Free Elijah by William H. Stephens

of the question. “Hear me, my priestly friend. Yahweh knew long ago that such a crisis would arise. You may be sure that God has been preparing a prophet to meet the occasion. When the time is ripe, he will appear, and you can be sure that God will do his work in a manner different from that which you, or I, or any other priest would have chosen.”
    Zebul sat quietly for a moment, studying the wizened face of the old prophet. He adjusted the towel on his wide shoulders as he rose. Standing over the prophet, he finally said simply, “You are so certain?”
    The answer was solemn. “I am certain.”
     
    It was the kind of country you would expect a prophet to come from. The Jordan River separated it from the rest of Israel, both geographically and culturally. Its people raised sheep and cattle, most of them partly nomadic. They looked with condescension on the settled farmers west of the Jordan who, they believed, claimed to be Yahwists but could not refrain from sacrificing to the fertility baals for good crops.
    The mountain range rose precipitously from the exuberant growth of the tropical Jordan Valley. From the valley, the cliffs rose from limestone and changed to black volcanic mass at the top.
    The land was high, open, and extensive. Large, rolling plains rose again and again into rocky hills and gradually dissolved into the great eastern desert. The hills were wild and rugged, covered with clumps of forests. It was a country of solitude that was broken occasionally by dashing mountain streams whose valleys were haunted by fierce beasts.
    In the north lay the grasslands of Havoth-Jair. The land was spotted with occasional clumps of black Bedouin goathair tents. The rude stone villages were small and anonymous, each one about like the rest, catering to the nomadic families who moved from the heights during the summer to the gorges and valleys during the winter. The people were wild and unkempt compared to the farmers west of the river.
    It was dusk on the farmlands of the west, but night had come already to the Jordan Valley as Elijah approached the Bethshean ford. The valley was made wider here by the intrusion of the Valley of Jezreel from the west where it cut through the Samaritan hills. Bethshean sat in the mouth of the valley, on a low hill some five hundred feet above the valley floor. She was the principal city of the rich valley plain, the chief marketplace of the region for its corn, balsam, flax, and dates. The water was shallow enough here in the wider valley, and the Jordan’s constant tangle of thorns was broken, to provide a crossing point. The ford was deserted now; dusk was a time to be inside with one’s family.
    Elijah started through the water. He had the appearance of the stern land of his birth. As he slowly cut through the current, his bulky muscles rippled under thick hair that covered almost all of his body. Long, unkempt black locks fell in complete disarray over his broad, thick shoulders. His large, square-jawed head was set on a short, stout body that was sunbaked to a pecan brown. The piercing gaze from his dark eyes announced a frightening confidence in himself and his mission. Elijah used his appearance to advantage, though he did so subconsciously. The wild look came into his eyes and face without conscious effort when he preached—even when he thought of the apostasy of Israel. He was a fanatic to his unsympathetic audiences, a hero to other prophets. His voice was strong, with a shocking quality that sent his opponents into shells of restrained anger. He was loved by his admirers, disdained and mocked by those he antagonized, and feared by both for his unpredictable intrusions into public places. Often after he appeared at an assembly or party, the people would slowly leave, unable to shake the pall cast by his attack. His guerrilla tactics were disconcerting and rudely effective.
    The water covered Elijah’s wide leather belt and fought with his short, coarse tunic. He held his