Samson

by Eric Wilson

  “Father in heaven,” she said.

  She had prayed a lot these past weeks, and still the bad news rolled in.

  Samson, her oldest, had watched his bride-to-be die before his eyes, and now he was missing, hunted by the Philistines. Caleb, her youngest, had stirred trouble of his own by training with the local warriors, and his intentions grew more tribal and militaristic by the day. Manoah, her dear husband, had been carted away by their enemies, and she didn’t know where he was or when he’d come back to her.

  If he’d come back . . .

  These were dire times, and she harbored no illusions. She’d seen others die as a result of Prince Rallah’s impulsiveness, and her three men had lined themselves up against the prince in a show of resistance.

  Another bolt of pain.

  “Manoah, dear, where are you?”

  Zealphonis held her stomach and leaned over to gather the fallen olives. These bits of fruit from the tree became more valuable to the family as they were pitted and pressed. Beneath the grind of the stone wheel, the oil flowed, rich and warm. She lighted her home with it. She baked with it. She mixed it with salt and used it as a rub on dry skin and aching muscles. All of this bounty from the family olive tree. Even its contorted limbs hinted at the troubles it endured to create something so rich and marvelous.

  “Whatever Your hand in this, Lord, I trust these trials will bring something good.” One by one she dropped the olives into the press. “I believe, even now, the promises given to us about Samson. The fruits of his actions have been bitter, but I know You can turn sour into sweet.”

  CHAPTER 37

  ANNIHILATION

  Heights of Lehi

  WHERE YOU ARE going, your father will be waiting . . . ”

  Even as Prince Rallah uttered the words to Samson, he felt victorious. Despite Samson’s escapades of the past few days, the prince and his soldiers had tied things up nicely. Using Manoah as bait, they had drawn Samson here, bound hand and foot, without even a fight. Neither man would leave this encampment alive, and their corpses would serve as warning to any Israelite upstarts who thought of lifting a hand against the throne.

  Rallah gave the signal.

  He watched Manoah lurch as Ashdod’s spear pierced his middle.

  Samson’s brother screamed from the back of the crowd, drawing the ire of the soldiers nearest to him. When they drew their swords, he held his head in his hands and stumbled off in the direction of his fellow Hebrews.

  Rallah grinned.

  One man down. One to go.

  The second signal was given with a glance at Golian, and the beast of a man raised his ax. The blade was heavy, rusty, but still sharp enough to separate a head from a body. Even a head like Samson’s, full of long, tangled hair.

  Somewhere, though, in that moment between the lifting of the ax and its downward trajectory, the world slowed down, and Rallah noticed the trembling in Samson’s hands. He had seen it before in the quarry as Samson mustered an inexplicable strength and rose to face Bolcom’s might.

  The ax was coming down now.

  Screaming, Samson snapped apart the ropes on his hands and arched back from the tree stump. The rusty blade dug deep into the wood, missing its target by a hair. He screamed again, rose to grab Golian’s smooth, large skull, and slammed it down onto the ax head, still thrumming in the wood. Death was instantaneous.

  Rallah stumbled back a step. His eyes were wide, scarcely believing this turn of events. He should really have nothing to fear, considering a thousand men surrounded him in this hilly encampment. Nonetheless, he’d seen with his own eyes the things this Hebrew could do.

  Quaking, Samson stood over Golian’s dead body. Shredded rope hung from his wrists and ankles, and he wore his same tired robe and belt. Did this commoner ever change clothes? Rallah wondered. Did he even have a weapon? The Hebrew scanned the area close to him and selected the only option available, other than the one stuck deep in Golian’s face.

  It was a jawbone.

  With a pop of sinew, Samson tore it fresh from the donkey’s skull.

  Rallah fumbled for his sword. Beside him Ashdod struggled to get his spear loose from the old man’s body.

  Samson swung.

  The jawbone came down fast and hard across the prince’s face, splitting the skin in a vertical line from above his eye and down his cheek. The force of the blow was incredible, rocking him backward, dimming his vision. He cried out and moved a hand to the wound to keep the folds of skin together. Blood oozed between his fingers.

