Stephen Beam - Balaam, the Gray Prophet

The divine connection ended abruptly. Balaam fell to the ground face first, breathing dust. Every inch of his skin drenched in sweat, his filthy hoodie wet and muddy. The intense energy that electrified him but a minute before, was gone, leaving him near death.

Balak walked over to stand over Balaam, and shook his head in disgust, a disgust wrapped in fear. He nudged the prophet’s shoulder with the tip of his shoe, and said, “You’ve failed me and yourself. We’re finished. Find your way home. Quickly.” Balak walked back to his anxious entourage, They huddled together and talked amongst themselves, occasionally pointing an accusatory finger at Balaam.

The exhausted prophet struggled to lift himself from the dirt. He didn’t look at Balak or his entourage. He had no desire to see their scornful looks. He already felt lower than he’d ever felt in his life. He managed to get on his feet, although weak, sick, and shaken. He bent over and vomited on his shoes. With what little dignity remained, he attempted to brush himself off, succeeding only in smearing mud deeper into his sweatshirt.

He began walking down the hill, head bowed, face hidden beneath his muddy hood. All he wanted now was to find Eeayore and get the hell out of here. The sooner, the better.

YHWH had snuffed out all Balaam’s attempts to curse the Sons of Israel. Instead, the Lord targeted the curses at Balak. The prophet tried to please Moab’s chief, but failed. Now there was nothing left to do but drink. Balaam lifted the glass of whiskey to his lips and contemplated the virtues of sipping. Instead, he downed it all in a single gulp. There was a positive side to all his failures. He left Moab with an oxeep in his pouch. A very precious and generous gift from Balak, despite his failure to curse the Israelites.

Pethor had nothing that could match the oxeep’s world class technology; it was extremely powerful, exponentially greater than any wonky nanobot gadget in Pethor. The extreme power of the oxeep worried Balaam as much as it excited him. What if he was locked telepathically with its interface, and at that very moment, YHWH manifested inside his skull?

The inside of the Pethor Bar had continued to morph in Balaam’s absence, even after the attempted EMF sterilization of the renegade nanobots. The prophet was seated at a small wooden table in a corner of the bar. The bar had turned into a black obsidian cave, its details obscured under a thick smoky haze. Lush folds of black glassy material, frozen into bulbous swirling extrusions, formed the cave-bar’s interior. This glossy black environment, mostly hidden under dark smoke, reflected Balaam’s dark inner environment.

The Pethor Bar was his meditation room. As his blood alcohol levels rose, the more weepy and melancholic he grew. He reminisced about his fifth birthday, after which his life path changed. That was the year YHWH first visited him. He remembered bright sunlight streaming into the family’s modest living room. To a child, this room was huge, archetypal of all places of comfort. A safe haven from a world in rapid decline. The orange curtains were drawn back, a stream of photons illuminated his birthday cake atop the table. Five lit candles were ready to be blown out. He had his birthday wish ready. It was simple: to be a good boy, a boy obedient to his parents and to the God they served. With all his breath he blew out the candles. A wisp of smoke replaced each flame.

How many drinks had he downed? He didn’t know, but there was still about half a bottle left. His tolerance of alcohol had risen greatly — a warning he was addicted. Sober or drunk, he didn’t try to rationalize his drinking. There was no way to justify an obvious avoidance of reality. He poured another glass. This time he chose to sip. From his sweatshirt pouch he grabbed the oxeep and touched it to his forehead. Five lit candles appeared on the table before him. He quickly put the device back inside the pouch. Whiskey and an oxeep were a bad combination.

He stared at the nanobot generated candles. He took a deep breath, filled his aging lungs with smoky air, and blew out all the candles in a single breath. He fell into a fit of coughing. Wisps of candle wax smoke rose into the toxic air. He was 5 years old again with the immature neural array of an unfinished brain. His deepest wish was for the return of the Garden of Eden, a place where beauty and innocence flourished. Amongst the flowers, he was pure and good. He loved God and all of His children. The garden grew and covered the earth. A pure light was born and traveled between the folds of space. From the very nucleus of infinity, outside of time and space, the spiritual light traveled to Earth, a tiny planet amongst countless others. The light finally arrived at Balaam’s home, and there, invaded his immature mind.

At five years old, Balaam was equipped to make moral choices. He held the power to decide which paths he should take. His mother and father smiled down at him, unaware their son’s mental flowering had come into full bloom. Balaam’s desire for the light was as endless as the light’s ability to give, streaming love to him from its infinite source — the creator of all. No matter how much love filled Balaam, there was an endless amount held in reserve. He drank in the light of love, just as he now drank whiskey in the dark.

The universe wasn’t a foreboding mystery to a young, gifted Balaam. He discovered early on that asking big questions got big answers. All that was required to hear the answers was faith enough to listen, an unfaltering faith, with the courage to accept the truth, no matter where it led. He asked questions, and dared to accept whatever God revealed. As loyalty is paramount in human friendship, it also holds true in friendship with the divine.

The birthday candles turned black and melted into the tabletop. The dark stain spread, molecularly integrating with the table, turning the wood into the same glassy obsidian that formed the rest of the barroom interior. Balaam gulped down another whiskey. He almost convinced himself that alcohol kept insanity at bay. He knew that wasn’t true. Whiskey only softened the insanity. Made it palatable. At times, like now, the deja vu grabbed hold so strong it cut through his drunkenness. He somehow knew beyond any doubt, the Moabite gig had gone down before: Balak, the blessing and the cursing, a talking donkey — it was all a bad rerun, churned out again and again, until time ended.

The children of humankind always forgot their lessons, destined to relearn them time and time again. Humankind suffered a collective dementia that never healed. The world called out beyond the stars for a savior — a revelator. And when Balaam was fully in the grip of deja vu, he understood that humankind’s prayer had already been answered. And when deja vu let him go, he fell into darkness, the prayer forgotten. He was once more lost and lonely.

The bottle of whiskey was empty. He signaled the bartender for another. An idea had formed in his head; it just needed a bit more fuel to finish. Another bottle appeared at his table. A quarter of the way through, self pity rained down on him. It turned into a violent storm that sucked him though a mental vortex, pulling his soul inside out. Flesh tore from bones, joy ripped from life, his ever diminishing existence a mere blip along a solitary string of time, a string soon to be cut off.

Balaam was dizzier than he’d ever been. The obsidian table spun his bottle of whiskey around and around. With much fumbling and sloppiness, he managed to catch the bottle. He poured his glass nearly full, but spilled most of the liquor onto the tabletop. He tried to lick it up, sliding his wet face against the table’s slick surface. He caught a reflection of a second face near his. The face said, “You’ve had enough. I’m cutting you off.”