Delilah: A Novel

by Edghill, India

  “For if you will not obey me when I tell you to let men travel the roads in peace, there is no other word I wish to say to you. I wish only to tend my fields as my wife tends her garden.” That had been his final avowal to Enoch and his fierce band when they had run eagerly to Samson’s farm, ready to claim him once again as their true leader.

  “It is that Philistine woman who weakens your heart, when it should be strong against our enemies.” Beriah, vixen among the Foxes, slid her hand over the hilt of the dagger strapped against her hip. She stared at Aylah, who gazed back unflinching.

  Samson put his arm around Aylah’s shoulders. “Speak soft words to my wife, or do not speak at all. Now leave my land and my house, and do not return until you will obey my orders as you always swear you long to do. And if I see any of you hunting on this road that runs past my dooryard, I shall slay you myself.”

  The Foxes had slunk away in anger and in doubt. Many cast slantwise glances back at Samson. Beriah hissed to Enoch, “The Philistine bewitches him. Free of her . . .” That was all Orev heard before the Foxes slipped past him, into the small orchard behind the farmhouse.

  He repeated the words to Samson and to Aylah, who looked at each other; Samson smiled and shook his head, and Aylah shrugged. “What they say is of no importance,” she said. “My husband’s father and his mother do not like me either, but I cannot change the hearts and minds of others.”

  Samson put his arm around Aylah’s waist and spread his hand over her rounding belly. “They don’t like you because they don’t know you. When our child is born, my mother will come running soon enough, and she will learn to value you as I do.”

  “Yes,” Aylah said, and reached up to lay her hand against Samson’s cheek. “All will be as it should be. Now I must go to my own work, or you will have no dinner.”

  Orev followed Aylah through the house, out to the oven and the fire pit behind the kitchen. “You are troubled,” he said. “Do you know anything that would be better shared?”

  She did not protest, or claim herself at peace with all the world. Instead, she gathered up the meat wrapped in palm leaves and laid it on the bed of smoldering coals at the bottom of the fire pit. For a moment she stared down at the waiting fire. “Yes, I am troubled, Orev. Samson thinks everyone as good as he is—and as sensible. But men are not good or sensible. And I know how bitterly his people resent me, as if I had stolen him from them.” She turned and looked at Orev. “How much longer do you think either his people or mine will permit us to live in peace?”

  Orev wished he could lie, could sing up a comforting tale of patience and long happy years. “I don’t know.”

  “Not long, I think,” Aylah said. She touched her fingers to her thickened waist; her eyes seemed to stare into a future only she could understand.

  “Aylah—” Orev began, only to be interrupted as she swung around, pulling off her veil and flapping it at the yellow dog that had followed Samson home one day and now—with her brood of half-grown pups—guarded the farmyard.

  “Get out of there! Leave that alone, you silly dog! Stop her, Orev, before she burns her paws.”

  “If she does, she’ll stop,” Orev pointed out. By the time he’d helped Aylah chivy the dogs out of the kitchen-yard, stamped out burning leaves, and salvaged what remained of the meat, the sense of foreboding had lifted. Surely, when enough time had passed, both the Hebrews and the Five Cities would see that Samson was neither hero nor danger.

  In time, Samson and his wife would dwell in peace with their children and, in the fullness of years, with their children’s children.

  And no man shall remember the names of Samson, the farmer, and Aylah, his wife.

  And that was as it should be.

  And that was how it was, for a time. Samson settled easily into a farmer’s life, traded the highborn mules for a flock of sheep and another of goats. As if trying to repay with sweetness now the pain that would come, the seasons turned, and a year after her marriage to Samson, Aylah brought forth a daughter—her labor so easy that the midwife Samson had brought muttered of witchcraft. Aylah laughed. “No witchcraft, old mother, but Our Lady’s blessing. Give me my daughter.”

  Like any new mother, Aylah forgot what she had paid in long months of waiting and hours of pain when she cradled her infant in her arms. And like any new father, Samson marveled at the strength of his newborn daughter’s grasp.

  When the child was seven days old, Samson told Aylah and Orev that he would travel to Zorah, to tell his parents the news.

