Balaam, the Gray Prophet

by Stephen Beam

  Balaam whacked Eeayore even harder than before, furious at her weird behavior. She might have broken his foot. It certainly felt that way. Through his pain, he heard the hum from Eeayore’s vibrating ears growing stronger. It rolled over his body, squeezing his flesh inside an invisible vice, then quickly releasing it, repeatedly and tortuously, from head to foot.

  Eeayore unfroze and walked away from the fence. She stood in the middle of the road, her gaze never wavered from the glowing phantom blocking her path ten feet in front of her. It began drawing closer to her, its form expanding to cover the whole width of the road. There was no way around the unearthly being, the only choice was to return back home. Eeayore shivered. Rippling waves of flesh traveled from muzzle to tail, nearly throwing Balaam from the saddle once again.

  Eeayore laid down on the road, fearful she might harm her master with involuntary convulsions. It was the only action she could take to protect him. The shining celestial materialized a sword of light in its luminous hand, broadcasting its intentions inside Eeayore’s fully morphed brain. She understood this being was dangerous to her master, more dangerous than him falling from the saddle. This being brought death by light-sword.

  Balaam’s anger rose up swift and harsh, so fast it bypassed his barrier of self-control. He brought the stick down hard against Eeayore’s flesh, drawing blood from the gash it left in her hindquarters. All thought and concern vacated his mind; his confusion led to hallucinatory madness. He looked around, not knowing where he was or what he’d just done.

  Eeayore’s skull transformed in order to house new brain structures. When the morphing stopped, she opened her mouth and spoke in a human female voice: “What did I ever do to deserve such a beating? Why did you hit me like that?” She grotesquely twisted her head around to look at Balaam, her long face scrunched up with questions. She noticed the blood her master had drawn coagulating on her hindquarters. “You even made me bleed.”

  Balaam swirled about inside a broken reality, not thinking it odd to hear his donkey speak. It sounded quite natural to his ears. “Why did I hit you? Because you abused me - slammed me into the wire fence and nearly broke my foot. If I had a gun, I’d shoot you. Stupid ass.”

  Tears erupted from Eeayore’s eyes and dripped down her face. Her master’s hurtful words ripped open her heart. “Why would you say such a thing? We’ve been friends almost forever. I’ve never acted like this before, have I?”

  “No.”

  The Lord touched Balaam. Touched him from deep inside, altering the physiological configuration of his eyes while expanding his mind. Beyond white light’s wavelength, the angel of the Lord was finally revealed to Balaam’s new eyes. This was truly a being of celestial grandeur, composed of mental and spiritual substances rather than anything physical.

  Balaam finally fell from the saddle onto the road, his face flat against the earth. He was too frightened to move. This must be his end, not to die as an ordinary man, but as God’s failed messenger. This was his own special death, reserved for those whose sins were too great to be mercifully given a peaceful and mundane death. His were the sins of a man that conversed with God but yearned for worldly things. The sins of a man who lusts for that which leads to death everlasting. Balaam inhaled the earth’s foul dust laced with dry donkey droppings and engine oil drippings.

  The celestial messenger of God pulsed brightly inside a cocoon of blue auric light, holding high the holy glowing sword that crackled with otherworldly energy, threatening to rip the sky apart. The angel spoke: “Why did you strike your donkey three times? I stood on the road to block your path. Your donkey saw me and turned away. She saved your life. If she hadn’t turned and laid down in the road, I would’ve killed you and let her live.”

  The angel’s words were hot coals burning Balaam’s ears, leaving ashes on their way to his heart. By brandishing the light-sword, the celestial messenger caused Balaam to face and fear mortal death. Balaam knew his life was worth less than a donkey’s; he was an infinitesimal and annoying thorn within God’s grand cosmic design. He lifted his face from the ground, careful not to look directly into the powerful angel’s eyes, and said, “I’ve sinned unknowingly. I had no idea the Lord was against me in this matter. Since I’ve displeased Him, I’ll turn and go home.”

  The prophet, near madness, crawled over to Eeayore and hugged her neck. They stood together on the dirt road. His arms still wrapped around her, he hated himself for his angry outburst towards her, beating her until she bled. He trembled in fear and regret, desperate to quench emotions that skimmed the rim of insanity.

