Free Elijah by William H. Stephens Page A

heavy black wool mantle high to keep it from getting wet.
    Once across the river, Elijah climbed the road to Bethshean. The gatekeeper already had begun to lock the huge oak gates. At the prophet’s request to enter, the keeper responded with sullen acquiescence. He dared not curse a prophet. Elijah entered with a nod of thanks and made his way along Bethshean’s basalt streets, his sandals whispering softly on the black stones.
    Rejab’s house was simple but solidly constructed of square limestone blocks. Only a single door and no windows opened to the street. From the courtyard in the rear, outside stairs led to the flat roof. One small room constituted the second story, set to one side of the roof, to accommodate visitors. The downstairs area consisted of a large room. On one side was a raised platform for sleeping and family activities. Small square stools were placed around the walls of the room for the seating of guests. A large clay pan sat on the floor near one wall. In winter it was filled with coals and covered with a board and a heavy piece of goathair material. Thus arranged, it furnished enough heat to make the room comfortable. A back door to the large room opened onto a courtyard that was walled around with sun-dried brick.
    Elijah grasped the iron knocker and rapped. A slight breeze blew down from the Valley of Jezreel.
    The door opened almost immediately. A wide smile spread over Rejab’s face as he recognized his old friend. “Welcome, Elijah.” Rejab grasped the prophet warmly, kissing both cheeks. He was older than the prophet by some years and rather fat, but he moved with ease.
    Rejab gushed with excitement. “Come in, come in, my friend the prophet.” He hustled Elijah inside and scuttered across the room, his fluttering light robes outlining his ponderous belly. He placed a cushion on the seat of an oak stool and another one upright against the wall to form a back. “Here, sit here, my friend. Miriam!” he called to his wife, who already had seen Elijah and was at that moment greeting him with short bows and exclamations.
    “Sit! Sit!” Rejab jabbered.
    Elijah gratefully settled into the cushions. He had traveled for two days and a night without resting for more than moments at a time.
    Miriam rushed to him with a figcake and a cup of wine.
    “Yes, yes,” Rejab gushed incessantly. “Perfect for the weary traveler. You are a joy to me, Miriam. Take it, Elijah, and refresh yourself.”
    Elijah drank gratefully, more refreshed by the antics of his host than by the food. The joviality of Rejab offered temporary escape from the somber realities of his past musings. The medicine was good.
    Rejab joyfully told the story of the day. A Bedouin tribesman was crossing the Jordan at the place where Elijah made his ford. His camel stumbled in the swift water and went completely under, not a humorous event at all to the camel or its owner. Rejab’s description of the naked man diving into the water to cut the camel’s load loose and get the animal to shore, Elijah thought, could not have been nearly so funny as his own story made it seem.
    Rejab enjoyed his own storytelling immensely. As he talked, his stomach joggled with his laughter, making him look as though he was bouncing on the little stool. He gestured widely in his talk, and his voice sometimes rose to shrills.
    Miriam interrupted Rejab only momentarily with her call to dinner. Throughout the meal of hot broth and bread, which the men dipped with their fingers into the large pot of dense liquid, Rejab continued his hilarity. That Elijah was quiet did not bother the host. Elijah often was quiet.
    Finally Elijah interrupted. “Rejab, tell me what you know about the Baal temple at Samaria.”
    The smile, which appeared to be etched permanently into Rejab’s face, faded quickly. “Have you heard of the dedication?”
    “Yes.”
    “That is all I know. It took place two nights ago. The city was paralyzed the next day. The people say it does