Desired: The Untold Story of Samson and Delilah (Lost Loves of the Bible) (27 page)

MOTHER

Liam was screaming, tears popping from his eyes as he squinted and howled. Poor thing had cut himself while harvesting the grapes. I cradled him, though by now he was taller than me, and clucked my teeth while I waited for him to calm.

It was good to see him cry at last.

“I wish I had died instead of her.” His body convulsed as he said it. I rubbed his arms and back and said nothing. He was learning so young this lesson that I had only now begun to understand. We love, but we cannot save. God does as He wills, and sometimes, His will is unbearable.

Liam settled after a while, and when I felt his back straighten, his breathing slow, I released him, lest he be overwhelmed by embarrassment and turn cold to me again. Better to let go before they realize they need you.

Better to let go before they realize how very much you need them.

“When will Samson be back?” he asked, choosing to stand and stretch.

I shrugged as if unconcerned. “I do not know.”

“He wants to marry her someday.”

I forgot that the boys were old enough to have heard of his first disastrous marriage. If he expected to see a reaction from me at this, I disappointed him.

“He might. We will wait and see.”

Liam inhaled to say something, but then twisted his mouth. I did not sound like the woman he knew.

“Can I ask you a question?”

I smiled at him, hoping he would sit next to me. He did not.

“The Philistines think Samson is a sort of god. Or that he uses magic to become strong.”

“You know this is not true.”

“I don’t.” Liam was earnest now, stepping closer. “I don’t know how he does it.”

I stood, dusting off my lap. Liam had carried in leaves and dirt from the harvest fields.

“Get back to work.”

“I just—”

“Out!”

He scooted out the door at once. I could not understand why everyone devoted themselves to understanding the secret of his strength. Why did it matter? Why did no one care what his strength was for, why it had been given to him? Why did no one seek that answer?

No one wanted to know. They preferred the excitement of miracles to the hard work of change, the hard work of breaking away from a culture that enslaved them all so comfortably.

They were the real mystery.

DELILAH

We walked through the dusty streets as the orange sun set in the west, beyond the scrabble of little stone homes that stood in the center of the village. The air was thick with smoke from burning wood and metal. The blacksmith’s home sat away from all others, and his orange fire rose high above him as he worked. Philistines should have had a god of cleanliness, for all their worship of it. Homes were allowed in the center of a village or city, but never industry. Industry stank; industry made raging fire and sparks and blood that ran in fast red rivers. Industry attracted flies, the lords said. It was not a clean way of life, no matter what the job.

But all the men walked about at night when their wives were done scolding, always finding their way to the blacksmith’s to watch him work. He made swords that were one piece, from handle to stem and blade—swords that cut in both directions—and he saved his copper for decoration. Other peoples still used copper for their blades, or bronze, and in battle it was said they often stopped to brace one foot against a bent sword and straighten it. More men died straightening their swords than swinging them.

Samson had no interest in our weapons and technology, how we planned for war and trained for it and, some would say, hoped for it. We had no worthy opponents near us. We had to travel to Egypt for a good fight, and we had made our peace with the Egyptians long ago.

Samson whistled a tune I did not know and ran a hand through my hair as we walked. He let the soft strands flow between his fingers, stretching his hand open wide to claim as much of me as he could.

His own hair was a mess. I kept my hands at my sides, with no interest in his lover’s game.

“What should we eat?” he asked.

I shrugged. Of course I would pay for it. I had money, and Samson had his strength.

“Figs.” I liked them. They did not weigh me down like meat, did not make me feel heavy and clumsy and slow. I could eat my weight in figs and still glide across a floor like a spirit. I liked feeling weightless, insubstantial, as if I weren’t here at all.

Samson grunted. He wanted meat.

“Figs and meat.”

He nodded, and I pulled my bag from my sash as we approached a little stall set up outside a home. We did have a market during the day, but at night, if one was lazy or delayed and had not gone to the market during those hours, one could knock on a door and buy what was needed. A merchant was always glad to see money, whether he was at home or the market.

We bought our dinner and walked to the stream to eat it. A large cypress grove grew along one side of the stream. On early mornings you could see a lion or deer emerging from the trees to drink. For us, tonight, it would provide cooling shade. I did not like to sweat as I ate.

Samson sweat like a beast all the time.

My stomach was sour. I didn’t want to eat, not really, and everything Samson did irritated me. Odd that a man so devoted to me could be such a source of frustration. If I had ever thought I loved him, even suspected I might, surely this aggravation was proof that I did not.

