Samson

by Eric Wilson

“We need provision, Caleb, and here we have it. Do our enemy’s preferences matter? I’ll give it to you in a riddle . . . Feathers from the East, a poor man’s feast. Who are we to question God’s mysterious ways?”

  “All right. But I’m not taking a bite till you do.”

  Our eyes meet for the first time in an hour, and we grin at each other. For a moment we are kids again and the world is a peaceful place.

  The peace is short-lived.

  CHAPTER 5

  EMBERS

  Village of Zorah

  SAMSON AND CALEB ducked through the doorway, their laughter filling the hut. From the earthen cooking hearth Zealphonis marveled again at the stature of her sons. To think that she had once been barren, that she’d been seen by others as cursed. All of that changed with her firstborn, yet motherhood had challenges of its own.

  Poking at the fire, Manoah didn’t even look up. “Where were you two this morning?”

  “Father, it’s my fault,” Samson said. “Caleb came because I told him to.”

  “That is hardly an answer.”

  “We made a visit to the camp.”

  “Mahaneh-dan?” Zealphonis clasped a hand to her chest. “Lord, have mercy.”

  “Why, Samson?” her husband asked. “These men who want to fight, they are troublemakers. They’ll call down wrath upon our heads if they get careless.”

  “They want peace, the same as you and Mother. Peace must be protected.”

  “With what? Clubs and wooden spears?”

  “They have bows and arrows too.”

  “Well,” Zealphonis said to her boys, “that did us no good today.”

  “We brought you fresh meat,” Caleb interjected, presenting the bag as a peace offering.

  Zealphonis loosened the drawstring. The birds inside, though unfamiliar to her, met the stipulations of Mosaic Law. They were kosher and meaty enough to warrant gratitude. “Thank you. But while you and your friends played your games, we were left here to pay tribute, and Prince Rallah was of a cruel disposition. We kept waiting for you, Samson, praying you would appear.”

  “Why?” he said. “What happened?”

  “Another man of the tribe died today,” said Manoah.

  “Run through by the Philistines,” she added.

  “Who was it?”

  “Tobias. He made the mistake of asking for mercy.” Her words cut through her sons’ carefree expressions, dropping them both to their knees by the fire. She wished there were some other way, but dull lies did more damage than sharp truths.

  “Sorry, Father. Forgive us.”

  With hooded eyes, Manoah set down his stick. The burnt end hissed.

  “Father?” Caleb tried again, hoping for a pardon.

  Zealphonis knew her husband well, and there would be no pardoning today. She set to work on the birds, plucking feathers in handfuls. She used a knife to remove the talons, then divided the good portions into a pot of water over the fire. Herb sprigs and salt would bring out the flavor.

  “You should’ve been here,” Manoah said at last. “Both of you. You, Caleb, you’re a young man now, which means it’s time to stand on your own and decide things for yourself. Regardless of what your brother wants. Regardless of what others tell you. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “As for you, Samson.”

  “We should’ve been here, I know.”

  Manoah cleared his throat. “This is your home; these are your people. You want forgiveness? Well and good, but it doesn’t bring back Tobias. The soil is wet with his blood, and his widow and child grieve.”

  “You think I could’ve stopped this?”

  “Yes!”

  Samson leaned back. “That’s not fair. I—”

  “You’re right, Son, it’s not fair.”

  The water bubbling in the pot was the only sound in the room.

  Caleb tried to divert the conversation. “What about the council? It’s time to anoint a new judge—isn’t that what they decided?”

  “Judges.” Samson huffed. “Deborah, Shamgar, Gideon, Jephthah . . . We’ve had judges before, and we still face the scourge of our enemies. We don’t need another judge. We need peace.”

  “Why, Samson, why must you give us cause for shame?” Manoah said. “How long until you stir up the embers within? You know of that which I speak, do you not? I prayed this very day that you would know it. Did you not feel it in your bones? Did you not sense His power?”

  “Dear, please.”

