by Eric Wilson
“He’s your son, Manoah. Talk to him.”
“Talk to him, you say. Talk to him. Does Samson listen to my words or those of the council? Does he heed his own mother? Where is he now, in the still of the night? Is he on his bed mat where he belongs? No, he’s taken his brother, and he’s out following his own eyes and his heart.”
“What else should he follow?”
“The heart cannot be trusted. A man’s wandering eyes will lead his heart astray. His faith, his convictions, only they can rightly guide his steps.”
“As his father, you know of such things. He needs to hear it from you.”
Manoah rolled onto his back and ran a hand down his gray-streaked beard.
Zealphonis hoped it was not too late. For all she knew, Samson was cavorting even now with some woman. She had no evidence that such a thing had happened, but thoughts of it often robbed her of sleep and deepened her cries to the Almighty.
“He needs to hear it, yes,” her husband said. “But does he have ears to hear?”
“We know what the angel told us.”
“That was long ago now. God’s been known to change His mind.”
“He gave us a promise, and I . . . ” Her voice caught in her throat. “I believe He will keep it.”
“I want to believe that too.”
“You must. I need to know we are joined together in this. Tell me you remember the flame.”
With jaw clenched, Manoah closed his eyes.
She also closed hers and recalled the figure that appeared to her years ago in the midst of her household duties. He was the Angel of the Lord, he said, come to tell her that she would bear a son, chosen by God to deliver the Israelites from the hand of the Philistines. After years of barrenness and disappointment it was too much to hope for. She worried she would somehow fail. Her husband, mustering his faith, prayed that the angel would appear again, and indeed the angel did return. The angel insisted that the prophecy was true, so long as their child adhered to Nazirite vows by never drinking strong drink, touching a dead body, or cutting his hair. Yes, they agreed, yes, of course they would raise their son according to these vows. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
And then the unbelievable.
As they placed a goat and grain on the altar for a burnt offering, the angel ascended toward heaven in the flames. A flash of yellow heat, and he was gone. They’d never seen anything like it, and they fell facedown, giving glory to God. Her husband said they would surely die, for they had seen the Lord, but she assured him they would not. Just as the angel promised, they would have a son to raise. They and their people would have a deliverer.
Zealphonis rested a hand on her husband’s chest. “It was nineteen years ago, but we both heard it. We saw it. I still have to believe.”
“Forgive me.” Manoah took hold of her hand. “I do remember. Yes, we are in this together.”
That was all she needed. Tomorrow would have troubles of its own as soldiers came through the villages to collect the king’s tribute. Tonight, however, she had the warmth of her husband’s touch. With moisture still clinging to her eyelashes, she fell asleep.
The soldiers came earlier than usual, their swords flashing in the morning sun. Zealphonis tensed as shouts rang out over huts and households where men and women loaded carts with wheat and produce. Someone screamed. The price of peace in this and the neighboring tribes was obedience to the king. He hoarded food for his storerooms and fuel for his forges and smelters.
“Do you have our payment ready, Manoah?” Zealphonis asked.
“We’ll muster a bit more if we can. Let’s hope it’s enough for these brutes.”
They wheeled their cart into view, joining their neighbors along the dirt road that ran through Zorah. Their load was smaller than some, but at least it covered the bed of the wagon.
“This is of our own doing,” Manoah said.
“What?”
“This commotion.” He added a cluster of grapes to their offering. “If only we’d driven out our enemies while we had the chance, we’d be living in peace. Moses delivered us from Pharaoh, Joshua defeated our foes at Jericho, and still we suffer the blows of these Philistines.”
“Our weapons cannot match theirs.”
“They’re masters of metalwork, it’s true.”
Confirming this, a row of Philistines rounded the corner with swords drawn. The feathers on their helmets stood at attention, their armor gleamed, and blades and spear tips glistened.
“Hebrews, hear me,” their herald cried out. “Line up to present this month’s tribute. King Balek is a fair king, and if you come with what is expected, you’ll have no need to fear. But if your tribute falls short, hear this . . . Next month’s tribute will double.”
The very thought made Zealphonis weary.
In the midst of the soldiers walked Prince Rallah, the king’s son. Rallah wore a dark cape from rings on his breastplate. His beard was trimmed to a thin line and goatee, and his stark eye makeup was meant for intimidation. He carried royalty and privilege like a whip, she thought, using them to demean his own cohorts and frighten townspeople throughout the region. Hadn’t the Lord God said to walk humbly and uprightly? Why, then, did men such as this reap all the riches?
Manoah caught her eye. “Where is Samson?”
“He’ll be here.”
Rallah took a step forward, joined by Ashdod. Lumbering, broad-chested, and bald-headed, Ashdod was known throughout the region for his unquestioning obedience to the prince.
“Present yourselves, each of you,” the herald said. “As the prince passes by, you will show him your tribute. He is the king’s flesh and blood, his sole representative, and he alone determines the worthiness of your offering.”
Zealphonis fanned the wheat to give it a fuller appearance, then straightened her back and lowered her eyes. Beside her, Manoah had his chin down. At the edge of her vision a sickly figure staggered into the road, and she realized it was Tobias. This was not good.
