Passing the Narrows

Foreword

 

 

Passing the Narrows

 

 

Other Tuttle Titles

 

 

Foreword

 

 

     "Passing the Narrows" was first published in issue #319
of the legendary
Weird Tales
magazine. The illustrations for the story were done by the
incomparable Vincent Di Fate, and to this day they remain among my very favorite works of art.

 

    
Yes, this is a single short story. I started to release it in e-book format in an anthology
of tales all set in the water, but at the last moment I decided against that. 'Passing the Narrows'
is so different from my other fantasy stories that I decided it needed to stand all alone.

 

    
The cover calls this 'A tale of the haunted South.' And that's true. The South is still
a haunted place -- haunted by a tragic past, haunted by poverty, haunted by a thousand other
ghosts who still haven't found their way to rest.

 

    
Which is part of what makes the South such a fertile ground for stories. That, and the hope
I see also. For while we have yet to bury all out ghosts, we have laid many of our true terrors
aside. Black folks and white folks mingle freely. We have black mayors, black police chiefs,
black friends, white friends. Go to a high school football game any fall Friday night, and you'll see
that the old divisions between the races are all but gone.

 

    
I'm a child of integration. I can actually remember when we kids were introduced to black kids.
Honestly, we didn't see what all the fuss was about. There was plenty of room on the playground for everyone.

 

    
'Passing the Narrows' is set in a South which also lost the Civil War. But in this South
and in that War, magic was used right alongside cannon and rifle.

 

    
And though their War is over, the South lies wounded. Wounded and hanuted, in ways mine never was...

 

    
Enjoy!

 

 

PS -- My email address is
[email protected]
. I
love
hearing from readers, so let me hear from you too.

 

 

 

    
The
Yocona
surged ahead, paddle-wheel churning, cylinders
beating like some great, frightened heart.

 

    
"Dark as Hell and twiced as hot," muttered Swain from the
shadows behind the clerk's map-table.

 

    
A ragged chorus of ayes answered. The Captain checked his
pocket watch; ten o'clock sharp. Old Swain and his hourly
announcements hadn't lost a minute in twenty years.

 

    The Captain snapped his pocket watch shut and peered out
into the darkness. There, to port, loomed a hulking mass of
shadow twice the height of any around it -- Cleary's Oak, last
marker before the riverboat landing at Float. "We're an hour
from Float, Mr. Barker. Notify the deck crew we'll be putting in
for the night."

 

    "Aye, Cap'n."

 

    "She won't like that," said Swain, whispering. "Fit to be
tied, she'll be. Full of fire and steam."

 

    "Who, Swain?"

 

    "You know who. The wand-waver. The Yankee."

 

    "Go back to sleep."

 

    "I heard her talkin' while the boys were hauling me up the
deck," said Swain, gesturing with the stump of his missing right
arm. "Said she was aimin' to make Vicksburg 'fore the moon came
again. Said she had orders, and papers, and -- "

 

    "I give the orders here, Swain. Not any damn Yankee wand-
wavers."

 

    Swain cackled. The
Yocona
churned past Cleary's Oak,
picking up speed as the Yazoo River turned narrow and straight.
The Captain rang three bells, and the thump-thump-thump of the
pistons slowed.

 

    The
Yocona's
running lamps began to touch the trees
on each bank of the Yazoo River. Shadows whirled and twisted,
caught mid-step in some secret dance before fleeing back into the
impenetrable murk beyond the first rank of trees. Some few
seemed to run just ahead of the light, capering and tumbling like
shards of a nightmare given flesh and let loose to roam.

 

    The shadows reminded the Captain of Gettysburg and Oxford
and a hundred other haunted ruins left in the wake of the war.
The Yazoo River was the only safe route through the countryside
now, unless you were a sorcerer, a Yankee, or a fool.

 

    "Eyes ahead, boys," said the Captain, softly. "They're only
there if you look."

 

    The pilothouse door flew open and slammed like a rifle-shot.
The Captain whirled, cursing.

 

    In the dim red glow of the pilothouse night-lamps, the
Yankee in the doorway looked little more real than the shadows in
the trees. A long blue Union sorcerer's robe and hood concealed
all angry green eyes and long, pale hands.

 

    "Why are we stopping at Float?" said the sorceress.

 

    "Warned you," whispered Swain.

 

    The sorceress stepped forward and glared down at Swain.
"You are the Captain of this vessel?"

 

    Swain guffawed. "No ma'am," he said. "I'm the clerk. If
you want a freight book marked or a Federal river-map copied I'll
be happy to oblige." Swain cocked his head. "Tell the truth,
now -- don't them robes get awful hot?"

 

    The sorceress turned, traded frowns with the Captain.

 

    "You gave the order to put ashore at Float?" she said.

 

    "I did," said the Captain.

 

    "You will rescind your order. We will proceed on to
Vicksburg. Tonight. With all possible speed."

 

    The Captain turned his back to the sorceress and listened to
the paddle wheels for a time. Far off in the night, he heard the
shriek of another riverboat's steam-whistle.

 

    "Get off my bridge," said the Captain, staring out into the
shadows. "Get off, and stay off."

 

    "We go to Vicksburg."

 

    "Tomorrow. First light. Not before."