  “No, Zealphonis, he needs to hear this, needs to acknowledge it.” Her husband faced their firstborn. “Tell me, Son, did you not feel it?”

  “Today. Yes, I . . . It stirred me at Mahaneh-dan.”

  “Power from on high.”

  “I think so. It came suddenly.”

  “He snapped a seasoned bow in two,” Caleb said.

  “This power is the precursor. Do you not remember the prophecy? ‘Samson . . . of the tribe of Dan. Chosen by the living God . . . set apart to be His hand of vengeance.’ It is God’s will.”

  “Maybe so,” Samson stated, “but it is not mine.”

  The words rocked Manoah back.

  Zealphonis’s attention turned from the chicken broth to her husband. He was speechless, his shock understandable. She herself scarcely believed what she had just heard from their son. It was one thing for Samson to question his calling, but to reject it altogether? It ran against the very grain of his upbringing. Hadn’t they taught him to love the Lord with all his heart, soul, mind, and strength? Hadn’t he been taught to submit his will to almighty God?

  “Samson, you cannot shirk this so easily,” she said. “You are not like the other Hebrews. You are meant for so much more.”

  “And you, both of you, never fail to remind me of it!”

  She was flabbergasted.

  The promise, the flame, the birth . . . Did they mean nothing?

  Her oldest son stood and pushed his hair over his shoulder. His gaze was piercing. “All that God has required of me I have done. I’ve kept every vow. No wine. No touching anything dead. No cutting of my hair. Do you think it’s been easy abiding by such things? Do you think I haven’t had opportunities? Even so, I’ve been true to what the angel told you. And for what? Where has it gotten me? Where has it gotten us? We’re still under the scourge of Balek and Rallah. We still have no peace. Why is it that God withholds the very things we desire?”

  “Samson,” she said as he stepped out the door, “you must never forget who you are.”

  He paused, and then he was gone.

  At the hearth the broth spilled over and sizzled on the embers.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE TRAP

  City of Gaza

  PRINCE RALLAH EYED the crown on his father’s head. The hammered gold and cut gems that glowed in the setting sun showed it to be a handsome crown, if not a poor fit. Lost in thought, King Balek seemed oblivious. He stood at the palace balustrade in his woven robes and wide sash, overlooking hovels and shanties that sprawled toward the Great Sea.

  “Our people migrated over those waters,” he mused. “Not so long ago.”

  Rallah took a breath, preparing for another of his father’s speeches.

  “We Philistines, we’ve never settled for simplicity. We want more. It’s in our blood. We rode the waves, fought Egyptians, carved our way up the coastlands, and made ourselves a home. This palace and temple, the walls of our five capitals, all of this rose from the minds of our leaders and the hands of our laborers. Who can match our tools or our weaponry? We are envied, rightly so, and now these Hebrews want to push back and grab the land for themselves.”

  “They’re weak,” Rallah said.

  “They have their God.”

  “And we have our gods.”

  “They also have their commandments,” the king said, “and their ark of the covenant. If only we could get our hands on that.”

  “It’s nothing. They have the mentality of slaves. In their minds they s
till bow to the Pharaohs and long for a heavy hand. After today’s tribute our storerooms are filling up again.”

  King Balek adjusted his robes. “I hear that Ashdod killed another one.”

  “It had to be done.”

  “Did you give the order?”

  “The man begged for special treatment. I had to make an example.”

  “Hmm. Don’t forget, Rallah, these Hebrews broke free and followed Moses through the wilderness. They see us as the intruders in their Promised Land. That taste of freedom is still in their mouths, and it emboldens them.”

  “They serve us nonetheless.”

  “Indeed, they do.” The king lifted a goblet to his lips. “It’s both a luxury and a nuisance.”

  From the balustrade’s pillars a large figure appeared. Rallah beckoned Ashdod into the torchlight. The soldier removed his helmet, bowed to the king, then gave his attention to the prince.

  “We have word from our man at Mahaneh-dan,” Ashdod said.

  “Mahaneh-what?” The king raised an eyebrow.

