Wicked Woods (16 page)

So how's your appetite now?

Gougou was named for the noise she would make from out of the depths of Chaleur Bay. Folks living nearby would hear a low and loud bubbling sound that built up to a roar. Scoffers have claimed that the sound was nothing more than the rush of the tide and the wind through coastal rock, but the Mi'kmaq will tell you that there is a lot more in this life besides what you can see and touch.

The whole thing started when Samuel de Champlain first heard an old Indian legend of Gougou, and returned to France to publish it as one of the very first descriptions of a Canadian mon–ster. The Mi'kmaq tales of a giant sea monster intrigued him so much he left a young Frenchman by the name of Vignan behind in a Mi'kmaq village to gather information. Now Champlain had a reputation for these sorts of discoveries. It was he who reput–edly discovered Champ, the monster of Lake Champlain, on the border between New York and Vermont. That is another tale for another time, but keep that bit of information firmly in mind. The fact is, Champlain liked to tell monster stories.

Vignan told Champlain of how he saw the beast Gougou standing in the waters of Chaleur Bay with a skin of fish scale and slime. Gougou was reported to be so tall that the masts of a ship could not reach her waistline. She would pluck her victims from the shore and deposit them in a large pemmican bag that she wore draped about her hips.

Other folks will tell you that the bag was an organic part of her, like a marsupial pouch. In either case, she left her victims to soften in the bag, much as the crocodile is reputed to some–times drag beasts too large to chew down under the water, wedg–ing them there until decay has rendered the meat soft enough for its poor chewing to handle. In fact, crocodiles have been known to hold pieces of meat in their mouths to rot until the meat is soft enough to swallow. Think about that the next time you're having trouble chewing down a tough slab of beefsteak and maybe it'll make it a little easier.

Or maybe not.

“Gougou is old,” the Mi'kmaq will tell you. “Her teeth have gone bad and she hates to chew.”

Depending on whom you talk to, Gougou is either an oversized monstrous mermaid or a giant woman with rainbow-patterned fish scales. Some say that she hides herself behind the glare of the northern lights as they play out across the bay. Others swear that Gougou resides in a lair on a rocky little island hidden deep in the belly of the Baie des Chaleurs.

Descriptions of Gougou and her location vary wildly. I reckon it's hard to see particularly straight when you're busy screaming in abject terror. Getting eaten by a giant-sized fish-scaled mermaid will do that to a man, if he isn't calm at heart. It's possible that all of the reliable witnesses are now mouldering in the capacious bottom of Gougou's pemmican bag.

Whatever the reason, you should keep your eyes wide open when you are sailing across the Baie des Chaleurs, no matter what the time of day. That distant thunder you hear might be the rumbling of Gougou's ever-empty belly. Sunscreen and sweat might be all the spices she needs to slide you down whole into the belly of her pemmican bag.

25
T
HE
P
HANTOM
S
HIP
OF
C
HALEUR
B
AY

BATHURST

The tale of the phantom ship began in the year 1500 when a ruthless Portuguese seafarer by the name of Gaspar Corte-Real sailed into Chaleur Bay on his ves–sel, Caravel, and landed on the nearby Gaspé coastline. Gaspar made friends with the local Mi'kmaq and treated them to a great feast of food and whisky. After plying them with alcohol and smooth-talking treachery, Gaspar imprisoned them in the hold of his vessel and locked them in chains.

Gaspar planned to sell these natives in Europe as slaves. It was easy money, he thought, and who would be upset over the mistreatment of a few untaught savages?

A summer later, Gaspar returned to Chaleur Bay and landed on Heron Island. The Mi'kmaq here seemed just as gullible as those on the Gaspé coast. However, word had gotten around about Gaspar. It seemed these Mi'kmaq were not as foolish as he thought they were.

The joke was on Gaspar when the Mi'kmaq stole into his camp, butchered his men, and dragged him away to a rough trial and an even rougher justice. They carried Gaspar out to the mud flats and bound him to a rock where he could lay and watch as the tide gradually crawled up to claim his life.

“Think on what you did,” they told him.

Now a watched kettle will never boil and a tide can creep awfully slowly if you are staring at it hard enough. Gaspar burned a hole in the water with the intensity of his gaze before it crept up inch by inch to engulf him. It is said that he died screaming as the water slowly rose above his head and drowned him.

The following summer, Gaspar's brother Miguel Corte-Real sailed into Chaleur Bay searching for his missing brother. Now the history books and legends do not tell us if Miguel was as unscru–pulous as his brother, but the local Mi'kmaq took no chances. They boarded Miguel's vessel and when he and his men barri–caded themselves in the hold of the ship, the Mi'kmaq set fire to it. Miguel and his men died screaming as loudly as Gaspar had.

It is said that before the Mi'kmaq set the vessel alight, Miguel and his sailors joined hands in the darkness and swore a terrible oath that they would fight together and die together, and haunt the waters of Chaleur Bay for a thousand years to come.

Since then there have been many sightings of the burning ship. The phantom ship has been seen up and down the bay, its spars and sails burning and figures dancing in the flames and screaming and leaping from the masts.

The burning ship has found a home of sorts in the town of Bathurst where the people have claimed the legend as their own. In fact when you are driving into the town keep a close eye for the road sign with the painting of the burning ship. It is truly a spectacular sight.

They also say that you can still hear the cries of Gaspar in the waves that break against the rocks of Chaleur Bay. You will very likely see that flaming ship sailing across the waters for many a year yet to come.

L
AST
W
ORDS

I looked up from my last story, surprised to see just how much time had passed. The flames of the campfire had burnt down into a glowing bed of coals, and the embers were losing their spark and subsiding into the memory of the New Brunswick forest floor.

“That's some fine storytelling,” the old man said. “It whiled away the hours nicely.”

I'll say. The morning sun was flow–ing over the rim of the distant horizon. I could hear the birds beginning to wake up, and the sky was stretching itself awake before spreading a bright blue blanket over the woods and fields.

“Talk will do that, won't it? Telling stories is how we pass the time between night and morning. We tell stories to each other, and then while we sleep, we dream and tell stories to ourselves.” I just sat there blinking. My mouth was dry. How long had I been talking?

“There is a tale to be found in every scrap of history,” the old man went on. “It is the storyteller's vision that decides exactly where and when he will begin, and where and when he will end.”

I was barely listening. I had a school to get to and I wondered how many cups of coffee it would take to rouse me into action.

“And I guess this is as good a place as any to end our tale,” the old man concluded.

“You're leaving?” I asked.

“I'm going home,” he answered. “You ought to throw some water on that fire. The New Brunswick woods are just too pretty to burn down.”

I fetched some water from a nearby stream and obediently doused the ashes. The water hissed as it hit the coals, and a ghost of smoke rose up and obscured my vision.

Through the cloud of the sudden smoke I saw the old man stand up and stretch himself out. As he stood and straightened he seemed to grow almost totem-pole tall. He leaned back and let out a hoot and a howl that echoed and re-echoed across the woods and the hills and nearly deafened me.

I closed my eyes and when I opened them he was gone, leav–ing me wondering if I had spent the whole night talking to myself, but his moccasin prints were still there by the fire.

Just once I thought I heard a quiet chuckle, but when I lis–tened closely all I could hear was the echo of his wild whoop caught in the whisper of the wind. In the far distance I was cer–tain I could hear the waves of the Atlantic, beating like hushed tom-toms on the New Brunswick shore, telling me a story I could not understand.