Phantom of Fire

by Peacock, Shane;

  “I don’t know,” I finally said.

  “Well, many witnesses recount all sorts of details about it, and the burning ships they describe are always very old; vessels with masts from hundreds of years ago, like explorers’ crafts or pirate ships.”

  Okay, so now we were talking about pirates. And, uh, not just pirates, but pirates on ships from eons ago. Ghosts, on fire, sailing across Chaleur Bay in plain sight…in the twenty-first century.

  “There are lots of different legends about it,” said Antonine. She looked back out over the water. “Some say the ship is Portuguese, others say Spanish or French or English. They can tell by the masts, the design of the ship. One story is that the whole thing has to do with a real sixteenth-century sailor who was brutally murdered by the locals and is now haunting the waters here. Lots of stories say the ship is connected to the Indigenous people from the area, the Mi’kmaq, and that some of their young women were attacked by Europeans, abused and killed, and that you can see one of those women at the helm of the ship, hanging out over it as it sails through the bay.”

  “Wow.” Not very articulate, but it pretty accurately described what I was feeling.

  Then I had the sense that I should put my arm around her or something, because her eyes were filling with tears. What was that all about? Why would an old story, a legend, regardless of how creepy it was, make her cry? Maybe girls just cried at stuff like this? But I didn’t think so. This really meant something to her.

  “I came out here yesterday to try to see it,” Antonine stifled a sob. “And it appeared. I…I can’t believe it.”

  “But—”

  “This is the time of year people always see it,” she continued. “And the conditions will be perfect once more: a northeast wind, a storm that moves in slowly, a temperature that generates a wisp of fog…absolutely perfect…tonight.” She wasn’t looking at me.

  “Are you coming back tonight?” I asked.

  “They say that if two people see it together more than once,” she added in a distant voice, “that their fates are entwined forever.”

  Wow. I didn’t say it out loud this time though, just thought it. I looked out over the water too, kind of turned away from her now.

  I tried harder to remember exactly what that fire had looked like yesterday. How does fire ignite on water? How does it move across the surface? I just couldn’t bring it back clearly, though. All I could remember was a vague image, and Antonine. She was kind of blocking my memory.

  “I remember meeting you better than seeing the ship,” I admitted. I couldn’t believe I actually let that one slip out. What a bonehead thing to say.

  She didn’t respond. She didn’t say anything for the longest time and I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. If she was glaring at me, that wouldn’t be good, but if she was smiling it might not be good either. What would I do? I kept wondering about her tears too, and her scream. Why such an extreme reaction? Finally, I mustered up the courage to turn and look at her.

  I was all alone on Youghall Beach on Chaleur Bay.

  6

  Acadia

  Mom was more than a touch angry and it was hard to blame her. I had promised I wouldn’t be gone for long but apparently I had been out on the beach for nearly two hours. It certainly hadn’t felt like it. She was charging along the sand toward me when I first caught a glimpse of her. There weren’t too many others around and I spotted her pretty quickly. She was the only one glaring at me.

  “What are you trying to pull, young man?” was her first question. I’m never really sure what that means—literally.

  “I’m coming,” I said, making toward her as fast as I could go.

  The “coming” thing again. Not nearly as effective, though, when they can see you. That was when she explained about the two hours and saw my amazed reaction.

  “That’s twice you’ve done this now! What is the big attraction on the beach? What could you possibly have been doing out here for two hours? Alone?”

  Good question.

  “I’m looking forward to the drive.” It was the only thing I could think of saying. It was a long shot. And it didn’t work.

  “Oh, give me a break. Come on!”

