Not if he had told me the truth.
“What will you give me?” he asked. “If I tell you the whole truth, whatever you want to know?”
“What do you want?” The words hung in the air between us, like the first chill air of a building storm.
He pulled me into his arms, and I kissed him, hard, on the mouth, fighting him in my way, my back rigid as he removed my tunic, my neck stiff as he bent it back to press his mouth to mine again. He leaned back then, pressing his hands on either side of my face, forcing me to look up into his eyes. He did not blink. I saw myself in him, my hard face with smeared lips, my cold dead eyes. I didn’t want to be that woman. I didn’t want to choose that path.
I softened under his control, and we did not have need to roast that lamb until much later in the night.
I kicked him with one foot. The sun was already high, and he was sweating on my blankets.
“Tell me.”
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “You woke me up for this?”
“I woke you up to see what kind of man you are on the morning after.”
He groaned but did not lie back down. He yawned and shook his head side to side, the heavy braids flinging with dull flapping sounds in all directions.
“Seven fresh bowstrings,” he said. “If you tie me with seven fresh bowstrings, I’m powerless. That’s the secret of my strength.”
I frowned. The answer had come too easily to him. I could not tell if he was lying or telling the truth.
“Our magicians don’t use bowstrings.”
“Your magicians are worthless.”
I went below and fetched a child, who was to fetch a lord, who was to fetch the seven fresh bowstrings. By the fourth hour after the morning meal, I had them. I laid them on the table below, where the bones of the lamb were piled in a gnawed heap. Samson came below to see who had knocked at my door. He saw the bowstrings on the table and smiled at me, the smile of an innocent. I smiled in return, a silent promise of treachery. Or truth. Maybe they were the same.
He lay down on my pallet, crossing his feet, watching me as he tucked his arms behind his head.
“What are you going to do with those?”
“Tie you up.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“I’m going to find out if you are a liar.”
“You don’t need to know the secret of my strength. Unless there is something you are not telling me.”
“There’s not!” I shouted it, provoked. It was foolish of me.
Samson grinned. He had won the exchange. “Maybe you are the liar.”
I grabbed the bowstrings from the table. They stank of animal and felt like dried gristle in my hands.
I dumped them at his feet and knelt, struggling to slide a rope under his feet. He offered no assistance, but just lay there, still and amused. I tied his feet together and moved to his head, yanking each heavy arm free, laying it on his belly. I was sweating by now, and he seemed to find it all great entertainment. I hoped that the bowstrings would burn his bare flesh if I ripped them fast enough. Laying each wrist on top of the other, I pulled a bowstring around them, tying it down to the wrists in a knot, then tying a knot over my knot, yanking up as hard as I could to tighten it beyond endurance.
Still, he grinned.
I had one bowstring left, and I had seen how butchers tied their animals. I pulled the bowstring under his neck, tying it in a knot at his throat, then pulling the ends down and securing them at his wrists. I stood, bracing against him with one foot, and yanked, so that his head was forced down as I shortened the length between his neck and his wrists.
The great enemy of the Philistines was bound like an animal before me, and still he laughed, a high-pitched giggle, as if he was playing a game. I was not going to release him. If he had told me the truth, he was going to die in this position.
“Now, what do you say?” I poked him with one toe. “Were you lying? Or do you love me?”
He struggled to raise his head. “That’s not funny.”
I opened my door, looking out in the street. The boy who had fetched the bowstrings was standing not far from my door, eager for my sign. I nodded, and he whistled, calling his two friends out from their hiding places under a blanket in the corner of the room.
I turned back to Samson. “There are men here, Samson! The Philistines are upon you!”
He pushed against the bowstrings, one small pulse, and they fell from his ankles, wrists and neck. Standing without effort, his mouth was set in a hard line. The boys cowered when they saw his size in such close quarters. He did not even glance at them.
“I don’t care if you test my strength. But don’t test me. Don’t make me try to prove what I feel.”
“I don’t need to! I know what you feel for me.” I spat the words at his feet. He was a fool to think I would want him after he lied to me.
The boys crept like kittens toward the door, and ran.
“I don’t think you do. I don’t think any man has ever loved you like I do.”
I crossed the distance to him and raised one hand to slap him into silence, but he caught my hand and then caught me around the waist, lifting me off the ground so that my toes grazed the earth and nothing else.
But of what happened then, I will say nothing except this: I did not need to feel the ground anymore. I knew only Samson and thought nothing else of this earth.
MOTHER
Samson had returned. The men were shouting, and the children running about squealing, and the women talking behind their hands. Only Samson could inspire such simultaneous delight and scorn.
Samson had returned to us in the spring, just before Passover. He looked terrible, my beautiful son, with dark circles under his eyes, and fat covering his ribs where once only muscle had been. That woman had been cruel to him, I could tell, and what she was feeding him was an injustice. She had no idea how to care for a man.
He did not knock on our front door but opened it and strode in. I tried to conceal my hard breathing, so he would not know I had been at the window, watching.
He entered our home as if it were still his and, coming to me first, gave me a kiss on the cheek. I was sitting next to Manoah, who was eating at our table. Manoah tried to stand, and I saw his legs shaking. Samson rested a hand on his shoulder, pushing him gently to remain seated.
