Wicked Woods (15 page)

Since then the headless woman has been spotted on the road–way and in the shadows of the bridge and sometimes standing under it. She has appeared in automobiles and trailers causing panic and excitement. So far as the records show she has never done anyone harm.

Some folks believe that she's simply searching for her miss–ing head. Other people believe she is hunting for whoever mur–dered her. She may haunt that area still, but on May 3, 2001, an unexplained fire burned the Keenan Covered Bridge down to the ground. Some people blame it on kids and others will tell you that someone had a grudge against the local fire chief. So far as I know, nothing has been proven.

The local people have wondered if this will mark an end to Headless Hannah's reign of terror. I'm not sure if it will or not. A photograph that was taken of the remains of the bridge follow–ing the fire clearly shows the face of a woman charred into the end grain of a piece of timber. Experts were called in and the photograph reached the media, but no one could come up with a plausible explanation. A few days after the photograph was taken rain obliterated the image on the wood, but the photograph still remains.

There's a new bridge now, all shiny and modern. Only time will tell if old Headless Hannah will return to the place where the Keenan Covered Bridge once stood.

23
M
ALABEAM OF
THE
M
ALISEET

GRAND FALLS

Thomas Carleton, the first governor of New Brunswick, established a mili–tary post in 1791 on the St. John River, just shy of the Maine border. With true New Brunswick modesty he named the outpost Fort Carleton. The settlement that grew around the fort was known as Colebrook until 1890 when the town was incorporated and its name was officially changed to Grand Falls, or Grand-Sault as it is also known. Grand Falls is one of two Canadian municipalities to possess an officially bilingual name, which only stands to reason, as the town is the most bilingual in all of Canada. Over eighty percent of the population speaks both French and English.

Grand Falls was named after the spectacular waterfalls in the town, where the rolling St. John River falls about twenty-three metres. They are the highest falls in the province, and some say that they are rivalled only by Niagara Falls for their awesome splendour.

As the late New Brunswick historian W. O. Raymond wrote in his book, The St. John River (1910): “Every traveller should visit the Grand Falls. No description or illustration will suffice to give a just idea of their majesty and beauty.”

And so I won't waste any more time or effort trying to describe these falls to you. Instead let me tell you the story of Malabeam, the maiden of the Maliseet, a tale that most residents of Grand Falls will be happy to relate to you.

Let me take you back to the old days—life was hard, and people had to take their leisure where they could find it. So it was that way back in the fourteenth century, Malabeam, a young Maliseet maid, and her father, Sacotis, rested themselves upon the green and mossy banks of a quiet stretch of the St. John River. Of course in those days the Maliseet called the river the Wullustock, which means “the good and beautiful river,” but whether good or beautiful, the Wullustock could fool you if you weren't careful.

Malabeam and Sacotis relaxed after a long hard day spent pad–dling their canoe and fishing for the salmon that teemed through the river. Nowadays the river has been built up with the addi–tion of hydroelectric dams and growing industrialization and the salmon runs are a little less plentiful. Back in the early days of New Brunswick it was said that a man could cross the Wullustock during salmon season simply by walking upon the backs of the seething fish. That may have been a bit of an exaggeration, but suffice it to say the salmon were thick.

“It is good to feel the sun on my face and hear the river talking to the rocks,” Sacotis said.

“And what is the river saying to the rocks, Father?” Malabeam asked, with a sly and playful grin.

Sacotis smiled back at his daughter. Another father might have been angry with a daughter with such a ready wit, but Sacotis could never bring himself to find anger in his heart for Malabeam. She was the sun and the moon of his life. He steered by her advice in all of his decision making.

“The Wullustock is telling the rocks that Sacotis will stand by his daughter Malabeam forever and ever as long as the river rolls through the land.”

Ah me, if only someone had told Sacotis that you need to be very careful talking about forever and ever when you are standing in the heart of a story, for at this point in the tale, a band of three hundred Maine Mohawk warriors intent on raiding the Maliseet village of Meductic rose up from the nearby woods and promptly surrounded Malabeam and Sacotis.

So quickly did the Mohawk warriors spring upon Malabeam and Sacotis that the two of them did not have any kind of chance to escape. Sacotis rose to his feet with his hunting knife in hand, but he might as well have been waving a feather. Before the old man could take two steps, a Mohawk spear was driven through his heart. The spear drove him to the ground. Malabeam knelt beside him and in as short a time as it took you to read this sen–tence her father's blood soaked into the New Brunswick dirt, and he died in her arms.

With a shriek like a hunting hawk, Malabeam snatched up her father's knife, determined to have her vengeance, but the Mohawk chief had hold of her before she could use the blade on them or herself.

“You will lead us to your village,” the Mohawk chief told her.

“If you bring us there quick and quiet we will spare your life. This is your only chance to live.”

Malabeam looked up at the warrior with hatred in her eyes.

He was a man, as any other, but in those days the lines between men were carved pretty deep. He was of another tribe and he had killed her father. That was all that Malabeam of the Maliseet needed to know.

“What will you do at my village?” Malabeam asked.

The Mohawk chief laughed. What did she think they would do?

“We will kill your men,” he answered truthfully, “and capture your women. But if you help us you may live with me as my wife.”

