The morning sun had scarcely lifted its head above the hills of Ephraim when Samuel departed from Ramah. The road was hard and dry beneath his sandals, and a fine layer of dust clung to the hem of his mantle as he walked beside his mule. At his side walked Abiathar, the young steward—quiet, dutiful, and eager—carrying a satchel of scrolls and a stylus bound in leather. He watched his master’s face, reading there the weight of many years and many burdens.
They traveled in silence at first, the only sound the steady shuffle of hooves and the soft whisper of the wind among the fig trees. The land rolled gently before them, golden with harvest, but it carried an air of tension, as though the soil itself trembled beneath the gathering storm.
At length, Samuel spoke.
“Mark these days well, Abiathar,” he said, his voice rough with age yet strong still. “For what thou shalt witness shall be remembered when our bones are but dust. The days of Saul draw near their proving.”
Abiathar nodded and withdrew a fresh scroll. “Shall I write of what is to come, my lord?”
“Yea,” Samuel answered, his eyes fixed on the far horizon. “But let the tale begin where the sorrow began. Let the people know how they called for a king and knew not what they asked.”
He paused, drawing his mantle closer about him as the morning breeze caught its edge. His gaze grew distant.
“The elders came unto me at Ramah,” he began, his tone dropping low, “with aged hands and trembling voices. ‘Make us a king,’ said they, ‘that he may judge us like the nations round about.’ I was grieved in my soul, for I thought it was me they had rejected, not knowing it was the LORD.”
Abiathar’s stylus moved swiftly across the parchment.
“I prayed that night,” Samuel continued. “Long and bitter was my pleading. Yet the voice of the LORD came, quiet as the evening wind: ‘Hearken unto their voice. For they have not rejected thee, but Me, that I should not reign over them.’”
They walked on, the sun now rising behind them, casting their shadows long upon the earth. Birds called from the olive groves, and the sound of distant shepherds echoed faintly through the valley. Yet all this life seemed pale and still compared to the burden Samuel bore.
He slowed his pace.
“I anointed Saul, son of Kish, as the LORD commanded,” he said, almost to himself. “A goodly man, taller than any of the people, and fair in the eyes of all. But strength of stature is not the same as strength of spirit.”
Abiathar glanced at him. “Thou fearest for him?”
“I fear for Israel,” Samuel replied. “For even now, the Philistine encampeth in the valley of Elah. And Saul… Saul standeth upon the edge of his undoing.”
They passed a crumbling milestone—weatherworn and half-buried—marking the way toward the hill country of Judah. Abiathar said nothing. He only wrote.
The prophet and his steward journeyed on through the sunlit hill paths, their shadows trailing long behind them. Abiathar walked closely, scroll open in his hands, the stylus poised for Samuel’s next words. The elder’s gaze was fixed not on the road, but upon some vision only he could see—shadows of the past etched in memory.
“Write,” Samuel said at last, his voice firm and steady.
Abiathar bowed his head. “I am ready, my lord.”
And Samuel began.
“There came a day when the elders of Israel gathered themselves and stood before me at Ramah. Their beards were white, their eyes weary with long expectation. And they said unto me, ‘Behold, thou art old, and thy sons walk not in thy ways: now make us a king to judge us like all the nations.’
“But the saying displeased me greatly,” he said, his lips tightening, “for I knew what they asked. I prayed unto the LORD, and He answered me, saying, ‘Hearken unto the voice of the people in all that they say unto thee. For they have not rejected thee, but they have rejected Me, that I should not reign over them.’”
Abiathar’s stylus scratched softly as he wrote, glancing only occasionally at his master’s face.
Samuel went on.
“And the LORD said, ‘Now therefore hearken unto their voice: howbeit protest solemnly unto them, and shew them the manner of the king that shall reign over them.’ And so I stood before them, and I said, ‘This will be the manner of the king that shall reign over you: He will take your sons and appoint them for himself, for his chariots and to be his horsemen. He will appoint captains over thousands and captains over fifties. He will take your fields and vineyards, and the tenth of your seed. And ye shall cry out in that day because of your king… and the LORD will not hear you in that day.’
