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You're built to win it. Welcome to Snewscast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at snuescast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by a curious feeling of disquietude. Tonight as part of our annual spooky sleep stories series, we'll read the opening to the novella, The Willows. It was written by Alternon Blackwood and first published in 1907. Two friends drift down the Danube by canoe, threading a maze of shifting channels, sand banks, and low islands crowded with willow scrub. The river's moods, eddies, gusts, glittering sun, seem to lean in and watch them, and the thickets along the banks gather like a listening crowd. As night closes, the landscape feels less like scenery and more like a presence with its own designs, most vividly in the willows which moved off their own will as though alive. Blackwood was a devoted outdoorsman and a writer fascinated by the

numinous nature. He often suggested that the wilderness is not merely backdrop, but a more than human realm. The willows helped define early modern, weird fiction by trading blood and monsters for unease and awe. It's influence Echoed by later authors across the genre.

H.B. strange. Let's get cozy. Close your eyes. your body into the softness of your bed. Now take a few deep breaths. leaving Vienna and long before you come to Budapest, the Danube enters a region of singular loneliness and desolation, where its waters spread away on all sides regardless of a main channel. And the country becomes a swamp for miles upon miles, covered by a vast sea of low, willow bushes. On the big maps, this deserted area is painted in a fluffy blue, growing fainter in color as it leaves the banks. And across it may be seen in large, straggling letters, the word, zoom-fa, meaning, marches. In high flood, this great acreage of sand, shingle beds, and willow-grown islands is almost topped by the water. But in normal seasons the bushes bend and rustle in the free winds, showing their silver leaves to the sunshine in an ever-moving plane of bewildering beauty. These willows never attain to the dignity of trees. They have no rigid trunks. They remain humble bushes, with rounded tops and soft outline, swaying on slender stems that answer to the least pressure of the wind, supple as grasses, and so continually shifting that they somehow give the impression that the entire plane is moving and alive. For the wind sends waves rising and falling over the whole surface, waves of leaves instead of waves of water. Green swells like the sea too until the branches turn and lift and then silveryvery white as their underside turns to the sun. Happy to slip beyond the control of the stern banks, the Danube here wanders about at will among the intricate network of channels intersecting the islands everywhere with broad

avenues down which the waters pour with a shouting sound, making whirlpools, eddies and foaming rapids, tearing at the sandy banks, carrying away masses of shore and willow clumps, and forming new islands innumerably which shift daily in size and shape and possess at best and impermanent life, since the flood time obliterates their very existence. Properly speaking, this fascinating part of the river's life begins soon after leaving Presberg, and we, in our Canadian canoe, with gypsy tent and frying pan on board, reached it on the crest of a rising flood about mid-July. That very same morning, when the sky was reddening before sunrise, we had slipped swiftly through still sleeping Vienna, leaving it a couple of hours later, a mere patch of smoke against the blue hills of the Vaynerwald on the horizon. Racing along at 12 kilometers an hour soon took us well into Hungary and the muddy waters, sure sign a flood, sent us a ground on many a shingle bed, and twisted us like a cork in many a sudden belching whirlpool before the towers of Presberg showed against the sky. And then the canoe, leaping like a spirited horse, flew at top speed under the grey walls, turn the corner sharply to the left, and plunged on yellow foam into the wilderness of islands, sand banks, and swamp land beyond the land of the willows. The change came suddenly as when a series of bioscope pictures snaps down on the streets of a town and shifts without warning into the scenery of lake and forest. We entered the land of desolation on wings, and in less than half an hour there was neither boat nor fishing hut nor red roof nor any single sign of human habitation and civilization within sight. The sense of remoteness from the world of humankind, the utter isolation, the fascination of this singular world of willows, winds, and waters. Instantly laid its spill upon us both, so that we allowed laughingly to one another, that we ought by rights to have held some kind of special passport to admit us. And that we had, somewhatitiously come without asking leave into a separate little kingdom of wonder and magic, a kingdom that was reserved for the use of others who had a right to it, with everywhere unwritten warnings to trespassers for those who had the imagination to discover them. Though still early in the afternoon, the ceaseless buffettings of a most tempestuous wind made us feel weary, and we at once began casting about for a suitable camping ground for the night. But the bewildering character of the islands made landing difficult. The swirling flood carried us in shore and then swept us out again. the willow branches tore our hands as we seized them to stop the canoe. And we pulled many a yard of sandy bank into the water. Before at length we shot with a great sideways blow from the wind into a backwater and managed to beach the boughs in a cloud of spray. Then we lay panting and laughing after her exertions on the hot yellow sand, sheltered from the wind, and in the full blaze of a scorching sun, a cloudless blue sky above, and an immense army of dancing, shouting will obocious, closing in from all sides, shining with spray and clapping their thousand little hands as though to applaud the success of our efforts. What a river, I said to my companion, thinking of all the way we had traveled from the source in the Black Forest and how he had often been obliged to wade and push in the upper shallows at the beginning of June. Won't stand much nonsense now, will it?" he said, pulling the canoe a little farther into safety up the sand and then composing himself for a nap. I lay by his side happy and peaceful in the bath of the elements, water, wind and sand, the great fire of the sun, Thinking of the long journey that lay behind us, And of the great stretch before us to the black sea, And how lucky I was to have such a delightful and charming traveling companion as my friend, the sweet. We had made many similar journeys together, but the Danube, more than any other river I knew, impressed us from the very beginning with its aliveness. its tiny bubbling entry into the world among the Pinewood Gardens of Donnell, Eshengen, until this moment when it began to play the great river game of losing itself among the deserted swamps, unobserved, unrestrained. It had seemed to us like following the growth of some living creature. Sleepy at first, but later developing violent desires as it became conscious of its deep soul, it rolled, like some huge fluid being through all the countries we had passed, holding our little craft on its mighty shoulders, playing roughly with us sometimes, yet always friendly and well-meaning. Till at length we had come inevitably to regard it as a great personage. How, indeed, could it be otherwise since it told us so much of its secret life?

