Minnow. James E. McTeer II

be back in just a while. Don't worry."

      Minnow looked up at him.

      "Thank you."

      The negro turned and gave one last push with the pole before the water was too deep for it.

      "They just drunk or something. Probably got a bad idea. They'll forget about you before you set foot on the mud over there."

      Minnow nodded, rolled off his back and moved up onto his haunches, fingertips down on the rough planks to steady himself against the gentle rocking of the river.

      The old negro took a long oar and began to paddle on the left, the right, guiding them away from shore. The tide flowed out to the east, starboard, as it emptied to a low tide. A steady breeze blew over them, blowing Minnow's hair and cooling his body. The river was busy, but other craft made way for the barge as it glided across. The river was wide, and even with the skilled paddling they had only just reached the midway point. The captain made great swooping strokes, each one propelling the craft as if two men were at the oar.

      "I drop at only one spot," the captain said.

      "Any spot is fine with me. Just on the Island."

      "Where you going?"

      "Frogmore."

      "Frogmore?"

      "Yessir."

      "That's a long way out. You know someone there?" "

      Auntie Mae. I'm looking for her."

      "I don't know Auntie Mae."

      "I'll find her."

      He checked his belongings and looked back to watch Port Royal grow smaller against the shore. He looked ahead and the Island loomed, just trees in the direction they were headed. Water lapped at the edges of the barge.

      "Stand up and look. Don't be scared."

      Minnow stood up and watched the Island grow larger before him. It stretched across his view as far as he could see: broad fields of marsh spreading out before the dark band of trees. The marsh buffered the land from the river, unlike at the port, and the captain steered them toward one of a thousand dark cuts in the lush summer grass. Way down the curving river, to port, Minnow could see the white line of buildings on Bay Street. The Episcopal steeple glinted in the sun, a slender gray peak that marked his distant neighborhood.

      The captain moved faster now, waltzing left and right to paddle the water and steer the blocky craft into the creek. Little buildings showed themselves in the tree line: houses maybe, a little store perhaps. The barge slipped into the mouth of a creek. The grass was tall, up to Minnow's shoulders even when standing. It grew in patches that blended together into low forests of green. Birds lighted from place to place, fishing and resting in the hidden greens. A big fiddler waved a claw at Minnow from its perch on a thin green shoot, and then watched the barge float on. The creek narrowed and the captain kept them true, with the marsh even on both sides. Sometimes when the sides brushed the edge of the marsh, periwinkles dropped from the blades of the marsh grass and tapped against the salted wood like pebbles.

      The captain put the oar down and took up the long pole. The end was gray with sulfurous pluff mud. He stuck it back in and guided the craft along, sometimes lifting it up and swinging it across the front of the barge to push the other side.

      "Here we go," the captain said to the water as he eased deeper into the marsh.

      They passed the remnants of a dock. The pilings stood crooked and coated with barnacles. A few sea roaches scurried around the pilings to hide from view. The creek tightened around them and the barge seemed to glide over the marsh itself, and then they began to emerge. Marsh gnats swarmed Minnow's face.

      "We close. You gonna throw the rope."

      Minnow nodded. A marsh hen cackled and the creek let them go. He could see the muddy bottom now as they glided into shallow water before the shore. There was only one dock there, pointed out toward them, with a few negroes working nearby. When Calico had brought Minnow and his father over, they had docked at a place almost as busy as Port Royal, where the main road led through the Island to Frogmore. This was a quiet place, empty but for the handful of negroes and the one barge gliding noiselessly up to the dock.

      "Throw the rope."

      Minnow took the coil and flung it out to the head of the dock where a colored boy caught it and pulled the barge up. It bumped the dock and the boy tied it off and went about his business.

      "Good. Now you jump. And don't run off."

      "No sir."

      Minnow waited for the barge to ease toward the dock and jumped the gap to the head. The old negro set his pole down and eased himself up like a creaking skeleton. He came across onto the dock and Minnow helped him with his hand. The man's hand was callused and hard, like a turtle's shell.

      "Thank you, son."

      Minnow nodded and took the billfold out so the man would know he meant to pay. He took out two dimes and held them close to his body, looking at them in his palm.

      "One of those is enough, son. You keep the other one for where you're going."

      Minnow examined the silver coins. He'd need to eat again at dinner, and maybe he would need money to get back. He put one dime in the fold without showing the other quarter, and handed the second dime to the old man.

      "Thank you, son."

      "Thank you for the ride, sir."

      The old man smiled.

      "Everyone calls me Charlie. You get to needing a ride back and can't find one, follow this road up here and see if I'm around. I'll take you for free."

      "Thank you."

      The old negro reached out and set his hand on the top of Minnow's head.

      "You be careful out there. It ain't like town."

      "I know, sir."

      "You don't."

      Minnow left the dock and walked across the landing. Pine trees surrounded the spot, which was no more than a small pine-needle clearing carved out of the woods on a sliver of the Island's southern face. There was the dock and a few shacks and one building that might have been a store. A few goats grazed in a grassy patch on one side of the clearing, and a group of children played near them. A single cart rolled northward, away from the clearing, down the narrow forest road.

      He took the road out, into the trees away from the rough clearing. The cart ahead of him picked up its pace and then was gone around a bend. The clopping faded through the trees, the noise from the landing fell away, and the woods were quiet.

      Minnow looked over his shoulder and then over his head. The canopy of pines and water oaks came together into a shadowed web, like interlocking fingers blocking the falling sun. He walked the light-dappled path down the center, and no one else came along to move him. The world was quiet and dim.

      His mother would certainly be looking for him, by now. She might not leave the house, but maybe someone from his gang came by, and she'd have them looking. He'd gotten lost before, gotten in trouble, gotten stuck someplace or another. She would be afraid, especially because of the money, but she knew he would be fast. He would not leave the path.

      He didn't know where the cart road would go, but he could look for the bigger route that ran north to Frogmore—the road he and his father had once traveled together. That road would have people on it, unlike the deserted forest path, and maybe a place where he could get some water. He licked his lips.

      Minnow walked the road and passed only one old gray lady with a basket in her arms. She kept her head low and did not look at him. He did not speak to her, either, and the two went on in separate directions. Once or twice he heard something tramping through the woods, bigger than a squirrel. He checked for anything or anyone that might be following, thought of Sorry George, and continued on without