On the Mountain of the Lord

by Ray Bentley

  A tall, long-bearded man, robed in a mantle of dark red, walked through the jeering mob until he stood a few paces from the king. Even though the newcomer leaned on a wooden staff, he stood more erect than Ahab, who shrunk from the prophet’s gaze. The king hastily removed his foot from the altar stone and shuffled awkwardly in place.

  The prophet was Eliyahu. He revolved slowly, letting his penetrating gaze rest on each face in the front rank of the crowd. The murmuring fell off in waves, from the front to the back, until all was still—except for what continued to sound like hisses, and whispered curses, and low growls.

  Raising his voice so all the thousands gathered around the clearing could hear, Eliyahu demanded, “How long will you waver between two opinions? If the Lord is God, follow him; but if Ba’al is God, follow him.”

  The thousands of on-lookers remained almost completely silent. Here and there an infant whimpered or a small, fussy child was quickly hushed

  The priests of Ba’al were first to offer their sacrifice. The most junior novices placed the wood on the imposing altar. The next more senior acolytes led out a bawling ox and slaughtered it. Knives flashed in the morning sun. Hot blood poured out on the thirsty ground.

  The most senior of the priests arranged the meat on top of the wood.

  The highest priest of Ba’al, an ancient figure of wizened face and peering eyes, advanced with an ivory staff. The head of the staff represented two curving horns. He extended his staff toward the altar, and in a high-pitched whine, called on Ba’al to send fire.

  The growl on the wind increased.

  Nothing followed.

  The priest called again, and this time he added additional enticement: “As soon as you accept this sacrifice, O great Ba’al Addu,” he said, “we will also give you the blood of this troubler of Israel—this Elijah.” He pointed his staff at Eliyahu.

  Still nothing happened.

  “O Wondrous Ba’al,” the high priest intoned. “Give us the fire from heaven and we will give you a hundred oxen—two hundred—a thousand. We will revel in the acts that please you, and you will reward us with rain.”

  A phalanx of priests took up the supplication as a chant: “O Ba’al, hear us,” they sang—for an hour—without result.

  Time for Jack sped up. The sun moved upward from just over the eastern hills until it stood directly overhead.

  “Ba’al, answer us!” the priests shouted, and they danced around the altar.

  “Perhaps,” Eliyahu drawled, “Perhaps you need to shout louder.”

  An uproar of screaming followed the suggestion, but no fire from the sky.

  “Maybe he’s deep in thought, or busy, or traveling.”

  Gesturing for silence, the high priest of Ba’al offered, “We will give you the babies. We will bring our children to the fire for you, Ba’al. Give us your sign and the rain that follows. We will not withhold any sacrifice because we know you will reward us with crops and riches.”

  Jack saw a mother cover her sleeping child’s face with the corner of her shawl and back away from the spectacle.

  “Maybe he is sleeping and must be awakened,” Eliyahu taunted.

  Now the priests seized the knives with which they had killed and butchered the bullock and slashed themselves. They capered and danced in a frenzy, all the while scouring their arms and faces and each other with their blades.

  The corresponding screeches on the wind increased, keeping tempo with the pace of the frantic movements.

  The priests stabbed with swords and spears until every one of them bled from a dozen cuts or more. Some of them drooped and stumbled, weak from the effort and loss of blood. Their voices were hoarse and their songs croaked.

  The sun sprinted across the sky. It was the time of the evening sacrifice. Jack was uncertain how he knew that fact, but he was sure of it.

  And when the last of the priests was exhausted, Eliyahu called the people to gather around. Alone and unaided, the prophet of the Most High collected the tumbled rocks of the ruined altar. Selecting twelve he said, “One for each tribe. Your name shall be Israel—so says the Lord your God.”

  Even when the altar was built, Eliyahu did not cease from labor. He dug a trench around the base of the sacrificial space. After arranging the wood on top of the altar, killing and cutting up the bull, he made this demand of the people: “Fill four jars with water and pour them over the offering.”

  It was done.

  “Again,” he said.

  “A third time,” he required. The water ran off the sacrifice, over the wood, through gaps in the stones, and filled the trench.

