Desired: The Untold Story of Samson and Delilah (Lost Loves of the Bible) (2 page)

“I’m sorry, my lord. It was an accident,” I said.

A strange shimmer passed over him and was gone. A trick of the moon, perhaps. But when I looked again at his face, he was smiling at me.

“What is your name?” His voice was calm and even. I saw a red bump beginning to show itself on his forehead. I glanced back at Astra, narrowing my eyes at her. If he didn’t kill her, I would.

“I cannot answer that, my lord. I have apologized. May you have a good night.”

I stepped back out of his line of sight, my hands trembling. “He asked for my name,” I hissed at Astra, who had fled to crouch by the fire. We sat very still, our ears hoping to catch a noise from the street, wanting to know what he would do next.

Astra’s eyes were wide. “But you did not give it, did you?”

I shook my head. “I should have given him yours.”

We sat until our legs burned and cramped from holding one position so carefully. I decided I had been mistaken about his smile. It could have been an evil leer. Street torches cast unreliable shadows.

With great caution, we unfolded our legs and moved to rest on our pallets, our eyes still wide as we watched each other’s faces and listened. We heard nothing for the remainder of the night but the sound of children playing and women singing drunkards’ songs.

By the hour when dawn began to glow pink on the horizon, Astra had fallen asleep, her mouth wide open, her black eyelashes fluttering against her soft cheeks. I edged closer to her and stroked her hair, which fell from her smooth forehead. I shook my head though she could not see my rebuke. She was filled with terrible mischief, true enough, but she had the pure heart of a child. I prayed Dagon would be patient with her and bring her a gentle husband.

Knowing that Astra would not wake, I slipped down the stairs and crept through the house. Its wooden floor made small groans and creaks. Father had not yet returned from the temple, but that was of no concern. Mother snored loudly, sprawled across her straw pallet. I pulled the blanket up from her feet, where it had gotten tangled, and draped it over her before sneaking toward the front door.

I peeked in our large clay jar of oil near the door. It was almost empty. We would need money, and soon, if it were to be filled again.

Babies were just awakening, and adults were just beginning to sleep. The festival changed everyone’s sleeping schedule, except for the infants. Infants were unmoved by our celebration of Dagon. Their god was still milk. I loved the morning music of our streets; the newborns with their cracking cries, the donkeys that snorted and kicked at their bedding, the lambs that bleated for breakfast at the first sound of footsteps outside their pen. There was the sound of carts being wheeled through the streets, of merchants going to market to set up, of groans and sighs and angry roosters.

I sneaked into the street, gathering my tunic in my hands, lifting it away from my feet as I bent over. I wanted to see the street, to see if I could find any trace of the man’s footprints.

I found them at the edge of the path just under our roof, where he must have stood to peer up at me when he was deciding whether to kill us. His footsteps were huge. I slipped my own foot out of my sandal and rested it inside one of his footprints. His footprint was twice the size of mine.

I heard my father coming, whistling the same song to Dagon that he always sang in the morning. I erased the footprints of the man with my toes, turning to greet my father.

“Darling one,” my father said, grabbing me for a little peck on the top of the head as I ran to him and fell into step beside him. “How was your night at home with Astra?”

“Fine.”

I glanced up at his face, but he did not frown or doubt me. He had big bushy eyebrows like two feral dogs that arched and lunged at each other as he talked. Long dimples ran down each cheek, deepening when he grinned, which he did often. My mother said he was a handsome man. I could not judge him as such. He was simply my father.

Other girls’ fathers treated them with strict order verging on contempt, but my father treated me with leniency, despite my gender. He did not worry or threaten as other fathers did, and he did not mind when I discussed matters such as temple politics or money. But even so, I was careful not to abuse my privilege.

“And your mother?”

“Sleeping inside. Shall I start your breakfast?”

“Let’s wait for your mother. I’d like to talk to you.” He stood in the doorway. I looked around to be sure there was no sign of more footprints.

I saw it then, and almost died of terror.

A long red scarf had been tied to the top of our doorpost. The Hebrew had marked our house. He wanted to remember where we lived.