“When do we roast the lamb?” Samson smiled, as if today was a cheerful day.
I replied. “It is not a celebration. It is a memorial. That we were spared the wrath of God.”
Samson nodded, not listening. He sat beside Manoah to tell him news from the territories.
I stepped back, tears stinging, as I pressed my lips together, unwilling to display any emotion. He was home, my son. He was still a judge among our people and still chosen by God to deliver us. It was enough, for today, to dwell on these truths. Truths, and not circumstances, because the two did not match at all.
I was already losing Manoah, a little bit more every week. All my strength as a woman, as a mother, was gone. I could not bear another moment of loss.
I forced a smile and set two bowls on the table.
“I will fix you both some curds. And I will roast the lamb. It is good to have you home, Samson.”
DELILAH
The game continued. Samson did not find it fun. But I had caught a scent, like a lioness stranded and hungry. I couldn’t help what I wanted. If he didn’t understand that, his god would. Maybe his god even knew which I desired more: a life with Samson, or life through Samson’s death. A life of immense power. I had no thoughts for what I would do with it. Only the certainty that it might protect me from pain. Immense wealth, immense power, might be enough.
I wrinkled my nose, considering the choices. Samson had been talking. I blinked my eyes and tried to pay attention to him. He was leaning against my legs as I sat working my loom. I did not know what I was making.
“I can protect you without telling you my secret. I can overpower any enemy of you
rs.”
Songs of the harvest girls made me lift my head and pause to listen. The women had a hard life here. Maybe everywhere. I did not know. Their hands would be calloused and dry when I saw them in the market, and they would hold their backs in their soreness. And when they finally stopped the harvest, it was time to process all their bounty. Pickling, pressing, fermenting, spicing, stewing, roasting.
“If we didn’t have to eat, life would be easier,” I said to Samson.
“Without food, there is no energy for love.”
“Again, life would be easier.”
He turned around to face me, ready for another argument.
“Don’t worry, Samson. I know what you want. That, at least, is no secret.”
He stood, not even looking at me now. He walked toward the door. I picked up an empty spindle and threw it at him, hitting him right in the back between his shoulder blades.
“You have made a fool of me! You lied to me!” I screamed.
He didn’t turn back. A red welt was already showing itself. “I’m trying to protect you, Delilah, from yourself.”
“Don’t come back!” I screamed again. He opened the door, and I saw neighbors outside, peering in with interest.
He paused, his back to me. “If anyone ties me securely with new ropes that have never been used, I’ll become as weak as any other man. Think about what you will do with this knowledge.”
He did not return that night. I sat alone on the roof, watching the fires in the village as families cooked their meat, mothers laughing as children chased each other under the stars. The harvest was almost over. Soon there would be a feast, and after that, for all of them, even the women after their work was done, a rest. A long, quiet rest. Like death. Or sleep without faces that disturbed the dreamer.
Samson returned the next morning, stinking of new wine but not women. That surprised me. He collapsed onto my pallet below and was soon snoring, his face to the wall. He did not take off his sandals.
He might have told me the truth. He might expect to be taken away, or murdered right there, and a man would want to die with dignity. A man of any culture would want to die with his sandals and tunic.
The ropes rested in a woven basket by the door. I had sent for them last night. I slid silently to them, lifting them up in the cool, soft air. They did not scratch like old ropes; they still smelled of the fields and were green as meadow snakes, coiling around my arms, fresh and alive.
This time was different. This time, Lord Galenos had sent his own guards to be hidden on my roof. Even Lord Galenos knew Samson would lie to me the first time, that he should not waste real men on my first attempt. I had not been sure. I still did not understand the ways of men and their secrets.
I tied him up. He was drunk and asleep, and that made my task harder, not easier.
When his feet were bound, I moved to his wrists, and when his wrists were bound, I leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.
He murmured my name.
I sat back on my haunches, looking at him.
Deliverance was always offered to the wrong people.
“Samson, the Philistines are upon you!”
At my cue, Lord Galenos’s men stormed down the ladder from the roof. I counted four of them before Samson burst up from behind me, shaking off the ropes. He ripped the sword from the first man and drove an elbow into his throat. The second man was already swinging his sword, and Samson brought the first man’s sword around, plunging it into the second man’s abdomen. Philistine swords were made for cutting on both sides; now I understood why they were esteemed.
What happened to the other two men I cannot say. I hid behind my tunic while men fell dead in my quiet, cool home. Blood pooled and ran toward me, circling me, my toes growing sticky and hot.
Samson said nothing. He dragged the bodies into the street and returned with straw, laying it across the red stains.
“I’m hungry.”
I stood there, unmoving. I was not even breathing.
I pointed to his face. A smear of blood, rested on his cheek, the same cheek I had kissed, the same cheek that had made me reconsider what I was doing.
He frowned, not understanding.
“You have … something … there.” I pointed again.
He smiled, happy to know the answer, and wiped his face with his tunic. It was stained red, too, but he did not seem to see it. He did not see blood. He did not see death. What he saw, when he moved against the Philistines, I did not know. It was a mystery—a holy mystery perhaps—known only to him and his god.
He extended a hand to me. “Let’s go to the market.”
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 stopp
ed 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.
Desired: The Untold Story of Samson and Delilah (Lost Loves of the Bible) Page 24