Non Fiction, Judged by Jon Tattrie

1st – “The Pentecostalist Wedding,” Noeline Bridge, Moncton, NB
2nd – “A Deaf Sense of Smell,” Jessie Carson, Almonte, ON
3rd – “Les Pierres de Paris,” Elaine Amyot, Dieppe, NB

“The Pentecostal Wedding is a great, high-energy story that captures the wedding better than any video camera ever could. It starts in a whirlwind of activity and keeps up the manic pace right to the end, giving a feel for an emotionally and physically stormy, wild day. The wedding guests come across as giddy, almost crazed, and you can feel the narrator being pulled back into that world, but resisting.”

Individual Poem, Judged by Shoshanna Wingate

1st – “The Carnage” Nancy King Schofield, Grand Barachois, NB
2nd – “Crow Impressions” Edith Miller, Fredericton, NB
3rd – “Upon Leaving the Branch,” Debbie Okun Hill, Camlachie, ON

“[The Carnage] slips between a storyteller’s distance and a witnesses’ remembrance. It gains its strength from the marriage of the two. And yet “Carnage” also weaves in language reminiscent of our favorite myths, and so the story is given a dreamlike quality, a rhythm that suggests we are allowed, even expected, to hang our realist’s hat on the hook at the door and are welcomed in to sit at the fire and listen to a strange tale about ourselves.”

Short Fiction, Judged by Steven Mayoff

1st – “The Weaver,” Roger Moore, Island View, NB
2nd – “Incomplete,” Chuck Lovatt, Carroll, MB
3rd – “Puzzles,” Paul Healey, Rothesay, NB
HM- “The Pellet Gun,” Paul Healey, Rothesay, NB

“In [The Weaver] the cultural and economic divisions between a tourist and an aboriginal weaver are bridged through the weaver’s craft. The author employs concise and evocative prose that seems in itself to unfold like a tapestry. A skillful balance between poetic imagery and political reality keeps the reader engaged at all times.”

Writing for Children, Judged by Noreen Smiley

1st – “The Afterthoughts at Christmastime,” Paul Rowe, St. John’s, NL
2nd – “Skink on the Brink,” Lisa Dalrymple, Fergus, ON
3rd – “Rosella’s Messy Room,” Judy Stoddart, Winnipeg, MB
HM – “The Promise,” Wendy Kitts, Moncton, NB
HM – “Trixie, Who is Wonderful,” Harriet Zaidman, Winnipeg, MB
HM – “K.C. The Super Sleuth: The Cat that Swallowed the Canary,”
Kelly Trevors Picard, Quispamsis, NB

“[The Afterthoughts at Chistmastime] is steeped in nostalgia, embracing the reader like a warm familiar blanket. A fine attention to detail captures a time and place when life was more innocent and when sledding in the dark was full of magic. The writer deftly offers up one strong image after another, slowly building a picture of this loving and slightly eccentric family and managing to pull off a satisfying and quite perfect ending.”

David Adams Richards Prize, Judged by JoAnne Soper-Cook

Winner – “The Meaning of Children,” Beverly Akerman, Montreal, QC
HM – “The Burning Bush and Other Stories,” Laura M. Robinson, Kingston, ON
HM – “Black Ice,” Noeline Bridge, Moncton, NB

“The author [of The Meaning of Children] shows a keen, incisive vision into the hidden world of children as well as intimate knowledge of the secret spaces that exist between the everyday events of life. There is knowledge here, knowledge of those important, life defining moments of puberty, the birth of a sibling, an encounter with a possibly dangerous stranger. Overall, a work with a brilliant sense of story.”

Alfred G. Bailey Prize, Judged by Mark Callanan

Winner – “The Wailing Machines,” Rob Taylor, Vancouver BC

“The poems here, whether celebrating small moments of tenderness and intimacy, or contemplating the horrors humanity so often visits upon its own, seem to answer the question posed by Mary Oliver in an epigraph that adorns the first section of this book: “how to love this world.” The answer is to find the primal, animal energy that animates our race, and to reflect back to us that energy so that we can more clearly see ourselves, in all our beauty and in all our ugliness.”

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by Kellie Underhill

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Part 2 Part 6 Part 10
Part 3 Part 7
Part 4 Part 8

A Peaceful Easy Feeling
Normally, Sammy would have thrown himself into the throng, but after so many days of being on the go he just wanted to relax. He needed to get off Main Street and find a quiet place by the river to collect his thoughts. He walked back to the bridge, went down to the river, jumped in and started to swim. The water always felt so good on his skin. He swam upstream, saw some cabins by the water and decided to have a closer look. There were a quite a few cottages, some larger than others. They were spread out for privacy and surrounded by grass and trees. It was beautiful, so peaceful and relaxing. A dirt road meandered from cottage to cottage and Sammy followed it until he came to a big cottage marked Office. He stepped onto the front porch just as the door opened and a woman rushed out.

“Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed. “Are you waiting for me?” She taped a sign to the window that read, “O’Donnell’s Cottages & Expeditions, Back in an hour” and without waiting for Sammy to respond she continued, “Come on, come on, we’re late! They’ll all be getting antsy down by the boats.” He followed the speedy little woman to the shore where a group of people were waiting by some bright coloured canoes.

“Now, on to the fiddleheads!” the woman exclaimed and everyone started climbing into the canoes. “C’mon,” she nudged Sammy. “Get in, you can come with me.”

“Fiddlehead Fiesta!” a little girl yelled and they took to the river. Sammy’s boat, with the woman navigating, led the others to various places where they pulled onto shore and picked ferns called fiddleheads. Sammy found the rocking of the canoe soothing. There was something about the river that helped him relax. When they returned, the group looked forward to learning how to prepare, preserve and cook the fiddleheads in a variety of different ways including in soup and omelettes. Sammy couldn’t wait to eat. After learning how to prepare the delicacy for dinner, they gathered around a big table in a conference room to await the meal. The plates starting coming and people were oohing and aahing over the dishes, but Sammy’s stomach churned with disgust. Something smelled fishy and he didn’t like it. When his plate was set in front of him he recoiled as if stung by a bee. He couldn’t help himself. The sight of the pink flesh on the plate turned his stomach. He quickly excused himself and fled the building.

The Chase Continues

He ran down the steps, onto the dirt road, out toward the river and smack dab into another group of people. These people hadn’t been gathering fiddleheads. They carried rods and nets and wore vests, hats and rubber boots that came all the way up to their chests. They gave him that knowing look he’d seen before and as he made a mad dash for the river, they followed.

“Look at the size of him!”

“Think he’s legal?”

“I’ve got a tape, we’ll soon see.”

“Get him boys!” He heard the tape measure being pulled out and dove for the water. His belly scraped the bottom and he pushed off swimming as far and as fast as he could. He swam some way before he felt comfortable enough to look back and see if they were still there. He breathed a huge sigh of relief; he was alone. Obviously all these men knew who he was, and they weren’t about to let him in on the secret anytime soon. They probably knew where he needed to go too, and they really didn’t want him to get there. The trip had taken a dangerous turn and Sammy needed a plan. When he thought he was far enough away he got out of the water and headed off through the woods to find the highway, a new town, a safe place to rest.

One-Stop Shopping

He came onto the road at a place called McCloskey’s General Store. Surely they’ll have something to nibble Sammy thought as he entered. Once inside he discovered a few aisles at the back devoted to nothing but groceries, there was even a meat counter. The store was amazing! One-stop shopping like he had not seen anywhere else. The shelves were stocked with everything from china, glassware, toasters and tea kettles to luggage, watches, porcelain dolls and dart supplies. Everywhere he looked there was something different and unique. Plush toys, tea towels, bolts of fabric, stereos, curtain rods, hand saws, socks, belts, bird seed, hunting gear, camping supplies, ice skates—it was a treasure trove! Downstairs he found several bins and racks of shoes and clothing. He had an idea. He picked out some green workpants, a red and black checked snap shirt, a pair of tan coloured work boots, and a black ball cap with a truck logo on the front. Slipping off to a dark corner he clothed himself and then found a mirror. Yes, this was much better! Now he would blend in. As he walked around the store deciding what he’d like to eat, he noticed another counter. This one had rods, reels, nets, waders, fly hooks, and a few men gathering supplies. He could smell the river off them. One of them looked his way and nodded. “Great day to be on the river,” he said.

“G’day,” Sammy said nodding like he’d seen other people do.

“Yep, great day for her!” The men returned to their shopping without giving Sammy another glance. His disguise worked! He gathered his supplies, exited the store and started walking. Before too long he came to a wooden building with a sign that said Central New Brunswick Woodmen’s Museum. Remembering the insightful afternoon he’d spent at the Tabusintac Library, Sammy decided to visit this museum also and look for clues or information. It seemed like he was getting closer to figuring out who he was. The further he travelled, the more people seemed to recognize him.

Encountering a Ghost

Inside was quiet, he couldn’t see anybody around. He browsed the gift shop’s wide selection of local books and music, wood crafts, quilts, t-shirts, souvenirs and more. He studied the many paintings and prints. He was looking at the head of a deer mounted on a wall when a woman shrieked behind him.

“Oh my goodness!” she screamed. “It’s the ghost of Peter Emberley!”

Sammy jumped and looked around wildly. “Where?!” he yelled. “Where?!”

The woman giggled and raised her palm over her chest. “My soul,” she said. “You scared me near to death! I thought you were the ghost of Peter Emberley.”

Sammy chuckled, “You gave me quite a fright too.”

“I didn’t hear you come in,” the woman continued.

