Elijah

by William H. Stephens

  The old man, supported by a staff, led the way around the house to the small courtyard behind, closed the high gate, and watched as Zebul fumbled to loose the horse from its trappings. Obviously, the fat man was not accustomed to the task.

  Ahijah pointed to a manger. Zebul acknowledged by slapping the horse lightly on the rump and watched as he plodded toward the feed.

  Ahijah gestured to the back door and led the way. The sandals of both men shuffled on the hard earth, one because of age, the other from fatigue.

  Inside, Ahijah finally spoke. His tone was cold. “I recognize you now. You really are Zebul, who fancies himself high priest of Israel. I did not believe it was you in those ashes.” He spoke with obvious contempt. “You must know how many times I have denounced you as an opportunist. Why do you now come to me? Did you think to trick me with your ashes?”

  Zebul looked at the old prophet, who voice was surprisingly vigorous for his age. “What you have said of me is true, but that is behind now. You see a different person from the priest you denounced.”

  Ahijah’s brows furrowed, but he said nothing.

  “That is why I have come to you.”

  “I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Your humility is impressive.”

  Ahijah motioned the priest to a stool by a rough-hewn table. Zebul sat down. The old man brought a large, narrow-necked earthen jar and some towels. “Cleanse away those ashes,” he commanded.

  As Zebul wiped the soot from his body, he began. “These ashes are from the altar of Melkart.”

  Ahijah glared.

  “Hear me, Ahijah.” Zebul started his story, relating in detail his struggle with himself and the events of the night before. While he talked the aged Ahijah brought a pot from a brazier and set it on the table. Seating himself opposite the priest, he broke a loaf of bread in two and handed half of it to Zebul. Both men dipped their bread into the pot of broth and ate.

  Ahijah, who had kept abreast of the development of Baal worship, listened intently to Zebul’s story, then finally asked, “Why do you come to me? To ask advice or to seek consolation?”

  Zebul replied gravely. “I came to you because you are the most respected leader of the prophets of Yahweh. You must do something to turn Baalism from the land.”

  “What do you think I have been doing all my life?”

  “But something new and different is called for. A better organized battle must be fought.”

  Ahijah did not answer at once. His wrinkled face tightened in exasperation. Finally he spoke. “I am old. Sheol will claim me before the battle is hardly begun.”

  “I am a priest,” Zebul countered, “not a prophet. I cannot say what to do, but something must be done, Ahijah. You must think of something.”

  “I have prophesied for many years. I have learned that calling men back to Yahweh is like waging war. What happens to me does not matter, but if I were to die while leading the battle my death would be counted as a victory for Baal.”

  Zebul lowered his head, his hands clasped together on the table before him. He was silent for a moment, then looked hard at Ahijah. “Then your task must be to select a leader the other prophets will follow and respect.”

  Ahijah shook his head. He placed his staff into a mortar joint to keep it from sliding on the floor, grasped the side of the table with his other hand, and rose laboriously from his stool. He turned away from Zebul and walked to a window that looked out onto the tiny courtyard. He was glad he was old and soon would leave the strife of a prophet’s life. The scourge that promised to come, he knew, would be greater than any he had known. He leaned tiredly on the window sill. Sixty years of prophesying, he thought, and what difference had it made? He had witnessed the downfall of the enemy, Philistia, only to watch the rise of Syria, an enemy far more formidable. Spiritual warfare was no different. One battle succeeded another. In the flame of his youth he had pictured a spiritual progress of Israel to a higher plane, but no such transformation had taken place. The occasional revival of interest in Yahweh religion inevitably was followed by a relapse into pagan rituals. Preaching is like throwing a pebble into a pool, he thought, a small splash, ripples that gradually subside, and the glassy surface returns. Why bother to cast the pebble?

  He turned and stared at Zebul, who met his gaze. A smile started faintly at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps the ripples had touched the life of this fat, once-pompous priest before they subsided. The old prophet spoke slowly. “No man can appoint a leader for prophets.” He paused and shuffled back to the table. “But perhaps God does have a man.”

