of a few Philistine men, older ones who’d been allowed to stay behind. The flames had died, but smoke poured from every opening and smoldering ash heap.

The door of Benaiah’s burned but still-standing home stood open as he ran up. He looked for the blood on the stones and realized that he had vomited all over his tunic. He threw aside his weapons, screamed for her, picking his way through his home, kicking away charred logs. Sherizah was not there.

He fell back through the doorway and lay in the dirt and ash of the street, gasping for breath. Around him, sounding muffled, were the sounds of the army searching the destroyed city of Ziklag for their loved ones. He heard no happy reunions, no shouts of joy. Only the hollow yells of men in despair.

Benaiah shouted to Yahweh then. He screamed curses and blasphemy and every angry thing he could think of. Twice this had come. Twice Yahweh had abandoned them.

He let his head roll, weak, feeling the wounds from the lion’s claws inflame with new agony, as if his body had been waiting for his worst moment to remind him he had been cut to pieces.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his sword glint. He stood up and snatched it. He walked to the doorway, propped the hilt of the sword between the entry stones, and prepared to fall on the tip.

He felt the sword tip prick his chest as he leaned against it. His weight was not yet on it. Just a little harder, just a little further, and it would end. He would descend into Sheol with the others he had slain, the others who had been slain, to where his wife and children were. And even if it was nothing but darkness, at least he would have them to hold, and promise never to leave them again.

Benaiah leaned against the sword. Sweat fell from his brow and splashed on the blade.

It was as if something was holding him back.

He threw himself harder against the blade. The tip pierced his flesh, but not more than a fingerbreadth.

Something was holding him back. A hand. Benaiah looked behind him.

It was Keth.

“Do not do that yet, my friend. Come with me.”