A tingling sound awoke her two hours or so later, peering through weary lashes, she saw her son sitting on the floor, occupied with his back towards her, giggling at something on the floor, sitting up quietly she gazed at him.
He was just like his father, brown hair just a shade or two shades lighter now and ever so lightly sprinkled across his head, strong shoulder bones she could count quite well, but she was certain would grow broad and firm, her heart ached as she ran her gaze along his spine. He laughed again, his voice as a quiet bell chimes ringing against the wind. He'd always been a happy boy despite being born in the drought.
How he had crawled off the bed without getting himself hurt slid her puzzled mind as she singled in on what held his focus, she paled a little as she saw the object of his amusement. She watched him pick it up and throw it on its face, chuckling to himself... He was laughing at ba’al?
She struggled up on the wall to her feet as it dawned on her, her baby thought that ba’al was just a wooden toy to play with…and she'd spent her whole life worshipping!
Dry laughter slipped out of her lips, she ran her fingers along her lips as though to catch it, she'd almost forgotten she could produce that sound! Her son angled his head towards her and standing on wobbly feet, stomped towards her, unknowingly kicking the sculpture to the fireplace. She scooped him up, energy suddenly seeping into her body, she found herself in a mid twirl with her baby’s voice ringing out in pure ecstasy.
As though looking at him for the first time, she cradled him really close and kissed his forehead, "You're right my love. You are right. We don’t need him, we don’t need ba’al, and he never was for us.”
We do not need him. We do not need him. We do not need him.
She chanted and re-chanted it in her mind to assure and re-assure herself of the reality of her decision; her gaze fell across the statue close to the fireplace again.
“Yes.” This time she decided, “We'll need some wood for fire."
She padded over to the cupboard, rampaging through, she shook her oil jar. Peering into it, the content at the bottom shifted a little, dipping the tip of her finger into the jar, she brushed it along his lips and watched him hungrily lick his lips, eyes wide at her finger stretched out to grab the jar, “That’s right my love, we would live yet again.”… Free of ba’al and of endless sacrifices to him, she shifted the jar of flour, there about a handful left.
She’d sprinkled more than half a bag last week at the town square, at ba’al, in accordance to the high priests instructions, their divine intuition to draw ba’al’s attention to them was to sacrifice as much flour to invoke the deity’s own thirst then he too would have mercy on them, as he would be able to understand how they felt, how exactly had she believed that fallacy? If he never existed, how could they ever conceive the thought that he could turn his attention on them?
But yet her mind couldn’t help wonder at what then Zarephath had survived on the past years. It of course couldn’t have been the hard work of the people, and Phoenicians weren’t exactly very hard workers. There was a clear demarcation between the elites and the workers as there was between the priests and the citizens, neither could it be their trading relations, surely, a God had been at work, and the only God she knew that was really at work, was the God of Elijah, the true prophet of a living God.
There was only one God, and He is the God of Elijah, who has withheld the rain for years…Oh what it would be like to serve him…
Nonetheless, the prophet hasn’t been heard from or seen since the drought, but she knew he was alive. His God would keep him alive. In fact, she was certain that wherever the prophet was, His God would bless him with as much food and oceans of water to keep him.
Her son’s babbles brought her back to reality, face determined, she straddled her son tightly to her hips. With whatever she had, she was determined to make a meal for her and her son. Her last no doubt…unless Elijah’s God showed up, a nagging feeling inside her itched, she’d wait on him. If He didn’t answer her, He had every right not to anyway, but as for ba’al, she was determined not to return back to that soiled soil.
Strapping a satchel around her shoulders, she began to make her way to the gate of the village; that was where everything the wind blew ended.
Walking through the once lively streets of Zarephath, her eyes automated caught across the crowd gathered at the streets end that gave way to the town square, where the ten foot bronze statue of ba’al stood, arrogantly. There were now, only a few people throwing handfuls of flour across the statue of ba’al, the priests of ba’al still wailed throwing themselves against the statue for water.
Embittered, she turned away and continued along the cobblestone pathway. Another wail tore through the stony house, yet another had died due to the drought.
Couldn’t they open their eyes and see, ba’al was dead not alive, only the Lord God of Israel was alive? she was too certain that a God who hears when His prophet calls, in the midst of every opposition and would answer to withhold the rains, against its own season…no, the only real God was the God of Elijah and only Him could save and He would do that through His Prophet, but adjusting her son’s weight, she continued walking till she reached her village gate. Lying around were things everything people didn’t want, everything that had grown so lightweight that the wind could toss it about, weaving her way through she began gathering wood for fire.
YOU ARE READING
Two Jars
Short Story...maybe it all began when the king had erected an altar to ba'al there in Israel, "To please his queen," he had said, it was going to be a symbol of peace and unity between the two nations and a future to look forward to. Of course that future had...
