Wicked Woods (12 page)

In their later years Isaac sprained his right ankle snowshoeing and Ben lugged him over his shoulders across ten long, heavy kilometres of snow-covered wilderness. Afterwards Ben went back and fetched out the deer that the two of them had shot.

It was a friendship carved in New Brunswick granite and only the love of a river woman could wash it away. As fate would have it, Ben and Isaac both fell in love with the same river woman, Mary Well of the Magaguadavic.

The problem was that Mary loved both of them. Every morning she would watch as the two men struck out in their canoes across the Magaguadavic, trying to be the first to land on Mary's shore. They had struck an agreement that whoever reached the far shore faster would have the chance to talk to Mary first that day while the other did the honourable thing and stood clear.

Of course, talking to Mary first also gave the victor of that day's canoe race the opportunity to escort Mary Well for the rest of the day, so the race soon became quite competitive. Folks would gather on the shoreline to watch Ben and Isaac paddle like the devil was swimming close behind. Occasionally they'd pause to swing an oar at each other or even chuck a rock. Everyone figured that a fight was inevitable.

“You have to choose one,” Mary's mother told her. “There's only room for a single ring on any girl's ring finger.”

“Hunt one rabbit, you've got supper,” Mary's father added. “Hunt two rabbits, you've got sore feet.”

But Mary wouldn't listen to either her mother or her father. The truth was, she enjoyed the attention Ben and Isaac paid her. They brought her the best rewards from their hunts and kept her in food and fur. The sad fact of the matter was both Mary's mother and father also enjoyed the food Ben and Isaac provided and their grumbling bellies stopped them from nagging Mary any further.

But Ben and Isaac were growing impatient.

“You have to choose one of us,” they demanded.

“I love you both,” Mary said.

Did she mean it or was she only being fickle? It's hard to know for sure. The heart is made of a hard-packed ground. There's no hunter with an eye sharp enough to track a trail across such coun–try and know for sure that he's heading in the right direction.

The two friends finally had enough. On a hot August day, after a glass of cold buttermilk, they swore that they'd put an end to their quarrelling and competition once and for all.

“We'll fight for Mary's hand,” Ben said. “The two of us will square off and the winner takes all.”

So they called upon the town blacksmith who forged an iron chain and drove it into both sides of a sturdy red maple stump. Each of the two suitors was shackled to one end of the chain with his left hand tied behind his back.

“We were bonded in life,” said Isaac. “We'll be bonded in death.”

“We'll fight to the end,” said Ben. “And the winner will take the hand of Mary Well of the Magaguadavic.”

The townsfolk gathered to watch the battle. Today someone might have tried to stop them, or possibly dialled for the police, but these were simpler and harder times. If two men decided to fight, no one would do or say anything about it. Life went on — and no one wanted to miss a show like this.

High upon her front porch, Mary Well stood between her mother and father. She was both flattered and excited at the prospect of the duel fought on her behalf. The two men, armed with their hunting knives, stood face to face over the red maple stump they were chained to. They fought, wielding their hunt–ing knives with practised ruthlessness. Ben was cut in the left shoulder and blood ran down his arm like a long red scarf, but he caught Isaac with a slash in the leg that painted Isaac's trou–sers scarlet red.

“Yield and give,” Ben said, menacing Isaac with his knife. “That cut was close to the blood-pipe, I warrant. You'll run your–self dry before the end of an hour.”

“Your own wound is closer to the heart than mine. You'll be lying in the dirt, cold and pale, while I'm still standing,” Isaac predicted. “Put down your knife and let's call it quits.”

The truth was neither of the men wanted to hurt the other more than they already had. They had known each other for many years, and as much as they loved Mary they also cared for each other. But both men were stubborn New Brunswickers who didn't give up easily when pushed to it.

Mary knew that too. At first she'd been excited to see the two friends fighting for her attention, but now the whole situation had changed. She didn't want them to hurt each other. She didn't want to be the one to blame if either man was killed.

“Stop!” Mary shouted.

Now here is where individual versions of the tale begin to dif–fer. Some folks say that Mary keeled over in her parent's arms, stone dead from a stroke. Other folks claim that Mary ran out to stop the fight and was caught by an accidental knife swing from either Ben or Isaac.

At least I hope it was accidental. A fight to the death brings out strange emotions— although some might think it impossible that a man who starts out fighting for someone could end up hurting them, stranger things have happened. The human heart can be as dark and murky as the waters of the surging Magaguadavic.

I don't know if either of those versions is true. The way I was told the tale, both men's knives did the deed, catching the girl square in her heart as she tried to step between them, piercing her more surely than any of cupid's well-sharpened arrows.

“I'm sorry,” were her last words.

Before the sun had sunk beneath the red painted evening sky, Ben and Isaac had either killed each other or died from their wounds. No matter how you tell the tale, three hearts stopped beating over one fatal love. That's bad arithmetic by anybody's bookkeeping.

Folks around Bonny River claim that the red maple stump is still there in the woods beside the fast-flowing waters of the Magaguadavic River, stained with the three lovers' blood and the taint of the rusted iron chain that shackled them in life and death. On moonlit nights, the ghost of Mary Well is said to wan–der the shores of the river, keening for the two loves she care–lessly threw away, all because she couldn't, or wouldn't, make up her mind.

So how did Mary Well die? Which version is true?

I guess you'll have to make up your own mind about that, now won't you?

