Reign (20 page)

And he was angry.

13

Jezebel

Jezebel paced in her chamber the following day until Sargon arrived.

“To send even one priest will legitimize Elijah,” Sargon said.

“I agree,” Jezebel replied, “but Elijah is not our real problem anymore. The people are. They will follow anyone who delivers rain.”

“We need magicians,” Sargon said.

“We need gods,” she countered. “The gods you always promised me were listening.”

Sargon did not answer. Jezebel had to calm her mind without him, without words or comfort or promises. Why had his confidence faded? If someone asked her to prove the sun existed, she would have pointed to it, unafraid. Why was Sargon afraid to prove his gods? Where was his certainty? Where was hers?

Together they assembled the priests outside of the queen’s palace that night. All lined the steps, and Jezebel spoke to them words of encouragement, while messengers ran up and down the steps and elders and commoners milled around, a nervous, excited energy palpable. She looked back at her own holy men. They had no excitement, no visible hope of miraculous events to come. They just took long, steadying breaths and spoke very little. Some chewed their lips, and some talked to themselves under their breath as they cut sharp, disdaining glances at the people gathering at the palace.

“The people did not call for this contest,” Jezebel reminded them. “Do not be angry with them. But do not disappoint them. Or me.”

She called for Athaliah from the nursery. She had to be guarded should events turn sour. It was strange to look at her, to see how she had grown, with dark hair and dark eyes, able to say many words clearly. Many words except
mother
. Jezebel would teach her what
mother
meant for her, but later.

Later in the evening, Jezebel wanted to see Ahab and called for him but heard words exchanged outside her chamber door as the servant left to deliver her request. She knew then that orders had been given, probably by Omri, to isolate her from Ahab. Her fate would be decided without her because she was nothing but a female, born to be ruled by men.

She cursed the burden of being born with a womb.

She tried to sleep, but there were nettles stinging in her stomach and cold fears that seized her. She had planned on ending the reign of Yahweh here in Israel, and now she was caught in his trap.

Ahab

The day of the battle arrived to clear and silent spring skies. There were no clouds and no winds. Nothing moved above them, not even a bird.

All wildlife had fled; even the birds migrated elsewhere. There was no life to sustain their journey here. Dead brown plains surrounded Mount Carmel in every direction. The skeletons of dead shrubs stood twisted toward the approaching people with gnarled branches that clawed the air as if crying out for water that never came.

Many from Samaria and the surrounding land had come to witness the contest because there was no way to plant a crop in the brittle, dry earth. No berries grew, no lettuce sprouted. There was no work, there was no food, and there was no relief. The contest had at least brought hope, and the people had been stirred by that. Ahab fought the resentment that built in his chest, swallowing the dry air to hold his curses inside. What had they come to see, really? he asked. A prince lose the kingdom, or a prophet make a fool of himself?

They walked to reach Mount Carmel along roads that led toward the cool Mediterranean. Such a journey should not have even been possible; it was the rainy season. The roads should have been impassible, but they were dry and hard and cracked. Some whispered that this was a sign. If the Lord had once destroyed the earth by flood, he now displayed his wrath through drought. Mount Carmel stood before them, a wide flat mountain that looked more like a giant table for the gods.
Fitting
, Ahab thought. Mount Carmel would offer everyone a good view of the destruction about to occur. Whether it was an inheritance or a reputation that was destroyed, all would have a good seat. The only modest rise was near the center, just above a spring. As the people climbed, the sound of trickling water caused a riot of screams and activity, fathers pushing their children to the front, mothers cradling infants and stepping over the elderly to get to it. The spring emerged from a trio of flat rocks nestled at the base of a broom tree. The water bubbled as it came up and flowed in a steady stream down the mountain, being absorbed into the earth again before it reached the plains.

The people knelt along the edges of the spring, scooping up the water with their hands, gulping and gasping for air. Ahab saw tears running down their faces, especially the mothers with young. He bowed his head in shame to see what the drought had done to them. Athaliah had not lacked water.

