I glance at the serrated edge of the rocks, which rise against the blueish black heavens, and doubt enters my heart. Ghostly shapes loom before me out of the yawning hole of darkness. I imagine them to be a swarm of scaly lizards, slumbering fitfully around the king’s camp. In a snap, they may pounce upon the intruders, upon us.
The feeling is so daunting that it brings me to my knees.
“Hear my prayer, oh God,” I whisper. “Listen to me, listen to the my words. Strangers are attacking me. Ruthless men seek my life.”
I sense the eyes of my fighters upon me. Have they heard me? If so, what is the impact of my words?
One by one they fall to their knees and press their hands together, which tells me one thing: there is a great power in prayer. I should use it more often. It works for me. It works better than any other skill I have used as an entertainer.
At the risk of having Saul detect where we are, I raise my voice, not only because my heart is hammering in me, it is bursting open—but also because my men must hear this, loud and clear. They must believe in our cause.
So with great fervor I come to a blast, “Let evil recoil on those who slander me.”
And my fighters echo me, word for word. “Let evil recoil on those who slander me.”
My reptilian paper sculpture
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