“Elijah!”
The prophet ignored the call. He continued toward the road, walking on the level ground beside the new furrow.
“Elijah!” The young man looked down at the cloak. It was woven thick and tightly of camel’s hair, with a mild odor of perspiration. The significance of the prophet’s action flooded over Elisha. He gazed at the prophet’s retreating figure. The mantle was as much Elijah’s mark of identification as his hairy body. He broke into a run, the mantle corners flapping between his legs. “Elijah!”
He caught the prophet at the road that ran along the wadi bed up to the western range. “Elijah. I am astonished,” he puffed. “But I do not question the word of Yahweh. Let me but kiss my parents good-bye and I will follow you.”
Elijah nodded. “Certainly. I would not restrain you from saying good-bye.”
“Will you come with me?”
“No. The decision is yours to reconcile with your father and mother as you will. You are on your own.”
“I will catch up with you. Are you going toward Samaria?”
Elijah nodded. Elisha bowed from the waist and ran back into the field. The prophet recalled his own decision to leave the Rechabites and Jonadab. Even God’s people find good reasons why their friends and children should not heed God’s call. Shaphat, Elijah was certain, would prove more difficult than his young friend surmised.
The workmen had reached the edge of the field. They stopped to watch their young overseer’s actions with growing surprise. Elisha pulled the plow piece from its hole to let the beam end fall to the ground, then he tied the piece flat to the beam. He moved to the front of the team and tapped the leader on the side of its head to turn the oxen toward the stable. Sensing the coming rest, the team broke into a trot, Elisha running behind to goad them to a faster pace.
He did not remove the yoke and plow from the team, but simply turned them into the pen, then ran to the house. He burst through the door, still wearing the mantle. Without speaking, he stood in front of his father.
“Elisha, isn’t that Elijah’s mantle? What is wrong? Is he here?”
“No, he is not here, father.”
Shaphat stared at his son, his eyes narrowing. “What does this mean? Why have you left the field?”
“Elijah has called me to follow him, father.”
Shaphat rose from his comfortable chair. “Deborah, come here.” The wife entered wide-eyed from the kitchen, alarmed by her husband’s voice. “Look at your son,” he directed.
She stared at the prophet’s mantle.
“You son says he is to follow Elijah.”
Deborah walked to the young man. With her head tilted back to meet his eyes, she asked, “Is it true, Elisha?”
“It is true, mother.”
Tears began to form in her eyes. Shaphat put his arm around her waist. She buried her face in his shoulder. “Elijah is a good man. We love him. But he does not know what he asks. Nor do you.”
“Yahweh calls me. Elijah is but his mouth.”
“The field, son, the farm. I cannot run it without you. I am growing old.”
“You can hire an overseer.”
“Serve Yahweh, Elisha, as we do and as we have taught you, but do not take this course. Elijah’s life hangs like a dying leaf in the autumn. The wind will sweep you away with him.”
“The safest place on earth is in God’s will.”
“I forbid you to go.”
“Yahweh has called me. I cannot refuse.”
The two men faced each other without speaking. Deborah broke away from Shaphat’s arms and clutched at her son. “Elisha, do not go. Do not defy your father.”
Surprised at the ferocity of their objections, Elisha pulled away from his mother. He walked into the kitchen and picked up an iron axe and a long-bladed knife. An oblong oil lamp stood on a table, its small flame flickering from its pinched end. He picked it up and walked back into the main room.
Deborah raised a hand to her mouth. “Elisha?”
He went out the door and toward the oxen he left untended in the pen. Shaphat hurried after him. Elisha set the oil lamp and tools on the fence and began to unfasten the thick wooden yoke. He dragged it and the plow to the fence, slipped the knife into his girdle, and picked up the axe.
Not until he raised the axe over the head of one of the oxen did Shaphat realize what he was about to do. “Elisha!” he called too late. The flat end of the axe came down hard on the ox. It slumped immediately to its knees and rolled onto its side. The other ox watched uncomprehending as Elisha moved toward it. Shaphat called out again, “Elisha! Stop!” He ran toward his son, but already the second ox lay dead on its side. “What’s wrong with you, Elisha? Have you gone mad?” The father grabbed the axe from his son’s hand, but its use was past.
