Yes, a fair day. Even Orev’s lame foot pained him less than it usually did, as if in some way the softness of the air and the warmth rising from the hard-packed dirt of the road acted as balm; he barely needed his walking-stick. And had he and Samson remained upon the main road, perhaps that day would have ended as softly as it had begun.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps the path Samson must walk had been set before he was born, and nothing would have changed a step of it.
All Orev knew was that had they continued on the main road, rather than turning aside because Samson’s keen ears detected a noise, the events of that day, at least, would have flowed more smoothly than they did. He knew also that, in a sense, it did not matter, as soon or late Samson would have learned about the Foxes. For one thing, not one of the Foxes owned an ounce of common sense or caution.
But Samson’s anger might not have burned so fiercely if he had not first met them over the bodies of men struck down in his name.
It was the yipping of foxes that first drew their interest and made them pause upon the road. The noise came from beyond the ancient, twisted oaks that sheltered the rough road from the westering sun. Samson stopped, listened, and frowned.
“Foxes?” Orev said, taking advantage of the moment’s rest to set down his harp and stretch his arms.
“At this hour, and in such numbers?” Samson shook his head. “Not unless all the foxes in Canaan have run mad. We’d better go look.”
Orev walked behind Samson through the shrub oaks and down into the streambed that paralleled the road. At this season, the streambed was dry, an apparently safe pathway of water-smoothed pebbles, with only a few puddles easily covered by a man’s hand to show that water flowed here during the winter rains.
Glad to see the stream’s pathway, an easier route for a lame man than the surrounding rocky land, Orev caught up to Samson and laid a hand on his friend’s arm. “Slowly, Samson. From the sounds of revelry, we need not hasten.”
For the vulpine yips had continued, rising to exultant triumph, as he and Samson pressed through the bushes and down to the streambed. Whatever rejoiced beyond the outcrop of rock had no intention of fleeing.
“No, we need not hasten now.” Samson’s words fell heavy into the hot summer air. “I fear we are too late, Orev.”
Orev glanced at Samson’s face as the noise that had begun as the quick sharp yelps of foxes changed. Still a predator’s clamor proclaiming conquest, the noises now also clearly told that the predators walked upon two legs, rather than running upon four.
Not foxes. Men.
Half a dozen donkeys lay dead, dark blood from their slashed throats dyeing the white pebbles of the streambed crimson. Two men had been flung down like broken dolls beside the dead animals. Blood covered the men as well; whether it was their own blood or that of the slain beasts, Orev could not tell.
Standing in a circle about the bodies were almost a dozen men—young and filled with the exultation killing roused. Not Philistine, not Bedu, not Moabite; Hebrews, perhaps, although Orev had never seen Hebrews so strangely garbed before. Each man wore a rough reddish brown tunic and a fox-skin, the head over the man’s left shoulder. From a braided rope belt hung fur plumes tipped with white. After a moment, Orev realized that the men had tied fox tails to their belts.
He stopped beside Samson, who said nothing. But Samson’s silence seemed to reach out, flow from Samson to the circle of rejoicing men. Slowly, the men fell silent and turned to gaze upon Samson as he stood, waiting. At last, when the only sound in the streambed was the buzzing of flies drawn by the spilled blood, Samson spoke.
“Who killed these men and their beasts?” he asked, and the men shook off the silence. Smiling, the one wearing the most fox tails in his belt came forward.
“We did, Samson. A great victory!”
“A great victory? A band of strong men against two merchants and six donkeys? Are you madmen?”
“No, we are the Foxes—Samson’s Foxes! We shall make the high roads safe—”
“From what? From yourselves?” Samson walked forward until he stood beside one of the dead merchants. “This was an old man.” He stooped and straightened the slight body, drew the dead man’s cloak over his face. Then he did the same for the other, saying as he rose, “And this was an unbearded boy. What harm did they do you, that you should murder them?”
