by Eric Wilson
“A husband,” I say. “A father.”
“Do you believe in destiny?”
“Yes, I do.”
She places her hand on my cheek. “Well, I believe you can be that man.”
When she lifts on her toes, our lips gently meet. Her mouth is as soft and warm as I imagined, her breath sweet on my cheek. She pulls back, looks deep into my soul. She’s won my heart completely, and my life’s course will be forever altered.
CHAPTER 15
DELIBERATE STEPS
City of Gaza
PRINCE RALLAH WATCHED from a chair at his palace window as a slim figure in a beaded head covering slipped through a side gate into the quarters below. He couldn’t see her face in the dark, but he knew her name well.
“Welcome back, Taren.”
The news had come late yesterday, brought to him by the city watchman. There was a Hebrew within the walls, a man with long hair and commoners clothes, asking uncomfortable questions about the female servants in service to the crown. For his good work the watchman left Rallah’s presence with a small purse of jewels, unaware that Rallah had borrowed these same jewels from King Balek’s chambers. The king would never notice the loss, but if the prince needed the watchman’s future allegiance, he could assure it with accusations of theft and betrayal.
Earlier today, as Rallah anticipated, Taren had gone missing from her quarters. He expected it, after delivering a jug of wine to her guard last night.
Now, after a day with her beloved Samson, the girl was back.
The prince ticked his fingernail against his goblet, his head filled with schemes.
Light footsteps warned him of a visitor, and he turned as the face and full figure of a woman ascended the stairs into his chamber. A gold laurel band encircled her wavy brown hair, torchlight danced in her slanted sea-spray eyes, and a thin dress shimmered with each deliberate step. She moved without hurry, allowing him time to appreciate each curve. She’d been his lover in times past, and now she was back from the North. This time, she told him, she was staying for good.
“Delilah,” he said.
“You seem troubled, darling.”
“Why would I be troubled now that you’re here again?”
“It’s your father, isn’t it?”
A sour taste filled Rallah’s mouth. “You know what he’s like.”
“If it’s any consolation, I am not one of those he’s conquered.”
“I’d run him through if he even dared.”
“Careful, Rallah.” She lifted the wine pitcher, filled his drink. “Voices carry in the night.”
“When the old man dies, I wonder . . . Should I declare a time of mourning for the passing of our glorious king or a time of celebration for the coronation of a new one?”
“Do you expect this tragedy any time soon?”
“It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow. Next year. Ten years from now. I’ll be rejoicing nonetheless.” He sipped from his cup and felt her hip brush his arm as she moved to her seat. “He thinks me unprepared for the throne, while expecting me to put down a slave uprising. The Hebrews are weak in number, armed with farming tools. It’s a fool’s errand, Delilah. His way of killing me off with busywork.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, darling.”
“You think I’m kidding? I should be leading armies.” He slammed down his goblet. “Against Sidon, Midian, Egypt. Not these Hebrews. They have only one man of any worth on a battlefield.”
“I heard stories yesterday,” she said, sounding only mildly interested. “In the courtyard.” “They call him Samson. And he’s been here in Gaza.”
“Then take him captive and be done with it.”
“I have other plans.”
“So do I.” Her lips nibbled at his ear.
Rallah surrendered himself to the skin-tingling pleasure until his gaze fell upon the goblet’s base, engraved with the king’s own emblem. Even here in his own chambers, the prince was not free of his father’s presence. “My father,” he grumbled, “is senile and sick.”
“He’s led our kingdom into a time of prosperity. Perhaps he deserves more honor.”
“Honor?” Rallah burst from his seat, grabbed Delilah’s bronze-skinned arms, and pinned them to her chair. “Or maybe a prince deserves more respect. That’s right, you should be afraid. You best realize who truly rules this place.”
She tried to free herself. “Please, Rallah, I think you should have another drink.”
“If you wish to be queen,” he said, tightening his grip, “you’ll learn to tame your tongue.”
Slowly her body relaxed beneath him, and she cocked a shapely eyebrow. “Oh, it’s my tongue you were thinking of. Well, why didn’t you just tell me?”
He planted a kiss on her forehead. “The throne will soon be ours, Delilah.”
CHAPTER 16
A TWO-SIDED COIN
DELILAH WATCHED THE prince vanish down the circular stairs. Only when he was gone did she drop the veil of strength and seduction and rush to the window for a gasp of cool night air. Her heart thumped beneath her breast. Her arms throbbed where his fingers had been.
She loved him—that’s what she told herself.
She shouldn’t have riled him.
She poured herself a cup of the wine, let its ruby warmth settle down her throat into her belly, and reminded herself not to complain. Though of no royal blood, she would be queen soon enough.
In the past she had been Rallah’s lover, but in this most recent year she’d gone back north to be at her father’s deathbed. She wanted to tell her father her secrets, those things she’d never told anyone, and perhaps find some justice and resolution. But she couldn’t do it. He was so frail, and he loved her so much. The truth would have broken his heart.
Last month the family said its farewells and buried him.
Now she was back in Gaza, and she would let nothing stand in her way of the throne. It was quite a step up for a girl from the Valley of Sorek.
