The Evangelist

Gulf Coast Literary Journal, Summer / Fall 2018, Online Exclusive

The Evangelist shambled out of his church building and extracted a bell from the trunk of his old rickety Datsun. He wore a robe which had once been white, but was now stained with a collage of brown patterns that looked like a three-legged horse, another like the map of some forsaken territory. He had a silk strip of yellow cloth for a belt with a sickly cross etched on it. Two little snail shells hung round his neck from a red thread. He wore no shoes. His feet were calloused, with toes like talons.

He rang his bell as he shuffled along the road to the market. The snail shells on his neck jiggled. The hem, the dirtiest part of his garment, scooped up the afternoon dust.

The Evangelist planted himself in the centre of the market, and stopped jingling his bell for his opening proclamation. He sprayed the air with spittle as he spoke, his nostrils flaring, his eyes popping out of his wrinkled eyelids. The veins on his neck jutted through his skin.

He spoke in a voice eroded by years of shouting, deep and hoarse.

"Jah-Jehovah is calling, men and brethren. Come for your Miracle. Mighty Jesus is a Miracle worker."

When he first started preaching one year ago, he did not care whether he was acknowledged or not—he just worked hard to impart his message about paradise and the eternal damnation of sinners to audiences which were in most cases inattentive. His face never showed disappointment when no real crowd gathered to listen to him or when people shoved him out of their stalls. He bore his cross with courage and joy. He constantly reminded himself of his heavenly reward.

But a lot had happened in one year…