The delivery had to be signed for. With the Director and Curator both off on their lunch break, the job fell to Cory. He signed for the shipment, and pulled out his phone. “Marco, it’s me.” He called his co-worker in the Gallery. “I’m at the loading dock. Can you check that we’ve prepared room for today’s arrivals?”
“I’m in the storage room now. Should I round up the guys?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Cory hung up and turned to the delivery truck driver. “I’ll need you to stick around until we get them all in and verify the whole order is here. For Insurance purposes, you understand.”
The driver was already heading back to the cab. “I have other deliveries to make, pal. My guys say they dropped everything off, and that’s good enough for me.”
“You’re not serious?!” Cory scorned. “You have any idea what’s in these crates? Do you know what they cost?! You can’t just stack them up on the ground and say ‘job well done’.”
“If anything’s missing or damaged, there’s a customer service number on the receipt.” The driver wasn’t even looking at him, already climbing back into the driver’s seat.
Cory tried to figure out what words he could say that would somehow make the other man treat him like a human being, but none seemed like they would work.
~~/*\~~
Marco arrived a few minutes later, with a few workers. “Where’s the truck?”
Cory waved at the stack of flat, oddly sized wooden crates stacked against the wall of the building, and Marco rolled his eyes. “Delivery Men. One day they’re going to make a real clerical error and we’ll all be fired because they messed up.”
Casey, the gallery’s Tour Guide, bent down next to the crates and started checking the numbers against her inventory. “Thankfully, not today, it seems. Alright, let’s get it all inside.”
~~/*\~~
There were strict procedures for working with artwork. Even the newest artworks by relatively unknown artists couldn’t be replaced.
Art was a niche industry. While some famous paintings and artists were known to the whole world, the majority were known to enthusiasts, scholars, and collectors, unknown to the majority of humanity. But it was from this smaller pool that the funding of the Art World came. Sponsors for new artists, galleries open to the public, auctions for private collectors and exhibitions, and of course, all their jobs; all depended on keeping the enthusiasts supplied with artworks likely to appreciate in value.
Which didn’t necessarily mean that all the artwork was loved by the gallery staff.
~~/*\~~
The latest artwork to be hung up was a modern impressionist piece by Kirkland Gottleleiba. Nobody outside the art world really gave it much attention; though there was talk about having it be part of the set in a movie, which would probably drive the price up.
It was a mishmash of blues and greens, painted over each other. There were overlays in the layers, drawing shapes in thin white lines. It looked like a kindergarten painting, which was one of the more common attacks by critics on modern art. Cory had a degree in art history, and knew that similar condescending insults were laid against almost all the great artists, from Pablo Picasso to Vincent VanGogh. But he couldn’t help it. He thought it was ugly, and yet it was worth more than he could ever afford. “I know value is relative, but… You really think this is worth anything?”
“The last time it was auctioned off, it sold for half a million. I’m told it’ll probably be worth a lot more when we auction it.” Marco sighed as the painting was hung carefully by the workmen. “But I’d never buy it, even if I had the money. I know that saying so is the cardinal sin in something as subjective as art, but…”
“I know.” Cory agreed. “Just between us, it’s not to my taste either. But the auctions aren’t for us, right?”
“True enough.” Marco agreed. “People with money must be able to see something beautiful in them, I’m sure. Something that poor, impoverished people like us can’t?”
Cory chuckled. “Yeah, right. Maybe.” He checked his watch. “I have to double-check the outgoing shipments before these guys break for lunch."
Marco nodded, and Cory headed back into the ‘staff only’ areas, going directly from a well lit, perfectly clean, dignified space, to a cramped, dark corridor made of bare concrete, and scuffed linoleum floors. He moved along it until he reached the office space, just off from the loading docks. Behind the thick walls, the gallery was silent, protected from the noise outside. Here behind the scenes, where the real work was done, working hours were cramped, noisy, and full of the smells of printer’s ink and stale coffee.
~~/*\~~
Cory was mostly administration. Working in an art gallery, like anywhere else with trading and customers, had plenty of paperwork involved. He spent a few hours collating information and making sure that their regular shipping company had all their permits and insurance forms signed before they could take possession of the auctioned artworks for delivery. The crates were wide and flat, the precious, irreplaceable artworks within held tightly to avoid so much as dust getting to them.
