Samson

by Eric Wilson

  I bolt from the scene of this week’s drunkenness and debauchery. What convinced me that a Philistine celebration would be anything other than displeasing to God? Have I been blinded by my devotion to Taren?

  My legs churn beneath me, leading me through the town gates and to the west, toward the sea and the peoples who populate its shores. The heat of the day beats upon my back, and the ocean breeze at my face offers scant relief. My pulse throbs in my ears, at my throat. How is it, then, that my heart is at a complete standstill in my chest?

  Dear Taren, why? What could coerce you to divulge my secrets?

  My heart starts up again, a hollow drum, pounding, pounding.

  Has she been working hand in hand all along with my enemy, setting a trap for me? That seems far-fetched. The prince’s soldiers could’ve cornered me on the beach near Gaza. They could’ve taken me from the harlot’s room near the city gates. Above all, I know the love between Taren and me is real. She did not share her dreams with me as a ruse. She could not fake the depth of passion in her eyes.

  We are in love—that much I know.

  And we will still be one, alone in our bridal chambers.

  Then the realization comes to me. Ahar, soon to be my father-in-law, is subject to the king and the prince. They must’ve threatened to do to him what they did to his wife over ten years ago. Only this makes sense to me. Only this could trigger Taren’s betrayal. She’s already lost her mother, and the thought of losing her father would be too much.

  Oh, my love. I’m so sorry.

  My anger switches from Taren’s betrayal to Rallah’s treachery. All along he has played me for a fool, meaning to tame me through this union with a Philistine woman. Some rulers keep harems, giving and taking beautiful women to create alliances with foreign kingdoms. He’s done much the same, offering me a bride to ensure my good behavior.

  He shall soon learn the nature of my wrath.

  City of Ashkelon

  My sandals still race over dusty soil. I look back. No soldiers follow me, or if they do, they cannot keep up. I dart over paths, bound through fields of wheat, and sprint past scrub brush and rows of grapevines. Ahead the fronds of palm trees wave in the coastal winds.

  Thirty tunics. How will I come up with them? It’s a price I cannot pay.

  But I must.

  With Taren’s face in my mind, I decide that it will be done now, at the enemy’s gates. I will gather the wager today, pay off the prince tomorrow, and be rid of him for good. I’ll take my bride, go with her to Zorah, and build a life that honors God. Forget these oppressors with their manipulations and intrigue. I will not cooperate with such schemers.

  The walls of Ashkelon loom ahead. It is one of the five capital cities, and its fortifications are imposing. My steps slow, and the dust curls down the hill, catching up with me.

  A guard on the wall notes my arrival. He doesn’t look friendly. Rather than risk entry into this enemy stronghold, I collapse beside a well outside the gates. I haul up a bucket of cool water and cup some to my mouth. I run it through my sweaty hair, rinse it over my neck and chest. It’s midday now, and I close my eyes against the brightness of the sun.

  I see Taren again, with Prince Rallah’s steel at her throat. The same skin I kissed is now kissed by his blade, and it enrages me. How long will Rallah wait? If he does anything to her, he will lose his bargaining power, and nothing will hold me back. Surely he will stay true to our wager and give me time to bring him his due.

  “Leave here, beggar.”

  I squint up and see two helmeted sentries standing over me. They have come from within the walls, keeping an eye on their water supply. They wear clean tunics beneath light armor.

  “This water is not for you,” the sentry says. “Off with you.”

  “Give me your tunic.”

  “What?”

  “Your tunic.” My fingers begin to twitch at my side.

  The sentries exchange raised eyebrows, humored by the demands of a Hebrew at their gates. Their sense of superiority stirs my rage even more. They think all Israelites are dogs, not even worthy of their water, the water they draw up from the riches of our Promised Land.

  We didn’t follow Moses from Egypt for this.

  We didn’t march with Joshua around Jericho for this.

  We didn’t ask for any of this.

  “Both of you, remove your tunics now,” I snarl. My hands are shaking, and the whirlwind roars in my ears. “Give them to me, or I will take them myself.”

