Elijah

by William H. Stephens

  Tongues of flame flickered from tips of shallow, elongated oil lamps. The dancing light emphasized in shadow-etchings on the walls the movements of nervous men. Every raised arm, every small shuffle, every twitch was exaggerated in profile on a wall. The shadows criss-crossed one another in varying shades of gray and black, broken by V’s above each wall niche from which oil lamps cast their lights.

  Obadiah stood in the center of the large room. His sensitive nostrils caught the pungent odor of unwashed bodies, but he forced him mind to accept the smell and ignored it. Every man there was bearded. They sat, leaned, squatted, and stood all around him. The eyes and hands of each one told their own stories of nervousness here, as though each tragedy already pressed its weight; blank acceptance here, as though the news had not yet been apprehended; twitching here, as from a swordless warrior fanatically ready to dash barehanded into battle; calmness here, as though the price of war had been considered long ago and accepted as part of the game. The moods of stark terror, anticipation, excitement, worry, cowardice, bravery, fear, thrill, and shrugging acceptance were as varied as the dress of the men. Some wore wide leather waistbands over short drapes of cloth. Some wore the hair long and in tangles. Some wore sandals with leather straps wrapped around their ankles and lower legs. Some were barefoot. Some had the long, flowing, uncut hair of Nazirites, who vow never to have a razor touch their hair nor wine their lips until the vow is fulfilled.

  Obadiah had heard the news only hours ago. He was outside the city walls checking the granary shafts at the time. Zebul had been hauled to a fast-erected stand in the marketplace, his head and arms bound in a wooded ox yoke. According to the report, the high priest had stood silent and erect as the charge of usurpation of his claimed office was read. At first the people reacted in stunned silence at the accusation. Then their silence gave way to low murmuring against the queen. But the newly appointed priest-in-charge skillfully read the queen’s proclamation of defense for the purity of the ancient religion of Israel. The final denunciation of Zebul was scathing, and it capitalized on his lack of popularity. The people’s mood changed to glee.

  Zebul’s death was that accorded a conquered and despised king. The yoke was removed and he was bound hand and foot. His feet were roped to the back of a chariot and he was dragged full speed through the rough streets of the city, his fat body rolling and bouncing along hard black stones. No one knew how long he lived before the careening horses finally were brought to a stop. Except for his size, Zebul’s body was not recognizable. His wife had remained stoic. Except for her station in life, she had long ago ceased to care what happened to her fat husband. By now, Obadiah knew, the dogs would have licked the blood from the streets.

  As Obadiah revealed the story of Zebul’s transformation to the prophets of the Samarian guild, they responded with mixed emotions, but he could sense the building of a sympathy for the once-despised priest. Along with the sympathy a sense of foreboding also grew. Soon, though, their reactions began to take more definite forms.

  A young, stringy-bearded prophet shouted out his challenge. “Yahweh is stronger than Melkart and Asherah! We will stand face to face with the prophets of Baal and show them the strength of the true God. Who is with me?”

  Immediately a clamor went up, some of the men shouting defiance of the gods and prophets of Baal, others crying for silence and sanity.

  Finally the oldest prophet, thinly robed, small of stature, with red blotches over skin that had lost its hair, arose and with the aid of a staff made his way to stand beside Obadiah. He held his arm high. Voices died down until the room was silent. He spoke slowly and laboriously. “Let us seek the advice of Obadiah. He knows well the mind of Jezebel.”

  Obadiah responded immediately. “I believe Queen Jezebel will seek to destroy as many prophets of Yahweh as possible. I advise you to go into hiding.”

  “He calls Jezebel his queen!” An angry young man was on his feet. His back and head arched toward Obadiah, his face contorted with anger. “How can you be faithful to Yahweh and call Jezebel your queen!”

  Obadiah spoke firmly but simply. “My advice stands.”

  Another prophet, tall, wiry, wearing a leather waistcloth and leather sandals, spoke gently but with a resonant voice that made his words sound profound. “Obadiah, I speak as chief of the coenobia of prophets. You cannot expect Yahweh’s prophets to escape from danger. The very nature of our lives is danger. It is especially in the hour of danger that we are called to speak.”

