The River of Souls

Magnus awakened in the grip of Death.

He couldn’t breathe. His face was pressed upon by a wet, heavy darkness. Panic shook him. In the horror of the instant he realized where he must be, on his right side in the quicksand pit. His head pounded and he could taste blood. Someone had hit him from behind…Royce. He had to get his face up into the air. Had to get his legs under himself, and his body straightened out…the quicksand was up his nostrils and in his mouth and sealing shut his eyes, and Magnus knew that if he did not get air within the next few seconds he was finished in this world.

He fought against the mire. It fought back. The paste of black earth had him. He strained his neck and face upward, toward where he thought the surface was. His muscles screamed, and he wanted to scream. Maybe he did, there in the dark pressure of wet, clinging tides.

But in the next instant his nose and mouth broke the surface, which was only a few inches above, and though he remained blind and gripped hard by this demonic mud he was able to spit his mouth clear and draw a howling breath that shuddered through him and gave him a small gift of hope.

He was able then also to expell the quicksand from his nostrils, and breathe air tainted with the sharp and putrid odors of the swamp and the smell of smoke from the fire that burned beyond. The next challenge was getting his entire face and head clear of the muck. It was going to take an effort of muscle and will. Magnus felt both faltering, but by God he had to try before he was pulled down any deeper.

He went about an attempt to get his body straightened out and keep his face at the surface. He worked hard at this objective, but the quicksand worked harder to hold him firm and, indeed, draw him downward. Though he was able to maintain a breathing space, any movement of intended speed or strength was met by a resistance that made him feel he had the weak muscles of a helpless infant. He had the distinct memory of trying to draw a comb through his bear-greased hair, hitting clots and knots and ripping his hair out to spite both Pandora Prisskitt and Matthew Corbett; he felt now like that comb, heavy with bear grease and doomed to fail.

The substance was thick about him, like both a wet sand and a clinging mud. Was there anyone out there to help him? He tried to answer that question by calling for help, but the quicksand threatened to flood his mouth. If anyone had answered, he couldn’t tell because his ears were stopped up.

Trapped, Magnus thought. And then the real terror hit him and he began to flail at his fate, to try to fight his way out of this with sheer boulder-shouldered brawn, but the quicksand just seemed to close more tightly around him and once again his face went under. He stopped fighting, for he realized muscle would not overpower this suckpit and hard motion brought forth an equally hard reaction. He suddenly remembered very clearly Matthew’s first words to him upon arriving at the house.

Calm yourself, sir.

Magnus ceased all motion. His heart was pounding, telling him it was wrong to give up the fight, yet he intended to fight not with terrified brawn but with a calm brain. Slowly…slowly…he pushed his face upward through the muck…slowly…not incurring the wrath of the suckpit…and his nose and mouth once more broke the surface. He spat out quicksand and took in air, and determined that slow movements might yet defeat the will of the pit. Thus he began to very slowly push with his legs against the mass of viscous earth, and it took an iron will not to fight hard but it was this or death and he was not ready to give up, and surely not to the evil of a witch-cursed swamp.

He felt the desire of the suckpit pulling at him, even with these slow, sinuous movements. How long it took him to work his head and shoulders out of the mire, Magnus didn’t know. Still moving with slowness respectful to the pit, he was able to get his eyes cleared and saw in the afternoon’s blue light and drifting smoke the carnage of the scene: Stamper lying on his back with a pool of blood around his head, Barrows crumpled and bloody, and Bovie lying on his side. Royce was gone, and Magnus knew who he was going after.

The man was a mad dog, Magnus thought. An animal who killed on impulse, either in rage or misguided passion. Surely the killing of Gunn had been intentional…and now this.

He had to get out for still he felt the pit pulling at him, accepting his weight and bulk like an offering to the demons below.

If he moved slowly enough, he thought, he might be able to swim out. There were only a few feet to firm ground. So he might use his arms as a swimmer would, to move the muck around and behind him…but even the distance of a few feet would be torturous through this paste. Even so…it had to be tried.

He began his journey from the pit of death toward the shore of life. The motions were slow, the quicksand still heavy and clinging around him and yet it did yield to these more deliberate actions. When at last he reached more solid earth, Magnus dug his fingers into the mud and weeds but found further difficulty in pulling himself out, for the suckpit did not want to let him go. Inch by inch he worked himself from the mire, as if struggling out of a suit of tar. Several times he thought he couldn’t get out for even moving by inches his strength was nearly gone, but what fortified him was the knowledge that Royce had killed Sarah in the same kind of blood frenzy the man had just shown, and now Royce was on his way to finish his job of sealing all mouths.

Royce could say the cursed swamp got its victims by alligator, the Dead in Life, quicksand, poisonous snake, accidental gunshot or the Soul Cryer, and it might be many years before anyone would come searching for the bodies. By that time, the swamp and its creatures would have disposed of the flesh, and Royce would be long gone.

“No,” Magnus rasped, as he yet struggled to pull himself free. “Not lettin’ that happen.”

A hand was offered to him.

Magnus looked into the blue-tinged face of Caleb Bovie, who had crawled across the wet earth on his belly like the reptile that had bitten him.

Tears of torment had streamed from Bovie’s bloodshot eyes and yellow foam coated his lips, but in spite of his obvious agony he whispered, “Grab hold.”

Magnus did. Bovie had no strength to speak of, but he tried his best. It was enough. Magnus freed himself from the pit, feeling his boots being sucked off his feet as payment for escape, and he lay weary on the ground next to Bovie like an oversized scarecrow covered head to toe with the black grime of the swamp.

“Muldoon?” Bovie asked, again in a pained whisper. “Will you help me get home?”

“Yes,” said Magnus.

Magnus got to his bootless feet with a determination that would have earned an awed respect from even Father Prisskitt. He started to reach down to help Bovie up, when he heard the Soul Cryer’s eerie weeping somewhere in the wilderness at his back.

It was close, but it could not be seen. Smoke moved in the trees, and here and there in the higher branches burned sputters of flame like little torches. The dry, hot wind that had been blowing toward the river had calmed to an acrid breeze, but Magnus could see the orange glow of the fire in the sky that meant a large portion of the forest was ablaze. The main part of the fire looked to be maybe a quarter mile away, and was throwing a constellation of embers into the air that drifted down like burning stars.

Again the Soul Cryer wept, closer still.

Magnus walked the few paces to Bovie’s discarded sword and picked it up. He retrieved the pistol from Barrows’ dead body and cocked it. Soul Cryer smells blood, Magnus thought. It’s comin’.

With sword in one hand and pistol in the other, the grimy black mountain of a scarecrow stood over Caleb Bovie and readied himself to fight for both their lives.