  “Protect the prince,” Ashdod ordered his men. “Kill the Hebrew!”

  As their commander gave up on the spear and unsheathed his sword, soldiers advanced. A ram’s horn blared, and dozens more men approached from Samson’s side, picking their way toward him among the boulders and rock.

  “What’re you waiting for?” Rallah shouted. “Bring me his head!”

  Samson’s eyes blazed with rage. His chest heaved. The jawbone in hand was nearly a cubit long, hard enough to break collarbones, but still pliable and fresh from the socket.

  “You should’ve let my father go,” he growled.

  “And you should’ve kept your eyes in your head and paid no mind to my servant girl. You brought this upon yourself, Hebrew.” The prince nearly collapsed, still dizzy with pain. He waved at his troops. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t let this man scare you.”

  Beside him, the word Ashkelon passed between two soldiers.

  “Ashkelon,” he said. “You heard the stories and you quiver, is that it? Samson drew the men out and used their own weapons against them. He caught them during the sun’s zenith, when their bellies were full and their heads swimming with wine. Don’t fear him. He’s just a man.”

  The Hebrew strongman said nothing. He stood trembling, jawbone dangling at his side, at the end of the promontory. He was cornered there but also had no need of guarding his back.

  “A bag of silver to the first man who attacks him,” Rallah offered.

  This was enough to send a soldier into action, and his forward motion drew along a mob.

  “God, give me strength,” Samson prayed.

  One by one the men rushed at him, and he batted them away. The first man perished when the jawbone tore through his shoulder and came back around across his cheekbone. The next on-rusher’s legs were swatted out from under him, and he sailed off the end of the promontory in a fading cry. The jawbone hooked arms, blocked sword thrusts, cracked hips, and snapped spears.

  Rallah watched in awe. Samson maneuvered with such precision. He stepped into each blow and used flawless angles to conserve his energy while getting maximum results. After the first dozen men succumbed, Samson wiped beads of sweat from his forehead, took a breath, and waited for more.

  “He’s mine,” Ashdod bellowed.

  Samson dropped into a crouch, his weapon ready. As Ashdod jabbed, he sidestepped and feinted. The commander lowered his head, growing impatient, and charged forward with another jab. The strongman deflected the sword with the base of the jawbone, then spun and stabbed his weapon through Ashdod’s ribs into his heart.

  The lumbering man who had served the palace for years dropped into a heap.

  Lifeless.

  Rallah lowered the hand clutched to his wound. He was incredulous. How could one man best so many so quickly? This sham of an effort by his troops would end now.

  “Forward, men,” he yelled at them. “You are many, and he cannot take you all.”

  They responded to their prince, worthy soldiers prepared to follow orders, even in the face of possible injury or dismemberment.

  Anticipating the onslaught, Samson rolled his shoulders, lowered his head, and furrowed his eyebrows. To Rallah, he had all the aspect of a snorting bull.

  Samson launched the first man over his shoulder, took a step, then whipped the jawbone around to block a sword. He suffered a gash here and there but didn’t falter. He knocked one soldier back so hard that three men went down. More ru
shed forward. He yanked away a spear directed at his chest, pivoted, and skewered the next two soldiers coming from his flank. Rather than slowing, he gained speed and strength. His hair flew about him. The mighty jawbone smashed knees and obliterated forearms, carved scalps from shorter men and gored the torsos of taller ones.

  When the attackers shrunk back, he taunted them. The few who dared respond did so from a distance. His eyes seemed to burn with some internal fire.

  “Lord,” he cried out, “hear my prayer.”

  This time, as Rallah fumed, Samson didn’t wait for the troops to regroup. He became the attacker, rushing the closest group of men. He took off a man’s head. Broke skulls. Those who tried to flee felt his fury in their backs. Those who stood to fight were crushed, hurled aside, or kicked over the edge of the cliff. The few whose courage remained waded through the mounting obstacles of bodies, only to add another layer to the carnage.