She recalled those days in the valley as a youngster, tending trestles and gathering grapes in her father’s vineyard. She showed an early knack for it, and her brothers included her in the work on the long autumn nights when frost threatened the clusters. They used torches to fight off the cold, staying up till daybreak to protect their livelihood. Then, bedraggled and shivering, they trudged back to their large stone house to find sleep in their beds.
Except Delilah was not always able to sleep. Even now, as a grown woman, she was wakened by awful dreams of hovering shapes and hot breath on her neck.
Beauty was a two-sided coin . . .
Blessing and curse.
She swiped at a lone tear and sipped again from her cup.
CHAPTER 17
MANOAH’S DECREE
Valley of Elah
LAST NIGHT I purchased another evening in Gaza to be near Taren. The past few days are a blur of exhilaration. To love and be loved. Is there anything greater?
This morning I give my final coin for a tired nag and a cloth to toss over its back. Taren slips away again and joins me beyond the city gates. We ride north into the foothills, finding shelter in the dappled shade of a terebinth tree. The horse nibbles at the grass while we fan out the cloth and recline. We toss rocks into a meandering creek and talk of our dreams and favorite memories and far-off places that fascinate us. It seems we’ll never run out of things to say.
“You’re sure the prince isn’t mistreating you?” I ask. “He must know of your comings and goings.”
“If so, he turns a blind eye,” she says.
“It seems odd.”
“Some days I serve Rallah in the palace, others I assist Jodel in the temple, and sometimes I’m sent to the storehouses. I’m rarely two days in the same place. Maybe he loses track.”
“Just so long as you don’t suffer for my sake.”
She kisses the tip of my nose. “I’ll suffer if that’s what it takes.”
“Being apart, that’ll be my suffering.”
&
nbsp; “What does that mean?” She searches my eyes. “What’s wrong, my love?”
“The money, Taren, I spent the last of it this morning. I can’t stay in the city any longer, and my parents, my mother especially, must be worried. How do I get word to them without leaving you? I don’t want this to end.”
“Neither do I.”
We fall silent, listening to the wind in the terebinth’s leaves. The nag neighs and smacks her lips in satisfaction, oblivious to our quandary.
“What’re we even thinking?” Taren says at last. “What’re we doing here, Samson?”
“We’re not doing anything.” I lean close, my breath upon her neck. “Not yet.”
She places a hand on my chest and pushes me away. “No more jokes. We can’t keep this up. There’s no future for us like this.”
“It hurts to hear you even say that. Please.”
“It’s the truth.”
“What’s changed? I don’t understand.”
“Nothing. This is our reality,” she states. “You and I, we live in different worlds.”
“We don’t in our hearts.”
“What does that mean? The beach, this tree, they’re just hideaways from the truth. I wish I could stay here with you and pretend otherwise, but one of us must be honest. You’re a Hebrew. I’m a Philistine.”
Swept up in the moment, I believe I have a revelation. Maybe I do catch a glimpse of things as they could be, as God wants them to be, but I grasp at the revelation and try to make it true by my own strength. Before it slips away, I try to speak it into existence.
“Taren, listen. This could be the prophecy coming to fulfillment. You and me, Hebrew and Philistine, showing others how the two can live in harmony. I found you. I love you. What if peace came about because of this union? I think this could be what I was chosen for. Don’t you see it?”
“Samson . . . ”
“Marry me.”
Her eyes glisten, and her mouth opens without a word.
“Taren, I’m serious. Marry me. Do you know that you’re the first person in my life to ask me who I wanted to be? Everyone else has tried to map it out for me, tried to dictate it to me. You made me feel something I didn’t know was possible. This is it, our chance to do something.”
Her eyes are warm and glistening. Her mouth broadens into a smile.
“Your parents will not approve of this,” she cautions.
“If you say yes, I’ll stop at nothing till they give me their blessing. I’ll go to them this very night.” I fling my arms outward, yelling beneath the terebinth. “Marry me, Taren. I love you!”
She grabs my face. “Yes, my love,” she says. “Yes!”
A sudden breeze stirs the branches, and I’m showered in leaves as my lips find hers.
Village of Zorah
My nag barely makes it to the edge of my village. I stable her with a quick pat-down and a bucket of feed. Beneath our family olive tree I rest against the trunk and stare at the lamplight seeping through the latched door. Mother and Father are awake. On my ride here I rehearsed what I would say and convinced myself they would share in my revelation.
Now my certainty fades.
I lift the latch and spy them cross-legged on the rug, playing a game with a carved board and wooden pieces. They are getting older and don’t hear me.
“I met a girl,” I announce, stepping over the threshold.
They turn as one. I cannot read their expressions.
“I want to marry her.”
“Samson, hello.” Mother pulls her robes tighter. “What’s this girl’s name?”
“Her name’s Taren.”
“I don’t know of her. Is she from our village?”
“She’s from Timnah,” I explain. “Don’t you remember a while back, when I told you I fell in love? I found her. She wants this, just as I do.”
My father rises, tugging on his beard as his gaze bores into me. “You’ve been gone a number of days, and you owe your mother both an apology and explanation.”
