Elijah

by William H. Stephens

  After a flurry of effort, Ahaziah lost his enthusiasm and settled into the social routine of the court. Jezebel stepped into the vacuum, careful to work consistently through her son.

  With a rich treasury at his command the king gave himself more and more to parties, letting matters take their course around him. Obadiah found it necessary to walk a narrow line between offending Ahaziah and maintaining fiscal responsibility. Jehu had less trouble, for the king cared little for military matters. The commander used the chance to build the army in his favor, toward the day when, possibly, the king might have to be dealt with for the sake of the nation.

  It was at one of the court parties in Samaria that Ahaziah’s reign of only a few months came to its end. He and some young companions left the main banquet room to take some dancing girls to private chambers upstairs. All of them were drunk. Laughing and joking, they shoved one another along the corridor toward the rooms. One of the girls stumbled. Gallantly but drunkenly Ahaziah tried to catch her. In his stumbling haste he crashed into a lattice wall that ran the length of the corridor. With a soft crunching sound, the thin wood gave way. Ahaziah grabbed at the framing, but it was as flimsy as the lattice itself. Clutching a broken piece of wood and screaming, he fell eighteen feet and landed on his side across a high stone curb that encircled a small garden.

  His companions scurried down the steps to his aid, while the screams of the dancing girls brought the palace to life. When sober help arrived, Ahaziah’s drunk friends already were carrying him by his arms and legs upstairs toward his room. A thin line of blood ran from the corners of his mouth. One side of his clothing was wet with blood.

  The attendants took charge quickly. They placed him in his bed and stripped him. His side was badly skinned and abraded, but it was not pierced. He regained consciousness, groaning and crying out in his pain. The doctors cleaned the wound and bandaged the abrasion, but his throat continued to fill with blood. They propped him with pillows into a sitting position to keep him from choking and put a container by his bed for him to spit into.

  The pain worsened. By the next day the abrasion was a deep purple-black. Ahaziah asked the doctors for their opinions. They could not hide the seriousness of the injury. Jezebel, by his bedside throughout the ordeal, asked his permission to send the doctors and attendants from the room.

  The Queen Mother sat on the edge of the thickly-pillowed bed, careful to avoid aggravating his pain. “My son and king,” she said gently, “the gods can do wonders when doctors are helpless. I implore you to call on Baal to heal you.”

  Ahaziah coughed into the container and leaned back on his pillows. He shut his eyes against the pain and nausea that dominated his midsection. “Tell me the baal that is best,” he said.

  “Baal-zebub, the god of Ekron of Philistia,” she answered. “As God of Flies he can banish disease and injury.”

  The king, in a moment of desperate probing, responded, “My father put Yahweh’s name in mine. Perhaps it is Yahweh that I should seek now.”

  Jezebel took his hand. He always was a weak son, she thought. “No, my king. Your father called you ‘Yahweh Possesses’ before he learned of Melkart’s strength. He himself would call on the god who specializes in healing.”

  “Very well,” Ahaziah grimaced as he spoke. “Call the attendants.”

  The men arranged quickly for the trip. Ekron was fifty miles to the south, a very long and fast day’s journey. They could not return in less than three days. In lightweight leather chariots, one man to a chariot and each carrying his own provisions, the attendants raced through the gates, circled the wall, and doubled back toward the west for ten miles to catch the north-south Way of the Sea.

  Elijah was at Gilgal when word came of the king’s accident.

  “It is of God,” Macaiah said promptly.

  Elijah picked up his mantle and pouches, fastened his leather girdle around his waist, and turned toward the door. He moved more slowly now. The weathered skin was aged, but his body still was vigorous and well-muscled.

  Elisha grabbed his belongings and ran after him, his two pouches swinging from one hand, his girdle from the other, his mantle across his shoulder. He fell into step with his master.

  The two men walked north in silence for a short distance, then turned west on the Joppa road.

  “Ahaziah serves Baal,” Elijah explained. “If he is true to form he will send messengers to inquire from Baal-zebub whether he will recover. We will intercept the messengers.”

