by Eric Wilson
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SAMSON
Novelization by Eric Wilson based on the story by
Jason Baumgardner and Zach Smith
Published by Pure Flix Books
Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group
600 Rinehart Road
Lake Mary, Florida 32746
www.charismahouse.com
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
Copyright © 2018 by Samson Movie Production LLC
All rights reserved
Cover art and design by Pure Flix Entertainment LLC.
Copyright 2018 by Pure Flix Entertainment LLC. Pure Flix art and design are registered trademarks of Pure Flix Entertainment LLC. www.pureflixstudio.com; www.pureflix.com. All rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
Visit the film’s website at http://samsonmovie.pureflix.com.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
An application to register this book for cataloging has been submitted to the Library of Congress.
International Standard Book Number: 978-1-62999-515-1
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62999-516-8
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
CHAPTER 1 Guardian of the Gates
CHAPTER 2 Infatuations
CHAPTER 3 The Price of Peace
CHAPTER 4 Broken Bow
CHAPTER 5 Embers
CHAPTER 6 The Trap
CHAPTER 7 A Cruel Game
CHAPTER 8 Strongman
CHAPTER 9 The Cost
CHAPTER 10 Of Gods and Men
CHAPTER 11 The Other Direction
CHAPTER 12 Smitten
CHAPTER 13 Firewood and Fleas
CHAPTER 14 Rendezvous
CHAPTER 15 Deliberate Steps
CHAPTER 16 A Two-Sided Coin
CHAPTER 17 Manoah’s Decree
CHAPTER 18 In the Name of Love
CHAPTER 19 Catching Leviathan
CHAPTER 20 The Unexpected
CHAPTER 21 Leather Pouches
CHAPTER 22 A Scheming Mind
CHAPTER 23 Declared Truce
CHAPTER 24 Premonitions
CHAPTER 25 The Challenge
CHAPTER 26 Spoiled Fruit
CHAPTER 27 On the Seventh Day
CHAPTER 28 Give or Take
CHAPTER 29 Fermented
CHAPTER 30 Whispers
CHAPTER 31 Brotherly Bonds
CHAPTER 32 An Enemy for Life
CHAPTER 33 The Pits of Sheol
CHAPTER 34 Fathers and Sons
CHAPTER 35 Confessions
CHAPTER 36 The Olive Press
CHAPTER 37 Annihilation
CHAPTER 38 Questions and Answers
CHAPTER 39 The Necropolis
CHAPTER 40 For Sacred Use
CHAPTER 41 Deepest Desire
CHAPTER 42 Mighty Strong Words
CHAPTER 43 Nemesis
CHAPTER 44 Stay or Go
CHAPTER 45 A Ghost
CHAPTER 46 Dreams and Visions
CHAPTER 47 The Throne Room
CHAPTER 48 Last Meal
CHAPTER 49 The Gold Cage
CHAPTER 50 Careful What You Ask For
CHAPTER 51 Proof
CHAPTER 52 Nothing but Bones
CHAPTER 53 Rallah’s Blade
CHAPTER 54 No Secrets
CHAPTER 55 In the Bag
CHAPTER 56 Handfuls
CHAPTER 57 The Pain of Silence
CHAPTER 58 Trophies and Talismans
CHAPTER 59 The Visitor
CHAPTER 60 Delirium
CHAPTER 61 Nowhere to Run
CHAPTER 62 A Reckoning
CHAPTER 63 Generations
Epilogue
Author’s Note: Samson Around the World
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
FOUR HUNDRED YEARS after Moses led the Hebrews out of slavery in Egypt, Israel’s twelve tribes had settled throughout Canaan. They had no king to unify them, and judges ruled over various tribes. Many Hebrews forgot their God, and a new power rose to enslave them—a sea people with advanced weaponry and coastal strongholds . . . the Philistines.
During this age of oppression, the Angel of the Lord proclaimed that a male child would be born to set the Israelites free.
CHAPTER 1
GUARDIAN OF THE GATES
Eleventh Century BC—City of Gaza
THE MOON FINDS me at the window. I cinch my tunic's sash and pass a hand over my long hair and beard, but the scents of lavender and perfume refuse to let me go. This is no place for a Hebrew male, in this room at the top of the stairs, in this city that belongs to our enemies.
The Philistines have oppressed us for generations, making slaves of my people, enjoying the fruits of our labor. King Balek and his prince know me well, and my names here in Gaza are many.
Lion tamer.
Fox catcher.
Man killer.
Each has a story with its measure of glory and shame.
I am also called Son of Manoah, but this dishonors my father’s memory. He and my mother, even more than my tribesmen, heaped their expectations upon me. They believed through and through that I was called of God, and to what end? Death and destruction, that’s what. Loss and sorrow and pain. Despite what some may have heard, I am only human. I too carry scars. This life cuts me to the bone the same as it does anyone.
“Samson?”
A breeze parts the curtains, ruffling my beard, and I ignore the husky female voice from the shadows. My gaze is fixed just beyond the city gates, where cloaked shapes crouch and wait. I recognize a few faces. It was men such as these who murdered my fiancée before we had even one night together as husband and wife, and all these years later they still want to finish me off.
