A Small Betrayal

A Small Betrayal
by Anne Brooke

He told us tales of flame and angels, his eyes glowing with unknown memories. Whilst he talked, the fires at the market-place at Timnah burned low and my mother gathered up the pots, ready for washing them in river water. She did not ask me for help, taking only my sister. I would not have heeded her. My eyes were filled with the stranger. A tall man, muscular, he wore his dark hair long, down to his waist. As he talked, he moved his hands, spinning words out of nothing, and his hair shimmered in the firelight’s dying glow.

I moved around the edges of the gathering, and watched his face and the faces of the men as they leant forward to hear him. After dark, women did not walk in the market-place, but as I kept in the shadow of the trading kilns, nobody saw me. Now and again though, the sharp-eyed stranger caught me watching and smiled, but I looked away. Since last harvest, I had become wiser. Besides, if my father noticed me admiring a man, he might beat me, if he could think of something other than riches. I had to be careful.

From time to time, the breeze brought the man’s voice to me: “I am forbidden to touch fermented drink” and “My hair is sacred to Yahweh” and, later, “It was my mother who first heard the messenger speak, but it was my father, Manoah, who prepared the sacrifice for burning.”

I found it hard not to laugh. Everyone knew belief in one god was foolishness and a story for children. For if it were true that this god looked after his wandering tribe, why did he allow my father’s people to rule over them as we did? But it was not my place to speak and, besides, I did not want to mock a guest.

After a while, I crept away, intending to help my mother and sister and wrapping my cloak around me for warmth. In the morning the man would be gone and there would be no more stories. As I made my way through the darkness, I heard shouts and laughter as the company broke up. I had left just in time. Who knew what might have happened if anyone had seen me? With a shiver, I quickened my pace through the olive groves, wondering where our visitor would sleep tonight.

“Peace to you.”

At the unexpected voice, I swung round, my heart beating fast. In front of me, the shadows of night and tall grasses coalesced into a solid form.

“May peace be with you,” the stranger spoke again and I felt my face grow red.

“S-sir,” I stammered. “You have lost your way and I …”

“No. I meant this to be. Yahweh wishes it.”

As he spoke, the night owls screeched a warning but I did not understand them. The man moved towards me one step, then two, until I could smell the strange herbs clinging to his skin and hair. I did not try to run. He took hold of my hand and my breath caught in my throat.

“What is your name?” he said and I told him. Then lulled by the touch of his fingers, I smiled.

“What is yours?” I asked him.

“Samson of the tribe of Dan,” he said.

We walked together past the goats and through the groves for what seemed like only a few moments. He asked about my family and my life, and I whispered my answers to him, although there was no-one to overhear. All the while he held my hand and I felt as if nothing could ever harm me again. I had no fear of anything, not even the young lions which pad across the valley and through our vineyards. Surely this man would destroy them if they dared to attack? Clouds drifted over the moon and bats swung on air, and I wanted to stay with Samson forever. But I knew my mother would wake the whole city to find me. So I withdrew my hand from his, praying for his kindness.

“I must go, sir. My mother …”

“So soon?” He took my hand again.

“Yes. We should not be alone here. We …”

“Hush, I understand.” His fingers stroked my hair and I closed my eyes with sudden pleasure. So different from anything I had known before. Again, the scent of herbs, and then the lightest of touches on my lips. I gasped, but before I opened my eyes, he’d already drawn back.

“Yes,” he said. “It is best if you go now. I … I would not trust myself. But I will come back for you. I swear it on Yahweh’s name.”

* * *



* * *

All winter, I dreamed of him, and each night I lingered at the city’s edge, wondering when he would return. The children laughed at me whenever the men were absent, but I didn’t care. They thought I was mad to long so much for a stranger, and perhaps I was. But I knew I could no more stop myself from longing than the sun could stop rising over the distant Hills of Judah each morning.

My mother and sister soon noticed. One evening, about a month after Samson’s departure, my mother spoke to me while we were at the river.

“Little one,” she said. “Your mind is elsewhere. Are your thoughts for sharing?”

Squatting back on my haunches, I stared at her in the gloom. “How much do you know?”

“Only what your sister and I have guessed at. As much as the children see and perhaps more. As much as anyone may see into another’s heart.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“Perhaps.” She flung out her rich cloak behind her and sat next to me. “But tell me, do you think of Samson, son of Manoah?”

In the darkness, I remembered another time and place, and was glad she could not see. The song of the river grew louder in my heart. “Yes.”

