Newfoundland Stories (19 page)

The little girl sang as she picked buttercups and dandelions, while the boy quickly ran past the car and down to the beach where he proceeded to skim flat stones out into the water. She could hear him counting the number of skips with each throw, yelling jubilantly whenever he achieved an exceptionally high number. The woman – whom Laura assumed was their mother – sat on a large rock a short distance from the car and let them play, seemingly content to keep a close eye on her children as they enjoyed themselves. Their dog, a little black curly-haired “ crackie,” meandered all over the meadow, frequently returning to receive a pat on the head from the woman. She acknowledged Laura's presence with a small wave of her hand and a simple hello before they moved off.

Laura was struck by their clothing. The woman wore a long dress, the bottom of which settled into the long grass where she stood, and the apron covering it was almost as long as the dress itself. Her bonnet resembled those that Laura had seen only in old pictures. Her daughter, whose long golden curls hung down her back, was similarly attired, but without the apron. The boy was wearing breeches held up by braces. She could see, even from the distance separating them, that the leather patches on the knees had received considerable punishment from an obviously active and adventuresome youth.

She heard the mother tell them, “Children, the other beach is much nicer. Let's go over there.”

Gradually they made their way toward Skiff Cove, pausing frequently to pick flowers or to examine some object. They appeared to be in no rush to get there. They seemed to be a very happy little family. But who were they? Laura hadn't seen them around the area before. Maybe they were just visitors or tourists. Maybe Mennonites or members of a similar sect. Or were they just having fun wearing some old clothes they had found in their attic? Eventually they disappeared over the top of the knoll.

Laura settled back for a few more minutes of relaxation, but was no longer in the mood. She picked up her book and read until her husband and Daniel returned, bearing with them Daniel's treasures from the beach.

“Did you see that woman and her two children in Skiff Cove?” she asked them. They both looked at her blankly and denied seeing anybody else while they were there.

“But you must have.” She stopped short. Had she been dreaming? Maybe her husband and Daniel simply missed them some-how.

“Let's drop in and see Aunt Cecelia on our way back,” Daniel said, knowing he'd be treated to cookies and a glass of something sweet and have a chance to tease Aunt Cecelia's cat, Ginger.

Laura and John readily agreed. Aunt Cecelia was one of Laura's favourite relatives, and John knew he'd get one of the cold beers she always kept for him in the outer cool room.

When they entered Aunt Cecelia's kitchen a few minutes later the pleasant aroma of freshly baked bread permeated the house. The kitchen stove was going full blast despite the warm temperature outside, and Aunt Cecelia was bustling about as usual, making repeated trips to and from the pantry, continually wiping her hands in her apron, and fussing over them like they were her long-lost children. Everything was normal – except one thing.

Sitting at the table, slowly sipping a cup of tea was an elderly man Laura had never seen before. Ancient, she thought to herself, was perhaps a better description of him – very old indeed.

“This is Mr. Ryan,” Aunt Cecelia said, offering no further elaboration other than, “He's here from Clarenville for a little visit.”

The old man glanced up and acknowledged them with a slight nod, and then returned his concentration to the teacup which trembled in his hand. A buttered bun lay untouched on his plate. He was now to all appearances oblivious to their presence. There was an aura of sadness about him, a despondency so deep that Laura could almost feel it herself. She didn't know what was at the root of it, but her heart immediately went out to him.

Aunt Cecelia had scarcely resumed her fussing when they heard a knock on the door.

“That will be Mr. Ryan's nephew here to pick him up,” she said. “He's staying at the B&B just up the road. Going back to Clarenville tomorrow.” A few minutes later the old man was led gingerly by a much younger man to the car waiting outside.

“Aunt Cecelia,” Laura asked, “is Mr. Ryan a relative of yours?”

“No,” her aunt replied. “In fact, I can't say that I really know him very well at all because he doesn't say much when he's here. I'm not sure where he came from originally, perhaps Ireland, because he has a bit of that brogue. He lives in Clarenville now and comes down here every year around Labour Day. Stays overnight, has a cup of tea with me, and goes away again. He's been coming back to the village for years, nigh unto sixty I'd say, for as long as I can remember. Must be in his nineties now, perhaps more, and he's so frail he can hardly sit up in a chair. I don't know how he manages to get around at all, poor old fellow.”

“But why? Why does he come here, if he's no relation to you?” Laura asked.

“Well, there's a story, but I'm not sure how much stock I would put in it,” she began. “They say he came here many years ago, before 1930, with his wife and built a little house on that grassy stretch between this house and Devil's Cove, apart from everyone else. As far as everybody could tell, they were very happy and seemed to love each other very much. He was a fisherman, and while he was away at sea she passed the time by making a little vegetable garden. But she was homesick and missed her native Scotland, or so the story goes, and often mentioned that she would like to see her birthplace and her family again someday. Her husband always promised her that she would.”