Elisha pulled the knife from his girdle and began to skin the animal. The men arrived from the field just in time to see the second animal fall. Elisha called to them, “Tell the villagers there is a meat feast. Tell them to come now. Everyone is invited.”
Shaphat, struck dumb by the quickness of Elisha’s actions, did not object. He stared unbelieving at the two dead oxen.
Elisha worked with feverish quickness. He cut a long line down the ox’s underside and along its legs to lay open the hide, gutted the animal, then began to cut sections of meat from the carcass. He carried each piece to the stable area and hung it by a hook to drain. Last, he cut the head from the ox and dragged the carcass on its hide, tied a rope to its hind quarters, and winched it over a beam to hang neck down.
Shaphat stood in his path as he approached the second ox. “Elisha, you are destroying my property.” He said simply.
Elisha walked around him. “Take it from my inheritance, he answered.
Shaphat tried to talk to his son as Elisha carved the ox. The son worked swiftly, as before, ignoring the pleadings of the father. A few early arrivers stared wide-eyed across the fence, jesting with one another and calling for Shaphat to explain the occasion. Other villagers approached from three directions. The eleven workers who had been with Elisha in the field stalled their oxen securely and joined the crowd. Immediately they were assailed with questions they could not answer. Shaphat, at last, walked through the crowd, ignoring their questions and shaking off their friendly tugs, to make his way to the house.
Elisha retrieved the axe his father had dropped. He picked up the heavy end of the plow and moved between the pen and the house. He heard his name called amid the gasps of the crowd as he raised the axe and brought it down the first time on the precious plow. Someone in the crowd noticed that his mantle looked like Elijah’s.
The new prophet chopped the plow into eighteen-inch pieces, which he stacked into a pile. He went to the pen, picked up the yoke, and placed it across his shoulders, his arms outstretched to balance it by each end. He dropped it to the ground near the newly cut wood and looked toward his friends. “As I shed this yoke,” he said softly, “so I shed this life.”
The announcement revealed to the crowd the seriousness of the feast. The people grew quiet, watching with wonder as the thunk of Elisha’s axe into the thick yoke set a somber pattern of sound.
Perspiration had soaked through the shoulders of the mantle by the time he completed the task. He dropped the axe and walked into the house, to return in a moment with a long spit and its braces. Shaphat and Deborah followed him to the door and watched, arms around each other’s waist. Their son set the spit properly, then arranged the wood under it. He ignited some thorn twigs from near his mother’s outdoor oven, stuffed them under the wood, fetched the oil lamp from the fence, and ignited the twigs. The fire spread quickly along the dry wood.
Elisha waited until the flames passed their high point and a hot bed of ashes began to form underneath. He returned to the stable to select three large, choice cuts for the spit. Only when the meat was set in place to roast did he speak again.
The men, each one his friend, stood in the foreground, the women in a semi-circle
behind them. “My friends,” he began, “all of you know that I swore a Nazirite vow not to touch a razor to my hair or wine to my lips so long as the temples to Baal stand in Samaria and Jezreel. My heart has been heavy for Yahweh. My greatest dream has come true this day.” He grasped the mantle at arms’ length to hold it out. Its shape formed a triangle from each hand to a point at his knees. His long black hair and beard set his face out fearsomely at the top of the straight line of his arms and shoulders. “This is the mantle of Elijah,” he said. He lowered his arms. “Today, while I plowed in the field, Elijah cast his mantle over me. Yahweh has called me to follow the prophet, to be his disciple. I go gladly.” He gestured toward the roasting meat and fire. “The flames burn away the yoke and the plow, and the meat of my ox team will pass into your bodies. They are symbols of my life. Now that life is ended. I will return to it no more.”
