The Americans Are Coming (21 page)

Palidin was startled by the appearence of two fishery wardens in a canoe. He saw the wardens, but the wardens did not see him, and without a word or gesture of greeting, they slid quietly past in the way of the river.

“It’s poachin’ season. Hope nobody’s out nettin’,” thought Palidin.

When he felt the wardens were far enough downstream so that he himself would be safe from being caught as an accessory, he whooped long and loud. The whoop echoed past the wardens like the proverbial bat out of hell, warning poachers for a mile or more that the enemy approached. “If someone hears the whoop, he’ll whoop, too,” he thought. “The signal could travel all the way to Renous. The wardens will’ve wasted their run.”

In a moment, Palidin heard footsteps falling on the far end of the bridge.

“Could it be the wardens coming back to get me?” he asked himself. “Could they have seen me after all? No. They’re talkin’ like two fools. It’s Shadrack and Dryfly.”

Palidin waited.

“We’ll have to hide it somewhere till tomorrow night,” Dryfly was saying to Shadrack. “Somewhere indoors in case it rains.”

“It ain’t gonna rain,” said Shadrack. “It’s gonna be windy and cool tomorrow.”

“How ya know that for sure?”

“The northern lights. It’s always windy and cool after the northern lights.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. We’ll just stash it under a tree somewhere.”

“G’day, lads,” said Palidin. “Palidin!”

“What you lads up to?”

“Ah . . . ah, jist walkin’ around. What’re you doin’?”

“Just standin’ here.”

“Was that you whooped?”

“Yeah. Saw the wardens.”

“Runnin’ the river?”

“Yeah, two of them.”

“Bastards!”

“What’ve ya got there?”

“Oh . . . this . . . a trumpet.”

*

As Shadrack and Dryfly gave Palidin a five-minute spiel, all lies, on where they got the trumpet and what they intended to do with it, Lindon Tucker left his kitchen to see a man about a horse.

As he made his way to the barn, the chosen building for tonight’s annointing, he eyed the northern lights.

“Storm on the ocean,” he thought.

Lindon Tucker believed that the northern lights were caused by the sun’s reflection off a troubled sea.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. Be frost tonight and windy tomorrow, yeah.”

Lindon stepped into the deep shadows of the barn, sighed contentedly and relieved himself. He sniffed the air – “Yep, gonna be a storm, yeah. I kin smell that pulp mill in Newcastle. Yep. Oh yeah, yep. Pulp mill, yep. Kin always smell that pulp mill before a storm. Yep. Oh yeah, yeah, yeah. Smells like shit, yep.”

Clump. Something moved in the field beyond the barn.

Clump . . . clump . . . clump.

Lindon eyed the field. The frost, the stars and the northern lights made it just possible for him to see across the dim field to the edge of the forest. He could see nothing unusual in the glittering expanse.

Clump . . . clump . . . clump. The clumping sound came from the field once again, nearer this time.

“Sounds like a horse walking,” thought Lindon, “or a moose.”

Then Lindon saw the dark figure standing still about thirty yards away. He thought it might be a cow, or a moose; he wasn’t sure. It was hard to see in the dimness of the night. Lindon wasn’t even sure that it might not be a tree, although he couldn’t recall a tree being in that particular place.

“Yep. Oh yeah, yep. Prob’ly a moose, yeah. Yep. Oh yeah, yeah, moose, yeah. Moose kin be dangerous this time o’ year, yep. Dangerous, yeah. Better git in the house, yeah.”

*

The next night, every man in Brennen Siding met at Bernie Hanley’s store. While they drank Sussex Ginger Ale and discussed the plan, three dogs, eight rifles and four shotguns waited outside in the cool evening. A Gideon Bible got to go inside with John Kaston. The rifles and shotguns were unaccustomed to hunting this time of year, and had never been fired at a devil. The dogs were not trained hunting dogs, but Bert Todder’s dog Skip had a fair reputation for chasing cats. The owners of the dogs had brought them along more to sacrifice than to track. “If the rifle don’t down the devil, throw the old dog at ’im and run for dear life!”

“We’ll all stick together,” said Bernie Hanley, “at least until we know what we’re dealin’ with back there.” They were all standing around in Bernie Hanley’s store. In Bernie Hanley’s store, Bernie Hanley was in charge.

“Okay,” said Bert Todder, “Let’s go.”

“No hurry,” said Bernie, thinking that to stall was good for two or three purchases of ginger ale. “The thing never starts yelpin’ till near dark.”