“Then you are a fool, my child. You are not for him. His people have no land but you are a prince’s daughter.”

“Some may have no land, yet still be royal.”

“No, Samson’s people do not mate with ours. This dreaming is nothing but the wind. You will make a better match; your father will see to it. But sometimes I wonder if … but no matter.”

Her unspoken question hung in the air between us, but she rose and gathered up her cloak.

Under my breath, I whispered, “But my father can never match my heart.”

But only the wind heard me.

* * *

When the spring came, he swept back into Timnah from the hill country with all the passion of a young lion stalking its prey. With him he brought his parents, his father nearly as tall as he but grey-bearded, and his mother small with eyes as bright as a deer. She watched me and seemed gladdened by what she saw. Not so his father. Perhaps it was the secret Samson carried with him which burned at his father’s heart. For he did carry a secret, something strange and wonderful which hung about him like the scent of grapes at harvest-time. Perhaps it was the first time in his life that Samson had kept something from his parents, and he told no-one what it was. Not then.

At first he did not come to me and I wondered if he had remembered our evening together, or if other women, other scenes, had intervened between then and now. But I was wrong. He paused only to speak to my father and to bring him many gifts of wine, animal skins and exotic herbs. While he did so, and my father grunted with pleasure at the richness of the offering, Manoah looked on, silent.

When at last Samson stood in front of me, I drank in the wild excitement of seeing him after so long, his strength and strange beauty.

“I am here,” he said, and that was all he needed to say.

I smiled at him, my heart fizzing with happiness. “You have not cut your hair.”

“No, it is forbidden. It is the source of my power and the sign of Yahweh’s blessing. Without it, I would be nothing.”

“You would never be that to me.”

For a moment I wondered what he might say to my boldness, but his eyes glittered and held no accusations.

And so in the middle of the people, in the place where I was born and where I would one day die, we were betrothed. As closely as if we had already followed the rituals of my people and I had become his. There was no need for further words; the bond which possessed us was so strong.

We had one month. One month of walking together whilst the fruitful land stretched before us, almost as far as the eye could see, promising everything but saying nothing. One month of laughing, talking, longing to be as one, although a part of me feared it. And all the while he kept his one secret from me. Whatever mystery he’d brought with him, hugging it to himself like a warm cloak in winter, he did not tell me. Although I longed to ask.

And all around us, the people of Timnah made preparation for the wedding feast. My father sent messages to every corner of our land, my mother and sister baked breads and sweetmeats which filled the air with honeyed spices, the men painted their faces with henna, and in the kilns the women carved strange figures, male and female, invoking all our gods to make us fertile. Even the children sang songs about the splendours to come and danced in the streets, their feet showering small whirlwinds of dust into the air.

The sense of expectation caught me, and I forgot all the past, glorying only in each day’s joy. Sometimes, however, strange dreams would scar my mind but to forget them I rose early, spending many mornings bathing in the river, cleansing my body with rose oil and washing my face in the first dews. I combed my hair until it shone and was as soft as a new-burn’s skin. But it could not be as soft and rich as my beloved’s hair. How I longed to be with him, to touch him and be touched without fear.

And slowly, so slowly, the first day of our wedding feast drew near.

* * *

“My son is Yahweh’s chosen one,” Manoah said. “He is not for you.”

I had heard his footsteps long before he appeared behind me at the water’s edge, his anger bristling through cool air. Instead of facing him at once, I remained squatting, the river lapping at my fingers. Whatever he said now, I thought, his words would be carried by the swift current far away, for all things pass. Even this.

Then, wondering what he knew, what he might somehow have discovered, I stood up. “Sir, your son has chosen me. That is what matters.”

He spat on the ground and wiped one hand over his mouth. “Our people do not marry with yours. We are the holy ones.”

I stared at him, my hands clenched into fists, and after a while he looked away.

“But Samson is a headstrong boy,” he continued. “He will not be denied.”

“No, sir.”

His eyes met mine and for a moment something in them flickered before the barrier came down again. “We will go through this wedding feast. For my son’s sake. And then let whatever Yahweh decrees take its course.”

As he left and my fingers unclenched, I knelt down on the earth, not knowing whether he meant his words for good or ill, and prayed to all our gods with wishes I could not name.

* * *



* * *

“Out of the eater, something to eat; out of the strong, something sweet.”

