Balaam, the Gray Prophet

by Stephen Beam

  With defeat embedded inside every word, Balaam said, “I’ve repeatedly told you that I can’t accept your generous offers. I can’t go beyond the word of the Lord. Of my own will, I’m powerless to choose either good or evil. What the Lord says, those are the words I must speak.” His hood hid in shadow deep lines of stress across his face. He made ready to leave, but was compelled to face Balak once again, a spiritual energy growing hot inside his core. Balaam added, “I’m leaving. Don’t worry about that. But before I do, I must reveal to you the vision now unfolding inside my head. This is your fate.”

  His words made Balak turn pale. He shivered. No matter Balaam’s refusal to curse the Sons of Israel, that didn’t negate his connection to unearthly powers - powers Balak couldn’t understand. If there was any validity to this YHWH, if this deity truly was more than just another local Baal, then he should walk away from the prophet right now. Balak signaled his entourage to leave. The time had come to walk down the hill and leave Balaam prophesying to himself.

  Balaam seemed ready to speak. Balak and his entourage froze. The prophet began to vibrate like a tuning fork. His form blurred. Dislodged from the anchor of worldly reality, he was thrust into an alien dimension. Balaam’s mind left his flesh, leaving his mouth under the control of the Lord Almighty. His voice thundered, echoing across the hilltops to the vast desert below. He spoke these words:

  “The utterance of Balaam, a man with eyes wide open,

  a man who hears the words of God,

  and has knowledge transmitted from the Most High,

  filled with the vision of the Almighty,

  who falls down, eyes wide open:

  I see Him, but not now;

  I behold His presence in the distance;

  a Star shall shine with a sovereignty,

  and batter Moab into the ground,

  destroying the sons of tumult.

  The Sons of Israel will do valiantly,

  but discover they are included equally amongst the tribes,

  subject to the Most High,

  the unseen hand moving through the domain of humankind,

  the future dark with wars, wars of every kind, the Most High saving all that can be saved.

  The Star shines as always on this world, but few see it,

  hidden in the heart’s darkness.

  In the farthest reach of time, the Star bursts forth gloriously,

  the new world of light and love takes all to God’s home,

  finally, humankind has found its own.”

  The divine connection ended abruptly. Balaam fell to the ground face first, breathing dust. Every inch of his skin drenched in sweat, his filthy hoodie wet and muddy. The intense energy that electrified him but a minute before, was gone, leaving him near death.

  Balak walked over to stand over Balaam, and shook his head in disgust, a disgust wrapped in fear. He nudged the prophet’s shoulder with the tip of his shoe, and said, “You’ve failed me and yourself. We’re finished. Find your way home. Quickly.” Balak walked back to his anxious entourage, They huddled together and talked amongst themselves, occasionally pointing an accusatory finger at Balaam.

  The exhausted prophet struggled to lift himself from the dirt. He didn’t look at Balak or his entourage. He had no desire to see their scornful looks. He already felt lower than he’d ever felt in his life. He managed to get on his feet, although weak, sick, and shaken. He bent over and vomited on his shoes. With what little dignity remained, he attempted to brush himself off, succeeding only in smearing mud deeper into his sweatshirt.

  He began walking down the hill, head bowed, face hidden beneath his muddy hood. All he wanted now was to find Eeayore and get the hell out of here. The sooner, the better.

  Chapter 8: Twisted

  YHWH had snuffed out all Balaam’s attempts to curse the Sons of Israel. Instead, the Lord targeted the curses at Balak. The prophet tried to please Moab’s chief, but failed. Now there was nothing left to do but drink. Balaam lifted the glass of whiskey to his lips and contemplated the virtues of sipping. Instead, he downed it all in a single gulp. There was a positive side to all his failures. He left Moab with an oxeep in his pouch. A very precious and generous gift from Balak, despite his failure to curse the Israelites.

  Pethor had nothing that could match the oxeep’s world class technology; it was extremely powerful, exponentially greater than any wonky nanobot gadget in Pethor. The extreme power of the oxeep worried Balaam as much as it excited him. What if he was locked telepathically with its interface, and at that very moment, YHWH manifested inside his skull?

