Friday, August 7, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Conversations with Elijah
Rain stops at his command. Fire falls at his word. The prophet Elijah intends to bring Israel back to the one true god, relying on his booming voice and the elements at his command. But words fail Elijah when the Voice in his heart sends him into refuge with an idol-worshiper.
Set in Israel and Sidon during the Iron Age, CONVERSATIONS WITH ELIJAH chronicles the precarious relationship between “The Tormentor of Israel” and the foreign widow who reluctantly gives him refuge. When the widow reveals her true identity, Elijah must reconcile his conviction to purge Israel of Baal worship with his desire to protect the woman and her child. Frustrated by the silence of the heavens, Elijah vows that if his god will not act, he will.
My publishing credits include short fiction and a regular newspaper column. CONVERSATIONS WITH ELIJAH, a historical novel of 100,000 words, explores the clash between monotheism and polytheism in the Old Testament Culture – and questions which tradition is truly the predecessor of modern Christian worship.
Set in Israel and Sidon during the Iron Age, CONVERSATIONS WITH ELIJAH chronicles the precarious relationship between “The Tormentor of Israel” and the foreign widow who reluctantly gives him refuge. When the widow reveals her true identity, Elijah must reconcile his conviction to purge Israel of Baal worship with his desire to protect the woman and her child. Frustrated by the silence of the heavens, Elijah vows that if his god will not act, he will.
My publishing credits include short fiction and a regular newspaper column. CONVERSATIONS WITH ELIJAH, a historical novel of 100,000 words, explores the clash between monotheism and polytheism in the Old Testament Culture – and questions which tradition is truly the predecessor of modern Christian worship.
Chapter 1: Dry Brook
Israel, 859 BC during the reign of Ahab
He was dying. He was starving, like the many gaunt, pale forms he had seen along the road. The hatred in their eyes still burned his soul like firebrands. The people were caught in his curse.
“That’s him,” someone would hiss as his camel hair cloak came into view. The hands would extend toward him, the bone-thin fingers flexing and grabbing. “You brought this curse on us, Elijah!”
Some other man would restrain that one, both of them with as little strength and coherence as toddling babies.
“Don’t harm the prophet!” some woman would wail. “If you kill him, we’ll never see rain again!”
The scene played over and over. Elijah would wrench free and move on down the road. Behind him they would cry, “Save us, Elijah! Save us!”
But he could not save them. He could not even save himself. He kept plodding along, his tongue dry and swollen against the ridges of his mouth. For a time, Yahweh had sustained him. In his hiding place, the brook had bubbled fresh water in spite of the drought. The most amazing miracle had been the raven. Each morning and evening, the gleaming black fowl swooped down to his camp and deposited a small muslin pouch.
“Who sent you, little friend?” he wondered.
The raven always hopped backward, just beyond his reach, as he opened the sack and brought out a small loaf of sweet bread and a stick of dried meat. She preened her shiny feathers at the edge of the brook while he devoured the small meal.
Then the brook had dried up, leaving only a cracked broken line through a maze of brittle roots. The raven did not return.
“Go to Zarephath,” said the Voice of Yahweh in his heart. “A widow there will care for you.”
Zarephath. Where in Israel was a town called Zarephath? The Voice spoke no more, so Elijah tied on his leather belt and started walking, hoping to ask for directions along the way.
There were people on the dusty roads, all right, but not the usual merchant convoys. Whole tribes guided dazed children and livestock over the cracked earth with their possessions tied to the backs of each one. Carcasses of sheep and oxen lay here and there in the dry ditches, empty eye sockets staring obscenely at heaven. Flies swarmed over the bodies of dead animals and languishing children.
Elijah hung his head, trying to push through the crowds inconspicuously. He could not ask for directions. There was only one conversation anyone wanted with him.
“Why are you killing us, Prophet? Why do you torment Yahweh’s people?”
“Give us rain, Elijah! My sons are dying. See their glassy eyes, Prophet? See their bellies filled with air?”
“There is Elijah! Seize him!”
“Turn him loose before something worse happens.”
“Murderer!”
“You’re killing our sons and daughters, Elijah!”
“Save us, Prophet! Save us!”
Elijah hung his head and walked on. On the third day, he passed through the land Yahweh had given to the tribe of Asher and started north, away from King Ahab in Samaria but most of all, away from the dying throng. Still their voices sounded in his ringing ears, and their faces swam before him as he trudged the dry road.
