Book 2
It's surprisingly chilly today. Usually, by this time of year, the wind shifts to the east, and the desert breezes blow hot and dry against your skin. But the wind is out of the west this morning, cool and damp from the sea. The strange weather is a good omen; Dagon knows I'm nervous enough without having to worry about roasting to death in this heavy armor.
What I'm most nervous about is trying to memorize my speech. The General wrote it himself, and he's even made it shorter for me a couple of times. I'm not stupid, but I just can't seem to remember these few simple lines.
The General's been real patient with me, but he keeps telling me how important it is for me to get it right. "When the Hebrews first set eyes on you," he says, "they're going to be so scared that they'll wet themselves. But if you open your mouth and start stumbling over your words, they'll laugh at you."
And so, even as the armorers put the finishing touches on the enormous coat of mail they forged for me, I practice my speech. I run it through my head over and over and over again. Sometimes, I catch myself whispering it out loud.
Today, the helmet-fitters seem to be more uneasy than usual – but, after all, they're standing on unsteady ladders, lowering a heavy bronze helmet over the head of a giant who is muttering to himself, so I don't suppose I can blame them.
I'm concentrating so hard that I don't even notice that the armorers have finished. "You look magnificent," the General says, and I realize that we're alone in the tent. "It's not too heavy for you, is it? They tell me that the coat alone is as heavy as five thousand bronze shekels. Can you walk?"
I take a couple of steps around the huge tent that they built just for me. "Compared to the plow," I say, "this is light."
"The helmet's not too tight?"
"No, it's fine." Actually, the helmet's a little loose, if anything, but I don't want to complain. I'm sick of the armorers crawling all over me.
"Have you hefted the sword?"
I draw the enormous iron shaft from its scabbard and swing it over my head. It gleams a dull gray and whistles as it slices through the air. "No problem."
"What about the spear – can you handle it?"
"Sure," I say, although I haven't even tried to lift it yet. But it only took two men to carry it into the tent, so I don't figure to have any problem with it.
"Well then," the General says, and he nods as if something has been decided. "Well then. Pick it up. Let's go."
"Go? Go where?"
"Goliath, it's time to confront the Hebrews. That's why you're here, remember?"
"But... but..." Suddenly, I'm dizzy; I actually have to take a step backwards to steady myself. "But I'm not ready. I... I don't know the speech yet. I need more time."
"Nonsense." The General dismisses my fears with that wave of his hand I've become so familiar with. "We've been in camp for nearly a fortnight. You've practiced it every day. You know it as well as you're ever going to know it. The longer we wait, the more nervous you'll get. Let's do it."
"But..."
"But nothing. I'll dress as your shield-bearer and go out there with you. If you forget the speech, I'll prompt you."
Just for something to do, I reach down and pick up the spear. It has a bronze shaft as thick as a weaver's beam and a deadly-looking head of iron that must weigh a good six hundred shekels. I heft it in my hand; it has a good solid feel to it. I imagine that I could throw it a great distance. I shudder to think of the damage it would do to anyone who got in its way.
The General is speaking to me, but I've closed my eyes and I'm having a private conversation with Dagon. Let me be an instrument of peace in your hands, I pray. Give me the strength to fulfill my destiny. And please, please, don't let me blow my speech.
And when I open my eyes, a strange calm has settled upon me. "I'm ready," I say. What I mean is: Let's go now, before I lose my nerve.
"I know you are, son," the General says. "I know you are."
Pulling back the tent flap, he gestures for me to step outside. "It's time for you to walk into the light," he says. "It's time for the Hebrews to meet our secret weapon."
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©1996 Henry Charles Mishkoff