  The inside of the Pethor Bar had continued to morph in Balaam’s absence, even after the attempted EMF sterilization of the renegade nanobots. The prophet was seated at a small wooden table in a corner of the bar. The bar had turned into a black obsidian cave, its details obscured under a thick smoky haze. Lush folds of black glassy material, frozen into bulbous swirling extrusions, formed the cave-bar’s interior. This glossy black environment, mostly hidden under dark smoke, reflected Balaam’s dark inner environment.

  The Pethor Bar was his meditation room. As his blood alcohol levels rose, the more weepy and melancholic he grew. He reminisced about his fifth birthday, after which his life path changed. That was the year YHWH first visited him. He remembered bright sunlight streaming into the family’s modest living room. To a child, this room was huge, archetypal of all places of comfort. A safe haven from a world in rapid decline. The orange curtains were drawn back, a stream of photons illuminated his birthday cake atop the table. Five lit candles were ready to be blown out. He had his birthday wish ready. It was simple: to be a good boy, a boy obedient to his parents and to the God they served. With all his breath he blew out the candles. A wisp of smoke replaced each flame.

  How many drinks had he downed? He didn’t know, but there was still about half a bottle left. His tolerance of alcohol had risen greatly - a warning he was addicted. Sober or drunk, he didn’t try to rationalize his drinking. There was no way to justify an obvious avoidance of reality. He poured another glass. This time he chose to sip. From his sweatshirt pouch he grabbed the oxeep and touched it to his forehead. Five lit candles appeared on the table before him. He quickly put the device back inside the pouch. Whiskey and an oxeep were a bad combination.

  He stared at the nanobot generated candles. He took a deep breath, filled his aging lungs with smoky air, and blew out all the candles in a single breath. He fell into a fit of coughing. Wisps of candle wax smoke rose into the toxic air. He was 5 years old again with the immature neural array of an unfinished brain. His deepest wish was for the return of the Garden of Eden, a place where beauty and innocence flourished. Amongst the flowers, he was pure and good. He loved God and all of His children. The garden grew and covered the earth. A pure light was born and traveled between the folds of space. From the very nucleus of infinity, outside of time and space, the spiritual light traveled to Earth, a tiny planet amongst countless others. The light finally arrived at Balaam’s home, and there, invaded his immature mind.

  At five years old, Balaam was equipped to make moral choices. He held the power to decide which paths he should take. His mother and father smiled down at him, unaware their son’s mental flowering had come into full bloom. Balaam’s desire for the light was as endless as the light’s ability to give, streaming love to him from its infinite source - the creator of all. No matter how much love filled Balaam, there was an endless amount held in reserve. He drank in the light of love, just as he now drank whiskey in the dark.

  The universe wasn’t a foreboding mystery to a young, gifted Balaam. He discovered early on that asking big questions got big answers. All that was required to hear the answers was faith enough to listen, an unfaltering faith, with the courage to accept the truth, no matter where it led. He asked questions, and dared to accept whatever God revealed. As loyalty is paramount in human friendship, it also holds true in friendship with the divine.

  The birthday candles turned
black and melted into the tabletop. The dark stain spread, molecularly integrating with the table, turning the wood into the same glassy obsidian that formed the rest of the barroom interior. Balaam gulped down another whiskey. He almost convinced himself that alcohol kept insanity at bay. He knew that wasn’t true. Whiskey only softened the insanity. Made it palatable. At times, like now, the deja vu grabbed hold so strong it cut through his drunkenness. He somehow knew beyond any doubt, the Moabite gig had gone down before: Balak, the blessing and the cursing, a talking donkey - it was all a bad rerun, churned out again and again, until time ended.

  The children of humankind always forgot their lessons, destined to relearn them time and time again. Humankind suffered a collective dementia that never healed. The world called out beyond the stars for a savior - a revelator. And when Balaam was fully in the grip of deja vu, he understood that humankind’s prayer had already been answered. And when deja vu let him go, he fell into darkness, the prayer forgotten. He was once more lost and lonely.