  “I will search for him. He must be found.”

  Ahijah lowered himself onto the stool beside the table and chuckled disdainfully. The intensity of the old man’s gaze made the priest uneasy. “You latecomers to the battle amuse me.” He spoke slowly. “To which prophet do you propose to offer the job?”

  Zebul’s fat jowls quivered a he started to speak, then he thought better. He shook his head in exasperation. Faintly he answered, “There must be something I can do.”

  Ahijah’s face softened. “Zebul, there is something you can do.” He paused. “But searching for the particular prophet God may choose to challenge Baal is a waste of time.”

  Zebul frowned. The old prophet seemed stronger and more alert. “You priests must learn something about prophets,” the old man continued, speaking with more zest. “Duties are not assigned and rotated as with you. What do you suppose would be the result if you were to choose the wrong man to lead?” Without giving Zebul a chance to answer, he continued. “Your recent experience has made you painfully aware of the seriousness of this challenge to Yahweh.”

  Zebul nodded.

  Ahijah’s hands were clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. “Your concept of Yahweh is too small. Don’t you think he knows what is happening?” He paused to allow Zebul to catch the full import of the question. “Hear me, my priestly friend. Yahweh knew long ago that such a crisis would arise. You may be sure that God has been preparing a prophet to meet the occasion. When the time is ripe, he will appear, and you can be sure that God will do his work in a manner different from that which you, or I, or any other priest would have chosen.”

  Zebul sat quietly for a moment, studying the wizened face of the old prophet. He adjusted the towel on his wide shoulders as he rose. Standing over the prophet, he finally said simply, “You are so certain?”

  The answer was solemn. “I am certain.”

  It was the kind of country you would expect a prophet to come from. The Jordan River separated it from the rest of Israel, both geographically and culturally. Its people raised sheep and cattle, most of them partly nomadic. They looked with condescension on the settled farmers west of the Jordan who, they believed, claimed to be Yahwists but could not refrain from sacrificing to the fertility baals for good crops.

  The mountain range rose precipitously from the exuberant growth of the tropical Jordan Valley. From the valley, the cliffs rose from limestone and changed to black volcanic mass at the top.

  The land was high, open, and extensive. Large, rolling plains rose again and again into rocky hills and gradually dissolved into the great eastern desert. The hills were wild and rugged, covered with clumps of forests. It was a country of solitude that was broken occasionally by dashing mountain streams whose valleys were haunted by fierce beasts.

  In the north lay the grasslands of Havoth-Jair. The land was spotted with occasional clumps of black Bedouin goathair tents. The rude stone villages were small and anonymous, each one about like the rest, catering to the nomadic families who moved from the heights during the summer to the gorges and valleys during the winter. The people were wild and unkempt compared to the farmers west of the river.

  It was dusk on the farmlands of the west, but night had come already to the Jordan Valley as Elijah approached the Bethshean ford. The valley was made wider here by the intrusion of the Valley of Jezreel from the west where it cut through the Samaritan hills. Bethshe
an sat in the mouth of the valley, on a low hill some five hundred feet above the valley floor. She was the principal city of the rich valley plain, the chief marketplace of the region for its corn, balsam, flax, and dates. The water was shallow enough here in the wider valley, and the Jordan’s constant tangle of thorns was broken, to provide a crossing point. The ford was deserted now; dusk was a time to be inside with one’s family.

  Elijah started through the water. He had the appearance of the stern land of his birth. As he slowly cut through the current, his bulky muscles rippled under thick hair that covered almost all of his body. Long, unkempt black locks fell in complete disarray over his broad, thick shoulders. His large, square-jawed head was set on a short, stout body that was sunbaked to a pecan brown. The piercing gaze from his dark eyes announced a frightening confidence in himself and his mission. Elijah used his appearance to advantage, though he did so subconsciously. The wild look came into his eyes and face without conscious effort when he preached—even when he thought of the apostasy of Israel. He was a fanatic to his unsympathetic audiences, a hero to other prophets. His voice was strong, with a shocking quality that sent his opponents into shells of restrained anger. He was loved by his admirers, disdained and mocked by those he antagonized, and feared by both for his unpredictable intrusions into public places. Often after he appeared at an assembly or party, the people would slowly leave, unable to shake the pall cast by his attack. His guerrilla tactics were disconcerting and rudely effective.