“You know that I love you as much as any father can love a daughter.”

I could not focus on what he was saying. I only saw red.

“If you had been a son, this conversation would be different. I can’t protect you forever.”

My heart lurched up. “Why do I need protection?”

He laughed. “Don’t be so unreasonable. Any family can ask for you in marriage now. You will go and live in another house, with another father and mother, a husband to serve, children.” He wiped a tear from his eye before continuing. “If the other fathers see me do this, I’ll be ridiculed at the city gates for all time. They’ll make me grind barley with the women.”

He didn’t know that I might not live long enough to be pledged away. How had he not seen that scarf? And what did that scarf mean? If I took it down, what would that signal? Acceptance of guilt?

I decided to leave it and wait.

He cleared his throat and looked at me with a stern expression. I did not think it was a sincere one. “So if I am to accept an offer, I should know what would please you most.”

The day was only getting worse. “Nothing would please me. I don’t want to marry.”

He laughed again.

“I can just live here with you and Mother and Astra. I don’t want to marry.”

“But you will.”

“You don’t have to get rid of me. I can stay here and work. I’ll pay for myself, you’ll see.”

“Would you feel more comfortable talking to your mother? You can tell her what you want.”

“I am not being demure. I don’t want to marry.”

“The sun doesn’t ask if we want it to rise. Wind doesn’t ask if we want it to blow. Nothing in this world cares what we want. Do not live in the wasteland of thinking that what you want matters. Especially being a woman. Now, perhaps we’ll have that breakfast.”

He turned to go inside and saw the scarf. I froze, waiting for him to connect its presence with Astra and me and our terrible behavior last night. He would have questions. And I was a girl who lacked all charm, even the charm of quick little lies.

He laughed and tied it around his waist. “Festivals! Madness always reigns.”

MOTHER

The Pleiades twinkled above us. My husband, Manoah, and I sat on our roof, escaping the heat that lingered even at this hour. I poured a fresh skin of water into the crock at his feet. He slipped off his sandals, sinking his feet into the water, groaning in happiness. At our age, harvesting the wheat cost us more in physical exhaustion than eating the wheat would ever return. We had loved each other since we were children, so I could speak boldly to him, without fear of his hand.

“We can afford more servants,” I said.

“We can afford to buy our clothes,” he countered.

“I like to weave.”

“I like to harvest.”

I settled in beside him once more. A little bird alighted on our roof, cocking its head at me. It visited me often. I reached into the sack at my feet, grabbed a fistful of the wheat heads, and tossed them in its direction.

Manoah frowned. “We have to sleep up here.”

“I always sweep up after he eats.”

“That wheat is worth good money!”

“You are handsome when you are angry.”

He frowned, but I knew a smile was beneath it.

Samson appeared on the stairs.

I smiled, patting the seat next to me. “Come! Sit!”

Manoah folded his arms, looking away.

Samson leaped up, skipping the last two steps. I gave him a good smile, and he came over, kissing me on the forehead before sitting.

“Give me your hands,” I instructed Samson as I lifted a little pot of oil from the bag that hung on my sash. A little olive oil at night on hands roughened from harvest made all the difference.

Samson looked at his father. His father pursed his lips, looking away.

“I did not harvest today,” Samson confessed.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I went to Timnah.”

Timnah. A Philistine pit of filth. And at the time of the marriage festival. I looked up at the heavens, beseeching God. Samson was still a boy in my eyes. But he had a destiny to fulfill. His name was meant to be great. His, and mine.

“And what was your decision? When will you speak to the elders of the tribe?”

Samson looked confused. He looked to his father, a look of helplessness.

“You did not tell her?”

Manoah glared at Samson in answer.

“Mother, I did not go to spy or make war on them. I went to their festival.”

“I am your mother. You can tell me.”

“No, I did. And I saw a girl. I want her.”

“You went to their festival?”

“Father.”

Manoah held up his hands, standing and walking to the roof’s edge, away from us.