“Sorry,” Sammy said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Who is Peter Emberley?”

“It’s a long story,” the woman said. “There have been songs written about him. He was a young man from PEI who came to the logging camps of Miramichi and was killed when a log rolled on him.”

“That’s terrible,” Sammy said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “You can learn a lot more about him and all kinds of other woodmen’s stories if you take a walk around and look at all the displays. If I can help you in anyway just let me know.”

Sammy nodded. The woman’s voice sounded familiar. It’s funny, he thought, all the women on this journey have sounded the same. They all sound like Rachel. And Sammy peered more closely at this woman’s face as she backed away and started to go. She had the same big eyes. It was very curious. Suddenly he felt weak in his stomach and he fell back on a handmade wooden bench. “Excuse me,” he said. “I do seem to need some help.” The woman came over. “What can I do for you?” she asked with concern.

“I haven’t slept in awhile. I wondered if there were any motels or cottages or anything close by.”

“The Red Pines Park is just across the road, you could tent there.”

“I don’t have a tent,” Sammy said as the room tilted. “Can I just sleep outside?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll rig you up.” The woman called some of the regular campers to help Sammy across the road and set him up in a place to rest. She even loaned him a sleeping bag. He was so drowsy he had a vague recollection of many hands carrying him, but nothing more.

The Sky is Falling

When he woke it was late and the moon was high. He felt a lot better as he lay snugly in the warm sleeping bag. “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight,” he recited. “Please help me get home,” he whispered. He lay there studying the moon, turning the journey over in his mind. He didn’t know where to go from here. He didn’t know what was next. He’d met so many people, many who had helped him and some who hadn’t. Even as he thought it, he heard Joe’s voice in his mind, follow the lights. He had followed lights but still hadn’t found his way. As he lay there deep in thought, a star streaked across the sky like a fireball, and then another, and another. Sammy had never seen anything like it. The sky was falling. All the stars were shooting this way and that. It took his breath, his own private light show was happening in the sky.

Lights! He sat up suddenly. The sky was full of them! This had to be it. Sammy leapt to his feet. He ran until he found the river and then he jumped in and started swimming. He swam over rapids and around islands, against a strong current. He swam toward the moon, following the meteor shower. He swam close to the surface with his eyes trained on the sky. He didn’t see the big rock until it was too late. He smacked into the side of the boulder and the last thing he saw was shooting stars on the inside of his eyelids as he passed out.

Awake in a Dream

“Sammy? Sammy?” The voice sounded far away, hollow.

“Rachel?” Sammy squeaked.

“He’s waking up!”

“Gladys?” Sammy mumbled. He felt like he was swimming deep, slowly rising to the surface.

“I’m here, Son.” Sammy recognized the voice.

“Papa?” he said as his eyes fluttered open. “Papa, is that you?” The world came into focus and Sammy saw his father hovering over him.

“Oh Sammy! I’ve been so worried!” Papa pulled him into a hug.

“What happened?” Sammy asked but didn’t wait for a response. “Oh, Papa! I had a dream, I was lost and I didn’t know who I was and I couldn’t find you and a lot of really nice people tried to help me and a few tried to catch me and I learned about different cultures and tried different dancing and, and, and—”

“You hit your head in the storm surge,” Papa explained. “You’ve been unconscious for days. Everybody took turns helping to carry you up the Mighty Miramichi River to the headwaters. I was worried you’d never wake up again. If it hadn’t been for Samantha, I don’t know how I would have gotten through this.”

“Samantha,” Sammy said. He remembered his father had arranged everything.

“Yes, she refused to give up on you, been by your side the whole time. She insisted you would come back for her.” Papa stepped aside and Sammy could see a girl. “Rachel?” He squinted. She stepped from the shadows and it was the girl of his dreams! The one he had seen in the ocean with the beautiful bulging eyes and the sparkling skin.

“Sammy, I’d like you to meet Samantha,” Papa said, and the jitterbugs started to dance in Sammy’s stomach.

… The End … (or is it?)

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by Kellie Underhill

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Whooping It Up in Blackville
When he woke Sammy walked out to the main road. He looked left and right wondering which way to turn. To the left he saw a church on top of a hill. To his right there was a bridge and on the other side he could see a couple of buildings, one with a neon open sign in the window, the other with pictures of ice cream cones on the outside. Food! Sammy made a beeline for the bridge.

Inside Big E Chicken Sammy ordered a sub sandwich, which was a new menu item. He sat at a table by the window and tried to look inconspicuous, but none of the staff or other customers seemed to take any particular interest in him. He relaxed and enjoyed his food. Maybe the danger had passed. When he finished he went next door to the ice cream stand for a cool sweet treat and then sat on the patio basking in the sunshine. A teenaged boy with longish hair and baggy clothes was also sitting on the patio. “Excuse me,” Sammy said to the boy. “But I wondered if you could tell me where I might go around here to meet some people.”

“Dunno,” the boy mumbled, eyeing Sammy warily.

“Oh,” Sammy frowned. “So there aren’t very many people around here? No parties or hangouts or anything?”

“Dunno,” the boy shrugged. “Depends, why you want to know?”

Sammy hoped he wouldn’t have to get into it, but the boy wouldn’t help until he knew the whole story.

“Cool, someday I’m gonna hitch all over and see the world.”

“Yeah, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Sammy said. “Right about now I’d give anything just to figure out who I am and find my family.”

“Yeah, I guess,” the boy said sounding unconvinced.

“So, where can I go to meet a bunch of people?”

“Well, everybody’s doing that Dungarvon Whooper Festival today,” the boy said. “There’s some stuff going on in the park, and there’s a play tonight.”

“Dungarvon Whooper?”

“You don’t know about him?”

“No,” Sammy shrugged. “I really don’t know a lot about anything anymore.” The boy explained how a man was robbed and killed in the logging camps and how his ghost could be heard to whoop.

“A priest came and blessed the ground, to quiet him down,” the boy said. “Some people say it worked and he never whooped again, but some people say it didn’t work and you can still hear him whooping back there.”

“That’s a little creepy.”

“Yeah,” the boy agreed. “I think the play’s going to be pretty cool. They’ll tell you the story better ‘n me and there’ll be some whooping going on.”

Sammy didn’t think he was connected to the Dungarvon Whooper and the idea of a whooping spirit gave him chills. If he ever hoped to sleep again he didn’t think he should see that play. He thanked the boy and went back to the park.

More Molasses Please

Many people were at the park. He recognized some of the activities he’d seen at the Scottish Festival including the tossing of the Clachneart. He pivoted and headed in the other direction to avoid getting caught up in that competition again. The emcee came over the loud speaker to announce the woodmen’s competition, and Sammy wandered over to watch men compete using tools from the days of the Dungarvon Whooper.

At the Bread ‘n Molasses tent many people had baked loaves of bread. Judges were slathering pieces with Crosby’s fancy molasses and tasting to determine the best. The winner was a girl named Tammy. She jumped up and down with excitement at being chosen. Her eyes seemed as big as saucers and her long brown hair was tied in braids. Sammy thought she was beautiful. He worked up the nerve to congratulate her on the win. “Oh thank you,” she said, giving him a hug. “You’re very sweet.” He blushed. They spent the rest of the afternoon talking about baking and Blackville and browsing all the arts and heritage displays.

“Are you going to the play?” Tammy asked as the sun set.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Me neither,” she said. “Do you want to come to Nine Pine’s for nachos?”

“Absolutely!”

Nine Pine’s Nacho Night

They entered the Nine Pine Shell lounge and the first thing Sammy noticed was the photographs of local truckers all over the wood walls. The lounge was packed and they squeezed into a table in the back corner. They ordered plates of chicken and beef nachos. The music was old country and many different people sang. After they ate someone came around selling 50/50 tickets and Tammy bought a bunch.

“The other half goes to local people who need help,” she said. “If I win, I’ll donate my half too. They helped out my sister one time.”

That was one of the things Sammy liked about Tammy. Yes, she could be a bit tomboyish, but she had a heart of gold and a generous spirit. He enjoyed spending time with her and as the night progressed and people started to get up and dance, he asked Tammy to waltz. They glided across the floor like they were one person. When the song ended, the performers said goodnight.

“Well, we’d better see about getting you a room,” Tammy said as she tweaked his nose. “They’ve got the Fisherman’s Rest Motel rooms right here. I’ll be back in a sec.” And then she bounced off, pigtails flying.

Outside room number two, Tammy handed him his key. “Well, I guess this is good night,” she said.

“I guess so.”

“If you’re ever back in Blackville . . .”

“Yeah, I know.”

He looked at the ground and kicked at the dirt. They shared an awkward silence. “Well, good bye then,” she said leaning in quickly to kiss him on the cheek and then turning and running away. “Don’t forget me,” she called back. Sammy touched the place on his cheek where he could still feel her lips. “I won’t,” he whispered.

Big Feeling Moose

Sammy emerged from his room in the morning feeling rested and alert. He went into the restaurant and ordered breakfast. Many of the truckers whose pictures were on the wall were also having breakfast. They were a friendly bunch and one named, Marcus, agreed to give him a ride as far as Doaktown.

Marcus dropped Sammy off in front of the B & L Restaurant, blew his horn and drove away. There was a moose lazing around on the front lawn. “Hello moose,” Sammy said. “Great day, eh?”

The moose ignored him and Sammy tried a different approach. “I wonder if you could tell me if there’s anything to see or do here.” The moose remained perfectly still and didn’t say a word.

“Okay, then,” Sammy said. “Sorry to have disturbed you. Have a nice day.” No response from the moose.

