David Mourns Saul & Jonathan

00:00:00 Speaker 1: Previously on The Chosen People. The Lord is your enemy, Saul, and his will is like a coursing river. You cannot watch what is to come. Because you have disobeyed him, he has delivered you into the hands of the Philistines. To Saul's right, Jonathan stood ready. Flanked by his other sons, Abinadab and Malkishua, they stood atop the rise with their men behind them, gripping shields and spears. Jonathan glanced toward his father once, and that glance held everything. Love, loyalty, farewell. And then they charged. The army of Israel poured down the slope of Gilboa like a wave crashing onto rock. Jonathan, son of Saul, lay in the dust, surrounded by his brothers and the dead. His sword had not broken, his faith had not wavered, but his heart had ceased to beat. Saul's weary arms slashed through the enemy as they advanced closer and closer. They pressed, but the king stood his ground until it hit. an enemy arrow whistled through the air, finding its mark on Saul's side, through flesh, through bone, into the lungs. So this is how it... how it ends. I was the... I was the first... And so Saul, the first king of Israel, pressed the hilt of his sword against the earth, its point at his chest. He closed his eyes. He fell. The blade pierced through skin and sinew, through bone and heart. When he struck the earth, the life left him. The fire had claimed the fallen before the crows could. Mount Gilboa smoldered in silence. Her scorched ridges littered with the dead. Men of Israel sprawled across the blood-drenched slopes. Smoke curled into the crimson sky and ash drifted like snowfall upon the wind. Among the dead was the King of Israel. Saul, son of Kish, once anointed of the Lord, lay face down in the dirt, his own sword driven through his chest. His armor, once polished to mirror the sun, was charred and dulled, caked in soot. The golden crown had slipped from his brow and lay a few feet away, resting in a pool of blood and black earth. A group of scavengers came to claim treasures from the carnage. One among them was Drag, an Amalekite man of little dignity or respect for the dead. He picked his way over corpses and shattered shields. He walked as lightly as a crow over a battlefield, eyes flicking toward rings, purses and daggers left by the dead. When he came to the body of the king, he paused. The Amalekite crouched beside Saul and stared long at the blood-caked crown. The gold had dulled beneath ash and the gemstones seemed to weep, streaked with gore. The scavenger wiped the soot from one ruby with his sleeve and ran his fingers across the etchings of the old script. He tucked the crown into his pack, and with it, the amulet torn from Saw's throat. There was no reverence in his theft, only haste. Then came the shout. Philistine riders crested the ridge. Their arrows came swift and whistling. The Amalekite darted up the craggy slope, scrambling with the desperation of a rat chased by cats. He scaled the rocks above Saw's corpse and vanished into the smoke. Drag ran until he knew he had lost the Philistines. He held the crown like a curse in his pack, too heavy to carry, too dangerous to cast away. A smile coiled around Drag's whole face as a new thought popped into his head. There was one man who might see the value in what he carried. A man who many whispered would be the next king of Israel. The Amalekite turned his steps towards Ziklag. Ziklag was alive with the sounds of rebuilding. Hammers rang like bells, laughter echoed in alleyways, and the smell of sawdust clung to the warm summer wind. Children played beside the fields. Women laughed beneath the shade of olive trees. Men whistled as they worked, for once tasting the fruit of their labor. Then came the cry. It carried from the hills like a wounded hawk, All work halted. Hammers fell silent. David looked up as the figure descended, barefoot, dirt streaked, torn robes flapping in the wind. The man was breathless and hollow-eyed as if he had crawled up from the very grave. He collapsed at David's feet. All breath left the camp. The outcasts and warriors, men hardened by exile and blood, stood frozen like statues. David's voice was soft, too soft. A pause. The world grew still. The scavenger opened his pack, revealing gold glinting beneath the crust of dried blood. the broken amulet and Saul's crown. David took them both in his hands. The weight of them nearly broke him. The Amalekite licked his lips. His lie came smooth and steady. He had practiced it along every step of his escape. Drag had a glint in his eye as he looked up, hopeful. David turned away. Drag twitched. David looked at Drag, eyes filled with sorrow. He gestured to his men to give drag a warm meal, then departed to be alone. He walked to the edge of the camp, where the fields rolled out toward the horizon, green and endless. There he sat, alone. The crown was in his lap. The king was dead. The prince slain. John his brother of the soul, his truest friend. The last threads of the old kingdom had snapped, and now there was only him. He tore his tunic down the middle, cloth ripped like thunder. The sound was his only cry. David buried his face in his hands and wept like a child. His sobs wracked the quiet morning. One by one, his men followed suit. Ashes smeared their foreheads. The morning spread like a plague. Swords were sheathed, shovels dropped, wives wept. Even the children seemed to understand. Something holy had died. Then, David rose and sang. He lifted the crown high into the air, and the sunlight glanced off its edge like fire off steel. His voice cracked. He fell to his knees, and there, beneath the wide sky, with the crown still in his hand, David wept. Evening fell over Ziklag. David sat by the flames, hunched beneath the weight of the robe Jonathan had once draped over his shoulders. He stared into the heart of the fire. watching the embers pulse like dying stars. Across from him, the Amalekite scavenger shifted uneasily on his haunches. His clothes were still stained with the soot of Mount Gilboa, but his eyes were bright and eager, watching David the way a gambler watches the dice as they rattle in the cup. The man expected favor, perhaps wealth, perhaps a position in the new king's house. David did not speak for some time. When he did, his voice was quiet and cold. Drag smiled. as though expecting praise for his worldly experience. David looked up at him then, not with kindness, not with curiosity, but with the sharpened stare of a man who'd just glimpsed the truth hidden in another's soul. The firelight danced across David's face, casting long shadows beneath his piercing eyes, eyes of thunder and justice. The Amalekite's smile faltered. David stepped over the fire, now face to face with the scavenger. He turned and gestured to his men. The captain stepped forward without a word. His sword was already in his hand. The Amalekite's eyes widened. But the words didn't matter. David's voice was low, steady. The End David gave the nod. Benaiah dragged drag from the firelight. Benaiah silenced the Amalekite with steel. He released a stifled gasp. then silence. The fire hissed. Somewhere, an owl called into the dark. David sat again, the crown of Saul in his lap, heavy with blood and memory. He did not look up. He only whispered, more to himself than any other. David closed his eyes. He had won no war. He had claimed no glory. The crown had come, and with it, the curse.