I heard my new husband’s laughter as he repeated the riddle at our celebrations but I could not share his happiness. At one end of the feasting hall, I could see Samson’s parents, their expressions puzzled, and knew that they did not have the answer. Next to them sat, drinking and smiling, the thirty or so young men whom my father had summoned to be my beloved’s groom companions. I wished that none of them were there. Even though when Samson had arrived with the morning light, I had blushed to see he brought no fellow-travellers with him, as was the custom amongst our people. My sister had mocked my public humiliation. When I cried and slapped her, even my father had lowered himself enough to drag us both to my mother and send for enough companions to satisfy all our honours. Would that he had not, for all our sakes. Now I tried to concentrate on the honeyed bread and rich meats in front of me, though I could taste nothing.

The young men were becoming rowdy. One of them, short and with a scar on his face which drew his mouth up into half a sneer, kept looking at me but each time my eyes met his I shivered and turned away.

It was he who spoke first in response to my husband’s riddle.

“And what will you give us if we guess this riddle, great Samson?” he said.

My father snorted and muttered something I couldn’t catch. And I too lowered my eyes. For such a question of gain and need brought shame to our company, a shame which my father could not challenge, coming as it did from a guest. The man who spoke knew this, although my beloved did not.

“You will never fathom it,” he said, taking my cold hand and pressing it to his lips. His touch gave me confidence and I smiled as he continued, “For it is a gift of Yahweh. But if you do, then … then I will give you linen garments and clothes enough for all your men.”

Such a prize was generous beyond dreaming and the men fell silent.

“But,” my husband went on. “But if you do not guess it in the seven days of our marriage feasting, then you must give the same again to me.”

The challenge hung in the air and for a moment the scarred man froze. His people could not afford such a loss, and the thought of his poverty brought me pleasure. But he just nodded once, smiled at his friends with the look of one who has already conquered, and the drinking began again.

* * *

For three days, my husband’s companions searched for the answer. There were muffled arguments at the corners of our streets and the sour smell of brooding. But Samson and I put such things to one side, as our thoughts were only for each other. Before our coupling, I had felt the knot of fear in my stomach, but there had been no need; for three days and nights, we lay entranced in each other’s arms, loving and being loved. I memorised every strand of his hair, a covering for our nakedness, the way he held me and cried out my name, the touch of his lips and fingers on my warm skin. I thought such joy would last forever.

On the fourth day, my love had left our room when the curtain was thrust aside and someone else entered our sacred place. I thought at first that Samson had returned, but the figure blocking the morning light was not so tall. When he crouched down and seized my arm, I knew him by the scar on his cheek. I tried to scream but his hand over my mouth muffled any sound.

“Stay quiet,” he whispered, his face close to mine, and I caught the glint of the knife at his belt. “Stay quiet like you did before or your face will not be so smooth when that husband of yours looks on it again.”

I nodded once and he smiled.

“Good. I wouldn’t have enjoyed ruining such beauty. Now listen to me. All of us called to be great Samson’s companions at this marriage celebration have sworn not to leave here poorer than when we came. Being forced to obey the click of your father’s fingers dishonours us enough. But we are not unreasonable; persuade your husband to explain the riddle and there will then be no need to burn you and all your father’s household until you are nothing but ashes and memory. Believe me, we would do it. And there will also be no need to tell your noble husband what happened last harvest in the vineyards of Sorek; if he knew, he would despise your treachery, you little whore. Do you understand?”

With his last question, he gripped both my arms and shook me.

“Yes,” I said, my words a trickle of water. “Yes, I understand.”

“Then do what I say. Soon.”

And then he was gone, leaving me shaking with sobs, wishing I had done more than scar his cheek last year and filled with dread for the outcome of whichever choice I made.

* * *

“So tell me, my love, for we should have no secrets from each other. What is the answer to your riddle?”

Even as I spoke the words, I trembled, as, of course, there had been no choice. What man of any race would take as a wife a woman conquered by another? I was lying, naked, arms stretched out, knowing he had had his fill of me, at least for a while. In the silence following my words, I opened my eyes and eased myself closer to him, running one finger down his face.

“Samson?”

He snatched my finger, laughing, and then kissed it. “And why do you want to know? I’ve told no-one the answer, not even my parents.”

“But I am your wife. Why should you hide it from me? Love should be enough to open your heart.”

He let go of my hand and rolled away.

“And love should also be enough to create trust between us,” he said, his eyes hard. “I thought we had such trust. Perhaps I was wrong.”

Only when he had walked outside did I give way to tears.