“They were Philistines! That is harm enough. It is time we claimed the land Yahweh bestowed upon us. It is time we followed a leader to victory.” The man straightened his shoulders, regarded Samson intently. “You are that leader, Samson. You have done great deeds. You are favored by Yahweh, and we will follow you against armies. You have but to command and we will obey.”
“And the six donkeys? Were they oppressors too?” Samson spoke slowly, his voice oddly flat.
As the Foxes stared at Samson, clearly unable to comprehend that their chosen leader had no interest in commanding them, Orev tried to neither laugh nor weep. No one who knew Samson would even dream that he would lead anything but a horse to water—and even then, he’d be more likely to carry water to the horse.
“One can’t create a fire without burning sticks,” one of the men offered, and Samson turned to stare at him. Under Samson’s steady gaze, the man stepped back a pace.
“Not only are you murderers, you are fools as well. Alive, the donkeys might have some use. Dead, they are nothing but a feast for crows. Now help me carry these men to the nearest village. They must be mourned and buried.” All this spoken in the same flat, unyielding tone, so unlike Samson’s true voice that only now did Orev realize what he heard: Samson angered.
The Foxes stared at Samson, plainly baffled—and displeased. At last one stepped forward, slender and edgy as a gazehound. “Enoch said we should leave the bodies as a warning to others.”
“So Enoch leads you,” Samson said. “Then why ask me what I wish you to do? Tell me, what names do you call yourselves? And does your mother know you roam the roads slaying travelers, maiden?”
The slender one flushed scarlet. “I am Beriah, and I go where I please. Not only men are warriors. Deborah led an army.”
Now that Samson had rent the veil of illusion, Orev could not imagine how he had taken Beriah for a boy. Even shorn hair and fox pelts could not hide a slender throat or deepen a voice. As only Beriah spoke her name, Orev said, “So there is a vixen among the Foxes, and I know her name, that I may weave it into a song someday. But you others”—Orev swept his hand through the air, indicating the rest sullenly waiting—“you have no names as yet. So. Enoch, and Beriah. And there was a man named Jehu, and his friends Netan, Achbor, and Eli—”
“Jehu is dead, slain by Philistines. As are Netan and Eli.” A pallid young man whose face already bore lines of worry etched beside his mouth stepped forward. “I am Achbor, and I fight for Samson and for Yahweh, and for the rights of our people to live where and how they please, to travel where they wish and to be free of false gods.”
Anything else? Orev wondered just how Achbor thought the slaying of donkeys would achieve these goals. He glanced at Samson, still as stone beside the slain men.
“I need no one to fight for me, Achbor. And surely Yahweh comes before any man?” Samson gazed steadily at Achbor, whose face turned a dull crimson.
“Of course. I misspoke, that is all.” Achbor looked as if he longed to continue speaking, but another of the Foxes caught him by the arm.
“Be silent, Achbor; you know nothing of warriors’ ways.” This Fox looked what the others clearly wished to be: a warrior. Orev wondered where he had learned his war-craft. “I am Ichavod, and in Enoch’s absence, I lead this pack.”
Swiftly, Ichavod counted off the names: Terach, Irad, Jobab, Hirah, Dawi, and Golyat. All bore an odd, elusive resemblance, as if they were all sons of one father. Even Dawi and Golyat, clearly twins, seemed brothers to the rest as well. “Achbor, Beriah, and I, of course. And you know Enoch.” Ichavod’s eyes seemed to glow hot, like dark coals.
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“Yes.” Samson’s hands had closed into fists. “I know of Enoch.”
“Then you know he is truly dedicated to our cause—as are we all.” Ichavod might have said more, but Terach blurted out, “I can tell you all our stories, how it is we came to become Samson’s Foxes, to fight in his cause.” He gazed longingly at Orev—or rather, thought Orev, at the harp slung over his shoulder. “I cannot carry a harp with me, but I can sing our tales well enough. Listen and I will tell of how Samson slew the evil giant of Gath, the first of Samson’s great feats—”
That is all this mad tale lacks—a boy who wishes to be a harper and exalt murder in song. Next he will be asking for the loan of my harp, that he may immortalize this great triumph of theirs against two merchants and half a dozen asses.
