"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 Mic