  The water covered Elijah’s wide leather belt and fought with his short, coarse tunic. He held his heavy black wool mantle high to keep it from getting wet.

  Once across the river, Elijah climbed the road to Bethshean. The gatekeeper already had begun to lock the huge oak gates. At the prophet’s request to enter, the keeper responded with sullen acquiescence. He dared not curse a prophet. Elijah entered with a nod of thanks and made his way along Bethshean’s basalt streets, his sandals whispering softly on the black stones.

  Rejab’s house was simple but solidly constructed of square limestone blocks. Only a single door and no windows opened to the street. From the courtyard in the rear, outside stairs led to the flat roof. One small room constituted the second story, set to one side of the roof, to accommodate visitors. The downstairs area consisted of a large room. On one side was a raised platform for sleeping and family activities. Small square stools were placed around the walls of the room for the seating of guests. A large clay pan sat on the floor near one wall. In winter it was filled with coals and covered with a board and a heavy piece of goathair material. Thus arranged, it furnished enough heat to make the room comfortable. A back door to the large room opened onto a courtyard that was walled around with sun-dried brick.

  Elijah grasped the iron knocker and rapped. A slight breeze blew down from the Valley of Jezreel.

  The door opened almost immediately. A wide smile spread over Rejab’s face as he recognized his old friend. “Welcome, Elijah.” Rejab grasped the prophet warmly, kissing both cheeks. He was older than the prophet by some years and rather fat, but he moved with ease.

  Rejab gushed with excitement. “Come in, come in, my friend the prophet.” He hustled Elijah inside and scuttered across the room, his fluttering light robes outlining his ponderous belly. He placed a cushion on the seat of an oak stool and another one upright against the wall to form a back. “Here, sit here, my friend. Miriam!” he called to his wife, who already had seen Elijah and was at that moment greeting him with short bows and exclamations.

  “Sit! Sit!” Rejab jabbered.

  Elijah gratefully settled into the cushions. He had traveled for two days and a night without resting for more than moments at a time.

  Miriam rushed to him with a figcake and a cup of wine.

  “Yes, yes,” Rejab gushed incessantly. “Perfect for the weary traveler. You are a joy to me, Miriam. Take it, Elijah, and refresh yourself.”

  Elijah drank gratefully, more refreshed by the antics of his host than by the food. The joviality of Rejab offered temporary escape from the somber realities of his past musings. The medicine was good.

  Rejab joyfully told the story of the day. A Bedouin tribesman was crossing the Jordan at the place where Elijah made his ford. His camel stumbled in the swift water and went completely under, not a humorous event at all to the camel or its owner. Rejab’s description of the naked man diving into the water to cut the camel’s load loose and get the animal to shore, Elijah thought, could not have been nearly so funny as his own story made it seem.

  Rejab enjoyed his own storytelling immensely. As he talked, his stomach joggled with his laughter, making him look as though he was bouncing on the little stool. He gestured widely in his talk, and his voice sometimes rose to shrills.

  Miriam interrupted Rejab only momentarily with her call to dinner. Throughout the meal of hot broth and bread, which the men dipped with their fingers into the large pot of dense liquid, Rejab continued his hilarity. That Elijah was quiet did not bother the host. Elijah often was quiet.

  Finally Elijah interrupted. “Rejab, tell me what you know about the Baal temple at Samaria.”

  The smile, which appeared to be etched permanently into Rejab’s face, faded quickly. “Have you heard of the dedication?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is all I know. It took place two nights ago. The city was paralyzed the next day. The people say it does not matter. They can serve both Yahweh and the baals. I am just a poor merchant. I do not know of such things. All I know is that after the prophets of Melkart speak the people I trade with are less scrupulous and more cunning in their deceit.” Rejab gripped the crude goblet of wine with both hands. He swirled the liquid and gazed at it thoughtfully. “There is something else, Elijah.”

