by Jon Skovron
“Do you require anything else?” asked Baal. “Or should I begin the arrangements for tonight’s feast?”
“Yes, please, by all means,” said Dagon, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.
Baal made his slow, creaking way out of the temple.
Once he was gone, Astarte said, “Do you trust this one?”
“Baal?” asked Dagon. “Of course, of course. Believe me, there isn’t much activity going on in that stone skull of his.”
“I see,” said Astarte. Then she smiled. “Well, brother dear.
As slow as he moves, the feast probably won’t be ready for hours. Would you mind pointing me toward a fruit tree so I can tide myself over until then?”
“Would a fig tree do?” he asked, returning her smile with a grin.
“You know that’s my favorite,” she said.
“Yes,” he said as he put his arm around her shoulder and led her out of the temple to the orchard. “I remember that well.”
“It was a rather pivotal moment in humanity, wasn’t it?” she asked.
“Adam certainly thought so,” said Dagon.
Astarte found Samson in an inn on the outskirts of Ashkelon.
He sat by himself in a corner, away from the others. His long hair flowed like a waterfall over his thickly muscled shoulders and down his broad back. She could see at once that there was something different about this mortal. Someone had touched him for a very specific task, and that task was near completion.
She sensed that she would be the catalyst to bring it to a close.
She hated the feeling that she was just a pawn, with little choice of her own. But she had seen heroes before, and fate always seemed to snap at their heels like a rabid wolf until the day the hero grew weary or clumsy and fell into its slavering jaws.
She walked slowly over to his table. It wasn’t until she stood directly in front of him that he looked up from his plate of bread and meat.
“Samson,” she said, looking directly into his rich brown eyes. “May I sit?”
He looked her over slowly, making no effort to hide his interest. His hunger.
“Yes,” he said, and gestured for her to sit. Then he began to eat again.
He reminded her of a lion—large, powerful, and regal, in a coarse sort of way. What puzzled her was that he did not seem like a troublemaker. Rather, he seemed to be the sort who had to be provoked. Perhaps even led. She wondered by whom.
“Are you a whore?” he asked her. There was no judgment in his tone. Simply a desire for clarification.
“I do not require money, if that is your question,” she said.
He nodded and stuffed a chunk of meat in his mouth. As he chewed, he said, “What do you require, then?”
“Ultimately, I require . . . attention,” she said. “As long as it is sincere, how you choose to administer that attention is entirely up to you.”
He nodded again and took a large gulp of wine from his cup.
“How do you know my name?” he asked.
“How does anyone not know it?” she asked.
“Is that so?” he asked with only faint interest. “Am I famous?”
“Or infamous,” she said.
He smiled at her for the first time. “I like you,” he said.
“What is your name?”
“Delilah,” she said.
It didn’t take long for him to ask her up to his room. Once there, he wasted no time in satisfying his hunger. In fact, it was over rather quickly. And she told him so.
“Rest a short while,” she advised as they lay together in the dark.
“You did not feel attended?” he asked.
“Not hardly,” she said.
“I am sorry,” he said, staring up at the ceiling.
She sat up and placed his head in her lap. “You carry a heavy burden,” she said as she stroked his long hair.
“What do you know if it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “But it is clearly written in everything you do.”
He was silent for a while as she continued to stroke his hair.
At last he said, “Yes.”
“But surely you have nothing to fear,” she said in a slightly teasing tone. “Everyone knows you have no weakness.”
“Oh,” he said with a quiet laugh. “I have a weakness.”
“For beautiful women,” she suggested.
He laughed again. “Besides that.”
“And what, pray tell me, would that be?”
“Ah, you are a tricky one,” said, but he still smiled.
“I’m glad you noticed a quality other than my breasts,” she said.
“If someone were to bind me with fresh bow strings, I would lose my strength.”
She laughed. “You, however, are not tricky in the slightest.
You don’t actually expect me to believe something like that, do you?”
He laughed delightedly. “I truly do like you,” he said. “It is a shame you are a woman. You have the spirit of a warrior.”
She looked down at him, one eyebrow arched. “Is it really a shame that I am a woman?”
“Of course not,” he said, reaching up to touch her cheek for a moment. “Now, truthfully, if you were to bind me with new rope, I would lose my strength.”
“That one is even more ridiculous than the first. I sincerely hope you are never called upon to lie in order to save a life, because that person would surely die.”
“It is true that I have not been gifted with cleverness,” he said. “What you see before you is all there is.”
“I find that refreshing,” she said.
“I have been dedicated to my God since the day of my birth.
A Nazarite always strives for truth and simplicity in all things.
And that is where my weakness truly lies. My God gives me my strength and if I ever did something that broke one of my Nazarite vows, such as cutting my hair, He would most certainly take away my strength as punishment.”
“So it will grow until the day you die?” she asked.
“God willing,” he said.
She remained silent after that, and continued to stroke his hair until the tension in his face eased and he drifted off to sleep.
Even after that, she continued to look down at him.
“You have been here the entire time,” she said quietly.