“But they refused to obey the voice of the prophet,” Samuel said quietly. “And they said, ‘Nay, but we will have a king over us, that we also may be like all the nations.’”
His voice fell silent for a while, and they walked under the shade of terebinth trees. A hawk circled overhead. The road bent gently toward the rising slopes of Judah.
“At Mizpeh,” Samuel continued at length, “I gathered the tribes before the LORD. The lot fell upon the tribe of Benjamin, and then upon the family of Matri, and then upon Saul the son of Kish. But when they sought him, he could not be found. And the LORD said unto me, ‘Behold, he hath hid himself among the stuff.’ So they fetched him out, and he stood among the people—a man taller than any of them from his shoulders upward. And I said before all Israel, ‘See ye him whom the LORD hath chosen, that there is none like him among all the people?’ And all the people shouted, and said, ‘God save the king!’”
Abiathar looked up. “Was it not a good beginning, my lord?”
Samuel’s face was grave. “Aye. A good beginning,” he said. “But a beginning is not an end.”
The sun moved westward, and the shadows of Samuel and Abiathar lengthened across the dust-caked road. The scent of dried grass and wild thyme drifted on the wind, but neither man gave heed to such things. Samuel walked as though led not by sight, but by memory—and the weight of it.
He spoke again, and Abiathar, ever faithful, prepared his stylus.
“Write further,” said the prophet. “For the hand of the LORD was strong upon Saul in the days of his rising.”
Abiathar nodded. “I listen, my lord.”
Samuel’s voice grew stronger as he recalled those early victories.
“After Saul was anointed king, there came tidings from Jabesh-gilead. Nahash the Ammonite came up and encamped against it, and the men of Jabesh said, ‘Make a covenant with us, and we will serve thee.’ But Nahash answered them cruelly, ‘On this condition will I make a covenant with you, that I may thrust out all your right eyes, and lay it for a reproach upon Israel.’
“The messengers came unto Gibeah of Saul, and the people wept aloud. But when Saul heard it, the Spirit of God came upon him, and his anger was kindled greatly. He took a yoke of oxen, and hewed them in pieces, and sent them throughout Israel, saying, ‘Whoso cometh not forth after Saul and after Samuel, so shall it be done unto his oxen.’”
Samuel’s eyes lit faintly as he spoke. “And the fear of the LORD fell upon the people, and they came out with one consent—three hundred thousand from Israel, and thirty thousand from Judah. And they smote the Ammonites that day, until no two of them were left together.”
Abiathar’s stylus paused only a moment before continuing to record.
“Was that not a sign that the LORD had chosen well?” the steward asked, his voice low with wonder.
Samuel’s face grew somber again. “It was. But the heart of man is not proved in triumph—it is proved in obedience.”
He slowed his pace as they passed beneath a grove of almond trees, the limbs clattering in the breeze like bones. His next words came with heaviness.
“After the battle, the people said unto me, ‘Who is he that said, Shall Saul reign over us? Bring the men, that we may put them to death.’ But Saul said, ‘There shall not a man be put to death this day: for today the LORD hath wrought salvation in Israel.’”
Samuel’s eyes narrowed.
“That was a noble word. And so I said unto the people, ‘Come, let us go to Gilgal, and renew the kingdom there.’ And all the people went, and they made Saul king before the LORD in Gilgal. There they sacrificed peace offerings, and there Saul and all the men of Israel rejoiced greatly.”
They stopped to water the beasts at a spring trickling from the rocks. Abiathar filled a skin with cool water and handed it to his master, who drank in silence. Then Samuel sat upon a flat stone and motioned for the steward to sit also.
“Now write this,” he said.
Abiathar prepared a fresh scroll.
“I stood before them that day and said: ‘Behold, I have hearkened unto your voice in all that ye said unto me, and have made a king over you. And now, behold, the king walketh before you: and I am old and grayheaded…’
“I declared before them that I had defrauded no man, oppressed no man, nor taken any bribe to blind mine eyes. And the people answered, ‘Thou hast not defrauded us, nor oppressed us, neither hast thou taken ought of any man’s hand.’
