Elijah (8 page)

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. Bethshean 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.