  The Bill and Bonnie Show made its way onto the road around Bathurst late that morning. Bonnie had packed a lunch. More quinoa and veggies. We went everywhere, it seemed. First, they drove along their road, Queen Elizabeth Drive, noting some of the nicer homes and commenting on the people who lived there in complimentary ways. It seemed like everyone they knew was from Ontario. Then they took us to Youghall Beach. We drove in and left Bill’s SUV in the sandy parking lot and walked around a bit, past the volleyball games and out onto the beach. I pretended that I hadn’t been in this area before. I was really hoping that Antonine wasn’t around, and it seemed that she wasn’t. Maybe this wasn’t her scene; she was more into early mornings and stormy nights.

  Then we drove into Bathurst, and got out on Queen Street for a stroll.

  “Let’s go in here,” said Bonnie to Mom as we approached a women’s clothing store, “they have some great summer stuff.”

  That left Bill, Dad, and me standing on the street. Soon, we were sitting on a bench.

  “Lovely day,” said Bill.

  “Marvelous,” replied Dad.

  That was about as exciting as it got.

  Driving along Harbourfront Boulevard looking out at the water was only marginally better. Once we were through town, out on the east side along the shore, we stopped at a place called Salmon Beach. We bought some snacks—if you can call them that, not a chip, Twizzler, or Skittle among the goodies—lots of “real food” things masquerading as cookies and candies; even the brownies didn’t have any sugar in them. The labels were like billboards advertising how incredibly healthy they were and how intelligent you were for choosing to eat such nutritious food.

  Then it was back into Bill’s vehicle and through some villages in that area. I had to admit it was impressive. The houses weren’t as fancy as Bill and Bonnie’s but they were certainly rustic—actually rustic—mostly wooden homes, spaced a good distance from each other along the road, many facing out toward the beautiful blue water. Everything on land was very green, with amazing stretches of trees and fields. Things got more French too, many of the restaurants, little businesses, and churches and arenas had French names. “Acadian,” I suppose, was the accurate term, which is what the French Canadians from around here call themselves.

  “This is Grande-Anse,” said Bill as we passed through one particularly nice village. He tried to pronounce it in French, though what he came up with sounded more like “grand ass.” He pointed forward, like a captain in charge of a ship. “Soon we will be in Caraquet; so picturesque and wonderfully Acadian, it’s the heart of our area. There’s a story or two I’d like to share with you about these parts….” And he launched into the first one, a real snore-fest.

  It was a bit of a relief when we stopped at this pioneer place called Village historique acadien and he had to shut up for a while so the real experts could talk about the history of the area. I am funny about history. I actually like it and do very well in school in the subject. I think it is because history is like a story to me. During every family trip we have gone on, I’ve learned some amazing things about other places. I sometimes think there is a sort of prejudice against the past. Many people don’t like it because it is gone, it’s just old peoples’ stories, and even though they’re invisible now, we really judge them for the morals they had. But we will be judged too…or forgotten.

  This Acadian village was very cool. First of all, it was frighteningly bilingual. I’m working on my French in school, but all of the village’s employees (who were dressed up in period costumes, even the kids), could speak French or English at the drop of a hat. They switched back and forth, sometimes mid-sentence. It made me kind of jealous.

 
; “Bonjour, hello,” said the young woman who greeted us just inside the entrance.

  “English, please,” said Bonnie pleasantly.

  “Absolument! You are now about to go back in time!”

  The first place we went to was an Acadian pioneer home. We climbed some steps into an old wooden cabin. There was a guy there in stockings that came up to the knees of his pants and he was wearing a wide straw hat.

  “Bonjour, hello,” he said.

  “English,” commanded Bill.

  We were in what likely would have passed for a living and dining area, but it was really just a small room with a pot-belly stove. There was a model of a ship on a table and some drawings of other ships beside it. They were obviously images of the ships the Europeans sailed when they first came here—Portuguese and Spanish fishing boats, French and English war vessels. It made me think of Antonine and the ghost ship.

  We toured old hotels, stores, and little barns and sheds, and saw how people in those days made straw brooms and baked bread.

