Delilah: A Novel

by Edghill, India

  Samson also possessed a kind heart.

  By the time he was seven, it was simply a fact of life in the village of Zorah that Samson would willingly shake rattles to amuse infants as their mothers baked or spun, happily pick stones out of the fields to clear them for planting, carry water jugs up the hill from the well, sit patiently as the eldest woman in the village droned endless complaints.

  So of course it was Samson who befriended Orev, the lame harper. At first Samson’s cheerful interest had angered Orev. Too good to be true had been Orev’s thought when Samson asked, most politely, to sit and listen as Orev labored to master the skills he hoped would be his livelihood. And then, Must I suffer watching Samson flaunt his perfection? Do I not endure enough without being forced to admire the angel’s son?

  But before he could summon the words to send the boy away, Samson asked, with the shattering frankness of the very young, “Why does your face look like that?”

  Odd words, to change a life forever, but they made Orev look again at the boy standing before him. Samson regarded Orev with eyes clear and blue as the summer sky, waiting.

  “Because I was thinking unkind thoughts,” Orev said. “Do you truly wish to listen as I work?”

  “I like songs.” Samson apparently took Orev’s question as permission, and sat down cross-legged at Orev’s feet.

  “You may not like mine. I am not going to be singing whole tales but practicing, testing to learn which words sound best together, and how many times I must repeat them—or if I must sing them only once.”

  “Like Abner with his spears, only with words? All right. Test them.”

  Orev looked down at Samson and fought the urge to laugh. No, you have no pride, Samson, but you have something that may prove even more dangerous—you are as stubborn as a badger. Most would let Orev alone, unless they needed something from him. Samson insisted that Orev open himself to another’s interest.

  Ah well, he’s only a boy, no matter how highly he’s regarded. It can’t hurt me to befriend the darling of all the village. “Very well, Samson, I will test my songs, and you will listen and tell me if they sound well or ill.”

  “Will they be true songs?”

  “Are not all songs true tales?” Orev suddenly wished he had spoken less freely; there were tales it was not wise to examine too closely.

  “My mother says,” Samson began, and Orev held up his hand before Samson could mention angels.

  “And a boy should listen to his mother, and obey her, of course. But is your mother a harper? No, of course she is not—”

  “Why aren’t women harpers?” Samson asked, and Orev grasped this distraction, discussed the matter as if it were of serious import. Orev neither knew nor cared why women were not harpers—but he did know it was better to argue whether a girl might sing for her living as well as a boy than to answer awkward questions about a mother’s bedtime tales.

  Pious truth or blasphemous lie, Tsipporah? Neither is good for your son to hear. Did you and Manoah never think what a burden you laid upon the boy’s shoulders? Samson—Son of the Sun—could you not at least have named him something less potent?

  Orev gradually turned their talk back to how songs were made. “Like a pearl, each contains a grain of hard truth. But they are coated with pretty words and polished with dreams. That is how men create songs—much as women weave thread into cloth, and then embroider upon that cloth until it becomes bright with—let us say with scarlet poppies.

  “Now, if I weave dreams and truth together well in my songs, men will think them the same. That is the truth of songs.”

  Proud of this explanation, Orev reminded himself to memorize those fine words to use again. He smiled at Samson, who regarded him with grave eyes and said, “But isn’t that the same as lying?”

  Oddly, Orev felt the urge to laugh. He set his harp aside and laid his hand on Samson’s bright hair. “Yes, in a way. And no, in another.” Orev reached for the harp again, and set his fingers upon its strings.

  “Now listen. ‘Once there dwelt a man who longed for a good wife. A fair maiden pleased his heart, and it pleased him to work many years to win her. Many years he labored, and was repaid, repaid at last by two good wives instead of only one.’ Do you recognize the tale?”

  Samson shook his head. “Is it new?”

