The Singing River by R.K. Ryals Read Free Book Online

the table; his head down, his hair mussed, and his nose covered in a butterfly bandage. He’d refused to go to the doctor after I’d broken it, and we hadn’t forced him.
    I glanced at Roman, my voice rising as my gaze moved to Marley. “Marissa says you’re planning a trip to the river this week,” I said.
    Uncle Marley nodded.
    I tapped the table. “Roman and I would like to go with you.”
    Roman’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing.
    “I don’t—” Roman began.
    Marley clapped his hands, cutting him off. “What a marvelous idea! I could use a couple of extra hands.”
    Roman rose. “Really, I don’t think—”
    But Uncle Marley was off on one of his tirades, his excitement louder than his words.
    “I’ve already got a young woman coming. A sweet girl, her mama says, and interested in old stories. She’s the daughter of Gary Houston’s new secretary.”
    Roman sat. “A girl?” The fight didn’t drain out of him, but it lessened.
    Marley nodded. “That’s right. About your age I think. Knows a lot about the legend, I hear.”
    Roman glared at me, his eyes locked with mine as he asked, “She pretty?”
    His brows rose, and I glared back. This trip was about him and his issues, not more trouble he could cause.
    Uncle Marley didn’t notice the tension; he never did. He’d arrived, as he always had when I was growing up, uninvited and unexpected. If it wasn’t for his habit of visiting old friends, and us living in a small town, we wouldn’t have known he was coming until he showed up at the door.
    “This is great!” Uncle Marley insisted. He pushed his plate away, only half of it eaten. “I’m writing a book, you know? Nothing special. Just a collection of Southern folklore. I need some pictures, and it wouldn’t hurt to get audio of the death chant.”
    Roman slumped in his chair. “The death chant?”
    Marley wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it down next to his plate. “That’s right. Death chant. Legend says you can hear it in the summer.”
    “The late summer,” I corrected.
    Uncle Marley looked at me. “You know the story?”
    Shrugging, I mumbled, “Bits and pieces.”
    Truth be told, I’d run across the legend doing a paper a few years back in high school. It had fascinated me. Not because it was a love story, but because it had been a story that was as much about sacrifice and death as it had been about life.
    Roman looked at me. “Following legends now, brother?”
    I stuffed chow mein noodles into my mouth to keep from answering. Marissa had a thing for Asian food, and when I’d lived at home, it had been a Saturday night tradition. It obviously still was.
    Roman’s gaze moved down the table. “ Why is there a death chant?”
    Uncle Marley pushed his glasses up. “Supposedly, many years ago, the entire Pascagoula Indian tribe all marched to their death at the bottom of the Pascagoula River while singing a death chant. To this day, the song can still be heard.”
    Marissa laid her fork down on the table, her face pale. “I’m glad I’m not part of this trip.”
    “Actually,” Uncle Marley said, his lips twitching, “they say it’s quite beautiful.”
    “It all sounds interesting,” Roman broke in. “But I don’t think I’ll—”
    “ Oh , you’re going,” I interrupted.
    My brother’s gaze met mine again. We were both standing, though I didn’t remember getting up, our hands planted on the table.
    For the first time, Marley noticed the tension. “Oh dear,” he said, pushing up his glasses.
    Roman’s fist met the mahogany surface. Dishes rattled. “I’m not going.”
    The smile I gave him never reached my eyes. “Yes, you are.”
    I left no room for argument.
    Roman growled, “You’re not my father!”
    Marissa touched the table tentatively. “No, he’s not, but I’m your guardian,” her eyes slid to Roman’s face, “and I happen to think this will be good for you.”
    Roman’s eyes moved from my face to Marissa’s and back again.