  The Lord’s messenger, at last, lowered the light-sword, draining off its crackling energy. Speaking loudly in a voice made of rushing waters, the angel instructed: “Go forward to Moab. Follow the men, and when you arrive, say only that which God allows.” The cocoon of light around the angel drew inward, pulling in every nearby photon. Darkness fell slowly upon them, and when it was complete, the high reality level imploded. The sun was released to shine again on Balaam and Eeayore. The angel was gone.

  Balaam mounted Eeayore, shaking so badly he could barely hold the reins. With a loving stroke drawn carefully down Eeayore’s neck, Balaam said, “Let’s continue on to Moab and see what happens. I’m at the Lord’s mercy. Whether He grants me riches or slays me, I’m forever but a tattered glove worn on His glorious hand.”

  Nanobot physiological changes in both Balaam and Eeayore welded them together beyond the physical plane and allowed them to touch the skirts of heaven. Eeayore’s hoofs left dust in their wake as they traveled down the road to Moab.

  Chapter 6: Balaam and Balak

  Moab was an upper class domain; Pethor wasn’t even in the running. Trotting past the polished stainless steel gates revealed a landscape of domes and towers. Metal and glass aesthetically dominated the theme of Balak’s personal territory. The perpetually shiny RV was parked curbside on the white brick road leading into town. Pluto stood behind the RV and gestured for Balaam to ride over. Balak’s entourage of elites waited inside the big vehicle, ready to go meet with Balak.

  The air here was not the same as in Pethor. Long wisps of nearly transparent rainbow streamers, more mental than physical, floated and swirled all about. They were more fragrant than roses, and lent a peaceful aura to Moab. Balak was known for his excellent managerial skills, and Moab reflected this, with its sanitized, aromatic, and elegantly minimalist style. Balaam rode Eeayore to where Pluto stood. Eeayore snorted at Pluto and shook her head. Her power of human speech ended shortly after encountering the angel, yet a deep awareness still lingered behind her eyes.

  Pluto kept himself composed, despite the string of donkey snot dripping down his shirt. “Welcome to Moab,” he said. “Follow me to Balak’s palace and I’ll introduce you to him.” He abruptly left Balaam, climbed inside the RV cockpit, slid the door shut, and took off down the road.

  Eeayore followed, carrying Balaam over the spotless white bricks of main street. They soon arrived at the marble steps of the palace entrance. The main structure was a sparkling clear crystal dome laced in thin webs of polished stainless steel.

  Balak was already walking down the long flight of marble steps, alerted to Balaam’s arrival by the palace security guards. He couldn’t wait to meet the prophet, a man that had spurned his first generous invitation. What manner of man could refuse the amount of wealth that he had offered? Whatever forces motivated Balaam, they were a mystery. Balak assumed the prophet’s talents were dispensed most sparingly, holding them in reserve for very special occasions.

  The RV was parked curbside near the palace steps. Balaam dismounted Eeayore and tied her to a polished tubular steel hitching post. Balaam figured if Eeayore defecated, swarms of cleaning nanobots would erase her waste. Pluto and his associates left the RV and waited for Balak and his security entourage to descend the steps. Both groups met, then walked over and greeted Balaam while he finished tying Eeayore to the post.

  Balak greeted Balaam coldly, “Wasn�
�t I earnest enough the first time I called on you? Why would you refuse to come here and let me honor you?” Balak’s men muttered to each other in whispers. A bitter vibe went out from the Moabites, but Balaam wasn’t upset. He knew it was deserved. Plus, he understood these people weren’t able to view his actions through the eyes of the spirit.

  Balaam’s face was hidden in shadow beneath his hoodie as he said, “Look! I’m here now. And I’ve stated before that I have no power to say anything other than what the Lord God tells me to say. For reasons beyond my understanding, the Lord has chosen the Sons of Israel for His own purposes.” After Balaam finished speaking, he stood silent, wondering why he’d come here. Was this just another mistake in a long list of mistakes? The chance of YHWH consenting to let him curse the Sons of Israel was nil. And yet, there must be a reason he was still alive after encountering an angel brandishing a light-sword. Was there a cosmic purpose he failed to see?

  “But you’re here,” Balak said, “and that bodes well for me. Perhaps your god has changed his mind and judged the Moabites fit to live. Follow me to your hotel.”