“Then I called the LORD to witness. And I reminded them of all His works: how He sent Moses and Aaron, how He brought their fathers out of Egypt, how He delivered them from their enemies when they cried unto Him.”
Abiathar listened with reverence, his hands steady as he recorded.
“I told them: ‘When ye feared Nahash the Ammonite, ye said unto me, Nay; but a king shall reign over us: when the LORD your God was your king.’”
Samuel’s voice was sharp now, and the fire of the prophet burned in his eyes.
“‘If ye will fear the LORD, and serve Him, and obey His voice… then shall both ye and the king that reigneth over you continue following the LORD your God. But if ye will not obey… then shall the hand of the LORD be against you.’”
Abiathar’s stylus trembled as he scratched the last lines. Samuel stood again and looked toward the hills where the valley of Elah lay hidden.
“I called unto the LORD,” he said quietly, “and He sent thunder and rain in wheat harvest, and the people feared greatly.”
Abiathar looked up. “And they repented?”
“Aye,” said Samuel. “For a moment. But a nation’s heart is not turned in a moment. And a king’s heart…”
He trailed off.
The prophet drew his mantle about him once more. “Come. The days of remembering are done. Now we go to witness.”
And the two walked on.
The first light of dawn broke across the hills of Elah, casting a pale glow upon the valley. The air was still, and the camp of Israel, nestled among the scattered hills, seemed untouched by the horrors of the day before. But the calm was deceptive. For in the distance, beyond the line of sight, there was a stir—a sudden disturbance in the ranks. Something was about to shatter the fragile peace.
At the edge of the valley, where the Israelite forces gathered in their encampments, the earth trembled with a distant sound—loud, like the crash of thunder, but deeper, darker. The voice that rose from it seemed to shake the very bones of the men who stood in the camp.
Goliath, the giant of Gath, stood at the forefront of the Philistine line. His silhouette loomed against the horizon, enormous in stature, his armor glinting like the sun caught upon steel. His voice, booming and mocking, echoed across the valley like a thunderclap.
“Why are ye come out to set your battle in array?” he roared, his words carrying with unearthly force. “Am not I a Philistine, and ye servants of Saul? Choose you a man for you, and let him come down to me. If he be able to fight with me and to kill me, then will we be your servants: but if I prevail against him, and kill him, then shall ye be our servants, and serve us!”
The weight of his words hung heavily in the air. The soldiers of Israel, some hardened veterans, others fresh-faced and fearful, stood frozen in place. Fear rippled through their ranks, and a murmur of panic spread like wildfire.
As the voice of Goliath rang out once more, “I defy the armies of Israel this day; give me a man, that we may fight together!” the fear of the soldiers turned to terror. One by one, they began to shrink back, some retreating into the shelter of their tents, others crouching down, hiding their faces in their hands.
Goliath stood at the forefront of the Philistine army, a towering giant whose very presence seemed to bend the air around him. His height was a marvel, reaching over nine feet tall, making even the tallest of Israel’s warriors look like children beside him. His broad shoulders were like the beams of a great house, and his thick arms, muscled and heavy, hung like great pillars beneath his battle-worn armor. Each step he took seemed to shake the earth beneath him, a thunderous echo that matched the terror in the hearts of those who looked upon him.
His head was covered with a bronze helmet, adorned with intricate engravings that glinted under the rising sun. His face was harsh and formidable, with a long, weathered beard that hung down to his chest, twisted into thick braids. His skin, tanned and rough from years of warfare, had the appearance of leather stretched tightly over muscle and bone. His eyes were fierce and unblinking, like the eyes of a predator, glaring down upon the Israelites with the cruel certainty of one accustomed to victory.