Cory checked the inventory four times, making sure the shipping company was financially responsible from the moment they left the property. If any of these artworks went astray, he would lose his job and he knew it. Any one of them was worth more than he made in a year. Some of the better ones, worth more than he’d earn in his whole career.
Just as he was about to break for lunch, there was a knock at his office door, and Casey stuck her head in. “Cory, I need a favor.”
Cory sighed, just a little, unsurprised. “Tour Group?”
“Their usual guide called in sick, and you’re better at talking about the Impressionist wing than I am.” Casey said, with just a hint of quaver in her voice. “I know it’s not your job, but…”
“I’ll take care of it.” Cory nodded. It was hardly the first time he’d had to step in. He rose from his desk, winced at the spike of pain that sliced through his lower back, and fought to keep his expression even until it passed.
~~/*\~~
As a rule, there were only two or three types that took the tour. Students, sometimes older ones studying for college exams, sometimes younger ones on a field trip, tourists, visiting the city, and sometimes the odd art lover or young man trying to impress a date. Most of the art lovers already knew about the paintings and the artists behind them. Google was enough for anyone who cared. Tour guides were for the people who looked, but didn’t know how to ask.
The Gallery was crowded on weekends. This was a weekday, so Cory didn’t even need to raise his voice to be heard by the whole group. This time around, it was a field trip. The kids were mostly bored. One or two of them were looking hard at the paintings. Some of the younger kids were giggling, having spotted the nudes hanging in the renaissance wing; though the tour led the preteen students away from those artworks.
“Impressionist artworks often don’t look exactly like the subject.” Cory told them as they assembled in front of one of the larger paintings. “They’re meant to give someone the same feelings, the same ‘impression’ that the artist had. As a result, they’re generally like this.”
“Messy?” One of the kids quipped, and the class tittered.
“Spontaneous.” Cory countered with dignity. “But you aren’t the first to say so. Claude Monet was one of the first Impressionists, and they called his work messy and unfinished. But see, that’s the point of this kind of painting. When you take a picture with a camera, your target has to be very still, or it blurs. Impressionism is about recording the movement and light and color of a scene. Think of it as the first version of a camera taking a snapshot. The artist uses loose, dappled brushstrokes, bright colors… It makes the painting look ‘unfocused’, but that’s the point. When you stand up close, all you see are spots of color. When you see the whole as one, you see what the artist wanted it to be.”
The kids nodded, some of them writing it down in case there was a quiz, most of them bored. One or two were looking at their phones.
“Alright, I know.” Cory sighed, knowing what they were thinking. “Let’s try this: When these artworks were done, there was no television, no internet, no cameras. If you wanted to record a sunset, and show it to anyone else? There was only one way to do it. Look at this room. What do you see? Paintings of fruit bowls, bread and wine? That’s the 18th century equivalent of putting your lunch on social media. Beaches, sunsets… Every pretty scene you guys see is immediately photographed and shared to the whole world. It takes seconds to do that with a phone. It can take years to do it with paints and brushes. But these artworks are worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Some of them are worth much more than that.”
That much was something even a child could understand. One of the kids spoke up. “My dad says that art is a waste of time and money, since it doesn’t do anything.”
Cory saw their teacher lurch forward, to try and smooth it over. He spoke before she could get there. “My father thinks the same thing.” He admitted. “Art is more than paintings in a gallery. It’s the music you listen to. It’s the videos you stream online. It’s the movies you go to watch, and the television shows you binge, and the video games you play.” He gestured around the gallery. “These guys were hardly the first. But despite time, accidents, direct attacks, and wars going on all around them, these artworks have survived for centuries. You think your great-great-great-grandkids will look at what you put on your social media this morning?”
The kid’s head tilted. “I dunno.”
The teacher spoke up, quick to move the topic along. “Well then, that sounds like an excellent question to answer when we get back to the school and begin work on our assignments.”
The class groaned automatically, and the teacher summoned them all to follow her out. As the class filed out to the main hall, Cory headed into the ‘Staff Only’ areas, Marco fell into step beside him. Cory hadn’t even known he was watching.
“Well done.” He commented lightly. “I thought the teacher was going to let the kids have it for a second there.”
