Restlessness (TWS)

"Thank you kindly for everything, Mrs. Ward." The barrel-chested man with the curly black hair tipped his hat as he stepped off the river-ferry's dock. "I don't know that I hope we've forgotten something, but you'd be the silver lining if we did."

He smiled -- not a big, toothy grin but a small, kind smile that belied a gentlemanly restraint. Behind him his wife bundled their children into the wagon.

Mrs. Ward smiled back. "You're too kind, Mr. Bakerman."

"You take care." Mr. Bakerman turned to go, then looked over his shoulder at her. "And give my regards to your husband."

Then they were off. They'd only arrived three hours ago. The noonday sun beat down on Virginia Ward like a hot hammer but she stayed on the dock and waved as they pulled away, taking the trail West that thousands had taken before them. The wind was right and she could hear the kids fighting with each other, could hear their mother scolding them and could hear the man whistling as he drove the horses; high, clear notes. She watched them until the whistling stopped, or just faded -- at which point she realized they might look back and see her still standing there like a statue, Lot's wife on the banks of the Chicoritte.

She untied the ferry and pushed off from the dock with a pole twice as long as she was tall, then pushed with the pole against the river bottom to get the ferry moving. The Chicoritte had been getting shallow from lack of rain; now it ran so quietly that Virginia could lay down the pole and just let the ferry glide.

The wind had died without her noticing, and she had left the whining gnats at the riverbank. Virginia looked out from the midpoint of the wide, muddy Chicoritte and could heard nothing but the crusty scraping of the guide ropes that ran through hoops mounted on the ferry, steering it from dock to dock. Without thinking she began to whistle what she could remember of Mr. Bakerman's tune.

Halfway through her song she saw something upstream.

As she lapsed into silence she shaded her eyes, peering at the thing. A few moments later she used the pole to stop the ferry. The thing drifted slowly toward her in the water, a lone bump tracking down the middle of a muddy road.

At length, she realized it was a person.

SpoilerShow

What does she do next?

>Attempt to use the pole to guide him or her closer to the ferry.

Are they even alive? She calls out, to see if they react.

>Panic.

>Get them on board if it looks like they're genuinely in trouble.

Give them a poke.

>Attempt to use the pole to guide the ferry closer to him or her.

Think if it is anyone you know; any notorious vagrant from the town upriver who hasn't been seen in a week or more (good riddance, though, they say.)

YES A MERMAID

She calls out, to see if they react.

>Attempt to use the pole to guide the ferry closer to him or her.

"Oh my God," said Virginia. "Hey! Hey"

The figure did not respond. It looked -- hard to tell at this distance -- like it'd cross the very middle of the ferry's route. The ferry had been at that midpoint when Virginia had first spotted the figure; now it was slowly moving away. She picked up the ferry-pole and, making sure she had a firm grip, pushed it against the river-bottom.

The pole immediately jammed against a rock, slid and popped free, the ferry not appearing to have slowed at all. She tried again and again with the same result as the figure drifted closer. At length, she opened her mouth to shout to the figure again -- and saw a flicker of movement on shore.

It was a thin, winding thread of smoke rising from the backyard shack where her husband spent his days. The day was quiet; the shack as well. The color of the smoke hurt her eyes and in the windless afternoon the smoke writhed upwards, twisting and dancing.

Without making a sound Virginia clenched her teeth, adjusted her grip on the pole and thrust it down again, this time leaning into it. Her teeth rattled as it slid and skittered along the bottom.

She spared a glance back at the figure in the river - she could tell it was a man now that it was closer -- and the ferry-pole caught on a rock and bent, arching like a bow and threatening to lift Virginia off her feet.

She held onto the ferry-pole with white knuckles. The wood of the pole groaned. But the raft slowed.

Virginia's arms began to ache. For a moment she looked again at the figure and realized, with a jolt, that she recognized him.

Think if it is anyone you know

This man had come to their store yesterday evening with a merchant who'd come to buy trinkets from her husband's 'collection'. The merchant had brought three guards; two had been to the store before, but this squirrelly fellow had apparently been with them only two months. She thought she'd heard him called 'Jackrabbit'.

With a last creak, the ferry came to a rest.

>Attempt to use the pole to guide him or her closer to the ferry.

Wide-eyed, Virginia moved as if in a dream. As she picked up the ferry-pole and waited for Jackrabbit to drift close enough, she studied his expression. It contrasted sharply with her memory. In the shop he'd been full of warmth and jolity, always smiling and telling jokes; that looked so absent from him now that for a moment Virginia questioned whether she'd ever seen him before. His countenance was ghastly, horribly pale and drawn yet soft and bloated from the river-water. His eyes were open -- wide and staring -- and he held such an expression of absolute terror that Virginia looked around nervously, scrutinizing the long grass at the riverbanks for beasts of imagination before realizing that in a few more moments Jackrabbit would drift past, and be lost. She slowly, carefully reached out with the ferry-pole.

She dragged Jackrabbit through the water towards her. After a half-second he spasmed and flipped onto his face.

Virginia cried out and dropped the pole, but snagged it with a quick hand before it slid into the murk. She let Jackrabbit drift a few seconds more then forced herself to direct him again with the ferry-pole. Something was wrong with his back -- something blackened and ragged -- but she would not pay attention to it. After an interminal handful of seconds she had dragged him close and lifted his face out of the water. In the spasm he had apparently closed his eyes, and she thanked the lord for that.

As Virginia dragged Jackrabbit onto the ferry, his back slid over the wooden platform's splintered edge and he let out such a shriek that every bird in sight took fled the riverbank at once. The long grass shook as various rodents and reptiles fled the scene as well.

Virginia watched her husband's shack. Her knuckles, clenched in Jackrabbit's sodden shirt, turned a ghostly white. The smoke above the shack had grown thicker, but the door was still closed.

Then from the shack came the call: "Virginia?"

She said nothing. The shack door did not open.

Thirty seconds passed. Jackrabbit's eyes had closed again, but she dared not move him from his position half-in the water. Another span passed, maybe a minute, and a few birds returned to the riverbanks.

Eventually Virginia's heartrate slowed enough for her to begin thinking again. Taking care not to let his back touch anything, she pulled Jackrabbit onboard and laid him on his stomach. When he failed to jump or twitch or howl she picked up the ferry-pole again.

They reached the bank and, with some back-strain and rolled-up sleeves, Virginia carried Jackrabbit into her home. She put some towels on the bed and laid him there. For a moment she just stared at him, an alabaster statue draped in wet rags, his chest barely rising and falling with breath.

SpoilerShow

What does she do? What does she want to do?

Dry him off, and see if you can get him warm!

Do you have any way of contacting a doctor?

> Do you know of a way to ensure that he is alive or dead?

She knows she should start by drying him, warming him. He feels so cold.

>Start a fire in the fireplace.

While drying him off she checks for open wounds or bruising. She takes off his wet clothes and covers him with something dry. If there are any wounds she would tend to them, though hesitantly. It wouldn't be her first time caring for a wounded man.