  The first sentry touches the hilt of his sword, and the second thrusts out his hand, wrapping his fingers around my throat. He tells me it’s time to leave, no more dallying, then sneers and shoves me away. I plant my foot. Spinning, I slam my fist into his face. His helmet flies from his head, and I feel cartilage give way as his nose caves in. He thuds to the ground, his eyes staring directly into the sun, empty pools, unblinking.

  No, that cannot be. I meant only to defend myself.

  The first sentry stumbles backward, gaping like a fish. He’s as astonished as I am.

  I drop beside the dead man, shake him by his arms. I’ve never taken a man’s life before. It carves a hole from my chest, this realization. There’s no glory in it, no victory. No sense of godlike power. What have I done?

  The ground shakes beneath me. I look up to see a full patrol of soldiers rushing at me from the gates. They draw their swords, yelling threats. Some carry shields. They aren’t coming just to take me captive but to do me in.

  What have I done? I ask myself again.

  I do what I must. For my bride. For my people.

  With a glance at the sky, I feel the trembling swell to full force. It takes hold of my entire being, the rushing wind swirling through my arms and legs, imbuing me with power. My fists are twin hammers, hanging at my sides. Blood drips from one already. I will not leave until I get what I came for. I rise to my feet, face the onrush, and roar at the top of my lungs.

  CHAPTER 29

  FERMENTED

  Town of Timnah

  HE’S . . . HE’S COME BACK.” Chest heaving, the soldier fell at Prince Rallah’s feet. “Samson’s coming up the hill, and . . . ”

  “Catch your breath, soldier. Speak slowly.”

  “He’s . . . carrying something, my lord.”

  “What?” Rallah picked at the fruit before him, plopped a berry into his mouth.

  “It’s big.”

  “For Dagon’s sake, what is it? What is he carrying?”

  “I don’t know. The sun . . . it’s barely up, and I couldn’t tell.”

  Rallah caught Ashdod’s attention beside him, making sure the man was alert. It was dawn now, and they were both dreary-eyed. The week of wedding activities was over at last. Many of the partygoers were gone, and here in the first light of the eighth day all that was left were platters to clean, tables to clear, hangovers to nurse, and the inevitable letdown after nonstop indulgence.

  There was also the matter of the wager.

  “I didn’t think he’d return,” Rallah admitted. “He has a backbone—I’ll give him that.”

  Ashdod brushed the other soldier aside and addressed the prince. “Your king will be proud that you solved the riddle. You held your ground, and you shamed the filthy Hebrew.”

  “Do animals have any shame?”

  They both chuckled.

  “Rallah.” A deep, rumbling voice called from down the street. “Rallah!”

  The rest of the soldiers rubbed their eyes and sat up. The stragglers from the wedding crowd joined them, everyone curious as to what the ruckus was all about.

  “It’s early,” someone griped. “Tell whoever that is to halt his tongue.”

  “Rallah!”

  “It’s Samson,” Rallah said.

  Confirming this, the Hebrew champion stumbled into the square. He looked haggard and dirty, his legs coated with dirt. Dried blood streaked his arms and his chest, and he bore an open wound in his torso.

  “You made it back,” R
allah said. “Where have you been?”

  Samson swung a net from his back and thumped it onto the nearest table. The net was wet with blood, the impact splattering the remaining food and half-empty cups. “There you go,” he said. “My debt is paid. Now, where is Taren?”

  Ashdod examined the net’s contents. “Philistine tunics, my lord.”

  “Thirty of them,” Samson said. “Count them, if you like.”

  “They’re bloody,” Ashdod noted, as droplets pooled and drained onto the floor.

  “We can all see that,” the prince snapped. “Tell us, Samson, how did you get these?”

  “The how doesn’t matter. I’ve paid back my wager.”

  “It seems you have, but you’ve been gone since yesterday.”

  “I made a detour to Ashkelon.”

  “There and back in such a short time? Is that possible? Uphill most of the way here.”

  “I’m standing before you, aren’t I?” The Hebrew set his hands on the table, holding himself up. “Just tell me, Prince Rallah, where is my wife?”

