MOTHER
Three thousand men went out to find Samson. Manoah was not with them. He had left the meeting pale and shaken, going home and staying inside.
“Go,” he had whispered to me, his voice cracked and hoarse.
“I’ve never traveled anywhere without you!”
Manoah just shook his head, a tear rolling down his cheek.
The men walked for two days, and I rode my donkey behind them, keeping my distance. On the second night, we had arrived at the sharp, cold place of Etam, where rocks grew more than trees or anything green. It was a place you could not farm, could not build upon, and most of all, it was a place you did not want to fight in. The rocks that stacked one upon the other, higher and higher, leading into cold dark caves—these rocks had no soft places, no safe place to fall.
“Samson!” the village elder called out, raising his walking stick, as if he were Moses and doing some great thing. I spat behind my palm, so no one would see me.
From the dark mouth of a cave, my son emerged. He was thinner and looked tired. I ducked behind a rock to watch. I could not shame Samson. If he saw me, he would feel shame. But perhaps, if I was not here, he would rise up in his strength and become the man I wanted him to be.
“What do you want from me?” Samson called back, his hands on his hips. He was still a big man, an imposing bird of prey above us.
“What have you done to us? Are we not your brothers, your family, your tribe?”
Samson turned to go back in his cave. Good boy. These men were not brothers or family. Not to my son.
“Stop! You know the Philistines rule over us! Now you’ve stirred them up! A thousand of them march, even now, toward our people.”
Samson shrugged, his back to them.
The elder slammed his stick against the ground. The echo ricocheted through the rocks.
Samson turned. “As they did to me, I did to them.”
The men grumbled and shook their heads. His answer did not please them.
“My son,” the elder began.
I made fists with my hands when he used those words. When Manoah recovered, he would be angry at this arrogance.
“My son, come down. Don’t make this worse for your family, or for us. We have come here to bind you and deliver you to the Philistine army. As you can see, there is no escape. We are three thousand strong.”
Samson watched them without fear. Then, slowly, he raised one finger, one small concession. “Swear to me you will not try to kill me.”
“He is afraid.” The men were talking.
“He should be.”
The men murmured and snickered. How they had hungered for this moment all their lives, their chance to wound their healer, to crush their savior! But I saw the truth, even if they did not. Samson was going to spare them. He wanted an oath, so that he would not have to rise against his own people and spill their blood too. I loved my son. He gave me hope, and my heart revived.
The elder spoke. “We will not harm you. We vow only to tie you up and deliver you. Any man who dares to strike you will be cut off from our people.”
The warning sent a chill through the men. I saw their backs stiffen and hands drop to their sides. Samson was not worth dying for.
All I wanted right then was to be gone, with Samson, to be back at home with Manoah and a full meal and stories and jokes. I wanted peace. I wanted a type of death, a hiding from all that we were called to do. I wanted my son and nothing else.
Ropes were passed up to the front, new ropes from a sparrow-wort shrub, a shrub that thrived in the desert, the one spot of life where there was little else. Samson hopped from stone ledge to ledge, descending with grace and speed like a gazelle. He smiled broadly as the men tied him under the watchful eye of the elder.
My son was a captive. They led him east to the hill country. We stopped in Lehi about two hours later. I stayed in the back, unwilling to be seen, covering my head, but not my face, with my shawl. He had not seen me.
My son, bound in ropes like an animal, was going to be delivered to the Philistines. They would surely kill him. Surrounded by three thousand Hebrew men and facing one thousand Philistines, what could I do but pray?
I prayed with such ferocity that I was sure would rend the heavens open. Every muscle, every bone, ached with the urgency of calling upon my God, my great and mighty God. This was the moment to act. This was the doom only He could save us from.
And do you know what God did? The mighty God who parted seas and sent plagues and struck down traitors where they stood?
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
DELILAH
As Tanis entered, I was sitting up on the couch, cleaned for the first time in two weeks. The room still stank. The servants could not mask the smell of this place. I made no move as she entered, gave no sign of what hid in my heart.
She watched me for a moment, pulling in her lower lip between her teeth, then sat beside me. She had dark circles under her eyes, as if the last few weeks had not been easy for her either.
The only living thought in my mind was the approaching moment of her death. And then I would work to destroy this place. I would pull down everything, as far as the eye could see. I saw my final death, a great flash that made me shudder and turn away. I saw stones falling as I, too, fell through the air.
