Haunted Harbours Page 9

  They say he’s still out there, to this very day. When the weather is rough and the waters run wild around Sable Island, you might see him swimming through the waves, looking for someone to save, or perhaps someone to save him.

  19

  THE SALT MAN

  OF ISAAC’S

  HARBOUR

  ISAAC’S HARBOUR

  The town of Isaac’s Harbour, Guysborough County, was originally home to a band of Mi’kmaq. Later, a man named Isaac Webb moved his family in. The town was named after him, and if you look closely enough on the map you will find a tiny inlet that is known as Webb’s Cove.

  The last surviving descendant of this family of original settlers was Henry Webb. He died in 1935 and was buried in the little cemetery at Red Head at the extreme southernmost end of Goldboro. The only standing marker in the entire cemetery belongs to Henry Webb. There were other markers and older graves, but most of these have been washed away with the erosion of the hillside, which faces the sea.

  The people of the tiny village of Isaac’s Harbour will tell you this tale of a true old salt and his own special kind of burial, if you ask them nicely enough.

  John MacNeil was dying. It was his last voyage home from trading in the Caribbean; he was dying of a tropical fever and was afraid of being buried away from home — not for himself, you understand, but for his wife, who would worry about where he lay.

  “Don’t bury me in the sea,” he begged the captain. “For my bones will know no rest and my widow will weep out an ocean over my empty grave.”

  The captain was a good and honest man who’d known MacNeil most of his life. He hated to break faith with a sailor and a friend.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

  MacNeil passed on that night, but not before wringing one more promise from the captain, who swore on his father’s good name that he’d see MacNeil’s body laid to rest in the Isaac’s Harbour Cemetery.

  “In a day’s time those old bones will reek higher than three-day-old lobster bait,” the first mate prophesied. “That Carib wind isn’t blowing up no cooling ice storm, that’s for sure. The heat will cook his flesh just ripe.”

  “We’ve got an ample cargo of salt, don’t we?”

  “Aye, for the cod.”

  “Well, if it’s good enough to cure codfish, it’s good enough for an Isaac’s Harbour boy like John MacNeil, isn’t it?”

  In those days you either iced your fish down or salted them up, and when you were fishing in Caribbean waters, salt was the only thing that would keep the fish from rotting.

  So they decided to lay MacNeil’s remains down in the salt. It was grisly work, but fishermen are hardy men. They dug a trench in the salt heap, and laid the body of John MacNeil into it, covering it up with the salt. One bold sailor marked MacNeil’s grave with a makeshift wooden cross, but a cross was considered bad luck that would invite a sinking, so the captain made him take it down.

  “You see those masts?” the captain asked, pointing up at the mastwork. “That’s the only cross a sailor will ever need.”

  They marked the temporary grave with a hand-painted board that read “Here Lie The Bones Of John MacNeil.”

  The salt did the trick, and when they arrived home they unshipped his body and carried it on a plank to the Pioneer Cemetery in Isaac’s Harbour, where it was buried under the eyes of a holy man and MacNeil’s friends and his neighbours. The widow wept long and hard, and she was seen wandering the graveyard at night, barefoot and in her nightclothes, as if in a trance.

  Eventually the town decided that in the interest of her safety, it would be proper to bury his body on his own property. They dug up John MacNeil’s body one more time and shipped it by wagon under a heavy tarp and an escort of salt flies to the grounds of MacNeil’s own home. They buried him there on his own land where his widow could mourn him in peace and not annoy the townsfolk.

  Years later the poor woman passed away from long, hard winters of grief. Her family came for her body and buried her in their own graveyard. Another family now owns the MacNeil property, but the salt man still lies buried in his own dirt, and MacNeil’s great-grandchildren eventually restored the grave and marked it with a solid brass plaque.

  It is said that on certain nights, the folks of the town have seen a woman’s figure walking near MacNeil’s grave. As it blows over that uneasy grave, the wind sounds like a weeping woman, and on certain nights when the moon hangs high over the fields of Isaac’s Harbour, you can hear the ocean calling for its long-lost salt.