  “No, it is very old. Tell me, if I sing it thus—‘Many years he labored, and was repaid, repaid with the fair maiden’s sister, a woman he did not desire’—now do you know the tale?”

  Samson stared at him, reproachful. “That isn’t fair. You didn’t sing it the right way the first time.”

  “It is still Jacob’s story, and Rachel’s, and Leah’s, is it not? There is no right way to sing a tale, Samson.”

  “Is there a wrong way?”

  Orev smiled. Those who think this boy dull-witted merely because he is strong and sweet-natured are fools.

  “A good question, Samson. Yes, perhaps there is a wrong way—but I like to think that all ways to sing a tale are right.”

  Samson nodded, grave. “Let’s walk back now. Mother’s baked honey-cakes today.” He picked up Orev’s harp and started off up the hill.

  Orev looked up the hill after the boy. The setting sun’s rays turned Samson’s hair into a halo of fire, as if he were a beacon of light. I don’t know whether you’re not ready for the world, Samson, or the world’s not ready for you. What I do know is that your life is never going to be simple, or ordinary.

  Perhaps his father was an angel, after all.

  That Orev had watched and worked and formed himself into a harper eased his way in the world. A lame boy could be treated as a village pet—especially when he ensured his good treatment by being a village servant. But a lame man needed a safe place in the world; a harper received respect and, if he were good enough, glory. More important to Orev, at least when he began his career as harper, those who entertained with tales in song were fed and lodged. Orev sang out a modest living in his own village, and in a dozen others within a three-day walk.

  Until the day young Samson questioned him, Orev had never truly thought about the tales he sang, and why they were sung as they were. To answer Samson, Orev had reached beyond his prosaic decision to learn to sing for his keep, seeking a better reply than “people will pay for harpers’ tales.” And in so doing, Orev had for the first time understood the wonder of what he could do, how a tale could be molded to change what men and women believed. As if he had reached for a plain clay cup and found that true gold lay beneath, Orev thought.

  Or as if he had finally let the songs touch his own heart, as well as the hearts of others.

  For that, he would always be grateful to Samson.

  Delilah

  “Now in those days women did as pleased them, with no man to say them nay. It pleased priestesses to dance before the image of their goddess. It pleased men to offer silver and gold and jewels to see such women dance.”

  All New Moons were taught every task the Temple required; our talents were weighed and judged, and our paths carefully decided. I knew how I wished to serve, and prayed that I would be chosen to dance before Our Lady.

  I danced well, but so did a dozen other girls. I slipped out of my bed at night and practiced long hours in the garden, seeking to gain advantage over the others. But although I knew that the goddess’s love danced through my blood like hot wine, I could not be certain that I would be chosen merely for my own talent. Still, I possessed an advantage in the Dance that other girls did not.

  Aylah.

  For Aylah was more than my heart-sister; she became my mirror.

  She was sun to my shadow, sweet as new honey where I was tart as unripe apples. Even our bodies mirrored each other as we grew, for Aylah ripened into a gold and ivory goddess, her breasts and hips full and shapely. I grew as tall as she, but my body remained slender, my curves subtle. When we practiced—for I loved to move to music, and Aylah seemed to find pleasure in that too—it seemed to me Day and Night danced
together.

  And that, I hoped, would be something only Aylah and I could offer to Our Lady’s service. The Temple’s dancers danced not only to honor and praise Bright Atargatis but to draw gifts to the Temple. Dancers performed in wealthy households, at great feasts and festivals; such service must be richly rewarded. The more acclaimed the dancer, the greater the offering made to gain her talents for an evening, or for a night.

  Aylah and I practiced together so often that when we stood with the other New Moons of our age, and were told we would all learn the first dance in Our Lady’s honor, I felt no fear at all as we paced the undemanding steps. I knew Aylah and I would impress Annemil, the Dance Mistress, with our skill and grace. And when I slanted my eyes to see her face, I saw Annemil smile as Aylah stepped and turned in the simple pattern.

