Sam, Lil and Sal
by David McWilliam
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: An old story with an up-to-date setting.
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Swearwords: None.
Description: An old story with an up-to-date setting.
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A work of fiction with literal allusions and (some) lateral illusions,
written by
“the Fantom Riter at the Feast of Belshazzar”
written by
“the Fantom Riter at the Feast of Belshazzar”
Sam’s mother, Zlelponi, was a virgin who had been visited in the night by a ‘good fairy’, a thing not uncommon in days long past. He was destined for historic things and, as befits such a one, he was a splendidly-built young man, strong and muscular, a veritable ‘Charles Atlas’ of his time.
Unlike the rest of his people, he had gentian-blue eyes, a pearly white complexion, and a leonine mane of golden hair. He was the idol of the girls and the envy of the boys. His feats of strength were legendary. He could rip lions apart with his bare hands, snap bonds of steel with the flex of a muscle, and frighten Philistines with something as simple as the jawbone of an ass. Oh, and he loved honey.
All women were in love with him, all men were afraid of him, but he was without fear.
One girl in particular took his fancy. Her name was Lil, of biblical fame, an almond-eyed beauty with flowing black hair. Sadly for Sam, he lived before John Milton and so didn’t know of his Agonistes with its cautionary account of the nature of women:
Seeming at first all heavenly under virgin veil,
Soft, modest, meek, demure,
Once joined, the contrary she proves, a thorn
Intestine, far within defensive arms
A cleaving mischief, in his way to virtue
Adverse and turbulent, or by her charms
Draws him awry enslaved
With dotage, and his sense depraved
To folly and shameful deeds which ruin ends.
Not wanting to cast his seed on stony ground, he wooed avidly, even though she feigned an initial, cool disinterest.
Sam persisted, and slowly Lil’s resistance waned. When lying in his arms, she would ask him whence he came, why his appearance was so different, but most of all about his amazing strength – had he some secret? Eventually, as men are wont, he revealed all. The source of his strength was laid bare. He was shorn and renditioned to Gaza.
When he complained about the horrors all around, his kindly captors took pity on his plight and removed his eyes, thus curing his affliction once and for all. As part of their revelry they also removed his fingernails, but they at least will grow again. He was left a poor, sad creature, wondering how he could exact revenge.
Blinded, he could only work as a scavenger, mocked by those he had once terrified. They laughed as they taunted him by asking where the ass’s jawbone was, or by telling him there was a lion coming after him. Poor Sam bore it all stoically, but his thoughts dwelt on revenge. When passing by the great temple, he could hear the sounds of the usurers and currency traders as they haggled over prices and rates. He could hear the comings and goings of the worshippers, of the itinerant preachers, of latter-day saviours, and of the hot-food sellers. The air was full of smells: of food, of perfumes, and of the stench of hot and unwashed bodies, all intermingling and unnoticed in the hustle and bustle of the busy marketplace. The smells seemed to stick to his hair, which was now beginning to grow again, albeit with less of a shine than previously.
He remembered the temple well. He could easily visualise its tall columns stretching high above and the steps leading up to the portico where the traders gathered. How he despised this use of the temple of God as a temple of Mammon. Had not God struck down Sodom and Gomorrah for such evil?
Each day he gave a silent prayer that his strength might return, that he might once more use the might of his muscles to exact revenge on those that mocked the Lord, that cared not for the poor, and sought only to fill their coffers with gold, while praising God for His goodness and generosity. Each day as he flexed his muscles, he felt that their power might be returning – or was this a cruel illusion, a trick of the imagination?
As his hair grew longer he became more convinced that his power was returning and that he had one last mission to perform - to rid the world of wickedness by destroying the Temple of Mammon.
His passion grew. He trudged around, head downcast, begging for alms or scavenging for food, but all the while planning for one last great act of revenge.
Summer heat was past its peak. The cooler season was close. He awoke from his sleep among boxes and bins in an alleyway close to the Temple. He felt that this was the day, this was the time to bring his plan to fruition. It was the eleventh day of the seventh month that we now call September. He slowly made his way up the steps to the portico. He felt his way to one of the pillars, a giant tower that together with its twin supported the massive edifice. He shuffled a bit, stretched out, and felt for the other pillar. Could he do it? Would he be able to bring these enormous pillars down? He wrapt his arms around the first. Nothing happened. He gave another silent prayer, before pulling again. The pillar moved, only slightly, but it definitely moved. He gave one mighty heave and down it came. He rapidly moved to the second pillar and repeated the ceremony. Already weakened by the extra load it was bearing, it quickly crumbled, but there was no trumpet cry, only that of terrified humans as roof and walls came tumbling down. As he lay beneath the ruins, Sam gave one last prayer of thanks. Amidst this glorious ruin, he knew that his revenge and his mission were complete. He died a happy man.
Dear reader, you might ask who Sal is, and what has happened to her. Well that is another story to be told some other day.
About the Author
Born in Stonehaven, David McWilliam is a retired science teacher with a very varied career spanning short spells (2 or 3 years each) as a whaler in the Antarctic, a tea-planter in Assam, and as a chemist in a factory producing biocides. He has a wide range of interests, most particularly in pre-history and the birth of language, both spoken and written.
David is a member of a creative writing group that was formed 4 years ago and is still going strong. He is also a voluntary tutor in Adult Literacies and encourages students to write of their experiences. It is as a teacher of Adult Literacies that sparked his interest in writing, and he has now written 2 or 3 dozen short stories and poems.
David is a member of a creative writing group that was formed 4 years ago and is still going strong. He is also a voluntary tutor in Adult Literacies and encourages students to write of their experiences. It is as a teacher of Adult Literacies that sparked his interest in writing, and he has now written 2 or 3 dozen short stories and poems.