Mother turned to me. “You may bring the roast.”
I was not going to let him near Astra. I nodded to her, marking the other seat with my eyes, the seat next to Mother. She understood, and I went to fetch the roast.
Mother had purchased a roast already finished, marinated in vinegar and scallions, with a crisp brown crust sealing in the juices all the way around. The warm scent had filled the room and carved out a hollow in my stomach, making me keenly aware that I had not eaten all day. I lifted the plate and carried it to the table, letting the aroma settle my nerves. If nothing else, I would get a good meal tonight. I set the roast down and then took the spot next to Samson, before Mother or Father could indicate where I should sit.
Astra finished refilling the wine bowls and sat next to Mother, across from me. I was in between the man-beast and his impossibly old mother. I looked across the table at Astra and almost had to sit on my hands to keep from reaching across and strangling her. I did not know why this Hebrew had come back, but it was her fault.
I sat rigid, careful not to turn my neck and catch sight of the Hebrew. I dug into the food right away, scooping a handful of chickpeas into my mouth before I realized the trouble had begun. None of the Hebrews were eating. They were staring at their food, and then at us. Even Father stopped talking long enough to realize there was a grave problem.
Mother cleared her throat. “Forgive us. We have neglected your needs somehow. What may we do for you?”
Samson’s mother sat straight, her shoulders squared. “We wash before we eat. And give thanks.”
“Wash?”
I could tell Mother was aghast. We had not prepared baths for them. That would take all night. I blanched at the thought of the Hebrew naked on my roof. I would never even touch the washbasin again if he used it for his naked body.
Samson’s mother deigned a smile, as if we were ignorant. “We wash our hands before meals. Of course, it is also customary among my people to wash the feet of guests when they enter, but I did not mind that you neglected us. That ritual is really one done more for good manners than purity. But we will insist on washing our hands before eating. Even though you are a Philistine, you can understand, yes?”
Though the sun was low outside and the oil lamps were the only source of light, I could tell that all the blood had drained from Mother’s face. Her knuckles clutched the edge of the table, turning white as a forced smile found its way to her face.
“Of course.” Her tone was as cold as the winter winds to come. “Girls, fetch a bowl of water and a clean cloth. Do you require anything else?”
Samson’s mother shook her head, a peaceful expression on her face. I knew that look. She thought she had won.
Samson leaned forward to catch my attention, taking hold of my arm. I could not rise. Astra stood still, waiting for me, until Mother snapped at her to be quick.
“You never told me your name,” he said.
Mother’s eyebrows shot up. I spoke quickly.
“My mother neglected to introduce me; yes, you are right. I am called Amara.”
“Amara.”
Every girl loves the sound of her own name, but when he said it, it somehow sounded dirty. I wanted to catch it and give it a good scrubbing and make him promise not to say it again. I looked at my parents, but they had not heard anything amiss in his tone. I did not want to provoke him. I smiled and turned to look at him, to keep the pleasant pretense as best I could while Astra fetched a crock of water. She went out the front door, which was not a good sign—we must have been near empty. I hoped she could borrow some from a neighbor, rather than have to run down to the well. I wanted desperately to be saved from Samson.
This moment was my first real look into Samson’s face, his expression lit by the wide flat flames of the oil lamps. A shiver passed through me though the room was warm.
In the flickering light and shadows, his hair was no longer the first thing I noticed. Instead, the light focused on his face, illuminating it for me, so that I looked into his eyes for the first time, startled. He had a kind face, a handsome face. His eyes were wide and brown, reflecting the flames as he watched me. He was young, too, younger than I had first supposed, being no more than eighteen or twenty, if I guessed right. And although I was embarrassed by my own animal nature, which seemed to appear as if on command, I leaned in, just a bit, and inhaled through my nose. I wanted to know what he smelled like. Every animal has its own smell.
He smelled clean. His hair, though long, must have been well cared for. His teeth were white and whole, and his breath was warm and sweet, as if he had been chewing on cloves.
I shook myself from such dangerous contemplation. This man was a Hebrew, and a strange one at that, and he had a grudge against us. We did not even know why he was here.
He leaned closer in and inhaled through his nose, keeping his eyes on me, those playful eyes that showed me the laughter he hid inside. He was making fun of me. I couldn’t have helped being curious about him. He had such an outrageous appearance, of course he must have been used to curiosity.
Samson turned away to address my father. “You know how I like the sash you are wearing. I had one myself a while back. Where did you get it? I would love to buy another.”
I made a wide-eyed plea to my father to say nothing, but of course he did not understand. He waved an arm across the table. “I’m a merchant, my son. You have no idea the treasures I come across every week.”
“I am sure.”
Astra came through the door with a crock of water and a clean linen cloth. I wanted to jump up and kiss her for such timing, but I sat, hoping the hand washing would give the man-beast something else to focus on.
His mother took the crock first, dipping her hands in and then wiping them on the linen. She passed the crock to me as I turned to receive it, her piercing eyes accusing me of some unknown crime as my hands touched hers. I passed the crock right over to Samson. Dirty man that he was, he laid his hands over mine as I held out the crock to him, not releasing me, as together we set the crock on the table before him. When it sat there, he slid his hands off mine, slowly, his fingertips stroking the back of my hands. I clenched my teeth together, with my eyes narrowing and my nostrils flaring up.
