Living Locks
by Stephen J. Wallace
“Are you sure you want me to poke out his other eye? He seems to be pretty subdued already,” I asked, wiping the egg white substance and blood from the sharp end of my prodding staff. Delilah didn’t say a word but slowly turned her head and glared. That look, the one I saw all those times he deceived her, showed that she disdained even receiving the question. In truth, I knew the answer before I asked. But I couldn’t continue without trying something, anything, to stop this wretched assignment. I know he was one of the enemies and had killed a lot of our people. Still, to see this once powerful man in this state caused even a callous creature like me—who lost his soul and any humanity long ago—to cringe.
Some said he was a demon and some said he was a god. They saw him do things no other human could do. He seemed to cause the very ground beneath him to quake with each step. And now he kneels, totally submissive, mumbling in some unknown tongue, strapped to the grinding mill like a beast being slapped and spat on.
Some said he was a demon and some said he was a god. They saw him do things no other human could do.
“Where’s your humor now, oh great one?” one of the men in my group belted out between slaps and spit. The others laughed. “Why don’t you tell us another one of your great riddles about how bees made a hive in the lion’s carcass and that’s how sweet comes from the strong. Well, you ain’t so sweet or strong now, are you?” He nudged the man next to him in the ribs and landed another kick on the leg of the pitiful creature in front of him.
Delilah stepped over to the kneeling blob and pushed the men aside who were kicking and taunting him. She bent over slightly as if surveying some dying animal that had been struck by a chariot. She reached out and tenderly placed her hand on the shaved head next to the mill stone. Just as I was beginning to wonder if the scene had affected even her, she cleared her throat, stood straight, turned, and started walking away, her white robe and golden lace dragging behind. As always, we watched her and continued looking at the door even after she exited, letting the moment linger in our minds.
Her voice came from the other room, interrupting our lustful thoughts. It was monotone, as if placing any routine order. “After you finish, bind and gag him and throw him back into the pit.” If the scene of her former lover lying like ruins from a once great temple had softened her at all, it had not lasted.
I exhaled loudly and steadied my prod with both hands. “Okay, you heard her. Hold him down and hold his eye open.”
His mumbling turned to screaming again as one of the men guided the sharp end of my prod into the spot in his skull. I pushed gently, feeling slight resistance as his body wiggled uselessly against the myriad of men holding every part of him still. His screams grew louder. Then with one final thrust using both hands, the initial resistance gave way, and the prodding staff moved a few inches before hitting something hard. Some of the men started laughing as the once great man screamed something I couldn’t understand. I relaxed my grip and pulled back the staff. I was finished, for now.
The screaming stopped and was eventually replaced by shaking and moaning from the now eyeless face. I waved my hand in a gesture to take him away. Hanun approached me as I scooted off my perch atop the grinding mill.
I handed him my prod. “Just get rid of it. I don’t want it anymore.”
He stood it up beside him and stared at it for a minute. His eyes seemed to track a drop of Samson’s blood still slowly tricking down the side.
“Do you want me to get rid of that too?” he asked, tilting his head toward the corner where Samson’s hair was braided and bunched.
“No, I’ll take care of that.”
“You sure?” Hanun asked. “I can just throw it on the fire with this.” He held out the staff.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said turning toward the pile of hair. He nodded and left.
I picked up the black, braided bands, seven in all, and placed them in my cart. I could have let Hanun destroy the hair, but something told me that I should save it. There was something different about it. Delilah told our leaders to try other things to weaken Sampson, like binding him with ropes, but nothing worked until we cut his hair.
I lifted the handles of the cart and started walking out. At the door, one of the Philistine leaders grabbed my shoulder. “What are you going to do with that?”
“Oh, heading to the fire. I was told to get rid of everything from that Nazirite.”
He let go of my shoulder. “Yes, make sure you do that.”
I wheeled the cart out the door in the direction of the fire, but after looking around and satisfying myself that no one of importance was watching, turned down the alley toward my house. My neighbor, Mitinti, who was always inquiring about other’s business was exiting his house. He saw me opening my door and holding it open with my foot, heaving the braids inside.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I slung the last braid inside. “Following orders. I was told not to discuss this with anyone,” I said dismissively.