  “You have no wife.”

  “Not yet, but I will. After we finish what was begun.”

  “No.” The prince wagged his finger. “No, you don’t understand. You have no wife. You did not return in time for the ceremony, and after six days of feasting, the seventh day completes the marital contract. That is standard practice by Dagon law, and we could not go through the night into an eighth day without a consummated marriage. Ahar, her father, agreed that it wouldn’t be right.”

  “But I wasn’t here. If you did anything to hurt her, I’ll—”

  “Calm yourself, Samson. I did her no harm.”

  “A consummated marriage? Did you—?”

  “And no,” Rallah said, raising his hand, “don’t think I took advantage in your absence.”

  Samson dropped his head and sighed in relief. His hair hung over his shoulders, ratted and dusty. “Then bring her to me, please, and let us go in peace. That’s all we ever wanted. Give us that, and we’ll leave you alone.”

  “I can’t do that. Ahar already gave your betrothed to another. He’s offered you his other daughter instead. A young thing, and pretty. That’s satisfactory compensation, don’t you think?”

  “Compensation? You are insane to even suggest it.”

  “Did you really think I would allow a Hebrew to touch one of our finest women? It seemed more fitting that she should go to the next in line.” Rallah gestured upward. “Your best man.”

  From the nearby rooftop, Pyzor looked down on the crowd with his new bride at his side. Taren was weeping. As Pyzor tried to comfort her with a hand combed over her hair, she shrunk from his touch, her head hung in humiliation.

  “Pyzor?” Samson looked incredulous.

  “Such a strange name,” Rallah said, “for such a squat-looking fellow.”

  Samson glared at his friend, then turned and growled at the prince. “I will kill you if it’s the . . . ” He winced suddenly, clutching at his side. “If it’s the last thing I do, you will pay for this.”

  Ashdod held him at sword point. “Take one step forward, and you die.”

  Samson shot another look at the rooftop. Taren managed to look back through her tears, shaking her head. It all unfolded before Rallah like a bit of theater in the streets of Gaza, with actors playing parts in melodramatic style. Undeniably entertaining.

  “One more thing, Samson,” said the prince. “These are soldier tunics. By the look of it, you killed some of our men and stole their clothing to pay your debt. For that, you will spend the rest of your very short life slaving in the king’s quarries and mines.”

  Pushing off the table, Samson released a great cry of pain, a sound so raw that it was painful to hear it. He threw back his hair and ran toward the town gate. He looked too weak to make it far. Ashdod took off in pursuit, followed by a dozen or more soldiers, and the prince watched the chase fade from view, waiting for the cheers signifying the Hebrew’s capture. Of course the soldiers were all fighting stupor and exhaustion themselves.

  Ten minutes later the prince tired of the wait. He looked up at the newlyweds on the roof. “What’s wrong with you, Pyzor? Take her inside. If you’re feeling sorry for Samson, remember that he was never anything but an enemy in disguise. I spared you, Taren. You’ll thank me one day.”

  “I hate you.” She spat at him from the rooftop.

  “Hate is nothing but love’s fermented juice. Drink of it and enjoy, because you’ll never be with Samson again.”

  CHAPTER 30

  WHISPERS

  Village of Zorah

  ZEALPHONIS HAD AGONIZED throughout the week of her son’s wedding, with both of her boys away at the festivities in Timnah. Even now, on the morning of the eighth day, worry constricted her chest.

  Last night she was pacing the hut when Manoah threw up his hands in exasperation.

  “Would you sit, woman? A week of this already. Please.”

  “It’s the seventh night,” she said.

  “The seventh night of your pacing. I’m no longer a young man, and all the mumbling, it grates on my ears.”

  “You want to know grating? I can show you grating. Please, Manoah, why all the grumpiness? Don’t you see?” She pulled joined hands to her chest. “This is the night of the consummation. Our son, on this evening, finalizes his marriage.”

  Manoah glanced up, his eyes catching the lamplight and his wrinkles creasing in a show of mirth. “It was a wondrous thing,” he acknowledged. “I remember it well.”