  20

  BIG TONY AND

  THE MOOSE

  MUSHABOOM

  I tell my stories through the Writers in the Schools program, with the help of the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia. Early in my storytelling career I was asked to tell my tales at a school in Shelburne. Being younger and more foolish than I am today, I hitchhiked down from Halifax the night before, and spent a night at a quiet little bed and breakfast where the squirrels were happy to drop acorns on the tin roof all night long. The next day I entertained a half a dozen classes with my storytelling and writing workshops, then set out, determined to hitch home. It was October, however, and it quickly grew dark. I walked for a very long way through the darkness of the highway, in a light tweed jacket and steadily chilling weather. The wildlife entertained me: a deer came out to stare at the fool on the road, and a porcupine snuffled out for a chew on a birch tree. A screech owl shrieked and nearly frightened me to death.

  Finally, a kind gentleman stopped and drove me the rest of the way to Halifax. He asked me what I did for a living, and when I told him I was a storyteller, he insisted on telling me this story. I’ve been telling it ever since.

  I knew there had to be some reason I was out there on that road at such a wild time of night.

  Just out of the town of Mushaboom, Nova Scotia, there’s a soft swampy area that has been known as the haunted bog for as long as the old people can remember.

  In the early nineteenth century, a Mi’kmaq the white folk called Big Tony made a living from his hunting, selling the game he caught to the townsfolk. Whatever was leftover, he would eat himself. He made a good enough living for a man of simple needs. Big Tony earned the name because of his height. There wasn’t a doorsill in town that he couldn’t dust just by walking straight on through. He was strong too; he could pick up a good-sized deer on his shoulders and walk with it. One hunter even swore he’d seen Big Tony walking home through the woods one night with a full-grown moose slung across his shoulders like a baby goat.

  Big Tony had an amazing knack for finding game. He’d hunt rabbit and fox and deer, but more than anything else, Big Tony loved to hunt moose. Some say it was the only animal in the woods big enough to feed a man of Tony’s size. Others swore he liked to hunt moose because they were a challenge to find.

  The real reason Big Tony hunted moose was because they were his totem. He had a bond with the big animals, and they allowed him to hunt his share. Some swore that he spoke their tongue.

  Big Tony never lacked for meat, and he made good money selling the surplus to the local market, and those who could afford to hire him swore by his tracking skills. So when three well-to-do Englishmen came to town and asked for Tony, it came as no surprise to anyone.

  The Englishmen were looking for moose and would pay a proper guide to take them hunting, providing he guaranteed them a moose. Everyone they spoke to had referred them to Big Tony. So a deal was struck for an honest price, sales tax not having been invented yet.

  “Tomorrow,” Big Tony said. “You come tomorrow and we will hunt the moose.”

  Tomorrow came and the Englishmen slept in and arrived late. This was not a good beginning for a moose hunt. To make matters worse, they had brought along several bottles of whiskey.

  “Leave the bottles at home,” Big Tony said. “Whiskey and gunpowder have never been known to shoot straight.”

  They laughed at Big Tony’s protest. “We are paying you money,” they sai
d. “You work for us; you are not our mother. We will do whatever we want to.”

  Big Tony saw that there was no arguing with the Englishmen, so he went back to his hunting as if they were not there. He was determined to see the job through. He did his best to ignore them, working his way deeper into the soft bog where the moose were usually found.

  He moved quietly for such a big man, as soft-footed as the shadow of a cloud, stepping lightly through the dry pine needles and never touching a single broken branch. The Englishmen, however, crashed through the woods— crack, crack, crack —singing and drinking and laughing too loudly at their own bad jokes. Big Tony wondered if they would ever be quiet. You could not expect to find a moose in such a racket, unless you found a deaf one.

  The hunting party stalked through the bog all day long, Big Tony tracking as carefully as he could, and the Englishmen making more and more of a racket. Finally, Big Tony had had enough of their foolishness. He turned on them and said, “We have hunted enough today. You are making too much noise and frightening the game. You should pay me now, and we’ll go home, get some sleep, and maybe come out tomorrow —without the whiskey.”

