The River Flows On

By Ivan Watson

The River Flows On is a story of two places—Guyana and Brooklyn, US. It sets out the tale of the main character, a young man born into a riverain family with a rich heritage, who is conflicted about his family and the river and delves into his relationships and actions that culminate into a downward spiral. The struggle to survive in both places and a small part of the unheralded and oftentimes overlooked narrative of many Caribbean immigrants in their quest for a better life in the US are essential to the telling of this story.

The river is ever present in one way or another in the life of our main character, despite his ambivalence. The promise of his poetic talent and the affection and love from others breathe energy into his characterization.

Finally, the contrasting outcomes for the featured actors in The River Flows On is a study in the vagaries and seeming contradictions of life that are, at times, confusing and incomprehensible. For some, the river is just another body of water flowing to the Atlantic; for others, it represents a vital, living creation of endless virtue to be tapped for all time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646543328

Book preview

Book One

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 her, Mary, you built for the long haul, you going to be here today and tomorrow and the next day and the next day. I’m more certain than the river making high tide.

*****

Despite the daily grind and unending tasks from sunrise to sunset, Mary Allicock made certain her son was cared for. Nothing was more important to her than making certain her son ate well, did his chores, and was not left unattended whenever he bathed at the landing. She took time out to teach him as much as she remembered in basic arithmetic and reading and writing. Before she was married, she had lived at Low Wood, a hamlet a few miles from Tenaboo, and attended the Presbyterian school that comprised of one classroom, a few benches, and an all-too-serious Mr. De Groot, a product of Queen College in Georgetown. She reiterated many times, I’m glad I get to know a few things other than cooking, washing, and cleaning.

It was mostly by day’s end, his dad soon to arrive from Dalgin, and his mother sitting in the old rocker, combing her unruly hair, Jason half seated on the arm of the rocker, with his arm around his mother’s neck, and so it was for many a time until her fevers got worse.

Jason, this story took place a long time ago, she began.

Your daddy’s granny went to pick up conga-pump leaves to make tea after a bad rainstorm. She had a habit of running off by herself, but because of her age, the family had advised her not to do that. But she still persisted in going to the tree, which was down a narrow path through the jungle about a half mile behind this house. That particular day she went by herself and never returned. After missing her for a while, the family went in search of her. They looked everywhere. Not a single soul except that under the conga-pump tree, a ring and pieces of clothing were found on the ground, nothing else. Your daddy says masacuraman must have come up from the river, searching for food, and happened upon this precious soul. He says masacuraman is half-beast, half-man, with claws and teeth like a jaguar. I tell your dad to be careful on that river he’s on back and forth every day. He’s always laughing at me. He would tell me about the time the river vomited him up when he was small, and since then, he and the river have a special connection. He said the river is connected to the Allicocks’ in a way I could not understand. His navel string is buried there, he says. Even so, that is why I don’t want you bathing at the landing all by yourself. You never know.

Jason would cling tightly to his mother, his face close to hers, looking out through the open doorway onto the clearing of Tenaboo Landing, and, in the dark, see a crouching man beast lurking at the river’s edge. In a moment, it would be there, and in another, it would be gone.

*****

Cleo Marks lived alone in her small two-room house with a detached kitchen at the narrow end of James Street. It was plain but comfortable. In one room there was an old but sturdy Berbice chair, a rocker that creaked at the least movement, set in a corner, and a small round coffee table with a blue vase of plastic flowers. She had no television, but she was quite proud of her large Philips radio perched high on a makeshift shelf that was also home to her Bible and hymnal. There was also a small wooden table with a white tablecloth and two wicker chairs.

The bedroom was smaller, making the large four-poster bed and dresser seem out of place. Under the bed lay the night pot that provided nocturnal comfort since the shared latrine was some distance aback in the open yard. New linoleum covered the entire floor of the house, giving it a Christmas smell in the middle of August.

Since her husband’s death, Cleo had to struggle to support herself. The small monetary settlement she had received after his untimely accident at the Fernandes Wharf while off-loading mora logs was almost depleted. Fortunately, she had used the last two hundred dollars to purchase from neighbor Gloria her refrigerator. Gloria boasted, I getting a fridge that can make ice.

Cleo made frozen custard blocks that tasted as good as Brown Betty ice cream. She awoke every morning before dawn, mixing her custard powder, milk, sugar, and essence, and when pressed to share the recipe, she offered, My special Demerara ingredient. Most of the folks around thought it was nothing more than the good concoction of a blessed lady. Blocks would be ready by midday and, before three in the afternoon, were sold. Children came from as far as the Public Road to try the Cleo special.

It was Christmas Eve; the postman was early, perhaps hoping for an early finish for a stint of late shopping for the pending holidays. He pushed an envelope into the slightly ajar doorway.

Cards from Mary were self-made, nothing fancy, with a cut-out picture of baby Jesus on the front, and inside, Love and Best Wishes for the Season, written neatly with crayons. The inserted letter was a bit of a surprise. Mary did not write many letters. This was the first time in years that she had written.

Cleo read aloud to herself.

"Dearest Big Sister:

Special holiday greetings from your small sister, John, and our only son, Jason.

I know I surprise you for writing this letter, but it was necessary, given the circumstances. We are all fine, except for me. I get so often a bit of fever. Nothing for you to worry about. John says I got a bad cold that is getting chronic. I’m still getting by. We are still trying to keep our heads above the water. John works at a sawmill at Dalgin, and recently we have been baking bread and selling. The business is doing great.

Jason is becoming a big boy. He is thirteen and almost as tall as I am. He is growing up to be a kind, loving, and mannerly boy. I am so proud of him. I have been teaching him all that I learned at Low Wood, and there is not much more I can do for him here. He is the reason for me writing to you. John and I think it will be better for our son to spend some time with you so that he could attend a Secondary School in Georgetown, just maybe for four years or so. We know your place is small, but Jason would fit in without much fuss. And besides, with your religious ways, we are very comfortable putting him into your charge.

How are you managing since your dear husband passed? It must be tough going. Sending Jason will not be a financial burden to you, far from it. We will send enough to cover his school expenses and food and clothes. On top of that, we will add a small piece for you just for the hassle. We are certain that Jason will be as