  “And to bring them back with me, that they may name the child. So have all ready to greet them—and do not do the work yourself, my wife. Rest, and hire girls from the village to cook and clean.”

  “As if those girls would do anything right, except giggle,” Aylah said as she and Orev watched Samson walk away down the road. Once Samson was out of sight, she kissed the top of her daughter’s head and set her in a sheepskin-lined basket. “Watch her for me, Orev. I have work to do. And don’t tell Samson I did the cooking. Someone must do it, after all. I don’t want his parents thinking he has married a useless wife.”

  Samson had left the farm in Aylah’s competent charge before—and relied, as both Samson and Aylah assured him, on Orev to protect her and the land from danger. Orev accepted this as the meaningless kindness it was; a lame harper would deter no one. On the other hand, the mere sight of Ari and the dogs dozing in the dooryard of the farmhouse often sent even peaceful travelers circling far to avoid passing the gate. Appearance is all, for the lion is far gentler than sweet-faced Aylah!

  Never before had there been trouble when Samson went away, to find a lost calf or lamb, or to aid someone in building a house or a wall or a well. Orev had no real reason to think this time would be any different. Only an unease of spirit, caused, he supposed, by the malice the Foxes had not hesitated to display, disturbed him.

  And unease of spirit, however troubling, was not a true warning. Orev soothed his mind by telling himself that Samson would be gone for only three days. He could not tell if Aylah worried; her face was always smooth as cream. Aylah tended her babe, and Orev practiced a half-formed song. Ari slept in the sun, flat against the hot earth, a living carpet. Two days passed in that tranquil fashion.

  Then the Foxes returned, accompanied by other bands of men who believed as the first Foxes did: that force would win the prize they sought.

  As predators do, the Foxes appeared at sunset. Orev had been lazing by the door into the house—“Pretending to practice your new song, but really waiting for me to let you rock the baby to sleep,” Aylah had said and smiled, and carried the fussing infant into the house to feed her. With great effort, Ari had roused himself and padded after her, hopeful; the lion knew Aylah was the giver-of-food.

  Orev smiled and set his harp aside. The evening was too calm, too beautiful, to waste on any task, however worthy. Clear blue light shadowed the land, deepened as the sun fell lower into the west. Streaks of red and gold stretched out from the setting sun until the western sky blazed fleeting glory. Shadows darkened . . .

  And moved. Beneath the trees of the orchard, along the road past the farm, men lurked. And as the light dimmed, the shadowed men moved forward, towards the farmhouse. The farm dogs began to bark, warning of intruders. As the first came close enough for him to see their faces, Orev recognized Enoch and Ichavod. The Foxes. This is not good. Orev pushed himself to his feet and called Aylah’s name.

  The urgency in his voice brought Aylah swiftly to the doorway, the babe still sucking at her breast. She looked past Orev, and drew in her breath sharply.

  “Let me speak to them,” Orev said, and Aylah nodded and pulled her veil over her daughter, as if to hide her from evil eyes.

  But it was too late for calm words; the Foxes hunted.

  “Keep your mouth closed, harper,” Enoch said. “There is nothing you can say that we wish to hear.”

  “We have come to burn away the wickedness that holds Samson in bondage,�
� Ichavod declared, then turned and beckoned, and flames blossomed against the shadows. Torches.

  Orev reached out and grasped Aylah’s arm. “Come,” he said, and began leading her away from the house, hoping to circle around the pack of men converging upon it. Aylah followed, sure-footed and graceful, and for a dozen steps Orev thought he had succeeded. Let them burn the house; Samson would rebuild.

  Then Aylah stopped, and Orev found himself facing a dozen men—and Beriah. “Leave now, harper, and live,” Beriah said. “This”—she gestured at Aylah—“this evil must die, that her spells die with her.”

  “If you touch her, Samson will surely slay you all.” Orev kept his voice steady, hoping quiet sense would sway those who had come to kill.

  Beriah only laughed, mocking him. “Samson is not here to interfere. We only do what is right. We will free him from this sorcery.”

  How did they know Samson was gone? Orev looked past Beriah, saw Terach, the boy who yearned to sing great songs. “You, Terach—is this the deed you wish to honor with your harp and your voice? How a band of armed men slew one woman and her babe?”