  “Tell me about the earliest Acadian days,” said Dad to one the hosts in the barn. She was wearing a long thick dress that went all the way down to the floor and a bonnet that looked like it might have kept the sun off but would be hot too. She had just risen from milking a cow.

  “I don’t think that’s her department. She wouldn’t know much about—” began Bonnie.

  “Well, they first came here from France in the early 1600s,” said the woman, kind of ignoring Bonnie, “and had basically set up a country in the area called Acadia or Acadie. Just like the hockey team!”

  She smiled at me. I smiled back, making sure Bill and Bonnie saw it, too.

  “Once the British started winning the never-ending war for North America with the French, though, including that incredible battle at the Plains of Abraham in Quebec City, the Acadians were on the wrong side,” she continued. “The British wanted them to pledge allegiance but they were people with lots of integrity and wouldn’t do it.” She looked proud when she said that. “So…the British kicked them out! They forced them to leave.” Now she looked a little angry. “The Acadians left in many thousands, some right into the woods to hide, and we know New Brunswick has lots of trees!”

  She laughed out loud, and Mom, Dad, and I laughed with her.

  “Some went over to Europe, too, and many of them down to the States to Louisiana where they became the Cajun people. However, many of them came back, and started building villages like the one you are exploring today.”

  She paused for a second and her eyes got a little misty.

  “There is a famous poem about it all called Évangéline by an American writer named Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It’s about two young lovers who got separated during “Le Grand Dérangement” and finally find each other in old age when she discovers him dying in a hospital in the US. It’s really, really sad.”

  The woman looked a bit emotional, despite the fact that she must have told this story hundreds of times before. She turned back to the cow. I know some girls in school who might tear up over that one, too.

  Acadian culture was interesting and it was still vibrant. We learned that Acadians have their own flag, their own music, language, all that kind of thing. We heard some of their songs when we were there: two old guys playing violins—or fiddles, I guess—and other guys dancing to it. Yes: guys. It was neat, though.

  There was a place near the exit where they made all sorts of Acadian food, so we got to eat some—fish cakes and some of that freshly baked bread. Awesome stuff. I asked for seconds, and could have had thirds, fourths, and fifths…and maybe beyond.

  There was a bit of a commotion on a bridle path about fifty metres from us as we were leaving.

  “Hey,” said Bill, “it’s Jim Fiat. He must have been moving around in the village while we were inside.”

  It was the Independent candidate in the election, here to shake hands.

  “Let’s go over and say hello.”

  “Uh…why don’t just you two go,” said Mom. “We’ll wait for you.”

  Mom and Dad leaned against a rail fence, but the politician was moving on an angle that was leading him somewhat in our direction, so by the time Bill and Bonnie got to him, he wasn’t too far away. Bonnie hung back a little but Bill stepped right up and took Fiat’s meaty hand, instantly extended toward him. I took a few steps forward and watched.

  The candidate was a squarely built man with perfectly combed blond hair and a mega-watt smile, wearing an open-collar white shirt meant to look casual but perfectly tailored and actually shining in the sun. I could see a gold chain around his neck. He and Bill chatted for a while. Fiat whispered in Bill’s ear at one point while gripping his arm and shared a laugh, then embraced him before they parted.

  Once we were all back in the car, we headed out toward the highway to turn down to Caraquet and started talking about what we had seen. Though we had to have a report on Jim Fiat first.

  “He seemed like a very nice man,” said Bonnie, “I was a bit surprised.”

  “Great guy,” said Bill, “looked me right in the eye. He just blended into the crowd like an average person.”

  “That’s nice,” said Dad, who seemed anxious to change the subject. “I thought the village was marvellous.”

  “Yes, but as Jim Fiat pointed out to me, it would be nice if it were completely authentic.” Bonnie was handing him his driving glasses, his third pair.

  “What do you mean?” asked Dad. “I felt like I was back in time.”