“Oh, Samson,” she whispered, “why aren’t you here yet?”
Tobias fell to his knees in the dirt. “My lord,” he said, “please, show us mercy.”
Rallah’s attention was on the offering of another, and he sifted the grain through his fingers before turning to assess the creature at his feet.
“Please, my lord.”
“And what form should my mercy take?”
“The tribute is too much. My wife is getting up in age, and my daughter’s but a child. We can barely survive.”
“What is your name, Hebrew?”
“It’s Tobias, my lord.”
“And where is this family you hold so dear?”
“They . . . they’re in that cart there. Please, I know the king is fair and just, but he doesn’t see how we struggle. We starve even as the wheat we’ve planted with our own hands molds away in his storehouses. Can you not spare us more, my lord? Just enough for my wife and my daughter to eat?”
Zealphonis felt her pulse throb in her temples. She knew Tobias could barely walk behind the plow these days, crippled by stiff knees and bad shoulders. Despite his limitations he was a good man, a faithful man, doing his best to provide. She watched the prince’s gaze pass from the two women in the cart to the frail form before him. His eyes were unblinking, leopard-like, highlighted by the streaks of charcoal.
His decision came in measured tones. “I, Prince Rallah, have heard this man’s cry. As commander of the Philistine army, I make this declaration: from this day on this man shall never hunger again.”
A murmur of hope ran up the dirt road. Heads lifted.
“Thank you, my lord.” Tobias smiled and looked back at his wife.
Rallah’s nod was so slight that Zealphonis nearly missed it, but Ashdod showed no hesitation. He drove his sword through the old man, held him upright for all to see, then withdrew the blade and sheathed it. Tobias crumpled, and his wife rushed forward in a wail. No one else dared move.
“Back to work,” Rall
ah barked.
Zealphonis dropped her gaze, blinking back hot tears. Beside her, Manoah was shaking.
“Back to work!”
CHAPTER 4
BROKEN BOW
Camp at Mahaneh-dan
ON THIS DAY of the tribute I’ve made myself scarce. Each month we face humiliations from King Balek and Prince Rallah, and each month their expectations grow. My countrymen want a deliverer, someone to make all the wrongs right, but I’m just a man. I did not bring this oppression upon our people, and I cannot live with that burden upon my back.
“What do you think?” I say to my brother.
We stand on an outcrop above a small valley, having plodded through the dark to arrive here by sunrise. Warrior yells echo off the surrounding hillsides, men spar with wooden clubs, and others aim their spears at goatskins on the slope.
“This is it?” Caleb asks. “Mahaneh-dan?”
“The tribal camp of Dan. If our enemies find out about our training, they’ll make sure we never set foot in here again.”
“What do you think, Samson? Will the men let me join them? Will I get a weapon?”
“You’ll have to earn their trust and respect.”
“All right.”
Caleb should really be home this morning, and Mother and Father will be angry when we get back. I’ll make sure to take the brunt of it. It was my decision after all, and Caleb is a maturing young man. I see this in his long strides and wide shoulders.
An arrow whistles through the air and twangs into the earth beside us.
“You almost hit my brother,” I call down. “Who did that?”
“I intentionally missed.” The speaker has a quiver on his back and a second arrow pointed our direction. His name is Treus, and he has a history of trying to best me in our camp skirmishes. “Bring him to us, Samson. Let’s see the runt for ourselves.”
Caleb doesn’t wait. He is halfway down the incline by the time I catch up.
“Brother, he’s simply trying to upset you,” I say.
“I’m not upset. And I’m not afraid either.”
“Lord help me if I take you home with bruises. Mother will skin me like a goat.”
Caleb scoffs. “Has she ever even raised her voice at you? You come and go as you please, you tell her you’re in love with a Philistine, and—”
“I am.” My mind wanders. “I must find her again and learn her name.”
“And still you never get in trouble.”
“If you haven’t noticed, Father’s barely speaking to me these days. You’re the youngest. It’s you who gets away with everything.”
“When I’m with you, they leave me be. When you’re gone, Mother and Father turn moody. We eat most of our evening meals in silence.”
“I . . . I’m sorry to hear that, Caleb.”
He shrugs.
“Must I fire more arrows to quicken your step?” Treus grows impatient. “Come on, let’s see this brother of yours up close.”
Caleb meets him on the valley floor, chin and chest forward. Orum, Wadesh, and others gather round, waiting for this youngster to be taken to task. It’s something most of them have endured during their training here. Our tribe isn’t known for its fierceness, and the cause against our enemies is helpless without bold, battle-ready men.
“So, you’re Caleb.” Treus lowers his bow. “You’re taller than I expected.”
“I’m only two and a half years younger than Samson.”
“Hardly a man.”
“Neither were you thirty years ago.”
This brings clucks and chortles from the throng.
It’s true that Treus is older than most, and his cheeks redden. “It’s hard to believe you are Samson’s own brother. With those soft hands of yours, you could well be a woman.”
Caleb clenches his fists. He’s lived in my shadow since birth, hearing whispers of a prophecy, rumors of a redeemer. He’s shown me nothing but brotherly adoration, and for his age he is remarkably comfortable in his own skin. Still, he is not immune to insult.
