Elijah

by William H. Stephens

  Elijah passed through the wide entrance beside the temple and into the walled enclosure of the pinwheel. An earthen cone rose three times a man’s height in the center. Flames leaped from a large and deep hole at its top. Wide billowing clouds of smoke and occasional tongues of fire rose to the chants of a ring of Baal priests who stood nearly shoulder to shoulder around the base of the cone. Worshipers thronged every available space between the priests and walls, chanting in rhythm with the priests, raising and lowering their arms in accord.

  The sun already was high, hazy but still blinding through the smoke. Elijah knew he must leave. He would not keep silent when the orgy started, certainly not when the chosen beauty and her male companion were thrown into the open fiery pit and the ear-piercing, horrendous, screaming wail of the crowd joined the burning flesh of the sacrifice to Baal. See, the people would reason, we give you the best of our lives; can you but give us now the means to life? The prophet made his way out of the enclosure.

  Directly east of him lay Phoenicia. The coast stretched long, etched against the sea in varying colors. Its narrow plain sometimes disappeared completely as the Lebanon Mountains forced their way to the sea. There was Tyre, the home of infamous Jezebel, and Sidon, and the vast stretch of sea beyond. Between the two harbors, hidden by the mountains, was Zarephath, his destination.

  He shook his head. Perhaps he should not have come here. Looking over the land, the task of proclaiming Yahweh seemed too formidable. There was Samaria, disdaining the conservatism of its southern brothers to lose itself in a mirage of power and wealth at the cost of truth, closing its eyes to the evils of its pragmatic and open-minded acceptance of patently false ideas that it would not examine. And there, beyond his range of vision to the south, stretched the conservative Judah, whose people carved life out of the hardness of the desert, but whose stern religion and fiercely independent politics sometimes perverted Yahweh worship into a parody of truth. Even so, Judah worshipped Yahweh passionately. Their King Jehoshaphat established a reign of justice based on the Law.

  How could Yahweh break through Samaria’s shell? How could he win at all without some spectacular display of power? An emptiness, quite apart from his hunger, gnawed at Elijah’s stomach. How many people are down there under the sweep of my eyes? He thought. Ten times ten thousand? Or double that? Or more? And every single one of them with a separate shell.

  Elijah turned to the Hasbeiya road that moved down Hermon’s west slope, wishing he had not come to this peak. Far below and to the north, Baal-bek stood out prominently. It was the home of the most magnificent temples ever erected to the Baals. The city’s reputation was widespread. He had heard even of Israelites who went there to worship, and Jezebel made annual pilgrimages to the temple city.

  The western slopes of Mount Hermon received more rain than the eastern slopes, and so it was greener by far. The change of scenery quickened Elijah’s flagging spirit.

  It was dusk when he neared the city of Hasbeiya. The houses were almost concealed among the terraces and trees. Some late workers still plodded up the hill below the city toward the large double gates. Elijah made his way around the walls to the wadi in hopes of refilling his empty waterpouch. The wadi was dry, though, and he had no vessel to draw water from the well that stood nearby. He shrugged and turned to descend the slope down to the Hasbany River.

  He slept on a patch of grass and awoke the next morning to the sound of voices. The prophet opened his eyes to the stares of women, each of whom balanced a waterjar on her head. They looked at him only a moment, then went about their business of filling the pots. The well by the wadi must be dry, Elijah thought.

  He walked to the women, who watched him quizzically but unafraid as he approached. “I want to cross the mountain,” he said. “What is the best way to go?”

  The women looked at one another, recognizing by his accent that he was an Israelite and by his clothing that he was a prophet. “Why do you not go down through Ijon and around the mountain?” one asked.

  “I must cross the mountain,” Elijah answered evenly, cautious not to reveal that he must not cross into Samaria.

  The women stared at him and jabbered. Two turned and walked away. Three remained, impatiently, and at last the more responsive one said, “The mountain is cold now.”

  “Yes, I know,” Elijah responded.

