Elijah

by William H. Stephens

  Meor-baal handed him a small, tightly-rolled scroll. It was sealed with wax, into which Jezebel had pressed her official seal. The captain barked a command and a mustached young man stepped into the chariot.

  “Leave your chariot and team to this man’s care and come with me,” The captain directed.

  Meor-baal handed the reins to the mustached one and followed the captain, who strode briskly across the courtyard to a flat-roofed house. Inside, he turned to Meor-baal. “What are you called?”

  “Meor-baal.”

  “You are not an Israelite?”

  “No, I am from Byblos. I was born from a sacred union in the temple of Baal.” Meor-baal continued with obvious pride. “My mother was a zonah, and of course I do not know who my father was. Now I am a priest of Baal serving my Queen Jezebel.”

  The stony, disinterested features of the captain’s face melted. The son of a temple prostitute was sacred, especially one so young who already was such an important priest. He bowed, his sword clinking on the stone floor.

  Rising to his feet, the captain announced softly, “Hot water and fresh clothing will be brought to you. I will have two men serve you during your stay. In the meantime, I will arrange an interview with the king.”

  The heat rose in shimmering waves from the sandy road. Meor-baal’s eyes, and those of his prophet companion, ached by day’s end, though they had become accustomed to the reflection of the summer sun from the hot earth. A chariot would be welcome, but in the interest of their cause he and his friend had agreed to Jezebel’s request that they travel on foot. A prophet on foot impressed the people as being more dedicated than one who rode in a chariot. He could wish, however, that he had been assigned to visit the villages of northern Samaria above the Jezreel Valley. It was cooler there. But at least their itinerary led them occasionally to the sea where they could find some relief from the heat.

  “There’s Dor,” the prophet announced, pointing to a white-walled village obscured by the golden wheat that covered the plain.

  “A welcome sight. First we wash our feet, then some cool wine.”

  The two companions quickened their pace.

  Several elders sat at the entrance of the gate. The old men, venerated by tradition, witnessed business transactions and gave advice to the residents of the city. Often they sat in judgment in disputes. They watched the pair approach the gate. Both Meor-baal and the prophet were dressed simply. Their robes, once white, had grayed during their journey, despite several washings. Their legs were bare and deeply tanned, the folds of their robes pulled up and tucked into their leather waistbands. Cloths were attached to their small turbans to hang down the backs of their necks for protection against the sun. The two looked much alike, except that the prophet had a full beard that made him look older than the priest.

  The prophet walked a pace or two ahead of Meor-baal, and the two of them stopped in front of the elders. The prophet placed his hands on his hips and stared at the older men until, by his silence, he commanded their full attention.

  “We will speak here, at this spot, at sunset,” he announced in a deep-throated voice. Then, to maintain an air of mystery, he turned and walked away. Meor-baal followed without speaking.

  The elders stared after them. “A prophet,” one surmised aloud.

  “Yes,” another agreed. “I have heard travelers speak of many prophets visiting many cities, but they are not the prophets of Yahweh.”

  Several heads nodded. One wizened elder, his white beard thin with age, countered in the shrill voice of the aged, “But we do not know they are not Yahweh’s prophets.”

  Heads nodded again.

  The elder continued. “If they are of Yahweh, we must hear their words. If they are not of Yahweh, what harm can come from one evening of listening? We can expel them tomorrow.”

  Bearded faces turned from one another and, one by one, the elders struggled to their feet and left in different directions to announce the appointment.

  Meor-baal and the prophet did not appear until exactly at sunset. Already, a crowd of men had gathered.

  The prophet whispered to the young priest. “Look at them, and think of all the other villages where our brothers are working tonight. We cannot fail, Meor-baal.”

  “You will do well, my friend,” Meor-baal answered.

  A stone stairway led from the gate to the top of the city wall. The prophet mounted high enough to be seen easily by the crowd. He turned to face them, his long robe blowing softly in the evening breeze.