Ahab rode through the slow-moving crowd, noting how their bones stood out at sharp jagged angles. When they turned their faces up to look upon him, he saw their moist eyes, dull and yellow, the hunger eating through their bodies, picking them off one by one, starting with the weak and old. He saw few infants among them, but he did not think infants could thrive if mothers had no milk. The rumors he had heard that infants were sacrificed to Asherah were exaggerated. Maybe one or two had been; he could not help what people did when driven mad by hunger, and the hunger was Elijah’s fault, not his. But he did not believe that it was becoming accepted, not among the Israelites.

He spurred the half-dead horses that pulled his chariot, flanked by weary guards, and arrived above the spring where Jezebel’s priests had assembled in a seething mass. He remembered seeing maggots churning in a festering wound on a soldier. That was what these priests resembled, with their white robes and blank dark eyes.

His own royal robes hung loose around his wasting body, and he stepped down as servants moved to carry a throne to place it at the foot of the modest peak. He watched the faces of his people as they assembled beneath him. They were drawn and hungry, and he felt his throne could not be placed on steady enough ground. If these gods did not make rain, the people would look again to him, and his time as king would be over. It would be a small matter to kill him when all were promised water and water was denied. The sound of the spring drove the point home.

The drought was worse for the thought of it ending, and the soft shade and sweet sharp smell of trees that were still green here made them believe mercy might come near. They trudged on with tired, thin bodies and wondered how they had left this path so willingly. The Lord would refresh the land at home, the mothers promised the children. The smaller ones cried, terrible visions of gods at war filling their minds and rooting their feet to the path so that the fathers had to carry them the rest of the way up. Battles the children had all seen; Ahab knew no child of Israel grew up without watching his father fight. These children knew what it was for men to brandish swords, for chariots to plow through lines of soldiers, knew what it was to see blood smeared across the land. But this thing, a war of gods, this was a thing that had never entered into their minds. It was a new age, some mothers whispered, when gods would fight and men would rest.

Some were speaking of Mount Carmel in the old tongues. It had once been called the Holy Head, the highest of the mountains here, and in the world before that the Egyptians had named it the Nose of the Gazelle, a brilliant shining mount that rose from the hills leaping behind it. It was a rich place, ministered to by the breezes of the sea, offering grain, olives, and grapes to those who loved it. Mount Carmel was a generous place, too, that should have stood aloof above men but never ceased to give them comfort and food. To the poorest, it was a reflection of Yahweh, and they had worshipped here with awe, trembling that they were allowed so close and blessed so well.

But when the people came to Mount Carmel they saw the stones that had once been the altar to Yahweh scattered along the mountain. The priests of Baal had thrown them down and greeted the people with firm nods and hard smiles. A priest kicked at one of the twelve stones to send it rolling away, as if the altar was rubbish that would be dealt with at last.

Elijah parted the people and ascended, his eyes on the stone’s revolution before it came to rest near his feet. He lifted it, lifting it above his head, so that all below could see it, then carried it up the mountain, to the base of the altar’s intended home, the place destroyed by the priests of others. Elijah set the stone on the ground and lifted his hands in prayer as the people watched. The cornerstone was in place. Men moved from the crowd to collect the remaining eleven stones and heaved them, rolling them up to Elijah, who reordered them and placed them together, the altar taking shape before them all. At last it was done. The morning sun was high, and the limestone glared against the red soil at their feet. The altar, blazing white, rested in the red pool of earth, and the people felt the stir of fear.

Elijah did not wait for Ahab to settle his thoughts. He stood at the altar, his weathered face unreadable. Only his eyes were alive, surveying the crowd with an emotion Ahab did not recognize. It seemed like compassion, but Ahab had never felt that when he had gone into a battle. Elijah was a strange man.

Elijah stood before the altar and called out. His arms were relaxed at his sides. Ahab saw that whatever Elijah believed would happen today, it had already been decided in his mind. How could a man, even a prophet, have peace on the first moment of battle? Ahab ran his hand through his hair. He was not in control, and he had no idea if control was even possible now.

Elijah began. “My people, how long are you going to sit on the fence? If God is the real God, follow Him; if it’s Baal, follow him. Today you must make up your minds!”

