Garrett - Desired: The Untold Story of Samson and Delilah

DESIRED

Published by David C Cook

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David C Cook Distribution Canada

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David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications

Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England

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The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resource to you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of David C Cook, nor do we vouch for their content.

This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

Scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from the King James Version of the Bible. (Public Domain.) Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version, NIV. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.

LCCN 2011934293

ISBN 978-1-4347-6800-1

eISBN 978-0-7814-0789-2

2011 Ginger Garrett

The author is represented by MacGregor Literary

The Team: Terry Behimer, Nicci Hubert, Amy Kiechlin, Caitlyn York, Karen Athen

Cover Design: DogEared Design, Kirk DouPonce

Cover Photo: iStockPhoto

First Edition 2011

For Ashley

Contents

AfterWords

PROLOGUE

MOTHER

I am not going to tell you my name.

I stood face-to-face with an angel of God, and after that, I could not remember my own name for days. When I die, there will only be one name on my lips. It will not be my own.

I will tell you of Samson, my son. One last tale, to be my mitzvah, my righteous deed, a true tale in this false world. I will tell my story, and his. I will speak for the dead.

I will tell you of men and angels, of sons and sorrows. I will tell you of the courage required to wait upon a silent God. I will tell you of the strongest man to ever walk the earth, and of what proved mightier than his strength. For the strength of a man cannot save anyone, not even himself.

But come. The hour is later than you know, and even now, in death, I must share my son with others. Do not tarry with them long. Come to me as quickly as you can.

I will begin my story with a tale about breasts, where all good tales probably begin.

PART ONE

BRIDE OF FIRE

AMARA

Late spring in the Philistine city of Timnah, near the Mediterranean Sea

Mother and Father sat in the doorway, drinking bowls of wine and greeting passersby. The entire Philistine city of Timnah was wandering about. No work had been done. We celebrated the first sight of the Pleiades stars in the heavens, marking the beginning of the wheat harvest season. Everyone in Timnah owned a field, whether it be large or small. Timnah was famous throughout the Valley of Sorek for our grapes, olives, and barley, but most especially our wheat. Our wheat proved so soft that when ground, little leavening was needed. We claimed that the wheat was so light, it lifted itself. Everything grown here in the valley was good. We loved the land and the land loved us, yielding herself up, giving us happy lives and full stomachs.

Many marriages had taken place today. Not proper marriages of property, like the ones my father would someday arrange for Astra and me. These were marriages of men to men, marriages that were said to be the ultimate test of manhood. I did not argue their reasoningthe belief that one man could be so virile, even another man would desire him. My people had always honored passion in whatever form it took. We understood that men married other men for prestige. Men married women for labor and children.

Some men, like my father, had no interest in proving their manhood. He contented himself with my mother. We still loved Father a great deal. He had to prove nothing to us. I didnt even feel sorry for my mother; thats how much he loved us. She must have envied other wives, whose husbands took men in marriage and earned respect at the city gates. But whatever envy or discontent she suffered, she kept it well hidden in her heart.

Father sat in the doorway, happy to watch the festivities from a distance, laughing at the drunk jugglers and leering at the temple dancers. He drank wine and popped fat, glossy olives into his mouth while Mother rubbed his shoulders. A male servant belonging to a neighbor rushed up to us, displaying his wedding ring, a virgins blush on his face. Mother hugged him, warning him not to be late to the market tomorrow morning. He winked and pranced off. Father rolled his eyes and plunged his hand into the olive bowl, spearing an olive on the end of his index finger. He removed it and placed it on his ring finger, with an exaggerated sigh of wistfulness. Mother punched him on the shoulder as Astra and I giggled.

Dagons temple, which was only a two-hour walk from here, would be busy later tonight. After all the children had been put to bed and the lamps extinguished, and the newlyweds had drawn the curtains around their beds, the long-married and the still-single men would all find themselves on the same road, with the same thought in their minds.

Dagons temple offered beautiful temple prostitutes of many ages. Men would prostrate themselves at the feet of Dagon, that great god of the fields, and then prostitutes would descend the cold stone steps and become Dagon to those men. In Dagons name, they would make love to the men and release them of all their fears and concerns. The Philistine men were quite devout; none of them ever wanted to miss a temple service.

Of course, I had never been allowed at the temple to see such sights. What little I knew came from Astra, who had ears that always heard the most delectable pieces of gossip and lore. She had a gift for secrets. Though two years younger than me, she knew much more. Her hair was longer than mine, and darker, and her face more alluring, with almond-shaped eyes and a full, pink mouth. She had many gifts I did not, I suppose. I was not unpleasant to look at, but I was ordinary.

I lifted my face to the moon and let her bathe my unremarkable face. A shiver of anticipation went through me. The night, illuminated by moon and fire, woke strange new desires.

While the men worshipped, the wives left at home would drink too much wine and eat all the raisins before collapsing into bed with stained tunics. Children would creep from their pallets and rush out into the streets to play until dawn. We loved the festivals, which were always dictated by the planting seasons. We celebrated when it was time to plant, and begged Dagon for a good harvest, and we celebrated when it was time to harvest, and begged Dagon for good prices at market.

My father stood to leave, and my mother kissed him good-bye before announcing she would go to bed early this evening. I begged permission, and received it, for Astra and me to flee to the rooftop and spend the evening there. We had pallets on the roof for just such nights, but we did not sleep. As soon as we settled in, I walked to stand near the edge of the roof, raising my arms to welcome the night.

Had my mother ever felt as I did right then, my breath roaring in my ears like a lion, my heart racing as I stood on our roof, surveying the city? The wind moved beneath my tunic, lifting the fabric to float out between my arms like the wings of a butterfly. I was weightless and soft. I could pretend to be beautiful, fresh, powerful. Someday, perhaps, a man would notice when I walked past; I would hear his sharp intake of breath, catch the furtive second glance. In his eyes, I would see that I had truly become beautiful, and my beauty would make him afraid. Astra already had this effect on men.