I realize that I usually start with a story or poem, and then have some random commentary; but this week we're going backwards.
I wrote this story when I got stuck in the middle of Murder In the Ferns. The best thing I've found to get unstuck has been to write something completely different, and this short story is very, very different. Most repeat readers will already know that I play fast and loose with facts when I rewrite stories, and some may know that I have a tendency to veer off into not-entirely-safe-for-work. So here is a story that does both. Don't say I didn't warn you.
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She almost could have been afraid of Samson. If he held his arm out straight, she could walk underneath it without ducking her head, and when he embraced her, she couldn’t touch her hands together behind his back. Could have, but the moment she met him, his face broke into grin that left her unable to breathe in or out.
But that dizzying swoon into physical affection, the brush of his lips against hers, the weight of his head in her lap; all of it was interrupted when five men appeared at her door. These were no ordinary men, but the rulers of her people. It was midday and Samson was not home. She seated the men on the best of her cushions, plying them with honey and raisins.
“Did you know,” said Gaza as he settled, “that this man is a Jew?”
“Yes, sir,” Delilah looked at the floor, “He is a Nazarite.” He had some odd habits because of it; wouldn’t drink alcohol and was so picky with his diet she could barely stand to cook for him.
“So you’ve heard he killed a lion with his bare hands?” Ashkelon looked at her dubiously, “Delilah, some of the strong are foolish, but this man used his strength to fool us, crafting a riddle that only he knew the answer to.”
A lion? No, that was ridiculous, an exaggeration. It had to be. “He never told me that,” she shook her head.
“Then there was the fox incident,” Ashdod shifted in place, “he tied torches to their tails and had them run through the fields burning the grain.”
“He has killed many Philistines,” Ekron’s face was grave.
“Slips out of his bonds like he’s an ox tied with spiderwebs,” added Gath.
In the ensuing hubbub of anecdotes, Delilah felt as if she too had been mortally wounded. Was it true that the man who shared her bed was a murderer? What was to stop him from killing her neighbors, her friends, or even her if it suited him?
Gaza held up his hand to silence the others. “As far as we can ascertain, he has only one weakness,” he lowered his tone until Delilah had to strain to hear him, “That weakness is . . . his lovers.”
—
“Was it true?” Delilah asked herself silently. She thought of the way he looked at her, the mixture of adoration and desire in eyes. Was that real, or was it what she saw because she wanted that affection so badly? And it wasn’t just affection that she needed. Samson provided everything from the food she ate to the clothes on her back. Knowing her dependency, the rulers pledged to support her after Samson was captured.
The door opened. “If I can do it,” she whispered.
Samson ducked under the door frame, stopping on the threshold to remove his sandals. He sank into the cushion, pulling his garment away from his sticky skin, “Hot out today.”
“Yes,” she carried a bowl of water and a cloth, kneeling at his feet. “Samson,” she dipped the cloth in water, wringing the excess back into the bowl, “how is it that you are as strong as ten men?”
“Well Love, I shot the king of all deer with a bow and arrow, and he granted me the might of his horns,” Samson pet her head as she washed his feet.
“If that is true,” she chose her words carefully, “then how could someone subdue you?”
“Very simply,” he grinned, pulling her into his lap, “If I were to be tied with seven fresh bowstrings, my strength would be that of a natural man.”
—
There was some quibbling about who had to provide more than one bowstring. Finally, it was decided that Gaza and Ekron would bring two, the other three rulers bringing one fresh, undried bowstring. They hid around the room, like children playing hide-and-go-seek; one in a cabinet, one in a basket, one stuffed in pillows and blankets.
Sensing her hesitation, Gaza reminded her as he ducked behind an urn, “A thousand Philistines, Delilah, murdered with the jawbone of a donkey.”
Samson threw the door open just as the last ruler ducked out of sight, “How are you feeling today?”
“Still nauseous,” she picked up the bowl and cloth.
“Let me do that,” he unstrapped his sandals then took the bowl from her. She watched him wash his feet, eat, and settle down in his bed. Once she was certain he was asleep, she took out the bowstrings and bound his ankles and wrists with them.
With a sudden sense of regret, she called out to him, “Samson, the Philistines are upon you!”
He sat up groggily, snapping his bonds off as he rose, “Delilah, what is this?”
The hurt in his eyes increased her misgivings. “It’s not true, is it? That you’ve killed over a thousand of my people?” she sat on the ground, her legs suddenly weak beneath her, “How could you hate us so much and then lay down beside me?”
He rubbed his eyes, “Do we really have to talk about this now? You know I’m no good when I’m tired.”
“Yes, we do, Samson. You lied to me about the bowstrings. What else is a lie? How do I know you really love me?” All of it was true, and as the tears pricked her eyes, she suddenly remembered the five rulers squeezed into awkward positions in the room. “Let them be uncomfortable,” she thought, “They are the ones who brought this grief before me.”
“If I tell you how I can be tied, will you let me sleep?” he was annoyed with her, she could tell by the sharp lines of his jaw, “And no more yelling about Philistines in the middle of the night.”
“I guess that would make me feel better,” she wasn’t sure it would. He hadn’t answered her about the murders and the question hung in the air between them.
“Tie me with new ropes that have never been used,” he lay back down, “but I swear, if you do that tonight, there will be another dead Philistine.”
The threat was clear, and she slept restlessly.
—
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| Source: https://pixabay.com/en/beauty-sculpture-statue-art-3234213/ |
Ashkelon brought her new ropes the next day. She took them from him, “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“I-“ Ashkelon started.
“I’ll tie him up,” Delilah interrupted, “but alone. If it works, then you can come get him, but really . . .” She let out a long sigh, “I think he’s playing with me.”
