Ghost River

Tale of Normal Station

Coe Rel paddle through the murky slough. Water Tupelos passed to either side, dampening the swish of his methodical motions, as they loomed above. He did not need to hurry, but silence was key. These fens were quite uninhabited and out of the way. Perfect for his purpose. Daytime runs were dangerous, but the pay was good.

This strange waterway of green scum and lily pads made his skin crawl, bringing an ever-growing sense of dread out of an unknown portion of his mind. As he peered into the darkness, created by the thick foliage, a glimpse of motion caught his searching eye. Something had slipped into the murky water, not thirty yards from the canoe, something very large.

The knobby Cyprus knees were dangerous enough, lurking just beneath the surface, ready to tip you into the mire. Coe Rel had been avoiding patches of these underwater hazards so far, but the final stretch, of this ghostly silent section of the river, lead through a thick morass of these bog giants.

He did not wish to wait around to see whatever had slid underneath the slime. Picking up the pace, he pushed, as carefully as possible, into the boggy forest. The green stagnant scummy water did not look too deep. He had no surety of that though, so tended towards prudence.

A guttural call of an animal echoed between the trees, gruffly breaking the silence. Some strange waterfowl sang a throaty repetition, recalling the sound of a far-off intercom speaker, attempting to be heard through too much interference, physical and static.

Weird lichen grew on all the trees in this section of the quagmire, spotting the trunks with sickly, fungal hues. No current could be found here, only stagnant pools and silent sentinels. Coe Rel knew the way. He had done this plenty of times before, though usually with a friend or two. Straight as you can south by south west, and the Wolf River would open up eventually before him. Hopefully his rendezvous would be on time, waiting, so he could continue his Sunday’s journey into town.

The bird had found a mate. He could hear a returning call of short staccato clucks, from far away. Their song of rough squawks intermittent with awful clacks was neither melodious or comforting to Coe Rel. This haunted wetland stretched for a good fifteen miles along the river.

As the trees thickened, the water slowed, creating a mess of fens and sloughs only a true Southern explorer would dare traverse. If the gloomy disorientation did not keep people away, the infestation of mosquitoes might.

Coe Rel had worn long sleeved shirt and long pants, both dingy hand-me-downs from his brother. With his wide brimmed hat on his head, he had draped a fishing net over himself. Not the most becoming getup for a man of the town, but necessary for his health. The memory of the Yellow Fever epidemic still rang in the minds of Memphians forty years later.

He was approaching the entrance into the river. To the Grand Junction Boys, who he was meeting, it was known as just “the River,” but to someone like Coe Rel, who had grown up in Memphis, on the Mighty Mississippi, this was near blasphemy. This was the Wolf River, small and insignificant to most. The Mississippi was the only waterway, who could be addressed with such singularity, to a man such as he.

He was a man of the world. Maybe only 19 years old, but he had seen things. Travelling many places with his learned father, he had seen cities which dwarfed Memphis in comparison, ports to put the riverfront to shame, with its steamboats and ferries.

The trees had really thickened now, reaching down with long hairy arms to pluck my vessel from the water. A gloom had descended. The gurgling of water told him, he was close, though. Before he could begin to turn his canoe into the slowly gathering current, a loud plop sounded from behind him and to the right.

Louder than the usual turtle taking a breath, the motion had caused a large ripple to strike out across the still surface. Not a turtle, much too large a disturbance to the calm. The birdcalls had ceased some time before. Maybe they had found one another. Maybe they were no longer alone. The slowly meandering current seemed to stop all together now. Having ceased his paddling, Coe Rel opened his ears to the silence, listening for any indication of movement. Turning slowly from right to left, he attempted to get a good look behind, without disturbing his stillness.

The boat rocked slightly, most likely brushing against one of the Cyprus knees. No Cyprus trees were nearby, however. Just as he ascertains this another knock is felt on the bottom of the boat. Harder this time. Louder, more distinct. Something was directly beneath the canoe now. It could be a sunken log, held down by weighty branches entrapped in the slough.

Reaching to his belt, Coe Rel removed his bowie knife from its sheath. He massaged a finger across the lower edge of the blade, holding his motion for the strike he knew would come. What monstrous beast could be lurking below? An alligator served this hypothesis best, but not many large enough to cause a ripple, such as the one he had seen earlier, had ever been this far north of the Delta.

Holding his breaths to the count of ten, he released slowly and silently. Poised he waited. A call sounded in the air. Fiercer and more savage than the birds. A bellow, from the very depths of an animal’s pain and loss, this shout was known to Coe Rel. He had heard it often on afternoons such as this, in the hollers and valleys of Mississippi hills. The only time you can still hear it, if at all. This hail from doughty friends was the Rebel Yell. Feared by the Yankee half a century before, now it sang to the ears of the Moonshiners and their compatriots in smuggling it to the masses. Would the monster in the murk beneath feel the same fear, or strike out in surprise?

These holdouts to an antebellum era of remembrance, were the rowdy, no-nonsense North Mississippi gang of miscreants and malcontents, who like to fancy themselves as “The Last Gentlemen” in their clandestine endeavors. Hailing from places such as Tula, Dancyville, and Moline, they were a patchwork the very best Moonshiners and scoundrels one could find in the South. Their hometowns, had nothing, they were dying slowly, as the places situated by railroad tracks and large waterways flourished, so they made do with what they knew. These were just the kind of men, who could save him from an inevitably wet struggle with the alligator beneath.

Kaptain Viciorious' Grimoire

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Logbook of a Time Travelling Space Pirate Extraordinaire, From Danish Modern to Fantastical Mythology, seeking vintage wonder and stories of magical repute.

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