  Then Eliyahu lifted his eyes and his voice toward heaven. In that instant, all the growling, hissing, animal noises stopped. “Lord, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel,” he prayed. “Let it be known today You are God in Israel and I am Your servant and have done all these things at Your command. Answer me, Lord. Answer me, so these people will know You, Lord, are God, and You are turning their hearts back again.”

  King Ahab, under his awning of gold and blue, four hundred fifty priests of Ba’al, and the first five hundred of the onlookers tumbled over each other to get out of the way.

  At the moment of Eliyahu’s final syllable, not a lightning bolt but a massive tongue of fire appeared out of the clear sky. While the back ranks tried to see and the front of the audience tried to escape harm, the flame from heaven devoured sacrifice, wood, stones, soil beneath—and lapped up the water out of the trench. It then folded in on itself, rolling up like a scroll, and vanishing back into the sky.

  King Ahab and the high priest of Ba’al backed into each other in their retreat. Wide-eyed, the priests of Ba’al picked their way through the crowd. Some abandoned all pretense of dignity and sprinted away.

  The people of Israel prostrated themselves and buried their faces in the earth of Mt. Carmel. “The Lord—He is God!” they cried. Then repeating with one swelling voice: “The Lord—He is God!”

  The hillside was empty. There was no longer the coppery smell of blood or the tang of smoke. There was no crowd of onlookers. No king. No prophet.

  Eliyahu stood once more beside Jack. “What? What?” he demanded.

  “The people of Israel not only realized the promises of Ba’al were false—they bitterly repented of ever worshipping him. In the name of saving their prosperity, they abandoned the One True God and offered him even their babies, thinking to preserve their wealth. They convinced themselves murdering babies was their right and privilege.”

  “And when they learned they had been deceived?” Jack asked, though he thought he already knew the answer.

  “The false priests of sexual perversion and child murder were hunted down and killed—and then God released the rain upon the land.”

  Eliyahu’s form began to shimmer and Jack realized the vision was drawing to a close. “Wait, please,” he asked, respectfully. “What were those hideous voices?”

  “The sound of the demons,” Eliyahu replied. “At first they were trying to drown out the words of the prophet of God with their mockery. Later, they were afraid, because they knew the time of their power to influence the people with greed and lust was ending.”

  “And were they destroyed like the priests of Ba’al?” Jack inquired.

  “No,” was the response. “Sadly, no. They went away until a more convenient season, to infect another set of receptive, easily deceived people. No, their malevolent hatred knows no end until the end of time—they merely choose other vessels to do their bidding. Mark my words,” Eliyahu urged as his form faded, “Wherever you find malevolent hatred and unquenchable rage against the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—wherever infants are murdered without qualm or hesitation—there are demons working the will of the Evil One in back of it all.”

  Eliyahu faded. The sun dropped below the western brow of the hill. Though he couldn’t see it happen, Jack guessed it plunged into the sea, turning the waves crimson as it did the sky.

  A week after the mur
der of the policewoman and two days after Jack’s experience on Mount Carmel, at his request, the second meeting with Rafa Husseini took place at the headquarters of the Palestinian Authority in Ramallah. The West Bank town was the de facto capital of the Palestinian state, but Jack knew better than to refer to it that way. The Palestinians maintained that Jerusalem was their capital.

  Rafa Husseini’s office was at the Mukataa, the same set of buildings where Mahmoud Abbas had his presidential palace and where Yassir Arafat’s mausoleum was located. “Also, only temporarily,” Rafa insisted. “He will be buried near the Dome of the Rock as befits the honor due such a leader of our people.”

  That comment already appeared to answer any question Jack might ask about rebuilding a Jewish Temple on that site. Instead he said, “I would like to get a better understanding of the settlement issue.”

  “You mean the illegal occupation issue. Planting Jewish towns on Palestinian land. What’s more, the Israeli Occupation Forces patrol their illegal West Bank barrier and make travel for our citizens extremely difficult, if not impossible.”

  “Is it not true that because of the fence suicide bombings have been reduced to zero?”

  “But not by the illegal apartheid wall! It is a deliberate attempt by Israel to damage the Palestine economy.”