“Your countrymen owe you a debt of gratitude,” Ashkelon bobbed his head and and turned on his heel. She waited for him to leave before leaving her doorway and retching in the drainage trench. Her health had continued to be poor, the heat of the day leaving her feeling drained and too ill to eat.
In her dreams, she died with Samson, her own well-being inexplicably tied to his fate. If he were bound, she would be overcome with weakness. If he was taken captive, she would become so ill, she couldn’t leave her home. Her subconscious accepted her poor health as the consequence of betraying him, no matter how many he had killed, he would be the first death by her hand.
—
Samson shook her awake, dangling a frayed length of rope over her, “Again? When will you give up this nonsense?”
“When you tell me the truth,” Delilah rubbed her eyes. The dim light of dawn smoothed Samson's expression into softer lines, and she ran a hand across the fullness of his cheek, “Are you what they say you are?”
“Those men and their wagging tongues,” Samson waved dismissively, “You should pay them no mind.”
“But you have lied to me, twice now,” Delilah pointed at the frayed edge of the rope.
“Don’t be angry with me, Love,” he leaned over her and bent to kiss her. Delilah squirmed away from him. He could keep himself company with his trickery instead of laying in her arms. “Don’t be like that,” he sat up, his body stiffening, “Fine, weave my plaits into the fabric on the loom, and I will be as weak as any other man.”
She looked up at him, “So this is what you choose.” In a strange way, she almost admired his stubborn refusal to admit the murders of her people to her. He still cared what she thought of him, still wanted her affection. Her heart softened to him, and with it her body. She climbed into his lap, petting his arms, feeling his muscles knot under under fingers like new ropes.
He pulled her down onto their bed, his mouth seeking hers, his hands fumbling with her robes, his hips urgent against hers. The warm pressure of him made time seem to blur, the rush of pleasure shaking her out of her somnolence. Samson lay curled around her, his braided hair fanning out around his head like a corona. She counted the braids as she wove them into her loom, “One, two, three . . .” Why he needed more than one had puzzled her. His hair wasn’t that thick. “Four, five, six . . .” She wove them into the fabric, “Seven.” Tightened the pin. “Samson,” she called out, “the Philistines are upon you!”
He jumped to his feet, pulling the loom off-kilter and shaking himself free. The loom hit the ground with a clatter, the pin shooting across the room like an arrow loosed from its bow. “Again you trouble me this way?” Samson stomped out the door.
“Where are you going?” Delilah followed him to the threshold.
“Somewhere where I can sleep without weird things happening to me,” he took a step forward, then glanced behind him, “We will talk about this tomorrow.”
—
“I don’t know,” Samson looked at her, and she realized he was telling the truth for once. He had no idea how someone might subdue him. “And if I knew, I surely wouldn’t tell you. I have no desire to be at the mercy of the Philistines.”
“Why do you have seven braids?” Delilah was so weary, that she no longer even cared about finding the truth, “I mean, why not one or maybe two? Or none. None is good.”
“Seven is the perfect number and I am a Nazarite. A razor must never touch my head,” he picked a piece of thread out of one of plaits.
“What would happen if it did?” Delilah tried to imagine Samson bald and failed.
“I would have broken my vows. That’s serious.”
The loom worked slowly in her head, the shuttle going back and forth until the thought had fully formed. If she shaved his head, if he broke his vows to Yalweh, surely his strength would trickle away like water from a broken urn. She would send for them tomorrow; Gaza, Ashkelon, Ashdod, Ekron, and Gath. No longer would the Philistines have to live in terror.
—
That night, Delilah put Samson to sleep in her lap, smoothing his brow like a mother soothing her child. Once she was sure he was in a deep sleep, she cut his braids as close to the scalp as possible before shaving his head. Last of all, she bound his wrists and ankles with an old rope. “Samson,” her voice came out in a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again, “Samson, the Philistines are upon you!”
He shook the sleep off himself and tried to rise. Flopping to the ground like a fish out of water, he writhed there until Gaza, Ashkelon, and Ashdod picked him up. Ekron held the door and they proceeded out of the house trailed by Gath.
And that was the end of it.
—
Except it wasn’t. Two months later, Gaza completed his preparations for a sacrifice of thanksgiving to Dagon and Delilah found herself standing in the excited throng, her ankles swelling in the heat. Dagon himself was inside the temple, where only the priests were allowed. As they made their offerings, smoke trickled out through the pillars. Someone in the crowd started the chant, and it was taken up by an ever increasing number of people, “Send out Samson! Send out Samson!” He emerged, a tiny figure shackled in bronze, guided by a servant.
Delilah squinted, then leaned close to the woman next to her, “Why does he hold that man’s hand?”
“They gouged out his eyes,” the woman turned her attention back to Samson. Delilah cringed and she imagined the child inside her curling around itself, turning its back to the display in front of her.
“What,” yelled Samson, “is weaker than man, yet can steal his strength?”
There was a hubbub of voices as the riddle was repeated throughout the crowd to those who didn’t hear.
“A woman!” someone called out. Laughter rippled through the crowd, and even Samson himself grinned in appreciation.
“Good answer, but not the right one,” he turned to his servant, “Can you move me against a pillar, so I can lean against it as I speak? I’m a bit tired.”
The servant led him over to one of the central pillars of the temple. Samson leaned against it, “No one? The answer is ‘hair.’” As he said the final word, he pushed his weight backwards against the pillar. The pillar fell inwards, hitting the opposite support column. With two pillars transferring their load to the remaining supports, the temple suffered a catastrophic failure, each pillar toppling in turn. The crowd panicked, backing away from the building. Only Delilah stood where she was, too amazed to move. “Hair grows back, Gath,” she couldn’t believe it, but it must be true. They had shackled him, but they had neglected to continue shaving his head.
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