  Big Tony was trying his best to be reasonable. He wanted to believe that the city men didn’t know how to hunt, but could be shown how. The Englishmen didn’t like the sound of that idea. They got angry, and said they would not pay Big Tony a single red cent.

  “Ha,” said one of them. “Not a red cent for a red man. That’s funny.”

  Big Tony didn’t think that was funny, not one bit. The Englishmen were drunk and angry. They said they weren’t going to pay Big Tony. Why should they? He hadn’t found them a moose, so why did he think he deserved anything?

  An argument is like a little fire. If you aren’t careful, it can turn into a blaze; that is just what happened. One of the Englishmen pointed a gun at Big Tony, figuring that was all he needed to end the argument.

  It was a big mistake. Big Tony finally lost his temper. As quick as a striking snake, he reached his big hands out and snapped their necks, one after the other —crack, crack, crack!

  When he saw what he had done, he felt badly. He hadn’t wanted to kill the Englishmen, but what could he do?

  He walked into the woods, tired from the day’s hunt. Before too long he fell asleep. When he awoke, he was surrounded by white men carrying guns. The townsfolk had tracked him down.

  Now in those less enlightened days, if a Mi’kmaq killed a white man, there was very little said about trial or jury. Big Tony tried to explain, but it did little good. A lot of folks hadn’t trusted him in the first place. A native man making money? Something certainly had to be wrong.

  They marched him out into the swamp, to the biggest jack pine they could find. Then they threw a rope over a high branch, noosed the other end about Big Tony’s throat, and hauled the big man up.

  It was hard work: Tony was a big man, well over fifteen stone. They’d hoisted him up nearly five feet when — CRACK! —the pine branch broke.

  “He is too heavy,” one townsman said. “Better drop him from a horse.”

  “And who is going to risk a horse in this bog? You?”

  Big Tony staggered to his feet, shaking his head like a winded animal.

  “You are not going to hang Big Tony today,” he croaked.

  They tried again, slinging the rope up over a higher branch, one that seemed a little sturdier.

  They hauled him up again. CRACK! The second branch broke. Big Tony dropped like a hay bale from a toppled wagon. He shook his head again.

  “You are not going to hang Big Tony today.”

  The townsmen were determined. They hauled Big Tony up one more time, using the fork of the trunk instead of a branch.

  “Let the red devil break that,” one man said.

  So up Big Tony went, one more time.

  CRACK! Big Tony’s neck snapped like a rotted poplar branch. “That’ll teach a red man to kill a white,” one man said. They let his carcass hang there until the next day.

  The next day they returned to the swamp. They had decided to give Big Tony a proper Christian burial.

  When they arrived at the heart of the swamp, by the tall jack pine, Big Tony was nowhere to be seen. In his place, hanging by the long hemp rope, was a great red moose.

  No one had ever seen a moose that colour before; no one had ever seen a moose that large.

  The moose was dead, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle, a clear sign of a rope-broken neck.

  After drawing straws, one man cut the rope. As soon as the great moose touched the ground, it stood up on its four legs and walked into the swamp.

  Since then folks tend to stay as far away from the haunted swamp as they can. It’s a bad place to go hunting, and a worse place to be caught at night; if you’re alone in the swamp at night, you’re apt to hear a sound— crack, crack, crack — Big Tony, coming after you.

  21

  THE YONDERSTONE

  OF WITTENBURG

  CEMETERY

  WITTENBURG

  The art of telling tales is a little like that old-fashioned game of telephone. You know the one, where the first person writes down a one-sentence story and then whispers it to another person in the room, who whispers it to a third, until the last person in the party retells the sentence out loud to see how much has been lost or gained in the translation.

  This is a tale that was told to me by my wife, Belinda. She heard it from her sister Barb, who says they’ve been telling this tale a hundred different ways up around Wittenburg, Nova Scotia.

