Day of War by Cliff Graham Page A

of sycamore trees. The early morning sparkle was reflecting in the dew. Moisture from the sea always gathered on the ground overnight in this part of the land, forcing him to pause once to wring out the water from his sandal straps. He ran past fields of sheep, the shepherds giving him a curious glance as he passed them. The open areas provided a great deal of freedom in choosing his path, and by the time the sun rose in front of him, he had left the rolling forests of Shephelah and passed into the fertile farmland of the plain of Philistia.
    Benaiah had been running almost a full day. His body demanded that he stop for rest, and he eased himself slowly to the ground against a sycamore. He closed his eyes. Birds chirped. He felt something crawl across his ankle but was too tired to swat it. Being alone in the woods reminded him of the two warriors he had encounteredhigh in the pass. Or had they been spirits? So many strange things to consider. He could scarcely wait to ask David about them.
    Gradually he realized that he was looking at chariot tracks in the soft earth nearby. A Philistine road. Centuries before, when the great warlord Joshua was leading the Israelites into the land, they had been forced to withdraw from the coastal plain. The Canaanite nations who had been there before Philistia had chariots and easily defeated any attempt at subduing them. But in the hill country of Judea, the Israelites were able to win many battles, since the chariots were rendered useless. There had been an uneasy coexistence since that time, with neither army able to fully overcome the other.
    Benaiah rose slowly from his comfortable nook before his muscles stiffened. He started trotting again, keeping his focus away from his wounds and on the ground in front of him. He resisted the temptation to look toward the south in the direction of Ziklag. Her dark hair would be tied up under her shawl with a leather strap, but it was so thick that she would need to tie it again throughout the day. He loved her hair, loved the way it spilled uncontrollably out of its wrappings.
    He let his mind stay on her for a while, on the years of their youth when they had found solitude and happiness on the banks of the river, in better days. He watched her as she went about her day by the river, bundling branches and gathering provisions for meals. She would visit her sister, chatting endlessly about the goings-on in the city as only women do.
    They were very young when they were joined. They would go on long walks—ignoring the work of the lazy afternoons of summer— and swim in the waters of the river ambling toward the Great Sea.
    The sun had risen high enough to allow him to strip away the rest of his clothing except the cloth wrapped around his waist. This was a great relief, since the wool of his clothing had been fastening itself to his wounds and reopening them continuously. The bundleon his back grew heavier, and he stopped again to tie it down correctly. If the balance of the equipment on his back was off, his joints and muscles would overcompensate, leaving him in crippling pain each morning. He conceded that he would need to rest after dark; despite his urgency, it would do no one any good if he wore himself out and died before reaching Aphek.
    That night he slept under a cleft of rock in a field, after searching for any better shelter. There were few other people in that part of the plain because it became exceedingly marshy during the spring season and swarmed with bugs. Only lepers wandered this land, cast out and shunned by their tribes.
    The fluke spring snowstorm in the hill country had caused a major washout of the rivers and streams, forcing the shepherds and cattle herders to move their animals to drier ground. It would be slow going, picking his way through the mud, but at least he didn’t have to worry about being bothered by anyone. He wasn’t concerned about defeating bandits in an open fight, but he could scarcely afford another