Goliath Fallen

[audio version]

I found a statue of a fallen man. He was a villain, so I was surprised by how deeply it portrayed his humanity. He looks hurt. He looks like he was once a person. He looks like he can’t sleep well, because his back is old and starting to go and he can’t find a way to lie on his side without crushing his shoulder, and sleeping out in the battlefield is just the pits… he wants to go home. Why did his leaders bring him out here, to fight these people? Because he’s big?

He is big. It is rare to find a human of this size. As rare as a jewel, genetically. And think of all the years it took to grow that body. The hundreds of hours stressing those muscles in fields or workshops or sparring grounds. The uncounted pounds of animal flesh fed to him. To make him big. The many years of experiences and thoughts he collected along the way.

His community put a lot of resources into him. He helped, of course. He earned all of it. But they are counting on him.

And now he’s dead, his brains leaking out of a small hole just above and between his eyes. Boot on his jaw because he’s so damn big the victor can’t get footing on his neck.

The hands really get me. They are not warriors hands. I don’t know if this was a failure of the sculptor or if this is intentional. This giant has to be in his mid thirties at least, maybe into his forties. Anyone who had seen much battle would have gnarlier hands than that. Even anyone doing manual labor would have thicker, more calloused hands than that. I only spent a few months working semi-part-time on building a new bedroom and my hands were well-roughed with many small cuts and nicks and callouses. Men who work with their hands 40+ hours a day have a distinct look. One who holds a weapon in his hands, who regularly places them out before his body to strike away the weapons of others, and to have his own weapon struck away in turn… such a man would take many hits to the hand. They’d be thick with callous, always a cut somewhere on them. They’d probably have been mangled and broken and re-healed many times over. They would look like tools.

These are big, strong hands. But they are not tools. Even the nails look a little delicate. Was this man a fine craftsman? Did he play the lute or aspire to art? That’s not where he was most valuable to his people. They needed his size. Their enemies were upon them, and he had a lot to offer on the battlefield.

David is tiny in comparison, but the statue still towers over me. My head comes up to his crotch and I’m over six feet. Goliath is absolutely massive. It’s a good statue—the giant is intimidating even lying dead on the ground. It makes you really look at that single little hole in the helmet. The leather strap that flung a smallish stone.

The insane relief that David must have felt is palpable. The flight of one rock that somehow managed to pierce that helmet in just the right spot to strike this monster dead… it’s unbelievable. It’s miraculous. His life was forfeit, and now it’s been given back to him. God was surely involved. God did this, it’s the only explanation. Hallelujah.

Yes, a man is dead. A man with big, strong, un-scarred hands, with a face that looks like it’s known pain for years and years. Good. Thank god he’s dead. Him and his people were coming to slaughter our brothers and fathers, take our wives and sisters for rape and our children for slaves, and live on our lands. I’m glad he’s dead, and I’d kill him again, and every man with him. Too many forces to count had placed those two men against each other. Men who didn’t know each other, had never met before, and one of them had to die. Fate demanded it. The world demanded it. Better him than me. Better his people than mine.

Don’t wonder on if it really had to be this way. Don’t look too hard at his face. The act is done, focusing on it helps no one. Leave it in the past. Maybe some day someone will make a statue—let them dwell on the implications. If they have time for statues they have time to dwell. Maybe they’ll figure it out.