A few miles north of town, a Jeremiah Creed rode toward the Saquimont River on horseback. He was a tall, clean-cut man with a greying neatly trimmed beard and a bowler hat.
His horse was a big white beauty named Crow. Jeremiah didn’t know why the horse was named Crow. He’d earned the horse as payment for a job he’d done a couple years back. He never inquired about the name. It didn’t much matter to him why he had a horse named Crow.
Jeremiah climbed down from Crow and looked at the river. It was a slow-moving river, choked with driftwood. He had crossed a lot of rivers in his life, but he’d never seen so much driftwood.
“Ask about all that driftwood,” Jeremiah said, making a note to the cool morning air.
He tethered Crow to the post outside the ferryman’s cabin and patted him on the neck. The ferryman’s cabin was like a stone, silent and still and grey with age. Jeremiah rapped on the door with a closed fist.
The door creaked open, and a boy stood before Jeremiah in a filthy union suit. His hair was mussed and his face was haggard. He couldn't have been more than about twelve or thirteen years old, but he had the drawn face of a thirty year old.
Jeremiah smiled and doffed his hat to the boy. “Hello son,” he said. “Is your father here?”
“No,” the boy said as solemn as an old graveyard.
“Well, I’m looking for the ferryman,” Jeremiah said.
“Then you’re looking for me,” the boy said.
"Fine," Jeremiah nodded in approval. “I need to cross.”
“Just let me get some clothes on,” the boy said, and he shut the door.
A few minutes later, the boy emerged from the cabin and slipped a denim cap over his filthy brown hair. Man and horse and boy walked to the river and boarded the ferry.
“What’s the story with all this driftwood?” Jeremiah asked. He wasn’t trying to make small talk. He really wanted to know.
The boy shook his head. “How in the hell am I supposed to know?”
“I just thought-”
“It’s just been this way forever, I expect,” the boy said.
“Well, what do people say about it?” Jeremiah asked.
“I don’t know what people say about it,” the boy said. "I reckon they don't say much of anything about it at all." He didn’t care to talk about driftwood.
“What’s your name?” Jeremiah asked. He sat down as the boy worked a bundle of rope with a quick, skilled hand.
“Jesus,” the boy said.
“Jesus,” Jeremiah repeated as if the name required some bouncing around in the morning air. “Good name.”
“I reckon it's good as any,” Jesus said.
“Your ma or pa give you that name?” Jeremiah asked.
“I reckon both of ‘em did,” Jesus said. “Too late to ask ‘em now . . . they’re both deader than Caesar.”
“That’s too bad,” Jeremiah said. “A boy should have some lookin’ after.”
“Not really,” Jesus said. “My pa was a mean old drunk. He fell in the river one day and drowned to death. I reckon it was a pretty just death for that sonofabitch.”
“What about your ma?”
“Kicked in the head by a horse one day while she was prayin’,” Jesus said.
Ferryin’ was hard work, but the boy moved with a natural efficiency that made it look easy despite his slight frame. It was hard to believe someone so small could navigate a river so easily.
“You a religious young man?” Jeremiah asked.
Jesus shook his head. “Ain’t got no use for it,” the boy said.
The two fell off into silence as they slithered across the river like a snake. Crow whinnied.
Jeremiah broke the silence, “You know a man by the name of Johnston Carruthers?”
“Carruthers?” the boy said. “I expect everybody ‘round here knows that name. He’s the richest man in Liuna.”
Jeremiah nodded and looked out over the river. The sun was still burning off the morning haze. “This driftwood is fascinating,” Jeremiah said.
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