His friends were silent, each one embarrassed that he could think of nothing to say. Most of them had worshiped at Baal shrines; some of them no more after Carmel. All of them knew well of Elisha’s zeal for Yahweh. At last, a young man eased from the crowd and embraced Elisha tightly. He pulled away gently, bowing from the waist as he returned to the crowd. The act of endorsement and reverence brought tears to Elisha’s eyes.
The crowd was immobile for a moment. Never had a prophet come from Abel-meholah. Then several men in front bowed to the ground, quickly followed by the others who stood behind them.
“By this honor,” Elisha asked, “do you renounce Baal?”
A murmur rant through the crowd. Some of them shouted yes, others were silent.
Elisha did not press the matter. “Now,” he said, “come and eat.” He picked up the knife and cut generous portions, handing a piece to each man as he came by. The women sat in chattering groups around the perimeter to wait for the men to finish eating.
After he had served the men, Elisha turned to the house. Shaphat stood in the doorway, his arm still around his wife. “And my father,” Elisha called. “Will my father eat a portion of the slain ox?”
For a moment Shaphat did not move. The crowd watched curiously. Then he made his way in slow steps toward Elisha. As he neared, his composure fell away and he broke into tears. He fell on his son’s shoulder. Deborah ran from the house toward them. The three embraced unashamed before the crowd.
Elisha kissed his mother and father on each cheek and pulled away. “I must go now to catch Elijah,” he said. He turned toward the crowd. “Even with tears of parting,” he shouted, “the feast is for joy. Joy should flood the hearts of all when Yahweh calls a servant. Eat well.” He turned to Shaphat. “Father, we would have wine.” Shaphat nodded and started for the house. “Be happy, my friends,” Elisha repeated, “for I am happy.” He put his arm around his mother and guided her to the door.
Inside, he packed nuts and parched corn into a foodpouch and filled a waterpouch. His father handed him a small bag of coins and went outside with three skins of wine.
Elisha kissed his mother again.
Shaphat was waiting near the roasting mean. “Elisha,” he asked, “will you cut me a piece before you go?”
The son smiled and went to the fire. He selected the best portion and cut from it a large serving.
Shaphat received it in both hands. He took a bite and chewed it slowly, then said to his son, “Elisha, I share in your new life. Go with Yahweh.”
“Thank you, father.” Elisha turned toward the road.
To the east the hills of Samaria rolled ever upward toward their crest at the ridge high above the Jordan Valley. To the west the dark gray alluvial soil of the rich Plain of Sharon dominated the slope to the Great Sea, accented by wide stretches of rich red soil and, along the shore, a spasmodic pattern of dune sand. Ahead, the Carmel range cut northwest toward the sea.
Dor lay on the coast fourteen miles south of Carmel, dominating the wide gray plain that lay between the sea and the mountain range. Both prophets carried their mantles across their shoulders—Elijah with his familiar one returned, Elisha with a newer one. After another ten miles the prophets left the Way of the Sea for the narrower Dor road. They arrived in the city late in the afternoon.
The elders watched the figures approach Dor’s main gate. “It looks like Elijah,” one of them said with surprise. Brows wrinkled as old eyes strained to see the men more clearly. “It is Elijah,” the speaker said with more certainty.
The prophets entered the gate and approached the seat of the elders. The old men scrambled toward them, bowing as they came. “Elijah, we are honored,” the chief elder welcomed. “What brings you to Dor?”
“If the prophet of Yahweh is honored, why then does Asherah’s shrine still stand outside the city?” Elijah demanded sternly. Elisha stood quietly, wishing fervently that he could speak.
The elders shook their heads, embarrassed. “We do not wish it to be there, Elijah,” one of them answered.
“Then why is it there?”
The chief elder approached the prophet until they stood face to face. His beard was a strange array of white, stringy patches, his head bald. He spoke in a hoarse, low voice. “We do not have the power we once had in Dor,” he advised. “The people follow other leaders.” He paused. “Would you speak to our people, Elijah?”
“I will speak. Gather them at six o’clock.” The prophet waved toward Elisha and the two of them turned into the city toward the traveler’s inn. The elders left in different directions to set the announcement in motion.
