“Well, the order of the voluntary Nazarites stems from Biblical times. I took the Nazarite vow when I was seven, pledging to live according to the will of the Lord, every second of every day. As a token of that vow, as a symbol of my devotion, I’ve never let a razor touch the hair on my head,” Samson detailed.
The farmer blinked a few times, glanced at Blade, then at Samson. “Are you putting me on?”
“I would never mock the Lord.”
“Wow. I’ve never heard of anyone doing such a thing,” Andrew stated.
“The original Samson, the one in the Bible who slew the Philistines, was a Nazarite. So was John the Baptist. I’ve merely carried on the tradition,” Samson said.
“I believe in God, but you must really be religious to go this far. What else is part of your vow?”
“I’ve never drunk intoxicating beverages.”
“Never?” Andrew asked, and idly brushed at a dirt smudge on the blue shirt the Family had given him, along with pants and a box of ammo.
“If I permit alcohol to touch my lips, I violate my vow,” Samson explained. “And if I break my pledge, I will break the spiritual bond linking me to our Maker. If that were to happen I’d lost my strength and power.”
Andrew did a double take. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“With all my heart, mind, and soul,” Samson said solemnly. “Are you familiar with the story of Samson in the Bible?”
“I remember reading it as a kid.”
“Then allow me to refresh your memory. My namesake was the mightiest Nazarite who ever lived. When the Spirit of the Lord came upon him, he was invincible. He slew a lion with his bare hands. He took on a Philistine army and killed a thousand of their soldiers—”
“Surely you don’t take all of that literally,” Andrew said, interrupting.
A scowl creased Samson’s mouth. “I believe wholeheartedly in the Word of the Lord. If the Bible says that Samson defeated a thousand Philistines, then that’s exactly what he did.” He paused. “No one could best Samson until his Nazarite vow was violated. Delilah nagged him into revealing the secret of his strength, and the seven locks on his head were shaved off while he slept with his head resting on her knees. Thanks to her treachery, the Philistines were finally able to capture him. They put out his eyes, but they couldn’t put out his passion for his Lord. Eventually his hair grew in again, and at a Philistine celebration where they were honoring their false god, Dagon, Samson took hold of the pillars supporting their temple and brought the building crashing down. He died true to his faith.”
“Are any of the other Warriors Nazarites?” Andrew inquired.
“I’m the only one.”
Andrew looked at the man in blue. “What about you, Yama? What do you believe in?”
The silver-haired Warrior roused himself from his intro-spection and glanced at the farmer. “I believe in the Spirit, but my beliefs are different from Samson’s. I attribute whatever strength I possess to the years I’ve spent building up my physique by weight lifting and daily strenuous exercise.”
“Yama is unique among the Warriors,” Samson said. “He is preoccupied with the subject of death.”
“Have you been talking to Rikki?” Yama responded defensively. “I am not preoccupied with the subject of death.”
“You took the name of the Hindu King of Death,” Samson noted.
“True. But only because dealing in death is our business, our stock in trade. We’re responsible for protecting everyone at the Home, and our responsibility entails eliminating anyone or anything that would harm those we love. Yama is a fitting name for someone who dispenses death for a living.”
Samson nodded. “I agree with you there. But some of us think that you have carried the dispensing of death to an extreme.”
“You’re crazy,” Yama snapped, and looked at the head Warrior. “You tell him, Blade. Tell him I don’t go overboard.”
“Don’t get me involved in this,” Blade replied, grinning.
Samson leaned toward his silver-haired companion. “There’s no reason to be upset, brother. I’m not trying to insult you. Actually, I’m paying you a high compliment.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“I mean it. Of all the Warriors, you have achieved near perfection in your death-dealing skills,” Samson said.
Yama’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about? Many of the Warriors are more skilled than I am. Hickok, for instance, is a better shot with a revolver. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi is a better martial artist. Blade is better with a knife than I could ever hope to be. Teucer makes me look pitiful with a bow. And even in physical strength, you’re stronger than I am.”
“You’re missing the point,” Samson said. “I’m not talking about individual skills. You are recognized as the best all-around Warrior in the Family. You have honed your skills to an exceptional degree. All of your skills, not just one or two. Yes, Hickok is a better shot, but only by a hair.
Yes, Rikki is a better martial artist, but only by a shade. You’ve beaten him many times in sparring contests. And yes, Teucer can split a stick at one hundred yards with an arrow, but you can do the same feat at eighty yards. Of all the Warriors in the Family, you come closest to matching Blade’s accomplishment with a knife.”
“What about you?”
“My physique has developed naturally. You’ve had to work diligently to perfect yours. And that’s the key to your philosophy. You’re a perfectionist.
Your preoccupation with the techniques of dispensing death has made you the perfect Warrior.”
“Bull.”
“Suit yourself. But I know I’m right, and deep down in your heart, you do too.”
Yama snorted and resumed staring at the passing scenery.
“You know,” Andrew said, turning to the giant, “you Warriors sure aren’t anything like I would have expected.”
“How so?” Blade asked without taking his eyes from the road.
“Well, after staying at the Home for two days, I got to know how your Family runs things. And quite frankly, I’m surprised that the Warriors are so different from one another. You were all raised in the same compound, or most of you were anyway. You were taught by the same Elders. You went through your Schooling years, as you refer to them, side by side in many cases. All of the Warriors had essentially the same childhood, and yet you’re all so unlike each other.”
“Why should our differences surprise you?” Blade responded. “Our differences are based on our personalities, not on our backgrounds. No two human personalities are ever alike, Andrew.”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you. Most folks call me Andy.”
“All right, Andy. Are you hungry?” Blade questioned. He gazed upward through the windshield at the golden orb hovering at its zenith. “We can break out some venison jerky for lunch.”
“We’d better hold off on the food,” Yama advised.
“Why’s that?” Blade asked, glancing over his right shoulder.
Yama nodded to the southeast. “We have suddenly become very popular.”
Blade looked in the direction Yama had indicated and spied four leather-garbed figures on motorcycles. The riders were poised on a knoll 50 yards from the highway, and they were obviously watching the transport.
“There’s more on this side,” Samson declared.
Blade swiveled and discovered another eight or nine riders crossing a field, riding parallel to the road, keeping abreast of the SEAL. “This spells trouble,” he stated.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Yama said, and pointed straight ahead.
A dozen motorcycles suddenly pulled out from the forest on both sides of the highway less than 70 yards from the van. They immediately formed a blockade across the road, and the riders quickly dismounted. A burly man in the middle took several steps and pointed a long object at the approaching transport.