“Sheesh, some people,” Sammy muttered and went inside.

“What was that?” the waitress asked as she led Sammy to a table.

“Nothing, just talking about the moose outside.”

“Oh, Bruce,” the waitress said. “Yeah, he’s a big star around here. People love him. In hunting season we put a red hunting vest on him so people won’t shoot him.”

“Well, that explains why he’s so quiet, I guess,” Sammy said. “He’s big feeling.”

“Uh, yeah,” the waitress said. “And he’s also a carving.” She giggled and took Sammy’s order. He didn’t know if she thought he was just a funny guy, but Sammy felt pretty silly and embarrassed.

Welcome to the Glendella

After lunch he walked across the bridge and through the village of Doaktown. It was the kind of quaint place where everyone he met said hello and all the houses had welcome wreaths hanging on their front doors. He passed a Salmon Museum, golf and country club, restaurants, a Pharmasave store, a flower shop, and more. Beside Taylor’s Motel he saw a huge house, with pillars and balconies and massive windows. It was like an estate from Gone with the Wind. He couldn’t go by without knocking on the door.

“Welcome to the Glendella!” a cheery woman exclaimed. “Come right in!” Sammy stepped inside and looked around. There was so much to see in this home!

“Would you like a tour?” the woman asked. When Sammy nodded she led him from room to room talking about the house and all the collectibles inside. Her passion for her home was contagious. He marvelled over the handcrafted fabric ceilings, didn’t dare touch any of the Victorian Dolls and angels, and enjoyed learning about the antiques. After the tour the woman invited Sammy to have a cup of tea. Once seated her interest turned to Sammy. “Have you been travelling long, dear?” the woman asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Will you be staying in Doaktown or just passing through?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“We have rooms available at the Motel next door,” she said. Sammy nodded.

“So have you been taking in all the attractions? Seeing all the sights here?”

“Well, no, not really. I had lunch at a nice restaurant, then I walked through town but I didn’t go in anywhere until I got here.”

“Oh my dear! You need to get out and do some things, you’ll miss all the fun!” she laughed. “There are all kinds of activities happening with the Salmon & Fiddlehead Homecoming Festival. There’s pageants, jamborees, movies, dances, breakfasts, craft sales, an ATV run, carnival games, a petting zoo, Bingo, BBQ, a canoe run, fireworks,” she paused to take a breath, “and so much more if I listed it all you’d miss the whole works! Now go on, skedaddle and have some fun!”

… to be continued …

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Everything Old is New Again
The sign said Renous River Antiques. He decided to go in and have a look around, maybe the shop would have something to eat. Inside Sammy discovered a world of handicrafts and antiques.

“Is there something I can help you with?” the man behind the counter asked. “I was just about to close.”

“Oh,” Sammy said. “I’ve been travelling a long time and I know this is an Antique shop but I thought you might have something to eat, souvenir chocolate or a lollipop or something. Right about now anything would be good.”

The man smiled. “Well, I tell you what, I don’t need to get home right away so why don’t you join me for a cup of tea. I’ve got some homemade sugar cookies and I’m always interested in hearing traveller’s stories. I’m sure you have a story or two or three.”

Sammy laughed. “Oh I’ve got a story alright, and it’s a doozey.” They sat at an antique table and chairs, slurping tea and stuffing their faces with sugar cookies as he told his whole story.

“Well, well, well,” the man said when he had heard everything. “I can tell you the history of that chest of drawers in the corner, but looking at you, I don’t know a thing. You could be anybody.” Sammy hadn’t really expected anything more. “But I don’t know, maybe there’s someone in Blackville who can help you,” the man shrugged.

“It’s okay,” Sammy said. “You’ve really been a great help. The cookies and the tea hit the spot. I’ll take your advice and go to Blackville and see if someone there can help me.” The man happily dropped Sammy off on Route 8 so he could hitchhike to Blackville.

A Slew of Purple Hats

He hadn’t walked very far when a car approached and Sammy stuck out his thumb. The station wagon pulled to the shoulder and a lady wearing a big purple hat waved to him from the window. “Hurry up dear! We’re going to be late!” He ran to the car and squished into the back with a bunch of ladies. They were all wearing purple hats and talking at the same time about how they were going to be late for High Tea.

“Look at him,” one of the women exclaimed. “He’s skinny as a rake!”

“You need to come with us, dear,” another woman said to Sammy. “We’ll soon fatten you up!” And they all laughed.

“Are you going to Blackville?” he asked.

“Almost,” the driver said. “We’re going to the Barnettville Road, which is just outside Blackville.”

“Come for tea!” everyone urged and Sammy shrugged and said, “Okay, why not.”

At Darlene’s Tea House over tea, fancy sandwiches, and scones with clotted cream, the ladies sang, recited poems and acted out skits. When the chef came out of the kitchen to say hello, Sammy asked if he could have something more substantial. “Not that high tea isn’t great, it’s just that I’ve been travelling for so long and I’m really hungry.”

“Yes dear! Oh my goodness, you can have whatever you want,” she said squeezing his shoulders as she hugged him. The waitress gave him a menu and he ordered bacon wrapped chestnuts, the grilled chicken breast dinner, and unable to decide between an apple dumpling with cinnamon sauce or the ginger bread cake with rum raisin sauce, he ordered both.

“Oh it’s good to see a young lad with an appetite!” the chef exclaimed and disappeared into the kitchen to prepare his feast. While the ladies laughed and carried on, a couple of men came in and took a seat by the window, ordering pork chops and coffee. With their green fishing vests and wide brimmed hats decorated with fly hooks, it was obvious they were fishermen. Sammy’s food came and he dove in, practically moaning with ecstasy. As his hunger subsided he looked around and noticed one of the men was looking at him, slyly almost, then leaning in to whisper to the other man, who turned around to look, nodding knowingly. Sammy wiped his face thinking he must have sauce dripping off his chin or something. When he looked again the men were standing right beside him.

“Oh,” he yelped. “You scared me.”

“Sorry about that,” the dark haired, deeply tanned one said. “I just noticed you sitting here, overheard one of the ladies say they picked you up on the road and I thought maybe you’d need a place to stay.”

“That’s really nice of you,” Sammy said. “I actually don’t have any place to stay.”

“Well, I got a lodge just down the road and there’s plenty of room.”

A look passed between the two men, Sammy wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he was really tired, so he smiled and said, “I’d like that very much, thank you.” The dark man grinned.

Finding the Measurements

Jardine Cast & Blast was written on the side of the dark man’s truck. Sammy sat in the middle between the two men who kept rolling their eyes at one another making him feel a little uncomfortable. Luckily the drive didn’t last long. The lodge overlooked the river. Inside the floors and ceilings were all wood, very neat, bright and homey. Sammy flopped into a big chair with a sigh.

“Yeah, you rest right there, little fellow, I’ll be back in a sec, just gotta go get something,” the dark man said and he nodded for the other man to also sit down as he hustled out of the room. Sammy sighed again and closed his eyes. He opened them just as the dark man came back into the room with his hands behind his back. Sammy didn’t like the way the other guy leapt to his feet and how they both seemed to be circling around him dangerously.

“Ah, guys,” Sammy gulped. “What’s going on here?” He looked from one man to the other as they approached him from either side slowly, and then when they got within a couple of feet of him they pounced. One guy grabbed him around his stomach and held him down, while the dark man whipped out a measuring tape from behind his back.

“Hold him still!” the man ordered as he tried to stretch the tape the length of Sammy’s squirming body.

“What is going on here?!” Sammy squealed as he flailed and tried to get lose.

“Hold him!” the man yelled. “Don’t club him, till I know for sure he’s legal. I almost got it, almost . . .”

Suddenly Sammy slipped free and slid to the floor. Off like a shot he barrelled out the front door, dove over the side hill and leapt into the river. He started swimming upstream as fast as he could, pausing just for a second to look back and see if he was being followed. The men were running to a boat carrying rods and nets. Sammy dove deep and swam for his life. After what seemed like a long while but may only have been five minutes he rose to the surface gently to sneak a look around. He couldn’t see the men or their boat anywhere. Sammy wasn’t sure what that was all about, but he wasn’t going to stick around and find out. He kept swimming.

Wanted Dead or Alive

Passing by the Country Haven Lodge a man beckoned him to shore.

“Hey there young feller, what’s your hurry? C’mon in and stay awhile,” the man said. He had the same sort of grin the dark haired man had, sneaky, devilish.

“C’mere little guy, c’mon, just a little closer,” the man beckoned. Sammy was tired, he hoped they’d let him stay the night. He was just about to inquire when a young man ran down to the shore.

“Here’s your rod,” the young man wheezed all of out of breath. He was carrying a net. And then Sammy noticed the measuring tape hanging out of the man’s fly decorated vest. Sammy turned tail and swam for it.

“Blast it!” the man roared. “He’s getting away!” There sure are a lot of slippery characters around here, Sammy thought. Everywhere he looked there were men with rods, who seemed to be tracking him, hoping to lure him to shore. Sammy was a wanted man! He swam until he didn’t want to swim any longer and then at a place that looked deserted he flopped out onto the shore to sleep. A sign said he was at the Blackville Municipal Park. Sammy found a nice spot in the grass by a big tree and lay down to nap. One thing seemed certain, the way to Blackville had been fraught with danger. These people seemed to not only know who he was but to have some sort of vendetta against him. There appeared to be a price on his head. He hoped he could find someone who could clear matters up.

