I’m going to tell you a story about true suffering. This is the tale of the monsters of Wailer’s River.
When I was a little girl, I lived in a settlement on the other side of Wailer’s River. No, I’m not talking about Wailham. The port didn’t exist when I was a child. Back then, it was forests and swamps in all directions.
Papa told me that he, Mama, Grandaddy and a bunch of other townsfolk used to live in Ruesville. In his words, the place became a cesspit of backwards politics and debauchery, so they all packed up their things into wagons and left. It took them months to find a place to settle down.
Eventually, they reached a bend in that large, brown snake of a river. The ground was stable enough to stand on but easy enough to till. So Grandaddy, Papa, Mama and everyone else built the foundations of Wailham. Back then, it was simply called Asp.
I’m sure at that time, Asp was a wonderful place. Papa told me about the Summer harvest festivals and the massive fish that swam through the mighty river every season. The way he described their fat bellies and pink meat made his eyes shine in a way I never saw before.
You see, I grew up in Asp during the Drought. Thank your lucky stars you never had to live through that time. Wailer’s River shrivelled up like a starved snake. The banks became muddy and littered with the corpses of dead, stinking fish.
Barely anything grew during the Drought, so we had to live on merge scraps. Papa and many of the other townsfolk, still sore about Ruesville, refused to reach out for assistance. So, like how most of these stories go, we all suffered thanks to the actions of a small group.
I can’t recall the first time I heard about the Wailer. I do recall how Papa told me the story as he said it the same way almost every time. I may have been a toddler, laying on a deer rug as my Papa carved something out of wood.
“Elenore, you listen to Papa. Never, ever go near Wailer’s River, not even the shallow parts. You know why it’s called Wailer’s River? It belongs to the Wailer, girl. She’s an ugly, mean old thing – older than the Earth itself. If she sees a young, pretty child like you, she’ll snatch you and drag you under the surface. At night, you can hear her screams, can’t you? So stay away.”
Everyone nowadays say that the Wailer was just a myth, a simple folklore legend to keep unruly and unsupervised children from jumping into deep water and drowning. It’s such a simple and rational explanation.
That doesn’t explain how Papa was right and I could hear her screams though, does it?
I remember one night I was laying on my bed, my stomach growling from hunger. Papa would try his hardest to save up coins, but even with a pile that could fit in his huge hands, it was never enough. During the Drought, the price of food grew faster than pond weeds in Wailer’s River. There were four of us to feed – Papa, Mama, Fletch and me. Fletch was little, but he was a ravenous boy. Papa always gave him the most and he still cried for more.
So there I was, trying to ignore the hunger pains, trying to focus on anything else. That was when I heard the wailing. It started as a low, weeping sob that echoed through my room. Just as I caught onto it, it stopped. I didn’t dare breathe as I strained to hear it. Then, the wailing began. It was an awful noise, like two cats fighting to the death. A shrill cry of agony and despair that came from the direction of the mighty river.
From the second I heard, I knew it was the Wailer. Even though I knew she would not touch me in the safety of my home, I still hid under the covers. I didn’t want her long, gnarled fingers to grab me and drag me to the river.
Even after her wails died down, I could not sleep. The next morning, I was barely awake. I think maybe Papa and Mama had heard her as well. They looked as tired and as dishevelled as I did. Fletch seemed none the wiser and played with his toys as normal.
I didn’t dare speak about it in case Papa got mad with me. Papa got mad quite easily during the Drought. I think it was a mixture of the hunger and the stress of looking after a starving family.
The next night, I did not hear the Wailer. In fact, I didn’t hear her until a few weeks later. This time, she only released a single unending moan. As it ended, there came a horrendous choking sound from outside my room. I screamed in fear, thinking the Wailer had come for me.
Hearing my cries, Papa came in to comfort me. He told me that Mama was ill, and that everything was okay. His shaking voice and tight grip did little to quell my fears.
The next morning, I learnt that Mama’s illness was worse than we had feared. She was pale and bedridden. She had a bucket next to her bed to vomit into. Afraid to waste anything, she refused to eat. Father had to hold her down and force food into her mouth while she screamed in protest. I kept Fletch away so he did not have to watch.
This went on for many months. Mama refused to leave her bed. She was covered in layers of blankets and rugs, despite the heat of the day. I would take a washcloth in to wipe her sweating brow. Despite my best efforts, her body still stunk of sweat and excrement.
During this awful time, I soon found myself taking comfort in the Wailer. I came to learn that she only made her mournful sounds every once in a while. Sometimes, she shrieked and screamed. Other times, she only wept. One nights I could swear she was shouting something. A curse on God, I think. Eventually, I grew accustomed to her noises. In a twisted way, they became a lullaby. I knew that as long as I stayed away from her river, I would be safe.
One night, Mama became restless and weepy. Papa told us that the doctor was coming to check on her and sent me and Fletch away to stay with a work friend of his a few houses over. As we settled in to sleep in a stranger’s bed, I heard the Wailer once more. As she often did, the creature of the river sobbed and moaned, making pleas to a higher power.
I closed my eyes, lulled into rest by the creature’s agonising cries. When I awoke early the next morning, I found the bedding next to me cold.
I looked everywhere for Fletch, but he was not in the stranger’s home. Without telling anyone, I raced out. The sun was only just starting to peak over the horizon as I searched for my brother.
I knew the famished boy was probably looking for something to eat. His favourite food was a type of pond weed that Papa gathered when he got a chance. My heart squeezed tight in my chest. I knew that it was morning, but it was still dark. The Wailer had been active mere hours before. She may still be around.
I raced over to the riverbank as fast as my skinny little legs could go. I cried out for Fletch, begging him to stay out of the water. To my dismay, I saw him wading in the shallows, picking out bunches of pond weed and stuffing it straight into his mouth.
As I entered the water and splashed towards him, I saw something dark lurking near his legs. Screaming for my little brother, I pulled him away. I expected her claws to lunge out and grab my ankles. I was ready for her scream to destroy my ears. I waited for her to pull me under the cold, muddy water.
I did not see the Wailer that morning. Instead, I saw a pale, shrivelled figure bobbing in the water. A long, veiny cord of rope dangled from it like the innards of a slaughtered animal. Even in the murky water, I could make out a small, wrinkled face, its eyes screwed shut and mouth open.
Then I saw Papa, his eyes wide with fear as he ripped us out of the water. His clothes and face were stained with streaks of brown and a deep red.
I remember him dragging us away from the river and back to our home. I recall Fletch squealing like a trapped boar as Papa belted him with a long piece of leather. I will never forget the belt smacking my bare legs and back and the white-hot jolts of pain that made me shriek and moan and wail like she had (like they all had) for all those months before and every moment since the Drought began.
A few days after Papa disciplined us, the rain began. It didn’t stop for almost a week. From then on, Wailer’s River grew fat and plentiful with fish once more. Over time, crops grew, and their bounties were once again large and delicious.
Since it was a time of miracles, Mama finally became well again. The colour in her cheeks came back, and she was no longer sick. At least, until the rain stopped. Once we all started gathering water from the river again, she refused to drink it. It got so bad that Papa was forced to dig a well for her so that she wouldn’t die of thirst.
There was never another Drought. I never heard the Wailer again.