  Our Lady’s dances were of such importance to Her worship and Her Temple that all New Moons trained before the Dance Mistress for half a year. She watched, and judged, and decided who should continue training, readying them for the Dance. As I had hoped and prayed, the Mistress of the Dance chose Aylah and me to keep on as students.

  “The two of you may be called to dance,” Annemil said, “but remember, I promise nothing, save that I will teach you the dances. Only the Seven know what you will become, or how you will serve Our Lady.”

  Overjoyed to be chosen to continue dance training, I barely heard the warning. I stammered my thanks and swore I would work harder than any New Moon yet had to become perfect in the Dance. Aylah said nothing, not even a murmur of thanks. Later, I asked what troubled her that she had not spoken, and she said only “There was nothing I needed to say, Delilah. We all know it is a great honor to be chosen for this.” Then she smiled, and since it was simplest to believe she jested, I laughed.

  “Yes, and we will be the best dancers the Temple has ever seen since its first stones were laid down! I will dress as Night and you as Day, and we will wear jewels beyond price. And we will glean great offerings for Our Lady and Her House, and everyone will ask for us—” Suddenly I feared I risked my good fortune by prideful boasting. Hastily, I added, “If we are called to dance when we become Rising Moons, of course.”

  Aylah smiled again. “I do not think you need worry over that. You will be chosen.”

  She sounded so calmly assured that I took comfort in her certainty. Of course I wished to believe her, which made it simple for her to convince me that what I most desired would indeed come to pass—and also to evade questions about her own wishes.

  Aylah always seemed happy to dance along with me; I believed she too loved the things I loved. Later, when I had painfully gained wisdom, I looked back and wondered if Aylah copied me out of habit, because she did not care what she did—and so my passions gave her a path to follow.

  When we turned fourteen, our training as priestesses began in earnest; until then, I had not realized how softly the New Moons were treated. Rising Moons labored harder than any slave in the Temple’s fields.

  Fourteen was the age at which New Moons were taken to stand before the Lady’s Mirror—the sacred pool, into which we would look, so that the sacred fish might reveal our future.

  “As if the Temple did not have our future laid out like the tiles on the dancing-floor,” Aylah said, the day Nikkal summoned those of us who were to look into the Mirror and told us to prepare ourselves for the ritual. Aylah’s voice held nothing, neither pleasure nor resentment, as indifferent as if she said, “The Hunter’s Star rises as Seven Maidens set.” She stated a simple fact. No more, no less.

  “Aylah, don’t you—”

  “Believe? Delilah, for four years the Temple has trained us to dance before Atargatis, and before any who offer enough to hire us to play goddess for their own pleasure. Do you think that the Temple will set all that work aside and put us to other service? That we will be allowed to see anything in the Lady’s Mirror that the Temple does not wish us to see? Or that the fish will say anything the Temple does not wish us to hear?”

  For an instant my body ached, as if someone had struck a blow to my heart. How can she speak so? As if—As if she did not trust Our Lady Atargatis. The thought so pained me I shoved it away. Aylah jested, I told myself; she often did so. This was but one more jest. So I laughed and said that the Mirror’s fish would show Truth, as they always did.

  “Yes, just as they always do.”

  That, too, I laughed at, as another jest.

  But I felt uneasy in my bones; such jests held danger. I forgot it soon enough, for I was wild to look upon the fish-oracles, to hear what they had to reveal of my future.

  The gate that led to the Court of Peace had been hung upon its bronze hinges so long ago that the ivory panels set within the cedarwood had darkened until they now glowed like honey. Images of Atargatis had been graven into the ivory: as queen gazing serenely from a window; as mother offering nourishment, her hands cupped beneath her round breasts; as dancer with the moon beneath her feet and stars in her hands. And above all these, in a single round plaque of ivory so old it was darker than amber, Atargatis as Lady of the Sea, half woman and half fish. That image was older than either Temple or City; had been carried here by those who fled the destruction of the Bull Court of King Minos.

