Stephen Beam - Balaam, the Gray Prophet

Eeayore unfroze and walked away from the fence. She stood in the middle of the road, her gaze never wavered from the glowing phantom blocking her path ten feet in front of her. It began drawing closer to her, its form expanding to cover the whole width of the road. There was no way around the unearthly being, the only choice was to return back home. Eeayore shivered. Rippling waves of flesh traveled from muzzle to tail, nearly throwing Balaam from the saddle once again.

Eeayore laid down on the road, fearful she might harm her master with involuntary convulsions. It was the only action she could take to protect him. The shining celestial materialized a sword of light in its luminous hand, broadcasting its intentions inside Eeayore’s fully morphed brain. She understood this being was dangerous to her master, more dangerous than him falling from the saddle. This being brought death by light-sword.

Balaam’s anger rose up swift and harsh, so fast it bypassed his barrier of self-control. He brought the stick down hard against Eeayore’s flesh, drawing blood from the gash it left in her hindquarters. All thought and concern vacated his mind; his confusion led to hallucinatory madness. He looked around, not knowing where he was or what he’d just done.

Eeayore’s skull transformed in order to house new brain structures. When the morphing stopped, she opened her mouth and spoke in a human female voice: “What did I ever do to deserve such a beating? Why did you hit me like that?” She grotesquely twisted her head around to look at Balaam, her long face scrunched up with questions. She noticed the blood her master had drawn coagulating on her hindquarters. “You even made me bleed.”

Balaam swirled about inside a broken reality, not thinking it odd to hear his donkey speak. It sounded quite natural to his ears. “Why did I hit you? Because you abused me — slammed me into the wire fence and nearly broke my foot. If I had a gun, I’d shoot you. Stupid ass.”

Tears erupted from Eeayore’s eyes and dripped down her face. Her master’s hurtful words ripped open her heart. “Why would you say such a thing? We’ve been friends almost forever. I’ve never acted like this before, have I?”

“No.”

The Lord touched Balaam. Touched him from deep inside, altering the physiological configuration of his eyes while expanding his mind. Beyond white light’s wavelength, the angel of the Lord was finally revealed to Balaam’s new eyes. This was truly a being of celestial grandeur, composed of mental and spiritual substances rather than anything physical.

Balaam finally fell from the saddle onto the road, his face flat against the earth. He was too frightened to move. This must be his end, not to die as an ordinary man, but as God’s failed messenger. This was his own special death, reserved for those whose sins were too great to be mercifully given a peaceful and mundane death. His were the sins of a man that conversed with God but yearned for worldly things. The sins of a man who lusts for that which leads to death everlasting. Balaam inhaled the earth’s foul dust laced with dry donkey droppings and engine oil drippings.

The celestial messenger of God pulsed brightly inside a cocoon of blue auric light, holding high the holy glowing sword that crackled with otherworldly energy, threatening to rip the sky apart. The angel spoke: “Why did you strike your donkey three times? I stood on the road to block your path. Your donkey saw me and turned away. She saved your life. If she hadn’t turned and laid down in the road, I would’ve killed you and let her live.”

The angel’s words were hot coals burning Balaam’s ears, leaving ashes on their way to his heart. By brandishing the light-sword, the celestial messenger caused Balaam to face and fear mortal death. Balaam knew his life was worth less than a donkey’s; he was an infinitesimal and annoying thorn within God’s grand cosmic design. He lifted his face from the ground, careful not to look directly into the powerful angel’s eyes, and said, “I’ve sinned unknowingly. I had no idea the Lord was against me in this matter. Since I’ve displeased Him, I’ll turn and go home.”

The prophet, near madness, crawled over to Eeayore and hugged her neck. They stood together on the dirt road. His arms still wrapped around her, he hated himself for his angry outburst towards her, beating her until she bled. He trembled in fear and regret, desperate to quench emotions that skimmed the rim of insanity.

The Lord’s messenger, at last, lowered the light-sword, draining off its crackling energy. Speaking loudly in a voice made of rushing waters, the angel instructed: “Go forward to Moab. Follow the men, and when you arrive, say only that which God allows.” The cocoon of light around the angel drew inward, pulling in every nearby photon. Darkness fell slowly upon them, and when it was complete, the high reality level imploded. The sun was released to shine again on Balaam and Eeayore. The angel was gone.

Balaam mounted Eeayore, shaking so badly he could barely hold the reins. With a loving stroke drawn carefully down Eeayore’s neck, Balaam said, “Let’s continue on to Moab and see what happens. I’m at the Lord’s mercy. Whether He grants me riches or slays me, I’m forever but a tattered glove worn on His glorious hand.”

Nanobot physiological changes in both Balaam and Eeayore welded them together beyond the physical plane and allowed them to touch the skirts of heaven. Eeayore’s hoofs left dust in their wake as they traveled down the road to Moab.

Moab was an upper class domain; Pethor wasn’t even in the running. Trotting past the polished stainless steel gates revealed a landscape of domes and towers. Metal and glass aesthetically dominated the theme of Balak’s personal territory. The perpetually shiny RV was parked curbside on the white brick road leading into town. Pluto stood behind the RV and gestured for Balaam to ride over. Balak’s entourage of elites waited inside the big vehicle, ready to go meet with Balak.

The air here was not the same as in Pethor. Long wisps of nearly transparent rainbow streamers, more mental than physical, floated and swirled all about. They were more fragrant than roses, and lent a peaceful aura to Moab. Balak was known for his excellent managerial skills, and Moab reflected this, with its sanitized, aromatic, and elegantly minimalist style. Balaam rode Eeayore to where Pluto stood. Eeayore snorted at Pluto and shook her head. Her power of human speech ended shortly after encountering the angel, yet a deep awareness still lingered behind her eyes.

Pluto kept himself composed, despite the string of donkey snot dripping down his shirt. “Welcome to Moab,” he said. “Follow me to Balak’s palace and I’ll introduce you to him.” He abruptly left Balaam, climbed inside the RV cockpit, slid the door shut, and took off down the road.

Eeayore followed, carrying Balaam over the spotless white bricks of main street. They soon arrived at the marble steps of the palace entrance. The main structure was a sparkling clear crystal dome laced in thin webs of polished stainless steel.

Balak was already walking down the long flight of marble steps, alerted to Balaam’s arrival by the palace security guards. He couldn’t wait to meet the prophet, a man that had spurned his first generous invitation. What manner of man could refuse the amount of wealth that he had offered? Whatever forces motivated Balaam, they were a mystery. Balak assumed the prophet’s talents were dispensed most sparingly, holding them in reserve for very special occasions.

The RV was parked curbside near the palace steps. Balaam dismounted Eeayore and tied her to a polished tubular steel hitching post. Balaam figured if Eeayore defecated, swarms of cleaning nanobots would erase her waste. Pluto and his associates left the RV and waited for Balak and his security entourage to descend the steps. Both groups met, then walked over and greeted Balaam while he finished tying Eeayore to the post.