Furious that he touched me so boldly, I jerked my hands free and tucked them under the table. My thighs went weak and hot as I stared at his face, which was already filled with stifled amusement.
He knew the effect he had on me, and he held me in no respect. I balled my left hand into a fist, and when he leaned over to dip his hands in the crock, I turned my body toward him as if to speak, landing a hard punch right in his stomach. He coughed, nearly knocking the crock over.
Astra gave me a stern look of rebuke, which I returned viciously. She had thrown a stick at this man’s head. He wanted compensation, all right—wanted me to pay with a little fleshly affection. If he thought I would receive his advances with anything other than disgust, then he knew nothing about Philistine women and our opinion of the Hebrews.
Samson’s father washed his hands next and then spoke to my mother.
“You are a kind and noble woman to accommodate us. Please, now, allow me to give thanks.”
Mother nodded to acknowledge his offer of thanks, the wonderful praise she was due, but he bowed his head and lifted his hands, as did Samson and his mother.
“Almighty God, who looks upon His people with favor, thank You for this meal.”
At that, he ate with vigor, as did Samson and his mother. My family and I were slower to reach for a plate or bowl. Had this man really just thanked his god for this meal, when it was plain that my mother and sister and I had prepared it? What had his god done? Where had his god been when I was oiling the table and trimming the wicks?
Mother sliced the roast into small slices to be eaten by hand. She served herself then passed the plate to Samson’s mother, who held up a hand.
“What animal is this?”
“Pig,” my mother replied. �
��Seasoned with vinegar and scallions. That is what gives it that beautiful dark crust.”
Samson’s mother looked pointedly at Samson and her husband, a sour purse sealing up her mouth. She turned back to my mother.
“Pigs are unclean. We do not eat them. It displeases our God.”
“Didn’t your god make them?” Astra asked. Her smile was too sweet. It hid something.
“Of course He did,” Samson’s mother replied.
“Then why did He make them taste so good?” Astra asked.
Samson laughed, but his mother stopped that with one look before training a cold, sharp gaze on my little sister. I curled my hands into fists once more. Rugs or not, no one was going to scold my little sister right in front of me, in my own home, even if she was trouble.
Samson rested a hot palm on my thigh.
Samson’s father stood up then and bowed to my mother and father. “We should go. It is harvest time, after all.”
Samson’s mother rose. “At harvest time, my people work. We do not entertain. Only fools would waste this season.” She glared at her son.
Mother stood very quickly—happy, no doubt, to see them gone. Astra and I stood as well. Samson’s mother made a move toward me.
I thought she wanted to say good-bye, but instead, she plunged her fingers into my ribs. I squealed in shock, jumping back, but she clucked her teeth at me and kept searching. She ran her fingers along each rib’s indentation, and then grabbed the sides of my hips, patting them firmly, as if testing them. Taking hold of them, she spun me around and dug her fingers along my spine next.
My mouth was open, and I looked at Astra in utter disbelief. Astra’s face mirrored what mine must have looked like. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes were wide. She looked frozen in shock and disbelief that a stranger could handle me like this, in my own home, right in front of Mother and Father.
I looked at Father for help, but he watched, with a strained look. I think he wanted to stop her, but he didn’t.
Samson’s mother released me, pushing me to the side to address her husband. “She needs a good flushing. If this comes to anything, remember that.”
With that, they left. Samson allowed his mother and father to pass through first, before turning and thanking us for our hospitality. I made a fist, hoping he noticed. He winked as he tilted his head in my direction, and was gone.
I had no idea what she meant by “flushing” me. I did not think it could be good.
MOTHER
When Samson was a child, he ate the brightest grapes first. It did not matter that they were bitter. He ate with his eyes, always.
I saw a lean wisp of a girl, her light green eyes sparkling like the Evening Star against the dark cascading night that was her hair. Though it pained me to admit it, she was beautiful, perhaps even more so because she had no sense of her own beauty. She still moved like a shy girl, with no awareness of her body, no awareness of her effect upon men. Her name was Amara, and she wore an amulet around her neck to ward off evil. A superstitious abomination.
When we left at last, Samson spoke not a word to me. Only after a long while on the way to our lodging house did I look at Samson, a searching look. Why had he done this to us? Why had he chosen a Philistine girl to marry? Had he seen her tonight, seen the careless evil of her people?
My stomach began to roil; blood rushed to my face. The strange blue mist, the mist that had signaled God’s power resting on my son—this mist had settled upon him, now, but Samson did not see it. He smiled to himself and paid no notice to my changing condition as he whistled a tune to himself. I had to duck quickly behind a home so my men would not see me.
I vomited up the little I had eaten.
In his face, I had seen it. He was in love with the enemy. And in that mist, I saw this, too: God was still with him.
I pleaded my case, to Samson and to God, using my native tongue—guilt. I sat in the ashes, tears staining my face. I had not applied my beauty lotion in two days. Samson rolled over, trying to sleep, so I moaned again, loudly.