“The festival?” I boxed Samson on the ears. “What kind of Hebrew goes to a festival for Dagon? And you, of all Hebrews!”

“Father!”

“Leave him out of this! Do you want to kill him, too?” I stood up and clutched my heart, gasping for breath.

“I saw a girl there. I liked her.”

The stars swirled together, faster and faster, spinning all around my head. I must have groaned in agony, because Samson jumped up, putting his arms around me. He helped me sit back down.

“Slap me,” I begged him. “This is a dream. I want to wake up.”

“Father. Please.”

“I want nothing to do with this!” Manoah roared. “You said you wanted to study the enemy, not marry one!”

Both men stared at me when I burst out laughing.

“It’s a joke, then. Samson! You could have killed me. Wait till I tell the women at the ovens tomorrow. Oh! Our great deliverer, hope of our people, pretending to love the people who have oppressed us for generations, stolen food from the mouths of our children, mocked us, and robbed us!” My voice grew shrill as I talked.

“Mother.”

“You don’t want a Canaanite girl! They’re flat-chested. They have no breasts.” He knew nothing about women. I could at least reason with him.

He grunted. “Stop that. I like lean girls.”

“Lean girls? They can’t give you children! Tomorrow I will walk with you through our village. I will show you the girls I like best for you.” I gestured to my chest, a promise of the big-breasted girls he could have.

Manoah rolled his eyes at me. As if I was making this trouble. I narrowed my eyes at him, willing him to feel their searing heat. He knew as I did how wrong this was. We had spent our lives and our wealth, preparing Samson to be a great warrior, a mighty deliverer. I had long forgotten all the shame of barrenness.

Samson appealed to Manoah, who would not look him in the eye again. “Father. I can’t explain it. But she is the one I want. Get her for me.”

I clapped my hands. A reprimand. “You want a nice Hebrew girl with big breasts. That’s it. No more foolish talk.”

“I don’t want a nice Hebrew girl! And I didn’t ask to be anyone’s deliverer!” He stomped down the stairs in disgust.

I brayed at him and turned to Manoah.

“You let him go to Timnah. Alone.”

Manoah shrugged. As if helpless.

“Timnah. A Philistine rat hole.”

“It was better than Ashkelon.”

“He’s been to Ashkelon?” I grabbed my tunic at the neck with both hands, threatening to rip it in blackest horror. “My son? Ashkelon?”

Manoah trotted across the roof like a little puppy, waving his hand at me, casting glances about as if the neighbors would hear.

“No, no, no! He asked to go there. I said no. He did not stop asking. So I said, ‘Go to Timnah. Come right back.’”

“You let my only son, the son born to me in my old age, the son whose birth was prophesied by an angel, the son born to be the great deliverer of our people—you let this son go to a Philistine rat hole, alone. And of course he picked a wife there. Which would not have happened if you had told him no!”

“He is a man now.”

I made a coughing noise. I had to rest both hands against my heart and force a little breath in.

Manoah rolled his eyes. He took me by the hand and led me to our chairs, where he helped me sit and poured me some milk.

I sniffed at the bowl and turned my face away. But I could not hide my tears, which were real.

Manoah sat too. “I do not understand it either.”

“Liking a Philistine girl?”

“Eh. Some are good-looking.”

I raised my hand to strike him, but he caught it first. And kissed it, sweetly, then held it in his lap, my cold, wrinkled hand warmed by his.

Manoah sighed. “He was born to crush the Philistines, and instead, he is fascinated by them, begging me to let him go to their cities. Then he asks to marry one! It’s my fault.”

“You should have said no.”

“It would not have helped. No, I failed him long ago.”

“Speak plainly. I am only a woman.”

“When the angel appeared to our father Jacob, what did Jacob do? He fought. He wrestled. He demanded a great blessing, and he got one. And me? An angel appears, and I ask his name. That is all I wanted to know.”