He was nosy and gossipy, but he also realized that I held a special position as an aid to the leaders, and I assumed he would stay mum about anything the leaders deemed sensitive. He forced out a ‘hmm’, and walked on down the street.
Once inside, I bolted the door and stood for a moment with my back to it. I looked at the pile of hair. He was a totally different man after we cut it. Before, he was able to kill several of our men with nothing more than a donkey’s jawbone. They say he even killed a lion by himself, and there were other stories about his feats. Maybe they were exaggerations, but even if only some of them were true, there was definitely something about that hair. The man who possessed it was both despised and revered by our elders. He had the pick of our best women, ones who would never give me a second look, including the most beautiful of all, Delilah. I wondered how that felt.
He had the strength of many men. I saw that myself. I was one of the host of men waiting for him to come out of the house of the prostitute that morning. We thought that if we surprised him, and in a weakened state of being with her all night, that we could subdue him. But he tricked us, leaving her house in the middle of the night instead of in the morning. He flung the door open and even growled loudly as if awoken by a dream. We had locked the gate, but instead of breaking the lock, he lifted the gates out of the ground and carried them away from town. Something about that hair helped him, and I wondered if maybe, it could help me.
Something about that hair helped him, and I wondered if maybe, it could help me.
The next morning, I hid the braids in the cart under a tarp and headed to the nearby fields. I wasn’t going to leave the braids alone and take the chance that someone would find them still in my possession. I was looking for the Aleppo Pines; they have the best sap to make glue. I made it to the fields and found one that had sap on the outside of the trunk. I scraped it off and put it in a cup under the tarp in my cart. On the way home I hurried with the cart, busily rushing to avoid unnecessary conversations. However, I stopped at one spot on the way to rest for a minute. I felt something light on my arm, and slapped it, too late to realize it was a bee. I heard buzzing growing louder and noticed that beside me was a decaying lion’s carcass with a beehive inside. I recalled the riddle that that Samson told, the one we used to mock him when we were torturing him earlier. How does sweet come out of the strong? This was the answer. It was one of the ways that Delilah had betrayed him, getting him to tell her the answer, then telling it to our leaders. He lost that bet because of her betrayal. That’s why we cut his hair. She told us to do that too. That must have also been a betrayal. He never seemed to learn with her. But honestly, maybe no man could.
In the shared courtyard behind my house I melted the sap over a fire and mixed it with some charcoal to make a putty mixture. That evening, I took one of the wooly black braids of Samson’s hair and cut a few inches off the end. Then I rubbed the putty glue on the end of my hair in the back and attached the strands of hair that I had cut off Samson’s braid. The putty was black, my hair was black, and Samson’s hair was black, so I hoped that it wouldn’t be noticeable, though his hair was wooly and more curly than mine. I laid on my stomach and let the putty dry. My arm was throbbing from the bee sting, but I eventually went to sleep.
The next morning I woke up, face turned to the side. I rose and saw the tarp in the corner with the hair underneath. I sat up on my knees and looked where I had laid. There were only a few pieces of hair on the mat. I grabbed some of my hair from the back of my head and held it to the side. I felt the sticky sap and ran my fingers down the length of my hair. It was longer. It had worked. I had fused Samson’s hair with my own. Even more than that, the new extensions were even longer than the strands I had glued on. Not only had they fused with my hair, they had grown. They had become living locks.
I thought it was best to keep away from town so I decided to go back to the fields with the pines. I grabbed my cart and rolled it toward the door. I retraced my steps to the pines, walking as gently as I could but noticing that the ground felt like it sank slightly with each step. I looked at my arms and flexed them. They were definitely larger than yesterday. I looked down toward my feet but couldn’t see them because the outline of my chest was so much bigger. It was like I was a different person. I straightened my normally slightly hunched back and picked up my pace. I came upon a group of four men trying to upright a large, overturned chariot.
One of them looked up at me, panting like an exhausted dog with streams of sweat rolling down his face and arms. “Can you help us?”