He sat up, resting his forearms on his knees to watch me.
With one hand resting against my heart, I used the other to scoop ashes from the crockery beside me. I dumped the ashes on my head.
“I think I’ll see if anyone needs help with the plowing,” Samson said. Manoah did not rise up from his pallet. He wanted nothing to do with this battle.
“At this hour? Everyone just went to bed,” I protested.
“I’m not sleeping.” He stood and threw a heavier tunic on before leaving.
Manoah sat up after Samson had left. He cocked his head to one side, watching me.
“No use fighting him,” Manoah said. “Samson’s strength is too much, even for you.”
“She is a Philistine! This cannot be God’s will for our son!”
“Samson says God told him to do this.”
I grabbed my head with both hands to keep it from bursting like a melon. “This is all wrong.”
Manoah got up and dragged a crock of water over to me. Sitting down beside me, he took a sea sponge from the crock and began washing my face. He was slow, holding the sponge over the bowl, warming the water in his hands as errant drops splattered back below. The dripping sound was the only noise in our home, save for our own breaths. Beyond us, a lion roared in the night. I hoped Samson had stayed in the village. He was strong, but strength alone was no match for a lion’s wrath.
“Will you come to bed now?”
I took the sponge from his hands and wrung it out, setting it beside the crock. It needed a good airing in the sun tomorrow.
“When I took you from your mother’s home, could you have imagined any of this?” Manoah asked.
I chuckled. “No.”
“Then you cannot imagine what He may be doing now. Hold onto what is good, and trust God.”
A smile played on my lips, thinking of my belly in those long ago days, that improbable swelling at my age. How the other wives talked of it, and nothing else! At my age, with age spots on my face and hands, my knees sore and a back that was already bending forward, at that age God gave me a child. Syvah, my sister-in-law, the one who would later bear two sons herself, rejoiced with me. She had a full, soft face with a wide blunt nose and sparkling brown eyes. She was not beautiful, but her smile could make you forget that.
“A miracle!” Syvah and the women had said, holding their hands against my belly.
“More than a miracle!” I had told them. “A gift to all our tribes! He is sent for all of them. He will deliver our people from the Philistines.”
Manoah yawned. I lifted my ash-soiled tunic over my head. Manoah rose and took a clean one from next to my pallet and lowered it over my head. I accepted his help quietly. Then I went to our pallet and lay down. As I rested my head against his chest, he spoke.
“I leave for Timnah in the morning.” He was going to make arrangements to get the Philistine girl as a bride for our son.
“Why do you give in to him?”
“Do you remember when the strength first came upon him?”
Wise Manoah. There was one memory that always stayed with me.
It had been an early spring day, just before the wheat came ready for harvesting. The sun was not out. Several tribes had sent warriors to a nearby Danite camp for training. Danites were, of course, the fiercest tribe. We wanted nothing given to us; we preferred to fight for what we wanted. It was our nature.
This day, a mercenary from Egypt was in camp. He was a big man, by our standards, with dark thighs as wide and rippled as tree trunks. He wore a leather shirt that wrapped around his chest, crossing over each shoulder, and a short blue and white kilt tucked in at his waist. He had on more jewelry than all the Hebrew wives combined: a nose ring, bracelets, a necklace with odd dangling amulets, and fat gold rings on his wide fingers.
Our enemies hated the Egyptians, and for good reason. Long ago, the Philistines had left their ancient homeland across the sea and gone into the wate
rs searching for a new home. When they landed in Egypt, it looked good to them, and they made claim.
The Egyptians beat them so badly, all that was left of the Philistines in Egypt was a memory, a little sneering joke. Our men were eager to see what the Egyptian could teach us. If the Egyptians had defeated the Philistines, we could learn their secrets.
We women watched the Egyptian man closely and covered our mouths with our hands as we spoke to one another. Syvah, so young and bold, spoke without covering her mouth. “He has no hair!” I smiled to see her bulging stomach. She was soon to deliver her second child. Her first, Liam, a boy not yet two years old, played near us.
“They shave themselves—everywhere!” another wife answered. We spoke at once, over each other and too fast, as we did when we had a rare moment to sit together.
“Oh!”
“He looks like a newborn!”
“If the wind picks up his kilt one more time, I will run for the hills. It’s too early in the morning to see that much of Egypt.”
We were in for a wonderful day of gossip and laughter and freedom from work. Syvah’s husband, Joash, sat with Manoah. They were brothers. Joash was the eldest. His hair was pure white, and his hands shook when he ate. Syvah married for the birthright, I suspected. He would die not four months after that day, passing quietly in his sleep.
Dark gray clouds, gaping holes in each, hung low in the sky, pink and yellow sun just now beaming to the earth. The men lined up, listening to the Egyptian talk about his weapon, his strategy, his military prowess. I yawned, tired from the walk. We had risen so early for this. I wanted to sleep, but how could I with this suffocating weight in my lap? Though a child, when Samson sat in my lap I was sure he would snap a bone.
The Egyptian called out. “Give me your best man. We will spar. You will see why Egypt has no equal.”
Desired: The Untold Story of Samson and Delilah (Lost Loves of the Bible) Page 5