“I’ve heard comments like that before.” Cory sighed. “And to be honest, I agree with them sometimes.”
Marco glanced over as they made their way to the Staff Room. “I know you do. You’ve said as much, and I don’t just mean when we hung the Gottleleiba. For someone who speaks so passionately on the subject of art, to say nothing of working in a gallery; you’re quite cynical about it.”
“About a lot of things, really.” Cory admitted. “That kid and my father are right. Art isn’t practical. But whatever it is, it’s definitely not wasteful. Imagination is the reason we ever figured out how to do anything, beyond what a baboon can do. Art is the reason we ever tried to do something we’d never seen someone else do already. Art is the first bit of imagination we turn loose as kids, without our parents yelling at us for making a mess.”
Marco laughed. “Any time someone tells me that the Gallery is a waste of money, I remind them that Professional Sports aren’t any more essential to society. And from a practical point of view it costs way more than an art gallery; but nobody suggests we get rid of sport.”
Cory laughed too, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I spoke to the teacher while the kids were eating lunch.” He sighed. “The school budget came up for review. Their art classes are going to be cut. Music too. It’s always the first thing to go when costs come up. That lady is their art teacher, and she’ll be out of a job in three months, because nobody cares whether or not kids care about… Any of this.” He sighed again. “And most of them don’t. How do you overcome apathy?”
“A question I’ve been asking for years.” Marco commented, mostly to himself.
Cory was going to ask what he meant, but by then, they had both arrived at the staff room and were busy preparing their own lunch. Cory noted that Marco prayed over his food, but didn’t remark on it.
“What did you mean before?” Marco asked once they began eating. “When I said the buyers must see something beautiful in the paintings, and you said ‘maybe’?”
Cory rolled his eyes. “I’ve been arranging shipping for these artworks to people all over town, even across the world. You’re the auctioneer; so I know you’ve seen the shipping details on the ones that sell. Some of them are sent directly to storage spaces as investment pieces, and never go on display. Some of them get donated to museums because the buyers are using them as tax write-offs. Some actually go to people’s homes because they’re wanted and appreciated; but it’s less than you think.”
Marco hummed, not surprised. “Well, I figure it’s like plastic surgery. You can’t save the people with deformities and battle scars, if there wasn’t so much money on hand in the industry from the vanity of millionaires. If it wasn’t for all the cynical collectors, we wouldn’t have a job, would we?”
Cory coughed a laugh around a corner of his sandwich. He raised his coffee cup in tribute. “To Rich people with bad taste and no interest in helping the poor. They keep people like us employed.”
Marco chuckled. “By the way, why do they keep tagging you to run tours for the class trips? It’s not your job.”
“I know, but I try to be useful where I can be. This place might be an art gallery, but it makes its money off the auction block; so that’s where Management has most of their attention focused.” Cory waved it off. “Nobody’s going to make a dime off school kids, so they get stuck with m-” His phone chimed, and he checked it. “My brother. I gotta take this.”
~~/*\~~
Cory stepped into the next room and answered the call. “Hello?”
“Hello, this is the 8th Precinct. Do you know a man named-”
“Is my brother alright?” Cory asked immediately, almost jumping to attention. The motion sent a twinge of pain through his lower back, and he winced.
“He’s fine. Spent the night sleeping off a bender in our hospitality.” The policeman’s voice was dry and unbothered. “His record says he’s been caught Driving Under the Influence of alcohol before.”
“Was he driving again?”
“No, nothing like that. He wasn’t able to settle his tab, and he was drunk enough that the bartender wouldn’t give him his keys back. No laws have been broken, but we had to take him because a complaint had been made. The bar was closing, and he owed them about a hundred dollars. The Bartender wasn’t about to take him home at close of business, and…”
“I understand.” Cory sighed, half relieved, half annoyed. “I’ll settle his tab. I’m at work at the moment. Do you need me to pick him up, or can you put him in a cab?”
“Unfortunately, given his priors, we need to release him into someone’s custody. There are some forms to fill out.”
Cory sighed hard. “My lunch break is in another hour. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” He lowered his voice. “Listen, have you called anyone else yet?”
“The one thing he was certain about, even wasted, was that we shouldn’t call his father.” The policeman returned. His tone suggested he’d heard it all before, and Cory knew he probably had. It wasn’t like their problems were unique to the world.