  Balaam had barely finished leashing Eeayore to the post; now he unleashed her and threw his leg over the saddle. They followed Balak and his men down another white brick road, through swirling multicolored vapors floating in the air, and arrived at the Kirjath Huzoth Hotel. It was magnificent: Two tall towers of glass crystal, bound together by bands of stainless steel. The building stretched high into the sky, the top floors wrapped in fluffy rainbow tinted clouds.

  “You’ll stay here for the night,” Balak said. He reached into the front pouch of his gold and silver tie dyed robe and took out a chrome tube the size of a pen, etched with lines marking it into seven equal segments. “Here,” he said, and handed it to Balaam. “This is an oxeep, our cutting edge nanotech. Learn how to use it. It might even help you to better serve your god.”

  “Thanks.” Balaam took it, holding it like a pen, surprised by its weight. Such a dense amount of matter packed into such a small size. How much greater must Moab’s level of technology be than Pethor’s. Even Moabite architecture showed a degree of knowledge and skill that made Pethor look pathetically backwards. Moab’s material wealth afforded Balak the finest of builders and coders, resulting in premium grade nanbots, not the wonky botshit of Pethor.

  The valet took Eeayore to a stable somewhere behind the building. Balak and his entourage led Balaam through the crystalline columned doorway to the reception desk. There was not a speck of dust anywhere - nothing out of order. The clean flowing lines of glistening glass and steel assured Balaam no microbial threats existed here, or anywhere else in Moab. Inside the hotel, the group felt even more clean and refreshed, bathed by unseen nanobots swarming over their skin, sterilizing and cleansing away impurities.

  The neatly attired receptionist was already aware of Balak’s morning agenda. She handed Balaam a small plastic fob. “You’re in room 101, the special guest suite.”

  Balaam took the fob, then turned to look about the area. He asked, “Where’s the bar?”

  The receptionist answered, “Just issue the command ‘Okay Kirjath’ followed by your question or demand, and a synthetic servant will materialize to help you.” She paused for a second, then added, “Your room does come with a fully stocked bar.”

  Balak, as Moabite custom dictated, kissed Balaam on the cheek and said, “Go rest up. We’ll get started in the morning. Play with the oxeep tonight and familiarize yourself with it.” Balak and his men left quickly. They wanted the prophet rested and refreshed, his mojo at its energetic peak. Balaam was their sole hope of survival when the Sons of Israel came to raze Moab in the name of their god.

  No one stood a chance against the Sons of Israel. They were a force of nature - destiny made manifest - rolling over and slaughtering all worshippers of the false gods: Baal, Ashtoreth, Asherah, Bel, and Chemosh. They destroyed everyone blinded to YHWH’s great truth by these false gods. Only YHWH was, is, and will be the great I AM that I AM - creator of heaven and earth.

  ****

  Balaam’s hotel suite was the nicest place he’d ever laid down his head. The stark cleanliness, the careful positioning of simple yet elegant furniture, made him immediately relax. When he dropped down on the bed face first, arms spread wide, the wondrous mattress absorbed his fall gently, as if he weighed no more than a feather. The room’s colors were tasteful grays and subtle tints of warm whites. He rolled onto his back and tilted his head to take in the room. It was designed to induce relaxation and remove stress, and it worked extremely well.

  The hotel room bar, a stainless steel cabinet near a large picture window that faced Moab’s business center, was well stocked. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and walked over to it. A round bottle of scotch caught his eye. He took it from the cabinet and poured himself a glass, filling it halfway. He figured it was okay to let go of his worries for a few hours. He needed to relax and prepare his heart for the Visitor who would certainly call on him tonight. He wanted to be receptive to the Lord’s voice. He’d come too far for this trip to end in disaster. Still, deep within his heart of hearts, he knew how this would all end. God never changes. There was no way to fudge the truth or bargain with God. It was as it has always been: God’s way or the highway. And that highway was death.

  He reached into the hoodie pouch where he stored the oxeep. He took it out and examined it closely. Holding the oxeep in one hand and his scotch in the other, he became confused, and brought the oxeep to his lips to take a sip of whiskey. He realized his mistake when he tried to drink from the device, and said, “Must be more tired than I thought…” He switched hands and brought the scotch to his lips and swallowed long, nearly emptying the glass.