The joy began to leave us then. For the remaining three days of our feast, all I could see was what had been threatened; burning houses, the screams of my family and - what was far worse - Samson walking away from me when he knew what I had done haunted all my dreams. My face grew pale and I ate no food. I longed to tell my husband the secrets of my heart, but to do so would destroy myself and our happiness. So I continued to beg him for his answer without telling him why.

On the last day of the feast, wearied perhaps by my pleading, he told me everything.

* * *



* * *

At sunset, the men gathered in the market-place. My love laughed his scorn at those who would withstand him. I trembled to hear him.

“So, men of the Philistines,” he said, eyes sparkling like a young lion at the kill. “Shall I remove your garments from where you stand? I am ready.”

Silence followed his words, and I could have wished all my dishonour to be spirited away with the rising wind. But for me there was no miracle.

The man with the scar on his cheek stepped forward and the men behind him grouped together, feet scuffling on dry earth.

“There is nothing sweeter than honey, great sir,” he smiled. “And the lion is the mightiest of all beasts.”

For a long moment, Samson said nothing, and when he did speak his voice was as harsh as stone.

“You have ploughed with my heifer to win this game,” he said.

Behind him, I would have fallen if my sister had not reached out her hand to hold me. My husband turned and strode toward me, and the setting sun framed him like an angel or a god. Coming to me, he stopped and spat on the ground between us. I wanted to touch him, to make him see how much I loved him, but he shook me off as a man shakes off a bad memory. Then he walked away.

* * *

My mother held me as I sat in my marriage room, clothes torn and hands scrabbling for dust to drag through my hair. She held me as I sobbed out words beyond understanding and for which she never asked an explanation. She held me, rocking my body and whispering fruitless sounds of comfort, until my father came and dragged her outside. He brought with him the man I hated and spoke words to soothe his own humiliation.

“See, daughter, you will not be abandoned on such a day. Do not mourn for your husband. This man, one of our own people, has agreed to have you in his place and be a husband to you. Come, smile for him.”

And saying these things, he left me with my tormentor, who waited until my father’s footsteps had faded into the distance and until I had somehow brought my weeping under control.

Then he removed his cloak and pushed me onto the floor, at the same time opening his tunic and prising my legs apart.

“You are once again another man’s leavings,” he said. “From now on, I will treat you as such.”

* * *

Samson came back once to find out what might have happened to me. Perhaps I should have been stronger when he left, I should have trusted him as he taught me, but even trust can be stretched too far and I do not think such a man would have stayed with me if he had known everything.

Or perhaps if I had resisted my father or screamed when the man with the scar lay with me the second time, I might still have been safe. But I did not and when I think of what I became, this time for far longer, it twists my gut with an ache that cannot be soothed by honey.

So when he came back to claim me, all he found - again, although this time he knew it -was another man’s whore, and he strode away to take his vengeance with fire in our wheat fields and corn meadows, our vineyards and olive groves. Such fire as would burn a city to ashes. I remember my sister laughed when he had gone, saying she would willingly have been his, and no shame would ever have come to him through her. For such words, I slapped her face and later we fought like foxes until the women dragged us apart.

But there will be no more laughter now. The loss of the harvest has angered the people. They mutter in the corners of the market-place and the fire in their eyes burns against us who caused their devastation. They are coming, I know it, and this time not all my father’s greed and cunning can stop them. Fire will ravish our homes until everything we are or might have been is consumed and there will be nothing left.

I hear them. They are so near I can smell their rage, and the torches they carry flicker like dying stars in the night. This time they will take all my shame away. May no pain darken my beloved’s face when he knows what they have done, and let the cleansing flames purify all his onward journey. May he never know or feel what I have known and felt; such a prayer is worth a little death.

I am ready now.

* * *

Anne Brooke's fiction has been shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Novel Award, the Royal Literary Fund Awards and the Asham Award for Women Writers. She has also twice been the winner of the DSJT Charitable Trust Open Poetry Competition. Her latest book is Painting from Life, a short story about art, erotic obsession and the sea, and her latest novel is Maloney’s Law. Her work is represented by agent, John Jarrold, and she has a secret passion for birdwatching. More information can be found at www.annebrooke.com and she keeps a terrifyingly honest journal at http://annebrooke.blogspot.com.

What inspires you to write and keep writing?
I get inspiration for my work from the books and stories I read, the people I connect with and the things that I see. I'm particularly fascinated by bible stories and love making the women I meet there come alive in a different way. Another source of inspiration is my dream life - I've started two novels by dreaming the first scene of each! And the one major factor that keeps me writing is pure curiosity - I desperately need to know what happens next! - as I'm never really sure until I write it.