  The prophets walked rapidly, running when they could. By early afternoon they came to the marketplace of Aphek-on-the-plain. They learned from the villagers that no royal messengers had passed through. The two men started north toward Samaria from the city. After three miles, at a rise in the road, they sat down to wait.

  Within an hour the chariots came into sight, their wheels and horses’ hooves trailing a long trail of dust. Elijah waited by the roadside until they were near enough to see him. They slowed a short distance away, eyeing him curiously in his prophet’s garb. He stepped into their path and held up his hand. Elisha stood silent beside his master.

  The drivers reined up their teams. The leader tied his lines to the chariot, dismounted, and asked cautiously, “Whose prophet are you?”

  Elisha glared at the man. It was incredible that Elijah was known throughout Israel but not in the king’s court.

  Elijah answered sternly. “I am a prophet of Yahweh.”

  “You have reason to stop us?”

  “I judge that you go to Ekron to inquire from Baal-zebub whether the king shall live or die.”

  The man looked back at his companions, surprised at the prophet’s accuracy.

  “I will tell you the answer to your inquiry,” Elijah continued, catching their answer in the silence. His voice rose in force. “Go back now to Ahaziah and tell him that his choice of gods was a choice between life and death. Why should he send messengers to Ekron to inquire of Baal-zebub? Is Yahweh too weak to heal?”

  Elijah look hard into the leader’s eyes and stretched his arm north toward Samaria. “Tell Ahaziah this word from Yahweh: ‘Is there no God in Israel that you must send to Baal-zebub for an answer? Because you call on the baals rather than on Yahweh for help, you will not rise from your bed. You will die.”

  The messengers looked at one another. One of them ventured nervously, knowing he was out of line to advise the leader, “We should obey the king and proceed.”

  “Yahweh is God in Israel,” the leader responded, inwardly pleased to be rid of Ahaziah. “We have our answer.”

  He remounted the chariot and pulled hard on the right rein, flicking his whip simultaneously to turn the horse in a short arc. The other men followed suit. The prophets watched them break into a gallop and disappear in clouds of dust.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ahaziah angrily received the messengers as soon as they returned, concerned at the quickness of their trip.

  “We were met in the road above Aphek by a prophet of Yahweh,” the spokesman reported. He fidgeted nervously, but continued. “Forgive me, my king.”

  “Speak quickly,” Ahaziah snapped.

  “The prophet gave us this word to you from Yahweh: ‘Is there no God in Israel that you go to inquire of Baal-zebub? Because you did not seek Yahweh but rather the baal, you will not rise from your bed. You will die.”

  Ahaziah struggled to maintain his dignity. “What did the prophet look like? Describe him to me.”

  The messenger swallowed. “He was a stout man,” he answered, “fairly old, and his body was covered with hair.”

  Coughing, Ahaziah waved the men out, then turned to the doctor. “Get the Queen Mother,” he ordered.

  Jezebel came quickly, already dressed in case her son’s condition became worse. She noticed Ahaziah’s drawn face and nodded for the doctor to leave them alone.

  Ahaziah spoke loudly through his pain. “It’s Elijah again,” he blurted. “He says I will die.”

  Jezebel, not h
aving seen the prophet for several years, was caught by surprise. She paled. Seeing the change in his mother, Ahaziah began to weep, coughing and clutching his side from the pain brought by his spasms.

  Jezebel spoke gently but firmly. “Get hold of yourself, son. You are a king.” She took his hand in hers and held it until the shaking stopped. Then she spoke evenly. “If Elijah prophesied your death he did so at the word of his god. Baal is stronger.”

  Ahaziah responded weakly. “You’ll use my life to fight your battle, won’t you, mother?”

  “Not my battle son, your battle. We are talking about your life.”

  “No, mother. You want me to live but you want more to see Melkart beat Yahweh. My injury is your battleground.”

  Jezebel spoke carefully, realizing that her son had the power to order her death. She mistrusted the weak spirit bound now to an injured body. “Yahweh as thrust forward the challenge, son, not I. Your injury is a battleground of the gods only because Baal must make it so for you to live.”

  The king pushed himself up painfully on his elbows. “Yahweh cursed my father and he died. Baal could not save him.”

