Elijah (17 page)

The sun reached the slopes of Mount Hermon early. Its rays filtered through the branches to wake Elijah up just at sunrise. Sitting up, he pulled his mantle up and shoved his arms though the holes at each corner, then tied the band at the neck.

When he emerged from the clump of trees, he noticed a sparse but long trail of people ascending the road toward Hermon. He looked toward the summit. The slopes hid the peak from view, but a cloud of smoke filled the sky above, climbing high into the clear blue of the new morning.

Four roads ran to the temple at the top of Mount Hermon. One, far around on the eastern side, provided a fairly easy ascent for worshipers from the region of Damascus. Two difficult roads wound upward from the west for the Baal worshipers of the great valley between Mount Hermon and Mount Lebanon. One of them, on which the prophet watched the thin trail of climbers, would bring a few Canaanites and many Israelites form Beth-gad, Dan, and all the region of the headwaters of the Jordan.

Caution drew Elijah back into the trees, but as he watched the pilgrims laboriously force themselves up the mountain he knew he must find a way to witness the ceremony which could only be attended by the hardy. Older people would observe in lower temples what obviously was a public call to worship and sacrifice.

As he watched, he heard the unmistakable cries and chants of a group of prophets. Looking down the road, he saw them dancing and twirling in the strange manner they had of jumping and twisting around in the air. Quickly, he made his way to the road to join them as they passed. Soon, he knew, their physical antics would diminish from fatigue, though he would have to chant and wail himself often enough to appear as one of them.

The climb to the summit became more torturous as it steepened and the air became thinner. The thin covering of evergreen oaks dissipated. The prophets, now wheezing and light-headed, forced themselves over bald gray limestone for the last two thousand feet. The mountaintop, over 9200 feet high, was almost level.

A rock wall was arranged in a circle like a pinwheel to surround the summit. From its center rose the huge column of smoke that formed the cloud Elijah had seen from below. He left the band of prophets to avoid the inevitable conversation that would expose him, and tried to appear in a prophet’s trance as he walked around the wall to the opening in the pinwheel. There at the entrance stood a nearly square temple which he guessed to be over thirty feet each way. Throngs of worshipers waited in line to enter, some of them quiet, some talking as though on an outing, some with hands raised ecstatically toward the smoke-filled heavens.

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.