Seeds of Yesterday (Dollanganger 4)

Then, as it inevitably had to be, Delilah's beguiling dance of seduction wore down his

resistance, and Samson succumbed to the loveliness of Delilah, who let down her dark tresses and slowly began to undress .. . veil by veil she let fall before Samson fell upon her and bore her back onto the pile of animal skins . . . and the stage darkened just before the curtain dropped.

Applause thundered as the curtain came down. I noticed a certain look on Melodie's pale face--was that envy? Was she wishing now she'd danced Delilah?

"You would have made the best Delilah," whispered Bart softly, his lips brushing the wisps of hair that curled above her pearl-studded ear. "Cindy can't compare . . ."

"You do her an injustice, Bart," answered Melodie. "When you consider her lack of rehearsal time, she's performed beautifully. Jory told me he was surprised how good she is." Melodie leaned forward to address me. "Cathy, I'm sure Cindy has put in hours and hours of general practice, or else she wouldn't dance as well as she is."

Since the first act of the ballet had gone so well, I leaned back against Chris, who had his arm about me, and relaxed. "I feel so proud, Chris. Bart is behaving beautifully. Jory is the most accomplished danseur I've ever seen. I'm amazed how well Cindy is doing."

"Jory was born to dance," said Chris. "If he'd been raised by monks, still he would have danced. But I do remember a rebellious little girl who hated to stretch her muscles and make them hurt."

We laughed in the way long-married couples do, intimate laughter, expressing more than what we said. The curtain rose again.

While Samson slept on the colorful couch he and Delilah had shared, she cautiously eased off, drew on a lovely garment of frail silk, then stole quietly to the opening of the tent and beckoned inside a group of six warriors previously hidden. All bore shields and swords. Already Delilah had shorn Samson's head of his long dark hair. She held it up triumphantly, giving the timid soldiers confidence.

Startled awake, Samson jumped from the bed, jeteed high into the air and tried to lift his weapon. What was left of his long hair was short and stubby. His sword seemed too heavy. He screamed silently on finding all his strength gone. His despair was made visual as he whirled in frustration, beating his brow with brutal fists for believing in love and Delilah; then he fell to writhe on the ground, twisting about, glaring at Delilah, who tormented him with her wild laughter. He rushed for her, but the six soldiers sprang upon Samson and brought him down. They bound him with chains and ropes as he struggled mightily to free himself.

And all the time, off stage, the most famous tenor from the Metropolitan sang his pleading song of love to Delilah, asking why she had betrayed him. Tears flowed down my face to see my son lashed and whipped before he was hauled to his feet and the soldiers began their dance of torture while Delilah watched.

Even knowing all this horror was feigned, I cringed against Chris when the branding iron, heated white hot, was moved ever closer to Samson's bulging eyes. The set darkened. Only the white-hot iron lit up the stage-- and the ghostly shine on Samson's near nude body. The last sound was Samson's scream of agony.

The second act curtain lowered. Again, there was wild applause, and cheers of "Bravo! Bravo!"

Between acts people chatted, got up for more drinks, to fill their plates again, but I sat beside Chris almost frozen with dread that I couldn't explain.

Beside Bart, Melodie sat as tense as I, her eyes closed and waiting.

Third act time.

Bart shifted his chair closer to Melodie. "I hate this ballet," she murmured. "It always frightens me, the brutality of it. The blood seems so real, too real. The wounds make me feel sick. Fairy tales suit me better."

"Everything will be fine," soothed Bart, putting his arm over her shoulders. Immediately Melodie jumped to her feet, and from then on she refused to sit.

The crimson curtain rose. Now we were staring at the representation of a heathen temple. Huge thick columns made of papier-mache towered toward heaven. The vulgar squatting heathen god crouched overhead, cross-legged and center stage, with his cruel eyes gazing evilly downward. He was supported by two main columns reached by a short flight of steps.

The musical cue for the third and final act started.

Dancer

s represented the crowd that would watch Samson tortured before the priests of the temple danced onto stage, each doing his or her own special solo performance before settling into seats. Then dwarfs tugged on chains that dragged Samson onto the stage. Worn and weary looking, blood streaking from many simulated wounds, Samson stumbled blindly in circles as the dwarfs meanly confused him, tripped him so he fell, only to struggle upward and be tripped again. I leaned foward anxiously. Chris's hand stayed on my shoulder, trying to calm me.

Could Jory really see through those nearly opaque lenses that made him look truly sightless? Why couldn't Bart have been satisfied with only a blindfold? But Jory had claimed Bart was right. The lenses were much more effective.

High expectancy was in the air.

Bart turned his eyes on Melodie, as inch by inch Joel was making his way closer, as if he wanted to position himself so he could watch our faces.

Samson had difficulty walking with the chains that manacled his powerful ankles together, dragging behind him a great ball of fake iron. Running and jumping beside him were the dozen dwarfs who jabbed at his strong legs with small swords, tiny lances. (The dwarfs were really children, costumed to look grotesque.) Jory hefted his fake chains, making them seem very heavy, making himself seem weary enough to drop. His wrists also wore what seemed to be iron manacles.

As he stumbled around the arena, turning in blind circles, trying to feel his way along, the lilting, heartrending music played. Stage right, in her own small blue spotlight, the opera star began to sing that most famous aria of all from Samson and Delilah:

"My heart at thy sweet voice . . ."

Blind and tormented from whip lashings weeping blood, Jory began a slow, mesmerizing dance of torment and loss of faith in love, his renewed credence in God restored, using the fake iron chains as part of his action. I'd never seen such a

heartbreaking performance.