  I had also been told that the Atargatis portrayed in that ancient ivory held up a mirror, so that Her worshippers might gaze upon themselves and judge whether they were worthy of entering Her presence. But as I stood waiting with my sister priestesses for the gate to open, I could barely discern the half-fish form of the goddess. Time had blurred the outlines of the image. I could not see the mirror.

  I longed to ask if Aylah saw a mirror in the goddess’s hand, but did not dare. This was one of the most important rituals we would ever undergo; it must be done perfectly, lest our bright future vanish. There had been New Moons who had entered the Court of Peace by the ancient Ivory Gate and left again not as Rising Moons but as mere maidservants, or disappeared through some secret gate into the world outside, banished from Her service.

  Or so whispered tales claimed. When I had warned Aylah of this, she merely said, in her calm way, “I have heard these stories too, Delilah. And never can the teller put a name to the girl who fell from New Moon to kitchen slave, or who was sent away, never again to enter Our Lady’s presence.”

  Her words had soothed me—but that had been before I stood beside Aylah and waited until my name was called to enter through the Ivory Gate.

  A dozen of us awaited the judgment of the fish that day, and I was the last summoned into the Court of Peace. It was hard to stand quiet for so long; harder because those girls who entered through the Ivory Gate did not return by that path. There was no chance even to guess what had transpired within the court, what had been revealed about another’s future.

  One by one, the New Moons heard their names called by Priestess Sigorni, Keeper of the Ivory Gate. Each New Moon walked forward when summoned and passed through the opened gateway. After each girl had passed through, the gate was closed again, leaving the rest of us to stand and wait.

  Aylah stood beside me, of course. Inarrah and her heart-sisters, Hehsedo and Tomyrit, held hands, clearly as anxious as I. Inarrah owned the gift of Seeing, and her heart-sisters did not. No matter what path Our Lady planned for us, each of us hoped to serve with our dearest friends. My seeking eyes met Inarrah’s; I tried to smile, and she to smile back. All we could do now was hope, and pray.

  One by one, Sigorni the Gatekeeper called each girl’s name, summoned her forward to pass through the Ivory Gate. Cabira. Ohlibah. Firdausi. Her twin sister Fajurnin. Donatiya.

  Hehsedo and Tomyrit were called in their turns, leaving Inarrah clenching her hands at her sides. Her knuckles paled as her muscles tensed.

  “Inarrah.”

  That left only two more New Moons: Aylah, and me. Time stretched, endless, and I began to fear we had been forgotten. Worse, we would be rejected—

  And then Gatekeeper Sigorni called Aylah’s name. Aylah reached
out, fox-swift, and squeezed my hand; I had not realized my skin had grown so cold until I felt her warm fingers.

  Then I waited alone, the last of all the New Moons to be judged by the Seven Fish, my empty stomach as painful as if a rat gnawed within it. Aylah must be given to the Dance, she must—I called back my uncautious prayer, realizing my error.

  No, we must be together. Please, please let Aylah and me follow the same path through life. That is all I ask—

  “Delilah.” Priestess Sigorni’s quiet utterance of my name cut my desperate plea short. I took a deep breath and stepped forward to walk through the Ivory Gate and learn whether my prayer had been answered.

  No one had ever warned me that a god’s answer might hold more peril than any demon’s curse.

  Or that the granting of all I desired might destroy all I held dear.

  The gate closed behind me; I heard the bar dropped across it. It is too late to turn back. The unruly thought came unbidden. I had spent my impatient days awaiting this summons. Now, at last, I looked upon the Temple’s heart, the oldest and most sacred place within Our Lady’s House.

  A round courtyard, its walls painted in spirals of red and black and white and its floor of stone glowing pale as pearl. A dozen steps would take one across the space. I was surprised to see the Court of Peace was so small.