Samson

by Eric Wilson

  Placing my hands on her waist, I ease her away from me. “I . . . I can’t stay.”

  “You must. For your own well-being, darling.”

  “If my life were my own, I would. There is something you can help me with, though.”

  “Anything,” she says.

  “Surely you know of the bargain I struck with the king. If he finds me amongst my people, he will call down his armies, and they are greater than ever before. The thought of more bloodshed? I don’t want that. Peace is the better option now.”

  “You want me to hide you here? I can do that. You can stay as long as you need.”

  “It’s my mother,” I tell her. “I need to go to her, in Zorah. To see her one last time.”

  “But you just said that—”

  “I can’t be found there,” I explain. “I need robes, something to disguise myself. And a horse, perhaps, to make the journey quickly. Tonight, even. I will bring it back, of course.”

  “Of course, Samson.” She bites her lower lip. “You’ll need to sweep north before cutting down to your village. Most nights there are sentries posted on the eastbound road.”

  “Thank you.” I cup my hand on her slender arm. “I owe you my life.”

  “If you want to make it there alive,” she says, “you’ll need sustenance for the journey. Let me wrap up some bread and fruit. I have nuts you can take as well. Sit here. Conserve your energy. I’ll bring you robes, and I’ll ready the horse.”

  When she calls me to the back door of her place, she has everything prepared. I pull on attire woven with Philistine patterns. She hands me the food, the reins, and an extra cloak now that the night has turned chilly.

  “Stay safe,” she says. “Stay strong.”

  “How can I repay you, Delilah?”

  She looks up, and I am captured in the moment. I move her hair back from her ear and lean down slowly to kiss her cheek. She quivers, and I tell her to go on back inside and get warm.

  “I’d ask you to pray for me,” I add. “I do still feel weak.”

  “Your God, is He the source of your might?”

  “Well, if you took a look at my mother, you’d know I don’t get it from her.” I chuckle. “Nor from my father. Hardworking, yes, but he was rather average in strength. Farewell.”

  Tugging the reins toward the north, I ride away.

  Village of Zorah

  Dawn is upon me by the time I reach Zorah’s fringe. Villagers are moving about. I know these people. They are farmers, sturdy and resolute, and they raise hands in greeting as they continue with morning chores. With my chin down and face hooded, I arrive at my family’s hut unidentified.

  There are no signs of visitors or the neighbor widow.

  I knock softly, lift the latch. “Mother?”

  She is there at the hearth, where I found her every morning of my childhood, always up before her boys to tend the fire, make a meal, work on a garment at her loom. She has served so faithfully for so long, and how has she been repaid? She would tell me no one owes her a thing.

  “Mother,” I say louder this time.

  “Hello?” She turns. “Oh, Samson, my boy! Caleb told me of your battle at Gaza’s gates, but we had no idea where you had gone. Come, sit, and I’ll make you some food.”

  This will be our last meal together, and I accept the offer gladly. We embrace, and I tell her we need to keep our voices low. I cannot be seen, and she can’t tell anyone I was here. Except Caleb, of course. I explain my deal with King Balek, and tears well in her eyes, but she nods and pats my chest and tells me she understands.

  “Do you think I made the right choice, Mother?”

  “Would you rather go to war?”

  “Maybe,” I admit. “But only if I knew you and Caleb would be safe. I’ve already failed to protect the others that I loved.”

  “God is my protector.” She hands me a plate of food. “However, we both know that Caleb would get himself killed. He’s fit enough, all right, but no matter how much he admires you and tries to be like you, he could never match your strength.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Gone for a few days, that rascal. Business with Orum and Wadesh is what he said.”

  I know the sort of business they must be conducting, with swords and spears, but keep this knowledge to myself. She has enough worries for one morning.

  “Samson, you made the right choice,” she assures me. “No matter how much I hate to think of its consequences.”

  “I’ll come back to see you. I will. I’ll find a way.”

  “Don’t let your emotion lead to rash promises,” she says. “Would you risk the lives of your family, your village, your countrymen? I’m old now, Son. I’ll be with your father soon enough. That will be my comfort. As for you, I knew the day you were promised to me that you would never be my own. I’ve kept these hands open, releasing you to your tasks and to whatever God asks of you.”

  “I’ve broken my vows,” I tell her. “Again. More men have died, more death at my hands. I’ve had wine on my lips. The elders, they’re right to have lost faith in me as judge.”

  “Or maybe they’ve lost faith in God.”

  “Do you think God has forsaken me? Maybe I’m beyond His forgiveness.”

  She pinches my cheek. “Are you ever beyond my forgiveness? Then imagine the depth of His love for you. He is still with you, Son, and within His forgiveness lies His power. You listen to Him, though. You pursue His desires, not your own.”

  “Pray for me, please.”

  “I’ve never stopped,” she says, pulling me into a hug.

  Held in her arms as when I was a young boy, I think of the ways I’ve dishonored both her and the Lord. I think of the power that enables her to embrace me as though I’ve never faltered, a power far stronger than any I’ve ever possessed, and I can’t stop the flow of tears as I slump into her.