~~/*\~~
Collecting Dwight meant skipping his lunch break. He had to be back at work in less than an hour, and most of that was taken up with paperwork.
When the police brought him out, Dwight was hungover, looking at his shoes. Cory sighed, signed the paperwork, and led his brother out to the car. There was a loud, harsh silence between them.
Finally, Dwight spoke. “Can we get some drive-thru?”
“Think you can keep it in your stomach?” Cory asked flatly.
Dwight nodded, and Cory drove on. Nothing more was said until they had some greasy fast food in their laps. Dwight ate while they drove. Cory saved his burger for when he got back to the office. He’d have to eat between his parking spot and his desk. He didn’t have time for anything else. “I have to be back at work in fifteen minutes. I’m going to drop you off at my place. I’ll be back tonight. There’s a meeting. We’re both going.”
“I don’t need-”
“You can either go with me, or you can pay me back for your bail. Since Dad’s monitoring your credit cards, he’ll no doubt want to know what you were spending it on.”
“Dad knows we’re both in our thirties, right?” Dwight let out a sigh that could have been a snarl. “Fine. I’ll see you tonight.”
~~/*\~~
Children of Alcoholics often followed the same path as their parents. Even before they were old enough to drink by themselves, they faced the hard consequences of it, totally at the mercy of parents who were powerless over their vices. The very young often struggled with the weight of their parents’ sins, blaming themselves or having trouble forming trusting relationships with others.
Their father had forced them into support groups once he’d started to work on getting sober. They stayed because it helped.
“I’ve been in Al-Anon since I was a teenager.” Dwight told those assembled. “My father was… a drinker. ‘In Recovery’ is what they call it now. He’s been sober since my brother was…” He sent a glance to Cory beside him, as if to check. “What? Eighteen? I was fifteen?”
Cory nodded, and Dwight returned to his story. “My father was… mean; when he was drunk. Never violent, but always… cruel. We knew that what he said to us when he was loaded was what he was really thinking when he was sober. When he hopped on the wagon, we knew he still felt that way. But the thing is, being sober didn’t make it easier. It just made him self-righteous. He forbade us both from ever touching a drop. He was all over us to be ‘as clean and reformed’ as he is.” Dwight rubbed the bridge of his nose. “My first time getting wasted, I maxed out my credit card. He now monitors my purchases, even ten years later; just to make sure.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d told this story to a meeting. The first time they’d attended one, Cory expected there to be laughter. Dwight was a grown man, and his father kept him on an allowance from the other side of town. But there was no scorn. Everyone here had a tragic story like theirs.
“The thing about being raised like that is…” Dwight took a breath. “You have to believe it. After all, nobody’s smart enough to ‘humor the children’ when they’re wasted. And nobody cares more about you than your own family. So when he told my brother and me that we’re useless disappointments, that’s just a fact.”
There was a small current of scorn running through those assembled at that statement. Most of them had heard it before, from other members, or their own relatives.
Dwight sighed and confessed. “Last time I came to one of these meetings, I was three months sober. As of tonight… I’ve been sober for ten hours.”
There was no judgment, of course. They’d all been there.
~~/*\~~ Arit ~~/*\~~
Barat looked out over the livestock, as he stretched in the sun. The finest land in the region of Uz was home to his family. As the Eldest, he had responsibility for much of the livestock. It was hard work sometimes, but satisfying. The animals were grazing contentedly.
Arit, one of his father’s many servants, was carrying a jug of sweet water from the well and brought it to Barat, for him to take a drink. “The cattle are near to calving. Parisha says to tell you it will likely happen in another two weeks or so.”
“Good.” Barat nodded. “If they’re anything like last years; the cattle alone will provide the family a tidy profit.” He took the jug and drank thirstily. “Why are you hauling water?” He asked Arit when he’d finished. “Isn’t that a job for the kitchen staff?”
“I go where I’m needed.” Arit demurred. “My duties for the morning were finished, and the kitchen staff were only just-” He saw Barat’s look and broke off. “Honest.” He insisted.
“You’d rather hike from my father’s house to the northern fields, just to bring Parisha a drink of water?” Barat drawled.
Arit flushed brightly. “She could have been thirsty, you never know. The youngest children can wear out the staff, and your mother combined with their games.”
