Stephen Beam - Balaam, the Gray Prophet

Balak greeted Balaam coldly, “Wasn’t I earnest enough the first time I called on you? Why would you refuse to come here and let me honor you?” Balak’s men muttered to each other in whispers. A bitter vibe went out from the Moabites, but Balaam wasn’t upset. He knew it was deserved. Plus, he understood these people weren’t able to view his actions through the eyes of the spirit.

Balaam’s face was hidden in shadow beneath his hoodie as he said, “Look! I’m here now. And I’ve stated before that I have no power to say anything other than what the Lord God tells me to say. For reasons beyond my understanding, the Lord has chosen the Sons of Israel for His own purposes.” After Balaam finished speaking, he stood silent, wondering why he’d come here. Was this just another mistake in a long list of mistakes? The chance of YHWH consenting to let him curse the Sons of Israel was nil. And yet, there must be a reason he was still alive after encountering an angel brandishing a light-sword. Was there a cosmic purpose he failed to see?

“But you’re here,” Balak said, “and that bodes well for me. Perhaps your god has changed his mind and judged the Moabites fit to live. Follow me to your hotel.”

Balaam had barely finished leashing Eeayore to the post; now he unleashed her and threw his leg over the saddle. They followed Balak and his men down another white brick road, through swirling multicolored vapors floating in the air, and arrived at the Kirjath Huzoth Hotel. It was magnificent: Two tall towers of glass crystal, bound together by bands of stainless steel. The building stretched high into the sky, the top floors wrapped in fluffy rainbow tinted clouds.

“You’ll stay here for the night,” Balak said. He reached into the front pouch of his gold and silver tie dyed robe and took out a chrome tube the size of a pen, etched with lines marking it into seven equal segments. “Here,” he said, and handed it to Balaam. “This is an oxeep, our cutting edge nanotech. Learn how to use it. It might even help you to better serve your god.”

“Thanks.” Balaam took it, holding it like a pen, surprised by its weight. Such a dense amount of matter packed into such a small size. How much greater must Moab’s level of technology be than Pethor’s. Even Moabite architecture showed a degree of knowledge and skill that made Pethor look pathetically backwards. Moab’s material wealth afforded Balak the finest of builders and coders, resulting in premium grade nanbots, not the wonky botshit of Pethor.

The valet took Eeayore to a stable somewhere behind the building. Balak and his entourage led Balaam through the crystalline columned doorway to the reception desk. There was not a speck of dust anywhere — nothing out of order. The clean flowing lines of glistening glass and steel assured Balaam no microbial threats existed here, or anywhere else in Moab. Inside the hotel, the group felt even more clean and refreshed, bathed by unseen nanobots swarming over their skin, sterilizing and cleansing away impurities.

The neatly attired receptionist was already aware of Balak’s morning agenda. She handed Balaam a small plastic fob. “You’re in room 101, the special guest suite.”

Balaam took the fob, then turned to look about the area. He asked, “Where’s the bar?”

The receptionist answered, “Just issue the command ‘Okay Kirjath’ followed by your question or demand, and a synthetic servant will materialize to help you.” She paused for a second, then added, “Your room does come with a fully stocked bar.”

Balak, as Moabite custom dictated, kissed Balaam on the cheek and said, “Go rest up. We’ll get started in the morning. Play with the oxeep tonight and familiarize yourself with it.” Balak and his men left quickly. They wanted the prophet rested and refreshed, his mojo at its energetic peak. Balaam was their sole hope of survival when the Sons of Israel came to raze Moab in the name of their god.

No one stood a chance against the Sons of Israel. They were a force of nature — destiny made manifest — rolling over and slaughtering all worshippers of the false gods: Baal, Ashtoreth, Asherah, Bel, and Chemosh. They destroyed everyone blinded to YHWH’s great truth by these false gods. Only YHWH was, is, and will be the great I AM that I AM — creator of heaven and earth.

Balaam’s hotel suite was the nicest place he’d ever laid down his head. The stark cleanliness, the careful positioning of simple yet elegant furniture, made him immediately relax. When he dropped down on the bed face first, arms spread wide, the wondrous mattress absorbed his fall gently, as if he weighed no more than a feather. The room’s colors were tasteful grays and subtle tints of warm whites. He rolled onto his back and tilted his head to take in the room. It was designed to induce relaxation and remove stress, and it worked extremely well.

The hotel room bar, a stainless steel cabinet near a large picture window that faced Moab’s business center, was well stocked. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and walked over to it. A round bottle of scotch caught his eye. He took it from the cabinet and poured himself a glass, filling it halfway. He figured it was okay to let go of his worries for a few hours. He needed to relax and prepare his heart for the Visitor who would certainly call on him tonight. He wanted to be receptive to the Lord’s voice. He’d come too far for this trip to end in disaster. Still, deep within his heart of hearts, he knew how this would all end. God never changes. There was no way to fudge the truth or bargain with God. It was as it has always been: God’s way or the highway. And that highway was death.

He reached into the hoodie pouch where he stored the oxeep. He took it out and examined it closely. Holding the oxeep in one hand and his scotch in the other, he became confused, and brought the oxeep to his lips to take a sip of whiskey. He realized his mistake when he tried to drink from the device, and said, “Must be more tired than I thought…” He switched hands and brought the scotch to his lips and swallowed long, nearly emptying the glass.

The oxeep was a very generous gift. He’d heard of them before; a device of legendary status. Normally, they were owned by the rich or the priesthood elite. Oxeeps were known for their range of code, their stability, and their level of quality. Balaam understood the power of these tiny gadgets. With one strand of hair from Eeayore, he could make a living duplicate of her in seconds: a copy that mimicked life down to the molecular level, with a lifespan of nearly 24 hours before the life-charge ran out. The wealthy priests officiating sacrifices to Baal used oxeeps to generate the sacrificial animals. They believed these synthetic beasts appeased the regional gods just as well as real animals. That’s what the clergy taught their congregations.

Balaam knew these regional gods were false, nothing more than worthless man made idols. The worst of the lot were actual fallen angels, cast down from heaven after they’d lost the war. But whatever the case, they were banned by YHWH — the one true God. And therein lies the question. Could synthetic sacrificial animals please YHWH?

Balaam understood how to work the oxeep after he’d inspected it closely. It used an ESP interface, and he was drunk enough now to make it a very dangerous toy. No sense invoking some nightmare beast into the world invented by his alcohol saturated brain. It was best just to crawl into bed and call it a night. The Lord Almighty would certainly visit his dreams tonight, and he was pathetically ill prepared… as usual.

A knock on the door awoke Balaam from a deep, dreamless sleep. “I’m coming!” Balaam yelled, and threw off his covers, rising awkwardly from the bed. His legs were stubborn in obeying his brain’s commands, even though his reality had remained intact the whole night through. The Lord God had not seen fit to disrupt his drunken rest; perhaps this was part of the divine plan: a calm, uneventful night, rather than reminding him once again to speak only the words which God put in his mouth.