Jezebel

Part One: 25

Elijah never came to Harel's aid. All the while Johanan's father physically attacked, cursed, and threatened to submit him to the zealot prophets, Elijah stood aside and did nothing.

Harel had repeated over and over that the queen was responsible for his son's death but the man wasn't listening. It was as though he wanted it to be Harel who killed Johanan, and the more Harel denied it the madder he got. That night, Harel's entire frame had throbbed with pain as he tossed upon his sleeping pallet. The next day Elijah gave him flat bread and lentil stew to eat. Though the man had not returned to the house of the prophet, every knock set Harel on edge. Zealot prophets were merciless in dishing judgement on to those who submitted themselves to pagan worship.

It wasn't until the third day the prophet decided to speak more than a handful of words to him.

"What is her agenda?"

Harel was so shocked by the words, he stared at the prophet with an open mouth. The man remained seated, the light of the oil lamp casting shadows upon his face as he waited for an answer.

"W-who?" Harel managed to ask at last.

"The queen. I suppose since you spent a good amount of time with her, you should have a clue."

"S-she wants to crush every other god...only Baal and Ashera."

The prophet scratched his bushy beard then straightened in his chair. "Jacob sent words."

Dread, thick and swift, raced through Harel.

"He has chosen to drop the matter."

Relief swept through Harel.

"But I am considering handing you over to the zealots."

The dread returned along with fear. "N-no, prophet, please. I beg you."

"I have another option." Elijah stood and began taking slow measured steps back and forth. Back and forth.

"What is it?" Harel sat straighter at his corner, desperate to hear what the prophet had to say. Surely, it would not be as terrible as being handed over to zealots. Getting stoned to death was not something he fancied at the moment.

"I want you to find out what the queen is about? I want to know key decisions she makes."

"What?" Harel's jaw slacked in shock. "Surely you do not mean what you just said."

The prophet merely stared.

"But aren't you a prophet? Enquire of the Lord, let him tell you what she plans."

"Is it not the Lord who used me to save you from her? Is it not the Lord who touched my heart with compassion not to submit you to the zealot?"

Harel fell silent.

"Go. Find out what you must. No harm will come to you."

Harel merely nodded. It was hopeless. There was no need to plead. He saw it in the prophet's face; his mind was already made up.

***

She wiped the blade with a rag as she turned to Jireh.

"I feel as though I should apologize for that"-she shrugged in the direction of the bloody altar-"but it's better to deal a swift blow than cuddle before a strike." A malevolent smile tugged at her lips. "Those were the words of my beloved mother."

Jireh swallowed. The terror was still there, alive and real. Each breath he took reminded him of it-he was in danger. That familiar darkness was in the air and it pulsed.