The Witch King's Daughter

Arch Prophet, Part I

From 1 Kings 16:31

Our story begins with a ship gliding in under the light of the moon. 

It was late: the assembly at the yard had waited all day to meet it. 

And if anyone had known what was going to happen, what the arrival of a certain princess would mean, they’d have sunk the vessel then and there. But of course no one knows that, and besides, this was a ship to behold.

It was Phoenician. A massive vessel of caulked cedar wood, with a carved curling prow and a wide-bellied hull and many oars. These moved like fingers, or like skeletal fins, and the ship clawed its way toward shore. Two warships followed, shallow-keeled and dangerous. Their strakes were covered in bronze shields, and on their prows, huge battering rams reached with dragon’s heads.

Ahab composed himself. This was a glorious moment for the son of a rebel. What a long road it had been. 

First, there was an old monarch named Baasha. An idolater but not a bad guy, from Ahab’s perspective. He died at a ripe old age and his son Elah became king. That man was not popular. Elah was pale, anemic, a drunkard of a prince. The people understood when Zimri, the chariot commander, knocked off his head. They had less sympathy when Zimri then murdered all Baasha’s descendants. And the army, which was then in the field, did not approve at all. 

Soldiers are funny about loyalty.

They installed Omri, the infantry captain, as a rival king and marched on Tirzah. Poor Zimri: when the army broke open his city that man burned himself alive rather than face Omri’s judgment. It was the right decision. Omri then waged a brief civil war, routed the opposition, and was king. 

Ahab sniffed. That was his dad. Omri had been a harsh disciplinarian, as rugged a jawline as any veteran who spent his life at war. But still. He taught Ahab strategy and the language of human desire which is the architecture of politics. He taught Ahab how to drive the chariot and find cover afield and how to choose one man to carry a message when that errand would probably fail. And though he was himself a minor priest, with small magic, he taught Ahab secrets. How to call up spirits. What questions a king could ask. What favors they could do. Omri built Samaria. He humbled the Moabites. He fended off Aram, more or less. They reigned together as co-regents for years. 

Ahab winced again. He did not love the old crusader but he was sad to see him go. That had been—goodness—was it a year already? 

At last the princess was here. Phoenicia! The mariners. The fathers of the alphabet. Israel was backwoods no longer. The priest-king Ithobaal was a mighty man, and though much later Josephus, citing the Phoenician historian Menander, would call Ithobaal a murderer, his daughter remained the prize of prizes. 

…

Do you know who that was? 

If not, wait and I’ll tell you. 

In the meantime I’m here to give you a brief update on a personal and professional level. 

Personal first.

1. Thanks to all of you who have read and shared The Paradise King. I’ve heard more and better stories than I could have imagined. Stories of old hurts comforted and faith built and long silences broken. I’m so grateful. Thank you all for the part you’ve played. 

2. The past few months have been extremely difficult. I mean the words exactly. I won’t say more now, but the thing about Late Modernity is that despair is our main export, and though it’s a lie, it’s backed by the gears of empire and by formidable unseen powers. On Holy Saturday I attended a funeral, the second this year for a friend younger than myself. Others loom. 

It follows as a matter of course that we who follow Jesus have an urgent task: to learn a better story, to incarnate that story, and to tell that story. 

Which takes us to the professional update.

1. I’m working on the next book, a follow-up to The Paradise King. 

If you’d like that book to exist the most direct contribution you could make would be to become a paid subscriber here. More on that below.

The thing to know is The Paradise King is but the first installment in a trilogy. I didn’t make that public when that book launched because I didn’t want to commit to a major project only to discover I wouldn’t have time to write it. 

Well, the trilogy has become less optional since then. You can thank Flannery O’Connor for that change: 

“In you, the talent is there and you are expected to use it. Whether the work itself is completely successful, or whether you ever get any worldly success out of it, is a matter of no concern to you. It is like the Japanese swordsmen who are indifferent to getting slain in the duel… You do not write the best you can for the sake of art but for the sake of returning your talent increased to the invisible God to use or not use as he sees fit. Resignation to the will of God does not mean that you stop resisting evil or obstacles, it means that you leave the outcome out of your personal considerations.”