 

    The sorceress stepped forward. "I am an official
representative of the United States government," she said. "I
have Papers of Empowerment which authorize me to commandeer this
vessel, if necessary. Is it?"

 

    "Just like a Yankee," said Swain. "Commandeerin' stern-
wheelers without no notion of how to steer one. How far you
reckon you'd get before you found a sand-bar or a snag?"

 

    "Vicksburg," snapped the sorceress.

 

    "Hell," said Swain. "In pieces, you might." Swain scooted
himself sideways on his bench, grinning as he saw the sorceress
look down at the stumps of his legs and then look quickly away.

 

    Another steam whistle rang out, and another. "Hear that?"
asked Swain. "Two more boats puttin' in at Float. Probably
twenty there, maybe more, every one of 'em losin' time and money
by stoppin' for the night." Swain cackled. "Ain't many things
tighter than a Mississippi river-boat master's fist, wand-waver,
and there's some that would steer for Hell itself if they thought
the devil had a penny in his britches. But not a one of 'em will
pass the Yazoo Narrows without a moon, and that's a fact."

 

    "One will tonight," said the sorceress. "Or he'll get off
and watch me take his craft. I don't care which." Papers
rustled. "This is a Presidential writ, Captain," she said.
"This craft and my cargo are going on to Vicksburg. Tonight.
Any further obstruction will be met with force. Is that clear?"

 

    "Go to Hell," said the Captain, not turning. "Go to Hell
and take Lincoln with you."

 

    Paddle-wheels churned. Tiny flickers of light played over
the backs of the sorceress's hands.

 

    "We'll need half a hour at Float to unload the passengers
and such of the crew that ain't eager to die, ma'am," said Swain.
"Course, since Yer Mightyness is in a hurry, we could just throw
the women an' babies off now."

 

    The sorceress let out her breath in a long weary sigh. The
glow at her fingers vanished. "You may have half an hour at
Float," she said. "No more."

 

    The Captain was silent. The sorceress turned and stepped
through the open door and then turned again to fix the Captain's
back with a glare. "I will forget your insubordination if there
are no further difficulties between us, Captain," she said. "And
I may have neglected to mention that you will be reimbursed for
any losses you incur if passengers remain behind." The Captain
didn't stir.

 

    "The War is over," muttered the Sorceress. "Why can't you
people accept the peace?"

 

    "I reckon," said Swain, nodding toward the haunted night
beyond the pilothouse, "because it ain't any too peaceful south
of Memphis these days, yer Yankeeship."

 

    The door slammed. The sorceress's heavy footfalls faded,
buried under the
Yocona 's
steady throbbing.

 

    "Well, Captain," said Swain quietly, "Guess I just saved
your ass from the Yankees. Again."

 

    The Captain shook his head and lit a cigar. Purple-grey
smoke drifted wraithlike through the pilothouse. "You believe
the stories about the Narrows, Swain?" asked the Captain.
"Because if you do, you just sent us all to Hell."

 

    Swain pulled himself back into the darkness behind the map
table. "Bound for it anyway, ain't we?" he said. "This way,
maybe we get to take a Yankee wand-waver with us."

 

    The Captain took a long draw of the cigar and watched the
shadows tumble all the way to Float.

 

 

 

    The River turned. The
Yocona
followed, and the
lights blazing at Float vanished, one by one. As the lamp lights
failed, a chorus of steam-whistle blasts rang out, hanging in the
thick, moist night air until they, too, were swallowed up by the
river and the night.

 

    "At least we got a proper send-off," muttered Swain. "We
bein' doomed heroes and all."

 

    "Quiet, Swain," said the Captain.

 

    "They'll be talkin' about us for years to come, they will,"
said Swain. "We'll be the ones that dared the Narrows on a
moonless night. Vanished without a trace -- 'cept some nights,
you can still hear the
Yocona 's
pistons, throbbin' and
thrashin' deep down in the river -- "

 

    "Swain!"

 

    Boots scuffed planks just beyond the pilothouse door. After
a moment, someone knocked.

 

    A match scratched and flared as the Captain lit a fresh
cigar.

 

    "She'll just barge in anyway, Cap'n," said Swain. "Might as
well invite her in, polite-like."

 

    The door opened. "May I enter?"

 

    "Step right up, ma'am," said Swain before the Captain's
silence lingered too long. "You'll want a good place to watch
from."

 

    The sorceress entered and stood before the map-table. "And
for what," she said, "am I to watch, sir?"

 

    "You'll know it when you see it, wand-waver. And don't be
sirrin' me -- name's Swain. Mister Swain, if you're bein'
formal, which you might well be since you're the one goin' to get
me killed."

 

    "You could have stayed with the others at Float," snapped
the sorceress. "If you are convinced this vessel is doomed, why
did you remain aboard?"

 

    "Shut up, Swain," said the Captain. "You talk too damn
much."

 

    "At last," said the sorceress. "Something the good Captain
and I agree upon."

 

    "Oh, do you now?" said Swain. "Well, to Hell with both of
you. We're headed for the Yazoo Narrows in the middle of a
moonless night and if I feel like talkin' I'll talk. What do you
know about the Narrows anyway, wand-waver? Anything?"