  The sounds of the village grow with the rising sun, and I know it’s time to leave. Mother realizes it too. I would stay a few days longer to see my brother if I could justify the risk. I miss his laugh and his easy confidence, his loyalty. Without him would I have ever stepped into my role as judge?

  “I love you, Mother.”

  She holds her hands to her chest. “And I’ve loved you since before you were born.”

  “From the warmth of the womb to the chill of the tomb.” The words spill from my mouth in rhyme before I can stop them. She gives a wan smile, I kiss her forehead, and I’m gone.

  As I ride from the village, I see a frail woman and child beside a cart. Soldiers load the cart with sacks from her home, and she begs them to leave even one bag of food. Just one, for her boy.

  “Where is Samson?” she cries. “We trusted him, and he failed us.”

  “Fail you, he did,” a soldier tells her. “Think of this, though. By King Balek’s orders, this will be the last tribute we collect from you. From now on our glorious king is the one you can trust.”

  I feel sick all over again.

  CHAPTER 49

  THE GOLD CAGE

  Valley of Sorek

  DELILAH PURCHASED SUPPLIES at the nearby market and carried them home under her arm, anticipating Samson’s return. He would come back to her. She believed that.

  If anything, the years had made him even more desirable. His effect on her long ago at the wedding in Timnah had been searing and sudden, a lightning bolt of longing. His effect on her now was the calm after the storm. His once intense gaze carried less judgment and more empathy, and his impulsiveness came with more tenderness.

  She could still feel the softness of his beard and lips against her cheek.

  She still saw the chiseled lines of his chest and torso.

  What, she wondered, would it be like to—?

  “Delilah.” A hand clamped onto her shoulder and spun her round. “What’re you doing out here alone?”

  “Rallah?” She caught her breath. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “You should assume that I
am always here, always watching. What good has come from your time with Samson? What have you learned?”

  “He’s only now begun to heal. He was in a fever for days.”

  “Where is he now?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t keep him for long. He was eager to go and see the plight of his people.”

  “What is this? He knows he’s not to mingle with them, not ever again.”

  “His loyalty to his people is his only weakness, my prince. He has no desire for war. He simply meant to verify that the king upholds his end of the bargain. Isn’t that what we all want, to continue in tranquility?” She spotted the trouble brewing in Prince Rallah’s eyes. Behind that scar he was still a man fixated on revenge. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “Tranquility. Yes.” He tightened his grip. “And discovering the strongman’s secret is the only way I’ll have it. Do I need remind you, woman, who this man is? He’s our enemy. Until we know the secret of his strength, we risk his ferocious retribution. Don’t you forget that.”

  “Let him be. He is not out to destroy us, only to protect those he holds dear.”

  He released her then, took a step back, and studied her face.

  She shifted her basket to the other arm. “May I go now?”

  “Do you harbor feelings for this Hebrew?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said.

  “I gave you a task, Delilah. Don’t let that task become anything more.”

  In her mind she flipped the coin.

  Blessing . . .

  Curse . . .

  She nudged close to him. “I have eyes only for my prince.” She proceeded to tell him in lurid detail what she had planned for their next time together in the palace bedchamber. She had little difficulty making these words ring true, as she thought the whole time of Samson. In her own bed. The two of them. Beneath her expensive Egyptian sheets.

  She saw the prince waver from his black mood.

  Then that darkness pooled in his eyes once more.

  “There was once a sparrow,” he said, “who stared all day long through the bars of her tiny gold cage, longing for the chance to take flight. One day that opportunity came, and she flapped her little wings and left her shelter. It was exhilarating. Before she could reach the sky, though, a hawk descended upon her and tore her apart, piece by little piece.”

  Delilah tried to hold his gaze and show no fear, but her eyelids fluttered.

  “We’ve come this far, you and I,” he told her. “Let us finish what we started.”

  Cape waving at his back, Prince Rallah was a hundred paces away before she dared to take a breath.

  She was braiding her hair, her emotions as squeezed and twisted as each silken lock. Twenty years she had waited to be queen. To be in control. To wield more power than the men who sought to abuse and take advantage.

  And still she was powerless.

  She had herself to blame as much as anyone. She’d walked willingly into the tiny gold cage. No, the prince did not abuse her, not in the way her brothers had, but he took advantage just the same. Hadn’t he sent her off on this mission, expecting her to use her beauty to buy a place upon the throne?

  She slammed her brush down on the table.

  Forget this obsession with the Hebrew, she told herself. It only played into Rallah’s hands. She had told the prince once that to be queen was her deepest desire, but that was not so. What she wanted was the power to be free.

  A knock jolted her from her thoughts.

  Turning, she saw Samson poke his head through the door.

  “You came back,” she said.

  “Am I allowed entry?”

  She hesitated. “Come in. Come and sit. How do you feel?”

  “Not quite at full strength, but I made it. I told you I would return.”

  “You could’ve taken advantage, you know, and ridden far away from here.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” he said, settling on the floor beside her, his back against the wall. “I gave my word.”

