A sister like me and yet unlike—she spoke words I had never even dreamed of uttering. She came to us a stranger from a far land; even she did not know where her first home lay.
“Strange men came to our land and took what they wanted. Horses, furs, women. They wanted me, and so they took me as well. It was because of my hair; it is an unlucky color.”
“It is a beautiful color,” I said. Her hair shone pale as dawnlight when the sun stroked its length.
Aylah shrugged. “Gold summons greed. No one sees me. They see only my yellow hair.”
“That is not true, Aylah. Everyone here loves you.”
She looked at me with an expression I could not understand, fond and rueful, as if I were a small and foolish child and she already wise as the Goddess-on-Earth. “They value me. That is not love. My hair and my eyes—that is why Derceto’s servant Summati bought me for this Temple. That, and—”
“And what?” I asked as she stopped, and she only shrugged.
“Is that not enough, Delilah? I am here now.” Her words seemed to drop from her lips like cold stones.
I stared at her, trying to understand. Surely she could not be unhappy in the House of Atargatis? “But—” Oddly, I found myself seeking words, I who too often spoke too freely. “Don’t you wish to live here, to serve Our Lady Atargatis? To be a priestess? You could be High Priestess of the Temple one day. You could be Goddess-on-Earth.”
“No,” she said, and that was all she said that day. And for once, I did not tease her to tell me more. I think, now, that I was afraid of what I might hear, if I forced her to speak.
But that day, I thought only that I was right, and Aylah too modest. There must have been a reason she had been brought into the Temple; I decided that Lady Atargatis had desired Aylah for Her daughter, and guided Summati the day he had gone to the bazaar to buy spices and had returned instead with a silent child from beyond the lands we knew. I knew the reason in my bones—my heart-sister would someday reign as High Priestess of the House of Atargatis.
I could not even hate Aylah for this; were I the goddess, I, too, would choose Aylah over myself. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I, as Aylah’s heart-sister, would stand above the others of Our Lady’s priestesses.
But any status we might earn was still long years away; now we were both merely New Moons in the Lady’s House in Ascalon. We had much to learn before we would be permitted to act as the goddess even in small rituals.
Samson
“Now there was a village called Zorah, and in that village lived a good man named Manoah, a man whose good wife had no child. No child, and they both growing old . . .”
The trouble that followed Samson through life like an overfaithful servant began even before he was born. Orev sometimes wondered if any of what followed would have happened if Samson’s parents had owned even a handful’s more wisdom between them. But that question Orev never asked aloud; he had learned very young that silence repaid threefold rewards.
Later, when all the passion and pain lay long years in the past, Orev often began his songs of Samson by saying, “Samson was a great hero and a simple man, and his tale begins simply . . . Now listen, it happened in this way . . .”
And, in a sense, all had happened as Orev sang it now. Truth wove through songs as a thin thread of gold through an embroidered robe. Sometimes the gold gleamed bright; sometimes the gaudy colors of the other threads hid it utterly.
“Listen, it happened in this way . . .”
Men never think children overhear what is said. Women know children listen, but like to think they do not understand. Orev learned a great deal simply by keeping his own mouth closed as his elders talked. Silence was nearly as good as being invisible. What interest could a boy playing silently with a bit of string or a wooden peg have in the chatter of his elders?
A great deal, of course. Staring intently at the cat’s cradle tangling his fingers, or moving a wooden peg about as if it were a shepherd and pebbles its sheep, Orev heard almost everything that passed in Zorah.
Not that overmuch of import happened in the village. Zorah lay on the border of the lands claimed by the tribe of Dan; the lands of the tribe of Judah began only a valley and a hill to the south. A small village on the edge of the smallest tribe; until Samson’s arrival in the world, the only thing of interest that had happened in Zorah was Orev’s birth. And that, Orev knew, was of interest only to him.
Samson’s birth, on the other hand, embroiled all Zorah in violent argument and in whisperings behind veils. And all, Orev knew, because Manoah and Tsipporah were neither dull enough nor clever enough to hold their tongues.
