by Stephen Beam
Balaam was nervous. He timidly said, “YHWH hates the hills where Baal is honored, but I’ll try as hard as I can to do as you wish. There’s only a slim chance of success based on the Lord’s absence last night, leaving me without a vision or a word. That’s not much to go on.” Balaam fidgeted with his hood, trying to find the perfect spot where the wool met his head.
Balak’s high ranking elites were already waiting for them, standing near a circular clearing surrounded by huge boulders. When Balaam saw this clearing, he knew this was the spot to perform the ceremonial sacrifices to YHWH.
Balaam said to Balak: “Build seven altars here. Prepare seven bulls and seven rams. Use your oxeep to generate the altars and the sacrificial beasts. Make the animals small and lethargic so that you can hold them in your hand for convenience. Make each alter a five foot tall cylinder topped with a vaporizing incinerator.” When Balaam shifted into prophet mode, he felt comfortable, falling into character quickly and naturally.
Balak nodded his head in enthusiastic agreement. He took the oxeep from an inner pocket of the silken white robe he wore especially for today’s sacrificial ceremony. He held the small device to his forehead and closed his eyes, locking into its ESP interface. An oxeep could readily transform imaginative thought into ingeniously designed working objects, both animate and inanimate. Balak and his entourage watched as the nanobot symphony of creation began.
Near the center of the hilltop clearing, seven equally spaced flat golden plates emerged, forming a circle. The plates grew, extruding upwards to a height of five feet. The upper half of each cylinder was wrapped in a swirl of small tubes surrounding a flat sacrificial staging area. Each tube tip pointed towards the cylinder’s staging area. This was the vaporizing incinerator platform, where the synthetic animals were atomized.
The miniature bulls and rams started out as a dense vapor on the ground, centered in the circle of seven cylinders. The vapor rapidly formed into hand sized beasts which laid on their sides, too lazy to move. Balaam and Balak entered the circle, grabbed a bull in one hand and a ram in the other, and placed the pairs of synthetic beasts atop the cylindrical altars until all seven cylinders were loaded. After finishing this task, a blinding ball of blue light flashed atop each alter, evaporating the animals. Not a single ash was left behind.
Balaam said to Balak, “Wait here by the sacrificial altars while I look for some privacy beyond those boulders. Perhaps God will agree to meet with me. And if He does, whatever He reveals to me, that I will do.”
Balaam walked through a man sized gap between the boulders. He stood on a small mound hidden from Balak and his entourage. He gazed at the Moabite dominion below, spread out like a checkerboard across the land. He closed his eyes to this panoramic vista, and prayed: “I have prepared the seven altars and offered on each a bull and a ram. But then, you know that already, my Lord. You see and know everything. You know my struggles. You know my weaknesses.”
With arms raised skyward, standing in a patch of weeds, he did his best to calm down and open himself up to whatever the Lord willed. There were handicaps to overcome. Number one: it was daylight. Number two: he was wide awake. This wasn’t a dream in the middle of the night, which was God’s normal time to invade his mind. Asleep, he was at his most vulnerable, but the Lord could open a spiritual channel to him whenever or wherever He saw fit.
Balaam felt a wave of heat rise up from his feet to his head. His eyes opened so wide they nearly fell from his face. He saw before him nothing but glittering blue flame, a pillar reaching skyward, past the clouds, breaking the bonds of earth.
The Lord opened a channel of control to Balaam’s mouth; the prophet felt his lips move, his tongue wiggle, his vocal chords vibrate, all beyond his control. He was no more than a fleshy marionette, his strings manipulated by God’s invisible hand. “Return to Balak, and you shall speak the words I give you to speak,” Balaam said, but in a voice not his own.
He began to walk slowly back to the sacrificial altars without willing himself to do so. With only a tiny portion of his mind still under his personal control, he walked past the high boulders to the sacrificial altars and stood before Balak. His loss of physical control should have frightened him, but his emotional responses were muted to the point of nonexistence. He was God’s zombie.