“A woman, huh?” He tilts his head. “Well, Jael was a woman, and by her own hand and wits she struck down the commander of the Canaanite army.”
Orum cheers, and the others join him. With one retort my brother has won them over.
Treus gives a nod of respect. “You’ll get a chance to prove you’re a man soon enough, and a Hebrew man at that. Perhaps you can fill the spot that your brother leaves vacant. He comes and plays our tribal games, but he’s too busy with his mischief and flirtations to lend us any real help.”
Caleb’s nostrils widen.
I step quickly in between. “That is a matter for you and me, Treus. Don’t involve my brother in our disagreements.”
“A disagreement? More like a betrayal. Or can’t you get that through your thick skull?” He taps his bow against my head, wood on bone.
The slight discomfort sets my hands to trembling. What is this? The trembling spreads, very different from the tremors of fear or of cold. It floods me, fills me with strength. My entire body tenses, from toes to forehead. My legs are stone pillars, my arms iron bands. I hear rushing wind in my ears, shake my thick mane about my shoulders, and emit a roar.
Treus stumbles back. His wooden bow comes up.
It’s a defensive response, I realize, but it triggers a reaction. I snatch the polished weapon from him, hold it overhead, and bring it down with both hands over the back of my neck. It snaps like a stick, and splinters go flying. The others watch, mouths wide. A seasoned bow is crafted to sustain tremendous pressure, and I’m sure none of them has broken one before. I know I never have.
I drop the ruined implement on the rocks as my trembling subsides.
“Is this why you came?” Treus says. “So you could harass your own tribesmen while avoiding your responsibilities at today’s tribute in Zorah?”
His words strike deeper than his arrows could.
“Who are you to tell me my responsibilities?”
“You can send Caleb our way anytime, but you, Samson, you’re not needed here.”
“If my brother’s not here,” says Caleb, “you can forget about me.”
“Once you learn to think for yourself, you might see it differently.”
Caleb kicks at the splinters and turns up the slope. I beam with pride at his courage and allegiance. We say nothing till we top the hill, beyond the view of the men at Mahaneh-dan.
“What’s wrong with you?” my brother lashes out.
His tone catches me off guard. “What?” I set a hand on his shoulder.
He pushes me away.
“I was trying to protect you,” I explain.
“You’re blind.”
“I’m blind. Okay. Tell me, what is it I’m not seeing?”
“Is it true what Treus said? Is that why you brought me along today?”
“You’re about to enter manhood. I wanted to show you the camp.”
“Or maybe that was your excuse to miss the tribute.”
“That’s not . . . You’re not making sense, Caleb.”
His eyes glisten, and he quickens his step. “Forget it.”
“Forget what?”
“You never listen.”
“Is this a riddle? Go on, I’ll do my best.”
“You’re always ready to defend me, that’s great, but—”
“That’s what brothers do,” I tell him.
“That’s just it, Samson. You rush to protect me without even a thought.”
“And why is that wrong?”
“What about our tribesmen or our neighbors in Zorah? You know, I’m not your only brother.”
South of Zorah
Heat shimmers over arid ground, and I perspire beneath my tunic. Caleb is also hot, as are his emotions. I persuade him to detour with me through a Philistine settlement, telling him we can recover some of what’s been stolen from us today by the king. The ploy seems to work because his usual good spirits return.
“What’re we going t
o take?” he asks.
“What do you think Mother could use? What worries her most?”
“Food.”
We wipe sweat from our eyes and spot the settlement on a dusty plateau. The sun is bright when we arrive, and only a handful of older men are outside, encircling an enclosure, caught up in their games. They give me a knowing nod. They’ve seen me here before with my friend Pyzor.
In the enclosure two exotic birds strut and crow.
“They’re called chickens,” I say to Caleb. “From the far east.”
“They’re ugly.”
“These are the males. They’re mean, and they like to fight.” As I say it, the villagers pass coins around, placing wagers. “See those sharp talons?”
“I really don’t want to watch this.”
“You’ll miss all the excitement then. What harm can come from looking?”
He doesn’t even peek.
When it’s over, one rooster prances, the other flops and falls still, and a new pair of combatants is brought forward. Since the Philistines use these birds only for sport, I offer to dispose of the dead ones, and the old men agree. Less mess for them and their womenfolk.
“You’ll have to take the bag, Caleb. My Nazirite vows,” I explain.
“Oh, but it’s all right for me to touch something dead.”
“Mother will thank you.”
He accepts the bloody offering from a man with no teeth, and as we turn, I grab the two live chickens from the enclosure and thrust them under my tunic. They flutter and squawk as Caleb and I bolt back toward Zorah. The toothless fellow is no match for our young legs. We can’t stop laughing, but once we are out of view, I release both birds. They’ll find their way home soon enough.
“Can we really eat these?” Caleb shakes his bag. “What’s the Law of Moses say?”
“Once they’ve been plucked and cooked, why not?”
“Then why don’t the Philistines eat them?”
“They’re barbarians. They dine upon Hebrew babies, remember?”
He doesn’t think that’s funny.
