Prelude: Native American legend has it that the Pascagoula tribe preferred death by drowning to lives of enslavement by their enemies. According to one “mist of time” story, men, women, and children were heard chanting to their ancestors while walking en masse into this Mississippi coastal river. Receptive listeners, recreating on these waters, have long reported phantom music. In 1985, historians successfully lobbied for a name change, from the Pascagoula to the Singing River.
Quit leaning over the side, he tells her, with your ear cupped like some half-deaf, half-wit. He guns the outboard engine before she can reach her seat, cackling like a demon when she loses her balance, yelling that her big butt is going to swamp them.
When he stops to fish, she gazes into the shallows. It calms her to watch crappies in the fallen bald cypress. She’d like to hear a redwing blackbird’s liquid trill, or a gust of pine-scented wind, but he’s ratcheted up the volume on the Take Back America podcast. She asks if fish will bite in all the racket. He makes a motion as if to back-hand her. Listenin’ for your ancestors, Miss Priss? You believe that Indian bullshit? Ain’t nothin’ in the Pascagoula but busted tires and mossy gators.
Before sunset, he pitches the tent behind a Camping Prohibited sign, pulls the boat into marsh cane, begins to pop cold ones in earnest. After midnight, clouds shroud a moon that’s in no mood to shine. Alligator season is closed, she reminds him, don’t go huntin’ Old Joe tonight. You got no permit. I got a bad feeling.
You and your damn feelings, he says.
He grabs his .357 about two in the morning. The old 50 hp Johnson coughs loud enough to wake the dead. Then he’s gone.
She unzips the tent before dawn, wades waist-deep in the river. The blue-black sky has cleared, freeing the moon to take a bow before its finale. She splashes with one arm, while a cooling current soothes the throbbing in the other, where he wrenched her elbow at supper, claimed her burgers were burnt and she musta hid his back-up cooler of Bud.
Water drops arc, sparkle in the creeping light, before falling to end where they started. That’s when she hears it. A low, soothing murmur, not unlike the whisper of a rock-bottomed brook, but more melodic, a blend of voices humming just before the notes become song. Her Chickasaw grandma said it would sound smooth, like an easy-listening station from New Orleans or Mobile, wafting in and out. What she hears is no dirge, no keening wail, but a sweet, dreamy undertone, felt as much as heard, like a goin’-to-meet-your-maker song.
By lunchtime a kayaker found his body floating underneath the flipped boat. She would have called him in missing when the sun was full-up, but he took her cell with him, ranting that he wouldn’t put it past her to rat him out to fish and game. The ranger said there was nothing to implicate an alligator. She has a feeling Old Joe is still the gator god of Singing River.
She tells his family there will be a celebration of life, that she’ll pick a date, schedule it soon, but summer turns to fall, fall into winter, and so on and on, and she never does.
Image: The Pascaquola singing river – postcard – Wikicommons. – An ancient postcard showing Indigenous people on the banks of the river with some already in the water.
literally stories 
Claire
Calm yet affecting little story.
Sometimes people get what we deserve. The final paragraph is a wonderfully sly touch. All American Gator Chow. I wonder how many calories there are in a jerk–probably as many as there are in a saint; certainly not many in a ghost. Human Lite.
Leila
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Hi Claire,
I really enjoyed this.
Readers may have a preference for Romance, (Fuck knows why??) Horror or Thriller. But I think the one that unites all readers is a revenge or comeuppance story.
This was beautifully understated and in a way, makes us smile.
All the very best.
Hugh
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The gentle pace of the story seems to reflect the slow-moving river. I found myself speculating about folk memories. Thank you.
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A powerful piece with lashings of detail and a good revenge ending.
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Haunting and atmospheric. Excellent ending.
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Science is important and useful, but so are legends and mythology as in this story.
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The images evoked by Claire Massey’s writing leave me speechless and caught up in scenes that roll by like a film that pull us into the picture.
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The Night the River Sang is so beautiful. The sensitive wife and the brutal husband are brought to us by an unhurried, georgeous narrative voice. We hear the river singing, we pray for the wife’s deliverance.
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Great atmosphere and setting, satisfying ending = a very enjoyable read.
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The pace of this story flows with the winding river, and I have that image resting in the back of mind as I read it. You flawlessly capture a woman who remains grounded, one with nature, a universal source of strength for all of us if we tap into it. It’s a powerful message of strength and hope for women of abuse. It’s a reminder that relief often comes in mysterious ways, and that “the good gals do win.”
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This story perfectly flows with the river. I clearly imagine a dark, winding flow curling through the swamp as I read this. I think women who have experienced abuse can be strengthened by this piece. Often, relief comes in mysterious ways. It is a great read!
(I apologize if this posts more than once. I’m working through issues with my WP account.)
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Claire, I worked at Singing River Hospital in Pascagoula as a new RN in 1982 and never knew the story of its name! The lyrical description of the journey downriver was magic. The contrast with the author’s interactions with her abusive partner was riveting. The way the story ended was poetic justice. I really enjoyed this piece!
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As one who once lived near the banks of the Singing River, I appreciate the mystical and lyrical flow of this narrative, mirroring that of the river. Did justice come from the natural or supernatural world? An intriguing story, well told.
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Powerful in terms of sensitivity to the subject. I was emotionally taken in by the way it evolved and then, dramatically, ended!
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Really evocative writing and so much in the ‘what’s not said’. I thought this line “where he wrenched her elbow at supper, claimed her burgers were burnt” in particular said so much about the relationship and the horror of the man – so much held in this phrase that speaks volumes. Reminds me of Hemingway’s masterful 6 word story: “For sale, Baby shoes, Never Worn.” (I know that Hemingway is not the definite source of this story for sure, but that’s not my point).
In short, thank you for your excellent writing – beautifully handled.
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I love the setting in this story and the pace. I feel like the author places up in this location along with the characters. Great job!
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I love how the setting and the author’s descriptions places readers in the picture. Beautiful flow and pacing of the story. Great job!
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