Morning Pages 10/12/19

His crevassed fingers looked more like wood than the figure he turned with them.
They worked slowly, each finger placing down in a smooth and finely worked place, and then applying pressure and turning the figurine.
His eyes, a dull and hollow blue, darted from detail to detail on the carved knight’s armor, helm, the sword.
The ferryman hadn’t ever seen the man’s face. He hadn’t taken his helmet off and hadn’t raised his visor, neither. But this was good enough.
The bell rang in the small loft. The light above the door blink on, of, on, off, a solid green and darkness.
The ferryman stood from his chair, the four legs sliding across the wooden floor. He took his carved wooden knight and walked to the window sill where he placed it next to a collection of other wooden figures. All carved, all meticulous. All perfectly rendered. He’d seen them all, at one time or another. He often wondered where they’d gone, where they were now?
He probably wouldn’t ever know.
He went to the door and just before opening it, took his yellow rain slicker off the hook to the side. He slid it on over his wool sweat, wormed his feet into the rubber rain boots. He opened the door, the blinking light stopped. He shut the door behind him.
Outside the wind blew from he west. It always blew from the west. The river he lived on flowing the same way, always east toward the Baltic.
The sky above was dark, apart from the lights of the ferry landing. Just a dull gray was everything. He walked from his little loft down the slippery steps and then across and onto the ferry. He mounted the steps and stepped into the cabin. He started the motor, a series of gears and winches that pulled the barge from one side of the river to the other with upon a heavy metal chain.
Across the way, and through the rain, no more than 100 yards away he could make out the headlights of a car.
Who was crossing this late in the evening, and for what reason?

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