Shimshon rode slowly, expertly steering his horse down the rocky mountain path leading to the village below.

He could already see the king’s entourage in the distance and hear the trumpets blasting. His heart began to race.

He left his horse at the bottom of the mountain, telling him, “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

Shimshon joined the hundreds, if not thousands, of people crushing together in the streets as the king neared, and they tried to get a glimpse of him. Shimshon recalled the Gemara stating that one should strive to see even non-Jewish kings and the honor bestowed upon them, so that one can then compare that to the much greater honor that will be bestowed upon Melech Hamashiach!

The crowds were becoming violent now as they shoved one another in an attempt to get closer to the king.

Shimshon shrugged. There was a better way than this. The rooftops.

Shimshon nimbly hauled himself upward, using the shoulders of the people near him as support. He leaped for the closest roof, catching the edge of it with his fingertips, and pulling himself up. Perfect. Now he could see everything.  He watched as the soldiers who were the king’s guards trotted in front, their expressions as haughty as can be. A wind suddenly swept Shimshon’s yarmulke off his head. It landed in front of one of the soldier’s horses.

“Kind sir! Can you please not trample — oh, why’d you have to do that?!”

The soldier had deliberately walked his horse right over the fallen yarmulke, so that it was crushed in the mud. Then the soldier glanced up at Shimshon, smirking. “Oops.”

Shimshon thought for a moment. Then he smiled. He followed the soldier, keeping pace with him from the rooftop. He slid to the edge of the roof, letting his feet dangle as he held on with his hands. Like a monkey, he swept the soldier’s helmet from his head with his feet and retreated back onto the roof.

“How dare you!” the soldier bellowed, his horse rearing from fright. “Give me back my helmet!”

“Sorry, I need a head covering, you see. That’s why I didn’t want it getting trampled in the mud.”

Shimshon put the helmet on his head and began to run away, jumping from roof to roof as the soldier gave chase from the street. Shimshon felt the initial thrill of the chase give way to panic. The soldier wasn’t chasing him to give a rebuke and send him on his way. It was very possible that he meant to seriously harm him.

Suddenly, as Shimshon leaped between two roofs, the soldier galloped beneath him and drew his sword. The soldier swiped at Shimshon, missing his head, but striking his boots and knocking him off balance. Shimshon screamed and fell through the air, landing in a heap beside the soldier’s horse.

Though badly winded, Shimshon managed to get up, and he limped as fast as he could into a nearby alleyway, glancing behind him as the soldier jumped off his horse and gave chase.

Shimshon came to the end of the alleyway and realized he was at a dead end. With his back against the wall, he turned in terror to face the angry soldier.

“Not so funny now, are you?”

The soldier’s sword was still in his hand.

And then, there came the sound of a whistle. Soft, but oddly menacing and eerie at the same time.

Both the soldier and Shimshon turned. Standing there, as if he had been there all along, was a very tall, extremely thin man. He had pale skin and wore a fancy long red robe. At his side was a massive black dog.

“Don’t touch the boy. He belongs to me.”

Shimshon blinked. “I do?”

The soldier raised his sword. “Go away!” he yelled at the tall, thin man. “Unless you also want to get hurt!”

The man whistled again, lazily, softly. Another massive black dog, this one the size of small bear, emerged from the alleyway, its teeth gleaming as it panted excitedly and sized up the soldier.

The soldier slammed his sword back into its sheath. “I want my helmet back!” he yelled at Shimshon.

Shimshon shrugged. “I need it. I can’t walk with a bare head.”

“You heard him,” the mysterious stranger whispered to the soldier. “Now leave.”

“You would threaten a soldier of the king? I’ll come back and punish both of you.”

The solider growled in disgust and made his way back down the narrow alleyway.

Shimshon stared at the man who had saved him. “Who are you?”

“Sylvester. Lord Sylvester. But you can just call me friend.” Sylvester stepped up to Shimshon, a thin smile spreading across his face. “I’ve waited a very long time to meet you, Shimshon. I knew your father.”

“Y-you d-did?”

“Yes, and I know how he died, so many years ago. Truly a tragedy. But revenge is still possible. It won’t bring him back, but still—”

“Revenge? But he died from natural causes!”

“Did he?” Sylvester beckoned toward a false door in the wall behind them. “My carriage is just beyond this wall. We can talk there. I have things to share that you would like to hear.”

Despite the voice in his head telling him to run — to run far and fast — Shimshon followed.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 958)