  “So the shift by radical forces. . .”

  “Legitimate resistance forces.”

  “So the shift in tactics to tunnels, knife-attacks like Damascus Gate, and mortar shells fired from Gaza was not due to the barrier?”

  “Have you seen this?” she demanded, ignoring Jack’s last comment and waving a press release from the Palestinian Office of Foreign Affairs. “Netanyahu,” she pronounced the Israeli Prime Minister’s name with obvious distaste. “Netanyahu has gone back to that illegal settlement called Ariel—on stolen Palestinian land—and declared it will ‘always be part of Israel.’ Is this fair? Is this the path of peace?”

  “Israel says the settlements are necessary for security.”

  “Enslavement!” Rafa declared. “Illegal seizure and economic strangulation. The UN has repeatedly declared the settlements to be unlawful under international statutes.”

  “This would be the same United Nations that voted to partition the British Mandate of Palestine into Jewish and Arab states? Is it not true this area was already called ‘The West Bank’ when it was ruled by Jordan? And for nineteen years from 1948 to 1967 it was Jordan—not Israel—which prevented the formation of a Palestinian state?”

  Rafa looked as though she might froth at the mouth. With recognizable effort she regained her composure. “I thank you for coming, Dr. Garrison,” she said. “Unfortunately, I have another pressing appointment. Good day.”

  It was while standing once again in the plaza before the Western Wall that Jack abruptly remarked to Lev, “I have to see for myself.”

  “What?”

  “Up there,” Jack insisted, thrusting an emphatic hand toward the Golden Dome atop the Temple Mount. “I have to see for myself what all the fuss is about.” Turning toward Bette he demanded, “How can that be arranged? Do I have to go over to Ramallah again and come back with a Palestinian guide?”

  Bette shook her head. “Nothing so complicated as that. Non-Muslims are permitted to visit the top from Saturday to Thursday between the hours of 7:30 and 11:00 in the morning, and in the afternoons from 1:30 to 2:30.”

  Jack flicked a glance at his heavy, silver Swiss military wristwatch. “It’s only 1:00 p.m. now. Let’s go.”

  “Hold it,” Lev said. “Tomorrow morning, unless you want to go by yourself.”

  “Not happening,” Bette returned.

  Lev continued, “Gentiles have no special requirements, but I need to go to a mikvah first.”

  “A ritual bath? But why? Okay, ritual purity and all that, but you’re a Christian.”

  “I also regard myself as a Jew, and as a Jew I respect the customs of my people,” Lev corrected.

  “Okay, tomorrow then. Will you join us?” Jack suggested to Bette.

  She shook her head. “I can’t miss reporting in. Go without me. Ghassan will be nearby if you need him.”

  So it was that at 7:30 the following morning the two men climbed the wooden structure leading upward to the Mughrabi Gate, the only portal allowed to non-Muslims. “Surrounded by all these ancient stones is this thing that looks more like a covered bridge from backwoods Vermont. And kind of an unloved bridge at that. Seems so—impermanent.”

  Lev agreed. “It was meant to be,” he explained. “A dirt ramp leading up partly collapsed after a hard winter, so this was built. It was supposed to be replaced with a permanent bridge, but when the foundation work started in 2007 the Waqf protested. Said the Jews were trying to undermine the Temple Mount and collapse the Dome of the Rock.”

  Jack patted one of the slats of the bridge. Through the gaps he stared down at the throngs gathered for prayer in the plaza below. “Nonsense.”

  “Yeah? Well, there were even calls for a renewed Palestinian intifada.”

  Jack frowned. “Seriously?”

  “Some of Israel’s Arab neighbors got involved. They said proceeding with anything more permanent would make things tougher for them at home.”

  A man dressed in the uniform of a Waqf guard overheard this comment and scowled, but said nothing.

  Lev shrugged and concluded, “That’s Jerusalem for you, Jack.”

  They emerged from the wooden ramp facing a stone archway—the actual Mughrabi Gate—and passed through it to the Temple Mount plaza. To the south was the al-Aqsa Mosque. To the north was the Dome of the Rock.

