SIREN OF THE BROAD

It was a beautiful day, and I had chosen my favorite spot to enjoy it: the Applewood Manor Rocking Chair Porch. I was immersed in an interesting book, Voices of the Winds: Native American Legends, when I was joined by Earl Brighton. Earl, a retired university professor, glanced at the book in my hands and remarked, “You know, we have our share of legends around here. This was Indian country. And they would tell you that the French Broad River, or Tselica as they called it, isn’t all beauty and pleasure. It has its dark side.”

I asked, “You mean because of its rapids?”

“No sir,” Earl replied. “I’m talking about something unnatural—the Siren of the Broad. The Cherokee called the river Tselica. Over the years, many young men have disappeared around the rocks just east of here. The Cherokee knew the reason, though not everyone would believe them. According to legend, there exists in the river at that place the image of an alluring woman—a Siren—that draws men to her and to their death.

“There was this fellow, William Gilmore Simms, who learned from the Cherokee and wrote about many of their beliefs and legends in the 1800s. He wrote about the Siren in Volume 5, if I remember correctly, of his book, Myths and Legends of Our Own Land. He even later wrote a poem about it, titled The Siren of Tselica, though he used the name Lorelei, borrowed from a German legend of a woman who lured men to their deaths at sea. We studied his writings at the university, and I would often recite passages to my students to pique their interest. I still remember the story as Simms wrote it. Would you like to hear it?”

“Sure,” I said, “let her rip.”

Earl cleared his throat, then launched into his rendition with the authority of a professor back in his element:

“Among the rocks east of Asheville, North Carolina, lives the Lorelei of the French Broad River. This stream—the Tselica of the Indians—contains in its upper reaches many pools where the rapid water whirls and deepens, and where the traveler likes to pause in the heats of afternoon and drink and bathe. Here, from the time when the Cherokees occupied the country, has lived the Siren, and if one who is weary and downcast sits beside the stream or utters a wish to rest in it, he becomes conscious of a soft and exquisite music blending with the plash of the wave.

Looking down in surprise he sees—at first faintly, then with distinctness—the form of a beautiful woman, with hair streaming like moss and dark eyes looking into his, luring him with a power he cannot resist. His breath grows short, his gaze is fixed, mechanically he rises, steps to the brink, and lurches forward into the river. The arms that catch him are slimy and cold as serpents; the face that stares into his is a grinning skull. A loud, chattering laugh rings through the wilderness, and all is still again.”

“Well, that’s a gripping story,” I said. “But you don’t actually believe that stuff, do you?”

“Who knows for sure, Mr. Collins?” Earl replied thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you this: legends like this aren’t baseless. They’re grounded in events. Things happen, and people look for explanations. Even now, if a young man were to go missing, I’d suggest they check the Broad around those rocks east of here. Legends shouldn’t be dismissed out of hand.”