He was vaguely aware that he had crossed out of Israel. He had entered the land of the Phoenicians, those despicable Baal-worshipers who caused this drought in the first place. It was these people who had led Israel into harlotry with a false god. These people had spawned the vile and beautiful Queen Jezebaal.
“Damn them,” Elijah muttered, turning to collapse against the crumbling stone wall of a small city. His belly growled. His dry tongue seemed to wick all moisture from his mouth, so that his teeth grated brittle against each other. He rubbed his dry eyes, and at last closed them. He tucked his chin down, succumbing to exhaustion. Here he would die, in the land of Baal.
“Get up.” The voice was high-pitched and sharp, lacking the petal softness he was accustomed to in the voices of women. “You can’t stay here. A band of robbers may find you.”
Elijah raised his head and looked up at the shrouded figure. “I have nothing to steal,” he protested weakly.
“Only your life,” she corrected. “Everyone recognizes you, Yahweh Man.”
He groaned. “Even here?”
“Your god is killing us, even here in Zarephath.”
He gasped at the sound of that name, then let out his breath in something akin to laughter. He should have known Yahweh would lead him right to Zarephath – right to the wealthy old widow who would sustain him.
“I’m so happy you found me,” he said then, a smile crinkling his sunburned face. “I’m hungry and thirsty.”
She was walking away.
“Wait!” he cried, rising on weary legs. “I’m coming with you!”
“I have nothing for you.” She bent to pick up two dry sticks and then kept walking along the city wall.
“A drink,” he said, trying the charming smile that had always worked on the women of Israel.
She did not turn to face him, so she did not see that smile. Her own expression was shrouded by the dark veil and the gray of dusk. “There is a well in town,” she said, her voice empty of emotion, “if you like brine.”
He started picking up sticks. “A morsel,” he entreated her. “A scrap of bread?”
She turned to stare at him, shocking him with her youthful face and fiery eyes. “You ask me for bread? Don’t you know you have taken everything from us? I have only my son, and we are both starving. I’m out here gathering these few sticks so I can make a tiny little cake with the last of my flour and oil. Then we die.”
“Feed me,” he said, “and you’ll never run out of flour and oil.”
She grabbed the sticks from his arms and whirled away, toward the city gate. He sighed, prepared to let her go. Then the fabric of her cloak caught the gleam of the sun slipping behind the city, and the cloth seemed to glow blue and green. In that moment her garment looked like the wing of a raven.
“If you save me, you save Israel,” he said quickly, “and the rain comes back to Zarephath, too.”
She turned to peer at him from beneath the dark hood, her skin milky pale by contrast. “Save a killer to live? What kind of paradox is this? Come then.”
In the gate she stopped suddenly and thrust the bundle of sticks into his arms. She loosed the tie of her cloak and shrugged it off. She was small and thin, with dull black hair that cascaded across her shoulders in a thick tangle. Tied to her back was a dark-headed baby bound in a woven blanket. The child slept with one hand clutching the young woman’s hair, and the other thrust into his mouth.
“Take my cloak,” she barked, swinging it around his head and shoulders. “I don’t want anyone to see me bringing home the scourge of Israel.”
“Don’t worry,” he said as they entered the gate. “As long as I am your guest, no harm will come to you or your baby.”
“Then I am your slave,” she said bitterly.
“You’re not my slave,” Elijah protested. “You’re my raven.”
She threw him a surprised glance, but did not ask what he meant.
He followed her through the wide streets of Zarephath, the widow’s dark cloak moving around him like a whisper. The buildings were constructed with thick limestone walls and lintels. Some of the homes seemed to be carved from the ground like man-made caves. A few women mingled by a dry fountain in the center of town, with neither jars nor urgency.
“This way,” the widow ordered, pulling him down a side street. “I don’t want to walk past Baal’s temple. So many are there, making desperate sacrifices for rain.”
“They offer their children to that vile God,” Elijah growled.
“Only in Israel.”
Elijah stopped in the road. “Baal is a Phoenician god,” he said icily. “King Ahab brought this evil to Israel when he brought home your Jezebaal.”
She turned around and stared at him. “My queen would never slaughter children. Nor would Lord Baal accept such a sacrifice. Baal is the god of life and fertility.”
“Baal is not the god of anything,” Elijah shot back. He knew he should speak graciously to his host, but the passion of Yahweh pumped anger through his veins. “Yahweh alone is the god of life – the god of Abraham and Isaac and—“
“Look around you, Yahweh Man.” She waited, arms crossed, until he complied. He saw dusty, cracked streets lined by a few withered shrubs. He saw a sunken-sided dog panting in a dry ditch. He saw a poorly dressed child sitting on a doorstep with protruding ribs. He saw disease, poverty, flies, and starvation.