At night we heard it singing to the moon as we lay in our tent, uttering that odd, and tone peculiar to itself, and said to be caused by the rapid tearing of the pebbles along its bed. So great is its hurrying speed. We knew, too, the voice of its gurgling whirlpools, suddenly bubbling up on a surface previously quite calm. The roar of its shallows and swift rapids. Its constant steady thundering below all mere surface sounds, and that ceaseless tearing of its icy waters at the banks.

How it stood up and shouted when the rains fell flat upon its face, and how its laughter roared out when the wind blew upstream and tried to stop its growing speed.

We knew all its sounds and voices, its tumbling and foaming, its unnecessary splashing against the bridges, that self-conscious chatter when there were hills to look on. the affected dignity of its speech, when it passed through the little towns, far too important to laugh. All these faint, sweet whisperings, when the sun caught it fairly in some slow curve, and poured down upon it till the steam rose. It was full of tricks, too, in its early life before the great world knew it. There were places in the upper reaches among the Swabian forests, when yet the first whispers of its destiny had not reached it, where it elected to disappear through holes in the ground. To appear again on the other side of the porous limestone hills, and start a new river with another name, leaving to so little water in its own bed that we had to climb out and wade and push the canoe through miles of shallows. And a chief pleasure in those early days of its irresponsible youth was to lie low, like bare fox. Just before the little turbulent tributaries came to join it from the Alps, and to refuse to acknowledge them went in, but to run for miles side by side. The dividing line well marked. The very levels different. The Danube utterly declining to recognize the newcomer. Below Pasau, however, it gave up this particular trick. For there the inn comes in with a thundering power impossible to ignore, and so pushes and incomodes the parent river that there is hardly room for them in the long twisting gorge that follows. And the Danube is shoved this way and that against the cliffs.

And force... twisting gorge that follows. And the Danube is shoved this way and that against the cliffs. And forced to hurry itself with great waves and much dashing to and fro in order to get through in time. And during the fight, Arkhanu slipped down from its shoulder to its breast and had the time of its life among the struggling waves. But the inn taught the old river a lesson, and after Pesau, it no longer pretended to ignore new arrivals. This was many days back, of course. And since then, we had come to know other aspects of the Great Creature. And across the Bavarian wheat plain of Straubing, she wandered so slowly under the blazing June sun that we could well imagine only the surface inches were below. While below there moved, concealed as by a silken mantle, a whole army of undines, passing silently and unseen down to the sea, and very leisurely too, lest they be discovered. Much too we forgave her because of her friendliness to the birds and animals that haunted the shores.

Cormorants lined the banks in lonely places in rows, like short black palings.

Grey crows crowded the shingle beds.

Storks stood fishing in the vastas of shallower water that opened up between the islands, and hawks, swans, and marsh birds of all sorts filled the air with the glinting wings and singing, petulant cries. It was impossible to feel annoyed with the river's vagaries after seeing a deer leap with a splash into the water at sunrise and swim past the bows of the canoe. And often we saw fawns peering at us from the underbrush. Or looked straight into the brown eyes of a stag, as we charged full tilt round a corner and entered another reach of the river. Foxes, too, everywhere haunted the banks, tripping daintyly among the driftwood, and disappearing so suddenly that it was impossible to see how they managed it. But now, after leaving Pressberg, everything changed a little, and the Danube became more serious. It ceased trifling. It was halfway to the Black Sea. Within seeming distance, almost of other, stranger countries, where no tricks would be permitted or understood. It became suddenly grown up and claimed our respect and even our all. It broke out into three arms for one thing that only met again 100 kilometers farther down. for for a canoe there were no indications which one was intended to be followed. The rising river did not alarm us in the least, but the matter of being left high and dry by a sudden subsistence of the waters might be serious, and we had consequently laid in an extra stock of provisions. For the rest, the officers' prophecy held true, and the wind blowing down a perfectly clear sky increased steadily till it reached the dignity of a westerly gale. It was earlier than usual when we camped. For the sun was a good hour or two from the horizon, and leaving my friends still asleep on the hot sand, I wandered about in desulterie examination of our hotel. The island, I found, was less than an acre in extent, a mere sandy bank, standing some two or three feet above the level of the water.