At evening, Elijah climbed the steps where the Baal prophet had stood several years before. A crowd already was gathered, having arrived early to gain better vantage points. He began to speak immediately.
“Men of Dor, how many of you were on Mount Carmel on the great day of God?” he called.
A multitude of hands joined the somber shouts in answer.
“You live on the plain,” Elijah continued. “Yahweh challenged the rain goddess and showed Baal to be without power even on the plain. And now, tell me truly, did Baal deal with you well while you worshiped at the pagan shrine?”
A low, uncertain murmur spread among the crowd. Some of them turned toward Abinadab, who stood in his accustomed place in his carriage behind them, preferring to watch the crowd as well as the speaker.
Elijah recognized the challenge immediately. Baal had dealt well with Abinadab. “Some of you have become slaves since Jezebel was made queen,” he shouted. “Yet still you dream of the promises of Asherah and Melkart. Has your chase been worthwhile? Do you still think that one day those gods will grant your wishes?” He pointed to Abinadab. “You are not slaves of that man, or of any other. You are slaves to your own minds. You are slaves to the wrong dreams.” He pointed again to Abinadab. “Your slavery,” he shouted, “came from your greed to be the kind of man he is.”
He stepped higher on the stairway so all the people, now a large crowd, could see him better. His hair-covered, mantle-draped, leather-girded body stood in sharp contrast to Abinadab’s well-groomed and immaculate figure opposite him.
“Why do you think Yahweh led you from Egypt?” Elijah demanded. “To lead you from one slavery to another? Why do you suppose Yahweh gave Israel new laws to live by? So that one man can cheat another? Have you not heard the laws of your fathers?” He stared at the crowd, pausing until the silence caught their attention more firmly. “Hear them!” he shouted. “Hear the laws of Yahweh! Did not Yahweh say through the mouth of our father Moses, ‘You shall not do as they do in Egypt where you once dwelt, nor shall you do as they do in the land of Canaan to which I am bringing you. You must keep my laws without fail, for you shall have life through them.’ ”1 The prophet drew a deep breath and leaned forward, as though to get closer to them. “My friends, the ways of greed of the Phoenician merchants are not the ways of God. Did Yahweh not tell us to leave unreaped the edges of our fields and not to glean the droppings nor strip the vineyards, to leave that food for the poor?”
Elijah noted with surprise the nod
ding heads and the nervous movements of the crowd. He wondered how the sacred law had been so openly broken, but he continued. “Hear the law of Yahweh. ‘You shall not steal. You shall not cheat or deceive a fellow countryman. You shall not oppress your neighbor, nor rob him. You shall not pervert justice. You shall love your neighbor as a man like yourself.’ ”1
The crowd stirred more uneasily. Haggard faces glanced with growing contempt toward Abinadab and the line of chariots and well-dressed men who listened beside their leader. Elijah noticed that the rich ones maintained their looks of disdain and amusement.
The prophet continued his recall of Yahweh’s laws, surprised that mere recitation of the simple commands aroused the crowd so easily. “‘When an alien settles in your land, you shall not oppress him. He shall be treated as a native born among you, and you shall love him as a man like yourself. You shall not pervert justice I the measurement of length, weight, or quantity.’”2
The murmurs of the crowd ceased. The people listened engrossed as he told them the near-forgotten story of the Exodus, made new and real to him by his own pilgrimage. He described the agonies of Egypt, and the worse agonies of the wilderness; then he told of the joy when the people of God came into the Promised Land. Every man was to have his own plot of ground, his own house, his own life. He told of the frequent lapses into idolatry and decried the lure of the licentious baals. He recited the history of retribution, as Yahweh had shaped them like clay toward a proper form, a form never attained and now horribly misshaped.
It was when he talked of the land that the crowd became restless; each time, as a tooth that ached to be pressed, he came back to the laws of land and slavery, and the people whispered and stared. Both slave and free glanced cautiously but with hate toward the wealthy masters.
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