Tanis threw her arms around me then, comforting me with little noises. I did not resist. I kept my eyes open, though, staring at the floor.
“What you saw—”
I bit at her, making her jump in fear. A servant grabbed me, forcing me face down onto the couch as I kicked. I thrashed and screamed, but she screamed louder until I heard what she said.
“Your child is not there!”
My lungs burned. I could not draw air through the blanket smothering my face. The servant, mistaking this for weakness, pressed my arms harder together, pinning them behind my back, allowing me to rise slightly for air.
I stared at Tanis, watching the vein in her neck pulse with life, the silent rhythm making me wet my lips. Her hand went to her neck, as if by instinct. I looked up at her face.
“Your child is not there. She is not dead, Delilah.”
I laughed. I remembered that name. I had been a girl once, hadn’t I? Before this room, before those awful, stupid ewes, I had been a girl once named Delilah, a girl nobody loved. She was gone now.
“How did you find that door, Delilah?”
I cocked my head. Why did she use that name again and again? Did she not see?
“Who showed you that gutter?”
“I found it myself.”
Tanis slapped me. I gasped from the fresh sting, but the look of sorrow on her face was unnecessary. I was grateful for the shock of pain. I felt something. I had not felt anything in so long.
“I do not want to hurt you, Delilah. But you must tell me the truth. Who showed you that gutter?”
“I found it myself.”
Tanis wiped her hands, disappointed. She knew I was lying. She stepped away from me, toward the door. “You have been in here too long. I miss you.”
She paused, watching me for some sign. I gave her nothing.
“Tomorrow, you will appear before Hannibal. Parisa is not your friend. You must tell him the truth.”
So she knew. She wanted me to betray Parisa, perhaps to get rid of her at last. Tanis wanted my loyalty, wanted me to take her side and tell the truth. But truth would save no one now.
MOTHER
The roar shook my feet as Samson was led into the Philistine camp at Lehi, the land of rolling hills and rocky soil. We had marched past wide clusters of dark green trees and polite rows of olive trees. The Philistines had probably picked them over for any remaining olives. We were past the harvest. Anything good that was going to come from the earth had already come. Only rains and winter remained for us.
We entered the camp, and men stood, cheering. They grabbed him roughly and shoved him, closing in around him, sealing him from me. The men of Judah fled, their work done. They pushed past me like little fish swimming fast in a group, blind and quick.
I hid myself. I would not let Samson’s body remain in this camp. If I had to drag it home myself, I would do it. There was a little grove of olive trees not far, and I hid myself there.
No sooner had I stolen into the comfort of the trees and let my tears fall, then a strange hum filled the air, like the sound of thousands of wings. A shimmering rose from among the thousand Philistines soldiers, and I knew what was happening. The power had come upon Samson. I clutched my tunic to my neck, holding my breath.
I heard those noises again, the same wet thumps and screams I had tried to forget from Ashkelon. I refused to look away. I had to know if my son would live, if perhaps he might reach out his hand at the moment of death and I could run to him and be reconciled. Even if they slew me next, I would do it.
But I waited a long time. The chaos, the running, the confused commands made no sense to me. All the fighting was in one spot, and the Philistine army was getting smaller, until at last I saw, in the clearing, a pile of bodies tall enough to build an altar on.
My son stood swinging a strange curved club at the men as they attacked. Samson took one or five down with every blow, blood spraying in all directions like a red storm burst loose on Lehi. I covered my ears with my hands so I wouldn’t hear the sounds of death. Yet I couldn’t look away. I had to know what happened, in case he needed me.
Even the strongest man might sometimes need his mother.
Samson worked for the entire day, eight hours perhaps. It took him that long, and he was fast. Finally, he threw down his club and shouted, “With the jawbone of an ass, I have slain one thousand Philistines!”
No one was alive to hear. I looked intently at the club. It was indeed a jawbone.
He was covered, dripping in blood. His hair dripped red, his arms and chest were red, his face was red. Even his teeth were red. If he had cut himself or tasted their blood, I did not know, but there was blood coming from his mouth. Only his eyes were white. And I was afraid, sorely afraid. My legs trembled, and I held onto a tree to remain standing. I did not know what he might do next. I was looking at a wild animal made angry by his kill and restless for more.