I will write the next book, Lord willing. If you’d like to know when that book comes out, stick around. 

2. I’ve moved my newsletter from ConvertKit to Substack.

The main reason: I’m more interested in writing generally than newsletters in particular and writers I like spend time here.

Aristotle thought people learned not just how to act but also what to desire through imitation. We won’t say more about that today—and so you fans of René Girard can cool your jets—but Aristotle was on to something.

I’m late to the Substack Gold Rush (as a matter of fact I miss most almost all Gold Rushes—remember Crypto?). Even so I want to be near many of the writers here. Lewis put it well:

“If you want to get warm you must stand near the fire: if you want to be wet you must get into the water. If you want joy, power, peace, eternal life, you must get close to, or even into, the thing that has them. They are not a sort of prize which God could, if He chose, hand out to anyone. They are a great fountain of energy and beauty spurting up at the very center of reality. If you are close to it, the spray will wet you: if you are not, you will remain dry. Once a man is united to God, how could he not live forever? Once a man is separated from God, what can he do but wither and die?”

Beautiful, isn’t it? 

In the same way, we become like the people we spend our time with. There are men and women here on Substack who stand athwart the dizzying descent of the world. They proclaim Jesus; they invite others to explore his extraordinary world. As Paul Kingsnorth wrote recently: “Empires and nations rise and fall, as people are born and die. What lies beneath? Or who? This is what I write about here now: about the path that must be walked back towards the heart of the matter: towards the truth. Which means, towards Christ.”

Well,

Paul Kingsnorth

, your American homesteading friend wants to hang. You hear me,

Martin Shaw

? Not all your pals are Iain McGilchrists and Jonathan Pageaus. 

The other reason to be here on Substack is practical. While all art is a gift, it doesn’t follow that all art should be free per se. You can thank John Barclay for that insight. 

Here’s the plan:

1. I’m going to tell stories and explore the ancient world (among other things) on the paid version of this Substack. I’ll tell shorter, more occasional stories and post my newsletter on the free tier. 

2. You, my subscribing friend, have been added to the “free” category of this newsletter.

3. If you would like to support this work, please consider becoming a paid sub. 
   

To start off I’m going to tell the story of the Old Testament’s Arch Prophet.

Guess who?

My next book explores the prophetic power in the Biblical Saga and beholds Jesus as the climax of that saga. The prophetic power—as displayed in Christ—is marvelous and nuanced and exceedingly complex. Perhaps most of all, it is healing. I have more notes than I could ever put into a manuscript, so some of the stories will end up here. Of course, they’ll have commentary. 

That’s all for now. 

Warm regards from CO. 

Here’s the rest of the intro to Arch Prophet: 

…

At last the princess was here. Phoenicia! The mariners. The fathers of the alphabet. Israel was backwoods no longer. The priest-king Ithobaal was a mighty man, and though much later Josephus, citing the Phoenician historian Menander, would call Ithobaal a murderer, his daughter remained the prize of prizes. 

Jezebel.

The ship came in. As if by magic, the ramp came down. And then, to Ahab’s surprise, a crowd disembarked. Ahab peeped in the dark. Priests. All of them. Ahab looked to his soldiers. They’d noticed. Their hands were on their swords. The priests, however, did not attack. They descended the ramp, and made columns, and then, at last, the princess appeared. 

This was no immigrant. This was old Canaanite blood. Ahab put back his shoulders. She was dressed in Tyrian purple. A veil covered her face. She stood before Ahab and did not bow. 

Ahab coughed. His mind was blank. “Who are these?” was all he could think to say. 

“My retinue,” came her voice, smoother than dust, and laced with beguiling inflections. 

Ahab considered the entourage. Some creeping power attended the crowd. It peeked at him from behind the blank faces of the priests, and glowered at him from the dragon’s heads. Ahab felt an old hunger, a thirst for the kherem things. “They’re welcome, of course,” he said. He held out his hand. 

The princess took it with fingers like icicles. Ahab felt them on his scars, on the callouses from chariot reigns. He wondered whether she noticed.

“Your city is ready,” Ahab said. 

And Jezebel was silent, at first. At last, she replied, in a voice like a hidden dagger, “In time, I think it will be.”