The Least Preacher

By Janice Daugharty

"There is a lot of red clay and long nights in every line Janice Daugharty puts on paper." Pat Conroy

Duncan finds his lost faith hiking the roads to country churches with his nephew, who he passes off as the world's littlest preacher. Duncan used to be a preacher himself; his father was too. But as he tells the boy, "You gotta have a hook, or else be called. And you gotta leave the women alone

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janice Daugharty
• Release date: Jul 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452331355

Janice Daugharty

Janice Daugharty is Artist-in-Residence at Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College, in Tifton, Georgia. She is the author of one story collection and five novels: Dark of the Moon, Necessary Lies, Pawpaw Patch, Earl in the Yellow Shirt, and Whistle.

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The Least Preacher

by Janice Daugharty

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Janice Daugharty

Janice Daugharty is a natural born writer...There is a lot of red clay and long nights in every line she puts on paper. Pat Conroy

Long white hair caught back in a ponytail, he came slow up the creek bank, developing in the smoke borne on the east wind off the burning Okefenokee Swamp. He looked like a prophet of old, but not old, only weary in his longtime service to the Lord.

I don’t know about you, Preach, he said to the little boy sitting cross-legged before the dead campfire, but I’ve about had a bait of these woods.

It was cool along the creek bed, but soon the gummy green of the pines would be steeping in heat. The boy and his Uncle Duncan had stayed the night under the Toms Creek Bridge, Echols County line, and the slant morning shadow of the old wooden bridge was inching south along the bank of reeds, weeds and sand as the sun climbed higher.

Duncan kicked at the smutty firewood. More smoke. Time to move on.

Quarrelsome birds awked and tittered in the willows and cypresses that arched out over the black water stream. Just a stream, dry as the weather had been. But Duncan could smell the brassy odor of fish, yes he could, though he was no fisherman. Had been, they’d have had fish for supper the night before instead of hoecake and beans. It all tasted of smoke anyway. Next town, somebody would take them in, put them up for the night and feed them real food, food not seasoned with ash.

I ain’t preaching no more, said the boy. He slapped at a yellow fly—got him!—on his thin tanned right arm. His bubble-gum pink lips were set in a pout. A pretty boy of twelve, but conveniently runty, with a full glossy cap of straight black hair. Last place, he said, they made light of me.

Hey! Listen, boy. You can’t take it personal. Striking a domineering pose, Duncan hung his thumbs in the belt loops of his