The River Flows On. Ivan Watson

      John Allicock guided his ten-foot canoe dexterously into the small opening at Tenaboo Landing. He had done this many times that, with closed eyes or in the dead of night, nothing could go wrong. That day was no different. The strokes of the paddle caressing the coffee-colored waters of the Demerara River moved from gentle to silent in short order.

      The river was in final fall. A narrow beach of brown sand was visible in the failing light.

      Allicock had made his peace with the river a long time ago. It was the moment that sealed his fate and consecrated his very existence. At age seven, his guava-filled ballahoo was capsized by the wake of a passing bauxite-laden ship on its way from Cockatara. He was in the water before he knew it. Then blackness. He awoke a bit later to find himself sitting snugly in his boat, half his guavas intact, beached in a small cove. He was fine, except for a small cut on his forehead and an aching head.

      “It was the river that saved you,” everyone said.

      He grew up knowing the river was his friend, felt an inner peace and tranquility whenever he was on it, this mighty river streaming back and forth on its perpetual journey to the Atlantic. In fading light and sunset long gone, it was always a fairy-tale sight of water glittering in a thousand places in sheer delight.

      As John entered his home, resplendent with its newly roofed troolie, his only son, Jason, ran to greet him.

      “Daddy! You bring awaras.”

      “I got a ripe bunch from your godfather, Mr. Cornelius, at Bruckship.”

      Father hugged his thirteen-year-old fondly.

      “Where’s your mommy?”

      “Mommy’s lying down a bit. She’s not feeling so good. She’s got a fever and headache. Your dinner is left in the pot. I have eaten already.”

      Speaking to himself, “Mary must be coming down with a cold again. She hardears. I tell her not to bathe so soon after cooking.”

      “Mommy works too much. She’s killing herself.”

      This was not the first time Mary Allicock had retired early to bed. Normally, she would quietly sit in the rocker facing an open door, looking out at the river in anticipation of her returning husband of twenty-two years. Lately, this practice was uncommon. She felt so drained after a day of washing clothes by the landing, cleaning, and cooking.

      The elder Allicock had returned home after a day of toil at Dalgin. Sadeo Sawmill was in decline after many good years. John was able to avoid the dreaded layoff by agreeing to work for half pay. God knows he needed the money. “Half a loaf is better than no loaf,” Mary would retort whenever John asserted, which he did frequently, how Sadeo paid chicken feed wages and exploited the poor folks at Dalgin.

      Mary Allicock broke her rest to greet her husband in the kitchen.

      “John, how was your day?”.

      “The usual. How you feeling?”

      Mary managed a smile.

      “Just a little tired and a bit of a temperature. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine.”

      “I hope so…something been bothering me of late. I have been worrying a bit about our future, and that has set me thinking about doing something else to help out. Can’t depend on Sadeo work forever. Especially now that Jason’s becoming a big boy. He needs to get some education or learn some trade or another.”

      “I myself have been thinking. I suggest that the boy go and live with my sister in Albousytown. He can go to school in Georgetown.”

      “Mary, you don’t want to send him to Albouystown, in that jungle of a place. And on top of that, where we will find the money to satisfy his needs, books, and clothes and a small piece for Cleo for keeping him? I’m barely making enough to make ends meet.”

      Mary took the cloth wrapping from her forehead.

      “I have an idea. Listen to what I have to say before you jump in. For a long time now, you’ve been talking about how Dalgin people always running out of bread, how they’re always looking for bread coming in from Cockatara every other day the steamer runs.”

      Mary waited a moment for her husband to settle, his darting eyes finally glued on her.

      “I can bake bread every day. You can sell some on your way to Dalgin and at Dalgin. As to my sister keeping Jason, she is a strict woman and a church lady. She would keep him straight.”

      “You think you can stand up to all that work? You can barely cope now.”

      “I will do anything to assist you in providing for this family, anything to help our son make a way in his life.”

      “I’ll think about it.”

      *****

      John relented after a week of his wife’s endless probing. The daily baking and selling of bread started. It did not take long for Tenaboo bread to be a part of the daily fare among the river folk. One ardent customer remarked, “Don’t know what they do to make it so sweet. Must be that mud oven or some special wood they use to heat it with that gives it the flavor.”

      As bread sales grew, John had to invest more time in the effort.

      “Mary, soon I can leave Sadeo and his tribulations and save my energy for old age.” On such occasions, Mary would temper his enthusiasm.

      “I am baking bread every day. I don’t know how long my constitution can take it, getting more tired by the day. Besides, business is a funny thing. Today it may be blooming, and tomorrow it can go boof.”

      John would always remind

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