  “Ahab was a great man,” Jezebel entreated, “but he vacillated between Baal and Yahweh. He never truly gave Melkart a chance.” The Queen Mother knelt beside the bed and kissed the back of her son’s hand. “Please, Ahaziah. Fight.” She spoke in a low, intense voice. “Fight for your life. Take up Yahweh’s challenge.”

  The son gripped his mother’s hand and sank deeper into the pillows. He looked at her. “All right. What shall we do?”

  Jezebel smiled and reached to push a lock of hair form Ahaziah’s forehead. “Select a captain who is fervent for Melkart,” she said. “Explain to him the challenge of Yahweh. Send him with his fifty men to arrest Elijah. Then Yahweh will be in Baal’s power.”

  Ahaziah nodded his assent, only half understanding the battle lines but glad for the hope his mother instilled. Jezebel left the room quietly and sent the doctors back to her son.

  She walked more sprightly, a rekindled flame growing inside her bowels. Her hair had grayed in recent years and her skin had become a bit sallow. Yet she had guarded carefully against fleshiness, so that her stomach still was almost flat and her skin unusually smooth.

  Meor-baal returned quickly with the information she sought. He had located the man she wanted, an ambitious, simple-minded captain who was slightly a fanatic toward Melkart and Asherah. He was a good leader who inspired his men to battle with promises of help and rewards from Baal.

  “Delightful,” Jezebel laughed. Meor-baal had not seen her so excited in a long time. Her zest was infectious, and soon he was laughing with her as she caricatured Elijah’s wild hair and rustic dress.

  She grew serious after a few moments. “Meor-baal,” she instructed, “I want you to arrange for messengers to wait for the soldiers to return with Elijah. The moment they approach the gate I want criers to rush to their posts and announce to the city his capture. The people must know that Baal is stronger than Yahweh’s curse.”

  Meor-baal bowed. He had aged more quickly than she, and had gained considerable weight. Still, their friendship had deepened over the years, even more since she had become Queen Mother rather than Queen.

  The captain was outside the door when the priest made his exit. He entered Jezebel’s conference room with a practiced but cautious air of confidence. A scar from a former battle ran from his forehead down the side of his nose very close to his left eye. The eye still was good but the scar made it appear a bit larger than the other. He was dressed in a warrior’s tunic and cradled his dress helmet in his arm. He bowed, “At your service, my Queen Mother.”

  “How strongly do you believe in Melkart?” Jezebel asked abruptly.

  The soldier stood at attention. “He is the strongest of all the gods,” he replied.

  “Stronger than Yahweh?”

  “Yes, honored Queen Mother.” He laughed softly. “Much stronger.”

  “Then how do you account for Yahweh’s victory years ago on Mount Carmel?” she pressed.

  The captain considered the question carefully. “I have thought much about that contest,” he responded. “I must admit that I do not know how Yahweh won. A weaker god wins an occasional battle. But if Yahweh were stronger his nation would be stronger. And he would not allow Baal in his domain.”

  Jezebel’s inner smile did not appear on her face. The reasoning of rustic men amused her. What difference did it make what arguments the captain used, though, so long as his belief in Melkart was firm. Her next question was crucial, though, and she looked at him intently. “Are you afraid of Elijah?”

  The warrior smiled, causing the scar on his face to deepen. “He is the prophet of Mount Carmel,” he said. “Surely he is Yahweh’s strongest prophet. But Baal is stronger. If I ever meet him, it will be in the strength of Melkart. Melkart is stronger, so Melkart will win.”

  “But what about Carmel? Melkart did not win there.”

  “Sometimes prophets lose touch with the gods.”

  “And you are in touch.”

  The captain fidgeted nervously, but only for a moment. “Yes,” he said flatly.

  “All right,” Jezebel said. “I am giving you the most important assignment of your career.” She stretched herself upright in her throne chair. “The prophet of Yahweh has pronounced that the king will die. You must find him so we may break his curse by the power of Baal.”

  The captain beamed. “His arrest will be my pleasure.”

  “He lives on a hill not far south of here,” the Queen Mother continued. “Find out the location from one of the priests. Bring him to Ahaziah, but announce your arrival so I can be there. Treat Elijah as you please on the way, but I want him alive when I see him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Queen Mother Jezebel.” The captain bowed and turned.