  Terach stared and opened his mouth as if to speak; Beriah shoved him back with her elbow. “Don’t listen to him, Terach; he’s tainted with her corruption. You have a choice, harper—leave or die with her.”

  Orev had never thought himself a brave man; pain was a faithful companion, not an honor he had sought. But now he heard himself saying, “I will not leave her. Either let us pass or you must murder one of your own people, as well as Samson’s wife and child.”

  He put his arm around Aylah’s waist and began to walk away, and for three steps, all was silence. Orev dared hope his calm words had won their lives, soothed the Foxes’ anger. He did not see which man hurled the stone out of the darkness. He only felt the pain as the stone hit, pain that made him stagger against Aylah, his weight pushing her forward. And that was all it took to turn the waiting men into a huge mindless beast. A beast with but one urge.

  To kill.

  Never afterward was Orev truly sure what had happened, or how. He remembered Aylah thrusting her child at him, and brutal hands tearing the infant away. He remembered blows that sent him to the ground, remembered clinging to the earth as the mob rushed past, carrying Aylah and the child along with it. He remembered the smell of smoke and the sound of fire eating walls and roof.

  He did not remember hearing Aylah scream. He told Samson, later, that he thought she and the child had been killed before the house burned around them.

  But he was never sure, and to the last night of his life, he dreamed of Aylah dancing in fire hotter than the sun.

  When he roused enough to look upon the world again, night had passed and gray dawn revealed what the Foxes had done. The house had burned, and the fields that lay beyond it. The orchard had not burned. But there was little else left.

  The farm dogs had fled, but Ari had not. The lion lay sprawled flat upon the earth before the house, and even from where he sat, Orev saw that dried blood stained the beast’s golden coat. Orev struggled to his feet and hobbled over to the lion’s body. Flies rose buzzing from the spear wounds in the lion’s side and from the gash across the great beast’s throat. But fat and lazy though he had been, Ari had done his best to guard Samson’s home. Bloody cloth and a strip of flesh remained trapped in the lion’s closed jaws. Orev hoped that Ari had fatally injured at least one of the Foxes. He stooped and set his hand on the lion’s mane, then forced himself to turn to the house.

  All that remained was a smoldering pile of ash and charred wood. He knew he would find nothing—did not wish to find anything. But he also knew he must look. The roof had burned away and the walls fallen in; Orev supposed the house in which she had been so content served well as Aylah’s funeral pyre. He refused to think of the child, so small and soft and golden. The daughter went with her mother. That is what they both would have wanted.

  Samson will return. Samson will avenge this wickedness. Samson will— Orev found himself weeping. Some deeds could never truly be avenged. And when Samson returned, Orev would have to tell him what had happened, and see the light die in Samson’s eyes. Orev did not know if he could endure that. But he knew, also, that he must. He owed it to Aylah and her unnamed daughter. And to Samson himself.

  And to the Foxes. Yes, Samson will repay their evil deeds.

  Even that thought did not comfort him. But it gave him a reason to endure, and to face Samson without shame or guilt.

  That would have to be enough. Later, Orev knew, he would find himself twisting words, creating a new tale out of this grief. Because I am a harper, and all harpers weave songs out of all that happens for good or for ill. But I will sing that song later. Not now. Later. Much later.

  Delilah

  After Derceto told me that my heart-sister and her daughter were dead, and how they had died, I sat in my room as if my body had turned to stone. I did not move even when Nikkal came to comfort me; when she put her arms around me, I felt nothing. I could think only that Aylah had foreseen this, had warned me. And that I had done nothing to save her from the cruel fate she had suffered.

  “Delilah?” Nikkal stroked my cheek, smoothed back my hair. “Delilah, speak, weep, anything. You must—”

  “There is nothing I must do now.” My words fell cold into the air between us. “I did not act when I could have saved her. Now it is too late.”

  “Delilah, you are not Atargatis Herself, to say what will and what will not happen. I know how you loved Aylah, but—”

  But I ceased to listen. I did not wish to hear Aylah, my heart-sister, spoken of as if she no longer existed. Worse, as if she had never lived. Oh, Aylah, I love you still. One does not cease to love just because the loved one dies.