Manoah had married late, as men must who are not rich in land and flocks. His wife, Tsipporah, was half his age, neither pretty nor plain, and came to him with a dowry consisting only of a chest of linen and herself. A good enough bargain for both. Zorah’s folk happily celebrated the marriage and awaited news that Manoah’s wife had conceived. Why else did a man marry, after all, but to get sons?
Orev himself had been born just before that wedding and sometimes thought he remembered it—although he knew he remembered only hearing of it many, many times. Not because the wedding itself had been anything out of the ordinary, but because of what came later.
By the time Orev was fourteen, it was clear to everyone that Manoah had chosen his wife unwisely. “Fourteen years wed, and no child.” “Well, what did he expect? He should have married a widow, one who had borne children.” “She should pray harder to Yahweh.” “Perhaps it is not her fault, but—”
But that the blame might lie with the man, and not with the woman, was hinted at only in whispers, and by the older women. Orev knew he heard such words only because he sat silent, and never reminded the women he had keen ears. And because he had been born with a clubbed foot and so must, in the minds of many, be dull-witted as well as lame, they often spoke freely even when they knew he sat within earshot.
“But Yahweh watches over His people like a loving father. And lo, one day Manoah’s wife went into the fields, and there she met an angel, Yahweh’s messenger. And the angel told her she would bear a son . . .”
An aging husband, a barren wife—a common enough misfortune. Had he been a wealthier man, Manoah might have taken a second wife, or a concubine, or bought a handmaiden to serve Tsipporah—any one of the three would have been good enough to get sons upon. But like most men, Manoah could not afford a second wife, or a concubine, or a handmaiden to serve his wife.
Then, when any sensible man would have long since lost hope, Manoah proudly announced that he had been greatly blessed by Yahweh. His wife was at last with child.
And then, when any sensible man would have closed his lips and smiled, Manoah spoke half a dozen words too many.
Although that hardly mattered, as by the time Manoah spoke to the men of Zorah, every woman in the village already knew that Tsipporah claimed to have met an angel in the fields. Orev himself had heard her, and could think only that if Yahweh were truly merciful, He would strike Tsipporah dumb before she could utter another word. Why say anything at all, save that she was at last with child? Why answer questions no one had asked?
“A son who would be strong and great, a hero who would deliver our people from the yoke placed upon their necks by the Philistines . . .” Or, if Orev sang the Song of Samson to those who were not Hebrews, “A son who would be strong and brave, a hero who would do great deeds . . .”
A dozen generations ago, Samson’s forefathers had come into this land as conquerors. The great and ancient city of Jericho had fallen before them. But to the surprise of the surrounding kingdoms, the Hebrews had not claimed Jericho as their own. The Hebrews, who might have ruled Jericho and its land, had instead destroyed the city and its mighty walls, not a stone left upon another. The ruins of Jericho remained their greatest battle prize. Only owls and jackals inhabited the shattered city now.
Once Jericho had been swept away, the Hebrews seemed to lose interest
in conquest. But the lesson of Jericho remained, and for half a dozen generations the Hebrews had gone where they pleased, driving their flocks from plains to hills as the seasons demanded. No one dared hinder them, and they did not demand much of the lands they ranged over.
But that time, too, had passed. The Sea People had swept into Canaan from the west, gradually claiming the land for their own. Now the Hebrews dwelt in the hills, existing peaceably, but on Philistine sufferance. Somehow, in the lifetimes that lay between Joshua’s triumph and Samson’s birth, the Hebrews had surrendered power to the rulers of the seacoast and the fertile plains. The Five Cities ruled Canaan now.
How that had come to pass, no one living could quite explain.
“It is because the Five Cities are ruled by a single lord each. No one argues with him when he passes a law or claims a tax.” This was Manoah’s opinion, oft repeated. Several of the men who sat with him under the olive tree by the village gate nodded agreement. Others shook their heads, and Hamor drew in his breath and began the same counterargument he raised each time the topic was discussed.