  “The camp of Dan,” Rallah explained. “It’s where the tribesmen play games of war with their crude spears and kitchen knives. As a safeguard we have someone in the camp who reports back to us. Tell us, Ashdod, how does a group of farmers plan to take down the glorious King Balek?”

  As Ashdod recounted the day’s events, Rallah saw Balek’s expression darken. When the soldier was done, Rallah was quick to wave him away so that he could address his father’s concerns.

  “Don’t worry. These whispers of a Hebrew with great strength, they won’t go far.”

  “Such whispers can be dangerous,” said the king.

  “His people might believe him to be a savior, but they’re just grasping for straws. So he breaks bows with his bare hands. So what? What can one man do against an entire kingdom? It’s a story for slaves, nothing more.”

  “Story is possibility, possibility is hope, and hope . . . Hope is rebellion.”

  “Are you saying you fear this Samson?”

  King Balek’s eyes narrowed. “What I fear, Rallah, is your arrogance. It’s followed you since childhood. You think you’re superior, and therein lies your weakness. You must never assume you’re beyond the grasp of your people or your enemies. Sometimes they’re even one and the same.”

  “I assume nothing.”

  “Then get to work. I want you personally to investigate this Hebrew.”

  “Is this what you think of me, that my time is best spent keeping watch over a slave?”

  “You think it’s beneath you? You think you know better how to run my affairs?”

  “Father, I—”

  “In service to the crown, you do not address me as Father. I am your king. Do as I say.”

  The prince swallowed hard and bent low. “Yes, my king.”

  “Do it now.”

  Prince Rallah straightened and marched off. The king was a power monger, basking in his own prestige, rarely trusting his lone heir with matters of true importance. He’d sent his other three sons to their deaths on distant battlefields and now sent his remaining son to a death by boredom.

  Oh, how Rallah wished he had a sword in hand and another slave bowing at his feet.

  “I’d run him through myself,” he grumbled. “I’d drink his blood.”

  As the haze of his fury dissipated, his mind honed in on a plan. Tomorrow he would find out for himself what sort of foe he was up against. He would gather recruits and set a trap.

  Where to set the trap? This was the first priority.

  Prince Rallah reclined the next day on a cushioned sofa, divvying out figs and wine as he questioned officials from the capital cities. Samson’s movements, he learned, were concentrated around Timnah. He traveled on foot, rarely using a horse or donkey, and his routes were predictable. He also frequented local markets and wagering events, seemingly intrigued by Philistine customs.

  What to use for bait? That was the next priority.

  Beauty or brawn were the natural choices. The lust of the eye and the lust for blood, these were urges that stirred in the hearts of most men, and surely Samson was no exception. Using beauty as bait required time and finesse. Using brawn would be quicker.

  “Fetch me the temple priest,” Rallah ordered his manservant.

  “Yes, my prince.”

  Minutes later Jodel appeared. He had shrewd eyes, a wide nose, and sagging jowls. During his years in King Balek’s service, he had proved himself a master at the game of politics and religion. The throne, the gods, the people—they were all pieces to be maneuvered for a favorable outcome. He’d survived longer in his role than most of the king’s own offspring.

  “Prepare yourself,” said Rallah, “for a trip to the Sorek quarry.”

  “I’m here to serve, as you well know. If I may ask, though, why am I needed at a quarry?”

  “Consider it a fund-raising expedition.”

  Jodel brightened at that. “And how, my prince, will we raise these funds?”

  “Find me a strongman to be our champion.”

  “A contest to the death?”

  “If it comes to that.”

  “Bolcom,” Jodel said. “He’s just the man for the task.”

  CHAPTER 7

  A CRUEL GAME

  Town of Timnah

  ONLY ONE THING occupies my thoughts this morning. I must find her. The girl of my dreams. She stole my heart with a glance last week, and my mind will not rest until I see her again.

  “Remember, thin as a twig,” I tell Caleb. “A curvy, young twig.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  I add, “With waves of black hair, dark almond eyes, and a pleasant laugh.”

