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This snippet from Oath is a little bit lengthy, but the main focus is a musical instrument, or, in this case, a harp. Here we explore what makes each harp special and its connection to someone our other MC (aka King Daveed) knows.

Here we go!

“I think of women as much of the same way I think of harps.”

Subconsciously his hand runs along the carved wooden surfaces of his instruments, his touch almost like a father’s as his finger catches on a string.

“This one,” he tells me, dusting off a somewhat average sized harp from its abandoned position, “reminds me of Avigail. Never wants to draw attention to herself, but once you get near her you can’t step away.”
“What can a harp of that size ever do?” I ask, unbelief clearly visible in my expression. A slight smile toys at his lips.
“You’d be surprised what anything can do once it’s been touched by Yahweh, Batsheva.”
The gray particles fall like snow onto the carpet, revealing a golden panel on the side of the harp, the precious metal gleaming in the light. I catch my breath, fingers itching to touch the beauty.

He laughs, resting the harp under his arm as his eyes twinkle.

“Would you like to hear anything in particular?”

My tongue refuses to move, to speak, to form words to answer his question in time. The silence is deafening, pressing in on me with a vengeance that I cannot seem to escape.
When I give him no answer, he ducks his head, closing his eyes and plucking at the strings to create a faint melody, lilting but tender like the young goats in a shepherd’s pasture. The tendrils of music wrap around my calves, causing me to take one step forward, and then another and another until I am practically standing before him. It is as if I am spellbound, enchanted by the notes that dip into the waves of the unknown before emerging with treasures of antiquity on their persons.

And then it is gone, the silence returning just as quickly as it departed. The harp is returned to the shelf, the trance is broken, and the King looks up at me with a hint of homesickness in his eyes.
“Avigail holds music that you have to coax out of her.” A breathy chuckle escapes his lips. “But once you have you never regret it.”

His gaze wanders over to another harp, this time much, much larger. Intricate details are carved into the panels, blood red rubies studding the oiled mahogany frame as the crisp strings stand stark against curtains the colour of vermilion wine. Every aspect tells me that this was made by someone with fine craftsmanship, far beyond those I normally see. Only those with such exotic skills, like those of the people of Mitzrayim, could bring a vision like this to life.
Silently, the King rises from where he sits, long strides taking him to where the instrument rests.
“Mikhal,” he murmurs under a hesitant breath. “This one is Mikhal. We were close once, when we were young.”
There is a brief pause, and then, almost to himself, he asks, “Lovers never see the faults in one another, do they?”
“No, my King,” I answer, “for love can blind the eyes of some to the faults of many.”

He nods, if only to acknowledge that he has indeed heard me. This time both hands touch the strings, the vibrations mournful and low as they spread throughout the room. There is a sadness in this song, an underlying regret at the way their relationship has gone awry in front of his very eyes. Heavy hearted, I give an involuntary sigh, something resonating within me as he plays.
“Mikhal wanted to be seen. Not as royalty, but for what she was. Her father saw her as a political pawn, the husband he married her off to after he annulled our union saw her as an advantage for his status, but I–”
He looks away, a far off look clouding those dark pupils that the King calls his own. “I saw her for what she was, for what she had been and what she would be. At least, I once did. Now, I fear I’ve lost whatever music she had to offer once upon a time.”

The song ends abruptly, the sharp note at the end still ringing in my ears. He is grieving, grieving for a love that had been snuffed out by the circumstances. By all appearances he and Mikhal had been attached to each other, but there was something more to that. They had loved with a passion, and then they had lost just as passionately.

I blink back a sudden tear, the thought of loving Uriyah with everything I have in this world and then losing him more than I can bear. The pain, the heartwrenching pain that I would feel if he was torn away from me… I shudder to think of it.
To distract myself I speak again.

“Does every harp have a woman?”

He blinks in surprise, removing himself from whatever alternate universe he was in as he analyzes my question.

“No,” he says finally, the syllables dragged out as if they had lost all life and are barely holding on to the reality of here and now. “Some haven’t found their match yet.”
Out of the corner of my eye I spot another harp, this one smaller than all the others yet more embellished than them all. Glittering olive leaves surround a relief of a tabernacle menorah, vividly lifelike as my eye strains –no, begs– to see more.

Gently, I remove the kinnor from its hiding place, handing it to the King and starting back in surprise when our fingers brush– mine, slender and soft, slippery with oil from the preparations the servants subjected me to, his, large and work worn, even though the deep lines in his palm are somewhat smooth because of palace life.
“Like this one.”

He nods. “I’ve tried to find a match for my kinnor many, many times, but somehow, no one I ran across reminded me of what it could do. This isn’t the one I played during my early years –that one is long gone, ruined by the harsh desert climate– but it’s close enough.”
“You played the kinnor for Sha’ul, didn’t you?”
The King is silent for a moment, fingers gently caressing the instrument as he decides how to respond. Finally a breath, forlorn and tired, escapes him.
“I did. I was young back then, much too young to know that he suspected me of being Yahweh’s Anointed or to recognize the hatred that simmered in his eyes as I won the respect of everyone I met. But then again,” he quips, “I wasn’t royalty just yet. I was simply Daveed, the shepherd boy that no one knew but everyone admired.”

He rests his head against the wall, previous harp forgotten as his lips move silently.

“Sometimes I wish I could go back to those days when so many knew me as a man, a human being instead of a king that all had to obey.”
“That doesn’t necessarily hurt,” I offer. A faint smile curves his lips.
“True, but it makes you seem detached, distant, even. What king wants to be regarded as the man that no one can approach, let alone talk to?”

I laugh, the sound almost foreign in the quiet atmosphere.

“I’m talking to you now.”

He gives me a frustrated sigh. “That’s different. You are different, you remind me…”
Copper locks shine in the torchlight as his eyes meet mine. “You remind me of Mikhal. Before this all happened, before we were torn apart, before we lost our love.”

I look down as his next words are whispered into the air.

“You remind me of her.”

And here are the harps mentioned in order:

Avigail’s:

Mikhal’s (but more embellished):

The Kinnor:

What do you think? I’m a very visual person, hence the pictures. 😉