You Promised

     Somewhere out in the eastern borderlands, far beyond the trek and ken of warlord kings, in a place cut off and separated – somewhere out in the steep shadows of a valley filled with death, outside and beyond the land of the living – Elijah, the Tishbite, the outlandish outsider, the temporary inmate, foreigner, prophet drank dirty water from a shallow brook.

    “Yah, my God,” he mumbled as he wiped his beard. “I’m hungry. And you promised.” He scanned the sky. No clouds. No birds. Nothing. “You promised.”

    Gone was his proper confidence. He was hiding. Self-discipline and hard work prepared, but here he was: alone and hungry.

    He knew the rebellion. The insult and dishonor of kings, the jealously of queens. False priests and cash for blessings schemes.

    “You promised. You promised,” he muttered.

    Anonymous whispers, rumor and scandal alliance. “Cut him off!” came the echo. “Cut him down!” The alarm. The horn.

    He heard it now. The alarm. The horn. The squawk and caw. Caw. The prophet looked skyward. Two ravens circled above. “You promised,” he sighed. One of the obsidian birds landed to his right. It hopped towards him twice and dropped a hunk of bread at his feet. The other landed to his left, hopped three times towards him, right up to his feet, and disgorged a ragged hunk of rancid meat.”

    Elijah snatched up the bread and bit into it. He eyed the carrion flesh as he chewed. “You promised,” he said again around a mouthful of bread. He swallowed and took another bite. He could smell the cloying smell of rot. What had it been? Rabbit? Goat?

    Pig?

    “Yah, my God,” he mumbled. He swallowed the last morsel of bread and sighed. “You promised.” He knelt down and picked up the rotted meat.