  “You got close enough to hear her laugh? Why didn’t you get her name?”

  “Enough with you. Look, they’re opening the gate.”

  We have Mother’s permission to be out early if we don’t go to Mahaneh-dan. We arrive at Timnah as the townsfolk awake. We pass through their midst, but there’s no sign of my love among those headed into the vineyards or those selling pottery at the gate. I instruct my brother to go to the town well since drawing daily water is one of the chores of the young women.

  “Check each face,” I advise him. “She could be wearing a shawl or a hood.”

  “If she’s as pretty as you say, you think I’ll tell you if I do find her?”

  Even though he’s kidding, I want to grab him by the throat. “I spotted her first, Caleb, and I’ll kill anyone who tries to take her from me.”

  “You’re a Hebrew. Does she even know you exist?”

  I ignore him. “I’ll try the marketplace. As I said, the well is that way.”

  “She doesn’t, does she?”

  “You’re too young to understand.”

  “Were you scared or something? My big brother, Samson, afraid of a woman?”

  “As soon as we find her, I’ll make sure she never forgets me. Go on now. That direction.”

  Caleb wrinkles his mouth. “If this is what falling in love does to you . . . ”

  I watch him saunter off, and I’m on my own in this Philistine outpost. I head toward the market where she and I first shared a glance. She was at a merchant’s table, examining a bolt of fabric. She’s not there now. Instead, the vendor vies for my attention until seeing that I have no money bag on my belt. Other tables display spices, dates, and salted fish arranged in diagonal rows. Goatskins and water bladders hang from leather straps.

  None of these items interest me, not this morning.

  Only her.

  How old is she? I wonder. Does she think of me?

  With coy smiles a trio of young ladies passes by, their attire more free flowing and open than that of the women of Israel. Our tribes adhere to the old laws, and the feelings that pass between a man and woman are reserved for special times and out-of-sight places. This only adds to my curiosity. At nineteen, nearly twenty, I am old enough for marriage.

  I glance back, and one of the girls giggl
es.

  A stirring begins, different from the trembling I felt yesterday in my hands. This is more raw, more primal. I’ve felt this stirring before, and if it comes from God, I know it must be harnessed correctly. My only trouble is that I want to know more. I want to know all there is to know about the rituals between men and women. Why does God place such desires within us? Does He burden us with passions, only to turn and condemn us for them?

  I cannot believe it’s in His nature to do so. That would be a cruel game.

  Then again, His ways are not easy to understand.

  Valley of Sorek

  Hours later we end our search. Unless she’s hiding from us, she is not in Timnah. I’m crestfallen as we trudge homeward, and Caleb tries to comfort me by saying she could be with relatives in a neighboring town. His words ring hollow. Maybe she was only a dream.

  “What’s that sound?” Caleb asks.

  “Workmen’s chisels. There’s a Philistine quarry just over that ridge.”

  “I hear yells. Both male and female, by the sound of it.”

  With a hand cupped to my ear, I confirm it. “It doesn’t make sense to have women laboring among the stones. It’s backbreaking work, done by brutes and slaves only.”

  “What do you think, Samson? You think she could be down there?”

  I quicken my pace.

  As I do, two figures approach from over the ridge, one lurching along, supporting a man with a split lip and an eye the color of overripe fruit. I barely recognize him as one of those from Mahaneh-dan. What’s happened to him?

  “Samson, where have you been?” the first man says. Nearby the roars of a crowd echo off limestone walls. “The Philistines have a new champion, a fighter from Egypt. No one has been able to beat him, and he mocks our people and our God. It’s time to do something. You should—”

  “He’s not interested,” Caleb snaps. “We have work to do, and we promised our father and mother we’d be there for the evening meal. If not, we’ll—”

  I miss the rest of his sentence. I’m already running, sandals slapping against my heels. Yes, we agreed to be back before sunset, but this is one broken promise I’m sure they’ll understand. They keep goading me to act, and I’ve decided to do so. Let them reprimand me if they wish.