… to be continued …

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The Resort
He woke hours later. Night had fallen over Miramichi and Sammy gazed at all the city lights from people’s homes, cars and street lamps. Bobbing in the water around Beaubear’s Island provided a wonderful view. He drew inspiration from the lights; after all they had drawn him here in the beginning. He needed to believe this quest was leading to something. He knew in his soul that Rachel’s uncle had not steered him wrong. And as suddenly as hope bloomed in his heart, he saw a different kind of light coming toward him. In fact there were dozens, tiny greenish yellow sparks, skimming the water. They came upon him suddenly and zoomed past. Lightning bugs! Fireflies!

“Wait for me,” Sammy shouted as he veered to the right and swam fast to catch up. When they went under a set of bridges, he followed. When the river curved he went around the bend. But the fireflies were too quick. He stopped to catch his breath.

“Psst. Meester, over here.” Sammy jumped, startled as he turned to see a young guy emerging from the shadows of the water below. He was long and lean with a dark complexion and a toothy smile.

“Hey man,” he grinned. “Wanna make a deal?”

“A deal?” Sammy asked.

“Man, I dunno where you be going.”

“I’m lost,” Sammy said.

“I kin see dat, man, most definitely. But man, have I got a deal for you!”

“Yeah?” Sammy felt a little uncomfortable, he’d never run into anybody else in the water before and this guy in particular seemed a little shady.

“Most definitely, man. Today is your lucky day. Today you meet Meester Chico and he going to take you under his wing.” Chico grinned and Sammy felt the knot in his stomach tighten into a little fist.

“Um, I don’t think that’s necessary, really, thank you very much,” Sammy said giving a small wave and starting to swim off, but Chico was quicker and he blocked Sammy’s path.

“Man, where you goin’?”

Sammy gulped. “Well, you know, I didn’t want to keep you, I’m sure you’ve got places to go, people to see. You’re a tourist right? Not from around here?”

Chico smiled and his sharp teeth glowed in the dark. “Dat’s right, man, dat’s right,” he said. “You one smart enchilada, you da man!” Chico laughed. “I come up here every summer, man, they take good care of ya here, you know what I mean?” He winked. Sammy did not know what he meant. He gave a weak smile.

“I kin see from dat look on your face, dat you do not know what Chico mean.” Sammy rolled his eyes and nodded. “I’m talking two months vacation, man! Luxury resort! Free food! Free drinks! A little squeeze! Man, you know what I’m talkin’ bout?” Chico winked again. Sammy didn’t know what he meant, but he knew he couldn’t go on holiday for two months.

“Aye yi yi! Man, it’s no wonder you be lost,” Chico said as he threw up his hands. “Okay, for you, man, I spell this out, one time.” Sammy squirmed. “Chico, he be a, how you say . . . barracuda.” He flashed his teeth. “Dis holiday no want no barracuda, dey be lookin’ for nice lookin’ dudes, like you man!” He slapped Sammy’s chest. “Huh, hey, you be nice looking guy, man.” Sammy blushed. “Da girls in this place, man, va-va-va-voom! You know what I mean, man.” Sammy thought of Rachel and Gladys and the pretty bartender at The Boulevard Pub. He nodded. “’kay! Now old Chico finally gettin’ somewheres. So here’s the deal, man. Tomorrow, the men they come from the resort called Salmon Conservation Centre. They pick a bunch of good looking dudes from the river, like you, man. You help sneak Chico into da net, we get to resort Chico show you all his old tricks. Man, you smile at the people when they come, swim around a little, shake your behind, the men they be happy, they feed you, give you drinks, you find a nice girl, get a little squeeze, they bring you back here in a couple of months. What do you say, man?”  Sammy didn’t know how to tell him he couldn’t stay. “Man! Tink about it! Chico, he come all da way from Mexico all by he’s self every year for dis, man! Some good stuff happening here!” Sammy started backing away.

“Um, Chico, that all sounds, you know, really well and good and all . . . but,” Sammy took a deep breath, “it’s just not for me. I can’t afford a two month holiday right now. I’m sorry. I hope you find some other guy that can sneak you in. Take care. All the best. See ya!” Sammy swam away as fast as he could, faster than he’d ever swum before. He could hear Chico behind him. “Awww, man! C’mon, man!” But gradually the voice faded and Sammy knew he had gotten away.

Swim Away

He swam past a sign that said Eel Ground. He knew that was a First Nations community that had a wonderful school. He’d heard people speak of it in the city. But it was late, so he couldn’t visit the school and be entertained by the students’ music and plays. It was a shame because he had heard they were a group of talented kids with a very bright future. He wondered if the community’s name meant there were many eels in the river here. Sammy hoped not, eels made him queasy. He swam a little faster. The more he swam and the further he went the better he felt. He swam the rest of the night and into the morning when he saw some First Nation’s people in traditional dress heading toward a building. He hadn’t actually ruled out that he was Mi’kmaq. He’d only had the one sleepwalking conversation with Joe in Burnt Church and he’d passed through Eel Ground without stopping, so Sammy decided it was worth a try to talk with some people here.

The Oldest Village

“Welcome to Red Bank First Nation, Metepenagiag, Where Spirits Live. For nearly 3000 years, generation after generation have flourished here where the Little Southwest and the Northwest Miramichi River meet. Metepenagiag, the Village of Thirty Centuries, is the oldest village in the province of New Brunswick,” a guide said as Sammy entered the Metepenagiag Heritage Park Interpretation Centre.

If he couldn’t find something in the oldest village to trigger his memory then he’d have to accept that not only was he not of the Miramichi, he might not even be from New Brunswick. He would have to broaden his search. The idea depressed him.

He learned about the Augustine Mound and Oxbow National Historic Site—two of the most outstanding Aboriginal heritage archaeological sites in Eastern Canada located in Metepenagiag. He saw artefacts, tools used by ancestors long ago. And he watched a film that showed the traditional way of life. None of the information tugged his memory. As much as he enjoyed their culture and admired their history, Sammy didn’t belong here either. Close to tears and exhausted he left and started walking. He crossed a bridge. The sign said Sunny Corner, though he didn’t have any hope at all that the sun would shine upon him and his quest here anymore than it had anywhere else. He thought a hot drink would be good, as he climbed a hill and entered an Irving Mainway.

A Ride to Remember

Sammy got a coffee, went outside and sat on the sidewalk to consider his next move. A short balding man with squinty eyes was gassing up his car at the pumps. “Great fishing!” the man said. Sammy nodded. “I was back at the Fourmen Lodge all week,” the man continued. “I’ll tell you we got some great fish this week! Great fish!” The man whistled and went into the store to pay. When he came back out he noticed Sammy still sitting there. “You need a lift?” he offered. Sammy nodded and followed the man to his car. “My name’s Ben,” the man said as he put the car in gear and they hit the road. “Yes, been fishing all week and had a really good time. Heading back to Boston now. You heading that way?” Sammy shrugged. “A man of few words,” Ben said. “I like that in a man, admirable quality. So how did you do with your fishing?” He didn’t wait for a response. “There were five men at the lodge and we had a really good week. I mean, a really good week! Everyone got their limit everyday, if you can imagine it!”

Sammy couldn’t imagine it and he wished Ben would talk a little less and pay a bit more attention to where he was going. The car kept gliding over the centre and into the oncoming traffic lane; the old man would overcorrect causing the car to lurch toward the ditch catching the gravel on the shoulder. Sammy wondered if he could see very well. “I wasn’t actually doing any fishing,” Sammy said.

“Yes!” Ben exclaimed. “I’m telling you it was the best fishing I’ve ever seen.” He also seemed to be a little hard of hearing. “Now of course it wouldn’t be a good trip if you didn’t get out and do other things besides the fishing,” Ben continued as the car suddenly swerved onto the Warwick Road. Sammy grimaced and braced himself for the crash, but the old man managed to keep the car on the road and accelerated. “We went out to the Country Music Opry one night,” Ben was saying. “Did you get to go there on this trip? Well, what a great place! I’ll tell you, they keep that place hopping with all the different performers. If you like country music that’s one place you have to visit while you’re here.” Sammy’s stomach felt a little sick. They reached Route 8 and charged onto the highway. “Could you slow down a little?” Sammy asked.

“Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right,” Ben said. “I’ve travelled Route 118 every year now for a long time and it does slow you down, you need to take it careful, but it’s still a whole heck of a lot shorter than going all the way around. I hear that young Shawn’s going to fix it up though. That’s what I heard. I might have to come more than once a year then. Come down for spring and fall fishing, get to see more of the sights. It’s surprising how much there is to do around here.” Sammy moaned. The man would not shut up and with the needle buried in the speedometer he exited the Highway without looking for other traffic and blasted up the Renous/Plaster Rock Route 118. “Did you ever get to those Napan Days they have?” Ben was saying. “The Napan Agricultural Show I think it’s called. You don’t see many fairs like that around now with the horse hauling and the crafts competitions. It was an amazing thing, just an amazing thing to—”

“STOP THE CAR!” Sammy screamed as loud as he could and Ben slammed on the brakes leaving black rubber tracks and slewing the car sideways.

“What? What is it? A moose? A deer?” The old man looked around frantically.

“Oh, I live right here,” Sammy said, yanking the door open, leaping out, smiling, slamming the door, and waving as he ran into a driveway. Ben looked on puzzled and then finally shrugged, waved and drove off. Narrow escape, Sammy thought, and noticed where he was.