“We’re in love. That’s the best explanation I have. And I’m sorry, Mother, I am. I know you think that I’m reckless and throwing my money away, but—”
“Actually,” she says to my father, “we owe Samson an apology too. Isn’t that so, Manoah?”
He nods. “Yes, Son, the widow told us what you did for her, leaving coins at her door. And we’ve heard rumors from neighboring villages too. You were generous in giving alms, a sacrifice pleasing to the Lord. For that I commend you.”
“I didn’t need the money, not really. The only thing I want is your blessing.”
“Who is her father?” my father asks.
“His name is Ahar. He serves in Gaza, a prisoner of the crown.”
“What? We raise you, feed you, consecrate you before God, and you can’t even find one suitable bride from among your own people? There are good women of our tribe. Instead, you make fools of us by choosing a daughter of the enemy? Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m in love, Father. I am not trying to shame you. Nor you, Mother.”
“You have no idea,” she says, “the brutality and horrors they’ve brought down on us.”
“Taren’s not like them. She’s different.”
“We are their slaves.”
“Can we sit together?” I beg them. “Will you hear me out?”
Father refuses to look at me.
I press on, determined to make them understand. “I don’t know how exactly, but I believe this could be my way of fulfilling the prophecies. This could be God’s plan of making peace between the two nations, using Taren and me as an example, as bride and groom. Don’t you see? We don’t have to live in the past any longer, locked in the bitterness of our fathers.”
“Their bitterness is also ours,” my father says. “The oppression does not cease.”
“What if it could, though? Through our marriage?”
Mother considers my words the way a steward tests new wine at the king’s table. Is it of any merit? Or is it poisoned? She closes her eyes and mulls it over. I wait, hoping her decision will calm my father, but she says nothing.
“Son, if you do this,” Father tells me, “if you marry this Philistine, you’ll bring dishonor not only on this family but on your entire village and tribe. I will not bless such a thing. I will not!”
His decree is final, and it sends me from my home in a fury.
West of Zorah
I started this day at dawn, and I’m exhausted. Anger alone propels me over rocks and through woods on a starlit march without clear destination. My long strides take me farther from my village, and I’m off the beaten path, halfway to Timnah, when I realize that my desire for Taren has tugged me this direction. She’s not in Timnah, of course. She’s in Gaza, in her quarters at the foot of the palace.
I won’t see her. Not tonight. I feel desperately alone.
The exhaustion falls upon me, and I find myself in a dense wooded area, unable to press on. Darkness consumes me. My anger still simmers, and I shake my fists.
“What do You want from me, God? Speak to me!”
Silence.
I drop to my knees. “What would You have me do? I’m trying to act as I believe is right, but my father, he’s made his decree, and he’ll never change his mind. Am I called to lead Your people? Isn’t that what my parents were told? Then help me. Show me a sign.”
A branch cracks off to my left.
I am instantly alert.
These forests, hills, and valleys are the territory of my childhood, and I know each contour, each sound, each creature. The crack fades, but it was loud enough to indicate a sizable branch. The smaller animals that roam at night are of insufficient weight to break such a branch with hoof or paw, and I realize that something is very wrong.
I stand.
I stare into the blackness, trying to detect any motion at all.
My ears come to my aid, alerting me to padded footfalls nearby, followed by a low, guttural growl. My chest
tightens. I dare not move. I tell my heart to stop thudding against my ribs. Even after the heavy paws move away from me, I hear them pace the slope beyond the trees. Is the beast watching me? Waiting for me to show myself on open ground?
My hands start to tremble. I take cautious steps of retreat. I’ll go back home and—
Snap.
A bough breaks beneath my sandal, and a lion roars. My pupils expand in sheer terror, and at last I detect his form as it swells through the trees, larger and larger, until he is upon me in a ferocious leap that drives me over root and rock. We wrestle and roll. I yell. With claws piercing my shoulder, he bellows back, only a hand width from my face. His fangs are curved, his breath fetid.
This is my chance.
I clamp both hands onto the open jaws, and I muster all my strength to keep them off me. His roar snags in his throat, and hot saliva runs from his mouth, sliding down my cheek and ear. I feel his belly against mine. I tighten my grip, fighting for my life, and pry the jaws apart with a mighty heave.
Snaaap!
This time the sound issues not from wood but from separated sinew and broken jawbones. I drive the bones back into the skull, and the beast collapses on top of me, his deadweight making it difficult to get air. I close my eyes. Expand my chest. Roll the heavy carcass to the side and take a ragged breath.
“Lord, forgive me,” I pray. “You are my Savior, my strength. Please, forgive me my doubts.”
CHAPTER 18
IN THE NAME OF LOVE
City of Gaza
DELILAH SURVEYED THE city from the window by Rallah’s bed. It was midday, the sunlight gleaming on Dagon’s statue that presided over the temple. In the temple’s shadows, citizens and servants scurried like ants through the streets, not one of them aware of her eyes upon them and not one beyond the reach of the throne.
She never again wanted to be one of the ants. An ant could work through the night, dutifully serving its colony, only to be squashed as though it meant nothing at all.
