The Snag in the River
Flash Fiction - Supernatural/Folktale
Greetings, Talebones Readers…
I have a short, simple, epistolary piece of fiction for you today!
In my seasonal hiatus from regular posting, I’ve been gathering a lot of fun new story ideas, but most of them require some hefty percolating time before I can fully dive into them.
Instead, this piece is a revisit to a previous piece of fiction, a slight expansion of a small previous world. A bit of exercise, and an uncanny addition to some expanding lore.
I hope you enjoy!
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While you won’t find it mentioned in any history books, folk tales and local whispers tell of a small town on the Palouse called Cullahan, Washington. It is no longer there, and no tangible traces of it exist. I have visited the spot; it’s just industrial wheat fields and rich soil now, and most regional academics believe the town is a pervasive myth.
That said, in my years-long investigation, I have found former residents who report remarkably similar stories, and I continue to dig into local archives and sift through local recollections despite the pushback.
Today, I have received a goldmine.
The following text is from pages photocopied from a very old, handwritten diary. These are clearly selections and excerpts handpicked to be sent to me; some dates are missing, and some entries cut off in strange places. Because the pages are photocopies they are almost impossible to authenticate, though the handwriting and the marks of age visible appear era-appropriate. If the sporadic dates are to be believed, this diary was written in the early 1850s.
These were sent to me anonymously, and there was no cover letter or explanation included with the folder of photocopies. Who owns this diary now, I couldn’t say. And how they knew to send these to me, I can only guess.
What proceeds may unearth more questions than it answers. Even so, I feel like there are important clues about the truth of Cullahan’s origins—and Washington’s stranger corners of history—to be found in the following recollections.
April 2, 1852
I have chosen my acres to settle on. The price was good. Maybe too good, but I am told that the soil is fertile, and my hope is that they saw my condition and took pity on me. Since leaving Cincinnati, my symptoms have improved markedly, but I know the specter of consumption still hangs around my countenance.
Tomorrow I will inquire about hiring men to plant and tend wheat, and to build a small cabin that I can live in, for I am sick to death of sleeping in this cursed old wagon. I am told that wheat is the right crop for this landscape, and I can believe it.
I have never seen such an expanse of sky. I have never seen such hills.
The Nez Perce guide from our wagon train—they called him Tom, though what his real name is I don’t know—has told me that “wheat” in the trade language used by the locals is “sapolill” and I find that charming.
He drops in every so often to check on me and share the news he gets from the nearby fort and the trading posts, which is kind. I secretly hope he is impressed with me, though in truth I think he thinks I’m crazed to be out here alone. I can tell he is not altogether happy with the land I’ve settled, but he won’t say why.
It is lonely out here. I keep busy, and I don’t always feel it—the loneliness. If I stand still too long, it cuts me wide open and reminds me of what I’ve lost.
May 27, 1852
My wheat grows! It is beautiful, rolling green growing waves of it. The hired men have done a perfect job of planting and tending—their care is evident.
The little cabin they have built is good, too. It is not fancy, but I did not expect a palace. The well is dug, and they also built me a small stable for my horse, and I have been promised a henhouse as well.
Despite their help, I do feel that the men here are only humoring me. I keep getting glances. Not unkind ones, but pitying, like they know I’m not long for the life I’ve chosen. They expect that once my money runs out I will run, too. Back East. Back to a life of modern convenience, of modern comforts.
In truth, it feels as though my efforts are haunted by the ghosts of the Whitmans. The bloody business was only a few years ago but I hear that the violence is still rolling across the region like sharp stones down a hill.
It only firms my resolve. Still, I worry for Tom and his folk.
[date unknown]
It is late in the night, and I sit up writing by the light of the lantern with a shaking hand. Out in the ripening wheat, something is singing.
I say something, because it does not sound like a human voice. It is no nocturnal bird. It is not a coyote, either. I have become accustomed to their eerie, lonely shrieking.
No. What is out in the wheat is nothing I know.
June 10, 1852
Lately I have been thinking of what Tom told me, about this stretch of prairie. That in the old days his people avoided it, because strange things would happen here. People would appear and disappear, and the ones who arrived would be driven mad by their confusion, by not belonging. Strange visions and voices, invisible influences. Demons, he said, or whatever their equivalent is. He struggled to explain the concept to me.