  The woman shrugged. “Very well. Cross the river here and go toward the sea. In about two hours, perhaps less, you climb a ridge to a little village. Down from the village you will go along a trail, very treacherous I am told, to the Kuweh. The Kuweh is a natural bridge that will take you across the Leontes River. From there travel will be difficult, and I do not know the way. Ask someone at the village how to get to Mashgharah, where mulberries grow. There is a road from there to Jazzin and on to Sidon.”

  Elijah smiled broadly. “Thank you,” he said. The woman turned back to her work. He refilled his waterpouch, then waded across the Hasbany, clenching his teeth at its cold waters, and started up the rock-strewn hill that enclosed the river.

  The day’s journey took him upward into the majestic Lebanons until he made his way along ever-deepening chasms. He gathered nuts and olives when he could, daring the precipitous cliffs to reach fruit the villagers had not harvested because of the danger. He crossed the roaring Leontes River over the natural bridge called the Kuweh, and made his way to the mulberry village of Mashghareh. So far, all was as the woman had predicted.

  Jezzin, he learned from Mashgharah’s villagers, was his next destination. It was only five miles away, if he could fly like the raven, but the city lay sheltered among high, rocky cliffs, and so the prophet’s journey would be double the distance.

  He would have to hurry to reach Jezzin before the gates closed for the evening. The air already was cold, and the night would be freezing. He broke into a trot, which he maintained until he reached the steep climb up into Jezzin’s protected valley.

  Chapter Nine

  Elijah passed through the city gates under the scrutiny of gatekeepers. He addressed them, “Are there Israelites in Jezzin?”

  “Yes,” came the answer. “Go down this street to the marketplace and ask for Eliham.”

  He nodded and made his way through the late afternoon hustle. Coming to the marketplace, he interrupted a small man who barked out his wares while stacking foodstuff in front of him. “I am looking for Eliham.”

  The man did not pause in his chantlike announcements, but pointed to his left with two fingers. Elijah assumed he meant two booths, so he passed one and stopped at the next. “Eliham,” he called. A head raised. “Eliham?”

  “I am Eliham.”

  “I am Elijah, a prophet of Yahweh. Would you give me lodging for the night?”

  A look of surprise swept over the man’s face, and a smile spread quickly. He rose to his full height, arms outstretched. “Come, come.” He spoke loudly and caught Elijah in his arms. Pulling the prophet into an embrace, he clapped him on the back and kissed both cheeks.

  Elijah, surprised at the exuberant greeting, looked up at the man’s face. Eliham was a head taller than the prophet, with a broad chest and square shoulders. His hair, capped with a headcloth tied by a bluish-purple band, fell below his shoulders.

  “You know of me, here at Jezzin?” Elijah asked.

  “Yes, I know of you, and you have a great surprise in store. Come, help me close the booth, and we will go home.”

  Together, the two men packed the wheat, olives, and nuts into large woven baskets and loaded them onto two donkeys. Only when they were finished and leading the donkeys out of the din of the marketplace did Elijah ask, “What surprise did you speak of?”

  Eliham chuckled. “You will see.”

  As they would through streets that followed the contours of the valley, Elijah learned that Eliham’s house sheltered the only Israelites in Jezzin.

  “This is a pagan place,” he told the prophet, and pointed to the mountain that rose high above the eastern side of
the city. “Up that mountain are groves of very old oak trees. In the largest grove is a shrine. In years past, I am told, it was where the people of Jezzin worshiped their own baal. But now it is the home of the Great Baal worshiped by Jezebel.

  “Through Jezzin,” he continued, “passes a fair road from Sidon to Damascus. The people here learned of the power of Melkart and Asherah from the merchants who passed through. They came to believe that everyone really worships the same god, so they transferred their allegiance from their little baal to the Baal of great nations.”

  Eliham shook his head. “Isn’t that the way of men, Elijah? To throw off a foolish superstition for a more respected one and believe in so doing that they discover truth?”

  Elijah did not smile.