“Who stopped the rain?” the widow challenged him.
He knew she expected him to credit Yahweh with the deadly drought, and then she would claim that Yahweh was a god of death like the Phoenician god Mot. She would tell him how Mot defeated Baal each year, bringing heat and death to the land. She would profess her faith in Baal’s resurrection, bringing back the rain as he did each autumn to quench the thirsty land.
But Elijah did not blame or credit Yahweh for the drought. Elijah said, “I stopped the rain.”
“Yet you ask me for a drink of water.”
Elijah sighed. “It could be that I ran across the wrong widow,” he said to himself. Then to the woman, “You are a widow, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am,” she answered flatly. “You killed my husband with your drought.”
(copyright Jeannie Babb Taylor, 2007)
He was dying. He was starving, like the many gaunt, pale forms he had seen along the road. The hatred in their eyes still burned his soul like firebrands. The people were caught in his curse.
“That’s him,” someone would hiss as his camel hair cloak came into view. The hands would extend toward him, the bone-thin fingers flexing and grabbing. “You brought this curse on us, Elijah!”
Some other man would restrain that one, both of them with as little strength and coherence as toddling babies.
“Don’t harm the prophet!” some woman would wail. “If you kill him, we’ll never see rain again!”
The scene played over and over. Elijah would wrench free and move on down the road. Behind him they would cry, “Save us, Elijah! Save us!”
But he could not save them. He could not even save himself. He kept plodding along, his tongue dry and swollen against the ridges of his mouth. For a time, Yahweh had sustained him. In his hiding place, the brook had bubbled fresh water in spite of the drought. The most amazing miracle had been the raven. Each morning and evening, the gleaming black fowl swooped down to his camp and deposited a small muslin pouch.
“Who sent you, little friend?” he wondered.
The raven always hopped backward, just beyond his reach, as he opened the sack and brought out a small loaf of sweet bread and a stick of dried meat. She preened her shiny feathers at the edge of the brook while he devoured the small meal.
Then the brook had dried up, leaving only a cracked broken line through a maze of brittle roots. The raven did not return.
“Go to Zarephath,” said the Voice of Yahweh in his heart. “A widow there will care for you.”
Zarephath. Where in Israel was a town called Zarephath? The Voice spoke no more, so Elijah tied on his leather belt and started walking, hoping to ask for directions along the way.
There were people on the dusty roads, all right, but not the usual merchant convoys. Whole tribes guided dazed children and livestock over the cracked earth with their possessions tied to the backs of each one. Carcasses of sheep and oxen lay here and there in the dry ditches, empty eye sockets staring obscenely at heaven. Flies swarmed over the bodies of dead animals and languishing children.
Elijah hung his head, trying to push through the crowds inconspicuously. He could not ask for directions. There was only one conversation anyone wanted with him.
“Why are you killing us, Prophet? Why do you torment Yahweh’s people?”
“Give us rain, Elijah! My sons are dying. See their glassy eyes, Prophet? See their bellies filled with air?”
“There is Elijah! Seize him!”
“Turn him loose before something worse happens.”
“Murderer!”
“You’re killing our sons and daughters, Elijah!”
“Save us, Prophet! Save us!”
Elijah hung his head and walked on. On the third day, he passed through the land Yahweh had given to the tribe of Asher and started north, away from King Ahab in Samaria but most of all, away from the dying throng. Still their voices sounded in his ringing ears, and their faces swam before him as he trudged the dry road.
He was vaguely aware that he had crossed out of Israel. He had entered the land of the Phoenicians, those despicable Baal-worshipers who caused this drought in the first place. It was these people who had led Israel into harlotry with a false god. These people had spawned the vile and beautiful Queen Jezebaal.
“Damn them,” Elijah muttered, turning to collapse against the crumbling stone wall of a small city. His belly growled. His dry tongue seemed to wick all moisture from his mouth, so that his teeth grated brittle against each other. He rubbed his dry eyes, and at last closed them. He tucked his chin down, succumbing to exhaustion. Here he would die, in the land of Baal.
“Get up.” The voice was high-pitched and sharp, lacking the petal softness he was accustomed to in the voices of women. “You can’t stay here. A band of robbers may find you.”
Elijah raised his head and looked up at the shrouded figure. “I have nothing to steal,” he protested weakly.
“Only your life,” she corrected. “Everyone recognizes you, Yahweh Man.”
He groaned. “Even here?”