  “Now that you’re here,” Lev asked. “What do you want to do?”

  “I think—I think I don’t want a tour. I want to watch and think. Where would Solomon’s Portico have been?”

  Glancing at his friend curiously, Lev queried, “You want to see where Jesus did some teaching?”

  “Something like that,” Jack agreed.

  The traditional route taken by observant Jews who wanted to avoid profaning the Temple was to walk around the plaza counter-clockwise, staying as close to the outside edges as possible. Following that same route, Lev escorted Jack to a spot about two-thirds of the way up the eastern side. “I’ll leave you here, but I won’t be far,” Lev said. “I’ll just stand over there in the shade and pray a little.”

  “I thought Jews weren’t allowed to pray here?”

  “Yeah, well,” Lev replied. “So I won’t be obvious about it.” Smiling, he added, “Take all the time you want.”

  What did I want to see here? Jack mused. American tourists, their tour badges prominently hanging around their necks, were accompanied by incessantly droning guides offering “Kodak opportunities” and urging their charges to “Not miss this shot.”

  Elderly Muslim men sat on benches, talking.

  Guards with walkie-talkies hanging from their belts patrolled up and down.

  Jack closed his eyes and attempted to close his ears to everything but the softly sighing breeze.

  The Brits were here, Jack thought, staring around at the Temple Mount. Before them the Turks, the Arabs, the Crusaders, the Romans, the Greeks, and the Babylonians all coveted and temporarily possessed this place. But it was the Jews who called it home.

  He wondered again why anyone cared so much about a couple square miles of earth. What made this limestone ridge surrounded by deep ravines important enough to die for?

  What would all those conquerors have thought if they saw it today? The rich, bustling city beyond the ancient stone walls was infinitely preferable for modern, convenient living; yet it was this mountaintop acreage that remained a flashpoint.

  It was amusing to think the thousands of pilgrims milling about here and in the city below might be descended from the earlier warriors. The Jews, of course, and the Arabs. But what about the offspring of Crusader families, or the many-great grandsons of Babylon or Rome?

  As if to confirm his premise, Jack�
��s ears rang with the babble of voices. Arabic predominated, but he also heard English with American accents, with British accents, with Irish accents. French was succeeded by German, Italian by Polish, Spanish by Russian.

  He closed his eyes, hoping to concentrate his thoughts.

  Somehow, it worked. The cacophony of languages died away, leaving only the sound of the wind. How was that possible? Had Jack been struck deaf? But no, he heard the breeze sighing in the trees in the canyons, and the crunch of gravel under sandaled feet.

  The wind blew from the southeast, out of the desert. It was a hot wind, full of dust and weariness.

  The hilltop was deserted. Not just deserted but barren; swept clean. No golden dome surmounted the summit. No archways existed either, open or blocked.

  No people.

  Except for Jack and Eliyahu. “Where am I?” Jack fretted. “How’d I get here?”

  Eliyahu laid a reassuring hand on Jack’s arm. “You haven’t moved.” The cloaked figure tapped the tip of his wooden staff on the stone underfoot. “These stones have born witness to all the ages past,” he said. “Have you not heard it was said, ‘Teacher, rebuke your disciples?’ And the response was, ‘I tell you, if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.’ ”

  “But there’s no mosque, no temple, no city!” Jack’s cry was almost one of anguish.

  “But there is that,” Eliyahu said, lifting the tip of his staff and pointing it toward a rock ledge, weathered-looking, that protruded above the other stones. “Nor are we alone. See?”

  Trudging into view, puffing with the exertion of the steep climb, came an old man with a long beard, leaning heavily on a staff like Eliyahu’s, and a young man with no beard at all. They were dressed alike: long robes of identically striped cloth; head coverings wrapped to shade their eyes from the glare and their mouths from the grit.

  They stopped beside the stony outcropping.

  On the younger man’s back was a heap of wood. The cords tying the bundle lying across his shoulders had loosened, allowing some of the sticks to sag along his spine.

  The elderly man had a knife tucked in the knotted cord that served him as a belt. From one hand swung a clay pot in a sling made of woven cords. The pot trailed a thin curl of smoke.