The father scowled at this son and dropped the net into his dugout. He motioned for the boy to step aside and crept into the river and the shadows beyond. When he saw the body, he stopped and extended his hand forward.
"Don't touch it!" The boy yelled.
The man stood glared at his son. "Shut up.!"
He shook his head, leaned over again, and laid one hand on the bony shoulder. His skin was soft and warm, but he did not respond to the touch. The fisherman shook his shoulder, which elicited a soft groan. Standing, the elder looked up at the clear blue sky and exhaled. Climbing back up the riverbank, he called to several of his companions that had launched their craft.
As the men gathered around him, the fisher started an impromptu council, fielding the various suggestions on how to deal with the sudden and unwelcome visitor. The most common proposal was to push the raft back into the river and let it float farther down. They were all sure this is how the villages upstream had dealt with this issue. That was one advantage of being upstream.
Two of the men, who were brothers, suggested they tie the man to a single log and then float him down the river. They pointed out that the other pieces of wood would work very well in the fire pits. The others quickly agreed, one even hinting that the newcomer did not need the single piece of wood since he was close to death and the wood would only delay the inevitable.
The unconscious man never found out how lucky he was. The father had spent a summer in a Christian school and had taken on some of his teachers' qualities. Although he did not believe in the Christian God, he knew they had rules. He did not remember the specific rules, but he knew they did not involve sending a man down a river on a single log. The blonde hair meant this man was one of them and should be returned to them. He would take the man down to the Christian mission, even if it meant missing an afternoon of fishing.
Having decided, he elicited several of the men to help. They disagreed with his decision, but he had found the man, or at least his son had, so the man belonged to him. That was the rule of the river, and they all lived by it.
The two brothers helped load the unconscious man into the bottom of a canoe, then turned back to their nets. As the young boy climbed into the craft, the father pushed them from shore, then hopped inside as they entered the current. They floated down the river for nearly an hour, meaning the return journey would take three hours. The boy steered while the man kneeled at the front of the boat, staring down at the stranger.
He was unnaturally skinny, but that was common for most men who turned up at the various villages along the river. His hair was matted with dirt and twigs, as was his long, scraggly beard. The fisherman leaned forward and studied the tattoo on the stranger's right shoulder. It was a stranger symbol, having no meaning to him. He was reaching forward to touch the design when his son called to him.
The man sat up and looked toward the shore. They had rounded a bend and now approached a fairly busy set of wooden docks. Beyond the landing, it appeared as if the hand of God had reached down and swiped away the jungle, exposing the chocolate brown earth. A jumble of huts and buildings littered the barren landscape, peering out into the river. Two buildings were out of place. The first was a large cinderblock structure with a corrugated roof. The jungle had crept toward the building's back walls, and no one seemed interested in keeping that from happening. The second building dominated the town center. Made primarily of wood, the architect had used an assortment of bricks and mud to complete the structure. The most distinctive feature was a rough-hewn cross precariously perched on the highest peak of the roof.
After directly the canoe to a muddy beach, the boy hopped out and helped his dad pull the craft out of the water. The father looked up at the church, then back down at the stranger. He decided it would be easier to bring the holy man to the stranger, so he directed his boy to watch over the man. He trudged up the slope and made his way through the crowd to the church. The boy, always happy to visit the bustling town, sat down on the edge of the canoe and took in the sights and sounds of the dock. He was busy staring at an old steamboat preparing to embark when his father appeared, the priest in tow.
The priest, a middle-aged man with a pockmarked face and receding hairline, peered inside the canoe and shook his head. He moved closer, reached down, and placed two fingers on the stranger's exposed throat. Nodding, he motioned for the two others to help him pick the fellow up.
Disappointed that he could not watch the steamer's departure, the young boy scowled and helped his father pick up the stranger's legs. Soon, they were stumbling toward the church. After depositing him on a cot, the priest thanked the fisherman and dismissed them from their charge, but not before rewarding them with a sack of flour and several strands of colored beads.
The father smiled, instructed his boy to pick up the bag, and they both disappeared.
The stranger had a wicked fever. For three days, the priest sat by his bed, wiping him down with cool rags. The man would often cry out and ramble about lost comrades and hidden treasures. By the second day, the priest started recording specific details in his journal. He determined the young man's name and concluded that he was of German descent. That was as far as he got. Near midnight on the third day, the young man died, taking with him the secret of his sudden appearance.
Abyss: Book two of the The Last Roman series will be available on Amazon soon.
Follow my Amazon author page for notification when it is published.
https://Author.to/bkgreenwood
The Last Roman: Book One: Exile Page 25