  “Nevertheless,” Obadiah responded evenly, “God hides Elijah, who surely is not afraid of danger. Perhaps Yahweh, too, feels that retreat is a virtue.”

  The reference to Elijah relaxed the prophets. Even those who were antagonistic to Obadiah remained quiet, though sullen.

  “There are caves in the limestone of our city’s hill. You know of them, but the prophets of Baal whom Jezebel brought from Tyre and Byblos do not. You must find the best hidden and least accessible ones to hide you. Some of you younger men must take on yourselves the task to search out the best choices. I will see that you are provided with food and are kept informed of events. Once in hiding, you must never come out except at my instruction. And one other thing. You must trust me without question. If you cannot do so, find your own place to hide. I have neither the time nor the stomach to tolerate your distrust.”

  He paused, then turned to the tall, wiry leader. “Your name?”

  “Macaiah.”

  “You will be my contact man, Macaiah, chief of prophets. You will notify me in some way when you have located satisfactory hiding places.”

  Obadiah turned to go.

  “Obadiah,” Macaiah called. “A moment more.”

  The governor paused.

  “What is to be the fate of the coenobias at Jericho, Bethel, and Gilgal? Are they being warned?”

  “If they are to be warned, you must see to it.” Obadiah bowed slightly and made his way up the stone steps to the street.

  Macaiah turned to face the guild of prophets. “Someone must go to warn our brothers. Six of you, strong of limb, must go by twos to the other three coenobias. Who will go?”

  A flood of hands, amid clamoring, rose to indicate volunteers. Macaiah scanned the group and made assignments quickly, aware of the personalities who could work together best. Those who were chosen gathered around their leader for last minute consultation.

  The heavy sword, held double-handed by a broadchested soldier, came crashing down to cut through hair, flesh, sinew, and bone, and stopped with a thud, embedded in the thick tabletop. Ahijah’s head rolled slightly beside the swordblade and stopped, open-mouthed and staring. Two soldiers released their holds and the body slumped to the floor. The two captives gasped slightly at the moment of the old prophet’s death; then they remained mute. Circles of bloods on the table and floor widened in the silence.

  “A pity,” the captain of the guard mocked after a moment, “that you did not arrive in time for the questioning. You would have enjoyed it.” He moved over to the two prophets. Slowly, he wrapped a leather strap around his hand, smiling broadly. “At least, your arrival here at Bethel warns me that my work will be harder at Gilgal and Jericho.” His eyes narrowed and the tightness of his mouth erased the smile from his face. “Will you spare yourselves by telling me where the prophets may hide? And will you pay allegiance to Baal?”

  The two men simply stared into the captain’s eyes.

  Grimacing, the captain threw his weight into the blow. The leather-wrapped fist smashed into the first prophet’s face. He crumpled to the floor, his jaw broken. The next blow cut the second prophet’s lips against his teeth. Blood streamed from his mouth and nose, but he remained on his feet.

  “These fanatics won’t talk, and we have no time to waste on them,” the captain shouted to his men. “Kill them.”

  The captain stalked outside, barking orders to his soldiers to mount and take positions. In a moment the five who had remained in Ahijah’s house to carry out thei
r last order emerged. Two of them were returning bronze swords to their sheaths. They quickly mounted their waiting horses.

  The detachment moved east toward Jericho and Gilgal.

  Chapter Seven

  Light crept slowly into the mouth of the cave. By mid-morning its heat stirred Elijah. Half awake, he felt the grumblings of hunger in his stomach. He rose slowly to his knees, sat back, and rubbed the traces of sleep from his eyes. Then he made his way to the pool. The cool water stirred his senses and heightened his hunger.

  Standing by the pool, he turned carefully and slowly to scrutinize his new surroundings. Oleanders stood as tall sentinels along both banks of the wadi. Up the wadi to the east the cane was broken and twisted from the torrents that had turned the dry wadi into a furious, narrow river during the winter rains. Thornbushes grew in patches of earth for several yards up the steep sides of the wadi. Except for the pond, which had its source from inside the porous limestone mountains, the older growth of the wadi was caked dull gray with mud. Above the ugly line marked by the stream at its height, spaced among the thornbushes, grew clusters of retem bushes, several long green slender twigs rising from a common base. Occasionally Elijah caught the fragrance of the small, pink blossoms that still covered each twig. From high in the rock walls came the frequent, low coo of rock pigeons.

