The Widow of Zarephath is Not Impressed

Elijah’s offer of everlasting flour and oil doesn’t go over very well...

Holy Writ is a collection of satirical and silly short stories (this one’s got a dash of Monty Python in it), reimagining the world of the Bible. Email subscribers get each new story delivered for free. Subscribe today!

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“And Elijah said unto her, Fear not; go and do as thou hast said: but make me thereof a little [morsel of bread] first, and bring it unto me, and after make for thee and for thy son. For thus saith the Lord God of Israel, ‘The barrel of meal shall not waste, neither shall the cruse of oil fail, until the day that the Lord sendeth rain upon the earth.’”

—1 Kings 17:13-14

Elijah figured most of his luck was used up by now. The stream had gone dry, and the ravens told him they were experiencing something called “compassion fatigue.” They shuffled their feathers apologetically and winged it into the sky.

The flour and oil maneuver, he thought. That ought to do it. Find an enterprising widow, and offer her a win-win situation. There was a town—Zarephath something—a few miles away as the raven flies.

“Oh Widow Most Worthy!” he began, upon entering the village and finding a suitable candidate, “I beseech you—”

“The name’s Margaret.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not ‘Widow Most Worthy,’” said Margaret. “Margaret. Just think how annoying it would be if everyone called me ‘The Widow of Zarephath’ all day long. Then somebody writes it down, and I’m stuck like that forever.”

“Ah,” said Elijah, backing up his train of thought to take a second run at things. “Oh Margaret Most Worthy—”

“Just ‘Margaret’ is fine.” 

“Yes. Margaret.” His hands twisted plaintively. “The thing is, er, Margaret... May I please have some water?”

Margaret could see where this was going, and she wasn’t happy about it. “Well,” she said, “I can get you some water, but—”

“And some bread!” called Elijah, a vaudeville smile creeping across his face. “Some bread would be lovely!”

“Haven’t got any bread,” said Margaret.

“Of course, of course,” said Elijah, his mind flitting quickly to the drought, then settling on what an important and interesting curiosity it was, being the cause and solution to one’s own problems with respect to the food chain. He wondered if she knew, and whether he should tell her. Perhaps after she was suitably impressed by the bread. “Still,” is what he said out loud, “you must have a little flour and oil lying around somewhere. Here is what I propose…”

“I’ve got cake.”

There was a pause.

“Cake?”

“Certainly,” said Margaret. “If the people haven’t got any bread, let them eat cake. That’s what I say, anyway.”

“How on earth do you have cake?”

“Well, all you really need is some sugar and vanilla to mix in with the flour and oil. Add a few eggs and butter and a raising agent and you’ve got yourself—”

He gave her his very best glower. “I am a great and mighty prophet, and I will not be—”

“Oh, a prophet. Got one of those too.”

“You already have a prophet?”

“Sure, sure,” said Margaret. “Stays in the Prophet’s Room upstairs. Otherwise why’s it called that? He does a very moist Black Forest gâteau. We never seem to run out, come to think of it.”

Elijah was flummoxed, which is not an advantageous state of affairs for a great and mighty prophet.

“Even so,” continued Margaret thoughtfully, “You can’t live on cake. Wouldn’t be healthy. Which is where the Magi come in handy. I never thought I’d like the taste of baba ganoush, but those gentlemen are real wizards with an eggplant.” She nodded approvingly. “Then there’s Mrs. Joaquin, with her Third Eye. She gives you the creeps, the way she stares just above your head when she talks, but she does a beef casserole that gets you looking forward to Thursday nights.” Margaret was a one-woman monologue by now. “And of course, the little bald men in their orange togas. I’ve got to say, if it really is rice with raw fish and seaweed, it just goes to show that sometimes the whole is more than the sum of the parts…”

Her voice trailed away. The man was nowhere to be seen. She was surprised to feel a pang of regret. Bread might have been nice, for a change.

“Who was that?” asked a voice from inside the house.

“Dunno, Pythia,” said Margaret, closing the door behind her. “You tell me.” Then a moment later: “Ohhh yum! Stuffed grape leaves!”