Barat chuckled. “Arit, you’ve been a loyal worker, and a good friend to us for a long time. But you have to know that-”
“Hullo!” Called a voice from the road, and Barat turned to see they were not alone. A camel, carrying a basket on each side, and a passenger on his back, was plodding relentlessly along towards the borders of their land. “Greetings, my lords.” The rider called brightly.
Barat rested both hands on his shepherding staff, ready to defend himself. The family was on good terms with everyone in the community, and this man was a total stranger. “Welcome. I am Barat, son of Job.”
The stranger slid down from his camel, and approached on foot, recognizing the protocols for a first meeting. “Good day to you, Barat.” He bowed, hands out, showing he was unarmed. “I am Salim, acolyte to the great god Baal. I greet you, and bring best wishes from the temples of Canaan.”
Watching from behind, Arit twitched. Job was a servant of Jehovah, and refused all other gods as false. Some of the servant families had served other gods in their own quarters, and Job did not force them, but allowed no acts of service to other gods in his own house, or those of his children.
Barat knew this too. “What brings you our way, friend?”
“Well, everyone in Uz says that the best animals are from Job.” The man from Canaan looked over the herds of animals that were visible, even from the road. “Amazing vitality in those animals.” He commented. “I’ve never seen such good stock.”
“My father owns a good thousand head of cattle. That’s not even counting sheep and camels.” Barat said proudly. “Every year, they produce many fine offspring.”
“Enough to sell, for a fair price?” The visitor asked.
Barat’s face changed. “Ah.” Now that he understood the visitor’s purpose, he knew what to do next. “My father has authority over all the herds. Please, let me offer you the hospitality of the family; until he returns.”
The visitor bowed gratefully. “My thanks. The hospitality of Job is known to all that have dealings with him.”
~~/*\~~
Arit was a servant of Job, but Barat had charged him with showing hospitality to Salim. Their guest was shown into the house of Barat, and brought food and drink. Arit ordered that the Acolyte’s camel be fed and watered; and performed the task of washing the road dust from the guests’ feet.
Arit knew the reasoning of doing so himself. Barat’s father would surely want to know about their guest, and Arit could report back personally to his master.
Barat had offered to make the guest room ready for the traveler to stay overnight. Journeys along the roads between towns were difficult and treacherous, and escorts and rest were the responsibility of everyone for those who made the journeys. But Salim (politely) refused this gesture, since he was intending to make his way to the City.
Arit thus made his way quickly to Job’s house, and reported that they had a guest on the way. Mahala, the wife of Job, took the news in stride, and began preparing a room for their guest. Job’s family was large, and though his children now had homes of their own, the rooms remained; ready for passing caravans to stay.
~~/*\~~
Jabir was one of the bakers in the main house. Arit, as his younger brother, had tried to learn the trade from him, but just didn’t have the skill of it. In all honesty, Arit had yet to find a skill he could truly master, though he was skilled enough to be of assistance in several parts of the extended household. Job’s children all had houses of their own in various parts of their father’s land, and Arit was busy at one after another each day.
Jabir kept the kitchen ovens hot as he cooked the meal. “The bread is baking. Would you tell Bak-la to check on the numbers we’ll be receiving as guests? If it’s just the one, then a few fat birds will be enough meat to show generosity. If he has attendants of his own, or a caravan, we’ll need a fattened calf or two, and Parisha has taken three of the finest for today.”
“She has?” Arit blinked.
Jabir swatted him. “Get moving. We have company for lunch!”
~~/*\~~
Salim the acolyte was traveling alone. Job’s children were all at Parisha’s house, already enjoying their own midday meal. Barat stayed with Salim, and took a seat at the table with him, and his parents.
Job came in, dressed and groomed neatly, and he bowed to his guest. “Good day to you, Salim.” He gestured to his wife. “May I present my wife, Mahala.”
Salim bowed graciously. “My lord, and my lady.” He placed a clay jug, sealed with cork and wax, on the table before them. “It would be inappropriate to impose on your hospitality without offering a gift. But I must admit, on seeing your fine home, and the wealth of your livestock, I fear any offering of my own would be woefully inadequate.” He gestured at the drink. “Nonetheless, I took the liberty of bringing some of the best wine available in the land of Canaan.”