  The oxeep was a very generous gift. He’d heard of them before; a device of legendary status. Normally, they were owned by the rich or the priesthood elite. Oxeeps were known for their range of code, their stability, and their level of quality. Balaam understood the power of these tiny gadgets. With one strand of hair from Eeayore, he could make a living duplicate of her in seconds: a copy that mimicked life down to the molecular level, with a lifespan of nearly 24 hours before the life-charge ran out. The wealthy priests officiating sacrifices to Baal used oxeeps to generate the sacrificial animals. They believed these synthetic beasts appeased the regional gods just as well as real animals. That’s what the clergy taught their congregations.

  Balaam knew these regional gods were false, nothing more than worthless man made idols. The worst of the lot were actual fallen angels, cast down from heaven after they’d lost the war. But whatever the case, they were banned by YHWH - the one true God. And therein lies the question. Could synthetic sacrificial animals please YHWH?

  Balaam understood how to work the oxeep after he’d inspected it closely. It used an ESP interface, and he was drunk enough now to make it a very dangerous toy. No sense invoking some nightmare beast into the world invented by his alcohol saturated brain. It was best just to crawl into bed and call it a night. The Lord Almighty would certainly visit his dreams tonight, and he was pathetically ill prepared… as usual.

  ****

  A knock on the door awoke Balaam from a deep, dreamless sleep. “I’m coming!” Balaam yelled, and threw off his covers, rising awkwardly from the bed. His legs were stubborn in obeying his brain’s commands, even though his reality had remained intact the whole night through. The Lord God had not seen fit to disrupt his drunken rest; perhaps this was part of the divine plan: a calm, uneventful night, rather than reminding him once again to speak only the words which God put in his mouth.

  Balaam stumbled to the door, opened it while yawning widely, and found Balak himself standing outside the doorway to greet him. This time it was only Balak, no entourage surrounded him. Balak said, “What word did your god give you? Something positive, I hope. Something for our mutual benefit.”

  “The Lord let me sleep without dreaming, blessing me with a peaceful night’s rest. Perhaps He�
��s grown weary of repeating Himself to me.”

  “Or perhaps his silence IS the message. Maybe he’s telling you to show some initiative, giving you permission to live in luxury with everything you’ve ever dreamed of having.”

  “I want to believe you, Balak, but I know what you say isn’t true. YHWH doesn’t change. He would never give me the okay to curse the Sons of Israel. He’s chosen them for His own mysterious purpose, while binding me tightly to Himself. I know I can say only that which He allows me to say.”

  Balak smiled and said, “Today we’ll find out if that’s true or not. I ask you, why would your god let those Israelite thugs destroy Moab? He wouldn’t! If your mojo is working, and you give the word, your word will come to pass. I believe in you. Your reputation is known throughout the land. And with my help, you’ll stop the Sons of Israel dead in their tracks.”

  “I want to accept your generous offer more than you can imagine. All I can guarantee is that I’ll try. I pray God will grant both of us our heart’s desire. My hope rests in the fact that He has allowed me to stand here before you.” Balaam walked over to the nightstand where he’d left the bottle of scotch. He poured a glass for Balak and himself. Each held their drink high and clinked glasses. Balaam said, “Cheers.” They downed their drinks in a single swallow, slammed their empty glasses against the bar, and quickly left the hotel, eager to get started.

  Balak left the Kirjath Huzoth Hotel with much greater confidence than Balaam. Balaam’s hopes were fueled by alcohol and the absence of a dream message from YHWH. These things weren’t much inspiration to the prophet.

  “Where are you taking me?” Balaam asked, as they walked down the sanitized white brick streets past towering metal and glass buildings.

  “To the high places of Baal,” Balak said.

  Chapter 7: Making Mojo

  The rocky hill rose abruptly from a field at the end of the cul de sac. The self maintaining white brick road contrasted sharply with the weed and rock strewn field where their borders met. Balaam followed Balak across the field and up the hill. When they reached the top, Balak gestured with a sweep of his hand towards the surrounding lowlands. “Our god, Chemosh, is one of the Baals. We stand atop one of his high places. From here, you’ll work your mojo. You’ve got a great panoramic view of my land and my people.