  “He’s just one man,” the prince said again. How was this possible?

  A cluster of soldiers nearby took heed of his words, agreeing to throw themselves at once upon this Hebrew strongman. He had only so many arms and legs to defend himself—wasn’t that so? He would go down beneath their collective weight and determination. With a bolstering cry, they mounted their assault, and it looked to the prince as though they might even succeed. One went down, but the others arrived en masse. From the perimeter it was difficult to even see Samson, as he was utterly covered by men.

  “We have him,” a soldier cheered. “He is defeated!”

  Rallah allowed himself to hope. From here, through the trickle of blood at his eye, he saw the mountain of bodies grow. No one alone could resist that much force and weight. It seemed that mountain would cave in upon him, burying him once and for all.

  Instead, the mountain turned volcanic.

  Samson burst through in an eruption of bodies and limbs. He freed himself from his assailants and stood tall, prayers still spewing from his lips for all to hear. “I am Your humble servant, Lord. Don’t abandon me now. Be my strength.”

  All this pleading to the foreign God turned Rallah’s stomach.

  The Hebrew clenched his fist and with the other hand wielded the jawbone again. He swung and took down two more soldiers.

  “His God is with him,” a soldier declared. “He is invincible.”

  Samson struck again.

  And again.

  He smashed together the shields of two attackers in an explosion of wood and metal. He cracked helmets and simply tore away others with their contents still inside. If anything, his movements and speed had increased yet again. He drew the jawbone all the way back to his left, then uncoiled his hips and arms, carving a swath of destruction all the way to his right. Five more men fell, and he was not done.

  He climbed upon the bodies now. “I’m still here,” he taunted the few who remained.

  Terrified men backed away.

  Most of them ran.

  It was obvious, the demoralization of Prince Rallah’s troops. It appeared in their slumped shoulders, fleeing feet, and round-with-fear eyes. The great and mighty Samson had put on quite a display, and only a handful managed to escape unscathed. Bodies were everywhere—across the wide promontory, between the boulders, hanging in the branches of low trees, and splattered far below on rock. The destruction was total.

  Prince Rallah hunkered behind a boulder, keeping his enemy just in view.

  Samson, done at last with his afternoon’s work, drew in deep breaths. He was left standing alone. He stumbled between mound after mound of bodies, kicked aside a stray helmet, and wandered on wobbly legs from the scene of annihilation.

  “Dagon,” Rallah muttered, “I call upon you now. Give me your power.”

  He felt a surge of courage, perhaps even an extra measure of strength, and he crept up behind the Hebrew with sword in hand. Once he was close, he charged, calling out his enemy by name.

  Samson turned, then swiveled aside to avoid the blade thrust.

  “Dagon!” Rallah begged once more.

  He charged again, sword flashing in the sun, only to have his attempt parried by the jawbone, that infernal thing. What man defeated an army alone? And with an impromptu weapon torn from the remains of a stubborn field animal? What God resorted to such crude implements?

  The crude implement was arched back over Samson’s shoulder.

  “No,” Rallah said.

  Samson swung the jawbone forward, driving it into Rallah’s chest. The strongman lifted him then and tossed him atop the nearest rocks. Rallah groaned. The pain washed over him in a numbing wave. He looked down at the gaping hole in his chest and felt the rush of blood in his ears.

  Then the darkness came, and it carried him down, down, down . . .

  CHAPTER 38

  QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

  THE TREMBLING SUBSIDES. With it goes the last of my strength, and I drop to the dirt beneath the midday sun, my arms and face sticky with blood, my robe drenched in sweat. Rivulets of both run down my neck and my chest.

  I throw down my weapon. I have won.

  Yes, on this day, in this lofty place, I defeated a thousand men.

  “A donkey eats with it, and I stack bodies with it,” I mumble. “What is it?”

  There’s no elation to go with my victory, only the satisfaction that I am alive and my enemies are not. While it’s not the future Taren and I envisioned, it seems to be the only future left to me as long as these oppressors remain in the land. Peace was given a chance. And now, well, the Philistine rulers seem bent on aggression and conflict, throwing their own people into the fire for the cause.