We sat, and he held out a fig to me. I brushed it away and turned to watch the sun’s last descent.

“Do I smell?”

“When do you not?”

“Why are you angry with me?”

He started eating. Whatever upset me was of no concern to him. He must have thought he could overpower anything, even my objections.

“I wish it would rain. I should make an offering to the gods. Maybe it will rain early this year,” I said.

“There is no ‘gods.’ There is only God.”

I exhaled in a loud rasp, my annoyance too big to hide. He didn’t even look up. I wanted to tear the pork rib from his hands and hit him with it. I had to stand up and walk away.

He finished eating, humming to himself as he did, content with ribs and figs and dirty fingers. I did not even want to think what his beard would smell like tonight when he tried to kiss me.

And he would. That was why I was inconsolable tonight. I realized this only when I had walked a good distance away, when I stood still and listened to the night encroaching, sneaking up on us, loud and dark. Insects began to shriek and in the trees, a flutter of wings. The heavy, fast panting of a big cat warned me to be careful, not to get too far from Samson.

I needed him.

No. I wanted him. That was worse.

And I was a liar, a filthy, cruel liar who would ruin everything for a chance at relief. I didn’t want justice or revenge. I wanted relief. I would hurt anyone I had to, even myself. I did not know why that sum had changed my heart about money. Maybe I had never had a chance to have so much. But theories about wealth fell apart when wealth became real.

But it was not too late. Nothing had been done, not really. I could pretend it had been a lover’s game. Samson was fond of those. He would not know how wretched I could be, how I had tried to use him. We could still go on.

His hands on my shoulders made me jump. The cat ran through the forest, alarmed by the sight of Samson, I am sure.

“Will you talk?” he asked.

I turned to look at him.

“The bowstrings, and the new ropes? It was a silly game for me to play,” I said.

He shrugged me off with a laugh. “Doesn’t matter. I didn’t tell you the truth anyway.”

My stomach tightened. Everything tightened and hardened and flushed red with anger. Whatever his powers were, he had the power to make me furious without trying.

“You lied to me? There really is a secret?”

“If you knew the truth, people might try to hurt you. I have enemies. You saw that for yourself.”

“I would never reveal your secret!”

“Of course you would.”

My mouth opened for a scream of fury before he finished his thought. “Under torture, anyone will reveal a secret. And then, once they killed me, what would they do to you?”

I couldn’t even hear what he was saying. I made fists from my hands and trembled, holding them up at my chest, so furious I could not even decide where to hit him first. He had lied to me. He had kept a secret from me. I hated secrets.

“Why are you so angry?”

I swear on the feet of the gods, he was trying not to laugh.

“Delilah, I was only protecting you.”

“You lied to me! You betrayed me!” I grabbed my head with both hands just trying to clear the rage from my vision. I did not know where we were or how to get home. I just wanted to hurt him.

So he kissed me. He grabbed me around the small of my back, his arms drawing me in, pressing down against my arms so that I was trapped. He kissed me, and I bit him. His eyes lit with anger and surprise, and I tried to step back, thinking I had won my release, but he drew me in tighter.

And what can I say? He was a very strong man. He got what he wanted, until I wanted it too.

“I love you,” he whispered in my ear. No man had ever said that to me. I wasn’t sure what I should feel.

When he had finished, I made my voice small and sweet as I rested my head on his chest, moving his beard aside and breathing through my mouth so I would not smell it.

“Please.”

He wanted sleep. He was a man of big appetites. He wanted to sleep, and I saw how that could be a useful appetite. All his appetites could be useful. He had no restraint, no discipline. He lived like a very bad donkey, his reins loose and untended. All he needed was someone to take the reins, and his strength could be used at last.

So I made my small, sweet voice in his ear, stalling his hunger for sleep, and he told me. He told me because he wanted sleep, more than he wanted to protect me, more than he loved me.

That is how I made my last choice. I knew his real secret long before he knew mine.

He did not love me, not really. No man ever would again.

After the first sleep, when others stirred at midnight and put out lamps and checked on the animals, we went home. Samson slept on the pallet below, simply because that was where I led him. He made no resistance, offered no criticism that the roof was surely cooler. He just wanted to sleep.

I let him.

I let him sleep while I carried the loom over to his sleeping form and rested it on my lap, settling down on my rear end near his head. One by one I lifted his fat rough braids and wove them into my loom.

His brown hair wove into my red pattern.

Slowly, I tightened the loom with its pin. His braids were secure but did not pull on his scalp. It was lovely work, my finest yet, and Samson would bring me more income than any fleece I had ever dreamed to make.