  Eliham continued. “There are villages all over these mountains and in the valleys. Every one of them has at least one shrine to some baal. Some of the people, especially the old ones, still believe in their little baals, but . . .” He paused and looked at Elijah. “Now they are all turning to the big Baal.” He stopped the donkeys and gripped Elijah by the arm. “Melkart and Asherah are winning, prophet of Yahweh.”

  The sense of despondency that swept over Elijah as he viewed the panorama from Mount Hermon rose again in his throat. He answered firmly, hiding his concern. “No. Baal will not win.” He looked hard into Eliham’s eyes. “Baal will not win,” he repeated softly.

  Eliham looked away and pulled the donkeys into a walk. In a few minutes they arrived at a square rock house. An open, arched portico was set in the center of the front wall, with two windows fixed on each side. A second-story room was built on one third of the flat roof, and a staircase ran up the opposite side wall from the room.

  The host led the way behind the house to a rock enclosure, where the two men stored the produce in a well-built shed. Eliham locked the gate from inside the enclosure and they went into the house through a back entrance.

  Three faces looked up at the men as they entered. Ruth, Eliham’s wife, greeted her husband, “You are home early, Eliham.” Then she noticed the guest and rose to meet him.

  But Elijah was staring at the other two faces in shocked surprise. The two faces, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, broke into excited smiles. The man and woman struggled simultaneously to rise from the table. Rejab reached Elijah first and the two men embraced. Miriam was at his side, pulling the prophet’s head down to kiss his cheek. Eliham stood on one side with his wife, smiling into her questioning eyes. When the first excitement of the greeting began to abate, he caught Elijah’s arm.

  “Elijah, meet my wife, Ruth.”

  Ruth reached out both her hands to his. “You are Elijah, the prophet of Yahweh?”

  He nodded.

  She squeezed his hands tightly. “You are welcome in our house, Elijah.” She beckoned toward the table. Eliham quickly drew up another stool for the prophet, while Ruth poured wine for them all.

  Seated, Elijah grasped Rejab’s fat arm. “How do you come to be here, my friend?”

  Rejab looked at Miriam, then back at the prophet. “Elijah,” he began, “matters became very hard in Israel. I had to choose. Either I had to cheat in order to compete and keep my business or I had to lose my business and starve.” As he related the incidents of false weights and foreclosures, Elijah sat without speaking, but Miriam noted the gradual tightening of muscles in the prophet’s arms and neck. She noted, too, that he ate the food slowly that Ruth set before him.

  “And so,” Rejab concluded, “Miriam and I decided to come here to her cousin’s house at Jezzin.”

  Eliham interrupted. “Rejab is a good merchant. We have combined our efforts. He spends his time buying, while I spend my time selling. My market—our market—is open more now than when I either had to wait for farmers to bring in their produce or close shop and go into the fields to buy.”

  Rejab smiled excitedly. “I travel even beyond the farmlands of Jezzin now, into Coele-Syria, or the plain of Ijon. When no more grain is available, I will go to Sidon for fish.”

  “We are getting along well, Elijah, the four of us working together,” Ruth added. “Not as well as before the drought, but better than most.”

  “I am glad,” Elijah said softly. Then he asked, “But do you not have the same problems of weights and measures here that you had in Bethshean?”

  Eliham laughed. “No, Elijah. Here I am one of the largest merchants. Since Rejab came, the two of us handle more produce than anyone. We are big fish in a small pool, rather than the other way around. We are honest, and the others must follow our lead or lose their customers.” Eliham’s voice deepened and grew more cautious. “Elijah, when will the drought end?”

  “You said Melkart and Asherah are winning?”

  “Yes, I said that.”

  “The famine will not end until the people know beyond a doubt that it is Yahweh who controls the rain.”

  Eliham poured wine into his cup. “And suppose that day never comes?”

  “The day will come,” Elijah insisted, “and when it comes, even you, Eliham, will know that Yahweh is God.”

  “I know it now,” he responded sternly.

  “You know Yahweh is God, but you really do not believe he is stronger than these forces of evil.”

