Stephen Beam - Balaam, the Gray Prophet

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:

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.