I didn’t say a word. I motioned the guys aside with a hand wave. They parted as I stepped toward the cart, though I heard sneering and one man cupping his hand and murmuring to another that I assumed indicated skepticism. I curled the index finger on my right hand under the circular band ringing where the driver stood. I looked at the murmurer with a look of disdain. I saw his eyes widen, as if suddenly filled with fear. I eased the cart upward. Though I thought I was gentle, it almost tipped over the other direction and rocked back and forth on its wheels until it came to rest upright.
But now he is bound in a pit, and I am the strong one. One day they will tell stories about me.
The murmurer I was staring at dropped to his knees. “What are you, some kind of god?” I half smiled and looked away. I saw bees buzzing around the lion carcass that I had seen the day before. I walked over to the carcass and slapped my hand at the swarm. They told stories about how Sampson killed it. But now he is bound in a pit, and I am the strong one. One day they will tell stories about me. With a scream I grabbed the mostly intact carcass and slung it at the chariot, sending it tumbling and knocking it several feet back from where it has previously laid. The men scattered, running and falling repeatedly.
After a day of frolicking across the countryside, lifting pine trees up by the roots and slinging them toward the mountainside, I returned home with a dry mouth and throat. I poured some wine in a cup and grabbed it but inadvertently crushed it in my hand sending red liquid all over me. Then I heard a gentle knock on my door. I very gently pulled the door open. To my surprise, Delilah stood before me, alone, in fine white garments and black hair slung over her shoulder, creeping between her breasts and ending in a point, almost like an arrow, just above her waist.
I heard myself stuttering. “Hi Delilah, would you like to come in?”
She sauntered in slowly, looking around my house. She seemed to gaze for a while at the table built into the rock wall and the plate that I always used.
“Would—would you like something to eat?” I asked.
Not acknowledging my question, she looked at me and spoke. “You look different.”
“Thank you,” I said, voice breaking, but not sure if her comment was a compliment.
She started looking at my feet, then scanned slowly all the way up to my face, the same way I looked at her when her back was turned. “We are going to bring Samson into the temple tomorrow. The elders want to ridicule him and show the people how we have defeated his tribe. I want you to handle him. You have been loyal. You are the only one I trust with this.”
“I will be glad to serve you, thank you.”
She walked slowly toward the door, then stopped, turned, and seemed to stare at my midsection. I would never have had the courage to say anything suggestive to her before, she was so far above me in every measure, but I felt like a new person.
I cleared my throat. “Do you want to, uh, stay?” I asked, returning the gaze at her midsection.
She exhaled, seeming to gain her composure. “Maybe later. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I tingled where she had been looking at the word “later.”
The night was restless, rolling from dream to dream and pain to pain. I seemed to wake every few minutes to another vivid image. At one point, I felt the weight of a heavy gate, like the gates of the city, on my shoulders, but I was still able to stand and walk. I looked from side to side seeing the span of the wood and feeling like a large bird growing into its matured wings. Waking from this, I felt an intense pain in my upper back. I rolled onto my side, the mats wrinkled beneath me from my constant squirming. I kept my eyes closed, not knowing if I wanted to drift again into another pain-filled image that seemed to start in my dream but inflict my wakened body.
I thought about getting up and lighting my lamp, but slipped again into the nighttime world. I was lying on the ground, face to face with the lion carcass that I had heaved at the chariot earlier. The skeletal face started turning dingy yellow as skin creeped out from the crevices and poured a wax-like substance out of the forehead and down the snout. Teeth crystallized in the jaw voids, and matted hair like string pushed out from the newly formed skin sprouting a mane. A large roar came from the now perfectly formed face, so close that I could feel and smell the hot dank breath. The swarm of bees that had been making circles above disappeared like an arrow shot from a master archer. The beast leapt at me, and the massive head and mane was a projectile framed with two tree-like paws, claws bared. I felt the breath again, closer and hotter, and woke up. This time my eyes flipped open like a cracked whip.
My eyes slid to their corners, and I saw the dim light of morning slither through the cracks in the door. I rolled onto my knuckles to prop myself up and stood. Every part of me ached, like I had been beaten all night with clubs and whips. I felt moisture on my forehead and wiped, studying my hand but saw no blood. It was more painful to hurt this much and have nothing to show for it. I also noticed snake-like black ropes draped over my shoulders lying on my sizable chest. I rolled one between my fingers. They were strands of coarse hair, now braided. I grabbed each one in my hand, then felt around my head counting them. There were seven in all.
