According to Marissa
Chapter One:

Marissa May lived in a small little town
not unlike your own.
She ran and breathed,
Ate and sneezed,
But never was she alone.

Marissa May, though feisty and small,
With her hair all tangled and knurled,
Knew where to look
In the book of books
To make her world uncurled.

Marissa May, unlike everyone else,
Discovered when she was little
That if she looked
In that book of books
The words inside would twiddle.

Marissa May found if she read them aloud
Those words in a soft strong tone,
The life inside
Would glow big and bright
And make its world her own.

Marissa's mom was worried. It was not an uncommon thing to worry. Everyone did it. The mailman worried about his letters, the policeman the law and the ballerina the tilt of her skirt. It was not uncommon for Marissa's mom to worry either. In fact, she worried a lot. Being a single mom with one unruly daughter and two tiresome jobs, worrying was more than a common thing for her - it was life. What was uncommon was the fact that Marissa's mom couldn't do anything about it. Guinevere would do something, if she could do something, but not knowing what the problem was, she was at a loss as to what to do next. It had been three whole weeks since Marissa started sixth grade and ever since Marissa had been miserable.

Ever since, Marissa would gloomily eat her morning cereal. She would gloomily murmur good bye when she stepped out of the car in the morning and gloomily return again without so much as a hello or a hug. This was much too unusual for her. Marissa was normally a very happy, mildly energetic twelve year old. Once, she was caught marching seven times around her babysitter's house playing her recorder and screaming at the top of her lungs. Now, she only shuffled into the stout messy house with her little brown backpack dragging solemnly on the ground.

Guinevere was worried like any other parent would be, like any other parent should be and as she tucked her child quietly into bed, like any other parent ought to, she whispered a little prayer. She hoped against all hope that someday soon her daughter's solemn silence would break. She hoped against all hope that one day the problem would be discovered and mended. Her prayer was not unheard. It was, in fact, heard quite clearly.

Somewhere outside of his small little town, which was definitely unlike your own, rested a drowsy twelve year old boy with an old wooden lap harp tucked snugly against his side. The morning slowly passed by and the evening sluggishly followed. He'd squander many days like that. He'd play his harp, sleep against his tree and watch, all the while, the clouds above him drift. He'd muse over them. He'd composed quietly beneath them. To the bleating of his sheep, he'd sing sad simple songs all the while watching the earth's floating cotton roll end over end, like wool dancing on the sea. It wasn't until the third day that he noticed the sudden silence. Even though the sheep about him still bleated, still grazed blissfully unaware, the boy heard the quickening hush race through the grass. It bounded over the stream and hugged trembling arms about his tree. The birds stopped singing. From his place overlooking the meadow, he frowned when he couldn't hear them.

Quietly, steadily, the boy lowered his harp to the ground. Then, he reached for the bit of stick leaning against his tree. One hand cradled it while the other dipped into the bag at his waist. It felt for the small smooth stones rattling within its coarse fabric. He counted them, tallied them while his gaze searched the horizon. One. Two. Three. There was nothing in the bushes. Four. Five. Six. There was nothing in the field by the far mountains. He counted the seventh, the eighth, and the ninth stone as his dark gaze landed on the river. That is where he spied it, the lion.

It was belly flat in the water. It inched. It crawled little by little, step by step towards an isolated lamb drinking blissfully, standing ignorantly unaware before it. Submerged in the middle of the stream with its back towards the pending beast, the lamb, whom he named after himself, didn't expect the assault. Cats hate water, the boy mused. It was well known. The direction was rare and unlikely. It surprised even the lamb's careful shepherd. Still, it didn't delay his reaction. The boy acted quickly.

Swiftly, he plunged practiced fingers into his well worn satchel and grasped without thought the tenth and final stone tucked safely inside. He whisked it out of the bag and straight into the catch of his tattered shepherd's sling. He twirled it, whipped it side to side across his agile body as the boy raced one step, two steps, three steps in the lion's direction. He blessed it, aimed it, then released. The stone sailed faster than he could perceive, faster than the cat could avoid.

It lunged, the beast. Focused on the vulnerable morsel before him, the cat didn't see the child, didn't see the sling and certainly didn't see the rock hurling airborne in its direction. It didn't see its death, but it certainly felt it. The pain was sharp and the fall to the ground was wet.

The ground was wet, red, growing redder with each passing moment. It was red like the stain on his hands, the stain running down the blade of the sword clutched tightly between his aging fingers. The old man's face crumpled in anger and weariness, in settled disappointment that constricted the tension in his shoulders. Consciously, he slouched them even while a stark determination hardened the gleam in his eyes. They lifted from the gore before him and slanted over the surrounding soldiers, over the worthless altar smoldering still from sacrifices long since slain and over the impatient figure of his clueless, frustrated king. Feeling the rough wind tease the length of his beard, the prophet took in the monarch's perfectly clean crown, perfectly clean armor and perfectly clean robes. He felt disgust seep into his heart. It seeped deeper than the blood soaking into the seams of his robe.

It was still there the next morning when the voice of the Lord interrupted his daily ablutions. The warmth of his presence made him pause. "You have mourned long enough for Saul. I have rejected him as king." Samuel could almost hear the regret in the sigh, but didn't acknowledge it. He waited patiently for the words to continue. "Fill your flask with olive oil and go to Bethlehem. A man named Jesse who lives there has a son which I have selected. Find him and anoint him as king."