… to be continued …

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Off to the Market
The Farmer’s Market was big with many tables full of handicrafts, arts, homemade cooking and much more. A large crowd moved through the aisles. Sammy got breakfast before entering the throng to search for the mayor. He saw breads, cookies, cakes and pies, but no mayor. He saw sweaters, mittens, doilies, and dolls, but no mayor. He saw bird houses, mirrors, face creams and jams, but no mayor. Round and round Sammy went but he couldn’t find the mayor anywhere. This is hopeless, he thought. He went outside and sat on the curb to think. An outdoor vendor noticed him. “If it’s none of my business, just say, but you seem a bit sad, is there anything I can help you with?”

“Not likely, nobody else has been able to.” Sammy sighed.

“Hey, give a guy a chance, eh?” the man chuckled. “You never know.”

Sammy took a deep breath. “It’s a long story but the gist of it is that I’m lost and I have no history.”

“Aha! If it’s history you’re looking for, you’ve come to the right place,” the man exclaimed. “Miramichi is full of history! You should go on a historical tour like the Headless Nun at French Fort Cove.” Sammy hadn’t heard of French Fort Cove or the Headless Nun. This was something he could pursue.

A Ghostly Walk

The French Fort Cove was a sprawling nature park with many walking trails, boardwalks, boat rentals, a playground, and more. Sammy joined a small group, waiting for their costumed interpretative guide to begin the tour. When everyone was assembled the group entered the trails and Sammy learned about the nun, Sister Marie, who was beheaded without giving up her charge’s treasure. Along the way actors performed skits illustrating the story. While the legend was fascinating and the idea that the treasure had never been found and the ghost of Sister Marie guards it still intrigued Sammy, overall this tale didn’t set off any bells or whistles in his memory.

When the tour ended Sammy decided to hike around the cove and relax in nature. He even took a refreshing dip in the water. Swimming always made him feel better. A few hours later he emerged more energetic than he’d felt in days and walked over to the French Fort Cove Eco-Centre to take a look around. There were a great many interesting displays to enjoy and Sammy soon learned that this place was a hub for all activity in the city. It was a goldmine of information! Many of the places he learned about he had already visited but there was one in particular that stuck out. Beaubear’s Island was a place where fortunes were made and lives lost. If he hurried he could catch the next boat.

An Impromptu Meeting

As Sammy scurried to the Nelson Waterfront to catch the shuttle to Beaubear’s Island, something caught his eye. Sitting on a bench enjoying a cone of ice cream at Ritchie Wharf was one of the men he’d seen onstage at the Irish Festival. If it wasn’t the mayor, then certainly this man would know where he could find him!

Right on the water, the Ritchie Wharf was a beautiful place designed as a tribute to the Miramichi’s history of shipbuilding with a ship’s mast stretching into the sky, a small lighthouse housing visitor information and many shops, restaurants, a playground, and boardwalks for strolling. Sammy sat on the bench beside the man, not knowing how or where to begin. The man smiled at him and nodded.

“Hi,” Sammy said. “Um, I wondered if you were the mayor.”

“I am,” the man said. Excited, Sammy pushed forward spilling his entire story about how he had followed the lights to the city and then heard the mayor speak at the breakfast and how he figured if anyone could help him it might be him.

“Well, that’s a pretty tall order,” the mayor said when Sammy had finished. He sized Sammy up and then shook his head. “I’m sorry, I just don’t recognize you.”

“Oh.” Sammy looked like his dog had died. “That’s alright then, I understand,” he said. “I’ll just keep going, keep travelling until I find some answers.” He got up to leave.

“Well, wait a second, now,” the mayor said. “No need to rush right off. Sit with me for another minute and let’s see if we can’t work something out.” Sammy sat back down.

“I understand your need to keep moving, but maybe all you need is some time to get your memory back,” the mayor began. “Maybe you just need to stop trying so hard and your memories will come back all on their own.” Sammy looked skeptical. “I mean what if you travel and travel and your memory never comes back. You’ll be homeless and miserable for the rest of your life. There’s no need for that. You like Miramichi, don’t you? You’ve met some great people, haven’t you?” Sammy nodded. “Well, I can tell you there’s absolutely no better place to call home. Miramichi is full of opportunities for a bright young lad with a good head on his shoulders like you.”

Sammy sighed. “But I don’t think I’m a Miramichier,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” the mayor said. “We’ve got a lot of people moving here who aren’t Miramichiers because it’s a great place to live and work. There’s no reason why you couldn’t be one of them.” The thought had crossed Sammy’s mind more than once. “Miramichi has one of the lowest tax rates in the province,” the mayor continued. “We’re one of the best placed communities for new growth. There are a lot of exciting positive things happening here. This is a special community and we’d love to adopt you and encourage you to make this your new home.” Sammy felt a lump in his throat; this was one of the kindest most generous things anybody had said to him on this journey that had been full of kindness and generosity.

“Thanks,” he said to the mayor. “I know you’re right and I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I can ask,” the mayor said shaking his hand. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Me too,” Sammy said. “Me too.” He bid the mayor farewell and hurried to catch the boat to Beaubear’s Island.

A Long and Rich History

At the Nelson Waterfront Sammy boarded a boat with a group of people and as a costumed tour guide provided some background on the island the captain navigated to Beaubear’s. The island was spectacular with old growth pines, lilacs, plum trees and wildlife. A red fox stared at them through a stand of trees and someone pointed out a bald eagle circling in the sky. As the group entered the woods, their tour guide explained how the island had served for centuries as a Mi’kmaq meeting ground for trade and stories of the hunt. It seemed Beaubear’s Island had a rich history that involved many of the different Miramichi cultures. The island was named after Marquis Charles des Champs de Boishebert, who brought thousands of fleeing Acadians to Beaubear’s Island and the surrounding land during the expulsion of 1755.

“For over 75 years, the island’s shipyards bustled with Irish and Scottish shipwrights and carpenters, stores and homes, and Beaubear’s is believed to be the only untouched shipbuilding site left intact in Canada,” the guide said. The remains of slips, wharves and foundations were very visible. The island had been uninhabited for over a hundred years. As they walked the trails, they came upon actors in the woods, dressed in period costumes and performing skits about a particular bit of history. Two rabbits startled Sammy as they leapt out of the bushes while he stood reverently beside the Russell Tomb where prolific shipbuilder, Joseph Russell, had buried seven of his children. The tales were fascinating but Sammy didn’t feel any particular connection to them. As the group moved back to the boat and sailed away from the island, Sammy knew for certain that he wasn’t of the Miramichi.

“Excuse me,” a large woman said. “Can you scoot over some, a little elbow room please?” She jostled into place and while Sammy was trying to make himself as small as possible one of the lady’s huge arms swung round and bopped him across the chest sending him flying out of the boat. “Oh, that’s better!” Sammy heard the woman sigh as he splashed into the water. He spluttered to the surface and called for help but the boat continued on its way as if nobody had noticed he had been thrown overboard.

“Oh, what’s the use anyway?” Sammy muttered. The water soothed his tired bones and he closed his eyes and floated for awhile to regain his strength. Soon the river lulled him to sleep.

… to be continued …

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Sticks and Stones May Break Your Bones
The Scottish Festival was being held on the Miramichi Agricultural Exhibition grounds. Sammy wondered how he would look in a tartan kilt. He’d never seen a man in a skirt before, but here it seemed normal.

“Oh, there you are!” a woman exclaimed as she grabbed him by the shoulders and steered him through the crowd. “The games have started. Hurry!”

“Wait!” Sammy hollered. “I think you’ve made a mistake!”

“Nonsense!” the woman shushed, as she shoved him onto the field. The crowd applauded as a name and a school were announced. Hesitantly, Sammy stepped up to take his turn. The object was to grasp the rounded stone and hurl it as far as you could. It looked easy. Sammy spun round and round winding himself up before tossing the stone. He spun for so long he got disoriented and let the stone fly into the crowd of spectators. While he fell down dizzy, the crowd screamed and scattered, but luckily nobody was hit.

He wandered off and saw a group of girls in brightly coloured kilts performing quick steps and kicks to the bag pipes. Quickly he scurried in the other direction not willing to risk accidentally being drawn into this dance.

At the Scottish Tea Tent he asked what was good.

“Well my fine lad, we’ve got oatcakes, scotch cookies, sandwiches, soup, chilli, and biscuits, but you can’t come to Miramichi’s Scottish Festival and not try the haggis!”

Sammy didn’t know what that was but if it was a Scottish delicacy he wanted to give it a try. The haggis looked like a huge sausage. It had an odd nutty texture and a very strong taste. Blech! He spit it out, gagging. Everyone in the Tea Tent gave him disapproving looks. He smiled feebly and left.

Outside, watching the highland dancers from a safe distance and feeling the pipe’s pull, Sammy felt melancholy. As much as he loved Miramichi soon he would have to face facts and realize he didn’t belong here.

“James!” a woman called through cupped hands as she passed Sammy. “James! Honey! We’re leaving! Going to the historic site at Wilson’s Point!” A young boy bounded up to his mother. “Come on, your father’s in the car already.”

“Excuse me,” Sammy said. “I couldn’t help but overhear. I wondered if I might get a ride with you to this historic site.”

The woman eyeballed Sammy from head to toe then shrugged and said, “Well, you don’t look so bad. I suppose.”

Graveyard Shift

Sammy sat with James in the backseat as they crossed the river to Wilson’s Point. When they arrived he thanked the family and set out on his own. Some of the Miramichi’s first Scottish settlers had erected a Presbyterian church here in the 18th century. Though the original church was gone, replaced by a replica used as an interpretation centre, the graveyard remained. Sammy wandered from gravestone to gravestone hoping something would trigger a memory. But nothing seemed familiar.