  Just as he was about to speak, a voice called out from the crowd, “Whose prophet are you?”

  The prophet smiled and spread his arms. “I am a prophet of the people,” he answered. “Your prophet.”

  Meor-baal listened with concern. The crowd very well could become antagonistic.

  “Are you a prophet of Baal?” the voice called out.

  The prophet answered quickly to cut off any attempt from the mob to join the derision of the voice, and he spoke as deeply and powerfully as he could. “Let me tell you why I call myself a prophet of the people.” The crowd responded uneasily. Some shuffled, but he was allowed to continue.

  “The true God wants his people to be happy and well fed. He wants them to enjoy the bounty of the earth and the pleasures of life. Can you imagine the goodness of a god who would see his people struggle from the rise of the sun until its setting and reap barely enough harvest to exist? Can you imagine a god who places good things in the earth and then rations them out in small amounts? I speak by the authority of a God who offers men the bounty of the earth. This is why I call myself a prophet of the people.”

  The crowd seemed willing to listen, though he had not directly answered the heckler’s question. The prophet’s voice rose in tone and confidence. He told of the richness of their land. He praised the strength of their young men. He spoke in soothing tones of the beauty of their women. Gradually, very gradually, he injected the name of Baal. When he sensed a resentment growing against him, he resorted to humor. He played the mob as an angler would a fish, gradually bringing it under his control, until the mob became an audience. All the while he grew bolder.

  The prophet’s beard jerked in the flickering light, following the movement of his chin. The oil lamps cast a gigantic shadow on the wall behind him. The crowd, half hypnotized by his speaking, began to feel that the shadow represented the size of the prophet’s soul.

  He told of the need for men to share in the creation of life with Baal. Yahweh, he said, was the god of the hills, of the nomad, of the sheepherder, of the tent dweller, not the god of the fertile plain and the walled city. Do not neglect the god of the hills when you travel through the hills, but neither neglect the Baal-god Melkart when you are in his domain.

  The audience hung on his words. He made them laugh occasionally. He spoke thoughts they had not heard before. “After all,” the prophet cried, “look at pitiful Judah. What is her wealth compared to Israel’s? Are not her people more faithful to Yahweh than you are yourselves? Remember Solomon! Did he not grow in power and wealth as he brought hundreds of foreign women to his harem, and with them their gods? Yahweh must be weak to permit such a thing, or else he really does not care! And look at Phoenicia, and Damascus, and Assyria, and the Hittites. Look at the kingdoms across the sea. Are they weak? Could not Melkart make of Israel as strong a nation as those countries?”

  The prophet’s voice flowed on. The crowd grew larger. “Why, Baal was the God of this land before you Israelites came here. Don’t you know he claims it? Do you suppose he will give you food in plenty and good crops when you neglect him for another god?” The prophet told of wheat fields and olive groves and orchards and produce and cattle and sheep beyond compare. He described a land rich beyond their imaginations. “Do you know where this land is?” he asked. “Right here! Baal-Melkart will make your land richer than your dreams if you will serve him.”

  In terms that rang of the sound of battle, he told of Melkart’s record of was vict
ories. “Was ever there a God like Melkart? Why, he was the God who brought you from Egypt, not Yahweh, for Baal wanted you to serve him on this soil, his soil.

  “And Melkart has a consort, Asherah, beautiful beyond compare! It is she who is the Goddess of Fertility, and she wants her people to share in the rituals of the fertile land. Ah! Any god can ask you to give of your flocks and produce at his altars, but this goddess understands men and asks them to help her make the land fertile. How? Why, there are women who have dedicated their lives to serve Asherah. With them, you will gain the blessing of fertility, for yourselves and for your land.”

  The prophet, now in subdued tones, told of the willingness of these women to serve their goddess.