Baal stepped out of the shadows, his brown liquid eyes glittering in the darkness.
“Yes,” he said. “Your reputation is well deserved.”
“And yours, apparently, is nothing but a facade,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
The feast to celebrate the capture of Samson was held at the Temple of Dagon in Gaza. Revelers traveled from Ashkelon and Ashdod, as well as Ekron, and even far-off Gath.
Despite the fact that it was the single largest gathering of Philistines in more than a century, Baal managed the festivities with his unflappable authority. Dagon sat at his chair by the altar, surrounded by thousands of cheering, singing Philistines.
The upper levels were crowded to overflowing with those who had come to celebrate the downfall of their common enemy.
They drank from large casks of wine, cheered on the dancers and musicians, and laughed delightedly at the acrobats.
“Isn’t it wonderful, sister?” Dagon shouted to her over the din.
She looked back at him, her eyes sad. “Is it?”
“Come now, you’ve got to give the mortals a feast now and then to keep them happy.”
“What of the mortal in your dungeon? What about his happiness?”
“Bah! He is only one mortal. You said so yourself.” Dagon took a long drink from his cup. “And besides, he killed many of my people.”
“I wonder if perhaps he was manipulated into it,” she said.
“He did not seem to me the type to go looking for carnage.”
“Did he get to you, my sister?” asked Dagon with a teasing grin. “Have you fallen for some mortal?�
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“Perhaps a little,” she said. “Even so, you cannot deny what a sad thing it is to see a hero brought so low.”
“Oh come now, my dungeons aren’t that bad,” Dagon said.
She looked at him for a moment, her brows knitting together.
“You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“What? Why, no, I haven’t. You were the one who insisted I not concern myself with him once he was captured.”
“Perhaps you should have one final look. For closure.”
“If you like,” he said. Then he turned toward the front of the temple. “Baal! Why don’t you fetch our guest of honor and bring him up here for a moment?”
Baal looked at Dagon for a long moment, as if he didn’t understand. Then he said, “Of course. An excellent suggestion.”
He turned to a few mortals at his side and spoke quietly with them. As they scurried off, Astarte caught Baal’s gaze, and it was cold.
A while later, when most of the celebrants were considerably drunk, the servants brought out Samson.
“What is this?” gasped Dagon.
The Samson who stood before him was barely recognizable.
His hair was a ragged patchwork of short clumps. His muscles had wasted away from malnutrition. He was covered with whip marks and bruises. Worst of all, his eyes had been burned out of their sockets. Only an infected mass of scar tissue remained.
“Behold!” boomed Baal’s slow measured voice. “The once mighty Samson brought low before you!” Throngs of drunken people cheered at his back.
“What cruelty have you wrought upon this poor wretched creature?” said Dagon.
“Only what was just,” said Baal. Then he turned to the crowd. “Was it not the Hebrew god who said an eye for an eye?
Well, this Samson has dimmed the eyes of thousands of our people, and if he had as many eyes we would burn them all out!”
The crowd roared like rabid animals. They jeered and spit on Samson. He stood straight and tall, but his weak, starved body shook with the effort.
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Dagon said to Astarte. “My people are artisans and architects, not bloodthirsty barbarians.”
“Things change,” said Astarte. “And mortals can be fickle.”
“Here he is!” Baal said to the crowds, his deep, resonant voice carrying effortlessly through the temple. “The man who slaughtered our people and destroyed our homes! And still he stands, too puffed up with arrogance even now to humble himself before those he has wronged!”
That was when a beautiful handcrafted pot crashed into Samson’s head. A trickle of blood leaked from the gash on his forehead and he swayed. Then another bowl struck him, and another. The pottery crashed into him, shattering against his emaciated frame again and again. The Philistines pulled from the shelves and from the altars and hurled what they could grab with howls of rage. Samson stumbled and almost fell. He reached out his hands until he caught hold of the massive wooden pillars at the center of the temple. He clung to them as cups, bowls, pots, and vases rained down on him.
“Stop this!” yelled Dagon. “What has come over you all?
These are not my Philistines!”
“No,” said Baal, his emotionless brown eyes locked on Dagon’s amber eyes. “They are mine now.”
“You . . . ,” said Dagon, but his body was so clenched with rage that he could barely move.
“I used Samson to show your people the foolishness of attachment to aesthetics and beauty. I have shown them what a truly powerful god requires of them. A god worth worshiping.”
“How could you do this? I took you in when you had nothing. You were my apprentice!”
“Times are changing,” said Baal. “You must change with them. Or die.”
Then he turned his back on Dagon and gazed at Samson and the crowds that closed in tighter and tighter around him.
They had broken all the pottery in the temple and now beat and kicked Samson while he clung stubbornly to the pillars.
“Yes!” boomed Baal. “Rip him apart with your bare hands!
Tear his bleeding flesh from his bones while he still screams! I, your god, command it!”
The crowd surged forward, fighting each other to get to the man.
“Oh, God!” cried Samson. “Remember me, I beg you, and strengthen me only this one last time that I may be avenged!”
