Stephen Beam - Balaam, the Gray Prophet

Balaam wasn’t sure of his own name when he awoke on the floor. The divine encounter was like a lovingly wielded sledgehammer to his mental integrity. It was morning, of that he was certain, but of the day, he wasn’t. He glanced out the front window. The big RV had returned from visiting downtown Pethor, neatly parked on the road in front of his house. How long had it been there?

Still reeling, he tried to focus on his immediate goal. He’d go to Moab and try to make Balak understand the mojo of blessing and cursing, the limitations the Lord Almighty imposed on him. You don’t bargain with God, or try to twist His spiritual arm. The universe doesn’t work that way. Balaam would give his best shot at helping Balak, but knew deep inside it was futile. God held an unwavering, impenetrable shield of protection over the Sons of Israel.

Balaam grabbed the open bottle of whiskey from the coffee table, and without pouring a glass, took a deep drink straight from the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said to himself, “My mouth tastes like a dirty sock. Shit.” He took one last gulp and set the bottle down. He walked outside to the RV and knocked on the passenger side door. No one answered. He knocked again — harder this time.

Pluto opened the door, his eyelids still heavy with sleep. He stared at Balaam with a bit of disdain. “You’re up early.”

“I am?” Balaam asked, not synchronized yet with temporal time. His biological clock was not wound. Half of him wasn’t operational while his other half still floated amongst foreign stars and planets.

“The meeting with your god must’ve gone well. You woke me up like you can’t wait to get started. Are you coming with us?”

“I’m riding my donkey. That’s how I roll.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll wake the others and we’re off.” Pluto banged shut the RV’s metal door without any further words. It appeared to Balaam, even with his senses muted, Pluto wasn’t thrilled with this assignment.

Balaam intended to go and greet Eeayore in the grassy field, but the donkey had already walked over to the front yard. She affectionately nudged his leg. When their eyes met, Eeayore looked at her master with a new awareness. She seemed to give him a wink. It gave him the creeps.

The RV engine cranked over and fired. Before Balaam realized what was happening, the big vehicle pulled out and took off down the road, leaving behind a cloud of dust. If they wanted to travel ahead, that was fine with him. Why wait on a slow donkey? They’d all end up standing before Balak anyway, and once again — this time in person — he would explain his limitations. The Lord would never allow him to curse the Sons of Israel — now, or anytime in the future.

Balaam went inside the house and grabbed his old leather bag of traveling supplies. When he spotted the whiskey on the coffee table, he finished it off in one gulp. He exited his house, locked the front door, and mounted Eeayore. He gave Eeayore’s neck an affectionate pat, and the two interspecies friends were on their way to Moab.

The RV was miles ahead of Balaam. That’s fine. It wasn’t a race. Balaam had no desire to press Eeayore to go any faster. It gave him time to plan. His thoughts centered around the one obstacle standing in his way to riches. God. Creator and controller of the universe. The I AM that I AM. Encapsulating the circle of time, God knows the heart of every being in the cosmos: whether mortal, angel, transcendental celestial, or unfathomable eternal. So, how could a lowly, finite mortal like himself get his way with God? Balaam shook his head in frustration. He would go to Moab, offer up all he knew to please YHWH, while knowing deep inside, it was futile.

Balaam entered his favorite part of the landscape. He most enjoyed riding Eeayore down the dirt road that tunneled through the corn fields. For much of the way, chicken wire fences lined the road, keeping intruders from trespassing through the rows of corn. Corn was Pethor’s main crop, most of which went to the distillery. Pethor bourbon whiskey was noted for its subtle, sweet corn flavor.

The blue sky, the chilly bite of morning air, the sweet aroma of the corn fields, these things brought a modicum of comfort to Balaam. The trip wouldn’t be wasted if he remained in the moment and counted his blessings. It was best to forget dreams of wealth, not to mention honor. These thoughts were pure fantasy; be thankful for having enough to eat and drink — many in Pethor didn’t. Times were the hardest in known history, but when viewed through thankful eyes, life looked much better. Attitude changed the inner environment, but did nothing for the outer.

Being chosen as God’s mouthpiece wasn’t an easy job, nor one he even wanted. Nobody understood or sympathized with his predicament. How could they? He was an anomaly, a singularity. He was alone in the world, alone but for his precious Eeayore. He had no friends or lovers, only Eeayore and God. And a few bottles of Pethor’s finest bourbon.

In reality, there was no cause to bitch about his life. Some might even question his claim of being friendless. How could he be friendless when God Almighty Himself personally spoke to him? God was in his personal contact list, grouped under family. They stayed in touch via the Universal Spiritual Social Network, broadcasting an endless stream of information throughout the universe of universes.

The Lord of Hosts, the Infinite One whose breath gave him life, was head of a vast family. The loneliness Balaam felt came from this unequally yoked relationship. His friends were not his peers: neither the Lord, nor Eeayore. Sober or drunk, he strained to open his mind to the light, but his capacity was severely limited — a thimble can’t hold an ocean.

Eeayore began acting skittish. Balaam rubbed his hand along Eeayore’s neck and gave her an affectionate pat. She grew more agitated the farther along the road they went. When they approached a break in the fence to their right, Eeayore made for it, bolting off the road towards the corn fields. “Whoa girl! Where’re you going?”

Balaam carried a stick velcroed to his saddle. He rarely used it, but now, sadly, he must. Ripping it from the saddle, he whacked Eeayore on the butt, trying to force her back onto the road. She’d never behaved this strangely before. Why now? They were usually so perfectly in sync with one another discipline wasn’t needed, just a tap or two for minor error correction. But this was open rebellion. His blow landed harder and harsher than any he’d ever delivered before.

Eeayore halted, looked around nervously, and returned to the road through the gap in the fence she’d just run through. She shivered. Her ears stood straight, vibrating like a tuning fork. This disturbed Balaam more than the bladder he’d pulled from her mouth, which he assumed was created by a nanobot infection. Now, the low pitched hum of her fluttering ears harmonically resonated with his spine. He felt energy rising like a serpent up his back, uncoiling to strike, its power suddenly unleashed itself inside his head. His brain deflated, thought escaped through punctures left by the serpent’s fangs.

The road undulated: repeatedly lifting them up, then setting them down. Eeayore, terrified, bolted against the fence, shoving Balaam’s foot into the thick wire, nearly throwing him from the saddle. Suddenly she was stiff and motionless, staring down the road at a figure visible only to her — an unearthly phantom clothed in golden waves of light.

Balaam whacked Eeayore even harder than before, furious at her weird behavior. She might have broken his foot. It certainly felt that way. Through his pain, he heard the hum from Eeayore’s vibrating ears growing stronger. It rolled over his body, squeezing his flesh inside an invisible vice, then quickly releasing it, repeatedly and tortuously, from head to foot.