  He gathered his men quickly to brief them. Mounted, without chariots, the party circled Samaria’s walls and turned south toward Mounts Ebal and Gerizim. The sky was bleak, overcast with a mottled blanket of dark gray high-topped clouds. The captain teased his men about needing such a large force to arrest one man, skillfully seeking to quiet the fears of those who knew of Elijah’s power. They were going to a picnic, not to a battle. To emphasize the point, he stopped his contingent at Kozoh and again at Elmathan for wine. By the time he led his fifty down the steep wadi that passed at the foot of Elijah’s hill the men were laughing and singing the robust songs of Asherah.

  The captain gathered his men in a tight group around him so Elijah could note the force of the arresting party. He looked up the hill and called loudly, “Elijah!” The prophet did not immediately appear. The captain screamed the name louder, then turned and swore to his men. He hoped he could avoid climbing the steep hill.

  Elisha looked toward his master. “The time has come, Elijah,” he said.

  Elijah threw on his mantle and walked slowly toward the crest of his hill, then stooped low behind a thick bush. He could hear clearly the raucous laughter of the soldiers, interspersed with insults toward the man they came to capture. He was not surprised by Ahaziah’s action. The man was desperate. How much easier for him simply to call on Yahweh for help. Jezebel was the power, of course. She could never let such a challenge to Baal go unanswered.

  The prophet rose and stepped to the crest so the soldiers could see him. The hill sloped too steeply for horses, so the soldiers would have to climb on foot. The men laughed louder now, pointing upward and joking about his appearance.

  “Hey, Elijah,” the captain called loudly, “you dervish.” The men roared. Elijah sat down on a rock to stare down impassively onto the soldiers. “Elijah,” the captain repeated, “you crazy man of a weak god. The king wants to see you. Come with us.”

  Elijah’s forearm rested easily on his knee. “What does Ahaziah want?”

  “What do you think, prophet of Yahweh?” The captain spoke more sternly now. “You will learn to respect the king and you will learn
the power of Baal.”

  “If Baal can heal, let him heal. Or is he too weak to break Yahweh’s word?”

  The captain motioned for his men to remain in their places. He dismounted and stood in front of his horse. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he shouted at the top of his voice. “Elijah, you so-called man of a god, come down or I will come and drag you down.”

  Elijah stood to his feet and looked down the long slope toward the close-ranked warriors. He could see each face. Some appeared amused, others were intense with anger. He called back to the captain. “You would challenge the power of Yahweh with the force of arms?”

  The leader’s face relaxed from its anger. He spoke tauntingly. “Hey, Elijah, I wasn’t on Mount Carmel. You’re talked to soldiers now, not prophets and priests. I warn you. Come down now or you will wish you were dead.”

  Elijah recalled the derisive laughter of the salt diggers. What of the gentle voice now? Should he become a prisoner of the soldiers the people would award Baal a great victory. Even Ahaziah’s death would not eclipse the significance of his capture.

  He spoke in measured words. “You must know, Captain, that Yahweh will not allow me to be captured. You will do well to return to Samaria.”

  The captain slowly withdrew his sword from its sheath. He gestured with his other hand for his men to dismount. They gathered around him quickly, drawing their swords as they moved.

  Elijah held his hand outstretched toward them. “Yahweh has warned you, Captain. Now all Israel will know that the God who sent fire on Mount Carmel can meet on any god’s battlefield. If I truly am a prophet of Yahweh, let fire come down from heaven to consume every one of you.”

  The captain’s face was impassive. As if in common ritual, all fifty-one men raised their swords high, their points like lightning rods toward the slated sky. It happened then. Lightning streaked in blinding waves from the moisture-filled heavens to touch the tip of every sword. Thunder roared its deafening proclamation of disaster as brilliant light flashed through armor and men to sizzle on the earth. Warriors were thrown in wild heaps by the force, flung onto their backs and sides and chests, electricity crackling in their armor. The horses behind them reared up and neighed in terror. The nearer ones fell to the ground, some of them dead; the ones behind broke into frantic gallops up the narrow trail.