Free Wicked Woods by Steve Vernon Page B

performed what was very likely the first ceremony of the holy mass in the province of New Brunswick. His men bowed their heads and prayed, and for a time peace was found.
    Yet as he looked down into the chalice filled with the holy sac–ramental red wine all that Pierre Biard could see was that burning sky of blood that had looked down grimly from the heavens above the missionaries. He kept his head bowed and prayed just as hard as he could.
    Two years later, Biard was captured during the destruction of the Nova Scotia settlements of Saint Sauveur and Port Royal by an invading British military expedition from Virginia. Noted sea raider Samuel Argall led the expedition. The fort at Port Royal was looted and burned to the ground. Eyewitnesses swore that the sky burned red that night and for many nights to follow.
    Biard was captured and taken to Jamestown, where he barely avoided being hanged, before being transported back to France and framed for the instigation of this raid. He finally managed to clear his name of all dishonour and afterwards made a life for himself working as a missionary in the south of France. He became renowned as a professor of theology and was made mili–tary chaplain in the armies of the king. He died of natural causes at Avignon, France, in 1622 at the age of forty-six.
    I wonder if the blood and the war that the Maliseet natives prophesied was some sort of a forerunner of the destruction of Port Royal? Or is it possible that the natives were only having a laugh at the missionary’s expense, playing up a natural phenom–enon and doing their best to terrify the foolish white men?
    In any case, Port Royal was looted and burned in November 1613. De Poutrincourt, the sieur at the time, was discouraged enough to return to France and transfer all of his North American holdings to his son. De Poutrincourt died around 1623 and bequeathed his possessions to one Charles La Tour.
    Funny how these things all come around, isn’t it?

12

G HOST H OLLOW
    CARTERS COVE

    There are an awful lot of ghosts around in old New Brunswick and this spectral population is reflected in the etymology of the region. On any map you’ll see such places as Ghost Hollow, Ghost Island, Ghost Hill, Ghost Lake, and Ghost Rock. I’ve done my level best to track down the stories behind each of these names, but have so far only found the tales of Ghost Rock, Ghost Hollow, and Ghost Hill. I will continue to keep hunting for the ghost stories that must surely lie behind Ghost Island and Ghost Lake.
    I heard this next tale from a New Brunswick schoolteacher by the name of Darren White. He told me the bare bones of the story and I have fleshed it out as best as I can.
    Ghost Hollow is an awfully hard place to find on a map.
    If you leave the city of Saint John, heading west towards Fredericton and take the Grand Bay exit, you will come to the Westfield Ferry. The ferry is located next to Westfield Beach, and makes the five-minute ride connecting Grand Bay–Westfield and Hardings Point.
    After reaching Hardings Point, stay on Route 845 and keep going straight, heading towards Kingston. It shouldn’t be that hard to find, on account of Route 845 is the only major road lead–ing from that end of the ferry. Ghost Hollow is about six minutes from Hardings Point at regular driving speed. You don’t actually see the hollow so much as drive into it. It is a stretch of road that drops down and stretches out in the basin of a deep old valley.
    At least that’s how the directions were told to me.
    It seems there were two brothers by the name of Laskey who lived on a small farm somewhere in the belly of Ghost Hollow. Some say they were twins and some say they just happened to look alike, as brothers sometimes do.
    A small brook used to run through the hollow and one of the brothers, the younger one, got into the habit of sitting on a huge boulder by the brook, alongside the roadway, for his after-supper