Then Samson collapsed. I hid deeper in the trees, and I heard him cry out.
“Lord, you gave me this deliverance! And now what? Should I die of thirst and let the uncircumcised people carry me away?”
The ground nearest me, the only clean place, began to sink. I watched in horror as the ground sank lower and a shadow passed over it. I looked down at my own feet, the ground beneath me, but it did not move. Still, I clung to a tree to be safe.
Water, clear and bubbling, rose up from the pit near Samson. He lifted his head, perhaps scenting the water on the wind. He crawled to the spot, over bodies, through red pools, kneeling at the water’s edge, lapping at it like a dog.
He looked up suddenly, those white eyes against that red face, looking straight into the trees, but he did not see me.
I breathed softly, praying that God would have mercy on my son and deliver our people some other way. All I could do now was pray. Silently, I unwrapped my arms from around the tree and took a careful step backward. I had to get home before my son knew I had witnessed this, too. I did not want to help him rob the bodies. I had seen enough death to last a lifetime.
DELILAH
I was led from my room the next morning, after a servant had combed my hair and changed my robes. I gave him no fight. He never reached for the dagger at his side. These eunuchs, though, are so weak. I could have taken it from him without much effort. The men here underestimate the power of a woman.
In the main hall, Hannibal sat on his chair, his face impassive. His own eunuchs stood behind him on either side. At his feet, assembled before him like an audience, were the women of the temple. Though I was one of them and served the same god, they all seemed to me to be strange, unblinking creatures of the night. Why would they destroy the work of a god if they pledged to honor him?
As I entered, the women parted, making room for me to approach Hannibal. I looked them in the eye, one by one—Tanis, Parisa, Rose, and the others. The others looked shocked by my appearance. I had lost all the fat around my hips and stomach, and I knew my hair was thinning out. Clumps of it came out with every brushing.
Before Hannibal, I bowed, then squared my shoulders, waiting for him to speak.
“When Delilah was in great grief, someone took her to the roof of the temple and showed her what was hidden in the gutter. Who among us would do that?”
No one moved.
“I will not tolerate cruelty.” He extended his hand, and the eunuch to his right placed in it a whip. “One of you will have to remain robed tonight.”
I heard the women behind me exhale in fear. Lashes were reserved for slaves. The marks might not fade, no matter how long the robe was worn.
Tanis stepped forward, coming to my side. She bowed before Hannibal. “I did it.”
I reacted sharply, my body jerking away from her, unwilling to even touch her by accident.
“Liar!” Parisa shouted.
“If you must punish someone, punish me. I am guilty.” Tanis acted as if she had not heard Parisa.
Parisa pushed me aside and grabbed Tanis by the shoulders. “What are you doing?”
“You couldn’t have meant to hurt her,” Tanis answered. “It must have been an accident. Punish me, Hannibal.”
Hannibal stood. “I will neither punish Tanis nor banish you, Parisa. That is what you wanted?”
Parisa let go of Tanis but did not step back. Instead, she drew a breath and spat in Tanis’s face before walking out. As she turned, our eyes met, and I saw a flash of something odd, a feeling I did not think she was capable of. Parisa looked sad. Defeated, perhaps.
But as fast as it surfaced, it left, and she winked at me, a cold smile in place once more.
Hannibal dismissed the women, encouraging them to return to their preparations for the evening services. He then motioned for me to remain, and Tanis as well. Tanis raised her arm as if to put it around me, but I stepped away, glaring at her.
“Why did you defend her?” I did not sound angry, but Tanis frowned, worried. I wanted the truth. Was this what worried her?
“Parisa would love to be banished, Delilah. She thinks Lord Marcos would divorce his wife, and he would be hers.”
“If she doesn’t want to be here, let her go.”
“I can’t. She has no future outside of this temple. Lord Marcos doesn’t want to buy her as a wife. Even if she were to get her freedom, she would die on the streets, in disgrace.”
“So you’re going to keep her here, no matter what she does to anyone else.”
“Until she realizes that we only want what’s best, yes.”
“When Tanis brought you in, you had suffered so much already,” Hannibal interrupted. “I thought you understood the ways of men. I did not know you would cause such trouble.”
“Me?” I couldn’t help my voice sounding shrill.