  She continued her braiding. “Well, not every man’s word is of worth.”

  “I’m not every man.”

  She had to undo her braid and start over. He had her flustered already, only moments after she had decided to forget him and the prince and this underhanded scheme.

  “Delilah,” he said, “will you look at me?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  He touched her knee. “Please.”

  With her hair still in her hands, she let her eyes swing around. “What?”

  “I admit, I thought of riding away, if only to keep you from facing any trouble.”

  “You should’ve,” she said.

  “I couldn’t, Delilah. I had no choice. I had to come see you again.”

  Samson’s longing was too much to resist. She let him stay.

  Over the next weeks his sword wounds closed and lost their angry, swollen edges. He assured her that his aches had subsided, and she saw for herself that his bruises faded away and left only smooth, tan skin. He walked about her hut in her father’s old robes. They were not an exact fit, but he made do, leaving the belt loosened so that the seams would not be stretched. By doing so, he gave her ample glimpses at his throat and chest.

  The harvest was long past in the family vineyard, and her brothers lived in the next village over with their wives and children. They hired helping hands to carry on their father’s business. None of them cared for it as he had. It was a duty to them, nothing more. Only Delilah remained on the premises, caught between her favorite childhood memories and her worst.

  The closest neighbors were longtime friends of the family, an older couple not much interested in the comings and goings of younger folk. They put their heads down and went about their daily business.

  Only Rallah was aware of Samson’s presence here.

  And Delilah assumed, as the prince had told her, that he was always watching, waiting.

  Let him watch. She was doing as he wanted, wasn’t she, gaining the Hebrew’s confidence so as to discover his secret? If he saw her falling in love, she would explain it was all part of the ruse. What an accomplished actress she was. Why, she could join the theater in the streets of Gaza.

  She told herself not to fall in love.

  Told herself to stay focused.

  Each day, though, Samson won her heart a bit more. He was silly, and his sense of humor could pop up at any moment. He spoke in riddles and strung words together in unexpected ways. He liked to think he was old and wise, but he lived in the moment, ready to embrace each new activity and experience. He even surrendered to her offers of wine. He liked it, he told her. He’d shared his first sips of it with Taren. It was in violation of some long-ago vows, he explained, but those no longer mattered, now that his disappearance had won new freedoms for his people.

  “Who am I to second-guess the ways of almighty God?” he asked.

  “You were chosen—isn’t that what they say?”

  “What they said, Delilah. I’m not sure anyone says it anymore.”

  CHAPTER 50

  CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK FOR

  HOW LONG WILL you stay?” she wants to know as we stroll through a field opposite her rows of grape trellises. “Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her.

  The autumn sun bathes us in rich light, and in this part of the valley we seem to be the only two people on earth.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she says. “I imagine the Garden of Eden of your faith was something like this. This must be what peace feels like. None of the city’s noise. None of the worries.”

  I stiffen. “Peace is a dream that I no longer feel.”

  “Darling, what you and Taren dreamed of, that was special. Don’t let the hatred in others make you doubt that it was real.”

  “Maybe so.” My fingers run through the tall grass. “But I’m numb to it now. I feel nothing.”

  “Then tell me what you do feel.”

  “Nothi
ng.” I tear up a handful of grass. “I just told you.”

  “What about at my place, the night you kissed me?”

  “It was . . . ” She catches me off guard. “It was just a kiss on the cheek.”

  “It was enough to make me feel something,” she confesses. “Tell me you felt it too.”

  My desire for her can no longer sleep. My hands find the curves of her hips and pull her to me. My eyes search hers, our bodies press closer, and I kiss her hard. There’s some long-suppressed emotions there, things I don’t understand. I ease up, brush back her hair, and cup her neck. This time I kiss her more tenderly, and we lose ourselves in the moment. The tall grass swishes about us as I spread out my cloak and lower her to the ground. The kisses don’t let up.

  Later, as the sun starts its descent, I tell her, “I’ve meant to ask you something.”

  “What?” Lifting my hand, she touches her lips to my fingertips.

  “You told me weeks ago that you found me injured and alone, and that you knew that feeling yourself. What did you mean by that?”

  “Oh,” she says. “That. Can’t we just relish this moment a little longer?”

  I take her hand. “What happened?”

  “Samson.”

  “I want to know,” I press on. “If it mattered to you, it matters to me.”

  Delilah gazes across the valley to her home. “Did you know my father died the same year as Taren? He was ill, and I spent months at his bedside.”

  “Before you came back to the capital, you mean?”

  “You heard the rumors, I suppose.” She sniffs. “I never knew my mother. She died during childbirth. I was the youngest of five, all brothers above me.”

  “That must’ve been hard. My mother means everything to me.”

  “My father, though, he was a loving man. He treated me like a queen.” She falters. “Before he was gone, there were things I wanted to tell him but couldn’t. They would’ve hurt him too deeply. Those things, Samson, they still haunt me. I can’t shake them.” She blinks, staring up at blue skies. “My brothers, just two of them, they . . . Well, to them it was all a game. They laughed about it, like I was a toy that only the two of them could share.”