This day starts like any other.
I'm awakened before dawn by the guards who chase away the women who insist on sleeping in my tent. (Even though my size obviously makes it impossible for us to actually do anything, it's nice to have them around, just the same.) The grooms and valets wash and dress me; the cooks fix a big breakfast. The armorers are the last to arrive. Now that they've had practice, they scamper up their ladders and wrap me in my metal suit in just a few minutes.
And when they're through, when I gleam from head to toe in the bronze that they polish every night, when I heft my spear and strap my sword to my belt, the General throws back the flap and struts into my tent. I look exactly the same every day, but he always inspects me like he's never seen me before. He stands as far back as he can so he can take in as much of me as possible, and he nods his head gravely.
"Are you ready?" he asks today, as always.
No, I'm tempted to say, I think I'll take the day off and cast dice with your officers. But he looks so serious. And so I nod and say, "I am." As always.
When we leave the tent, hundreds, maybe thousands of soldiers are waiting for me, and they shout and cheer just like they did yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. The braver ones come near and touch me, as if for luck, and they tell me that today will be the day, today I will destroy the champion of the Hebrews and drive the barbarians from our land.
And sometimes, if I'm feeling real energetic, I throw back my head and roar, no words, just raw sound, like a wounded lion. And then they jump up and down and they wave their arms and they scream warlike threats, as if they would challenge the Hebrews themselves.
But, of course, no one actually does. That, clearly, is my job.
And so here I am again today, same as yesterday, same as the day before. I stand in the valley of Elah, I wave my sword over my head, I shout my challenge. And the ground shakes, and rocks roll down the hill, and the Hebrews scamper from tree to tree. And I wonder: How long will this go on? How long will it be before the Hebrews either agree to talk with us or grow so ashamed of their cowardice that they slink off in the night with their tails between their legs?
But wait.
This day is different from all the other days.
Someone has come forward to accept my challenge.
But he's not a warrior. He's not wearing any armor. He doesn't have anything but a sword – and it's not even a real sword, just some kind of wooden stick. Incredible. The Hebrews have sent out their champion to fight me with a shepherd's staff.
He's only a youth, no older than I am, maybe even younger. His face is smooth, his hair full and long. And he doesn't walk with with the assurance of a soldier, but with the cocky arrogance of a common laborer.
And then, what a shock: I recognize him. I have to step backwards to catch my balance.
It's the shepherd. I'm sure of it.
This boy, this same brave youth who guarded his ewes as I watched him from my hiding place in the trees, now he stands before his entire nation, as if he would shield them from me, as if I were a wolf stalking his sheep and he could shout at me and chase me away.
This boy, the very one who inspired me to seek peace, now he comes to me and asks me to be the instrument of his death.
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©1996 Henry Charles Mishkoff