ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART TWO
The afternoon heat hung over the roadside like a thin veil, turning the busy city road into muted gold and stretching long shadows across the asphalt.
Cars hissed past in steady streams, horns slicing the air, engines rising and fading in impatient waves.
A low concrete wall bordered the street, its paint chipped, old posters peeling at the edges like tired witnesses.
On the sidewalk, just beyond a low metal railing near a streetlight where traffic slowed, Zionel stood with a small handheld microphone connected to a portable speaker resting on the pavement.
The hum of traffic braided itself around his preaching.
Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, yet his eyes burned with focus. His Bible lay open in one hand, pages fluttering lightly in the breeze.
A faint wind lifted the hem of his shirt as his voice carried over the noise, steady and unwavering.
A soft breeze stirred the banners of nearby shops. Pedestrians slowed their steps—some pretending not to listen, some pausing just long enough for a sentence to catch and linger in their spirit.
Zionel’s voice rose and fell with conviction, clear above the traffic. His hand lifted slightly, Bible balanced in his grip, as though weighing heaven’s words in the open air.
His eyes swept the street, then lifted upward, fixed beyond the skyline.
Dust curled near the curb. The noise thinned for a breath. Zionel’s voice broke through the moment with quiet authority.
Zionel (conviction):
“Brethren.”
The word settled into the street like seed upon soil. Nearby listeners shifted. Engines idled. Even the wind seemed to pause as Zionel drew breath again, his tone deepening, ready to press further.
Zionel (firmed):
“Jesus said, ‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’”
The air tightened as the Scripture rang out. A few heads turned. Somewhere, a radio faded into silence. Shadows stretched, and the weight of the words pressed beyond the sidewalk, beyond flesh.
Not far away, a sleek black convoy approached—an armored SUV in front, another behind, and between them a luxury sedan with windows darkened against the sun.
The lead vehicle slowed as the sound of preaching slipped through the sealed glass like a blade finding a seam.
Inside the middle car, Cassian sat rigid in the back seat. The phone pressed to his ear trembled slightly as his wife’s voice fractured through the speaker, thick with grief.
The hum of the engine faded beneath her sobbing. Cassian’s breath hitched. His chest tightened as her words landed.
Seraphina (crying):
“Our son… Orean… he collapsed. He’s gone.”
The sentence shattered into weeping. Cassian’s knuckles blanched white against the leather seat. A sharp, broken exhale tore from his lungs, as if the air itself refused to stay.
His voice pushed through the shock, uneven, fighting to stand.
Cassian (trembling):
“What do you mean… Orean collapsed?”
The car felt suddenly smaller. The city noise dulled. His throat worked as he tried to steady himself, the silence between her sobs stretching like a wound.
His voice cracked, denial bleeding through every syllable.
Cassian (tearing):
“…No. No—keep him there. I’m on my way.”
The call ended, leaving only the low growl of the engine and the echo of her crying ringing in his ears.
The car rolled forward again, but Cassian’s gaze drifted toward the roadside. Through the tinted glass, a voice slipped in, sharp and undeniable.
Zionel (firmed):
“…the dead shall rise in Christ…”
Cassian’s chest seized. His hand lifted without thought, fingers trembling as though grasping for something unseen.
The words struck deeper than reason, stirring fear and fury in equal measure. His tone came tight and low, edged with command.
Cassian (strained):
“Stop the car.”
The driver hesitated, then slowed. The lead guards’ vehicle halted. Doors opened. Guards stepped out, scanning the street as tension rippled outward.
Cassian opened his door before anyone could speak, shoes striking the pavement as he moved toward Zionel with hurried, uneven steps.
The atmosphere shifted. Conversations died.
Zionel felt the change before he saw it—the sudden stillness, the sharp contrast of expensive suits, the weight of authority pressing into the space.
He lowered the microphone slightly as Cassian stopped in front of him, chest heaving, jaw locked tight, eyes blazing with grief and command.
Their gazes met—Cassian’s searching, raw; Zionel’s steady, gentle, unafraid. The air between them thickened, as if heaven itself leaned closer.
Cassian’s voice forced its way out, rough and worn thin.
Cassian (strained):
“What did you just say?”
The street seemed to hold its breath. Zionel eased his shoulders, shifting his weight, the microphone resting against his chest.
He closed his Bible carefully, fingers pressing into the leather as though honoring its weight.
His head inclined slightly, humility settling into his posture. His tone remained gentle, measured, inviting reflection.
Zionel (softly):
“I’ve spoken many words, sir. Tell me… which one found your heart?”
A murmur rippled through the small crowd. Cassian swallowed hard. His jaw clenched, then slackened. His eyes flickered, fighting something breaking loose behind them.
He shook his head once, as if denying himself permission to feel. His words rasped out, stripped and defensive.
Cassian (hoarsely):
“None of them.”
The word landed heavy, defiant. He paused, throat tightening, breath dragging against his ribs. His voice pressed forward, strained with disbelief and need.
Cassian (strained):
“But you said the dead shall rise in Christ.”
A horn blared behind them, sharp and impatient. Zionel glanced briefly toward the road, then returned his gaze to Cassian. A quiet, patient smile touched his lips.
He shifted slightly, one hand lifting, fingers opening as if to untangle truth from desperation. His tone flowed calm and steady, carrying reassurance through each word.
Zionel (gently):
“Yes. The Scripture says, ‘For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.’ It is the hope of—”
The sentence never finished. Cassian’s hand cut the air sharply, halting the words. His breathing grew uneven, the grief now stripped bare.
His voice dropped low, raw, vibrating with command and despair.
Cassian (urgent):
“My son is dead. Come to my house and prove what you’re preaching.”
The street felt suddenly exposed. Wind swept dust along the curb. A spiritual pressure pressed inward, unseen yet heavy.
Zionel’s lips parted, brows knitting as he stepped closer, lowering the microphone fully, the weight of the moment settling on him.
His lips moved deliberately, shaping each word with care.
Zionel (carefully):
“Sir, when I speak of the dead rising in Christ, I speak of—”
Cassian turned sharply, the movement snapping like a whip. His voice lashed toward the guards, cold, absolute, carrying no room for refusal.
Cassian (commanding):
“Take him.”
The command cracked through the air. Before Zionel could respond, two guards moved fast. One seized his arm. Another yanked the microphone cord free.
The speaker hit the ground, clattering, a burst of feedback screaming briefly before cutting into silence.
The crowd recoiled. Wind stirred harder. A hush fell, thick and uneasy, as though something holy had been disturbed.
Zionel did not struggle. His gaze swept the roadside once—faces frozen, hearts shaken.
His Bible slipped from his hand, but he caught it against his chest, pressing it close as they pulled him toward the lead SUV.
The door slammed shut. The engine roared. The convoy surged forward, swallowing the street noise as it merged back into traffic.
The roadside stood stripped and quiet, the fallen speaker humming faintly on the pavement, abandoned.
Inside the moving vehicle, the city blurred past in streaks of heat and concrete. Zionel sat still in the back seat, eyes closed, lips moving without sound.
The air inside the car felt charged, as though prayer itself had taken form, pressing against unseen realms while the road carried him toward what waited ahead.
The street behind them slowly breathed again—cars resumed, voices returned—but something unseen lingered, as if the Word spoken had not been taken away with the convoy, but planted, waiting.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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