Samson stared at Terach, who faltered and fell silent. “I never willingly killed any man. And what are these great deeds I am supposed to have done?”
Now it was Terach’s turn to stare, wide-eyed. “Many! Everyone knows that Yahweh granted you the strength of ten men—that a score of Philistines fled when they only heard your voice. That you carried off a cart laden with iron blades—”
That every hero and outlaw has been renamed Samson in every song. Orev sensed Samson had already lost his first and most important battle. Easier to defeat a hundred good men than to silence one good song.
Samson turned his gaze back to Ichavod. “If you will not do as I ask, and help me carry these men you have murdered to be buried with the proper rites, then there is nothing more to say.”
Ichavod met Samson’s gaze unflinching. “They deserve no more than any other dead beast. Farewell, Samson. You will see us again, when you need us.”
The Foxes had remained silent, some staring at the ground and others gazing in awe or bemusement at Samson. Now, at a sign from Ichavod, they retreated, moving with more silence and skill than Orev had expected. A few breaths, and they had vanished into the rocks and brush beyond the dry streambed.
A moment later, Orev heard the yip-yip of a fox, the sound faint and far-off. But not, I am afraid, far enough. At least they are gone now. He sighed and set down his harp. “Samson, my friend, I agree these men must be decently buried. Shall we go to the nearest village and seek aid there?”
Samson did not answer; for a heartbeat he did not move. Then he bent and grasped a stone the size of a man’s head, hurled it to smash against the outcropping of rock. As Orev stared, Samson reached out to the overhanging branch of a young oak and ripped it from the tree. Orev did not wait to see what else Samson would break with the makeshift club.
“Samson.” Orev spoke softly, as if to a wounded beast. “Samson, the Foxes are gone. You should have shown this anger to them.”
Samson stared at the branch in his hands, unclenched his fingers, and let the weapon fall to the dry streambed. He drew a deep breath, and slowly the lines of his face eased, the flat brightness vanished from his eyes. “No. If I touched one of them, I would have killed him. I will not wield anger as a weapon, Orev. I will not.”
If you had killed one of them, perhaps the rest would have feared you too greatly to defy you. Or perhaps not; the Foxes seemed to love the scent of blood more than they honored Samson. Samson already carried the guilt of one man’s death—And that death was sheer mischance, not a thing done in rage. Samson fears his own anger as other men fear fire.
Orev spoke calmly, as if Samson had said nothing. “These men must be buried, Samson. We cannot leave them for the vultures and jackals.”
“Their deaths lie at my feet; it is only right that I bury them. I will gather stones, Orev. You see if either carries a seal or a letter. They must have kin who will grieve for them. At least we can tell them that they were buried, and where they lie.”
That was their first encounter with Samson’s Foxes, but it was not the last. Having tasted blood, the Foxes grew bold, hunting the roads for easy prey. Orev had long wondered what it would take to anger Samson; now he knew.
Injustice.
The Foxes—Samson’s Foxes—hunted and killed, and Samson’s name, already ill-hearing for the Philistines, became a fearsome thing. That Samson loathed the Foxes and refused to command them—save to order them to cease their banditry, a command the Foxes ignored—was unknown to the Philistines. Orev doubted the Philistines would have believed it, even if told.
No one could truthfully claim Samson did not try to stop the Foxes. With a self-control hard as Philistine iron, Samson chained his anger, then sought out Enoch and begged him to disband the group. Enoch merely said, “You do not understand yet, Samson, but in time you will embrace your destiny. The Philistines must be driven from our land, killed if they will not flee before the power of Yahweh’s people. Your Foxes know this.”
“What can your Foxes do against the might of the Five Cities?” Samson asked, and Enoch laughed.
“We can bring them fear. And there are many Foxes now, Samson, and more come to join us with each moon that passes.”
When Samson returned after that meeting, Orev almost hesitated to ask what Enoch had said, for his friend looked weary and sad. But when Orev asked, Samson told all that had passed between him and Enoch.
