Martin sat at the front of the boat, gazing at an inky black island through the night mist. It was close to dawn, the sunrise’s anticipatory glow on the horizon, and the boat cut through the seas. It rode the waves and split the whitecaps. He clutched the book to his chest, protected in the clear plastic bag from the splashing water that soaked his shirt and hair.
He prayed. He had been praying since he saw the vision three months ago. Since he raised the money for this crusade. He was delivering God’s message to the poor inhabitants of Zimrimar Island, to join in Reverend Rexford Swayne’s mission. The inhabitants lived in sin, not knowing God: his love, power, forgiveness, and grace. He would soon assist The Reverend Swayne Ministry and the three devoted disciples who had accompanied him. His unbelieving parents tried to stop him, but they were outsiders.
Loyal church members prayed for him. God would protect him. God would soothe his fear. God would cloak him in a protective shield, one that no weapon could penetrate. Martin looked at the island with excitement. All those lost souls to save. Praise be.
It hadn’t been easy to get this far. The government had placed a travel ban on the island, and he did not speak the local dialect. The inhabitants were an isolated and uncontacted people. His research uncovered the reasons: violence, exploitation, and minor diseases would wipe out their population.
Hogwash. Martin knew better. The good Reverend preached that nothing done in God’s name would harm a human. God would protect them as soon as they truly believed enough. And Martin had no intention to commit violence. God would quickly open their hearts and see that he meant no harm.
The boat slid gracefully onto the soft sand of the forbidden island just as the sunrise glow exploded into the bright light of an ascending sun. Martin climbed out of the boat, and the boatman swiftly pushed back off the sandy shore, speeding away. Martin breathed deep, stared into the dark jungle. He clung to his book, the Rexford Swayne Bible. The Reverend translated it with the help of an Archangel from Atlantis. His was true, not like the other tainted Bibles. He whispered a prayer and plunged fearlessly into the lush foliage.
After draining two bottles of Rexford Swayne’s brand water while trekking through the humid jungle, Martin came upon a structure. Thin bamboo trunks, wrapped in small clusters, formed the walls. A thatched roof sat atop. He peered into the dark interior. A makeshift bamboo cross stood erect in the back, hammered into the earthen floor. Large palm fronds were laid in rows, with a few scattered and rebelling against the strict order of pew formation. He walked into the center of the room, noting gaps in the walls and holes in the roof.
Where were the bricks of perfect white marble, or the jewels that should be embedded into the cross? Why was the cross made of bamboo instead of gold? Why didn’t God provide those, like the Reverend Swayne predicted He would? This must not be the church, Martin concluded. He would continue his search.
When he turned to leave, five short men stood in the doorway and stared at him. They spoke an otherworldly language to each other. They clicked and hummed, nodding to each other.
“Reverend Rexford Swayne!” Martin shouted at the men. He unwrapped his Swayne Bible from the plastic and held it in front of him. “Where. Is. Reverend. Swayne.” He said slowly. The men, wearing soft, leathery animal-skin skirts, turned to each other. Some nodded, and some shook their heads. Their conversation of clicks, grunts, and hums continued. One short man approached Martin. His humming was soft and melodic, soothing in its way. He stood beside him and placed a gentle hand on Martin’s arm. Confused, Martin looked at the short man. “Where is Reverend Swayne? Where are the others?” he whispered. The men led him out of the rudimentary dwelling and into a nearby village.
The grave of Reverend Rexford Swayne was well-tended, impressive since it was by savages. A makeshift cross of bamboo sat at the head, and flowers were scattered over the grave. Martin could not make out the time of the Reverend’s death. Plus, there was no sign of the other three chosen followers. They must not have been pure of heart, lacked true faith, and fled, not like Martin. Besides, Martin’s vision had foreseen only himself and the Reverend Swayne on the island.
For three weeks, Martin led the villagers in repairing the church. They were eager to do his bidding. They patched the roof and added bamboo clusters to the walls. One day a week, all the village inhabitants filled the church, and Martin preached. He was woefully short of Reverend Swayne’s inspirational sermons, but prayed he would improve. The people sat on their knees, rocking in a sea of calm meditation. The congregation would hum in unison every time he said “God.” A special “mmm-heee” that convinced Martin it was their word for God, Rexford Swayne’s God.
After an evening meal following a hard, humid day of working on the church building, a leader led him into the jungle. A short distance away, he unveiled a second village that Martin had not seen before. A sensation of success and pride swept through Martin. They trusted him enough to reveal more of their village. He was reaching them.
In the center of the village was a large structure. Two men with keen, sharp spears stood as sentinels flanking the doorway. Martin was honored to be shown this special place and followed the leader inside. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw villagers lying in a row on the ground, each on their own bed of palm leaves. Suffering was everywhere. Some older inhabitants were gasping for breath, humming and clicking. Some small children were coughing, thick reddish spittle dripping from their mouths. Some villagers were still, their expanding and contracting chests were the only signs of life. Their glassy eyes stared at the ceiling.
Martin knew what to do. They obviously brought him here to pray. He kneeled, closed his eyes, and implored God to heal them all. Then, they would believe. These backwards people just didn’t believe enough. He prayed hard. Rexford Swayne’s God would answer.
When he opened his eyes, the leader stood in front of him. He spoke in guttural sounds and hums that Martin failed to understand. The humming increased in volume, and the old leader pointed down at him. A single loud click, and hands were on Martin, dragging him out of the indigenous clinic.
The men with spears dragged him behind the building. Martin stammered, explaining that God would heal them all. They didn’t believe enough. He needed more time. One of the men pointed behind Martin. Three mounds of dirt the length of a human body rose from the ground, each one with the Rexford Swayne Bible placed on top. Martin discovered that God did not stop the fear, or the pain, or shield him from the weapon that pierced his body.