We eat in the barn, Mother and Father and the General and me. The Lieutenant was supposed to join us, I think – there's more than enough food to go around, Dagon knows – but I got the feeling that he was nervous about being so close to me, and he made some excuse about having to take care of the horses.
The barn still smells like animals, or maybe it's all in my mind, because there haven't been any animals in the barn since last year when the horse died and the goat ran away. I kinda like the smell, but still, it does seem like a strange place to eat dinner. But it's been a few years since I was able to squeeze into the house, and we couldn't eat outside because the wind started to kick up real bad, blowing dirt around and everything, so this was really the only choice.
Most of the talk at dinner is pretty boring. Father goes on and on about farming, and the General tries to look like he's interested, but I can tell that he doesn't really much care about why the rains are so late or whether wheat grows better than barley in rocky soil. When he can get in a word or two, the General tells some funny stories about traders from the East who pass through Ashkelon and Gaza on their way to Egypt. I can see that he's trying to get Mother interested with his descriptions of their strange clothes and weird customs, but she doesn't seem to be paying much attention. After a while, I pretty much stop listening, myself.
"...and so there we are camped on one hill," the General is saying when I tune back in, "and the Hebrews are gathered on another, and the valley between us is so wide and so barren that we don't dare attack, even though we far outnumber them..."
It hits me like a bolt of lightning. I curse myself that I am so dim-witted that I didn't see it coming. The war, it seems, isn't going so well, and the General wants to enlist the services of a giant warrior, one who towers above the enemy at the terrifying height of six cubits. And a span. That's why he's here. That's why Mother's so upset.
But he's got the wrong man. I'm not a warrior. I'll tell him that when it's my time to speak.
And besides, Father would never let me go, not with the rains so late and so much of the fields yet unplowed.
Mother's been pretty quiet, but I can tell that she's wanted to say something for a while, and now she can't hold it back any longer. "Why do you have to fight?" she demands, not even trying to control her temper. "There's so much land" – she gestures vaguely around us – "there's room enough for Philistine and Hebrew alike. They are people, as we are. We can live together in peace."
"I'd like nothing better than to live in peace with the Hebrews," the General says. His words are calm, measured; you'd think he discusses military matters with women over dinner all the time. "But you don't know these people. They're incredibly fierce. Only our superior armaments have prevented them from defeating us. So they attack our garrisons at night, kill our brave young men, steal our weapons. They raid our villages while the men are away. They murder the women and children in their sleep. They're not people. They're animals."
"And they probably say the same of the Philistines." Mother's eyes flash with anger. "Why don't you try talking to them instead of killing them?"
"The Philistine nation does not negotiate with bandits and terrorists. It only encourages them." Now the General is getting upset; I guess he's not used to being scolded by a woman. "And the Hebrews aren't interested in sharing the land with us, anyway. They say that all of Philistia belongs to them. All of it. They say that their god gave it to them."
"He gave it to them?" Father rolls his eyes. "What, didn't he know that people were living here already?"
"I won't fight."
I meant this only as a thought, and I'm as surprised as anyone that I said it out loud.
"Goliath, really," Father says...
The General raises a hand with such authority that Father immediately shuts up. "What's on your mind, son?"
Now I'm embarrassed. "No, it's... it's okay," I stammer. "It's nothing, really."
But the General is insistent. "Nonsense," he says. "You have something to say, and I want to know what it is. Speak up."
"I know why you're here." I wish I hadn't said anything, but I did, so I guess I need to explain myself. "You want me to fight the Hebrews. But I won't do it. I won't fight anyone. Not anymore."
I'm going to tell the General about that night, not so many years ago, about drinking way too much mead, about how everybody started laughing at me as I stumbled around the tavern, not yet the giant that I am now, but bigger than anyone else just the same. I don't know how the fight started, or who started it, but as long as I live I'll never forget the sound of bones breaking and men screaming in pain and terror. When I sobered up, I swore an oath to Dagon that I'd never drink again and that I'd never fight with anybody, not ever, not for any reason. I could tell him all this, but I've said enough already, so I hold my peace.
"A natural assumption," the General says. His gaze has sharpened, and he's nodding as if he likes what he sees, like I've passed some kind of test. "And you're right, in a way. I do seek your help. But not as a warrior."
"I... I'm sorry." Why didn't I keep my big mouth shut? "Please forgive me..."
Again, the General signals for silence. "May I share my plan with you?" He leans forward and lowers his voice, like we're all part of some kind of conspiracy.
"Please do, General," Father says, although the General is clearly talking to me. "Please do. We're all ears."
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©1996 Henry Charles Mishkoff