  The bottle of whiskey was empty. He signaled the bartender for another. An idea had formed in his head; it just needed a bit more fuel to finish. Another bottle appeared at his table. A quarter of the way through, self pity rained down on him. It turned into a violent storm that sucked him though a mental vortex, pulling his soul inside out. Flesh tore from bones, joy ripped from life, his ever diminishing existence a mere blip along a solitary string of time, a string soon to be cut off.

  Balaam was dizzier than he’d ever been. The obsidian table spun his bottle of whiskey around and around. With much fumbling and sloppiness, he managed to catch the bottle. He poured his glass nearly full, but spilled most of the liquor onto the tabletop. He tried to lick it up, sliding his wet face against the table’s slick surface. He caught a reflection of a second face near his. The face said, “You’ve had enough. I’m cutting you off.”

  Slipping off his chair, Balaam fell to the floor. It was the same glass black surface as everything else in the cave-bar. The reflections, the sparkles, the confusion of bouncing photon, all this smacked him painfully in the face. He fell on his side, vomited, then rolled over on his back. The bartender stood over him, looking down at him. He was talking, but Balaam couldn’t understand his words.

  Eeayore came up behind the bartender. “That’s my master and my friend. That is, when he’s not beating my ass with a stick,” the donkey said.

  “I’m sorry… Eeayore. So, so, sorry,” Balaam said, weeping uncontrollably. Here lay God’s prophet, the wizard of curses and blessings, the failed sayer of imprecatory prayers. He was all this. And less.

  “Get up master! Go outside. I have an idea. One that will change everything,” Eeayore said, sinking through the floor and disappearing. She was such a good phantom friend.

  The bartender helped Balaam get on his feet, not letting go until he was certain the prophet could stand on his own. “I’ll walk you to the door,” the bartender said. Balaam didn’t resist, but struggled to balance himself as if walking across deck on a tumultuous sea. The obsidian door slid open as they approached. It was night outside, as dark as the bar inside, lit by a moon hidden behind low lying clouds.

  Eeayore was tied to the fire hydrant where Balaam always left her. She greeted her master with a nod and a snort as he stepped from the bar. The door slid shut hard behind him. Eeayore watched as Balaam staggered towards her. When her master finally arrived at her side, she said, “I thought of something that’ll change your life forever. I understand the Moab problem. I understand it completely. And I know how to fix it.”

  Balaam wrapped his arms around the donkey’s neck in drunken, loving affection. This also helped him stand up without falling. “You’re my best friend, Eeayore. I’d marry you. I’d marry you in a minute, if you were human. No offense.”

  Eeayore smiled as best she could. “None taken. I’ve got no problem being a simple beast of burden. Being human is your problem. And your burden.”

  Gently hugging the donkey’s neck, Balaam whispered into Eeayore’s ear, “You are very very right, my friend.” Beneath his swirling alcoholic daze, the dilemma of moral choice was certainly his own personal curse, not a blessing. Thankfully, alcohol wrapped all his problems in a blanket of numb comfort. “You were gonna tell me something that’ll change my life. What is it?”

  Eeayore brayed in the affirmative and said, “Good! You’re sober enough to pay attention.” She wagged her head from side to side, breaking loose Balaam’s hug and knocking him to the ground. “Get up and look me in the face. And don’t hang on me. I can’t talk to you when you’re hanging on me.”

  Balaam struggled to get on his feet and face Eeayore. He dusted himself off and asked, “What’s your idea?” He wanted so badly to drape himself affectionately around her neck.

  Eeayore, possessed by a blend of nanobots and dark spiritual forces, said, “Your God is always listening. He knows your every thought, so pay close attention to my words. I’ll take you back to Moab. You will then go speak to Balak once more. Explain to him the Lord’s commandments to the Sons of Israel. Explain to them that these commandments must be obeyed in order for them to be blessed by the Lord.” Eeayore smiled too widely, the ends of her mouth reaching towards the bottom of her ears. “Surely Balak will understand why you can’t curse the Sons of Israel. He will then understand what he must do.”

  Balaam smiled nearly as wide as his donkey, but was clueless as to what her words meant. His head muddled, his neurons shorting out across his brain, he looked upon Eeayore as his intellectual and spiritual superior. She was as strong as he was weak. What a pathetic creature he was, a stain on humanity’s underpants. Eeayore was so blessed. How wonderful not to be saddled down with addictions, regrets, moral choices… or even a soul. Eeayore was not at war with herself. She was a soulless beast. Superior to him in every way.