“Thank you.” Job said warmly. “I hope you will join us in drinking it. And for the record, you have brought a unique and proper offering. Your company. It’s always a blessing to show hospitality to travelers.”
These displays of kindness and politeness were expected, and they carried the conversation until the attendants brought out the meal, placing platters in the middle of the table they reclined at, and plates of prepared food before them all.
At the head of the table, Job led them in prayer. “Jehovah God, we thank You for providing food and safety for us each day. We thank You for the company of new friends, and the many rich blessings You pour out on us. On Your servants, and those who are not. May we always be mindful of what You wish. Amen.”
“Amen.” His wife repeated.
“Amen.” Jabir and Arit said quietly, standing at the back of the room, in case they were needed.
The conversation paused, as it was unseemly to discuss business while eating. The food was generous, but not showy. As a boy, Arit had noted that Job had more expensive delicacies, and high quality wine, but he never put them out while showing hospitality to strangers. He had thought Job was hiding the good stuff, but Jabir had explained that it was to show respect. After all, an offer to reciprocate in the future was almost to be expected, if the guest was someone staying in the area. Showing off wealth and prestige put them under pressure to respond with something of equal cost. Such was not Job’s way.
Nonetheless, the food, if simple, was plentiful and filling. And after eating, the conversation turned naturally to other business.
“Honored Job, I am doubly blessed to be your guest today.” Salim said grandly. “I have recently moved to the land of Uz, and am looking to establish myself, and my profession. Everyone in the City has been welcoming, but agree that you’re the man to talk to when trying to build something grander than myself.”
Job’s head titled. “You are seeking an investor?”
“I’m happy to say that I already have investors, and wealth coming from my masters in Canaan. I’ve already purchased some land near town, walking distance to the Market. There was a building there from someone who had already moved west-”
“Bak-la’s family.” Mahala put in, understanding. “One of our staff mentioned that his family were moving west. He asked to stay with us. Put less pressure on his family to provide for him on the journey.”
Salim beamed. “Excellent. Surely, such loyalty to a master demonstrates your generosity and leadership.”
Job actually laughed for a moment. “You’re clearly not a tax collector. Not with that silvertongue. What is your profession?”
“I am an Acolyte to the Great and Generous Lord Baal.” Salim bowed. “As soon as the house can be refurbished as a shrine, I will be Priest to Baal-Uz, eager to teach all here of his wonders.”
Job’s face had grown harder, though his expression was unchanged. “I see. And you seek investors in your Shrine?”
“Donations are always welcome. How else would we finance the work?” Salim said smoothly. “It is my hope that the Shrine allows for education in the work of honoring the god of generous harvests and fertility. In time, perhaps a full temple will be needed. But for now… The journey from Canaan has been long, and Baal has been generous in getting me here safely. It’s only right to honor my gods for that protection.”
“How does one honor Baal?” Mahala asked casually, eyes flicking to her husband.
“A sacrifice would be appropriate. But I am new in town. I have no livestock of my own, and no farms to provide grains and vegetables. An offering is no less than would be expected. Everyone says your livestock are the finest in the land. Certainly the most numerous.”
“You came to purchase some animals for sacrifice.” Job summed up. “I’m sorry, Salim. That would be inappropriate.”
Salim blinked at the sudden change in direction. “Oh? Why?”
“I am not a servant of Baal. In this house, we are worshipers of Jehovah, and He is a God that demands exclusive devotion.”
The Acolyte blinked, confused. “I have met many descendants of Abraham in my travels, honored Job. Most of them made no objections.”
“That is their choice, but that doesn’t mean it’s acceptable to Jehovah; merely that many people are acting in their own judgment.” Job returned. “For my own part, Baal is a fertility god. As a servant of Jehovah, my herds and flocks have been greatly productive. To give the credit for that to another god would be a great error.”
“An error.” Salim repeated, too surprised to be as offended. “I… cannot say it’s an error to show appreciation to my god, sir.”
“I understand.” Job nodded. “It’s your right to worship in whatever manner you wish, to whoever you wish. Certainly, it is your choice in your own Shrines, and temples. Just as it is mine to offer exclusive loyalty to Jehovah, to whom I owe… everything I have.”