“Yeah, but we should be over there when it does,” said Bert Todder.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yep. Never shows up till pretty near dark, no. No. No he don’t, no.”

“If we’re gonna wait fer it to start howlin’, we should be outside listenin’ fer it, I say,” said Dan Brennen.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. Should be outside, we should. Should be outside so we kin hear it,” agreed Lindon Tucker.

John Kaston stood fingering his Bible, looking very thoughtful, like a preacher about ready to take the pulpit. Tonight would be a test of faith for him. If he was successful in his exorcism, he would be the talk of the area. He might even get to preach in the church occasionally. “Dear loving heavenly Father . . .” John Kaston was praying for his dream to come true.

“Anyone want anything before I lock up?” asked Bernie.

Several of the men bought ginger ale, then they all went outside to wait and listen. The sun was dropping behind the horizon, splashing the north-west with shades of red.

“That’s a cool breeze,” said Bob Nash. “Startin’ to feel like fall.”

“Gonna head to Fredericton in the fall,” said Lindon Tucker. “Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Dan Brennen had hidden a quart of navy rum under the rhubarb leaves that grew along the east side of the store. He fetched it and passed it around. “To keep that lad from lookin’ at ya,” said Dan. John Kaston refused the shot of courage.

They had just tossed the empty rum bottle back into the rhubarb leaves when the Todder Brook Whooper let off his mournful cry. As they reached for their rifles, every man in the group thought, “I wish we had more rum.”

When the men were crossing the footbridge on their way to Todder Brook, the noise from the forest stopped. All the men came to an abrupt halt and stood on the bridge and listened.

“It stopped,” said Lindon Tucker. “It’s just takin’ a rest,” said Bob Nash.

“It’s still back there, you kin bet on that.”

When the men were entering the forest on the path that led to Nutbeam’s camp, the screaming started up again. This time, however, the noise was not coming from the Todder Brook area. It came from what seemed like John Kaston’s farm.

“Bless us and save us,” whispered John Kaston, squeezing his Bible tightly in his hands, “the devil’s on me very own land!”

“What do we do?” asked Bob Nash.

“Only one thing to do,” said Bernie Hanley. “He’s up at John’s.”

All the men swung and headed in the direction of John
Kaston’s. They crossed the Graig Allen field and climbed over the fence into John Kaston’s field. The last man, Stan Tuney, had no more than stepped off the cedar rail when the noise stopped. The men all stopped and stood, closer together than usual, and listened once again. They were more than just a little excited. They now felt they were close. Every man stared into the night for a gigantic cat with horns and eyes the size of ashtrays.

“We’ll stick together,” said Bernie Hanley. “We don’t want to shoot each other.”

“If the thing’s around here,” said Dan Brennen, “it’s prob’ly hidin’ in the shadows of the barn, or one o’ the sheds.”

The men formed a line and walked, side by side, toward the barn. When they were but thirty feet from it, they stopped and all except John Kaston raised their rifles. Bob Nash flicked on his flashlight. Nothing.

They searched every building on John Kaston’s farm, inside and out, but came up with nothing unusual. John and Max Kaston went into the house to check on the Mrs.

“John! John! The thing was right out by the barn!”

“I know, I know! You all right?”

“I’m all right, but the thing’s right out there by the barn! What are we gonna do?”

“Don’t be scared! Max and me will stay here with ya. Max, go and tell the men that we’ll stay here, in case it comes back. Tell them to go on without us!”

Max delivered the message and had no more than re-entered the house when the thing screamed from down on Helen MacDonald’s farm. Inside, Max found his father loading the rifle.

“He’s down at Helen’s place,” said Bob Nash.

“Helen’ll shit herself,” said Stan Tuney.

By the time the men climbed the fence into Helen MacDonald’s farm, the noise had stopped once again. When it started screaming again, it was coming from Lindon Tucker’s farm. When they arrived at Lindon Tucker’s, the thing had stopped again. By the light of Bob Nash’s flashlight, they searched all the buildings that belonged to Lindon, but once
again came up with nothing. Crossing the field, Bob Nash flicked on the flashlight to check his pocket watch for the time and several of the other men spied the hoofprints of the old bull moose.

“Hoof prints!” said Stan Tunney.

“Right in my field, right in my field, right in my field!” Lindon Tucker was nearly in tears.

Then the noise started up again, up by the footbridge.

That night the Todder Brook Whooper haunted every farm in Brennen Siding.