The far end, pointing into the sunset, was covered with flying spray, which the tremendous wind

drove off the crest of the broken waves. It was triangular in shape with the apex upstream. I stood there for several minutes watching the impetuous crimson flood bearing down with a shouting roar, dashing in waves against the bank as though to sweep it boldly away, and then swirling by in two foaming streams on either side. The ground seemed to shake with the shock and rush, while the furious movement of the willow bushes as the wind poured over them increased the curious illusion that the island itself actually moved. Above, for a mile or two, I could see the great river descending upon me. It was like looking up the slope of a sliding hill, white with foam, and leaping up everywhere to show itself to the sun. The rest of the island was too thickly grown with willows to make walking pleasant, but I made the tour nevertheless. From the lower end the light, of course, changed, and the river looked dark and angry. the backs of the flying waves were visible, streaked with foam, and pushed forcibly by the great puffs of wind that fell upon them from behind. For a short mile it was visible, pouring in and out among the islands, and then disappearing with a huge sweep into the willows, which closed about it like a herd of monstrous creatures crowding down to drink. They made me think of gigantic sponge-like growths that sucked the river up into themselves. They caused it to vanish from sight. They heard it there together in such overpowering numbers. All together it was an impressive scene with its utter loneliness, its bizarre suggestion. And as I gazed, long and curiously, a singular emotion began to stir somewhere in the depths of me. in my delight of the wild beauty, they're crept, unbidden and unexplained, a curious feeling of disquietude, almost of alarm. A rising river, perhaps, always suggests something of the ominous. Many of the little islands I saw before me would probably have been swept away by the morning. This resistless, thundering flood of water touched the sense of awe. Yet I was aware that my uneasiness lay deeper far than the emotions of awe and wonder. It was not that I felt, nor had it directly to do with the power of the driving wind, this shouting hurricane that might almost carry up a few acres of willows into the air and scatter them like so much chaff over the landscape. The wind was simply enjoying itself, for nothing rose out of the flat landscape to stop bit. And I was conscious of sharing its great game with a kind of pleasurable excitement. Yet this novel emotion had nothing to do with the wind. Indeed, Soveg was the sense of distress I experienced, that it was impossible to trace it to its source and deal with it accordingly, though I was aware somehow that it had to do with my realization of our utter insignificance before this unrestrained power of the elements about me. The huge-grown river had something to do with it too. A vague, unpleasant idea that we had somehow trifled with these great elemental forces in whose power we lay hopeless every hour of the day and night.

For here, indeed, they were gigantically at play together and the sight appealed to the imagination. But my emotion, so far as I could understand it, seemed to attach itself more particularly to the willow bushes, to these acres and acres of willows, crowding so thickly growing there, swarming everywhere the eye could reach, pressing upon the river

as though to suffocate it, standing in dense array, mile after mile beneath the sky, watching, waiting, listening, and, apart quite from the elements, the willows connected themselves subtly with my malaise, attacking the mind insidiously somehow by reason of their vast numbers, and contriving in some way or other to represent to the imagination a new and mighty power, a power moreover, not altogether friendly to us. revelations of nature, of course, never fail to impress in one way or another, and I was no stranger to moods of the kind. Mountains overall and oceans terrify, While the mystery of great forests exercises a spell peculiarly its own. But all these, at one point or another, somewhere link on intimately with human life and human experience. They stir, comprehensible, even if alarming motions, they tend on the whole to exalt. With this multitude of willows, however, it was something far different, I felt.

Some essence emanated from them that besieged the heart. A sense of awe awakened, true, but of awe touched somewhere by a vague terror. serried ranks, growing everywhere darker about me as the shadows deepened. Moving furiously, yet softly in the wind, woken me the curious and unwelcome suggestion that we had trespassed here upon the borders of an alien world. A world where we were intruders. A world where we were not wanted or invited to remain. Where we ran grave risks perhaps. The feeling, however, though it refused to yield its meaning entirely to analysis, did not at the time trouble me by passing into menace. Yet it never left me quite, even during the very practical business of putting up the tent in a hurricane of wind and building a fire for the stupat. It remained just enough to bother and perplex and to rob a most delightful camping ground of a good portion of its charm. To my companion, however, I said nothing, for he was a man I considered devoid of imagination. In the first place, I could never have explained to him what I meant. And in the second, he would have laughed stupidly at me if I had. There was a slight depression in the center of the island, and here we pitched the tent. The surrounding willows broke the wind a bit. But the experience of a collapsing tent at midnight had taught us many devices, and we made the cozy house as safe as possible, and then set about collecting a store of wood to last till bedtime. Willow bushes drop no branches, and driftwood was our only source of supply. We hunted the shores pretty thoroughly. Everywhere the banks were crumbling as the rising flood tour at them and carried away great portions with a splash and a gurgle. The island's much smaller than when we landed, said the accurate sweet, it won't last long at this rate. We'd better drag the canoe close to the tent and be ready to start at a moment's notice. I shall sleep

in my clothes."

He was a little distance off, climbing along the bank. Good heavens! It's a man's body. He cried excitedly. Look.

A black thing turning over and over in the foaming waves swept rapidly past.

It kept disappearing and coming up to the surface again.

...