  I do not know how long Nikkal remained, trying to console me. Nor do I know how I came to be in my bed, but when I awoke, I lay beneath a soft wool blanket, and one of the Temple maidservants stroked my face with cool rose-scented water. Beyond her stood a plump man in a robe of white linen spotted with red; a cap covered his hair, and from that cap red leather lappets dangled, framing a round face that seemed oddly ageless. A wide leather collar hid his neck. I could not imagine who or what he was until I felt movement as a warm weight upon my legs shifted. A moment later I found myself staring into soft brown eyes. The dog sniffed my mouth, then turned to look at the waiting priest.

  “Ah, she wakes. Milchienzeek’s mercy is boundless.” The priest smiled and motioned with his fingers; the little dog curled up in the curve of my arm and began to lick my chin, quick warm strokes of its soft pink tongue.

  So someone—perhaps the High Priestess herself, for had she not sent her own wine to ease my pain?—had been concerned enough to send for one of Milchienzeek’s dogs to aid me. A consort of the god Dagon, the goddess Milchienzeek was patroness of healers; dogs belonged to Milchienzeek, for She had created them, incarnate vessels of divine love. Her temple was small, compared to those of other gods, but Milchienzeek and Her Thousand Dogs were well-loved.

  Although all dogs belonged to Milchienzeek, those bred by her temple were the most precious to Her. Small sleek animals, white as cloud save for their soft ears, which were red as new copper, the temple dogs had healed many when all else had failed. Milchienzeek’s priests refused no one who begged aid of Her dogs for any illness of body or of mind.

  I supposed Derceto had meant only kindness in sending to Milchienzeek—but did she truly think even a goddess’s dog would make me forget that Aylah lay dead, and her child with her? I closed my eyes and said, “I am well. Leave me now, both of you.”

  A pause, then the little sounds of the maidservant gathering her bowl and clothes, of the dog-priest turning away. I lay still as stone, realizing only when I heard the whisper of air as the curtain fell over the doorway that the dog remained at my side.

  The dog ceased licking my cheek and began to nudge me with its cool damp nose. When I did not move, the nudges became more insistent. I opened my
eyes and began to push the little animal away; refusing to be rejected, the dog ducked under my hand and pressed against me, licking my fingers.

  To force the dog from me, I set my hands upon its sleek body. I intended to lift it off my bed and set it upon the floor, but the dog gazed at me with brown eyes filled with such compassion I could think only that the last time I had seen such loving eyes had been when I said good-bye to Aylah in the Grove at Sorek.

  No. When she said farewell to me. “Be happy, Delilah—”

  My heart had been stone since the moment Derceto told me of Aylah’s death. Now that stone shattered into a thousand blade-keen shards; at last I wept, long and silently, as Milchienzeek’s dog huddled against me and licked the hot salt tears from my face.

  Samson

  Since Orev could think of nothing else to do, he took his harp and his walking-stick and left the still smoldering ruin of Samson’s farm. He walked north, on the road to Zorah. He did not hurry; what need? At noon, he met Samson and his parents walking south.

  When Orev saw them, he stopped and waited as Samson strode towards him. Orev had rehearsed many ways in which to tell Samson that his farm had been destroyed, his animals killed, his wife and new-born daughter murdered. Now he saw he need say nothing. His face and revealed all Samson needed to know.

  “I’m sorry.” Orev’s voice came out hoarse as a true raven’s.

  Samson said nothing; he ran past Orev, heading to what had been home only a day ago. Orev, Manoah, and Tsipporah were left to follow, as Orev slowly told Samson’s parents they would never see their first grandchild, and why.

  By the time Orev and his parents arrived at the ruined farm, Samson was staring at the pile of charred wood and clay that had been the farmhouse. His hands and arms were dark with ash. He stood silent as Orev told him what had come to pass at the farm in Timnath. Orev spoke quickly and plainly, as if that would lessen the pain. The quiet broken by the warning barks of the farm dogs. Orev leading Aylah and the babe through the encircling Foxes. “I thought we would walk safe away. Then someone threw a stone. And then—”