"They think of him as George."

Book jumped and looked down to the girl on the floor, curled around the base of a chair, a book open on the table before her.

"Some, not all."

River's voice was quiet, low and soft, and Book could barely catch her words over the voices from the other side of the kitchen. Leaning down he glanced at the book and realized it was his volume on the saints and a brightly colored illustration of George battling the dragon danced in the glint of the overhead light. Kaylee's light laughter made him turn his head and River's voice whispered softly in his ear.

"She does. He slays the dragons and wields the sword. George, of the soldiers."

Puzzled, Book dropped his eyes again to the brilliant colors, taking a moment to think on the girls words. River was a riddle, both inside and outside this world and residing in neither. But she often spoke of wisdom that shocked a man as schooled in philosophy as he and he had learned never to disregard her words as the ravings of a madwoman.

River was watching the others in the kitchen, studying their movements and their words, cocking her head from side to side as if she were storing away their very essence for future research. She was concentrating most on Mal, who was leaning against the counter, smiling at the noise and vibrant energy around him.

"But not everyone. Some think he is Christopher. Carrying the weight."

Christopher. The myth and legend. Christopher who carried the Christ child and the weight of the world through the rushing river.

Book looked at Mal, now talking with Simon, the young doctor vehemently arguing his case and the captain smirking and staring down the length of his nose as if coming closer would pull him too far into conversation.

River touched the preacher's arm and pointed to the book, the winged right hand of God fluttering his wings in a blaze of silver and gold. Michael, the guardian of mariners, protector of the sailing souls.

"There are some... Some that think he is Michael. Justice and fire and safety and knowledge."

Wash was holding Zoe's hand and was laughing at his own joke. The captain watched them both and held himself slightly apart and above, inside and outside the circle simultaneously. Book had always wondered how Mal could be so familiar and yet so distant from everyone around him. It was practiced, even the most naive of observers could see, based on his body language alone, but he held to it, carrying a reserve inside of himself like a soldier in battle.

"He's a man, little one," Book said softly, turning back to River and touching her on the shoulder. "No saint."

No one on this ship was a saint, not the captain nor his crew. They were travelers and pirates and criminals and they walked the edge of the blackest ocean challenging everything in their path. Challenging death and life.

Challenging faith.

River shook her head slowly and began to hum. Book listened to the tune, catching drifts and wisps of melody, turning the notes around in his head as he watched the others dance and spin in the light of the common hope they each shared. The soldier, the dreamer, the lover, the warrior, the comic, the healer, the child, the priest and the leader.

As he studied their faces, he realized the melody River was singing in his ear, a song from the Earth-That-Was and the travelers who walked the sea and the air.

Eternal Father, Strong to save, Whose arm hath bound the restless wave, Who bid'st the mighty Ocean deep Its own appointed limits keep; O hear us when we cry to thee, for those in peril on the sea. Lord, guard and guide the men who fly Through the great spaces in the sky, Be with them always in the air, In dark'ning storms or sunlight fair. O, Hear us when we lift our prayer, For those in peril in the air.

"No saint," the soft voice whispered, "Salve Mater, Mater misericordiae. Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve. Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae. Ad te Suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle." Book turned and the girl was gone, vanished as she so often did, into the shadows, into her mind. Blinking rapidly, the shepherd turned his eyes down to the book, abandoned on the table like so much paper and ink. He reached out and touched the page, finding it slick and glossy and lacking in comfort and brimming with unanswered questions. Found himself full of questions. As his eyes cleared, he found himself studying the picture on the page, River's voice echoing in his ear... "Some think he is George... Some Christopher... Some Michael."

The face on the page stared back at him and he felt himself sink into the chair, his head in his hands.

Jude. The patron saint of lost and impossible causes.

. . . . . . . . . . .

::::

The song is a bastardation of the Naval Hymn. The latin is a translation of the following:

Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy; our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.