No, not now. Not with this perfume still clinging to my robes.
“What’s bothering you?” asks the woman at my back.
“Did you tell anyone I was here?”
“I’m no fool. My business is my business, and I keep it that way.”
“There are men outside.”
“The watchmen probably, making their rounds.”
“It’s an ambush,” I tell her. “That’s what it is. You swear you told no one?”
“No one. But your comings and goings, they are hard to miss.”
Her words send a shiver through me, and for a moment I consider giving myself over to the Philistine horde. My sins are here in the stink of this room, in the bottom of the wine glass. Let them wash it all away in the scent and splash of my blood.
Outside the gates two men chuckle about something until the others quiet them with harsh whispers. If Balek sent them, he should be ashamed. They’re a ragtag group, disorganized.
I turn. “Do they think I’ll just wander into their trap come morning?”
“Go, Samson. Please. Don’t involve me in your troubles.”
Her request is reasonable enough. I pull on my sandals and descend the stairs into the alley. No one seems to see me. Shaking off the effects of this evening’s frivolities, I make my way to the gates. They are locked of course. No one in or out.
“Open up,” I command the guard.
He snaps awake, fumbles his spear, and peers at me. “Samson?”
“Let me pass.”
“I can’t do that. Surely you know t
his.”
“You aren’t the only one who recognizes me. Those men outside, they wait to attack me.”
“What men? It’s the middle of the night.”
From deep within I feel it, and my hands begin to tremble. “Enough with you. Let me through.” And here it comes, the familiar rush of power, thunder raging in the clouds from the western seas, waters flooding through the wadis in the desert. It’s in my control, born from my own sinew and limbs, but it courses through me in unexpected ways. It’s a rushing, mighty wind that catches me in its vortex and unleashes me like a tempest.
I reach for the gates. My callused hands pry them loose from their posts as the watchman scrambles away. Wood and metal shriek, bolts clang onto the stone beneath my sandals, and I heft the entire load on my shoulders. Motionless, my enemies huddle in the moonlight outside the walls.
“The jackal,” I say, “is breaking free. What’re you waiting for?”
Their eyes are wide, their weapons raised. I growl, hoping to scare them off for good, and only then do I hear movement behind me. I twist around, caught off balance by a rush of men with clubs and swords. They come at me from all sides now. Was the watchman part of this ruse? Is the king or his prince behind this?
I’m dropped to one knee by Philistine steel, some of the finest in all of Canaan. I reposition the huge slabs of wood on my back, then stand and spin. The gates snap the ribs of the nearest ambusher, catch the head of the next. They come at me again. A second blade catches my thigh, a club connects with my forearm, but my whirlwind of wood is unstoppable, and in short order my work is done. I ignore my victims’ moans, take a deep breath, and angle eastward. Tonight this enemy capital lies exposed. Tonight I am the guardian of their gates.
Chosen by God?
Forgive me, Mother, I can only hope it is so.
But feared by men?
Of that there is no doubt. Behind me a dozen foes have been vanquished, and the only figure that dares follow me is small in stature and concealed by a blue hood. Am I surprised? No, I’ve seen it time and again. These women who shrink from my violence are drawn by my physical prowess.
I march beneath the stars, hour after hour, the gates growing heavy on my back. Slivers bite at my skin, blood seeps from the wound on my leg, and sweat drips down my brow. I am reminded of the priest who years ago poured oil over my head, consecrating me as a judge. Was it a mistake? Have I shown myself worthy? Even a judge is not immune to choices and consequence.
Dawn is on the horizon when I crest the hill opposite Hebron, a natural divide between my Hebrew brothers and our oppressors. I drop onto hard sand, and the gates land with a thud beside me. Here they shall remain as a warning. Do you dare cross this line? If so, I, Samson, of the town of Zorah and the tribe of Dan, will stand against you. In these last twenty years I’ve spilled more than my share of blood, and I won’t hesitate to do so again.
In the first glimmer of daylight my head meets the earth. I catch a swish of blue fabric and bejeweled fingers, and the voice purring my name is far warmer than that woman’s back in Gaza.
“Samson? Oh, dear Samson.”
I look up, my vision clouded by pain and exhaustion.
“Here,” she says, “let me help you. I am Delilah.”
CHAPTER 2
INFATUATIONS
Twenty Years Earlier—Village of Zorah
SAMSON’S MOTHER AND younger brother struck the gnarled olive tree with sticks. Underfoot, a spread cloth caught the falling fruit. This was the family’s tree, its olives a source of oil for their lamps and their cooking, and that which they did not need was left on the branches, per the Law of Moses, for the needs of the poor. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
“Watch your step,” Zealphonis told her son.
“You ready to gather up the cloth?”
“A few minutes more.”
Caleb set about his task with greater zeal, his lanky arms bringing down the olives in bunches. This was only the first step in the process. Next they would collect the olives, bruise them with their hands to remove the pits, then press them for the precious oil within.
“Careful,” Zealphonis said. “We can’t let any go to waste.”
“If Samson were here, he’d shake the tree once, and we’d have all that we need.”
