by Steve Vernon
15
THE
LAKE UTOPIA
SEA MONSTER
LAKE UTOPIA
Lake Utopia is located in eastern Charlotte County, about one kilome–tre northeast of the town of St. George. It is a popular tourist spot, known for its fishing and sporting opportunities.
The lake is approximately seven kilo–metres long and three kilometres broad at its widest point. It is connected to the Magaguadavic River, thanks to the second deepest natural canal in the known world.
Magaguadavic (pronounced mack-uh-day-vick) is a Maliseet word mean–ing “river of eels.” The name may owe as much to the twisting shape of the river as it does to the abundance of eels in its waters. Over one hundred named tributaries and more than fifty-five lakes depend on the flow of the Magaguadavic River. That leaves room for an awful lot of tales— some of those tales are attached to a certain sea serpent called Old Ned.
The name Utopia is a joking reference to a land grant bestowed upon one Captain Peter Clinch in 1784. By chance or design, the grant included a fair amount of land located directly beneath the lake. Displaying an uncommonly philosophical sense of humour, Captain Clinch named the lake after Thomas More’s book Utopia, a play on the Greek term ou-topos, meaning “no place.” Local legend has it that the lake is inhabited by a gigantic sea monster, known as Old Ned, who breaks through the late winter ice of the frozen lake and snaps up unsuspecting victims.
The serpent is reputed to be at least twelve metres long, with a head the same size as a good-sized plough horse’s head and a mouth full of sabre-like teeth. It was first reported by a band of wintering lumberjacks who watched in terror as the creature twisted and rose from out of the cold winter waters.
Of course the local Mi’kmaq and Maliseet knew of this crea–ture long before any settlers arrived. It took the white men decades to wise up to the existence of something that large, living that close to civilization, perhaps because the beast never bothered paying taxes.
Upon hearing of the beast’s existence, the local hearties set out to catch the creature using gigantic makeshift fishing lures con–structed out of floating logs wrapped with dangling chains that held heavy iron hooks baited with chunks of salt fish and pickled pork. They dragged the unsavoury mess behind their boats, hop–ing to lure the lake monster up towards the surface.
The foolhardy fishermen met with absolutely no success. A fur–ther attempt to snare the creature in a tangle of massive fishing nets, thirty metres long and six metres wide, met with similar results.
Whatever was out there wasn’t going to be caught that easily.
Since then, there have been numerous sightings of the Lake Utopia Sea Monster, generally during the late winter and early spring when the ice is too rotten for skating or ice fishing. It is believed the creature swims up from the sea through the large natural canal. Some folks reckon that the beast lies dormant out there in the lake over the winter and it is only the heat of the oncoming spring that awakens it.
Learned authorities have theorized that there might be several possible explanations for these reported sea monster sightings.
Some experts blame the whole thing on great huddles of eels that clump together perhaps for warmth or as some sort of weird mat–ing ritual. These great clumps of lake eels, called eel-balls, are a common phenomenon, and Lake Utopia is certainly eel country. The eel-balls have been sighted in other regions in clumps almost two metres in diameter, moving through the water in a roiling twisting motion created by the flipping eel tails that dangle on the outside of the ball. Some scientists figure that such a sighting could be easily mistaken for a sea serpent.
Other experts believe that the sea monster may be nothing more than a giant sturgeon, a long-snouted, armour-plated fish that can grow up to four-and-a-half metres in length and weigh in at over ninety kilograms. Such fish were common in the St. John River long ago, before overfishing dropped their numbers down into near-extinction. Part of the problem was the sturgeon’s docile nature. They could be roped and herded and tethered to posts. These giant fish had absolutely no killer instinct or survival mechanism within their great scaly forms. This makes the stur–geon an unlikely impersonator of a sea serpent.
Another theory points to the possibility that the sea monster is just a submerged primeval tree root thrust up from the depths by the heaving of the late winter ice. Such an occurrence is common in the Lake Utopia region. Logs and shipwrecks and old canoes are frequently and unexpectedly thrown up from the bottom of the lake. Still, some of the locals figure the churning of Old Ned the Lake Monster down on the bottom causes the upheaval.
Other experts explain the phenomenon away with talk of giant sea turtles or families of otter swimming in line. I’m not wise enough to argue against such specialists, but I can tell you this: there is a great deal of difference between the monster folks have encountered and described, and a fish, eel, turtle, or otter.
The legends live on to this very day. Locals will happily tell you of grandmother Edna Mckillop of St. George, who in 1951 saw the waters of Lake Utopia begin to boil and splash as a huge head poked up through the surface, followed by a body that looked like a great moving black rock. She swore its jaws were streaked with a reddish substance that could have been a tangle of bottom weeds —or maybe even blood.
Even as late as 1982, there were sightings of the creature. That was the year a worker in a Lake Utopia paper mill, Sherman Hatt, spotted a creature that he said resembled “a submarine coming out of the water with spray on both sides. It was about ten feet long and put me in mind of the back of a whale.”
Sherman reported that the creature surfaced, displaying a head as large as a good-sized washtub before sinking down into the murky lake waters. Perhaps the discrepancy between this description of the monster’s head and the one that compared it to a horse can be explained by a case of winter eye strain, or pos–sibly the great beast has spawned himself a baby or two. In which case one has to wonder where on earth the mate of the creature has got to?
If you ask me, fishermen in the Lake Utopia area would be well-advised to carry along a jumbo-sized fishing rod, a very large fishing net, a year’s supply of flour, and one heck of a frying pan. An oar ought to serve you just fine for a spatula, if you’re not of the fussy sort.
Hmmm. I imagine that sea monster ought to taste some sweet, after sizzling in the pan with a barrel of herbed butter, a bushel or two of potatoes, and maybe a bucket of sliced lemons on the side.
I only hope somebody remembers to bring marshmallows.
16
THE BLOODY
STUMP OF
BONNY RIVER
BONNY RIVER
Down in the southwest corner of New Brunswick, about ten kilometres north of St. George, lies a tiny village by the name of Bonny River. Not a lot happens here, but the landscape is absolutely spectacular. The entire region is one gigantic glacial wash, a carved out hol–low where retreating ice sheets dropped trillions of tons of granite as they boo–gied in slow motion across the face of the province somewhere around about the tail end of the last ice age.
In the early 1800s, a young girl by the name of Mary Well lived on one side of the Magaguadavic River. On the other side of the river was a small settlement of hunting shacks. Two of these shacks were owned by a couple of good friends named Ben and Isaac. Now Ben and Isaac were long-time buddies who grew up hunt–ing and fishing on the side of the Magaguadavic River. Time and again the two of them had saved each other from terrible mis–fortune. When they were thirteen, Ben dragged Isaac out of the river. Of course, Ben had been the fellow who pushed Isaac into the river in the first place, but what else are friends for?
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 lov
e 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
GHOST HILL
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 woun
d 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.