The next morning, a sleepless Lindon Tucker blew out the kerosene lamp that had been turned as high as it would go without smoking.

“That’s it! The time’s come! That’s it, that’s it, I’m gettin’ outta here! Goin’ to Fredericton. Right now . . . soon’s I go fishin’. Gotta fish first.”

A week later he would walk to Blackville and catch the SMT bus to Fredericton.

Palidin Ramsey’s business took a complicated twist. On the first day of September, Dr. MacDowell returned to his cottage. He would be there for the whole month of September and half of October. Dr. MacDowell did not want anybody but himself fishing his salmon pool.

Palidin had already been run out of Judge Martin’s pools. The judge hadn’t minded at first, but then he saw that Palidin was catching too many fish, more than his limit. Palidin had been severely reprimanded and was lucky to get away without being reported to the wardens.

Palidin then tried the Cabbage Island Salmon Club’s pool. In September, the club’s business boomed. For the whole month, all five cabins were occupied by American anglers, paying in the vicinity of a hundred dollars a day each for the privilege of staying there and fishing the productive waters. Frank Layton, the club’s manager, did not want Palidin to fish in the pool. It was overcrowded already.

Sam Little, from Hartford, Connecticut, ruled his pool as selfishly as everyone else, but he did not own both sides of the river. Across the river from Sam Little’s was the Lindon Tucker pool, which from then on would be called the Bill Wallace Pool.

When Palidin arrived at the Bill Wallace Pool, he found Dan Brennen, Lindon Tucker and Bert Todder, all wading waist-deep, fishing. A little fort of rocks had been constructed at the water’s edge, which was occupied by three dead fish – two grilse and a salmon. Palidin sat on a rock to watch and listen. The men were carrying on a leisurely conversation while they fished.

“How big was it?” asked Bert.

“I wouldn’ say fer sure, now, but it, now, I wouldn’ say fer sure, I wouldn’ swear to it, but now it looked to me to be about ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen pounds. Got ’im right behind his pet rock over there. Gets one there every day, he does, so he does.”

“I don’t see his car there, now,” commented Dan.

“No, no, no. Got his limit. Got his limit twice. Watched him. Got his limit this mornin’ and again this afternoon. Got his limit twice and left.” It was obvious that Lindon was not happy with the day’s activity of Sam Little. Lindon did not like Sam Little one bit. Sam Little fished without a guide ever since he bought the shore from Stan Tuney who lived across the way. Lindon used to guide Sam, but Sam, once he owned river-front property, did not legally need a guide anymore, so Lindon lost out on a month’s work every summer.

“G’day, Ramsey. How’s she goin’?” yelled Dan.

“Good,” said Palidin. “I see ya got some fish.”

These men, like all the men and boys in Brennen Siding, did not like Palidin Ramsey. He was fruity. He read all the time. Dan, particularly, did not like him. With all that knowledge, Palidin might learn and surpass Dan’s own limited knowledge. But on the river, things were different. On the river, although it had never actually been spoken about, it was customary to be courteous, gentlemanly. A rule that all except for the Americans and Monctonians followed. Local anglers, especially, did not like Monctonians.

In Palidin’s case, they would tolerate him with a subtle sarcasm.

“Lindon and Bert got them. I ain’t seen a thing,” said Dan.

“What did you get them on?” asked Palidin.

“Butterfly. Butterfly. Butterfly. Got ’im on a Butterfly.”

“Green butt?”

“Orange. Orange. Orange.”

“Got my two on a green butt,” said Bert. “The salmon come clean outa the water for it. Jesus, he hit it hard!” Bert was very pleased with his success and started to sing, “My little Blue Charm is better than yer yellow Cosserboom.”

“What’re ya workin’ at, Palidin?” asked Dan.

Bert Todder laughed, “Ha, ha, ha, tee, hee, sob, sob.”

The thought that Palidin Ramsey would ever have a job was, indeed, amusing.

“Selling post holes,” said Palidin. He did not laugh. He knew the men were making fun of him.

Dan Brennen frowned and spat into the water. He badly wanted to catch a fish – a big one to show the others up. He considered changing flies.

“Only for Lindon and Bert, I might’ve caught them fish meself,” he thought. “Bastards!” Dan didn’t like for anyone, other than himself, to catch a fish. He had fished for two hours and was growing impatient with the inactivity. “And now that young arsehole is waitin’ to get in!” He made another long, well-executed cast. The fly landed lightly and began its swing on the current. It passed several hotspots, but nothing surfaced or grabbed it.