Truth is I cannot stand dry leaves and twigs in my hair, because I hate being messed up. Yet, out of concern for the feelings of my fans, I make up my mind not to complain, and not to twitch my nose. Instead, I sneeze at them.
Which is when I open my eyes.
The girls are gone, the boys too. In their place stand forty burley soldiers. Between their shoulders I spot a burly man, decorated with numerous medals. A rope is slung over his shoulder.
Abner marches forward, and curls his lips in what could be described as a smile, but isn’t.
With a thud, he comes down on one knee next to me, and is raising my head from the dust to put it through a noose.
“Oh good!” I mutter. “I’m tired of garlands, and I can’t stand being crowned.”
“You must still be dreaming,” Abner says, while measuring his rope. “Get up! The king is waiting.”
“Really?” say I. “For me? What an honor!”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you...”
“Can I bring something with me? A trophy?”
“You mean, Goliath’s sword?”
“It isn’t here,” I lie, simply because I know no one can see it. The thing is hidden, completely hidden in plain view.
“What, then?”
“Something far better than that.”
“What can that be?”
“His head.”
With that, I wiggle out of the noose, and leap back to the depth of the cave, which is where I keep my souvenir. I have it facing the wall, simply to spare the feelings of my fans. Out of fright, none of them dares adorn it with garlands.
As I turn the thing to face Abner, and recite a few lines that came to me last night in a dream, “Lead me, Lord, in your righteousness, because of my enemies. Make your way straight before me. Not a word from their mouth can be trusted. Their heart is filled with malice, their throat is an open grave…”
He has no appreciation for my lovely lyrics, but I spot a sudden tremor running down his spine.
Being a poet I hate clichés, and would never use ‘he shakes like a leaf’ unless it happens to be absolutely true, which—trust me—it is. He tries, as best he can, to regain control over his shivering, which makes the medals on his chest clink and clank sharply against each other.
“So,” he says grinding his teeth, perhaps to keep his jaw from dropping in surprise. “Got it? You don’t need help with that, do you?”
“No, no way.”
The first in command ties the rope into a knot and hands it to one of his soldiers.
“Keep it handy,” he says, under his mustache, and then turns to me. “You ready?”
With great effort I lift the head of the Philistine.
“We,” I announce, “are ready. Let us come before the king.”
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