  The cave itself was shallow. The prophet could see the full depth of it from where he stood, more of a cleft than a cave. Its floor was covered with the same dried mud that dominated the wadi bed. He scanned the small area for berry bushes. There were none.

  Elijah bent to the pool and drank its water from his cupped hands. He felt the coolness travel down his throat and into his stomach. Just as the hunger pangs started again, accentuated by the drink, he heard the thrashing of wings and looked up to see a large raven tear a pigeon from its nest. In a moment, frightened pigeons deserted their perches, and the loud caw of the raven mixed with the desperate sounds of the captured prey.

  But the raven, trying to tear at the pigeon while in flight, loosed its hold on its bounty. It fell into Elijah’s lair. He darted for the bird and retrieved it before the raven could recapture his prize. The pigeon was dead, its eyes pierced by the raven’s beak. The ravens were to feed me, Elijah thought, so I shall eat God’s food.

  As the raven perched nearby in an oleander and cawed his raucous protest, Elijah plucked the bird. He had no fire, so he was obliged to eat the flesh raw. Smoke would reveal his hiding place, anyway. “Thanks,” he said aloud to the raven. “God didn’t promise me a banquet, but I’ll enjoy what he gave me.” He laughed and pointed an arm toward the raven. “Through you,” he added.

  He pulled the insides from the pigeon and tossed the refuse some distance from him and in full view of the raven. “But you shall not go hungry, my benefactor,” he said.

  The large bird cautiously left his perch and flew to a rock near the promising meal. Still cawing loudly, he watched Elijah carefully, his coal black feathers glistening almost purple in the sun. Gaining courage, he moved to the ground and, ever slowly, walked toward the food. Elijah spoke softly, “Come now, my new friend. I saved you the trouble of preparing your meal. Eat well.” Finally the raven tore into the food, keeping a wary eye all the while on the prophet. As he held the mass with his feet, he pulled bits loose with his beak. With each mouthful, he tilted his head back to swallow the morsel.

  Elijah had seen a raven feeding many times before. The sight always fascinated him. This king of birds surely was one of God’s most intelligent creatures.

  The raven finished his meal before Elijah. He flew to a high branch, cawed loudly, then flew to a hole in the steep wall not far above Elijah’s cleft. He flipped himself nervously to face one direction, then the other, but did not turn toward the hole. He cawed again, then flew away.

  Elijah watched the black wings lift the raven quickly up the valley toward the plateau high above and disappear over the rim. He looked toward the hole the raven had called to his attention. Had the bird wanted him to know about something? Or had he become aware again of a man’s presence and decided at the last moment not to reveal a treasure?

  Ravens cache food away in case of famine, Elijah recalled. Perhaps the hole was this raven’s storehouse. Clutching bushes and small outcroppings, the prophet worked himself up to the hole and looked inside. Something was there. He reached in and pulled out a handful of the raven’s cache. “The little thief!” Elijah laughed. He looked at the round breadcakes he had known in his boyhood. They were flat cakes of bread made by tent people as they followed their flocks during warm weather. The raven, whose diet knows few restrictions, evidently found a way to snatch one occasionally from the Bedouins, or discovered discards after a tribe broke camp. Elijah picked out the two freshest cakes and ate them on the spot.

  Filled, he drank again from the pool, then sat beside it and put his feet into the cool water. After a while Elijah broke a limb from an oleander and used the leafy branch to sweep the dried mud from the cave floor. He spent the afternoon cleaning debris and weeds from a small area between the cave and the pool.

  As the shadows closed in on the canyon, the raven returned. He gripped a breadcake in his beak, which he efficiently deposited in his cache. Then he attacked another rock pigeon to repeat the performance of the morning.