“That is folly, Manoah. You might as well say it is because they have a city wall. It is clear that the true reason is the gods of the Five Cities—”
“Do not say again that many gods are stronger than our One. What have the gods of the Philistines ever done half so wondrous as—”
The deeds Yahweh has performed? Orev finished silently, and began moving away from the arguing men. If he moved slowly and with care, he could walk almost as well as any other young man. The clubbed foot that marred him, marked him forever as lesser, inferior; he could not change. But he could pretend, at least to those who watched, that the painful weight of his malformed foot did not matter.
It did, of course. Orev never deceived himself; he knew he could not afford that luxury.
“—why, my own wife, barren these many years, now bears fruit, thanks to Yahweh’s greatness. Now tell me, Hamor, can the idols of Philistia do as much?”
Yes, high time to go elsewhere. The conversation was about to turn heated, and Orev knew precisely who would say what.
Having left the circle of men, Orev headed down the hill from the gate to the well, where the women stood gossiping. Tsipporah, Manoah’s wife, smiled at Orev as he approached. “Have you come to carry my water jar for me, Orev?”
Without awaiting his answer, she continued talking. “You have had six children, Serach—tell me, did you crave strange foods when you were carrying a child?” Tsipporah didn’t give Serach a chance to speak, quickly adding, “I crave all manner of things forbidden to me now. Wine, and meat, and—”
Orev watched the two oldest women in the village whisper to each other behind their hands. He liked Tsipporah, who treated him kindly, when she noticed him. Unfortunately, like her husband, she also didn’t know when to stop talking.
“Let me carry your water jar, Wife of Manoah,” Orev said hastily, and more loudly than he usually spoke. He reached for the heavy jar, lost his balance, tipped cool well-water over Tsipporah’s feet.
“Have you no wits at all, Tsipporah? Orev can’t carry a full water jar, and neither should you, in your condition.” Basemath, wife of Asher, the wealthiest man in the village, began issuing orders. “Orev, go to my house and tell my handmaid Ellah to come carry water to Manoah’s house. And you, Tsipporah, walk with me. You remember that I promised you my recipe for spice-cake.”
As simply as that, the immediate danger vanished. Tsipporah walked off up the hill with Basemath, and Orev headed towards Asher’s house, as its mistress had bidden him.
You are a kind woman, Tsipporah, but neither you nor your husband has the sense Yahweh granted goats. Even at fourteen, Orev knew how to judge men and women—another skill he had needed to learn young.
After giving Basemath’s message to Ellah, Orev continued on past the house and its garden, into the small orchard on the hillside behind the village. There he lowered himself carefully to the ground beneath the oldest olive tree in Zorah and stared back down at the clustered houses.
The sun stood at zenith; light poured down over the mud-brick buildings like molten gold until the village seemed formed of the precious metal. At midday, no shadows lurked between the houses or along the low stone walls.
Manoah’s house lay at the northern edge of Zorah, farthest from the village gate and the path down to the well, and had been built against the village wall, which formed the back wall of the house itself. Orev studied the house: small, old, and rather shabby-looking, Manoah’s dwelling possessed a singular advantage. A woman who did not wish to be seen leaving Zorah could easily slip out through the midden gate. Manoah’s house itself would hide her from inquisitive eyes.
And then, if she chose, she could walk swiftly away. Once over the rise of the hill, a two hours’ walk southward would take her to the Lady’s Grove at Timnath . . .
Was that what Tsipporah had done? If she had dared enter Timnath’s Grove on one of the nights of the full moon, she could have found half a dozen men hot to lie with her before she had taken as many steps. If she had done so, who could blame her? Without a son to care for them in their old age, how would Manoah and his wife survive? No, Orev couldn’t blame either Tsipporah for daring so greatly or Manoah for proclaiming himself blessed by Yahweh.
And if Manoah and his wife had merely announced that she had at last conceived, the villagers would have congratulated them, and that would have been an end to the matter.
Why did they have to proclaim themselves visited by an angel of the Lord? Manoah should just have said “My wife has been blessed,” and no one would have thought any evil. Now—
Now there was gossip, and harsh whispers, and for all the coming child’s life, unkind people would be able to doubt. There would be trouble.