Malabeam stood there a minute, pretending to think the Mohawk chief's offer over.

“We will need to travel by canoe,” Malabeam said. “My village is downriver and too far to walk to.”

“We have canoes,” the Mohawk chief said. “We took them from some fishermen upstream. Let us go.”

Malabeam did not know what to do. Her people were farm–ers and hunters, not warriors. They grew maize and squash and beans. They fished, and they wandered where the game would take them. Taken unawares, they would be easy pickings for the fierce Mohawk warriors.

“Follow me,” Malabeam said, stepping towards her father's canoe. She did her best not to look back at his body lying there in the dead pine needles and moss. “I will lead you in my father's canoe.”

“Ha!” the Mohawk chief said. “Do you take me for a fool? You will lead us, but not by yourself in your own canoe.”

So saying, he bound her to the bow of her own canoe, and kept hold of her hair from behind.

“Guide us to your village,” he said. “And we will do you no harm.”

And so Malabeam led the Mohawk down the Wullustock shouting directions to them as they travelled. She showed them where to back water, when to paddle hard, and when to ride out the current. She pointed to the shallows, and made herself as use–ful to their cause as she could.

“We have found a good friend in this Maliseet maiden,” the Mohawk chief said to his warriors. He was proud of his plan, and pleased at the thought of taking her as his wife. He cut her loose, hoping to impress her with his fearless generosity.

“Here,” he said. “You can paddle beside me.”

He had made his mind up. As far as the Mohawk chief was concerned, the girl could be trusted.

More fool him.

Malabeam did nothing to harm this trust. She knew that they would do with her as they wished. No amount of reassur–ance on their part could convince her otherwise. And she also knew that she could not let the spirit of her father, Sacotis, lie unavenged, nor could she watch as the Mohawk had their way with her people. So she led them to the rushing waters of the Chikanakapeg, meaning the destroying place, now known as Grand Falls.

When the Mohawk heard the roar of the waterfalls they were frightened, but Malabeam only laughed at them as harshly as a young woman knew how to laugh at a pack of proud warriors.

“Are the mighty Mohawk afraid of a little running water?” she asked. “All that you hear is the river talking to the rocks where another stream comes together with it. Two small rivers make a big noise.”

“It sounds stronger than that,” the Mohawk chief said.

He didn't want to appear frightened in front of his people or his bride to be, but in truth, the sound of the approaching water scared him more than a little.

“It is nothing more than a bit of whitewater,” Malabeam said, paddling all the harder. “Are the Mohawk men or little frogs? Paddle on, and claim your victory, and you will sleep with me tonight.”

She laughed at them and taunted them further until their anger rose up and they paddled harder to show her how unafraid they were. Not even the Mohawk could resist a double-dog dare. But when they rounded the bend in the river the current took them and tumbled them toward the brink of the Grand Falls.

“Come to your doom, you Mohawk braves,” Malabeam sang out as she tore free from her captors and plunged into the raging river. “And I, Malabeam of the Maliseet will lead the way.”

It is a good question as to whether or not Malabeam was diving for her freedom or simply diving in defiance of the Mohawk. In any case, every single Mohawk went over the falls to their death. Their broken and battered bodies washed ashore for days afterward. The Maliseet combed the shoreline looking for any sign of Malabeam after finding the remains of her father back in the woods.

Sadly, her body was never found. If you talk to some folks they will tell you that her spirit still haunts Grand Falls, and you can hear her calling through the crashing water, above the rush and the foam.

Other folks will tell you of an old woman who used to live in the woods that some believed was Malabeam's ghost. She has been seen time and again wandering through the forest, perhaps searching for her father's body, hoping to bury him properly.

I don't know which is true. All I know is that there is more to life than just life itself, and sometimes one must give up one's life for the sake of others. No other person in New Brunswick history epitomizes that sentiment so much as the maiden hero, Malabeam of the Maliseet.

24
T
HE
C
ANNIBAL
S
HE
-Q
UEEN OF
N
EW
B
RUNSWICK

DALHOUSIE

Chaleur Bay, or Baie des Chaleurs, meaning “the bay of heat,” was first named back in July 1534, long before old Samuel de Champlain (1567–1635) was anything more than a wishful thought in his grandfather's heart. That didn't stop Champlain from taking credit for nam–ing the bay or mapping the New World, particularly New Brunswick. Neither was really new at all, as any of the peo–ple of the Mi'kmaq, the Maliseet, or the Passamaquoddy could have told him if he'd bothered to ask.

Throughout most of the year chilly Chaleur Bay fails to live up to its name. It can get mighty cold that far up the New Brunswick coastline.

The bay is a little notch in the northeast corner of the province, just shy of the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, and it serves to separate the Gaspé Peninsula of Quebec from New Brunswick's north shore. There are quite a few spirits and ghosts that prowl these waters, but let me tell you about the scariest inhabitant of Chaleur Bay— Gougou the cannibal she-queen of New Brunswick.

Now I know what you're thinking. What kind of a name is Gougou? It sounds like the kind of sound a baby might make when it is feeling happy or hungry. Well, a lot of words are short and sim–ple and yet not so sweet. Words like kill and eat and rot and taste.