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went out. David looked, as I expected, unkempt and filthy. His hair was a tangle, with bits of twig and lichen knotted into it, his skin ingrained with dirt, and to complete the picture of neglect and wildness, he had draped himself in the skin of the lion he had slain, which he had somehow roughly cured and fashioned into an outlandish kind of cloak. I had water ready, and fresh clothes of Natanel’s laid out, but Shmuel appeared at the head of the outdoor staircase, and called out to bring the boy straight up to him. Yishai had fallen asleep, sprawled out upon the cushions. Shmuel had not even dozed. He was alert and agitated. He waited by the door, the lamp held high in his hand. As David climbed up the stairs toward him, that hard old face softened. His eyes filled. ‘Bring the oil,’ he said softly. Yishai was roused now, on his feet, his mouth open, eyes wide. Shmuel’s servant rifled through his pack and pulled out a twisted ram’s horn stoppered with wax. He approached Shmuel, knelt, unstopped the horn and held it up to him. Shmuel took the vessel and raised it above David’s head. A thin spiral of golden, viscous liquid dribbled down upon David’s dusty hair. David showed no surprise or confusion. His face, tilted upward to Shmuel, was calm and grave, his eyes wide. It was as if he could see right through the walls, into the future that awaited him. ‘Behold!’ said Shmuel. ‘The anointed of the Name.’ Then he knelt. I followed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Yishai, going down on his knees before the son he had spurned.
    “Shmuel gestured to David then, and the two of them walked out together, down the stairs, into the cold night. I do not know, to this day, what was said. But when they came in, Shmuel went straight to his rest and David allowed me to help him bathe and change into a clean night robe. We did not speak much, and nothing at all to the purpose of the strange events of the night. He answered me when I spoke to him, but he was off in the distance somewhere, far beyond my reach. I steered him to Raddai’s empty pallet, in the room where four of his brothers slept on, oblivious.
    “In the morning, Shmuel and his servant left for Ramah, and David went back to the sheep, and it was as if the whole uncanny business had never taken place. I did not speak of it to my other sons, and when I asked Yishai if they knew what had occurred he said that if they did, they knew better than to own to it, and urged me to put it out of my mind also. He said that Shaul was still our king, and while that was so it did no good to speak, or even think, about David’s anointing.
    “But of course, not a day passed when I did not think about it, and wonder. And then, soon enough, we were at war again with the Plishtim, and my older sons were called by General Avner to join the king, in battle, in the Wadi Elah . . .”

IV
    H er voice trailed off. She reached for her wine cup, but found it empty. She waved for Shammah’s girl, but there was no need. The girl had been tending to the making of a small cook fire and had set a large pot on a tripod of three stones. But as soon as she sensed her grandmother stir, she was at her elbow, filling our cups. She placed the pitcher, which was beaded with moisture in the afternoon heat, on the table between us. It had grown late as we talked. The twisted shadows of the citron boughs elongated in dark knots upon the ground. Nizevet put her cup down and lifted her hand to her brow.
    “I have tired you,” I said. “I am sorry.”
    “No, I am not tired. It is not that. It is just that it is difficult for me to speak of things that I have kept close to me for so long. I see you writing down my words, and I—and I—I feel such shame, such shame—”
    I started to speak, to reassure her, but she hushed me with a wave of her hand. “I know my son has sanctioned this, for reasons that must seem wise to him. But the common people know his story so differently. Their story