Later, I slip through the fields, into the forest, over the hills. You wouldn't think I'd be able to pick my way through the trees so quietly, but I'm not as clumsy as Father makes me out to be, and I know the trails real well.
I hear noises in the underbrush from time to time. A lot of animals live in this forest, mostly rabbits and foxes; I see bigger animals once in a while, but they tend to stay out of my way. Once, last year, a lion blocked my path; he shook his mane and roared like he was going to tear me apart. I roared back, louder than any lion, and stamped my foot. The ground shook; branches fell from the trees. The lion slunk off, tail between his legs, not even daring to look back at me.
I like to walk these hills at night, especially when the moon is small and other people aren't likely to be about. I enjoy the rough feel of the leaves and branches against my arms. The sweet smell of the plants and flowers is a nice change from the dry dust that billows up from the plow all day long.
It doesn't take me long to reach the top of the hill that overlooks the big meadow. I've never dared to go any further than this; the grass in the meadow is tall, but not tall enough to hide me. There might be shepherds or cattle herders around, and I wouldn't want to scare them or their animals. But I've often stood on this very spot, leaning on the two stout trees that mark the crest of the hill, my entire upper body hidden in their branches. From here, I can see without being seen.
But tonight, there isn't much to see. A wisp of smoke curls up from the remains of a campfire; around it, a large circle of grass is matted down. My guess is that maybe twenty head of cattle rested here earlier; the herder probably broke camp and moved on before sundown. Now, the grass ripples in the night breeze; I can barely see it wave as the moon slips in and out of some thin clouds.
The bleating catches me by surprise, it's so close. And sure enough, down in the meadow below me, I can just barely make out the shape of a ewe – no, two of them, still fat with the thick wool of the cold season, sticking their heads out of the grass, looking around... for what? For me? But the wind is blowing into my face, and I don't think I've made any noise since I've been here, so maybe something else spooked them.
And then, even more of a surprise: A voice, a person talking, from over by the sheep, not quite loud enough for me to make out the words. And then I see him, he's been lying in the grass, hidden from me. Now he stands and looks around, trying to figure out why his sheep are upset. He's talking to the ewes, trying to calm them, and it's strange but I still can't make out exactly what he's saying.
And now he looks right at me, but I don't think he can see me, not if I don't move; the forest is thick and dark when you try to look into it, even during the day. He looks up the hill, turns his head back and forth. His hand goes to his belt, where he probably has some kind of weapon.
And then he calls up the hill, loud, a challenge, but it's just noise, I can't make out a word he's saying, it makes no sense at all. When he calls again I finally figure our what's going on: He's speaking in another language! Never before have I heard someone talk and yet not been able to understand them. What a strange experience.
And then, even more of a shock: He calls again, and this time I do understand him. "Is someone there? Show yourself!" But his words sound strained, and I realize that this is what it sounds like when you speak in a language that is not your own. And then he calls again, in his own tongue.
And finally, finally, it dawns on me that I'm looking at a Hebrew, the first I've ever seen.
And the strangest thing is that he looks exactly like one of my own people.
What was I expecting? A man with three arms and two heads? I'm ashamed of my ignorance. To be as big as I am and yet to know so little...
This man, this Hebrew – only a youth, as far as I can see – he guards his sheep as bravely and zealously as any Philistine. Mother's right; they're not so different from us. Surely we can learn to live together in peace. Surely we can.
The shepherd takes one last look up the hill into the trees, then he calls to his ewes and leads them off into the tall grass. Soon, he disappears into the darkness, and all is still. It's like he was never even there at all.
But I know that he was there.
And I know why.
Clearly, Dagon sent him to me as a sign.
I'll do what the General wants me to do. With Dagon's help, the General's plan will succeed. The Hebrews will agree to talk peace; we will fight no more. The children of the Philistines will live as neighbors with the children of the Hebrews.
At last, I have a higher purpose in life than dragging a plow through the rocky fields.
Finally, I have a destiny.
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©1996 Henry Charles Mishkoff