“I don’t know what your god thinks of all this,” said Dagon with a quiet growl. “But I will grant you this request gladly.”
Suddenly, Samson stood up straight. His muscles seemed to expand as his hands pressed against the support pillars. The pillars groaned and shuddered, then cracked. But the crowds were too bent on fighting one another to notice. Then the pillars gave way, the ceiling shattered, and the temple collapsed with a sound like thunder.
Dagon and Astarte stood outside the temple as it fell. They caught a glimpse of Baal for a moment, his eyes locked on them as everything crumbled around him. Then he was buried with his shrieking Philistines under a mass of wood and stone.
They stood there for a few minutes, the silence sudden and oppressive.
Then Astarte said, “Come, brother. Baal will dig himself out soon enough. It will be better if we aren’t here. You can come to Phoenicia until you decide what to do next.”
“I still don’t understand,” he said quietly. “How it came to this.”
“Baal was right. Change is coming.”
“What will we do?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
A LESSON IN THE ELEMENTS 12
the next morning, it starts to rain. not the flirtatious occasional drizzle of the past few days, but the steady, sodden mist of Seattle’s version of winter. It isn’t a harsh cold like many of the places that Jael has lived. In fact, it rarely dips below freezing. Instead, it’s just dark, quiet, and wet from October to May.
The bus crosses the George Washington Memorial Bridge, then winds through downtown and past the Space Needle and Monorail. As Jael stares out of the window, her demon vision cuts through the mist easily and the city opens up for her. The streets slope dramatically down to canals and waterways that churn endlessly out into Puget Sound. She notices that parts of the coastline are not solid rock, but are instead filled in with dirt and sawdust by arrogant men trying to steal just a little more land from the sea. Their gall amazes her, especially since it’s so clear to her how fragile that false land is. It survives on the whim of nature, and it wouldn’t take much to wash it all away.
The bus skirts the hilly bungalows of Magnolia and finally plunges into the forest. After a few minutes, it emerges into a big open field in the center of the park. In the summer, the field is covered with sunbathers and people playing Frisbee or football.
Now that the rains have come, it’s empty and a little sad. Jael is the only person left on the bus, and as she gets off, the bus driver says, “Have fun out there.”
“Yeah, thanks,” she says. “I’ll try.”
The bus slowly pulls away, taking its dry warmth and light with it. She’s left standing in the damp grass on a dark, gray day, slowly getting wetter and wetter as she stares at the empty forest that borders the field.
Usually, she’d feel tense in an empty park. She’d imagine muggers or rapists lying in wait for her. But now as she looks around, she feels comfortable, despite the weather. In fact, she doesn’t even feel alone. At first she can’t quite figure out why.
Then she realizes: it’s the trees.
She knows that trees are alive, of course, but she’s never thought about it much before. As she looks at them now, she can see distinct personalities. The way one leans forward makes it seem sad, and the way one shelters another is kind of sweet, like two old people on a bench. By contrast, the manicured lawn feels boring and faceless. She walks toward the trees.
It’s a lot drier among the trees. The branches form a thick canopy over her head that blocks out most of the rain.
“Pretty n
ice for tame trees,” says Dagon. He’s right next to her, but his sudden appearance doesn’t startle her. She expected him to be there. His scales look different now—moist and healthy—and there’s a rainbow sheen to them. Maybe it’s the rain, or being in a more natural setting, but there seems to be a brightness about him, an energy that makes him appear less like a giant fish man and more like something that belongs on Earth.
Or as he called, Gaia.
“Tame trees?” she asks.
“This isn’t real wilderness,” says Dagon. “Someone takes care of them. Most of those types force the trees into shapes or arrangements instead of letting them find their own way. This mortal, whoever he or she is, actually gave the trees a lot of leeway. Makes them friendlier.”
“Friendly trees,” says Jael.
“Sure,” says Dagon. “Can’t you feel it?”
Jael places her hand on the trunk of the big oak next to her.
“I didn’t mean literally,” says Dagon.
“No, no,” says Jael. “I think I can, though. It’s kind of weird.
. . .” She frowns. “I don’t know how to describe it. It’s not really a good or bad feeling. I just feel . . . noticed. Which is weird, because I didn’t realize I was being ignored before.”
“Nature doesn’t care about mortals,” says Dagon. “At least, not as individuals. They die so quickly compared to a tree. And they don’t really do anything.”
“What about what scientists say?” asks Jael. “About us killing the Earth?”
Dagon makes a honking sound, like a laugh and a sneeze.
“First, when you say ‘us,’ you’re not talking about yourself.”
“But I’m still part—”
“And second, the idea that they could kill the planet Earth is the height of mortal arrogance.”
“But what about global warming and all that stuff? Isn’t that real?”
“Sure it is, but global warming isn’t the death of the Earth.
It’s the death of humanity. It’s more like the Earth’s way of evicting mortals because they’ve been lousy tenants. Just because the Earth isn’t habitable doesn’t mean it’s dead. Just not in the mood for guests and freeloaders.”
