Stephen Beam - Balaam, the Gray Prophet

The ancient biblical story of Balaam and his talking donkey unfolds once again in a distant apocalyptic future. Here, gaps are filled, details inserted, and spiritual mysteries revealed.

The world finally broke, shattering into small autonomous units. Small tribal communities, not nations, composed the world’s social order. Life was simplified, not by plan, but by necessity. The unbearable complexity and multitude of laws that governed nearly every aspect of human behavior were enforced by tyrannical, warring states. This situation eventually brought down the world. The social monster consumed itself. The wisdom humankind struggled so hard to win, was lost. Now the world must start anew and rediscover timeless truths. Ancient wisdom was once again new.

In the circle of time, God used unlikely men and women to accomplish His ends. Balaam the prophet was one of them. He was broken man, yet he was chosen to be an instrument of the Lord, furthering the divine plan in a decaying world. Balaam was God’s instrument — despite himself.

The Pethor community grew up around a small river that held just enough water to sustain the town’s population. Mickey entered the Pethor Bar that broiled beneath the relentless desert sun. Temporarily blinded, it took awhile for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. When they did, he pitied poor Pethor. If this was the best watering hole they had, it wouldn’t help his depression any. Perhaps a few shots of the locally fermented grain would numb his sour attitude.

He’d been sent here by Balak, Chief of Moab, to meet with the legendary prophet Balaam: a man of strong mojo, a man with the power to bless and to curse. Mickey scratched his stubbled chin while deep in thought. His boss was strangely gullible for a man who’d risen so high and fast in the social ranks. Balak was either a charming innocent or a manipulative con. In either case, he had the charisma to win over Moab, a land of great wealth. Mickey never had the charm to rise very high in the ranks. He was low on the rung amongst Balak’s personal elite. He was in Pethor because Balak knew he was hungry, willing to twist arms and bash heads on the cheap. But Balak wasn’t a cheapskate. He was just careful.

Mickey sat down on an oddly misshapen barstool. The round vinyl seat didn’t properly accommodate his butt, and from the looks of it, nobody else’s either. The bar counter was a rough-hewn rectangle of granite. Blue light-emitting diodes dotted its surface. These LEDs, along with a few hanging light strings, were the bar’s main source of illumination. The ceiling and the walls were corrugated tin. Concrete pillars were placed in the corners and midpoint along the walls. The smoky atmosphere was gray, muting the already dim light. This bleak interior was maintained by malfunctioning troops of nanobots, badly in need of reprogramming, leaving in their wake objects twisted and malformed.

The male patrons wore dark clothing designed to keep sunlight out. It made them blend with the smoke filled air. The few women patrons were obviously prostitutes, naked but for thin tight shorts. They displayed their large breasts and long legs, enhanced by reconfigured DNA. Most of them worked as temple prostitutes, serving the local priests by acting out ordained erotic rituals. Mickey’s congregation back in Moab had its share of temple prostitutes too. But these Pethor whores were more pitiful than sexy. He avoided eye contact with them as best he could. Drinking local whiskey and smoking homegrown mutant tobacco were the unifying factors that blended religious virtues and hedonism among the people of Pethor.

Mickey scanned the room, occasionally glancing at the picture of Balaam he kept on his cellphone. He saw no matching faces yet. He walked over to an ancient jukebox. On first glance, the jukebox was pristine. On second glance, the entire surface was pitted with tiny holes. A handwritten sign said this machine was modified to work with spoken commands. Mickey leaned in close and spoke to the shiny brass, chrome, and glass device. “Play trance music. Something extremely hypnotic.” He doubted the music would actually elevate his mood, but figured it was worth a shot.

The barroom door swung open. Sunlight filled the room and sliced through the smoke filled air, a toxic curtain that seemed parted by the very hand of God. But instead of revealing heavenly mansions of light, a dark figure stood silhouetted in the glare of the open doorway. Mickey squinted at the man, trying to make out his features.

The dark figure looked across the room, spotted Mickey, and walked over to sit on the empty barstool next to him. All the while he stared silently into Mickey’s eyes. He knew who Mickey was, even though he’d never seen his face before, either in flesh or photo. Balaam had seen Mickey in his dreams, dreams sent by the Lord Almighty. A holy light danced inside Balaam’s thoughts unbidden: the very light of YHWH, creator of dreams and dreams within dreams. The Lord’s divine presence made sleep for Balaam almost irrelevant. It no longer mattered much if he was sleeping or awake. Day and night blended together inside him. His inner life had become his outer.

Mickey considered leaping from his barstool and running back home to Moab. The guy sitting next to him was truly unnerving, but he needed the extra coin this gig would bring. The creep wore a gray hoodie that cast his face in shadows, much deeper and darker than any shadow in the barroom. Mickey glanced at the picture of Balaam on his cellphone, though he really didn’t need to. He knew who this creep was, even without clearly seeing his face. Silence became a palpable presence between them, turning into a challenge. Who would be first to speak? Who would lay out their agenda and break the stare-down?

It was the dark hooded figure that first broke the silence. He spoke only one word. A word Mickey had never heard before. “YHWH,” Balaam said, pronouncing it with such precision and reverence it frightened Mickey.

“What?” Mickey asked. A shiver ran from his toes to the top of his head. Involuntary muscle contractions shook him so hard they threatened to topple him from the barstool. What the hell just happened? How could a single spoken word thrust him so far out of his familiar reality? He felt dizzy, but, strangely enough, his depression lifted a little. Maybe the distraction from Balaam’s strange word had helped him, a foretaste of the prophet’s mojo. He called for the bartender, who’s badge stated he was also the owner, to pour him a shot of house whiskey.

Balaam spoke again from under the darkness of his hood, “The word I spoke was YHWH, which is God’s name. He is creator of heaven and the heaven of heavens, and everything in them. Know this: I only do that which the Lord commands me. So tell me, what does Balak want?”

After slamming the whiskey down his throat, Mickey gestured to the bartender for another.

The bartender refilled Mickey’s glass and asked, “Do you want to keep the bottle?”

“Why not?” If he was going to drink medicinally to soothe his nerves, it was best to keep the bottle handy. The burn of alcohol comforted him, promising quick relief. Its heat ran from gut to head and loosened his tongue. “Have some whiskey, Balaam.”

From beneath his woolen hood, Balaam’s eyes were the only facial feature visible. A subtle twinkle flashed across his pupils. Balaam said, “Sounds good. Bartender, another glass please.”

Quickly Mickey formulated a plan: get Balaam a little high. Loosen him up a bit. That was always good diplomacy. Mickey poured the whiskey into Balaam’s glass. This was going to be an easy job. “Cheers,” Mickey said, and knocked glasses with him.