“He would not listen,” Samson finished. “It was as if I spoke to a—a talking statue who could recite only one speech. And do you know what he said, as I left him? ‘You are our hero, Samson. In time, you will lead us to glory.’ ”
As Samson recited those words, fear coiled about Orev’s heart like a cold serpent. I was right; no one cares what Samson is, only what they wish him to be in their eyes. But he kept his words light; Samson needed nothing more to trouble him.
“Glory? Not riches?” Orev, practiced in seeming to be what he was not, shook his head and sighed ruefully. “If only you were to lead us to riches, Samson, you might be of some use yet.”
Orev gained his reward; Samson smiled, if only for a moment. But the trouble had not passed, and they both knew it.
For the Foxes only grew bolder—and less merciful. During the Time of Ripening, when grain shone like heavy gold in the fields, the Foxes set upon and slew a dozen women traveling to the ancient shrines in the hills west of the Salt Sea, and left the bodies for the jackals and the ravens. Orev feared what Samson might do when he heard of that massacre; feared that Samson must burn hot with anger at such news, and rage and murder in his turn.
But Samson listened, silent, his face smooth as a funeral mask. After, he sat quiet for long hours. “I will not wield anger as a weapon, Orev. I will not.” Samson’s vow seemed to echo in the still air as Orev waited, patient; watched the fire and added twigs as the sun set and the stars rose.
At last, when the Huntress had risen above the eastern horizon, Samson said, “Orev?”
“Yes, Samson?”
“I cannot permit these Foxes to slay travelers—”
“And to claim the crime yours,” Orev reminded him.
“No. But how am I to stop them? I cannot tend all roads between Dan and Beersheba.”
“No, that is beyond even you. But there must be something you can do. Let me think upon it.”
Samson waited patiently; at last Orev said, “Could you tend one road, Samson?”
Samson frowned. “One road? Which?”
“Whichever you choose. But on that road, travelers of the Five Cities—any travelers—must know themselves safe. And they must know that safety comes from your care of them. So I ask again, can you tend one road?”
Silence, and sparks flying from the fire up into the hungry night sky. It was Orev’s turn to wait, patient, for an answer.
“Yes,” Samson said, “I can tend one road. And I can keep it clear of Foxes, too.”
“That is as much as men can ask.”
Samson laughed, the sound oddly bitter. “They can ask more than that, Orev—much more. Still, that is all I can do. It is not enough, but it must suffice.”
Even the gift of a safe road, the highway Samson had chosen, after much dis
cussion with Orev, as the best to place under his protection, might not be enough to protect Samson himself from the anger of the Five Cities. As Samson said, he could guard only one road. And Orev helped ensure that those who traveled that road knew whom to thank for a safe journey.
The Lion’s Path, Orev called that high road, knowing the name would catch men’s fancy. The evil done by the Foxes and those who emulated them weighed heavy against Samson. Orev hoped the Lion’s Path would tilt the balance in Samson’s favor.
“Samson strode the high road like a lion, master of beasts of and men. Stronger than a lion, swifter than a leopard, Samson emerged always victorious. And all men feared to face him in battle or to stand before him for judgment . . .”
The day had dawned fair and hot; the rains had ended two moons ago, and the road lay dry and smooth beneath the summer sun. Samson sat upon the crest of a low hill overlooking the road from Shawafir to Gath, watching to see that all was well and tossing small stones for Ari to chase. Just as Orev dared hope the day would remain as serene as the silver dawn had promised, the half-grown lion froze in midpounce. Ari stared down the hill and growled. As if the growl were a signal, Samson rose slowly to his feet.
“Trouble?” Orev set aside his harp, awaiting Samson’s word.
“A trader’s caravan on the road.” Samson bent and put his hand on Ari’s tawny head. “And beasts of prey lurking beyond the rise—see there, the dark shadows?”
Orev stared, but saw nothing, save some rocks. “I must trust to your senses, and the lion’s. What now, Samson?”
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