  This is how I like to tell it. If you’d like you can tell it to someone else the best way you know how. I won’t be insulted if you should happen to misquote me; I’ll just blame it on a bad connection.

  Tamsen was a wandering child. Anywhere she wasn’t supposed to be was where you’d likely find her. And finding her was often the greatest problem. Every time her mother or father called her, Tamsen decided it was a fine time for hide-and-go-seek.

  “You can’t find me,” she’d call. “You can’t find me.”

  She was right about that, for Tamsen was the best of hiders. She could hide in a shadow, behind a root, or under the mossy edge of a rock. She could hide in places you would never think to look.

  “A yonder-girl,” her grandfather called her. “That Tamsen is a yonder-girl. Wherever you look for her, she’s gone yonder.”

  It was true. Tamsen always wondered what was behind each tree, where each road led, and what lay over the distant ridge of the Wittenburg Hills. Tamsen would play tag with the clouds, chasing them through the fields, trying to catch them. She jumped for birds and whistled for squirrels and hunted after the river endlessly.

  “That girl is up to no good,” her mother said, shaking her head sadly.

  But her father, who had been a long-distance trucker and had worked the railroad line, understood the secrets that were hiding in Tamsen’s heart. She was a yonder-girl and dreamed of being somewhere else.

  Then one bright November morning, Tamsen wandered too far away.

  November is a tricksy month. A day will start out as bright as springtime, but by the afternoon the chill will snap the air and you’ll see your breath painting pictures on the wind.

  Tamsen set out early that day trying to track the sun. She figured if she followed it far enough, she’d find out where it went down to bed.

  Only the sun was faster, and when suppertime came and Tamsen hadn’t shown up, the townsfolk went out to look for her.

  They wandered the hills of Wittenburg, hunting far and wide for the little girl. They carried lanterns as the night fell on, calling for her, turning over rocks, poking through shadows, and nosing beneath whatever tumble-down log they could find. Caves and nooks and crannies were turned out and over.

  Some swore they heard her calling in the distance. “You can’t find me, you can’t find me.” Others claimed they saw her flitting through the darkness, as elusive as the will-o’-the-wisp.

&nb
sp; Those who heard her couldn’t find her, and those who saw her couldn’t catch her.

  They searched for three whole days and on the evening of the fourth, they gave the search up as hopeless as an early frost set in.

  Not all of them gave up: Tamsen’s father continued to search the Wittenburg Hills night and day, carrying a lantern and calling out “Tamsen! Tamsen!” until his voice was hoarse. He searched for weeks, only coming home once in a while to eat.

  Then one night he wandered off in his hopeless search and never returned.

  They buried a small white casket in the Wittenburg graveyard, under a small, round, white marble stone with a picture of a lamb engraved upon it. The casket was empty, of course, but Nova Scotia folk, living as close to the ocean as they do, have long grown used to the notion of burying an empty casket.

  Later that week, when Tamsen’s mother went out to the graveyard, the stone was gone. At first she thought that her grief-stricken mind was deceiving her. She brought the sexton out and he looked at his graveyard map; indeed, Tamsen’s round stone wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

  They searched the graveyard until they found the missing stone three sections over, in the sheltered lee of a leaning gray willow.

  “Teenagers,” the sexton grumbled. “Pranks and horseplay. No telling what they’ll be up to next. I’ll move the stone back to where it belongs.”

  “No,” Tamsen’s mother said. “She’s buried here. I can feel it.”

  Now the sexton had dealt with many a grief-stricken parent before this. He spoke to her as gently as he could, letting his words fall down around her as softly as the gentle autumn leaves.

  “You have to let her go,” he said. “Your daughter’s dead and buried and it’s time for you to move on. I’ll dig the stone up and move it back to where it belongs.

  Tamsen’s mother would have none of that. She snatched the sexton’s spade away from him and hefted it like an axe.

  “If you don’t let me dig up my daughter, then I’ll stave your head in with this little rusty spade and you can dig one more grave for yourself.”