Balak gazed into the vacant eyes of Balaam that gazed coldly back at him. Was the prophet’s strange stare a hopeful sign? Or did this mean he should dump this endeavor and start preparing an army to fight the Sons of Israel, a battle lost before it’s even begun. Maybe it was best to grab his family and go hide in the hills. If Balaam couldn’t deliver on cursing the Israelites, then it was either fight or flight… and fighting was barely an option.
Balak’s fear grew worse the longer Balaam stood in silence staring at him. The prophet’s cold eyes peeled away layer after layer of Balak’s soul, searching for its nucleus. But it wasn’t Balaam doing this; he was absent from his body; another had taken possession of him, perhaps the Holy Spirit Himself. Balak dripped sweat from every pore, fear spiraling out of control and ready to explode.
A voice not Balaam’s own, spoke from the prophet’s mouth. It came from the starless depths just outside deepest space. Balak and his entourage stood frozen inside that voice. The oxeep shook in Balak’s hand, the nanobots confused by a burst of strange EMF. Even the micro-machines’ premium grade shielding failed to protect them. The amplified voice from beyond the stars had spoken these words:
“The chief of Moab has called upon the prophet to curse the Sons of Israel. How shall he curse what God has not? How shall he denounce what the Lord has not denounced?
The Sons of Israel dwell alone, not reckoning themselves among the other tribal realms. They expand their numbers beyond counting. And they are blessed, even in their deaths.
Let Balaam also die the death of the righteous; let his end be only the beginning, like those people the Lord has blessed. ”
Balak’s face burned deep red. Sweat poured from his brow, dripping to the earth below. He turned to his elite entourage, his face marked deep with confusion. Then, he turned again to Balaam and shook his head in disgust. “What the hell did you just do to me? I brought you here to lay a curse on the Israelites and you turn around and bless them! What’s wrong with you? Don’t you want to be rich?”
From airless space, Balaam looked down on the world spinning beneath his feet. This high vantage point comforted him, taking in the whole of humankind. He saw far below many glowing cities, the crown of humankind, built by generations that so quickly pass away. Born crying and screaming, they speedily decay and turn to dust - molecular fertilizer for succeeding generations. All of humankind’s joys, sorrows, loves, fears and hates, infused into their creations, building cities only to tear them down. Repeatedly, truths were learned and lost. Arrogant mortals, a confidence unjustified by history, forever seeking truth, reaching outward for that which already lives within.
Balaam fought hard to regain the moment. Lost on the edge of YHWH’s glow, each encounter made it more difficult to re-enter the stream of time. He vaguely remembered that Balak had just asked him a question. He must get back to the here and now, to leave God’s glory behind and return to the flesh. Like others that had drawn the curtain of time aside, he quickly lost all wisdom gained. There were no shortcuts for the pilgrim that dared step foot onto eternity road.
“So, what’s wrong with you?” Balak asked a second time. He could see a spark return to Balaam’s eyes. Perhaps the prophet’s trance had at last broken; now he was returning home, exiting past the heavenly gates.
Beneath his hood, Balaam was sorrowful. Again he reiterated, making clear his dilemma: “I must take heed to the word God puts in my mouth. I can’t do otherwise. I’ve told you before, I’m bound to the Lord, and must only say His word, not my own.”
“Yeah? We’ll see. Maybe our performance wasn’t quite right,” Balak said, failing to comprehend the prophet’s words. He gave Balaam a brief smile
then continued on, “Maybe we just made a little error. Let’s try it again for good measure. This time, we’ll go to a place with a better view of the border. A place where you can see the Sons of Israel waiting to strike. Your mojo’s warmed up now, so let’s go.”
****
The group hiked up to the highest peak of Mount Pisgah. From this scenic overlook, Balaam could see lines of motorcycles forming a border around Moab. The Sons of Israel had gathered a mighty force - an ironclad cobra waiting to strike. The outskirts of Moab were sparsely populated, its few residents living in ever increasing fear. The thunder of motorcycle engines grew louder by the day, sounding out a threat to anyone that dared worship the Baals. In Moab’s case, it was the abominable Baal known as Chemosh.
