Stephen Beam - Balaam, the Gray Prophet

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:

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?

With defeat embedded inside every word, Balaam said, “I’ve repeatedly told you that I can’t accept your generous offers. I can’t go beyond the word of the Lord. Of my own will, I’m powerless to choose either good or evil. What the Lord says, those are the words I must speak.” His hood hid in shadow deep lines of stress across his face. He made ready to leave, but was compelled to face Balak once again, a spiritual energy growing hot inside his core. Balaam added, “I’m leaving. Don’t worry about that. But before I do, I must reveal to you the vision now unfolding inside my head. This is your fate.”

His words made Balak turn pale. He shivered. No matter Balaam’s refusal to curse the Sons of Israel, that didn’t negate his connection to unearthly powers — powers Balak couldn’t understand. If there was any validity to this YHWH, if this deity truly was more than just another local Baal, then he should walk away from the prophet right now. Balak signaled his entourage to leave. The time had come to walk down the hill and leave Balaam prophesying to himself.

Balaam seemed ready to speak. Balak and his entourage froze. The prophet began to vibrate like a tuning fork. His form blurred. Dislodged from the anchor of worldly reality, he was thrust into an alien dimension. Balaam’s mind left his flesh, leaving his mouth under the control of the Lord Almighty. His voice thundered, echoing across the hilltops to the vast desert below. He spoke these words: