Read Online Desired: The Untold Story of Samson and Delilah (Lost Loves of the Bible) by Ginger Garrett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ginger Garrett
Tags: Fiction, History, Temple, lion, Delilah, more to come from marketing, honey, Samson, Philistines
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sundown I folded my arms and looked at Samson. “Well?”
He shrugged. “What?”
That was how we began the week of the Feast of Tabernacles. We had no bond. We had a truce. Our people were celebrating, though the harvest had been lean. Still, they danced and sang, late into the night, every night for seven days. On the morning of the eighth day, Manoah had departed for Timnah.
I pleaded with Samson to run after him, to stop him.
He pressed his hands to his forehead. “Stop nagging me!”
“I’ll stop nagging you when I stop loving you. They go together.”
My neighbors, the people of the village, even Syvah, young enough that her waist still curved, were bloated and sleepy from the feasting. Only I looked thinner.
“Are you well?” some asked. I wiped tears away, nodding in the direction of my son. He turned away and made new conversation, wherever he was.
But by the end of that day, two evenings after the feast’s end, I sat on a high rock as the sun set, watching Samson in the fields. Manoah had not yet returned. Samson and his cousins amused themselves with the other young men from the village, the same way they had every year since Samson’s strength was discovered. Syvah’s sons, Kaleb and Liam, hitched up two oxen to a plough, then they hitched Samson to one that sat in a trench parallel to the oxen team. With a loud cry, Kaleb signaled the start of the race. Liam drove the oxen hard, lashing them with his voice and his whip. Samson lowered his head and grimaced, charging forward.
I could not help myself. I yelled out his name, urging him to victory. My son was not going to lose to a couple of oxen.
Beyond him, the sun was setting, washed in pale orange. Clouds floated on the horizon, soaked in yellow. Samson won, and there was time for one more race before the sun washed away. Samson reversed direction, and Kaleb and Liam turned the oxen team. I could hear much yelling and laughter from my perch.
Other mothers watched too, though they kept their distance. I pressed my lips together. No matter.
In the morning, we would begin plowing the fields. We had to sow seed after that, each of us. Next winter’s bread started tomorrow. But after the plowing and the sowing, came the rest. Our labors would be done until the spring. The air around me had turned cooler, another reminder that the year had flown by.
I watched my son, muscles straining under the yoke, dust blowing back behind him as he tore up the earth. Though this was the season of celebration, my joy in the harvest was bittersweet, as every year is when you have a child at home. The turning of the seasons reminded me that time was passing. My son was no longer a child, but if I closed my eyes I could still believe that I might again cradle him as a child in my arms. He was young and soft in my mind, a tender boy who hid behind my legs and cried when I refused to cut his hair.
The children’s laughter made me open my eyes again, but Samson was not among the laughing children. He was sitting by himself, watching the children run, witnessing their delight at being set loose to play at last in the fields with no worries of damaged grain. Samson turned to me and smiled. I nodded back, grateful he was no closer. When he looked away, I wiped the tears from my eyes.
His cousins and the other young men from the village were making a bonfire. They all talked to each other with intensity, sharing their petty secrets and jokes.
I looked back at the horizon. The sun was sinking away, its last brilliant burst of orange illuminating the lingering clouds. The day had passed. Time had passed. All that remained now was deepest night and the long watch for dawn.
AMARA
Fall’s gentle sun did not last. Her gold empire evaporated into white clouds and morning mists. Winter was coming fast. We worked late into the night, every night, putting up the last of the harvest, pulling out the olives and grapes and wheat kernels that split during the walk home. We
He shrugged. “What?”
That was how we began the week of the Feast of Tabernacles. We had no bond. We had a truce. Our people were celebrating, though the harvest had been lean. Still, they danced and sang, late into the night, every night for seven days. On the morning of the eighth day, Manoah had departed for Timnah.
I pleaded with Samson to run after him, to stop him.
He pressed his hands to his forehead. “Stop nagging me!”
“I’ll stop nagging you when I stop loving you. They go together.”
My neighbors, the people of the village, even Syvah, young enough that her waist still curved, were bloated and sleepy from the feasting. Only I looked thinner.
“Are you well?” some asked. I wiped tears away, nodding in the direction of my son. He turned away and made new conversation, wherever he was.
But by the end of that day, two evenings after the feast’s end, I sat on a high rock as the sun set, watching Samson in the fields. Manoah had not yet returned. Samson and his cousins amused themselves with the other young men from the village, the same way they had every year since Samson’s strength was discovered. Syvah’s sons, Kaleb and Liam, hitched up two oxen to a plough, then they hitched Samson to one that sat in a trench parallel to the oxen team. With a loud cry, Kaleb signaled the start of the race. Liam drove the oxen hard, lashing them with his voice and his whip. Samson lowered his head and grimaced, charging forward.
I could not help myself. I yelled out his name, urging him to victory. My son was not going to lose to a couple of oxen.
Beyond him, the sun was setting, washed in pale orange. Clouds floated on the horizon, soaked in yellow. Samson won, and there was time for one more race before the sun washed away. Samson reversed direction, and Kaleb and Liam turned the oxen team. I could hear much yelling and laughter from my perch.
Other mothers watched too, though they kept their distance. I pressed my lips together. No matter.
In the morning, we would begin plowing the fields. We had to sow seed after that, each of us. Next winter’s bread started tomorrow. But after the plowing and the sowing, came the rest. Our labors would be done until the spring. The air around me had turned cooler, another reminder that the year had flown by.
I watched my son, muscles straining under the yoke, dust blowing back behind him as he tore up the earth. Though this was the season of celebration, my joy in the harvest was bittersweet, as every year is when you have a child at home. The turning of the seasons reminded me that time was passing. My son was no longer a child, but if I closed my eyes I could still believe that I might again cradle him as a child in my arms. He was young and soft in my mind, a tender boy who hid behind my legs and cried when I refused to cut his hair.
The children’s laughter made me open my eyes again, but Samson was not among the laughing children. He was sitting by himself, watching the children run, witnessing their delight at being set loose to play at last in the fields with no worries of damaged grain. Samson turned to me and smiled. I nodded back, grateful he was no closer. When he looked away, I wiped the tears from my eyes.
His cousins and the other young men from the village were making a bonfire. They all talked to each other with intensity, sharing their petty secrets and jokes.
I looked back at the horizon. The sun was sinking away, its last brilliant burst of orange illuminating the lingering clouds. The day had passed. Time had passed. All that remained now was deepest night and the long watch for dawn.
AMARA
Fall’s gentle sun did not last. Her gold empire evaporated into white clouds and morning mists. Winter was coming fast. We worked late into the night, every night, putting up the last of the harvest, pulling out the olives and grapes and wheat kernels that split during the walk home. We
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