Salim seemed genuinely confused, deconstructing this. “My lord, I was under the impression that you had sold stock and good breeding animals to many who were starting out, or moving on to other places. Are all of them so exclusive in their devotion?”
“I’m sure they are not. But I made business deals, fair ones. What people do afterward is their choice.” Job held up a hand. “And before you say it, I’m aware that would seem like a contradiction. But this is different, because you are seeking animals specifically to be made as offerings to a god that I do not believe in.”
“Surely, you can concede that we shouldn’t be partial-”
“Well, I am.” Job told him firmly. “It’s a requirement of my worship to my God, that I have no other Gods at all.”
“That would seem… ill advised.” Salim warned. “Limiting yourself to only one God? As you heard, Baal is a fertility god. A rancher depends on the fertility of his animals if he intends to survive.” He shook his head. “In any event, if you refuse to take part yourself, you need not. I’m not forcing anyone to have faith that shares my own.” As he said this, the Acolyte glanced over Arit and the other servants, waiting for instruction.
Arit felt his heart beat a little harder. He’s implying that we are forced to join Job’s worship against our will, because we are his servants.
(Author’s Note: The Commandments hadn’t been written yet, nor had Job been instructed in them. Nonetheless, Job’s worship was wholehearted and acceptable to Jehovah, so it stands to reason he would allow no sign of false worship.
On the Subject of ‘Baal’, the Insight Book has this to say: “Baalism is implied early in the Bible, although apparently it had not reached the level of degradation in the days of the patriarchs that existed when the Israelites entered the land of Canaan… The listing of the city of Ashteroth-karnaim, possibly named after Baal’s consort Ashtoreth, gives the first suggestion of it. Before the Israelites crossed the Red Sea, the location Baal-zephon could be seen in the wilderness.”
Baalism was practiced mainly in Canaan, and Job lived in Uz, somewhere not specifically located in the Bible, but generally thought to be east of the Promised Land.
The Insight Book also says: “Each locality had its own Baal, and the local Baal was often given a name denoting his being attached to a specific locality… for example, Baal-hermon, Baal-hazor, Baal-zephon, Bamoth-baal. However, although there were many local Baals, officially, among the Canaanites, it was understood that there was actually just one god Baal.”
So we can assume that Baal worship spread, either deliberately, or with its followers as they moved out. This is a process that can take generations, but I chose to have Acolytes to Baal be present during this story; for reasons that will become clearer later on. This part is my own invention.)
Job had caught the implication too. “Salim, I’m aware that you’re offering me a straight business transaction. And you’re correct, that I don’t ask my other trading partners what they plan to do with the livestock I sell them. Once the sale is made, it’s not my business anymore.”
“That’s right.” Salim nodded. “Strictly business. I’m looking for the best stock, and I’m willing to pay a fair price for them.”
“And I must refuse.” Job said simply. “I do not wish to support Baal worship with my wealth.”
“I’m not asking for a donation.” The Acolyte scoffed, drawing out a Baal idol from his robes and setting it on the table. The slight ring as he set it down made it clear that the gold it was made from was solid and pure, all the way through. “I’m offering gold and silver in return. What’s more, I’m offering more than money. I’m offering protection.”
Job gave him a swift look. “If that’s a threat-”
“Of course not. There’s no threat I could make against an honored man of this land. If I even suggested such a thing, I’d be mobbed by all those who owe their livelihoods to you.” The Acolyte said immediately. “But if you’ve put all your faith in only one god, then you have nowhere else to turn. What’s more, you risk offending all the other gods that you openly reject. Baal has sent me here, and I’m offering his aid to you, a man with so much wealth, so dependent on harvests, and fine weather, and good breeding seasons in all your animals…”
“What protection can an idol offer me?” Job returned. “It’s made of gold, by human hands. It has all the same power as my wife’s necklace.”
Salim tapped the idol gently. “Either this gold, or your stock will be used in worship to Baal. Does it matter which?”
Job’s eyes flashed. “It does to me. That gold is yours. The animals are mine. It’s a matter of principle.”
Salim sighed. “Ah. A man of principle.” He declared to the room at large. “Alright. I’ll double the offer.”
Despite herself, Mahala’s eyes flicked to her husband. So did the attendants, waiting to see what their lord would decide.