  The crowd listened with astonishment. The young men’s muscles grew tense and fever grew in their loins. Fathers thought how such a thing might help bring abundance to the tables of their families. Childless men thought that perhaps Asherah would bless their homes with children if they sought her help. Older men thought of the ease of lying with such women.

  As the prophet spoke, Meor-baal mixed with the crowd and whispered to the young men that sacred prostitutes waited for them at the high places and in the sacred groves about the city. Young men looked at one another wide-eyed. Some of them slipped away quietly.

  “All day tomorrow,” the prophet was saying, “the priest of Melkart and Asherah will be at the altar on the hill just beyond the city. Bring your offerings to him and be blessed, so that your spirits may mingle with the sweet savor and rise to the sky. Melkart and Asherah will receive you as one of their own, and their blessings will come to you.”

  And on the morrow they would come. Old men. Young men. Widowers. Childless couples. Luckless farmers. They would come to the altar in search of their dreams. And Baal would gain a foothold in the city of Dor.

  Abinadab was intrigued by the events of the evening. The loanmaker stood behind the crowd, dressed in finer clothing than most of his townsmen. He regarded the promises made by the Baal prophet as absurd, but the sermon was fine entertainment. Soon, though, the crowd itself caught his notice. Here were people he knew, people caught up in the message to the point of rapture. The power of the prophet so to control people fascinated him. Control over people. Surely the prophet had some secret he could share. Perhaps it was the secret of the Baal religion.

  He did not go to the sacred grove. Instead, he waited until the men scattered in their lustful fervor, then he bade the two servants of Baal to his home to talk.

  The discussion was held in the room of Abinadab’s home where he conducted his business. It was a special room he had built onto his house, with walls of thick, heavy stone and two sets of doors for added protection. Some of the wall-stones were hollow, known only to him, to serve as hiding places for the money he used for lending. Wooden shelves fixed at the top of each wall held scrolls and broken pieces of pottery—ostraca—on which he scratched records of his transactions. Cloaks and other collateral dominated three-fourths of the shelving.

  Meor-baal and the prophet reclined comfortably on Persian rugs and large pillows that covered most of the floor. Abinadab sat with his back against more pillows behind a low table. He faced his guests.

  “You spoke of Asherah tonight,” he began. “I want to hear more of her consort, the Melkart you say is so powerful.”

  Meor-baal gestured for the prophet to answer.

  “Melkart is the God of Tyre. He also is the God of Power. I need not tell you how well he has won his place among the gods. He is now the most honored by us, the Phoenicians. Asherah is the Goddess of Fertility, but she works best for those who worship her and Melkart together. The God of Power works in harmony with the lovely Asherah.”

  “Yes. Lovely and promiscuous,” Abinadab answered.

  “If the gods do not copulate, how can the earth yield its fruit? And will men who till the earth not be more productive if they copulate with Asherah’s chosen zonahs? Will not the earth follow the example?”

  “Perhaps. I know little of such things. But tell me of Melkart. He never has fought a battle, at least none that I can recall. From whence comes his power”

  Meor-baal smiled. “You think like most of the world, friend Abinadab. Melkart has fought many wars for many kings, but you are right that he has not fought for Tyre. Real power comes through commerce, not through war. Melkart has blessed Phoenicia through commerce.”

  “Ah, I thought you might say that. I am interested.”

  “In power?”

  “In power. In wealth. Yes, why should Melkart not aid me? I have a good mind. I know the people of Dor. And our region is good, especially in grain and wine.”

  “Our Queen Jezebel wants very much for Israel and Phoenicia to be united in commerce. Israel is rich in produce. But your way of doing things, the way people live in this country, does not lend itself well to real commercial power. If you truly will learn from Melkart, you may be of service to Jezebel’s plans. But you must be willing to change.”

  “In what way?”

  “Your small landowners impede commerce. The people toil each year for a small crop, only a small part of which is available for purchase by small-time merchants, who then must sell to large caravans, who then must take the produce to Phoenicia or Egypt. Some of your farmers do well, some do not. The land is not used wisely. Those who do not farm well should not farm at all. They should so something else.”