  The host set his cup down and stared at the prophet.

  “You don’t believe Yahweh can defeat his adversary, so you, Eliham?” Elijah repeated.

  “And do you never have doubts about the outcome, Elijah?”

  The prophet looked from one inquiring face to another. “Yes,” he answered finally. “I have moments of doubt.”

  “Then why do you judge us?” Ruth interjected.

  “I do not judge you. I simply state that Yahweh has said he will win. What he says, he will do. Baal is very strong even in Israel. How Yahweh will win I cannot say. But he will win. My certainty is greater than my doubt.”

  Eliham rose from the table. “It is time for sleep.”

  Ruth handed Elijah an oil lamp. “You will sleep in the guest chamber upstairs,” she said, and smiled tenderly at this prophet she wished she could believe. “Sleep well, and come down only when you are ready.”

  “Thank you, Ruth. Good night, my friends.” He turned to go outside and up the side stairway, then stopped at the door. “Yahweh will win,” he said.

  He awoke early and lay for a while thinking of the conversation of the night before. Even Yahweh’s faithful do not believe he will win, he thought. What must Yahweh do then to convince those who do not believe? Three years of drought. Elijah began to see why Yahweh had to make the famine so long. The victory over Baal must be a resounding one.

  Breakfast was not strained as Elijah had feared it would be. Eliham assured the prophet that he would pray hard for Yahweh to give him faith. Rejab and Miriam, always stalwart supporters, told him of the widespread knowledge throughout Israel of his pronouncement.

  “But they still pray to Baal, just in case he is stronger than Yahweh,” Elijah countered, recalling the scenes he had witnessed on his journey.

  “Yes,” Rejab answered. “But they know that Yahweh has spoken. That’s the first step to victory.”

  Elijah left as early as possible. His pouch was full of breadcakes and his head was full of directions. He must travel west for a short distance to a difficult road that cuts south. The next day he would stand by the Great Sea.

  The sun stood high at noon when the prophet caught sight of the dark soil of the sea coast, a muted contrast against the blue waters. He turned south to follow the ancient dirt road down the coast. Occasionally, he slowed his walk to watch the sails of a ship glide effortlessly along the surface, an intriguing wonder for the prophet from Gilead.

  The mountains edged in closer toward the sea as he continued, soon closing the plain almost completely. There, on the point, was his journey’s end. Zarephath stood gleaming in the sun. In her harbor, low-slung ships with sails down sat at peace.

  Ahead, he saw a woman come out of the city’s
gates and approach a small cluster of trees that grew near the edge of the harbor. She bent to pick up some dry twigs from under the trees, added them to the small bundle in her left hand, then stood upright, her eyes searching the trunk of the tamarisk. Grimacing each time as the twig snapped, she broke several deal twigs that jutted lifeless from the trunk.

  Engrossed in her task, she did not notice Elijah’s approach. “I could use a drink of water,” he said softly.

  The woman jerked around, startled, and dropped the sticks she had so painstakingly collected. As Elijah bent to pick them up, she looked at him carefully. His rough, sturdy mantle and stiff leather girdle marked him as a prophet, while his unruly, abundant hair and beard frightened her. He obviously had tried to wash off the dust and dirt from some journey, for she could detect streaks on the backs of his legs. His clothes were filthy.

  He stood and handed her the sticks. She was a stout woman, but the loose skin at her cheeks and neck revealed the famine’s effects. Her head was covered with a shawl, and a wide, loose tunic hung from her shoulders to the ground. She was almost as tall as he was, and he looked straight into her eyes, which were lined with strong but thin eyebrows.

  “Please,” he said, “I am very thirsty. Please bring me a vessel of water to drink.”

  She could hardly refuse. Custom demanded that she not turn a stranger away without water.

  “Very well,” she answered. “I will return in a few minutes.” She moved toward the city gate, clutching her bundle of twigs.

  Perhaps this is the widow God had in mind, Elijah thought. He called after her. “Bring me a bit of bread, if you will, just a small piece.”