He acted immediately praying along the way, hoping along the way until he found himself sitting across from the man Jesse and his seven sons. They all looked so strong and brave. His hope rose as he eyed the eldest. Surely, Samuel thought stroking his beard, surely, this is the one.

But then, the Lord nudged his heart. But then, he spoke, his calm patience coloring the discourse. A kind of amusement tainted the Lord's next words. "No, I don't judge on the outward appearance but on the heart. I have rejected him. I have rejected all of them."

Confused, Samuel knotted a brow and turned towards the father. Jesse, a plump sort of man, grinned in eager expectation. Samuel frowned hating to crush it. "Is there another?" he asked.

The grin faded quickly and was replaced. An embarrassed chuckle tickled the belly of the small, earnest man. "Well, you see," he muttered rubbing the back of his neck, "my youngest is out in the fields watching my sheep and goats. I figured you'd want the oldest so I left him there."

Samuel nodded as the man trailed off. For a moment, there was an uneasy recess until Jesse realized he was meant to fetch the poor boy. Again, his belly chuckled and again, he rubbed his neck motioning for his wife to find someone (ANYONE!) to retrieve the boy.

Within an hour, he was standing in their midst. He smelt of dung and copper. His clothes were tattered and filthy. Red stained the floor where he stood. It stained his clothes, his hands, his feet but not his eyes. Those, the color of the earth, were clear and curious. "I'm sorry," the boy said. "I'd just—" he wiped his hands on his tunic. "I had to—"

"Do his duty," his mother interrupted eagerly. "He killed a lion, sir, just as we found him. We didn't have time to wash him or…" She quieted as Samuel raised his hand. A look of astonishment quickly passed across his face. It was replaced with a kind of knowing look that wasn't completely hidden by his seriousness.

"Anoint him," the Lord said and that is what he did.

David could still smell the anointing oil cloaking the curled tendrils of his hair. It made him heady. Mixed in with the smoke of his lamp and the gentle melody he played on his harp, he felt sleep settle into the tenure of his bones. Yet, it didn't relax them. He had hoped his worry would dissipate with the practice but it hadn't. No matter how long he played, the thought lingered. King, it said. What did that mean? It scared him, the possibilities, the responsibilities, the dangers that his anointing held. The thought twiddled about his head as the oils' scent and the lulling tone of his music captured him in its sultry lullaby. The child drifted to sleep nestled in wool and darkness, in a light tainted orange.

Something orange was glowing in the darkness. True. There were many things glowing in the darkness of her bedroom – an alarm clock, the screen of her radio and a little angel night light plugged into the wall – but this something was different. It danced too making the happenstance hard to ignore, even in the dead of night.

Annoyed, Marissa cracked open an eye and looked out from beneath her bedspread. The eye was green like her father's. It swiveled pass chocolate brown curls and focused in on the golden brown glow bathing her room in tremulous light. It appeared to be coming from her bookshelf, the one nestled perfectly next to her little angel night light. Seeing it caused a sudden thrill to race down Marissa's spine. It curled her fingers to push off her covers. It pointed her feet until they tip toed from her bed to the corner by the door. Reaching the shelf, Marissa stretched up. She lifted a hand to run questing fingers along the roughen spine of the book gleaming brightly above her. In moments, she grabbed it. In moments, she shuffled back to her bed draping the covers strategically over her head.

Once settled, she stared down at its navy blue cover. She could easily read the title. The light made that easy. Marissa let her fingers trace the embossed ornate letters with reverence before she opened the book. Absently, she outlined the intricate B as she flittered through the rest of the light enriched pages. They were thick and heavy, the weight of roughly used sandpaper. Marissa grinned as she felt them, as she found the page she knew was hers to read. That one shone the brightest. Its letters seemed to tremble in the night. She squinted as she peered down into it, as she read the title aloud. "Goliath Challenges the Israelites. The Philistines now mustered their army for battle and camped between Socoh in Judah and Azekad at Ephes-dammin."

The names were hard to read making the task dull and uninteresting. Marissa yawned then rubbed her eyes. She put her hands down on the book, her head upon her hands. She smiled. "Saul countered by gathering his Israelite troops near the valley of…"

She was resting outside a small little town definitely unlike her own. A small harp sat quietly beside her, while the morning light flittered by, drifted by accompanying clouds that danced like wool upon the sea. The evening meandered sluggishly along riding on its heels in uninterested delight. She realized she would have liked to pass many days like that, flitter the drowsy time away like that if she wasn't interrupted, if Marissa hadn't realized that the meadow wasn't her bed, nor the sky her ceiling, nor the bleating sheep her little angel night light.

Surprised, Marissa sat up and stared. She squinted in the afternoon sun as it unleashed its light over a small range of crag-faced mountains and a lazy gurgling river complaining noisily nearby. That was when she heard it, the sudden silence, the unnatural quiet that seemed to choke the life out of the fantastical meadow about her. The sheep stilled as footsteps raced across the field. They accompanied an overly zealous woman racing in undignified grace in her direction. Uncertain, Marissa stood to her feet as she waited for her to come near. "David!" the woman yelled. "David! Your father wants you. It's urgent. You must come right away!"

At this, Marissa smiled. At this, she flat out grinned.