As I start to walk toward him, he reaches into his belt as if for some kind of weapon. A knife? Does he really think a puny dagger could penetrate my armor? But no, even more ridiculous: It's a sling! He pulls a handful of small stones from his pouch, and I almost burst out laughing, but I control myself because I don't want him to think I'm making fun of him. We have serious business to discuss.
I hold my hand up and I start to say wait, we don't have to fight...
But then he whirls his sling and this stone, this tiny stone, it whistles through the air, flying right at me, and it's like I've grown roots, I just can't seem to move fast enough to get out of the way...
It strikes my helmet with astonishing force for something so small. It hits right smack in the center of the plate that covers my forehead. It sets the brass to ringing, an awful noise, like I've stuck my head inside some giant bell. I feel like my head's going to explode, and it's getting louder and louder and I'm getting dizzy and I'm having a hard time keeping my balance...
I hit the ground with a horrible crash that echoes through the valley. My head bounces off the hard sand. It hurts terribly, but at least that dreadful ringing has stopped. I'll lie here for a minute to catch my breath, and then I'll get up and grab this stupid boy and shake him to his senses and he will listen to reason whether he wants to or not.
As my eyes clear, I see that I'm facing back across the valley toward my own camp on the far hill. It takes me a minute to realize why I can see everything so well: I'm not wearing a helmet any more. It always was a little loose; it must have bounced off when my head hit the ground.
The General has picked up my shield; he's leaning on it, which looks funny because it's nearly as big as he is. I want to tell him not to worry, that I'm okay, but it's hard to speak... and then I realize that he's not worried, I can't quite read his expression but it certainly isn't worry.
And then I know. He's excited. This is what he wanted all along. A battle. It doesn't much matter to him who wins or who loses, who lives or who dies.
He'll be happy if I kill this shepherd. His troops will rout the Hebrews, and then he can seek out new foes to conquer. And if the shepherd kills me – well, that'll be fine with him, too. Sure, his soldiers will panic and scatter; sure, the Hebrews will ransack our cities and kill our people. But the General will survive. He'll hide in the hills and nurse his wounds, and then he will attack their garrisons at night, and he will murder their soldiers...
Dead Hebrews. Dead Philistines. It doesn't much matter to the General one way or the other. Even his own death wouldn't matter, as long as he knows that the fight will go on. And on. And...
And now something blocks the sun. It's the shepherd, he's walked around and he's looking down at me. I'm amazed that he dares to approach me, but he probably thinks I'm dead; I doubt that I've so much as twitched my eyes since I fell.
And now he's bending over me and reaching down, and... and... and what's he doing? I don't believe it, he's trying to pull my sword from its sheath. It must weigh as much as he does. But when I hear the sound of metal scraping against metal, I know that he's doing it, he's really doing it.
And now he's lifted the sword high in the air, it isn't possible, I don't know where he found the strength, he seems so small, so frail.
And now the sword is falling, not so much by his effort as by its own weight, and I see the blade, honed to a razor-sharp edge, gleaming in the sun, coming ever closer to my neck.
I could knock this shepherd off his feet with one flick of my arm; I could deflect the blade and it would bounce harmlessly off my armor.
But why? Who wants to live in such a world?
In my mind I see armies fighting, villages put to the torch, women weeping, the children of the Philistines murdering the children of the Hebrews, the grandchildren of the Hebrews slaughtering the grandchildren of the Philistines, all in the name of their gods, killing and being killed, fighting and dying, screaming in pain and horror forever and ever and ever.
It all happens so slowly, so very slowly, like in a dream, the sword falls, getting closer, closer, and now I swear I can actually feel the cold blade touching my neck...
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©1996 Henry Charles Mishkoff