With a sigh, Aunt Cecelia continued, “They say that shortly after settling there she took to spending long hours standing on the high rise that separates Devil's Cove and Skiff Cove, just gazing out on the sea. People began to refer to her as the Lady on the Hill. Then the children were born, twins, I think. The three of them spent endless hours there or down on the beach.

“Then one day the husband was called to St. John's to settle a matter relating to his property. When he returned he found his house empty and cold, his wife and his children no longer there. There was no note and she didn't appear to have taken anything with her. He talked to the people of the village but no one knew anything.

“He was heartbroken. Days became weeks, and weeks months, until he finally had to accept that his wife and children were indeed gone. Finally, one day he just left without even boarding up the windows of his house, and never returned – until many years later.”

Aunt Cecelia shrugged, then continued, “Some believed that the woman and her two children had been drowned off Devil's Cove by a rogue wave that swept them out to sea. Still, no bodies were ever found, not even the dog. Others suggested they were taken by raiders. Still others said the fairies had gotten them. Who knows what really happened?”

She put a hand to her chin. “What did the poor man think of it all, I wonder? I do remember my own father telling me that Mr.Ryan believed that his wife's homesickness for her Scottish birthplace had finally become so overwhelming that, while he was away in St. John's, she had found someone to take her and the children to Scotland – this despite her obvious love for her husband. Most people in the village were of the opinion that that was most likely the case.

“You know, he never gave up on them. He never stopped searching. He's had a tormented existence ever since. He sold everything off and saved every penny to take a trip to Scotland, but her relatives there could offer no information about her disappearance. I believe years ago he even went to Ireland and England searching for them. He still comes back here every year though. He used to go out to Devil's Cove and stand on the rise just like she used to, staying there by himself for hours. But he's too old to do that now. I guess he'll die without ever knowing what became of them. It's a really sad story, isn't it.”

A cold shiver ran down Laura's spine. She felt a strange sense of loss. The old man's, she supposed. Was it because today was likely to be the last time he would ever visit here again?

Then, somehow, she knew that the woman had not willingly left him. Laura simply could not reconcile the happiness she'd witnessed on the beach with the idea of the woman deserting her husband. Had the woman somehow chosen her to ease the old man's suffering and bring him some comfort?

The kitchen was silent.

“There's a Blue Jays game on TV tonight, Pop,” Daniel offered. “Can we make a pizza and watch it?”

“Sure,” John said. “Who are they playing?”

“The Red Sox. It'll be a good game.”

John stood up. “We should be getting on home then.”

“Just a minute,” said Laura. “We have a little stop to make first. Aunt Cecelia, where did you say Mr. Ryan is staying?”

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Throughout Newfoundland there are countless places shrouded in mystery – bogs and marshes, small hills, wooded copses, coves and the like – where eerie sightings have been made, unexplained lights seen, and strange noises heard. The stories about these presumably haunted spots are as varied as they are numerous. In this fictional story, the adjoining beaches of Devil's Cove and Skiff Cove near Port Rexton, Trinity Bay, fit this description. Despite the fact that this area of Trinity Bay has been inhabited and populated for hundreds of years, the grassy headland overlooking these two coves remains virtually untouched and bears no man-made structures of any kind, perhaps attesting to the aura of the place.

acknowledgements

For her encouragement, support, editing, and contribution of ideas during the writing of these short stories, I wish to thank my wife Joan, as well as my daughter Susan for her proofreading and advice.

Thank you as well to the management and staff of Breakwater Books, especially Rebecca Rose, Annamarie Beckel, and Rhonda Molloy, for their efforts and expertise in bringing this book to publication.

ALSO BY
ELDON DRODGE

FICTION
ISBN: 0-921692-98-6
SOFTCOVER $16.95

In the mid to late 1700s, a group of desperate men, mostly deserters and escaped prisoners, as well as indentured men and boys who had run away from their fishing masters, secluded themselves in the wilderness on the southern shore of Newfoundland's Avalon Peninsula. Led by Peter Kerrivan, himself a deserter from the British Navy, these renegades, predominantly Irish, established their hideout on or near Butterpot, a small mountain about nine miles inland from Ferryland. Defying the law and evading all attempts made to capture them, they survived on the great caribou herds that roamed the barrens and by raiding the fishing settlements along the coast. Known as the Society of Masterless Men, their legend is one of the most exciting and daring in Newfoundland's rich and colourful past.