Wicked Woods

by Steve Vernon

  A little careful investigation unearthed the identity of these long buried bones. A pathologist in Saint John went over them carefully and came to the conclusion that they were the remains of Noel Lolar, an old-time Maliseet moose-hunting guide who had lived at the house back in the early 1840s. Lolar had lived there with a woman whose name no one could recall.

  Apparently Lolar had passed away of natural causes, but because he had been living with this woman without ever having married her, the local priest denied him a burial site in conse–crated ground. As far as the pathologist could guess, the woman had buried Lolar in a drainage ditch on his land, and had then left the county to go and live with relatives.

  She probably hadn’t meant any harm in her actions. It prob–ably seemed like the best way to deal with someone who’d gone and died. Bones needed burying, and if the man in the collar told her she couldn’t bury them inside the fenced-off orchard of gravestones, then it was an easy enough decision to bury him in a ditch. She was a small woman, by all reports and the ditch was probably soft for digging.

  The local Maliseet holy men decided that these bones were the actual source of the ominous chuckle, and thought that they could only truly be put to rest if they were buried in consecrated ground. The new priest had no objections, and in 1930 the long dead bones of Noel Lolar were finally laid to rest in a Lower Woodstock burial ground.

  Locals swear that since that belated burial the chuckle of death has not been heard in the Woodstock night. All the same, the Maliseet around Lower Woodstock are pretty careful just how they crack their jokes on certain moonless nights.

  Don’t laugh now. There’s no telling just who might be listening.

  21

  THE

  SHIKTEHAWK VIKINGS

  BRISTOL

  “Cattle die, kinsmen die, all men are mortal,” the old Vikings said. “Only the legends live on.”

  However, even names can die as we’ve already seen in a couple of our other stories. The village of Bristol, New Brunswick, was once known as Shiktehawk —a Maliseet word that means “where he killed him.” The word refers to a legendary battle between the Maliseet and their old foe the Mohawk. The battle was decided by a one-on-one showdown between the chiefs.

  According to the legend the Maliseet chief won, and Shiktehawk was where he killed the Mohawk chief.

  Shiktehawk lends itself to a lot of unfortunate incorrect pro–nunciations, so way back in the late nineteenth century the name of the village was changed to Bristol, after the city in Britain. The name was selected by the postmaster general, who originally hailed from Bristol. One wonders if he was homesick.

  This story takes place where the Shiktehawk River branches into the St. John River. A band of treasure hunters were out for an evening of excavation, hot on the trail of one of Captain Kidd’s numerous caches.

  “It’s here,” one of them shouted. “I know it is.”

  Just then the edge of somebody’s spade clanked hard against something that sounded a lot like a wooden chest.

  “We’ve found a coffin,” one of them swore. “We’ve been dig–ging in a graveyard.”

  “You daft fool,” the leader said. “It isn’t a coffin. It’s a chest and it sounds to me as if it’s laden with gold.”

  He thumped again, and before anyone could think to ask just what gold sounded like when it was cased up neatly in a box of rotting timber, an apparition loomed up out of the darkness.

  Sailing down the Shiktehawk, just as big and bold as Johnny-be-pleased was what the fortune hunters later described as a great glowing Viking longship. The sides of the stout craft were armoured with heavy round shields. The deck was lively with the clamour of heavily armed Vikings. The ship’s prow sliced through the water like a keen hunting knife.

  “You could see their beards and hair blazing about them like golden fire,” one man swore, “and they were singing something that sounded a little like a dirge or a war song. I could smell the coppery tang of fresh-spilled blood in the air and the dragon fig–urehead roared out at us like a lion.”

  There was nothing else to do, but turn and run blindly into the night, leaving picks and shovels and the treasure map behind them. In the morning when the would-be treasure hunters had mustered up the courage to return and continue their search, there wasn’t one of them that could find his way back to the site.

  Historians have proven that the Vikings did indeed make their way to New Brunswick from their base in Newfoundland. They called it Vinland way back then, perhaps for the bright blueber–ries or blackberries growing throughout the woods. The strongest proof is the presence of wild walnut trees, or butternut trees as they were called back then. Butternut trees, which are native to New Brunswick, were found growing at l’Anse aux Meadows, a known Viking settlement, but do not grow anywhere else in Newfoundland.

  Did old Vikings sail down the Shiktehawk River and leave behind a treasure chest? Or perhaps their ghosts were sailing the river in search of plunder? It might be that the poor frightened treasure hunters looked like easy pickings to those bold Viking spirits.

  Why don’t you set out some night along the Shiktehawk River with a pick and a spade and find out for yourself some time soon?

  22

  ECHOES IN A

  COVERED BRIDGE

  JOHNVILLE

  Forget about Madison County —the world’s most beautiful covered bridges reside in New Brunswick. Mind you, these bridges are a vanishing breed.

  They are old and losing ground in the battle against steel and plastic and profit margins; still, as of 2006, a total of sixty-five authentic covered bridges of a total of nearly three hundred back in the 1960s remained in New Brunswick.

  One of the province’s most famous bridges has been swept from the land–scape, but folks around Johnville still remember the Keenan Covered Bridge that crossed the Monquart River in Carleton County. The bridge was known for its beauty and its haunting story, and tourists would travel from miles around to visit, take a few snap–shots, and hold hands as they walked through its creaking splen–dour. However, the local folks tended to steer clear of the Keenan Covered Bridge, detouring for miles if they had to. They knew that it was truly haunted and they had no wish to court the dark–ness that lurked within.

  The story begins back in the 1800s when an old woman appar–ently vanished somewhere along the twenty-six metre length of the covered bridge while out for her evening walk.

  “She walked on in,” locals will tell you. “But she never came out on the other side. Not in one piece, anyway.”

  The history books haven’t left us with her name, but folks around Johnville sometimes call her Molly —and sometimes they call her Headless Hannah. A headless female cadaver was reputedly found upon the roadway just beyond the bridge back in 1890.

  The original bridge was built back in the 1800s, then torn down and rebuilt in 1927. It was during this reconstruction that the dried and desiccated remains of a human head were dug up by bridge workers. They assumed that the head belonged to the body found nearby forty years before, and reburied it a little fur–ther from the bridge.

  “She’ll rest in peace here,” the foreman was heard to pronounce.

  Shortly after the reconstruction and the burial of the head folks began reporting that the bridge was haunted. A woman in a long black dress and shawl would often materialize upon carriages as they passed through the darkness of the bridge. Not much of a cause for panic, I suppose, except that this old woman was headless.

  One farmer crossing the dark bridge in his wagon noticed that someone was holding onto his hand. The grip felt cold as if the hand holding his had been dipped in icy river water. He squinted and stared into the darkness as a shape slowly formed directly beside him. It was the headless ghost of the Keenan Covered Bridge. A low moan, like wind whistling through a broken win–dow, emanated from the stump of her neck. The farmer, nor–mally a hard-headed New Brunswick fellow, fainted dead away. He awoke on the other side of the bridge, his
horse in a complete state of panic. It took a full week before he found the nerve to tell his sister the story. Until his confession, he had just sat on her front porch and stared down the road towards the Keenan Covered Bridge.

  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

  MALABEAM OF

  THE MALISEET

  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.