  “The ancient laws of Israel decree that every family of Israel should keep his land forever,” Abinadab responded.

  “That is not the way of Melkart. You cannot have power if you allow the land to remain so divided.”

  “What are you doing with those cloaks piled on top of your shelves?” the prophet interrupted.

  “They are collateral for loans.”

  “Do not the laws of Israel require that you return them each night to the owners, so they will have warm cover for the cold nights?”

  Abinadab did not lower his eyes, to the surprise of the prophet. It was a good sign. Perhaps this man was strong. “Yes,” the moneylender answered. “The ancient laws require that. So long as the people who owe me money are warm at night, they do not repay quickly. When they are cold I get my money back, and they do not quibble so much about the interest I charge.”

  “So you break the ancient laws of Israel when they suit your purpose, but you loudly protest, as you did a moment ago, when you see no need to break the law.”

  Abinadab swallowed but answered quickly. “Yes, I suppose that is true. But land is more sacred in Israel than cloaks. It is a greater law.”

  “The choice is yours. You can have power measured by the value of cloaks or by the value of fields.”

  “I see your point.”

  “One more thing,” the prophet continued. “How do you keep the people from taking you before the elders who are at the gate?”

  “They do take me sometimes.”

  “And how do you retain their cloaks, then?”

  Abinadab again spoke firmly. “The elders are friends of mine.”

  “You bribe them?”

  “No.” His voice rose in anger. “I have never bribed an elder. I would not bribe a judge of my people.”

  “Then how do they rule in your favor?”

  “They know my point of view. They are convinced, as I am, that a cloak is poor collateral when it can be picked up each night at sundown.”

  “And how did they come to agree with you so fully?”

  “They have become my friends. We talk at parties and in one another’s homes. We attend religious functions together. I give them gifts on special occasions. They are my friends.”

  The two Baal servants glanced at each other. “Why don’t you be honest with yourself?” they chided their host. “You are bribing the elders. Admit it, and Melkart will show you the way to power.”

  Abinadab leaned forward. “You sit as my guests in my house and dare accuse me of dishonesty?”

  Meor-baal laughed. “
Don’t be angry, Abinadab. We only seek to clarify our meaning. I fear that your worship of Yahweh has dulled your senses. You really don’t believe Yahweh’s teaching that men should not accumulate wealth at the expense of the poor or weak, but you cannot tear away from the laws of Israel. So you hover between one view and the other. You strain Yahweh’s laws enough to satisfy your business needs, but not so much that you break away from them completely. The result is that you remain a very small fish compared to what you could be.”

  “All right. I will listen to what Melkart teaches.”

  The priest sat up and pointed his finger at Abinadab. “First, let me hear you admit that your friendship with the elders and your gifts to them are a form of bribery.”

  Abinadab stared at Meor-baal for a moment. Then he spoke in a low tone. “All right, I suppose it is a form of bribery.”

  “Now,” the priest responded, “we are getting somewhere.”

  “Whose cloaks are these?” the prophet asked.

  “They belong to men of Dor. Baana, Shammah, several others.”

  “And if you did not keep them each night they would not pay you well.”

  “That is a fact.”

  “Then you could claim the cloaks by default.”

  “Yes. But what do I want with cloaks? It is more profitable to lend money than to sell cloaks.”

  “But suppose you allow the owners to keep their cloaks at night and they do not pay on time. Would that no put them in a difficult position toward you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You said you had a fine mind. Let Melkart come into your mind. Think like Melkart. Think like the god of Power. Lie back and think. We will be silent.”

  The priest and the prophet lay back on their pillows. Abinadab watched them, his brow furrowed in surprise. He sat for a moment staring at them. Then he murmured, “I don’t know how Melkart thinks. That is why I asked you to come.”