It was all over. He had to face facts; he just wasn’t a Miramichier, no matter how badly he wanted to be. Luckily Wilson’s Point was located in the Enclosure Campground, so he could make camp and get some rest. He had seen a restaurant by the campground office and he headed there to get some grub.

Inside Flo’s Hideaway he ordered chicken wings and potato skins. Many people were there to perform or support their favourite performers in a singing competition called Maritime Idol. They put on an entertaining show.

A girl sat down across from Sammy. “Hiya,” she said.

“Hi,” Sammy said.

“Me and my friends noticed you from across the room, and they dared me to come over and say hello.” She giggled.

“Hello,” Sammy said.

“You certainly are one hunka hunka burning love!” she purred.

“Okay . . .” Sammy said.

“I mean you’re so tall, dark and handsome, you could be Elvis,” she squealed.

“Elvis?” Sammy asked. “Am I Elvis?”

“Well no, duh.” She frowned as she snapped her gum. “I saw Elvis downtown Newcastle today though; you could be his twin brother or something.”

Sammy couldn’t believe his luck. Finally someone with a clue. He could be Elvis! Or at least a relative of this Elvis guy. He had to find him and see for sure.

“Hey!” the girl yelled. “Where you going? Me and my friends are only in town for one night!” But Sammy was gone. He had a date with a guy named Elvis.

Rock ‘n Roll is here to Stay

Heading downtown in a taxi, Sammy heard explosions and watched as the sky lit up with fireworks.

“This is as close as I can get you,” the driver said. “Everyone and their dog is here tonight.”

Sammy walked around the square, through a side alley, and into a back parking lot. Everywhere one wanted to look there were antique automobiles and people. Fireworks showered the sky. Old time rock ‘n roll music blared. Girls in poodle skirts and guys with their hair slicked back danced. He had arrived at Miramichi’s Rock ‘n Roll Festival. A tall woman with platinum blonde hair wearing a white halter dress and silver strappy-sandals glided past blowing him a kiss from her bright red lips. Sammy was not distracted. He needed to find Elvis. He walked up to a policeman.

“Excuse me,” Sammy said. “I’m looking for a fellow named Elvis.”

“Oh, you are, are you?” the policeman chuckled. “What can the King do for you tonight?”

“He’s a king?” Sammy could barely contain his excitement.

“Of rock ‘n roll, my friend, yes.”

“Do I look like him?”

The policeman’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know, maybe, in a certain light.”

“Could I be him?”

The policeman guffawed. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?” Sammy pressed. “These girls seemed to think I could be.”

“Yes sir, I’m sure,” said the policeman. “He’d have to be in his 70’s now.” Sammy’s face fell. One thing he knew for sure was that he was nowhere near his 70’s.

“Well, maybe I could be his brother or a cousin or something,” Sammy said. “Can you help me find him so I can ask him?”

“Just what kind of game are you playing anyway?” The policeman eyed him suspiciously.

“I’m not playing any game!” Sammy said. “I just need to find Elvis and see if he knows me.”

“Son, I hate to be the one to break this to you,” the policeman began, “but Elvis has been dead since 1977. There is an Elvis impersonator around here somewhere, but he is in no way related to the real Elvis, and you’re not either.”

Sammy should have known better than to get his hopes up. He assured the policeman that he could get home and walked back through the alley to the square. He wanted nothing more than to find a soft seat and drown his sorrows.

The Bartender Listens

The Boulevard Pub was a place Miramichiers could be proud of, cozy with a long wooden bar, red brick wall, copper ceiling, a big-screen TV, and high tables and chairs. Sammy sat at the bar and a pretty blonde bartender immediately said hello. “What can I get you?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Something cold and refreshing. Surprise me.”

“I can do that!” The bartender skipped away to mix a special concoction. She soon set a mint green frosty drink in front of him. “Try that,” she said. “On me, you look like a guy down on his luck.”

“Thanks,” Sammy said taking a sip. The drink was indeed cold and refreshing. “This is really good. Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said, wiping the bar with a damp cloth. “So, are you?” she asked. “Are you down on your luck?”

Sammy liked this girl. Her big eyes and sparkling face reminded him of Rachel in Neguac and Gladys of Escuminac. He couldn’t keep it all inside any longer and as the bartender pulled up a stool and listened intently Sammy told his entire story. “So, now I don’t know what to do or where to go next,” he concluded. “I’m all mixed up.”

“Wow!” she said. “That is an amazing story.”

“Yeah,” Sammy agreed. They sat silent for a few minutes and then the bartender got an idea. “Well, you still haven’t actually talked to the mayor, so maybe you need to do that. I mean, he’s the mayor! He’s got his finger on the pulse of the city, if anybody will know who you are, it’ll be him.”

“You think?”

“Sure, I do!” she said. “I think you need to drink up and head down the street to the Beaverbrook Kin Centre where the annual Folk Song Festival is happening. The mayor might be there, and even if he isn’t you might meet some people you haven’t yet who can help you out. It’s worth a shot!”

Sammy thought it over. The Beaverbrook Kin Centre was just a few steps away. He guessed it couldn’t hurt. “Okay, I’ll go.”

“That’s the spirit!” the bartender said. “If it doesn’t work out, come back here and we’ll think of something else, okay?” Sammy agreed, thanked the girl and left.

Leader of the Band

The music was underway when he got to the Folk Song Festival. Not really knowing what the mayor looked like, Sammy worked his way through the crowd to see if he recognized any of the men from the Irish Festival stage. He came from the back of the audience to the front and found himself standing with the musicians just as they finished their tune and the crowd applauded.

“You’re gonna give us a step then, lad,” a fiddler said. Sammy shrugged, uncertain. “Close to the floor boys,” the fiddler said. “Young lad’s gonna driver!” They picked up with a lively tune, the crowd started clapping time and everyone looked expectantly at Sammy. Oh-oh, he thought, I think I’m supposed to dance again. He circled around, bobbing and dipping, like the girls had done at the Irish Festival. Jaws dropped in the audience and the applause faltered. Wrong dance, Sammy thought and tried a different tactic. He arched his arms over his head, leaped on his toes with high graceful kicks like he had seen the Scottish dancers do. The music stopped and the crowd went completely silent.

The fiddler scratched his head, perplexed. “Oh, why didn’t you say something, young feller,” the man said, snapping his fingers. “Give that boy a fiddle! He’s come to play!” And before Sammy could protest, a fiddle was shoved into his hands and the band started up again.

Again the audience started clapping time and everyone looked at him expectantly. “Take ‘er away, my son!” the fiddler said, and Sammy put the bow to the strings and tried his best. The fiddle screeched like a wounded cat and the audience cringed and moaned. The band stopped playing.

“Well, if you don’t step dance and you don’t play, you must tell stories,” the fiddler said. “Come on then, let’s hear it.” Sammy gulped. He didn’t know any stories. With all eyes on him he took a deep breath and did the only thing he knew to do—he started at the beginning and told his whole ordeal from the minute he woke up in the boat in Tabusintac until he met the nice bartender just down the street.

“And so, the only reason I’m here is that I wanted to see the mayor,” he concluded. The enraptured audience took to their feet and applauded heartily.

The fiddler rubbed his stubbly chin. “Well, you missed him lad, he ain’t here,” he said. “You might want to try the Farmer’s Market at the Civic Centre tomorrow morning. The market is the place to be on a Friday morning.” Sammy thanked the man and left before the audience asked him to tell another story. He walked across the street to the Miramichi Hotel and took a room for the night.

… to be continued …

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by Kellie Underhill

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A Room at the Rodd
The Monday morning sun hung low in the sky as the pink VW van pulled into the parking lot of the Rodd Miramichi River Hotel. Gladys and a bunch of new girlfriends from Bay du Vin blew kisses out the windows and honked as they lurched away grinding gears, leaving an exhausted Sammy standing on the sidewalk. He couldn’t wait to sleep. Mabel had offered to phone and book him a room; he entered the lobby to see if she followed through.

“Can I help you?” The young woman at the desk smiled.

“Yes,” Sammy said. “I believe I have a reservation, the name is . . . is . . . umm . . . Mabel of Escuminac?”

The clerk turned to her computer screen. “Oh yes, here it is,” she said after a few minutes and Sammy sighed. “It’s a bit early for check-in,” she continued. “Have a seat and I’ll just confirm that your room is ready.”

Sammy wandered over to an overstuffed sofa by a fireplace, picked up a copy of a magazine that sorta stuck to him and settled in to have a good read. Down the hall in a conference room he could hear tinkling silverware, the mumble of polite conversation, and then a speaker was introduced to great applause. Sammy strained his ears picking out bits and pieces. “This is the place where I want to live . . . We’re experiencing a whole new wave of optimism . . . Co-operation is the way to go for Miramichi . . . We’re here because we want to be here. This community is special . . .” He spoke about the great summer ahead and how Miramichi was positioned to do wonderful things. He spoke with passion and a positive attitude. Sammy thought he must be an important man, a respected leader, and he might be able to shed some light on his predicament. Just as he was gathering his courage to enter the conference room and speak to the man, the receptionist returned. “Your room’s ready, sir. Follow me and I’ll take you up.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Miss, do you know who the speaker is in there today?” She guided Sammy to the elevator. “Yes,” she said. “It’s the mayor. It’s the annual State of the City breakfast.” The mayor! If anyone could help him, it might be the mayor. Sammy vowed that he would track down the mayor later, right now a bed beckoned. His last coherent thought was that he must indeed be of the Miramichi because he had survived his first Bay du Vin Days.