My modest breakfast was interrupted by heavy-footed clops outside and impatient pounding on my door. I sauntered over, dragging my invisibly battered body by sheer will of duty. I knew who it was and what they wanted: The time to take Samson to the temple had arrived.
The entourage that Delilah sent to me walked arrogantly along the combination red dirt and stone pathway between the houses, stopping occasionally to kick a door open or knock over a pot by the door, then laugh. We were like a pack of male dogs, with the head position changing intermittently as each upstaged the rest by committing some atrocity only to prove they could. I had enough of the pack’s antics and forced laughs. Although my body was still sore, I was a new man and I was going to live this day accordingly. I started at the back, but with my hands folded together I walked through the crevices between the 12 men in front of me, spreading my hands just enough to keep from sending them flying, but firmly enough to let them know I could easily do more. The occasional “hey” or “wait” was snuffed instantly the second I turned and glared at them. Apparently the new me also brought a look of confidence that elicited both respect and fear. Once at the head of the line, I turned and stopped. The previously bold band of laughers and gougers were now stiff and silent. I didn’t speak but looked in the eyes of each one until they looked down and averted my glare. Then I turned and started walking again, hearing orderly shuffles this time that replaced the previous unbridled clogs and howls.
We arrived at Samson’s pit, inserted the ladder, and climbed down. His head was lying on his arm, which was propped on a rock protruding from the otherwise smooth wall. We raised our lamps to illuminate his face. He didn’t speak but raised his head slightly, seeming to acknowledge someone else was there. Dried streams of blood traced from his eye sockets to the bottom corners of his mouth. I held the lamp beside his face, then noticed that small pricks of hair were budding on top of his head. One of our pack said “let’s go” and grabbed him by the arm. Samson, almost instinctively, pushed back and the member of our pack tumbled backwards several feet. Another member tried the same with the same effect. It seemed Samson had regained some of his previous strength.
After the fourth man from our pack rolled backwards like a swatted bee, I stepped up to the strengthening enemy. I stepped behind Sampson and grabbed him, encircling his arms in mine. He twisted and struggled as I tightened my grip with my interlocked fingers. We rocked back and forth and the braids of hair, formerly Sampson’s and now mine, fell out of the back of my shirt where I had tucked them. One slapped Sampson in the face. The formerly great man grunted, then exhaled out his mouth in a tone of defeat. The struggling stopped, and he was now dead weight in my clutches. Maybe he recognized the whip that subdued him was his own hair, maybe not. I will never know. But I sensed that we both recognized what was obvious at the same time: I was now more powerful. My tribe had won, and this once great judge of nomadic people that we constantly sparred with but never seemed to destroy would live out his life as a freak, on display for our leaders to exploit and our people to see.
My tribe had won, and this once great judge of nomadic people that we constantly sparred with but never seemed to destroy would live out his life as a freak, on display for our leaders to exploit and our people to see.
“Triple bind him,” I barked, realizing that order was more for the pack’s comfort then for any real need. Sampson would be no trouble to us again. I had done more than shave his head and poke out his eyes. I had broken his spirit, and therefore no matter how much hair came back or strength he recovered, he was a defeated man.
Walking through the street to the temple where Sampson would be put on display, I felt like a warrior returning home having conquered a seemingly invincible foe. Small heads with widening eyes protruded outdoors, aroused by chains on the once great judge rattling as he walked and fell and stumbled on the way to the temple. Members of our pack advertised the coming attraction, encouraging people to squeeze into the temple to see this once great man subjected to inhumane acts, occasionally interrupting their own bloviations to kick or punch the once great man. A crowd started forming and walking behind our pack, growing each time we passed a door.
Once at the temple, we were directed to the stage. I pulled the chains to lead the one that once made fools of our wisest and strongest men. As his stumbling, bald, eyeless body fell on the platform, I heard a huge roar erupt in the temple. I saw the priests of dagon, and beside them stood a stoic Delilah, staring straight ahead.
One of dagon’s priest walked over.