“He might have had a nice name. It would have made the story better.” I did not have to elaborate that point. Our story had been mocked openly for some time. Other women sniffed at me when I reminded them of it. Their sons did not need my son to deliver them. Their sons rather liked the Philistine way of life—the gods, the sex, the festivals. Their sons scolded our generation, telling us we must embrace the Philistine ways. The sacred land, that gift from God, was a small price to pay for such pleasures, they said. They had forgotten their destiny, which was why I could not let my son forget his.

“I should have asked many other questions.”

I shrugged. Who could know what they should do or say when an angel of God appears to them?

“We wanted a son.” I leaned my head over to rest on his shoulder.

He kissed it and sighed.

I looked up at the stars, fixed in their cold, brilliant course. Just like Samson and me.

Early the next week, we left Zorah, heading for Timnah and this girl. Samson walked with urgency, stopping just once, to fill a skin with water at the banks of the stream at Sorek. His behavior worried me. I had delayed the trip as long as I could, but my efforts had only increased his desire to see her.

My back aching, I stretched in the early noon sun. Manoah was not far off. In front of me I could see the land of the Philistines. Beyond their cities stretched the sea. That is what the Philistines saw when they arose: a shapeless, formless world of water and mist. I saw these people as they were: arrogant overlords and squatters in our territory, sleeping under our stars. God had commanded us to cleanse the land of our enemies, but we had always been too weak. Until my son came along.

The sun had risen high and strong over the fields and vineyards. We would be in Timnah within the hour to meet his Philistine girl. I climbed up on a rock to see farther. The workers swung their scythes in golden fields of wheat, low voices singing the songs of harvest. Young girls cut lengths of rope and passed them, one to another, to the older men who tied the piles of wheat together. Bundles of wheat were building at the edges of all the fields, like a golden city rising before our eyes.

Samson lifted up a dripping clump of honeycomb, with a dark grin on his face. A peace offering, perhaps. I shook my head. I didn’t even praise him for bravery, risking a bee sting for me.

“You can’t stay mad at me forever.”

“I am not mad. I am right. What you are doing is wrong, and you know it.”

“Eat, Mother. You’ll be nicer.”

I needed the honeycomb. He knew that, my son. Nights of nothing but tears for my bread had weakened me. How could I have eaten from our own harvest when the son of our deliverance was throwing his destiny, and ours, away?

I took and ate as I watched the Philistine field hands. The men who swung the scythes worked with the speed that comes only from age and experience. Some paused when they noticed Samson. I watched their eyes dart to one another, the frowns on their faces. Another dumb Hebrew, but a big one, they must have thought.

Harvest time meant busy hands and sore backs, even in this land. I saw baskets of broken wheat heads loaded onto carts, and carts bumping down the dusty roads. Big brown dogs barked and played, happy to be out on such a fine day with their masters. Philistines loved their dogs. They treated dogs better than they treated us. I burned inside for the coming deliverance. I would make the war cry of my tribe, deep from within my dry, old body, and Samson would rise up.

I licked my fingers clean, turning my face away from them.

We moved on, closer now, so close I could smell the workers sweating. Samson stopped one man to buy broken wheat heads from his cart. Soon I saw the Philistine girls here. Some of them were as scrawny as I had hoped. But a few—oh! A few were lovely, with beautiful skin the color of almonds and black hair that sparkled in the sun. Their bodies were lean but strong. I could see muscles twitching in their calves and arms, their whole bodies as slight and scandalous as a wink at an altar. But they were flat-chested. Every one of them.

They pointed when they saw Samson. I waited for the twinge of pain he always had at these moments, when strangers first saw him and his hair. He blamed me, all these years, for that. But God made him live as a Nazarite, not me.

A group of girls returning from the fields screamed in terror, dropping their baskets as an unseen assailant startled them. Samson broke from the path, charging into the field to confront their attacker. My heart lurched up; could this be the beginning? Had God heard my cry?

My donkey snorted, stamping its feet. I saw it all happen, very slowly—an omen, I think now, of all that was to come. A black cobra slid across the path, crossing just in front of me, disappearing into the fields again. It moved with grace and speed, the most beautiful evil. My donkey screamed in fright and threw me. From my perch, I landed on my bottom, the breath knocked from me.

I had arrived at Timnah.