  Taren, Ahar, Jodel, and now Father . . .

  Nothing but human sacrifices, fueling the flames of war and revenge.

  “A jawbone,” I say to the fallen bodies. “That is the answer to your schemes against me and my people. From this day forth this place will be called Ramath-Lehi, the Hill of the Jawbone.”

  The words dry the last of my mouth’s moisture. My tongue is parched, and I hang my head, trying to work up some saliva, with no success. Surely there’s water in this encampment. Men have to drink, after all. I clamber back to my feet. My legs feel as brittle and useless as twigs. Scouring the camp and the strewn bodies, all I find are animal bladders torn during the battle, their contents sucked dry by the sand and heat.

  Lord, I pray silently, is this how my day shall end? Did You raise me up to deliver my people and slay our foes only to let me die of thirst beneath this merciless sun? Spare me now. Give me relief. A drop of rain. Anything.

  My answer comes in unexpected fashion.

  Only a few paces away, near the base of the hill, a boulder splits apart with a gritty, rumbling crack, and a small stream of water spills forth. I scramble on hands and knees to the liquid coolness, lapping it up, cupping it in my hands, splashing it on my face and neck. I laugh. Water has never tasted this good.

  “And this place will be called En-hakkore,” I decide. “The Spring of He Who Cried Out.”

  Did the searing heat split the rock? Did a hidden spring force its way through at the very moment I cried to the heavens?

  Some questions don’t need answers.

  I simply drink. And drink some more.

  Caleb finds me on my side in the flowing stream. He lifts my weary body, wraps my arm over his shoulder, and assists me on our trek back through Etam toward our village. He doesn’t say much. He grunts every now and then, shifting my weight. He plugs onward through the afternoon.

  “I’m sorry,” he says softly as daylight dwindles and shadows grow.

  “Thank you for coming back,” I respond. “I wouldn’t have made it out on my own.”

  “I should never have left you. I should’ve fought at your side.”

  I shake my head. “This was my battle to fight, Caleb. Mine and the Lord’s.”

  “They killed Father. I knew we couldn’t trust Rallah.”

  “They were going to kill him all along. They just wanted me to di
e with him.”

  “What do we say to Mother?”

  That silences both of us, and we walk together, lost in our thoughts. We are not the only ones to pay a heavy price under enemy occupation. Even our neighbor lady was widowed by the Philistines who ruled before King Balek.

  “We tell her we will love her and honor her,” I say. “We tell her we will be sure she never goes hungry and never knows a day without love.”

  Caleb nods, pushing a tear from his eye.

  “And,” I state, “I’ll tell her that I will serve as judge. I’ll accept that role which she believes the angel foretold and do my best to protect our people. As long as I live, I’ll do all within my power to lift this burden of slavery from the backs of my fellow Hebrews. Will you stand by me in that?”

  “You know I will. I mean, what are brothers for?”

  “Not much,” I say with a shrug. “Just friendship and some laughs. Oh yes, and survival.”

  CHAPTER 39

  THE NECROPOLIS

  Heights of Lehi

  PHILISTINE REINFORCEMENTS ARRIVED that evening, only to discover they were too late. The battle was over, the encampment a necropolis. Bodies were everywhere, in awkward positions, and flies were already gathered in such mass that the buzzing could be heard from well below the promontory.

  “What army did this?” one soldier asked. With his foot he rolled over a wide-eyed corpse.

  “Have the Egyptians declared war on us?” another responded.

  “Could be.” The soldier brushed shut the dead man’s eyelids. “I’m sure they’ve heard by now about Bolcom. Their very own giant, shot down by Philistine arrows.”

  “Let’s start the cleanup right here. Seems as good a place as any.”

  The troops guided a pair of oxen into place with a long wooden cart for the stacking of bodies. Considering the sheer number, it would take all night by torchlight to clear the camp, and it was gruesome work. They wrapped linens around noses and mouths and set to it.