Balaam, the Gray Prophet

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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.

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