“You know at least how women should please men, that this is how Dagon is honored. What did you think we did with the fruit of these celebrations? No one wants to care for another man’s child. Life is good, but when life is unwanted, we have every right, a duty even, to end it. It’s the only way to prevent suffering. Are you so blind?”
Tanis stepped in front of me, shielding me from his impatience.
“No!” He insisted. “How much time have we wasted already, waiting on her? You asked me to wait for the birth, and I did. You asked me to wait until she recovered, and I did. How long must I wait now, for her to understand?”
“She will understand, and she will serve.” Tanis used a soothing, reasonable tone, as if she was not speaking words of madness.
“She will never serve like the others. I’ve held my patience for your sake. But you saw how she reacted to the birth, and how that stirred all the women. What if everyone reacted this way? The temple would have to shut its doors!”
Tanis looked at me, dipping her chin as if to implore me to speak in my own defense. I shook my head.
She held a hand up at Hannibal, requesting his silence, before addressing me.
“You have nowhere else to go. You know that.”
I watched her and moved not a muscle, not a bone. She stepped closer to me, still holding her hand up at Hannibal.
“If I tell you where your daughter is, will you do as I say?”
My heart beat faster, but I did nothing to show it. “What is your request?”
“Stop feeling everything so deeply, as if everything that happens to you is a great tragedy. We all suffer here. But we can pass our years in peace, if you will promise to trust me.”
I thought of the scales at the markets, of how some were weighted to cheat the buyer. A hungry buyer had no way to test them, and he had no choice but to eat. His mind saw the trap, but his hunger pushed him on.
I had to know. That was my hunger.
“I promise.”
Tanis gently rested her hands on my shoulders. “Your daughter is not dead.”
“Where is she?”
Tanis frowned; I watched the lines along her forehead gather and bunch into a knot. She glanced back at Hannibal.
“I will not cause anymore trouble. I just want to know.”
“An important man in our city has a wife who is barren. She has sought the help of the temple, sent sacrifices, paid for healings, begged us for a way to open her womb,” Tanis said softly.
“And you could not.”
“Dagon chose not to.” Hannibal’s voice as sharp as if he had been insulted.
Tanis shook her head. “Your daughter is in the home of a very wealthy man and his wife. She will be loved and well cared for. But you will never see her again, and she will never know of your existence.”
My knees went out, and Tanis caught me. I tried to stand quickly; Hannibal was rolling his eyes at me. I was causing too much trouble. I had come here a frightened, grateful girl, but the birth had changed me. He did not like who I had become.
I pushed her back and stood straight. “I should eat something. I have work to do.” I looked up and stared hard, right into Hannibal’s eyes. He nodded his approval.
A servant brought me food. I ate without tasting it. I forced it down my throat. I would not let Hannibal know the deep wound ripped open in my belly again, the incurable sadness of the condemned. My daughter would be loved, but not by me.
She was better off without me. Everyone was.
MOTHER
I returned from Lehi by night—not a safe thing to do for anyone, especially a woman. My heart beat wildly, and I often had to stop and press my hand against it, willing it to slow down. I heard footsteps behind me many times, and the coarse breathing of a beast.
Samson was following me. I had done this to him, brought this curse upon him, his destiny to hunt and kill. He was angry with me. He stalked me like I was the animal. I fled, faster and faster, frightened of his wrath.
I slid into my home with an anguished cry of relief and found Manoah sleeping on his pallet downstairs. This was good. It was normal for us, and how I needed normal again! I was never so grateful to remove my tunic and lie down beside him, covering myself with his blanket. He was warm and I was so tired from my journey, from my life and my son.
In the darkness, I noticed that his breathing was labored. I should have left him with bitter herbs or made an offering for healing before I left.
I rested my head on his chest. “I should not have gone. I should have stayed with you.”
He reached for me and rested a warm, strong hand on my side. “The Lord is good.”
I had not known he was awake. “How is that an answer?” I chided him gently. He needed to sleep.
“How is it not?”
With that, he went back to his sleeping. I laid awake for the remainder of the hours, daring myself to believe this again. Daring myself to believe in a God that watched His chosen one slaughter so many—slaughter until his beard ran red—a God that offered no comfort to a weary, confused mother, or to a wife terrified that her husband was dying.