FOR SEVEN DAYS, YAGIL AND I DID NOT SPEAK—not to each other, not to ourselves, not to the wind. We woke, we worked, we picked at our food, we went to bed when the sun left us in darkness.
I think we both sensed that it felt wrong to utter trivial words while Samson suffered. So we went about our lives in silence, and when I lay down on my mattress, I turned my back to the spot where he once slept.
As for Yagil, he scarcely lived during those days. He did not go out to play; he did not hunt. Instead he sat beneath the terebinth tree by the well, his gaze fixed on the western road as if he could bring Samson back through the sheer force of will.
After the Philistines left, I cleaned up the bloody mess on the porch, burying Samson’s eyes next to the widow. I worked slowly, arms and legs and back moving woodenly while my heart pounded thick and heavy in my chest.
Over the following days I tried to practice our ordinary routines, but despair had moved into our home. The house was thick with it, and even the porch seemed shrouded with a gray fog of loss and anguish. I set out food, worked at the loom, and tended the animals. I didn’t fuss at Yagil for neglecting his chores in the flax field, but tended the plants myself. How could I chide him for mourning the man he loved?
I mourned too, but I was determined not to look back. So I carried on as usual, though sometimes I buried my face in Samson’s pillow and breathed in his scent, my throat aching. One night, desperate to know I had done the right thing, I lifted my voice and called on Adonai . . . but then a moment later rolled over and closed my eyes. Why should Samson’s God answer me? If Adonai really existed, if he was as powerful as Samson said, then I dared not address him. I had betrayed one of his judges, and loneliness was a small price to pay for so great a sin.
After a full week without Samson, Yagil stopped watching the road. His tongue loosened and he spoke, though he spoke of nothing important, and once again he left the house to go hunting with his slingshot.
He was sitting on the porch with me when a Philistine chariot pulled up to the well and a soldier in gleaming brass armor stepped down. He waved for my attention, then asked if he might come through the gate. I gave my permission, a bit warily, and the man walked toward me with a burlap bag over his shoulder.
“Greetings, Delilah of Sorek,” he said, his face a mask of cold dignity. “I bring a message from Lord Zaggi, ceren of Gaza.”
He handed me a sealed papyrus parchment. While Yagil stood pale and wide-eyed by my side, I broke the seal and hastily skimmed the words:
To Delilah at the Valley of Sorek, Greetings!
With the greatest pleasure I am writing to inform you that we have met all three of your conditions. You have been reinstated as the legal heir to the title and properties of Adinai the merchant. Though I am sorry to inform you that nothing remains of those properties, as his stepdaughter you will be considered a citizen of Gaza should you choose to live in the city.
We have spared Samson’s life, as you will see if you visit us.
And yesterday, at sunrise, we led the traitor Achish to the Temple of Dagon where he was publicly executed.
I trust you will be satisfied that we have honored the terms of our agreement. Long life and good fortune to you, lady!
When I had finished reading, the messenger pulled the burlap bag off his shoulder, opened it, and offered me a look. Curious, I peered inside and saw Achish’s head.
I blinked in astonished silence, then turned away, fell to my knees, and vomited.
“Mama?” Yagil placed his hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and nodded.
The soldier closed the bag. “Any response for Lord Zaggi?”
“No.” My voice broke in a rattling gurgle. “Just take that thing away.”
The man slung the bag over his shoulder, nodded and walked off. Within a few moments the chariot had turned and was on its way back to Gaza.
Feeling as though I’d aged ten years, on shaky legs I walked to Samson’s bench and sat. A sough of wind blew past me and vibrated the strings of my loom, creating a strangely musical moan.
I closed my eyes and waited for the dark surge of joy I had long anticipated. Achish was gone. The man who abused me and murdered my mother had finally been eliminated. I had waited years for this moment and sacrificed the love of my life for this victory. . . .
I sat motionless, head cocked, heart receptive, but felt nothing. Nothing changed in my surroundings; nothing shifted in my heart. Despair still hovered around us, and my son’s face was still tight with concern. I might have experienced a dark little pleasure if I’d been able to watch the execution—no, I would not. I had never been able to find joy in the sufferings of others.
Sighing, I stood, cupped my hand around Yagil’s cheek, and went back to my work.