“Demons are from your religion,” he said. “Not ours.”
All just stories. I would never have believed such things, even if he told me before I chose this place to live in. Even so.
In his faltering explanation, Tom likened it to a river. Drop a leaf in the river, and mostly it carries on wherever the current leads it. But if the leaf strays too close to the edge, it can get caught in an eddy and spin, or snag.
This place is a snag, he said. A trap. Mesachie, he said.
The word is not from his language; it’s the trade jargon. It means bad.
July 15, 1852
One of the hired men has vanished. Left, I thought, when Mr. Vernon (the foreman) told me about it, but he shook his head and said, “No. One minute he was there, next minute he was gone. We didn’t see him go.”
Mr. Vernon and the boys don’t seem to have made the connection—the disappearance, the field. Why would they? They don’t know the stories. All they know is that their friend is gone.
I am conflicted. I think maybe I should tell them, before anything else goes wrong. But the wheat will be ready for harvest soon. I need them to stay with me, to see the harvest through. Without the harvest, I have nothing.
[date unknown]
I think whatever is in the wheat was waiting for it to get high enough.
It is easier to proceed with mischief when one is hidden from sight.
July 17, 1852
I have dismissed the men. Mr. Vernon and the others. Tom insisted on it, before anything else happens. He’s right, of course, but it means my ruin.
What little chance I had of making a life here is over. It is too late to start East, so I must eke out a living here through the winter as best as I can.
Tom has promised to help, that he and his people will contribute food and supplies that they can spare, to help me limp through until the spring thaw. They are too kind. I feel a perfect fool.
Outside, the ripening wheat seems to mock me. It is beautiful. It is nearly ready.
It is dangerous.
A trap, just like Tom said.
[date unknown]
This morning, there was a child in the field. Alone. Quite alone, and so afraid.
She is resting near the fire, now. I don’t know what to do.
[date unknown]
More appear. Where are they coming from? Why me?
Sapolill giveth, Sapolill taketh.
I could almost laugh. But I am too afraid.
[date unknown - author has written “Midwinter” at the top of the page]
Leaves running down the river get snagged, and here they are. My house is full of lonely strangers. Wanderers from the wheat. It stands amber-gold and dip-headed in the winter cold, watching me as I welcome them in.
There will be snow soon.
Leaves, just little orphaned leaves. I don’t know where they come from. Some of them don’t speak my language. Some of them have strange skin. Old and young. Man, woman. Ghost or demon or flesh, I hardly know anymore. But they are lost, so I open the door.
I think maybe I am going mad. Tom won’t visit. He’s afraid of me, or afraid of the wheat. There will be snow soon.
The house of Abigail Cullahan is full, now.
Some of them stay, some of them go back out into the winter light, looking for a home they will never find. Cursed to wander forever.
Sapolilly. Sapolilly. He’s out there in the wheat, taking and giving. Singing in the night. Pulling some down into the soil, drowning them in it. Sending some back up to wander into my house, to sit beside my fire.
The snag. This trap in the river of time. I don’t think I’ll ever understand it.
It will snow soon. My house is full, so full.
March 10, 1853
It is spring.
The wheat is long dead. Winter feels like a long, long dream, and I am awake.
Thank God.
As I sit to write this, in the final pages of this book, it is morning. The sun breaks open upon the face of the earth. I look around me, and I see the strange blessing of it: that Sweet Sapolill—the spirit of the wheat—has given lonely Abigail Cullahan a family. It is a miracle, but a fearful one.
Do all recipients of miracles tremble like this?
I intended to head East in the thaw, but I believe I will stay. How could I leave this family behind, now that it has been gifted to me? Who else but me will properly be the custodian of this eddy in the river, this place where those orphaned by time gather in their confusion?
There may be a way to appease him. I will spend my days searching for a way to stem the tide. We will all try. We will work as one, laboring together. To spring the trap, to free the lost.
The wheat has re-seeded, and soon these hills will be awash with green again.
I believe I will stay.
END
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