“Your god is killing us, even here in Zarephath.”
He gasped at the sound of that name, then let out his breath in something akin to laughter. He should have known Yahweh would lead him right to Zarephath – right to the wealthy old widow who would sustain him.
“I’m so happy you found me,” he said then, a smile crinkling his sunburned face. “I’m hungry and thirsty.”
She was walking away.
“Wait!” he cried, rising on weary legs. “I’m coming with you!”
“I have nothing for you.” She bent to pick up two dry sticks and then kept walking along the city wall.
“A drink,” he said, trying the charming smile that had always worked on the women of Israel.
She did not turn to face him, so she did not see that smile. Her own expression was shrouded by the dark veil and the gray of dusk. “There is a well in town,” she said, her voice empty of emotion, “if you like brine.”
He started picking up sticks. “A morsel,” he entreated her. “A scrap of bread?”
She turned to stare at him, shocking him with her youthful face and fiery eyes. “You ask me for bread? Don’t you know you have taken everything from us? I have only my son, and we are both starving. I’m out here gathering these few sticks so I can make a tiny little cake with the last of my flour and oil. Then we die.”
“Feed me,” he said, “and you’ll never run out of flour and oil.”
She grabbed the sticks from his arms and whirled away, toward the city gate. He sighed, prepared to let her go. Then the fabric of her cloak caught the gleam of the sun slipping behind the city, and the cloth seemed to glow blue and green. In that moment her garment looked like the wing of a raven.
“If you save me, you save Israel,” he said quickly, “and the rain comes back to Zarephath, too.”
She turned to peer at him from beneath the dark hood, her skin milky pale by contrast. “Save a killer to live? What kind of paradox is this? Come then.”
In the gate she stopped suddenly and thrust the bundle of sticks into his arms. She loosed the tie of her cloak and shrugged it off. She was small and thin, with dull black hair that cascaded across her shoulders in a thick tangle. Tied to her back was a dark-headed baby bound in a woven blanket. The child slept with one hand clutching the young woman’s hair, and the other thrust into his mouth.
“Take my cloak,” she barked, swinging it around his head and shoulders. “I don’t want anyone to see me bringing home the scourge of Israel.”
“Don’t worry,” he said as they entered the gate. “As long as I am your guest, no harm will come to you or your baby.”
“Then I am your slave,” she said bitterly.
“You’re not my slave,” Elijah protested. “You’re my raven.”
She threw him a surprised glance, but did not ask what he meant.
He followed her through the wide streets of Zarephath, the widow’s dark cloak moving around him like a whisper. The buildings were constructed with thick limestone walls and lintels. Some of the homes seemed to be carved from the ground like man-made caves. A few women mingled by a dry fountain in the center of town, with neither jars nor urgency.
“This way,” the widow ordered, pulling him down a side street. “I don’t want to walk past Baal’s temple. So many are there, making desperate sacrifices for rain.”
“They offer their children to that vile God,” Elijah growled.
“Only in Israel.”
Elijah stopped in the road. “Baal is a Phoenician god,” he said icily. “King Ahab brought this evil to Israel when he brought home your Jezebaal.”
She turned around and stared at him. “My queen would never slaughter children. Nor would Lord Baal accept such a sacrifice. Baal is the god of life and fertility.”
“Baal is not the god of anything,” Elijah shot back. He knew he should speak graciously to his host, but the passion of Yahweh pumped anger through his veins. “Yahweh alone is the god of life – the god of Abraham and Isaac and—“
“Look around you, Yahweh Man.” She waited, arms crossed, until he complied. He saw dusty, cracked streets lined by a few withered shrubs. He saw a sunken-sided dog panting in a dry ditch. He saw a poorly dressed child sitting on a doorstep with protruding ribs. He saw disease, poverty, flies, and starvation.
“Who stopped the rain?” the widow challenged him.
He knew she expected him to credit Yahweh with the deadly drought, and then she would claim that Yahweh was a god of death like the Phoenician god Mot. She would tell him how Mot defeated Baal each year, bringing heat and death to the land. She would profess her faith in Baal’s resurrection, bringing back the rain as he did each autumn to quench the thirsty land.
But Elijah did not blame or credit Yahweh for the drought. Elijah said, “I stopped the rain.”
“Yet you ask me for a drink of water.”
Elijah sighed. “It could be that I ran across the wrong widow,” he said to himself. Then to the woman, “You are a widow, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am,” she answered flatly. “You killed my husband with your drought.”
(copyright Jeannie Babb Taylor, 2007)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)