No one said a word. Ahab felt he should say something, but Yahweh was not his god. Neither was Baal or Asherah or any other of the carved things men carried about. He was, however, the prince.

“I will not be angry,” Ahab called. “You are loyal to me, to Israel, no matter which god you serve.”

Elijah folded his arms, scowling at Ahab. The sun was bright on his face, and the people had to shield their eyes to look at him. He was illuminated in white light, a trick of the afternoon sun, Ahab knew, but it was a clever ploy to position himself there.

“Isn’t it Baal who makes the rain, and Asherah who brings new life? Let us test them,” Elijah said.

The priests of Baal spit in his direction and called down curses under their breath. They chuckled among themselves. Ahab knew the sound of that particular laughter, the sound of men anxious to see another man die.

“Let the Baal prophets bring up two oxen,” Elijah yelled. “Let them pick one, butcher it, and lay it out on an altar of firewood—but don’t ignite it. I’ll take the other ox, cut it up, and lay it on the wood. But neither will I light the fire. Then you pray to your gods, and I’ll pray to God. The god who answers with fire will prove to be, in fact, God.”

Ahab saw his people exhaling and clasping hands. They seem relieved, nodding and talking quietly. An elder from the city yelled back to Elijah.

“A good plan—do it!”

Ahab saw there was more power in Elijah’s scowl than in his scepter, but he didn’t feel offense, though he searched his spirit for it. What he found instead made him blush. Elijah seemed more a father than a cursed prophet. Ahab felt the red shame rising, that he should have secretly grown to admire a man who could take his kingdom from him.

Elijah, as if hearing his thoughts, turned to look him in the eyes. A softness came over the old prophet’s hard face, a compassion that made Ahab’s shame worse. Elijah was doing what Ahab should have done as prince of Israel, and yet Elijah did not try to humiliate him for his weakness. Elijah just saw it and did what Ahab would not.

Priests led two oxen through the crowd, placid creatures unaware that the fate of the nation would be written in their blood. Gods or men made no difference to them; they knew only how to be led and had no mind to see who held the leash. They picked their way up the mountain, their flanks sweating in the sun, another day without water for them, like every day before it.

The Baal priests took their ox and slit its throat in a fast motion. The sun on the blade cast a sharp reflection that stung the people’s eyes, and they grimaced, covering their eyes as the blood boiled onto the ground. The smell, sweet and salty, mixed with the scent of the sea. Ahab felt his stomach turn as the beast was quartered and landed with a wet thump on the stone altar of Baal. He alone did not cover his eyes. He saw Elijah watching him, seeing him in his shame. Elijah’s face remained still, hearing but not adding to the devouring voices in his head.

The priests prayed to Baal and Asherah, beginning with loud invocations, until their prayers became shouts.

“O Baal, O husband of Asherah, answer us!”

The priests held their thumbs and whispered the sacred incantations. “Virgin, dog, serpent! Eternal key, garlands of green, sorcerer’s wand! Grant us favor!”

The morning remained resolved in its stillness, and the sun grew strong. The priests of Baal became desperate, stomping on the altar. The blood shot in all directions as the ox meat was pulped and beaten beneath their sandals. The blood flung up their legs, covering their robes, and they invoked the people to dance for rain. A few bold women played their tambourines and danced as the priests sang the songs of Baal’s lover, enticing him to appear and show his strength. The voices of the priests calling to this god filled the mountain as women began dancing, swinging their bodies, tempting the great god of pleasure to reveal himself. Their robes slipped off their shoulders sometimes, and they did not pull them up, nor did they blush as they lifted their robes and exposed their legs to the men. The priests moved through them, engaging some in deep kisses, pulling some to the ground.

Elijah turned his face away.

The morning burned on, and the priests seemed to have exhausted what songs they knew and whatever passion they possessed. Some of the older ones had to sit, too weak to lift hands in prayer. Some closed their eyes, and Ahab suspected they slept more than prayed. Still he stood, watching Elijah, watching the kingdom’s foundations shaking and splitting.