“In the name of holy dagon, look upon this spectacle. See what becomes of our enemies. The one who snuck into our land in the middle of the night, defiled our women, destroyed our city gates—it is he who is humbled before you now. Great is our god, and lesser is his,” he concluded waving his hand with a sinister smile toward the chained animal.
Collective laughter and unintelligible chants followed. I heard the chains rattle as the blob seemed to rise and whisper something to a young boy standing near him on the stage. I couldn’t hear the conversation over the rising chants but saw the once great man crawl a short distance to one of the temple pillars. He rose to his feet slowly and put his right hand against the pillar. The street crowd that had made its way to the temple was seated in the balcony above. The laughter continued as the man, now standing, looked upward with his eyeless face and started mumbling.
Though I actually felt sorry for this creature, I started laughing too, though I’m not sure why. Everyone was guffawing, including the dagon priest who had asked the crowd to look at Sampson. I was laughing uncontrollably, like everyone else, as I looked from face to face, person to person, absorbing the pointing and the laughing. Then, as the noise seemed to rise to a crescendo, everything went silent, and I felt something.
At first it felt like a buzzing inside my ear. I stuck my finger inside and moved it around to stop the sensation, but it only intensified. Within seconds it progressed from a tickling to irritation, to excruciating pain. I dug my finger farther into my ear, but the pain intensified as I felt, but couldn’t hear, myself scream. I doubled over and screamed more, but the pain continued. Then I noticed the strands from my head were moving, growing before my eyes, crawling along the stage toward Sampson. I looked beside me, and they were also moving toward the other pillars. Then I felt a thrust inside my head, like thousands of tiny fingers wrapping themselves around my brain and squeezing. I understood. Even in this pain, I understood. The braids were growing in both directions: into my head and along the floor of the stage.
I looked in Sampson’s direction. His face was still tilted upward. He was mumbling louder now, and the braids from my head had grown and thickened, like ivy moving up his leg, encircling his body and wrapping around the pillar. The ivy-like braids had encircled all the pillars around us, and were thickening and pulsating, along with the agonizing squeezing inside my skull. Even above the crowd’s shouts that had replaced the laughter, I heard Sampson roar like a stabbed lion, and then it stopped. I felt the jerk in my head whipsawing my neck, and I saw in slow motion the braids pull as the pillars tilted—then fell.
The last thing I felt was a heavy weight crush on my back as I fell. My head was pinned to the stage. I looked toward Sampson whose head was also pinned under a large stone and many bodies. Beside him, was Delilah, her body crushed by one of the pillars, her eyes fixed in a cold stare on the body of Sampson. I looked back at Sampson’s eyeless face with his mouth curled almost in a half smile. I saw a bee circle, then light on his head at the same time one lit on Delilah. The squeezing in my skull finally subsided as all went dark, and the pain and thoughts gave way to nothingness.
* * *
“They say the whole thing just fell, all at the same time, a few days ago,” a young man said to the traveler.
The traveler stepped on the rubble. “Do they know what caused it? Was it an earthquake or something?”
“Some say that, and some say it must have been the work of an angry God. They had one of our enemies onstage at the time.”
The traveler shook his head. “Shame, this must have been a fine temple before, now it’s just rubble.”
The traveler looked at the braids of thick black rope that were sprawled all around the rubble. He reached down and lifted one up, rolling it between his fingers. He tugged on it with both hands. “This feels unusual. It’s heavy and strong, but also soft. I think I can use it in my barn as a bed for some of the animals. Hey young man, do you think you could help me carry some of this out to my cart? I’ll pay you.”
The young man sensing broader opportunity stepped over rubble and moved toward the traveler. “Sure. I can even go with you and help lay it out in your barn. Where is it?”
The traveler stood up straight and looked back toward the road. “It’s in Bethlehem.”
Stephen J. Wallace is a speaker and author. He says he’s a “writer trapped in an engineer’s body, or vice versa.” He enjoys writing technical articles and short stories. He recently finished his first novel, Shelter In Place, which was a finalist in the Launch Pad Manuscript Competition. His short stories have appeared in the Schuylkill Valley Journal, the Mark Literary Review, and Vita Poetica. He has lived in the Washington, DC, area for several years but occasionally visits his home state of Kentucky. Read more at stephenjwallace.com.
