Come Hell or High Water By Sami Khalil
They would leave on a ferry to reach their
destination. A congregation of local Baptists, had found the perfect spot to do
lapping baptisms, in the bayous of Louisiana. Onlookers could see seagulls
speedily dip and dive, catching some fish, crickets chirping and frogs hopping
from spot to spot, in this “Sportsman’s Paradise.” There were many rumors of
downstream colonies of gators, but not where they were. After singing joyful
noises to the Lord, an itinerate preacher, who came from Mississippi, would pray,
then baptize the flock to whoever’s needed. It gave them indescribable feelings
of joy, keen not on forgetting God’s blessings. Then he would deliver a feisty
sermon on hell and brimstones. Even the bayou witches, like the famed Marie
Leveau, could not escape that wrath. One day, an unfortunate incident happened
that changed the course of the conversation. It was storming hard that day,
rain pattering faces, turning the water muddier and muddier, limbs ripped by
heavy winds. Some minds wondered from peace to anxiety. The inviting place
became hostile. An alligator sneaked up on them, biting the preacher, dragging
him to the abyss, suffocating the poor soul on the way to no avail. That
picture spoke a thousand words, tucked away in sad truths. Distressed, attesting
to the viciousness of gators, the congregation saw signs of revenge on their
suffering souls. With blood pumping, boiling in the veins, some adult hunters,
came back in small boats, hunting and killing every gator found in the narrow
channels. If salvation is near for the believers, damnation is nearer for the
reptiles.” Be fruitful and multiply,” was for humans only, not them. These
dangerous muddy waters are fiddling with fury. They cleansed the swamps
finally, playing to the drums of victory under the silvery moon. Even the local
newspaper reported that victory. Safety has returned. So, the congregation went
back to their honored ritual, after great patience and cowering. The sun was
bright, soothing winds scattering Southern comforts, jazzy themes playing mind
tricks when a new chosen preacher was
mocking death, preaching the baptism of the living, invoking the Spirit of God.
Then a shadow of a crop-duster appeared roaming above their heads, with signs
of distress. It crashed into them, shattering to pieces, killing them
instantly. No one could bail them out. It was a death by misadventure as the
local paper stated all over.
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