  “We were so young.”

  “And look at you now, Zealphonis, even more glorious.”

  Her husband rose to embrace her, and she was moving toward his arms when the door burst open and their youngest son entered.

  “Caleb? Oh, Caleb, you’re back. How was it?”

  “Horrible, Mother. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Your eyes are bloodshot. What’s happened? Where’s your brother?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. It was all too much, the late nights, the dancing, the noise, and the crowds and drinking, and . . . It was all so overwhelming, and this morning for the first time I didn’t go down to the square with Samson. I was at his friend’s house, snoring away.”

  “Where is he now? He and his wife, they’re in their bridal chambers, of course.”

  Caleb shook his head. “He left, Mother, earlier today. They told me that he lost a wager with Prince Rallah, and when he couldn’t pay up, the prince threatened Taren. Put a sword to her throat. Samson vowed to make good on the wager and ran from the town. Thirty tunics, that’s what he was supposed to deliver. Thirty. You realize how much that would cost?”

  “He never came back? Not even with his wife held at sword point?”

  “I waited till dusk, and still no sign of him. The soldiers were drinking, growing belligerent and flashing their weapons. I have a blade.” He patted his robe. “But the mood grew threatening, and I was the only Hebrew. I slipped away, hoping to find Samson here.”

  “We haven’t seen him all week,” Manoah said. “You should’ve stayed by his side.”

  “He left this morning without waking me.”

  “Are you a child that he must do everything for you?”

  “We were up so late, and all the food, and I . . . No, of course not, Father.”

  “Where would he go?” Zealphonis mused.

  Manoah wasn’t done chastising their son. “Listen, now. Your brother’s chosen his path, choosing to live among our enemies. To love them even. Lord in heaven, if this has some purpose, may it reveal itself soon. But you, Caleb, you must choose your own path and stand by your people.”

  She said, “How can he choose, Manoah, if you tell him his path?”

  He slapped his palm on the table. “It’s my role as a father to give instruction, and if these sons of mine do not learn, then I fail in that role.”

  “And when you or I disobey God, does that mean that He too has failed?�
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  “What? Now you speak in riddles like Samson.”

  “You’re a good and wise father,” Zealphonis said. “Our sons are no longer children at our knees but grown men, and even their Father in heaven does not make their choices for them.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “So do I,” she agreed. “So does every parent, I suppose. We need to find Samson.”

  The three of them pulled on their night cloaks and moved through the village, door to door, checking if anyone had an inkling of their oldest son’s whereabouts. He was in Timnah, they were told. He was bedding with a Philistine. Other than that, no one knew where he might be.

  Finally Manoah said they should get some rest and widen their efforts in the morning. It was good advice, and they agreed to it, though Zealphonis tossed and turned throughout the night.

  Now, on the eighth morning, she lay motionless on her bed mat, her chest tight with fear. Her husband snored beside her, his beard fluttering with each exhalation, and her youngest was asleep in the adjacent alcove. Gray light seeped through the cracks at the front door.

  Where was Samson? Was he alive? When would he return to his bride?

  A sense of foreboding sent a shiver through her.

  Zealphonis slipped to the clay oven and lit a fire in its belly. Her men would be awake soon and hungry. They needed sustenance if they were to continue their search today. Where to even start? As the fire crackled, she eased outside to draw water. The sun had not crested yet, and the early chill hurried her through her tasks.

  When she stepped back into the hut, she felt the presence of another. She’d been gone only minutes but knew something had changed. Mother’s intuition? Perhaps.

  She filled a pot and set it on the hearth, then paused to listen.

  Yes, from Caleb’s alcove . . . whispers.

  As she poked her head around the corner, a hand clamped over her mouth and a familiar voice hushed her. She saw Samson’s face, and her heart swelled. He was here, alive. Her boy was all right. He gestured to her to remain quiet as he removed his hand, but as he stepped back, she realized he was not all right. Far from it. She had never seen him so depleted, never seen his long hair so wild, and even the folds of his robe could not hide the oozing wound in his side.