  “Jim noticed a girl wearing a hijab, making cheese in one of the stables. That wouldn’t have been the case back in those days, clothes-wise. Jim said he had a nice chat with her, though. She’s from the Middle East.”

  “I didn’t notice the hijab,” said Dad. “I think it’s more the spirit of the thing that matters.”

  Sometimes, like right at that moment, I am a big fan of John Maples.

  Soon, Bill launched into more of his theories about everything under the sun. I had actually really enjoyed the historic village…and now I had to listen to him drone on again. I let my mind drift back to Antonine. It occurred to me that she was probably Acadian, with that amazing French-and-English name of hers and that slight lilt in the way she talked. Man, she was amazing. I just kept thinking about her. I wished she wasn’t so fixated on that so-called ghost ship, though. That worried me. I mean, I had seen it too, but I doubted it was anything more than some sort of weird light on the water.

  “Have you ever heard of the burning ghost ship of Chaleur Bay?” I suddenly blurted out, stopping Bill mid-lecture.

  There was a pause.

  “Yes,” he said, “as a matter of fact I have.”

  “Have you ever seen it?”

  He laughed. “Dylan, what a question! It’s just a local legend. I don’t believe in ghosts. No one in his or her right mind does. I know this thing has supposedly been seen by a whole bunch of people at once, but consider the people—” He stopped the instant he said that.

  “You don’t really mean it that way, dear, I know,” said Bonnie quickly.

  “Of course I don’t! I love the people around here. But it is a crazy story. A folk tale.”

  Okay, now I wanted to believe Antonine completely. “Consider the people!” What an ignorant thing to say. I wouldn’t trade a thousand Mr. Bills for Antonine.

  “I have a friend who has a friend who was in a group that saw it,” said Bonnie, kind of quietly. “It was quite a sight, the way she told it.”

  “Mass hallucination,” said Bill.

  Caraquet was very nice, picturesque indeed, with lots of wood-frame homes; very green, too, and it seemed every store, church, and sign was French. We were truly in the heart of Acadia. There were even Acadian flags hanging on the street posts: red, white, and blue like the France flag, but with a little yellow star in the upper
left corner.

  “This is the capital of Acadia,” said Bill. “You just missed National Acadian Day last month. The folks around here really do it up right. They have this thing called ‘tintamarre’ where they all dress up in their colours and make lots of noise and parade around and sing their national anthem, Ave Maris Stella, it’s fabulous.”

  I doubted that he pronounced the title of the Acadian national anthem correctly. It sounded like an old white man from Toronto trying to say a few words in Swahili or something. I didn’t like the way he talked about Acadians, period. It was as if he thought they were cute or something. One of them is, I know that for certain, but she isn’t cute in the way he meant it. His tone, to me, was kind of condescending.

  I couldn’t wait to get back to Bill and Bonnie’s house, and not because I wanted to hang out. I was planning another trip to the beach, a late-night one. I was pretty sure Antonine was going to be there again. I remembered what she said about the ghost ship appearing in a certain sort of weather.

  The wind was picking up, coming from the north.

  7

  Nighttime Escape

  I had to give Mom and Dad the slip again. Well, really just Mom. The word Mom used for Dad sometimes was “oblivious” and it was pretty accurate, though I must admit I’m kind of like that too. Mom seems to be able to focus on about sixteen things at once, but Dad doesn’t really have that ability. He was having a holiday with his friends, so that was what was on his mind. I get it. When I’m focused on something, there is nothing else going on in the world. And I was making plans about the beach, the fire on the water…and Antonine.

  Mom, however, was watching me like a hawk. It’s funny with her. It’s like I’m always playing a sort of cat-and-mouse game with old Laura. She is just so aware of me all the time, worried about me, providing for me…not always giving me space. It’s like she is in my head at times. Well, not literally in my head, just trying to get in. She also knew that I knew that she was like that. So today, with her current worries about me and her already catching me spending so long at the beach, I really had to be on top of my game if I was going to give her the slip.