~~/*\~~
The Acolyte was fuming as his camel reached the road back towards the city. At the crossroads was a caravan of camels, hauling goods. Holding the reins on the lead animal was a Merchant, with a fine purple sash.
“So, he refused you.” The Merchant said, not the least bit surprised.
“It was unexpected.” Salim admitted. “He was famed for his generosity and kindness.”
“But not his tolerance.” The Merchant said with thinly veiled disgust. “Job is a man that refuses all the gods; except his own.”
“It’s ridiculous.” The Acolyte scorned. “How can a man with such blessings in wealth and family credit only one god for his good fortune?” He shook his head. “Such hubris. Such arrogance.”
“Terribly sad.” The Merchant agreed, handing back the reins to the Acolyte’s camels. “Take comfort that the many people in town will surely not be so inconsiderate. I wish you the best of luck, sir.”
As the two of them made their goodbyes, a young boy in threadbare clothes, and a tarnished string instrument slung across his shoulders, wandered up the road. He held out a chipped bowl to the Acolyte. “Mercy for the poor?”
The acolyte gestured back up the road towards Job’s house. “Ask him. He’s supposed to be generous to those in need.” He started his camel moving without another word.
The Merchant let him go, grinning at The Boy. “What brings you here, brother?”
“You aren’t my brother anymore. And that was rather my question to you.” The Boy said, straightening up, the blemishes and dirt on his face vanishing immediately. “Though I suspect the answer is the same for both of us.” He smiled. “Using a business transaction is hardly a new tactic. And it still didn’t work. Not against Job. He didn’t bend. Not for profit.”
The Merchant didn’t answer that. “I mean why are you here? I thought the important ones were all in Egypt now.”
“Job is a servant of Jehovah, just as I am.” The Boy countered. “Did you think we had forgotten him? Did you think Jah ever would?”
“Why not? He seems to have forgotten everything else He promised.” The Merchant laughed. “The Promise that He made in Eden is beyond salvage. He promised the line would come through Issac. Then Jacob. And now, all of Jacob’s sons are nothing but pack animals for people who deny His existence.” He spread his hands wide. “Does it seem like He is still in control of the great experiment?”
“It’s not an experiment.” The Boy insisted hotly. “The Purpose is unbreakable; given who planned it. Israel is in bondage at His sufferance. One way or another, it will work out as He promised.”
“I thought that way once.” The Merchant nodded. “And I was wrong. Now I see the truth… And so do many others.”
The Boy said nothing to that, eyes not straying from him for an instant.
“You have to know this.” The Merchant said temptingly. “You have to hear it. Even in the Courts of Heaven, there is growing doubt. It’s the same kind of talk we heard just before the Flood… only that won’t work this time. You can all see what is becoming of the sons of Israel. How many of them even remember what The Promise is? For that matter, do you know what the Promise will bring? How will it play out?”
“I know all I need to know.” The Boy insisted plainly.
“And you think I’m the blind one.” The Merchant grinned savagely. “He has lost control of His own creations. I am living proof of that. And I’m not the only one. I’m not even the first. And I won’t be the last. Soon enough, all of us will see it.”
“Us? You aren’t ‘us’.” The Boy reminded him. “That was your choice, as I recall.”
“Give it time.” The Merchant said plainly. “Another generation under the whip, how many of Israel’s descendants will curse their ancestor’s names, let alone their abstract, indifferent God? When that happens, any faint trace of any Plan evaporates, and even you will be forced to admit it.” The Merchant grinned. “I’m still ‘One of us’, my old friend. I’m just ahead of you on this topic. In time, all of us will be united on this.”
“Right and wrong aren’t decided by a popular vote.” The Boy snarled.
The Merchant was gone, moved on to his next target with the speed of will.
The Boy remained behind, not really interested in following him to argue the point. Father… He prayed, Sovereign One over the universe, I hate to say it, but he is right. You named Issac and Jacob as the line that would bring the Promised Offspring, and that entire bloodline is suffering under the cruelest bondage that the world has yet seen. And some of our people are starting to wonder how long that can last. Everyone breaks, eventually…
An answer came swiftly. “I have heard the comments of my Messengers, and I have heard their fears. Here and now, I am calling all My sons together, to take their place before Me. We have much to discuss.”
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