I arched my back, sore from bending over my work. Without disturbing him, I set the loom beside him. Gliding across the floor one last time with him sleeping in my bed, I opened my door to the night and did what I had to do.

When I returned, I had three Philistine guards with me. They waited outside the door. No matter what I said, they would not enter, not until they were sure he was weak.

“Samson, the Philistines are upon you!”

Samson awoke from his sleep and jumped up, his braids ripping the fabric from the loom, a sharp crack echoing from the stone walls as the loom exploded.

The guards ran away, their swords slapping against their sides as they ran.

Samson was busy picking the splinters of wood from his hair.

I crossed the floor, not bothering to be silent, and struck him on the chest. “How can you say, ‘I love you,’ when you won’t confide in me? This is the third time you have made a fool of me and haven’t told me the secret of your great strength.”

“Delilah—”

“Get out!”

“No.”

“This is my home!”

“Not anymore.”

He sat down on my pallet and tucked his arms behind his stinking foolish head. “When you calm down, you can come back. I won’t even punish you. Unless you ask me to.” He wriggled his eyebrows at me, which made his beard wriggle, which let a few fat splinters fall free into his lap.

I stomped out the door and slammed it, making as much noise as possible.

“No razor has ever been used on my head, because I have been a Nazarite dedicated to God from my mother’s womb. If my head were shaved, my strength would leave me, and I would become as weak as any other man.”

That was his secret. And I did not win it by seduction, by promise or threats, but by persistence. When Samson let me return in the morning, I was neither shocked by the experience nor shaken. Worse had been done to me.

What Samson wanted from me, I thought, was a rare kindness. He wanted someone who knew his destiny and did not judge him by it. I did not care about him, and he mistook that for the acceptance he craved. But what if I did accept him without judgment? What if I pretended to love, and because I loved, wanted to know everything?

I returned in the morning with a plan. I would love him. I would love him, and because I loved, I would nag. I would ask, and inquire, and prod, and hope. I would love him as no other woman had, until he was ready to die from so much devotion.

He lasted less than a week.

Even neighbors noticed the change in me, and old women gave me such frowns. Sleeping with an enemy is one thing, but loving him? That was poor character, especially for a Philistine.

So when I called for the lords and their men this time, they all came, silver in hand. I bid them wait outside until the first sleep had begun. My little friend, my boy who ran and fetched these men for me on the other occasions, stood alone at the door, a knife in his hand.

I spoke kindly to Samson that night, running my hands along his hair, stroking his cheek, letting my fingers graze his skin with tender attention. He rested his head in my lap as we sat on my pallet together and spoke of the future.

“How many children do you want?” he murmured, sleep coming to him already.

The question was a cold one. But he could not have known.

“None. I had one, once.”

“What?” he murmured, the end of the word falling off like the speech of a drunk.

He was asleep.

What happened next has been repeated in the streets many times. Often I was asked to tell it myself. I never did, not once. The lords did not pay me to tell it. My work was done.

I felt nothing, not for days. When the feelings came, they were so frightening, so unlike what I had thought possible, that even now, this story is like sand in my mouth.

I put him to sleep in my lap and whistled low for the boy. He cut off the braids, one by one. They fell like severed ropes at my side in a tangled pile.

Samson changed. We both did, actually, but I would not know that for days.

He seemed smaller, softer.

Then I called to him, “Samson, the Philistines are upon you!”

He awoke and stumbled as he stood, like a newborn doe.

Then the Philistine guards seized him, and with those fine smelted daggers they gouged out his eyes right there, in my home, as I watched. He looked right at me as they did it. I was the last thing he saw on this earth.

I could not turn away, as if some unseen hand grabbed the back of my neck, forcing me to watch.

With that, he screamed like an animal, like a small, wounded animal. And they dragged him outside, through the streets, where people threw stones at him and emptied pots on him until the lords begged them to stop, if only for the guards.

They took him down to Gaza. It was a journey of a week’s time, and I have heard tell how they stopped in every village so the people could see their enemy shamed and bleeding and blind. How he survived the walk, I do not know. Perhaps some strength remained, strength I knew nothing of, the strength of a very mortal man who knows a very real god.

I was free at last to live long and in luxury. I could buy anything my heart desired, but no one had told me this: My heart still desired nothing. Money left me cold, colder than the dead.

I could not forget how his hand reached for me, after he was blinded and struck with many blows, how he reached for me still, even knowing I had betrayed him.

He had still been calling my name as they dragged him away.