  Eeayore commanded Balaam, “You need to step back while I gear up to transform. We’re going to Moab.”

  Balaam obeyed.

  ****

  The tether dissolved, releasing Eeayore from the fire hydrant. She walked behind a fig tree located on the south side of the building, distancing herself from people’s prying eyes just leaving the bar. Eeayore called out to Balaam, “Come here and watch, but keep about five feet from me until I’m finished.”

  He staggered back to Eeayore, struggling to estimate the five foot buffer zone around her.

  Eeayore said, “You’re fine. Stay right where you are.” She grinned wickedly. Her new attitude wasn’t familiar to Balaam; she was a strange new donkey.

  Eeayore’s skin absorbed all her hair. It was pulled inside her body by nanobots - revved up to radically transform their biological host. A low rumbling hum filled the air around her. Her bare skin took on a brushed metallic sheen. Her legs withered away, lowering her new metal body to the ground. Her head and neck undulated for a few moments, then quickly morphed into a nose cone. The tip housed a single eye, and beneath it, a tiny mouth.

  Balaam watched all this transformation lethargically, half asleep with drink. His donkey was gone now, replaced by whatever this new thing was. For a second, he wondered why he wasn’t crying at the loss of his friend. Shouldn’t he be sad? His best friend’s warm mammalian body was now transformed into a cylinder of cold metal.

  Eeayore continued to tweak her new shape. She was a sleek metallic torpedo, ready for rapid transit to Moab. The nanobots embedded anti-grav disks on her metal belly so that she hovered a couple inches above the ground. The low rumble dissipated, replaced by an annoying whine that cut through Balaam’s anesthetized awareness.

  A single tear finally ran down Balaam’s cheek; it swiftly turned into a torrent of sobs. Whatever this thing was his friend had become, he would learn to accept with an open heart. Perhaps the old Eeayore would return one day. The high pitched whine wound down to a soft, soothing purr of restrained power.

  “It’s time to hop aboard,” Eeayore said, her voice loud and clear, despite coming from the
tiny mouth embedded in the nose cone.

  Balaam wiped away his tears and regained control of himself. Why be sad? After all, Eeayore still lived. So what if she was no longer a warm blooded mammal covered in hair, her skin metal and not flesh? Balaam’s sobs turned into laughter - the laughter of relief. Why fret? The universe changed every second. It was either change or die - the universe’s cosmic motto. He walked over to Eeayore the Torpedo and stroked her metal back. “You’ll always be my girl,” Balaam said in a trembling voice. He sounded sappy, even to himself. A few more tears leaked from his eyes, then he grabbed control of his melancholy as he sobered up a bit.

  “Come on. Swing your leg over me and mount up. We’re going to Moab,” Eeayore said. Balaam obeyed. With the awkwardness of a nerve frayed drunkard, he managed to seat himself atop Eeayore’s sleek torpedo body. Directly in front of him emerged two, fifteen inch metallic poles, each topped with a rubber handgrip. Balaam figured these grips were safety features to keep from sliding off, so he held them tightly. The false bravery of inebriation helped him cooperate with Eeayore’s demands, but now he needed another drink. More, if necessary.

  The Eeayore torpedo floated smoothly from behind the fig tree and turned onto the main road in front of the bar. No bar patrons saw them, and the road was empty. Balaam felt a growing vibration building under his butt. A deep hum grew in intensity, the power winding up inside the torpedo between his legs. They began to move down the road, floating a few inches above the road’s surface, then quickly gained speed. The wind blew into Balaam’s hood. He tightened the drawstrings to keep the hood on his head.

  Balaam gripped the hand-holds tighter and ducked between them close to Eeayore’s metallic back. They flew increasingly faster through the corn fields, a blurry wall on either side of them. No angel of the Lord stood in the way to stop or threaten them. Eeayore’s tiny eye morphed into a headlamp, throwing a strong beam of light to clear away darkness on the path before them. Balaam’s hoodie flapped wildly in the rushing wind.