He was clad in a coat of armor made of bronze scales, each one overlapping like the scales of a great serpent, covering his chest and legs. The weight of the armor was so great that it would have bent the back of any lesser man, but Goliath wore it as if it were a mere garment, unburdened by its mass. On his legs, bronze greaves gleamed in the sunlight, and upon his feet, sandals of thick leather were laced tightly, holding his massive form steady.
In his hand, Goliath wielded a spear of immense size, its shaft thick as a cedar’s trunk, and its tip sharpened to a wicked point. The spearhead alone could have pierced the shields of Israel’s best soldiers with ease. Hanging from his back, a massive sword, the length of a man’s arm, rested ominously—a testament to the might of its bearer.
Around him, the Philistine army stood still, watching in awe, as though they too were aware that their champion was more than just a warrior—he was a symbol of their unchallenged power. The very sight of Goliath was enough to strike terror into the hearts of Israel’s men, for he was not merely a soldier, but an embodiment of the Philistine gods themselves, their wrath made flesh.
His voice, when he spoke, was like the roar of a lion—deep, powerful, and filled with disdain. Each word carried the weight of mockery and challenge, reverberating through the valley, shaking the hearts of all who heard it.
Amid the chaos, a figure emerged from the ranks—a man whose presence demanded attention. It was Commander Abner, Saul’s cousin, and the captain of Israel’s army. Tall, strong, and resolute, Abner moved with purpose among the men, his voice rising above the din.
“Hold fast!” he commanded, his deep voice cutting through the panic like a blade. “Fear not! Stand your ground, for the battle is the LORD’s!”
But his words had little effect. The men, gripped by a fear they could neither contain nor ignore, were slow to respond. Abner turned to several of his officers and barked orders, organizing the troops and urging them to remain in formation, though the resolve in his voice betrayed a deep unease. He knew the gravity of the challenge—the voice of the giant had reached into the very hearts of Israel, and the men had no answer.
Far away, beyond the field of battle, in the dim light of a royal tent, King Saul sat alone. The sounds of the rising dawn—the stirrings of soldiers, the distant call of birds, the tremor of the earth beneath Goliath’s voice—seemed to filter in through the heavy fabric of his tent, but they barely touched his awareness.
Instead, Saul sat in stillness, his face pale and drawn. The sweat upon his brow was not from the heat of the day, but from the torment of his own mind. The evil spirit that had plagued him for months stirred within him now, its influence rising like smoke from the depths of a fire. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his breath shallow and uneven.
A low murmur escaped his lips—a sound too soft for anyone but himself to hear.
“How long, O LORD?”
His mind wandered back to the days before the great trial of his kingship, before the voice of Samuel’s rebuke had fallen upon him like a thunderstorm. He could hear the words of the prophet echoing in his ears, the words that had driven him to this point:
“The kingdom shall not continue. The LORD hath sought him a man after His own heart.”
Saul’s chest tightened, his breathing growing more erratic as the evil spirit pressed against his soul. He trembled where he sat, caught in the grip of an anger and fear that twisted within him like a serpent. His thoughts flickered to the soldiers outside, to the terror that Goliath’s voice had incited in their hearts, to the fear that now clawed at his own mind.
The tent flaps blew open with a sudden gust, and Saul’s attendants entered, their faces pale with worry. They had heard the call of Goliath, the challenge that echoed through the valley.
One of them spoke, his voice low but urgent. “My lord, the giant… he calls for a man to fight him. None will stand against him. The army… they are afraid.”
Saul’s eyes flicked to the messenger, his face drained of color, his expression clouded by the weight of an oppressive darkness. He felt it then—the bitter chill of the spirit that tormented him, stirring his thoughts, twisting his desires. In that moment, he was no longer the king of Israel, but a broken man, consumed by fear and uncertainty.
The evil spirit raged within him, its voice mingling with the distant sounds of Goliath’s challenge. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. “Who will stand against him?” he whispered, barely audible, as the weight of his crown seemed to press ever harder upon his brow.
The soldiers, the people of Israel, had their answer. But Saul had none.
And so the stage was set. The challenge was made. And the king, though filled with dread, would not move to meet it.