17
G
HOST
H
ILL

LYNNFIELD

About twenty kilometres north of Calais, Maine, lies the pretty little town of Lynn-field, New Brunswick. Deep in the heart of this town is a shadowy hillside, shrouded with poplar and mountain ash. The folks around Lynnfield call it Ghost Hill and it's a common stunt for the school kids to dare one another to run up to the top. Nobody can resist a double-dog dare.

You get an eerie feeling walking on this hill. As if something or someone is watching you. The air around Ghost Hill is always chilly and hushed. Not even a breeze dares stir this dark little hummock.

“It's the perfect place for a graveyard,” some people will tell you, and if you ask nicely enough, they'll be more than happy to tell you why. It seems that back in the mid-1800s this property was owned by one William McGeorge, the foreman of a logging crew. He didn't spend all that much time in town. He was far happier out in the woods, felling timber, making what money he could.

Money was an awfully big word for Mister William McGeorge. It was a big part of his life. He just couldn't get enough of it. Bluntly put, the man was tighter than a frozen clam. He wouldn't give you last year's calendar if you promised to burn it for him.

As you can guess, William wasn't all that well liked around town, but truth to tell nobody would say boo to him. He was a big man and a big employer, so it wouldn't pay to make trouble with William McGeorge. There was no reason to. He paid his men regularly, if not well, and he rarely caused problems.

At least that was the case until the census man from Frederic-ton came into town.

Nobody really paid much attention to the census taker. They gave him whatever information he asked for because that was the law, but the truth of it was they didn't really see much sense in what he was doing. They knew they were all there, and they only needed to count heads when it came time to carve the Thanksgiving turkey —even then, numbers only mattered because whoever came first got the drumstick and whoever came last wound up with a hunk of bread and some turkey grease.

“We knows we counts,” they would say. “Our fingers, our toes, and our paycheques. What else is there to worry about?”

No sir and no ma'am, nobody paid much attention to that skinny little census taker from Fredericton except old hard-hearted William McGeorge. You see, that census taker was riding one of the finest-looking white mares that he had ever seen and William McGeorge just had to have that horse.

“A horse that fine would fetch a bucket load of dollars at the market,” William said. “Somehow I've got to put that pony in my stable.”

So later that week, after riding up William McGeorge's hill, that skinny little census taker never came riding back down again. Being a logger, William McGeorge was a sizable man. Truth was, you never seen the like of it when old William started swinging an axe. He could topple a tree faster than old Moody's goose, and drop it right wherever he wanted it. I mean, no one ever said that William McGeorge was anywhere handy to slow.

So when that skinny little census taker came riding up to big William McGeorge's hill I guess William was waiting for him, maybe with an axe. In any case, the census taker was never seen again in those parts, and that white mare spent the rest of the year in McGeorge's barn.

“I won it in a bet,” he told anyone who dared to ask him how he'd come by such a fine animal.

If they pushed the point he'd just tell them to mind their own darn business.

“He took off for Fredericton,” McGeorge would say. “That's one less nose to count, I reckon.”

There weren't that many folks around who bothered asking William about anything at all. The truth was they were all a little scared of William McGeorge. They always had been and after that census taker up and disappeared they were even a bit more fright–ened. William began to act strangely, as if something were bother–ing him. There was something in the big man's eyes, something in the way he looked around a building before walking in a door, as if he were afraid someone might be in there waiting for him.

“He backs into camp these days,” his loggers noted, “and he carries an axe wherever he goes. It's like he thinks somebody is following him around, getting set to sneak up on him.”

The funny thing was William never seemed to get around to selling that mare. Maybe he was just too lazy or maybe he had grown used to the horse, but neither of those explanations seems anywhere close to likely.

Then there were the sounds heard coming from up on the hill.

Some nights, folks would hear chopping, like William was try–ing to hack a big old tree down. Then there were other nights when they heard hoofbeats galloping across the property.

“It's that white mare,” some said. “McGeorge rides it around and around the fence of his hill, like he was trying to outrun something a whole lot faster than speed ever dreamed.”

“He's trying to outrun the devil,” others said.

Then came the night when they heard screaming coming down from the hill. Nothing human could have made such a sound, and it was awhile before the stalwarts of the town worked up enough nerve to march up the hill to see what the bother was.

“We got there and it was something you wouldn't believe,” said the town constable. “Big William McGeorge was huddled in his barn crying like a little baby over a bloodied up axe. He'd cut that fine white mare into more pieces than I want to think about. Rendered her down to stew meat size. Where's the sense in that I ask you?”

Three nights later there was one more scream, cut off short and sharp.

The constable grudgingly led a few more townsfolk up that old hill of McGeorge's.

They found William McGeorge right where they'd left him, hunkered down in his barn and clinging onto the axe, his finger–nails dug deep into the grain of the wood. He was stone cold dead and no one could tell just how he'd died.

“I guess he finally got counted,” was all that the constable would say.

Shortly after that, folks began referring to that hill as Ghost Hill —it's been called that ever since and I guess it always will.

Sometimes folks hear that chopping sound, like an axe work–ing into something hard and soft and wet, all at the same time. Sometimes folks hear a mare galloping around and around in the night.

They blame it on the wind. They blame it on nerves. They blame it on everything but the truth. The truth is nobody ever goes up that hill, except maybe a child or two on a dare from their friends and even they don't stay up there all that long.