Orev realized later that he’d made the same mistake he often silently chastised others for: underestimated another’s power to bend events to his or her own will. For Basemath had used her unassailable position as the well-dowered wife of the richest—and therefore the most important—man in Zorah to force public compliance, if not private silence, with her implacable acceptance of Tsipporah’s story. Orev also listened outside the wall as Basemath ordered Tsipporah never again to mention angels, and told her that Manoah must seal his mouth as well.
It was the first time he’d witnessed small power used for great good. What, after all, was Basemath but a woman speaking to another woman? Yet the silencing of Tsipporah meant that the harsh gossip faltered and faded. By the time Tsipporah’s son was born, not only did no one bring up the child’s questionable paternity but several of the women admiring the sturdy infant swore they remembered Manoah’s father, or possibly his grandfather, had also had just such golden hair.
And as if to prove they had nothing to conceal, Manoah and Tsipporah bestowed upon their son a name honoring his sun-bright hair.
Samson. The Son of the Sun.
As if Samson’s very birth blessed all within his village, soon after Orev found himself granted something he had not dared dream of: a way to earn his place in the world—more, an honored place. For a harper traveling south from Shunem lost his way, and wandered into Zorah tired and hungry and offering to sing a tale of great deeds in exchange for his food and lodging. Later, Orev realized that Balim had been, at best, a poor harper and worse singer—but the man could weave a song out of any story, turning dull acts into grand deeds. With the rest of the villagers, Orev listened as the harper Balim sang of how the warrior Joshua had slain forty times forty men. And then, to please the women, Balim sang of a pretty widow who followed her husband’s mother to a new life with a rich new husband.
Balim swore the tales all true, which Orev doubted. But the telling of them drew Orev; out of nothing, the harper created life. More, it was a task Orev thought he could emulate. A lame man was useless, a burden. A lame harper gleaned praise and payment.
Before Balim left Zorah, Orev had vowed he, too, would become a harpe
r—and a better one than Balim. All he needed was a tale to tell, and a harp.
“Songs are everywhere,” Balim told him. “That one of the widow—I heard it as gossip by half a dozen wells down near Bethlehem. And most men and women will listen to anything that lets them rest and laugh and weep for others.”
“I need a harp, too,” Orev said, and Balim smiled and untied the cloth he carried his belongings in. He pulled out a harp that even Orev could tell was old, its wood dry and its strings fraying.
“Take this one,” Balim said.
Orev accepted the harp, thinking already how he would oil the wood to make it shine again. “Why?” he asked, and Balim shrugged, as if handing a harp to a boy he barely knew was of no import, rather than a great gift.
“Because all harpers are brothers, I suppose. And because you are the one who truly listened to my tales—I could see you thinking how you would sing them better, you know. And because I’m tired of carrying my old harp as well as my new one. But don’t go telling people I taught you, because I have my reputation to think of, boy.”
Orev had thanked him, and promised he would say nothing, if Balim would only show him once how to coax music from harp-strings. The bargain struck, Balim remained another day, taught Orev enough to begin. Creating songs proved simpler than Orev had feared; unexpectedly, he had found his true gift from Yahweh.
He was no longer Orev, the crippled orphan. He was Orev, Zorah’s harper.
As if in gratitude, the village of Zorah provided Orev with the substance that formed his greatest song.
Samson.
Samson grew swiftly from an infant waving his hands at everything he saw, as if trying to grasp the world, to a boy asking endless questions that no one quite knew how to answer. Oddly enough, it was Orev who became the boy’s closest friend. Life opened few gates for a lame man; luck and determination had led Orev to one that opened a path to honor and praise. A harper needed tales to tell, and a boy whose birth was foretold by an angel provided food for at least one song. Orev did not realize, at first, that Samson’s life would become the heart of his own, be the spark that kindled an undying flame in his songs. Orev was already nearly grown when Samson was born, and what interest did a babe hold for a boy of fourteen? But as Orev grew into manhood and Samson became a boy—a sun-haired boy taller and stronger than any other boy in Zorah—Orev found that Samson owned something worth more than the size and strength bestowed upon him by their god.
Delilah: A Novel Page 4