  “What else?”

  “Word has come from Obadiah that Jezebel intends to make Melkart and Asherah the official gods of the court.”

  Elijah’s jaws clenched. When he rose from his seat, Rejab felt a tinge of fear. Elijah turned the goblet up and finished its contents with a gulp. He clenched the empty cup tightly, a wild look in his eyes, his muscles tense. Then slowly he relaxed and set the cup on the table.

  “That is what I feared, Rejab. May Yahweh reward you both for your kindness. I must retire, and I will leave before you arise in the morning. I shall not bother you.”

  “You shall bother us,” Rejab objected. “I shall not interfere with your mission, but you shall not go on an empty stomach. You can serve Yahweh better if you are strong. When shall you leave?”

  “I must be in Samaria when Ahab sits on his throne. I leave at the beginning of the last watch before dawn. I shall run the distance.”

  “It’s twenty miles, Elijah.”

  “I shall run the distance,” the prophet repeated.

  Rejab looked askance at his guest. Difficult as the trip surely would be, uphill much of the way, he knew Elijah would do as he said. “Then you shall need your strength all the more. When you arise, your food will be ready.”

  Elijah grasped Rejab by both shoulders and kissed his cheek, “You are the best of men, Rejab.”

  The moon was dark in the early hours before morning and Miriam needed lamplight to see. She laid bramble twigs and thorns in the outdoor oven and lit the tinder with fire from the lamp. She fanned it with her breath until it blazed, then threw dried pieces of dung into the flames for fuel. By the time Elijah roused, the breadcakes were ready to serve. Rejab left tracks on the dew-covered ground as he approached with a large goatskin, the head hole and three legs tied, the other left open to serve as a spout. He filled Elijah’s cup with wine. They ate silently.

  Elijah set his cup on the flat rock that served as an outdoor table. “I must go, Rejab.” He kissed them both. “Good-bye, Mirian.” The gate to the courtyard closed behind him. For a moment Rejab and Miriam listened to their friend’s rapid gait, then the sound faded and they were alone again.

  Chapter Five

  Obadiah was a full hea
d taller than Elijah, but not so powerfully built. His slender frame was robed immaculately, his beard trimmed to a thin line and a short goatee. His mustache matched the thin line of his beard. He wore no head covering, but his finely combed hair was held neatly in place with a headband. A blue matching sash stood out in restful contrast to the whiteness of his robe. His complexion was soft, yet deeply colored from the sun, his forehead high with a prominent vein in the center. He stood with an air of confidence; his eyes indicated a quick mind. He was in control of all of the royal possessions and he administered them with talent. Ahab’s confidence in him was apparent, for often he was consulted on matters completely outside of his appointed function.

  Elijah spoke in a low, urgent voice. His penetrating eyes matched the intensity of his words.

  “Elijah, what you ask is too dangerous. I cannot do it.”

  “You must do it. I must see Ahab.”

  “He will have you in stocks in the marketplace.”

  “He would not arrest a prophet.”

  Obadiah shook his head imploringly. “Elijah, Ahab has given a great deal of authority over the court to Jezebel. He will order your arrest because she would want it done.”

  “Then I shall not let myself be caught.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Ahab has made certain that his palace guards are loyal to the faith of Israel, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “They will allow me to escape. Before Ahab can alert others, I will be on my way to the Jordan.”

  “Why can’t you simply give me a message to take to him?”

  “You know that is a foolish question, Obadiah.”

  “Yes. You are determined then.”

  “I know what I must do.”

  “All right. I will get you to him. But I must find a robe to cover you. The guards would not let you enter like that, even with me.”

  With a robe covering his hairy body and with hair and beard freshly combed, Elijah walked beside Obadiah. They passed through the courtyard amid an occasional greeting by workmen and servants who had no reason to question Obadiah’s selection of companions. At the palace entrance Obadiah simply nodded to the guards.