Storytelling | What Would David Think?
What would David think if he could turn his cold dark face towards The Leper Messiah?
Would his visage light up with excitement?
Would he come along for the journey or be aghast at the lack of depth in the story?
Nitzevet, his mother, has already made her statement by making a midnight visit to me as I slept. Her scorn and displeasure were written on her face as she glared at me. She haunted my dreams and waking hours.
David, however, is another story! Would I face his wrath or would he be kind?
His first words might be: There is no sex here in any of the pages!
Maybe he would take the approach that is often taken with writers: “Ah, you’re a scribe”
His dark face might come alive with the thought that even after three thousand years he is remembered.
That might be enough to have him overlook the obvious; I have sat on his shoulders to see farther than my modern world, I have used his name to curry favor with critics and the public, I am an idolator praying to a false god.
Or perhaps he would be so busy with managing his kingdom, he would not give me a second thought! His underlings would send me down to be with other scribes; writing out the days affairs, putting the finishing touches on his great thoughts and works.
I would be forced to write psalms about my lack of ability!
“Yea though I walk through my valley of mediocrity, I promise to fail better next time.”
David’s face might light up and then I would be allowed near his inner circle.
I would first be given a purifying bath, then sent to a lower cast priest who would, no doubt, consider me unworthy.
Next, David’s guards would laugh at the scrawny scribe who approaches.
“His arms look like chicken wings.”
They would gather around then look at me and laugh and push me up against the cold stone wall.
“Do you want a taste of the finest Damascus steel?”
I would not breathe a word or remind them the pen is mightier than the sword.
In the great tent, slaves would chant a lyrical desert song, while naked women served a feast. Musicians would play at the clap of the Kings’ hand.
Eyes like daggers would be thrown my way. A goblet of wine would be offered and I would then find a dark corner to disappear into.
David would look around his great tent and laugh.
“Ah, there goes the scribe who sits on my shoulders.”
His company would laugh in unison and I would disappear into the shadows of mediocrity.
Robert