The top of Mount Pisgah was a barren field. Balaam said to Balak, “Take out your oxeep. Do the same as before, except this time we’ll modify the altars by making them four foot tall - a foot shorter. As for the bulls and rams, make them less lethargic by causing them to shiver, as if ill from a high fever.”
Balak did as instructed. He closed his eyes and synced with the oxeep ESP interface. The altars extruded from seven golden plates that appeared from nowhere, arranged in a circle like they were before. A plasma of glowing gas formed on the ground at the center of the circle of altars, condensing into a tiny pile of wiggling bulls and rams.
Balaam and Balak entered the circle. They each grabbed a bull in one hand and a ram in the other. This time the tiny animals shivered and squirmed. They were repulsive to hold, letting go hot piss in the men’s hands. They placed the animals on the altars as quickly as possible, until all seven altars were loaded with one set of synthetic offerings. Shortly, a flash of intense blue light went off atop each alter, instantly vaporizing the beasts. Not a single flake of ash remained.
“Stay by the burnt offerings while I go call on the Lord,” Balaam said as he walked briskly to a spot near the edge of a steep cliff. He hoped to finish the ritual quickly. He stood near the edge and looked down at the line of kosherized motorcycles marking the Sons of Israel’s camp.
Without warning, the Lord abruptly entered Balaam’s head. This caused his knees to buckle, nearly sending him sailing off the cliff. His mind imploded into a bright singularity, shot straight up, then burst into an explosion of sparkling flames like a skyrocket. The Lord said to Balaam: “Go back to Balak and I shall put My words in you.” The Lord’s blinding presence departed as abruptly as it had arrived.
This time, Balaam fell back into the temporal stream quickly, no residual deity hangover lingered. The message was planted in his mind like a bomb set to go off in Balak’s face.
Balak watched the prophet walk towards him, now much steadier on his feet, not wonky like he was after his last divine encounter. When they met face to face, he noted Balaam’s eyes weren’t glazed and vacant like before. They were bright and clear, filled with an unearthly light. Balak believed this was a good sign; perhaps the prophet’s god had granted him permission to spare Moab and all other worshippers of the various Baals.
While Balaam stood before the chief of Moab and his elite entourage, the divine fuse was lit. When the bomb went off, Balaam spoke in a voice much louder than was humanly possible:
“Rise up Balak and listen!
God is not a man that He should lie,
nor a son of man that He should repent.
Has the Lord ever said anything and not done it?
He always makes good on His word.
God commands me to bless the Sons of Israel, and that I must do.
The Lord has blessed, and that cannot be undone.
There is no magical divination against Jacob,
the leader of the Sons of Israel.
God sees no iniquity in him.
The Sons of Israel rise like a lion and will not lie down,
not until they devour their prey and drink the blood of the slain.”
Balak flushed red with anger. It took all of his self control not to punch the prophet in the face. “Shit! Why do you speak at all? What’s wrong with you? Don’t bless or curse; just shut the hell up!” He held the oxeep in his hand and contemplated using it as a weapon. Unlocked, an army of rampaging nanobots could lay waste to all familiar reality within a five mile radius. An oxeep, unfortunately, can’t be unlocked - except for his.
Balak tried to calm himself down. He took a bottle of pills from a pouch he wore around his waist, flipped its lid, and tipped a pill into his mouth. Anger at this point would not do him nor Moab any good. A minute later, he was chemically calmed down. All his hopes rested on Balaam’s powers. If he could only topple the prophet’s wall of religion that surrounded him.
A few deep breaths later, and Balak was relaxed enough to place his hand on Balaam’s shoulder. Balak’s most trusted allies, Pluto and Donald, stood at his side for encouragement. He said to Balaam softly, “Maybe we’ve gone to the wrong high places. This time we’ll go to the top of Peor which overlooks the wasteland. Perhaps a change of scenery will please your god.”
****
“Build for me seven altars and generate seven bulls and seven rams, just as we used the first time,” Balaam said.