“You know, Caleb, the work didn’t come any easier for him at your age. Most people think you’re older than you are, and you’ve almost outdone him today. It’ll take both of us to gather it all.”
“Where is he? Do you think he’s gone to Timnah again?”
Zealphonis straightened her back and gazed westward over the craggy hillsides. Caleb always knew when she was troubled. Samson, on the other hand? His heart and his sense of mischief led him from one town to the next, often putting him in harm’s way. Samson was the untamed stallion kicking up his heels, while Caleb, even at a young age, was the faithful workhorse.
“Lord knows what your brother is up to,” she murmured.
“He’s got a new friend there.”
“In Timnah? What sort of friend?”
Caleb dropped his stick and took hold of the cloth. Groaning, he tried to pick it up.
“A girl, Caleb? Don’t you keep such a thing from me.”
He laughed. “No, he and Pyzor, one of the Philistine men, they go hunting together. They hunt for jackals, foxes, whatever they can get their hands on.”
“The Philistines are not our friends.”
“Samson doesn’t care. He’s not afraid of anyone.”
“Well,” she said, “it’s not a girl, anyway. That’s some relief.”
“Samson’s nineteen, Mother.”
“Yes, and he’s my son.” She reached for the opposite end of the cloth. “He and his youthful infatuations. If he wants to seriously look—”
“He looks, all right. Who knows if any of it’s serious, though.”
Together mother and son hefted their load down the slope to the olive press. They sat in the shade of their mud-brick hut, pitting the fruit one by one, dropping the pits into a basin between them and the olives into the press. The stone contraption was best operated by a harnessed donkey or by well-muscled Samson. Caleb’s limbs would be tested in this late-summer sun.
As Zealphonis worked, her thoughts returned to the foretelling of Samson’s birth. By any measure it was a miracle. For years she had been unable to give Manoah a son, and she’d seen the emptiness in his eyes as they ate their meals. She wore that shame daily. When she told him he deserved better, he told her she was his wife, and that was all that mattered, but he went to his work in the fields with eyes down and shoulders hunched.
And then, unexpectedly, the Angel of the Lord came to them.
Not just once, but twice.
“Mother, what’s wrong?”
Caleb’s voice shifted her focus to the task at hand. Olive meat clung to her fingernails as she dropped another pit into the basin.
“Still worried about Samson?” he asked.
“What’s he thinking, that son of mine? He should be looking for a respectable girl from among our people, or even better, from within the tribe of Dan. The council is watching him, evaluating. It’s more than just a marriage at stake.”
“Because of the prophecy,” Caleb said.
“He . . . Yes, because he was chosen. He was entrusted to us, to your father and me.”
“By God?”
She nodded.
“What’s the problem? Aren’t you the one who told me about Balaam, how God spoke to him through a donkey? If God can work through a beast of the field, He can work through anyone.”
“Listen to you. Why, you’ve grown into a wise young man. Sometimes I wonder if the Lord chose the wrong . . . ”
Caleb glanced up.
She stopped there. How dare she even think such things or question the wisdom of the Lord? How dare she doubt His power after what she and her husband had seen in the flames?
“Mother!”
This time it was
Samson’s rumbling voice that snapped her to attention. He rushed down the slope, dust flying, long locks waving in the breeze whipped up by his own passing. He was a force of nature, a presence that could not be ignored. Try as she might, she could not stay angry with him, even in the face of his brutishness.
“Mercy, Samson, it’s nearly time for our evening meal.”
A twinkle flashed in his deep-set eyes. He grabbed a handful of pits and stuffed them down the back of his brother’s tunic. Caleb gasped, gave him a shove, and threw the pits back at him.
“You rascals,” Zealphonis said, “we need this oil. Now put your energy to good use.”
“I can’t sit still.” Samson picked an object from his hair, then flung his arms wide. “Not today, not until you’ve heard my news.”
“You can share your news while you apply yourself to the press.”
“I’ll give you a hint then.”
“Please, not another one of your riddles and rhymes.”
A grin split his clean-shaven face. “Thin as a twig, but this news is big.”
“And so is your brother’s appetite, especially with supplies as scarce as they are.” She pointed at the stone wheel. “To work, Samson.”
“Is Father here?”
“He’s meeting with the council, and I suspect you are the topic of discussion.”
“Then they shall hear of it too. Everyone needs to know. Mother, I’ve fallen in love.”
Her heart jumped despite the rashness of his announcement. Could it be? Was this part of God’s destiny for him?
“I saw her in Timnah,” he declared. “She’s thin, she’s beautiful, and she’s a Philistine.”
CHAPTER 3
THE PRICE OF PEACE
A PHILISTINE? IS THIS what he told you?”
Zealphonis nodded.
“What is he thinking?” Manoah said. “He shows no concern for his own people.”
In the moonlight seeping through the hut’s thatched roof, she could see the wrinkles that gathered on her husband’s forehead, the darkness that clouded his eyes. He turned on his side, his back to her, and she noticed his ribs pressed against his undergarment. He was no longer a tireless youth, and his labor in the fields was taking a toll, especially with much of their harvest going to King Balek’s men.