  The next day, two ravens appeared, and as one rainless day passed into another, other ravens joined the pair until several of them kept Elijah busier than he wanted to be. But he prepared their food, thankful that his own needs were met. Occasionally the ravens brought pieces of meat from the carcass of a kill too large to be carried. Elijah looked the meat over carefully each time to be sure it was fresh—sometimes it was not—for ravens would not turn down a meal of carrion.

  He was bored much of the time until he settled down into a routine, but he was determined to remain in his hiding place until he felt God’s urge to leave. Ahab’s search surely continued even though the king would not become critically concerned until the end of the normal dry season.

  Soon the days settled into a pattern. Elijah rose to eat with the ravens, who continued most days to stock their cache with breadcakes. The birds were large, some two feet from tip of beak to tail, and their antics in flight sent chills of admiration down Elijah’s spine. Gradually they became his friends. He talked with them gently and named each one. The leader, the first one to appear, was El’echol, “food from God.”

  After the ravens left he sat by the pool and prayed to Yahweh. He prayed for faith. He softly sang the songs he had learned as a boy on the high plains of Gilead, holy songs, many of them written by David, Israel’s greatest king. He recalled the laws of God and recited from memory all he could remember of the sacred words.

  His boyhood years and his youth had been happy, and he mused on them often during his wait. His parents were semi-nomadic. They lived the Bedouin life during the warm season and settled down during the winters in the little village of Tishbe. He smiled as he recalled Jonadab, his dearest friend, whom he first met at a wateringplace. As they met on other occasions, his friend had convinced him to join the new movement, the Rechabites, named after Jonadab’s father, Rechab. Rechab taught that Yahweh’s laws could be obeyed only in the nomadic life. City walls brought temptations and tied down the spirit of a man. He would not even allow wine, not because it was intoxicating but for fear that his people would learn to like it so well they would plant vineyards, the first step toward a walled town.

  After three years with the Rechabites Elijah had decided that they were wrong. His own parents were no less faithful to Yahweh during the winter months than during the summer, and Rejab, among others, was faithful even in Bethshean, hardly a loyal Yahwist city.

  The night of parting with Jonadab had been painful. They sat around a campfire, Jonadab driving home the arguments that once had convinced Elijah to join the group.

  “There is danger in leaving the life of a nomad, Elijah,” Jonadab had argued. “Here you are free.�
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  The young Elijah picked up a clod and silently rolled it in his hand. Jonadab’s voice droned on. “Walls build a prison around the spirit.” Jonadab gestured expansively. “Here you can think as you want and talk with Yahweh beneath the stars and the sun.”

  Elijah sighed wearily. “Jonadab, you repeat words you have heard from others.”

  “That does not make them less wise.” Jonadab’s bony chin jutted out to emphasize his conviction. “My father told me of the intoxication of the city. Like sweet wine, your mind becomes inflamed and you think of reasons for doing what you know is wrong.”

  “Rechab was a fine man,” Elijah retorted. He said no more.

  Jonadab pulled his legs to his chest and rested his head on his knees. A jackal howled its long wail. The tall, wiry nomad rose to his feet and, with his thumbs tucked into his wide belt, stared at the low, steady flame. Finally he turned toward his friend. “You cannot be successful in what you plan, Elijah. Either you will become the worst of ruffians or you will die a disillusioned and broken man.”

  Elijah looked up at the tall nomad, and he spoke in a tone both agitated and intimate. “And you expect Israel to be saved from Baal because you heard sheep and chant the Shema in these hills?” Elijah chuckled. “Or would you have me stand on Mount Nebo and shout curses to MelKart?” He threw a clod into the fire, and sparks flew in protest.

  “Do you not believe in the strength of example, Elijah? Can’t you see that those who really believe in Yahweh will join us? Better that a few protect the laws of Yahweh than that all men bow the knee to Baal. It is the will of God that we multiply and raise our children to obey the laws of Yahweh. The faithful of Israel will know of us and will join our tribe.”

  “You pull a veil over your eyes, Jonadab. The cities of the plain and hills do not even know we exist. They know only our wool. We could live and die protecting God’s laws. What difference would that make to the rest of the world? No, my friend. You stay if you must. I cannot watch in peace while our people pray to their little baals and listen to the wind for answers.”