Balak knew the routine well enough by now. He wondered why Balaam bothered to repeat the instructions? It must be that repetition in the ritual enhances the prophet’s mojo. Fortunately, an oxeep automatically stores the owner’s preferences, and when the same or similar commands are issued, its sophisticated artificial intelligence can materialize objects near instantaneously.
Balaam strolled about the top of Peor, looking down at the vast barren desert below. Nothing grew on the land that surrounded this high place of Chemosh. Not a single cactus. Not even a tumbleweed. This land was sterile. Life found no home within this soil. Atop this dry rocky hilltop, they were the only lifeforms for miles around. Balaam turned to look at Balak and his cadre and saw that the altars and offerings were already in place. The oxeep’s stored algorithms had generated tiny lethargic bulls and rams, much like the first round of offerings.
Balaam approached the altars, and for a moment, contemplated his attitude. It needed adjusting. What good was his mojo when the Lord steered his will? His supernatural powers were useless in God’s presence. He managed to shrug off the bad feelings and help Balak load the altars with synthetic beasts. Right after the last altar was loaded, the vaporizing blue lights simultaneously flashed across the altars.
Balaam turned and walked a short distance from the group. He gazed out across the vast desert wilderness. A sense of deja vu invaded his thoughts that wasn’t scaled to his short earthly sojourn, but scaled to the entire length of human existence. A sense that his attempts to curse the Israelites has happened before. Intuitively, he suspected history repeated itself, and each time it did, the human race lost its accumulated wisdom. Either this was true, or he lived within the dream of a madman.
The prophet could see the Sons of Israel, all their club chapters lined up in multiple rows, an army that lined the northern horizon. His observation of the Israelite war machine was suddenly disrupted. The divine explosion nearly knocked him from his feet. The Spirit of God possessed him, wrenched his mind away from his skull and transformed him. His face, contorted by unseen hands, rippled like a pond disturbed by a stone. Hoodie soaked with perspiration, mouth moved by God, Balaam walked over to Balak and said:
“The words that stream from Balaam,
a man who sees too clearly,
who hears God’s voice,
and sees the vision of the Almighty,
falls down with eyes wide open:
The Sons of Israel look beautiful and plentiful,
they stand in contrast to those worshiping idols,
gods created by the hand of man.
The Sons of Israel shall grow,
conquering the deluded nations,
correcting the course of time,
when they align with the Most High,
and repair the domain of humankind.
Once again, blessed is he who blesses you,
and cursed is he who curses you.”
Balak was stunned once again. Pluto rested his hand on his shoulder, an attempt to sympathize with him, but Balak shrugged it off and walked closer to Balaam, as if to strike him. Red faced with anger, dripping sweat, he shouted at the prophet. No longer could he restrain himself. Balak’s hopes had fallen apart. Nothing he said or did could separate Balaam from his strange god. No amount of riches. No amount of fame. No amount of praise. This prophet was truly mad, a man from another world, alien to everything Balak had ever known.
Shaking his fist in Balaam’s face, Balak yelled, “You’ve screwed me three times now. Three times you’ve blessed the Sons of Israel and thus cursed me! I would’ve given you anything you wanted. Anything. But your god took that from you. Get out of here! I’m done with you.” Balak took the oxeep from his pocket and brought it to his forehead, tempted to initiate the ESP link. He could turn this prophet inside out if he wanted. His oxeep had an illegal hack, an unlocking key, but fear stopped him. Once nanobots were freed from their default setting to never harm humans, they go renegade - a serious danger to himself, as well as his target.
Balaam stared at the ground beneath his feet, frustrated with himself and with the Lord Almighty. This cursing and blessing gig was its own curse, creating more problems than it was worth. YHWH stood outside the temporal stream. Whenever God wished, He thrust his hand into time and tinkered. Balaam was a damaged mortal instrument, a creature used for God’s own ends. Children cannot understand the restraints their parents place on them. Balaam saw no personal benefit by being shackled with divine restraints. What harm was there in reaping a smidgen of profit? Would that be such a terrible thing for his soul?
