Page 18 of Up In Flames

“Sampson and Delilah. Book of Judges. Is there a connection?” His shadow head shakes. “Makes no sense to name you after that loser.”

I go to shrug my shoulders and instantly regret moving. “Fuck.” So much for spending my life not swearing. “Sorry. And no connection I know of.” Except, if my Bible history is correct, I think Sampson was strong and powerfully built, as am I. “But he was betrayed by a woman, right? I’m not sure if Nina betrayed me,” I say, completing my thought out loud, “but it’s always felt like it.”

He leans forward again. “You’re drifting, son.”

Yeah. I am.

He pounds the arm of the chair in which he’s sitting, startling me back into wakefulness as the entire floor shakes under my beds. “Fucking Nazirite.” The disgusting sound that follows echoes through the room.

Eww. He just spat on the floor.

“Hey!” The exclamation hurts my head, so I lower my voice. “That’s revolting. Plus, you’re taking way too seriously something that happened thousands of years ago, dude.” I don’t even care that I’m using the word “dude.” I’m on a ton of drugs, but I need more drugs. Fast. I’ve never taken more than an aspirin, but this pain feels like I’m lying in the flames again, only each second lasts an eternity.

“And you’re not taking it seriously enough.” Another smack to the chair arm. More bed trembling.

Right. I’m not sure who let this guy into the hospital, but I really wish they’d come find him and drag him off again. “Xy—Mr. Tull—seriously, I don’t know what this is about, but I’m not up for it. Let’s table whatever this is for another time, because the pain…”

“Wuss.”

Anger washes through me, enough to make me swear at him. “Jerk.”

“Better a jerk than a wuss, kid.”

I have to swallow the words that are bursting against my lips. All I allow myself to say is, “I really hope the nurse is wrong, because I don’t want to be related to someone who’ll kick a man when he’s down.”

“Related?” He makes a rough sound before pushing out of his chair to his feet. Pacing towards the exit, I expect him to leave, but he just turns and strides the width of the room again. “This doesn’t make a lick of sense, and I can’t read you to know if you’re playing some game, or… well. You should have told me who you are by now. I’ve given you the code.”

“What code? I don’t know anything about your stupid code.” Another deep breath wracks my lungs into a fit of coughing. He makes no move to help me. I grab for the plastic cup of water on the tray next to the bed, and manage to spill more on me than in my mouth.

“There’s only one thing that logics,” he says, once my fit has passed. “If you don’t know the codes, and you don’t know about the Nazirites and that you’re named for one of the worst of them, then you don’t know who you are.”

Bingo. Could have told him that from the beginning.

Before I can enlighten him, he says, “Those fucking Nazirites aren’t gone, just gone to ground. Hidden. Assuming you don’t know about them, for whatever reason, let me do you a favor. They’re a fighting force par excellence, dedicated to God, called up to help Israel overcome its enemies—and those were legion, then as now. You stay out of their way, and if you see one, run. There aren’t enough of us now to take them down, more’s the pity. Not enough of us to prevent you being killed. We lost the advantage after the Flood, but the fight for freedom continues. Philistine, Anakim, Rephaim, Emim, Zamzummin… no, scratch that. The last Zamsummin died six months ago. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“No.”

“But you should. They’re all Nephilim, so you should know exactly what I mean.” He straightens, and it seems like he’s searching the floor before his head matches the set of his shoulders again. “Your namesake. His strength was legendary. He tore apart a lion with his bare hands, set fire to crops using the tails of foxes, and dismantled and carried away the city gates, but in the end, he was only human. Weak. He loved. Love is a human failing, and we used it against him. In the end, we got him..”

“O. Kay.” I don’t know which part of that statement to pick apart first. I settle on his use of the word, we. Does Xy think he’s a Philistine? Do Philistines even exist anymore?

And the way he said human failing…

But I lose that thought when an electric idea sparks through the pain. My heart begins pounding like I’ve been running a mile uphill in MFD gear during the heat of summer. Because weren’t the Philistines gigantically tall men? Like… me? Or Xy, for that matter?

“You’re a Philistine?”

“Me? In part.”

“The Philistines were tall like us?”

He just laughs.

The drugs make it hard to think, but I’m sure Goliath was a giant. He fought for the Philistines, but he might have been hired help rather than part of the tribe. I’ve never paid too much attention to those stories, figuring I’d rather be little David than big, bad Goliath any day of the week.

But if Goliath was a “giant,” and he was a Philistine, and Xy thinks he’s a Philistine, that must mean… am I a Philistine, too? I’ve always thought I must be Scottish, what with my red hair and strong build.

The trouble with being adopted is that every piece of information I learn about myself hits me with equal amounts of rightness and wrongness. If I knew something solid, anything at all, I’d have a base on which to build. I’ve thought about doing one of those DNA tests, but I’ve been resistant to putting my personal information out into the world. Maybe now’s the time.