Food for Thought

The sun had travelled from one end of the sky and was lowering in the other when Sammy woke up. He ambled downstairs to the Angler’s Reel restaurant. A waitress led him to a table by the window overlooking the water.

“Our chef’s specialty is salmon,” she said. “Twenty different ways to choose from including grilled salmon, poached salmon, baked salmon, plank salmon—”

“Oh no, please,” Sammy grimaced. “I don’t think I like salmon very much.” His stomach soured. “Do you have anything . . . deep fried?” he asked. “Can I have French fries and a burger?”

“Absolutely,” the waitress grinned. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

When she returned with a pitcher of water, Sammy inquired about where he might find the mayor. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe try City Hall.” Sammy got directions and thanked her for helping.

When the waitress brought him a chocolate milkshake, he explained how he had been exploring Acadian and M’iqmaq heritage downriver and he wondered if there were other cultures. “Oh definitely,” she laughed. “If you’re looking for history and heritage you’ve come to the right place. You might want to start with the Irish. The hotel is only five minutes away from the Middle Island Irish Historical Park.” Again Sammy got directions and thanked her for her time. Then he bit into the juicy burger and closed his eyes savouring every bite. This was exactly what he needed.

The Irish Arrive at Middle Island

Middle Island was beautiful with walking trails, picnic areas, an unsupervised beach, a Celtic cross and more, but the summer breeze was heavy with history. At the Interpretation Centre Sammy learned about Ireland’s potato famine that forced people to flee to North America or die at home. They travelled in ships, packed like sardines. The Looshtauk set sail from Liverpool, England, to Quebec in the spring of 1847. Typhus and scarlet fever broke out amongst the 462 passengers soon after and people started to die. Conditions were so bad the Captain had to change course and head for the nearest port, which happened to be Miramichi. The Looshtauk was quarantined at Middle Island and within a couple of days two more ships arrived that were also quarantined. Nobody knows how many people died and were buried on the island. On the Looshtauk alone records showed that 146 people died in voyage and another 96 in quarantine, making the Looshtauk voyage the most tragic of all the voyages resulting from the mass exodus during the famine. Many Miramichi families were descendant from the surviving Irish immigrants. Sammy wondered if he was one of them. He enjoyed the serenity of sitting on a bench on the beach. He felt this people’s history, but didn’t know anything for sure. He left to continue his research.

Luck of the Irish in Chatham Downtown

Strolling Historic Water Street, looking at all the shop window displays and thinking about his next move, Sammy saw a sign on a quaint old stone building that said, “Welcome to O’Donaghue’s, Miramichi’s Only Authentic Irish Pub.” Unconvinced of his Irish roots, he went in. A jovial man with bright red hair poured him a pint of Guinness.

“Top of the day!” the man greeted. “What brings you to the Mighty Miramichi?”

“I’m exploring my Irish heritage, trying to trace my family tree.”

“So you’re Irish then? I wouldn’t have known from looking at ya.”

“No,” Sammy agreed. “I may be a mixed breed.”

“No matter at all,” the bartender continued. “You’ve come to the right place and just at the right time too!”

“I have?”

“Certainly! It so happens, Canada’s Irish Festival is underway right now.” As the man told him about all the family reunions, singing, dancing, displays, workshops, food, genealogical information, and more that was happening in the city, Sammy could barely contain his excitement. He got directions and then high-tailed it to the Lord Beaverbrook Arena.

Entering the arena Sammy distinctly heard the same voice from that morning. The mayor was here! A few men stood on the stage and Sammy thought one of them must be him. As he made his way to the front to speak with the man, thunderous applause broke out. A crush of girls wearing matching dresses boxed him in and forced him to the stage amongst them. Lively Celtic music with a tribal drumbeat filled the air and the girls started to dance. Sammy tried his best to blend in, following the girls as they floated from one end of the stage to the other dipping, bobbing and twirling but their energy was too high, their unison too perfect, and he couldn’t keep up. He collapsed onstage tripping the girl next to him and starting a chain reaction. Girls went sprawling. Somebody stopped the music. The audience sat agape and silent at the spectacle.

“I’m sorry,” Sammy mumbled as he looked for an escape route.

“You’re not a Nelson Doyle Dancer!” a teenaged girl accused as the group got back into line.

“I know,” Sammy said.

“I don’t know what kind of dancing you were doing, Mister,” a tyke of about six said as she shook her head. “But it’s definitely not Irish.”

As Sammy skulked off the stage, the music started and the girls began to dance again. He looked for the men who had drawn him to the stage but he couldn’t find them.

“Why the long face?” asked a man sitting at a table next to him.

“It’s a long story,” Sammy said. “I thought I was Irish but I can’t dance and I don’t recognize any of the names, so I guess I must not be from Miramichi after all.”

“Oh my dear boy, but there are a lot more cultures living on the Miramichi than the Irish,” the man chuckled.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Sammy rolled his eyes. “I already explored Acadian.”

“But what about the Scottish?”

“Scottish?” Sammy perked with interest.

“Yes, Scottish heritage is a big part of Miramichi. In fact they also have a festival. Maybe you should go.”

“I think I will!”

… to be continued …

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by Kellie Underhill

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A Midnight Swim
Moonlight reflected on the Bartibog River. Sammy felt energized, filled with excitement like a kid at Christmas. He sensed something magical had happened and he didn’t want to waste another minute. He ran down to the shore and dove into the dark water. It was cold but refreshing. He pushed off and followed the current. In the moonlight he could see the shoreline, the outline of trees. He swam past a pillar with what looked like a piano on top. That’s weird, he thought. Why would anyone put a piano in the middle of a river? He wondered how it had been placed. He swam under a bridge and then the Bartibog River ended and Sammy entered the mighty Miramichi. This river was much wider, and even in the moonlight if he strayed too far toward the middle it was difficult to see the shore. He swam past an island where children were singing songs around a campfire. The further he went, the wider the river became.

He looked for the light but other than the moon he couldn’t see anything. So he followed the moonbeams, swimming into the Bay. Maybe the old woman was right. He hadn’t felt this content since Rachel kissed him goodbye. Swimming into the Bay felt like the right thing to do. The sky clouded and the moon disappeared. Sammy slowed, unsure. And then like a beacon through the pre-dawn fog he saw a light and it beckoned him. As daylight began to dawn he made a beeline for the light in the fog. He had almost reached his destination when the water started trembling and waves crashed over him. Sammy couldn’t see which was up. His head broke surface for a minute and he was staring into an onslaught of fishing boats heading his way at high speeds. One, two . . . ten, twenty . . . fifty—there had to be nearly a hundred barrelling down on him.

Sammy swam as fast as he could toward the last place he thought he saw the light. He dove under the water and swam below the crashing waves, surfacing just as all the boats raced past him. That was close, he thought. And there was the light. Within minutes he hauled himself out of the water and climbed the beach. The light turned out to be nothing more than a lighthouse. He walked around it calling out hello, but nobody answered. There wasn’t even a keeper to question. Exhausted and demoralized Sammy collapsed into the long grass and fell asleep. Many hours later music drifted on the wind and tickled Sammy’s ears waking him. He rolled over, stretched, yawned and then walked along the beach toward the sound. A country music band, voices singing, laughing and talking; and another sound too, a snapping he didn’t recognize. The further he went, the louder the voices and music got until he came upon a campground on the beach with many campers gathered listening to music and watching a huge pig spin on a spit. The snapping was the sound of grease sizzling as it dripped onto the open flame. Sammy licked his lips and sidled up to the group to see about getting some supper.

Escuminac Beach Party

“Hello young fellow!” The woman patted the seat beside her. “What can I get you? A drink? Some food?”

Sammy smiled and sat at the picnic table beside the lady. “Yes, please. If it’s not too much trouble,” he said.

“Not a bit of trouble.” She patted Sammy’s lap. “Gladys! Gladys!” she yelled and looked around at a girl who was running all over the campground. Gladys stopped and turned to the lady. “Get this fine young man some food and a drink, eh.”

“Sure. Just a minute dear.” Gladys smiled at Sammy and his stomach flopped. She reminded him of Rachel with her long hair and big eyes. He thought he saw sparkles glittering on her face but she was so quick and busy he didn’t get to stare. Within minutes a feast was laid out on the table in front of him.

“My name’s Mabel,” the lady said. “Gladys is my granddaughter. Where might you be from?”

Sammy swallowed hard. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “I’m lost and trying to find my way home. Someone in Russellville told me to swim and follow the light. I did. I swam all night in the moonlight and nearly got run over by a hundred boats this morning. Then I was lost in the fog. I followed the light and it was just a lighthouse with nobody around and I was so tired I fell asleep in the grass. Then I was starving and I could hear the music and—”

“Hold’er now, my goodness, take a breath.” Mabel chuckled. “Finish your supper and then you can start from the beginning and tell me everything. There’s no rush. Relax for a minute and enjoy.”

Sammy nodded and threw himself into the task of eating. As soon as he finished one plate, Gladys replaced it with another, until finally he felt content. Then sitting between grandmother and granddaughter Sammy told his story. When he finished Gladys squeezed his shoulder. “Oh you poor thing,” she said, and Sammy blushed.

“Indeed,” Mabel said. “Gladys, I want you to show this boy around and introduce him. See if anybody recognizes him.”

“Yes, Gram.” Gladys grabbed Sammy’s hand and tugged him into the crowd. They moved from one cluster of people to another with Gladys doing most of the talking. There were many ideas about why Sammy might be in Escuminac or Baie Sainte-Anne. Perhaps he had been a fan of the Fighting Fisherman, Yvonne Durrelle, and hoped to visit his home. After all, thousands had come for the boxing legend’s funeral. Perhaps he had hoped to go lobster fishing with one of the boats leaving the Escuminac Wharf every morning. Maybe he wanted to get a tour of a peat moss plant in operation. Maybe he heard about the annual pig roast at the Escuminac Beach and Family Park. Everyone had a theory, but none felt right to Sammy.

Night fell and people really started partying, singing, dancing and whooping. “C’mon,” Gladys said giving him a tug. “Let’s get away for a sec, give you a chance to catch your breath.” They walked to the wharf and strolled around the docks. The breeze caressed his face and helped Sammy relax. They loped along in comfortable silence until they came upon a statue and Gladys sprawled on the grass to rest. “In honour of the fishermen who lost their lives in the Escuminac Disaster, June 20, 1959,” Sammy read.

“My grandfather was on the water that day,” Gladys began. “Everyone here had someone die or knows someone who lived.” She rolled onto her back and fiddled with a dandelion as she closed her eyes. “Two days and nights of terror. Nobody knew a storm was coming. Twenty-two boats sank. Thirty-five men drowned. Their names are written on the memorial. My grandfather wasn’t one of them, but the disaster changed him. It changed everyone, everything. Baie Sainte-Anne and Escuminac, we’re a small community. When something that big happens here, we don’t ever forget.”

Sammy studied the names engraved on the monument. He recognized none of them but something about a storm surge nagged in his gut. The feeling was fleeting and he couldn’t quite grasp on.

“Of course, something like that couldn’t happen today with all the technology. Yes, we have bad storms, but it’s not likely that the fleet will be out in them,” Gladys continued. She laughed and sprang to her feet. “But today is a day to laugh and dance! So, let’s show them how it’s done!” She pulled Sammy back to the beach. They danced and laughed into the night, then collapsed on a bed of sleeping bags on back of a half-ton truck and fell to sleep immediately.

Sammy woke to find the truck on the move. Morning had come and he didn’t know where they were going. Gladys and three of her friends were still asleep. There were three guys in the truck cab.

Gladys yawned and sat up, smiling. “We’re almost there,” she said.

“So you know where we’re going?”

“Yep!” she laughed. “You’re going to love it!”

“I am?” Sammy was skeptical.

“For sure!” she said. “This will prove whether you’re a true Miramichier or not.”

Sammy shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

“We’re going to a big party. It’s an annual festival, Bay du Vin Days, or as we call it Bay du Vin Summer Survival, because you’ve got to be made of good stuff to keep pace from Friday night to Monday morning.”

“Friday night to Monday morning!” Sammy wailed. “I don’t know if I have time for that! I’m homeless! I’m lost! I need to get into the city and figure this out!”

Gladys shushed him. “That’ll keep. Trust me, you don’t want to miss this,” she said. “This is a once in a lifetime experience . . . unless you come back again next year.” She smiled, batted her beautiful eyes and Sammy’s resistance melted.

He gulped and nodded. “Okay, there’s no rush.”

… to be continued …

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by Kellie Underhill

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Late Night Visit in Burnt Church
The drive to Burnt Church didn’t take long. Within 10 minutes Rachel found her friend’s house and parked in the driveway. A man with long white hair sat on the porch smoking a pipe. “Joe, this is a friend of mine,” Rachel said. “He’s lost and I hoped you might help him find his way.”

Joe eyed Sammy from top to bottom, grunted and nodded for him to sit. Nobody said anything for a long time. While the man smoked his pipe, Sammy tried to catch Rachel’s eye. Finally, Joe spoke.

“You were on a long journey with many people—family, friends, strangers. It was a trip you weren’t prepared to take. You turned your back on your home.”

Sammy sucked in his breath. He didn’t understand what it meant. How could he have turned his back when he was consumed with nothing but finding his way home?

“You are very far from home and close by at the same time. You can get there from here if your intentions are pure and your quest honest. You will meet many people who will help you and a few who will not. Follow the lights, they will show you the way.” And having said all he intended, Joe got up and went into the house, snapped off the lights and went to bed.

“Who was that?” Sammy whispered. “Is he a shaman?”

Rachel grinned. “Nah, he’s my uncle,” she giggled. “He sleepwalks. Comes out on the porch every night about this time, smokes his pipe, says a bunch of stuff and goes back to bed.”

“Wha—?” Sammy’s brow furrowed. “Why would you bring me to see him?” Rachel tossed her hair as she backed out the driveway.

“Because sometimes the things he says make sense. Sometimes he knows things he has no reason to know. And sometimes he predicts things that come true.”

“And the other times?”

“Oh well, the other times it’s all rubbish, but a good laugh.” Rachel honked the horn three times and spun gravel as she sped away from her uncle’s house.

Back in Neguac the pair met up with the others who were still singing and dancing with no signs of slowing down. Sammy and Rachel sat at a quiet picnic table. His eyes drooped and he stifled a yawn.

“You’ve had a long day,” Rachel murmured and touched his face. “You should probably get some sleep.”

“Oh no, I’m fine.” Sammy shook his head vigorously to wake himself up.

She smiled, leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’ll see me again.”

On the back of Bobby’s truck later as he lay on an inflatable mattress Sammy could still feel Rachel’s kiss on his cheek. His stomach twisted into knots when he thought about her. As he stared at the stars, Joe’s voice whispered in his mind. Follow the lights. What lights? Sammy thought. Was it starlight? What other kinds of lights were there around here? He fell asleep wondering.

Breakfast of Champions

Sammy’s rumbling tummy woke him. He rolled over, stretched and then hopped to the pavement. At some time in the night the boys returned and they were snoring. Sammy yawned and looked around. They were in the parking lot of a motel and restaurant called Chez Raymond. Yesterday people mentioned their breakfast buffet and he wanted to see if it was as good as they said.

He was halfway through his second plate and already thinking about a third when a trucker came in and joined another trucker at a table behind him. He couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

“You heading out today then?”

“Yep. Stateside. You?”

“Uh-huh. Toronto.”

“Get into town last night?”

“Yep. Clubbing.”

They appeared to be men of few words.

“Excuse me,” Sammy said. “Is there another town around here?”

“Yep. The big one. Miramichi. City now.”

“A city?”

“Uh-huh.”

A city would have lots of lights, Sammy thought. Maybe this was one of the times when Joe’s sleepwalking ramblings meant something. He had a strong feeling about this city called Miramichi and raced into the parking lot to find the boys.

The Mystical Russellville Road

Driving back the Russellville Road, Sammy wondered what he’d gotten himself into. Houses along the country road were scattered amongst fields and strips of trees. After the hustle and bustle of Neguac this place seemed like another world, secluded and peaceful. He had tried that morning to get the boys to take him into the city, but by the time they woke up and got fed the dancing and singing had started and they didn’t want to leave. He searched all day and finally found a ride as far as Russellville. The man said Sammy could get a home-cooked meal and a cabin for the night at Fins & Feathers and he’d come get him when he was going to work in Miramichi.

The truck pulled into a long driveway. Nestled in the crook where the Little Bartibog River branched off from the Big Bartibog River Canada Geese roamed around a cluster of cottages and a restaurant. The man promised to return and said goodnight. Sammy breathed in the crisp evening air and wandered inside the restaurant to see about lodging and food. Once inside, the building seemed larger than it had from the outside. A group of people were laughing and playing darts in another room. Sammy took a seat by the windows overlooking the water. He ordered a cup of chowder that warmed his tummy and made him sleepy. He went outside to clear his head.

An old woman was sitting on a tree stump puffing a cigar. She wore her smoky coloured hair rolled in bright yellow curlers covered with a clear plastic rain hat tied around her chin. A dirty beige cardigan was draped over her shoulders and the full skirt of her long-sleeved black jumper fell to her ankles. Sammy could see the steel shining through in the worn toes of her black boots. “You’re not from around these parts,” she said dragging off the cigar.

“No,” Sammy agreed.

“No,” she said shaking her head.

She fixed her bloodshot green eyes on his face. “You don’t belong around here,” she said. “I could tell from the minute I laid eyes on ya! You belong out the Bay.”

Sammy frowned. “Well, I was just on the Bay. I’ve come from Tabusintac through Neguac and Burnt Church. And I know I don’t belong anywhere there. Tomorrow, I’m going into the city.”

“The city!” the woman hissed. “What do you want to do that for? I can sense the sea right off ya and you should go back to the Bay with your people where you belong.”

Sammy sighed, shrugged and turned to walk away. Clearly the old woman was delusional or drunk or both.

“I’m not finished with you young feller,” the woman said. “Didn’t nobody ever teach you to respect your elders?”

Sammy hesitated.

“I know where you’ve been,” the old woman continued. “I’m talking about where you haven’t been . . . you blew right past Escuminac and that’s where a young feller should be.”

“Escuminac?” Sammy asked. “I didn’t see anyplace like that. Nobody mentioned it.”

The woman laughed. “Well course not! It’s on the other side of the Bay.” She chomped on her cigar. “Follow the river, boy. If you want to get home, follow the river. Head toward the light. You’ll see it. Find the light and follow it home.”

Shivers of excitement tingled Sammy’s spine at the mention of a light. It couldn’t be a coincidence. But how will I get there, he thought.

“Swim for it!” the old woman cackled.

“Who are you?” Sammy asked as he turned to face the woman, but the old crone was gone.

… to be continued …

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