Free Newfoundland Stories by Eldon Drodge Page B

now, knitting socks and cuffs for Harold. She says he’ll need them, with the cold weather coming on, because those he took with him must be full of holes by now.”
    â€œThe poor old soul,” his mother murmured. “And did you remember to bring back my pot?”
    AUTHOR’S NOTE
    In most communities throughout Newfoundland, superstition and belief in the supernatural have traditionally been part of the community fabric. Ghost stories from years gone by still abound and are still being told today. Many of them are horrible and chilling, yet are sworn to be the gospel truth. Tokens, in particular, played a significant part in people’s lives. Often appearing in the form of mysterious and unexplained lights, these tokens were generally accepted as harbingers of death or catastrophe. The fictional story “The Light in the Garden” is rooted in this belief.

ON GANDER LAKE
    A t six o’clock, sufficient light from the mid-March sun still filtered through the treetops to permit an unobstructed passage through the woods. The unseasonable warmth of the day showed no sign of abating, and the long shadows cast by the radiant western horizon lent a surreal touch of serenity to the waning afternoon hours. The boughs of the spruce, pine, and fir trees dripped the last remnants of the ice and snow that had encased them only that very morning, and tiny rivulets of water, freed after months of icy confinement, cut trenches in every direction. The gentle breeze that drifted softly from the southwest held the promise of even better things to come. Yet, despite the beauty of the moment, the surrounding countryside still lay dormant under a blanket of white as far as the eye could see, and Gander Lake remained frozen along its entire length and breadth, and would not thaw for weeks to come.
    A heavily laden figure emerged from the forest and paused at the edge of the woods. He cautiously surveyed his surroundings, a habit bred from a lifetime of wilderness living. The monster of a black dog at his side did likewise, sniffing the air in every direction. Satisfied by what he saw, the man covered the short distance to the beach and propped his long-gun up against one of the boulders that lined the shore of the lake. He removed his snowshoes, traps, and backpack and deposited them on the ground. Rapping the snowshoes sharply against each other to dislodge the bits of ice and snow that clogged the frames and the rawhide webbing, he resisted the urge to hurl them into the distance. The trek through the woods had not been easy. The early morning hours had been relatively trouble-free and he had made good progress. The rising temperature and softening snow, however, had gradually rendered the snowshoes useless until he eventually abandoned them entirely, preferring to sink to his knees with virtually every step rather than put up with the frustration of having to stop every few yards to clean away the layers of sticky mush that accumulated and stuck to them like glue. At one point he had considered jettisoning the load he was carrying on his back and returning later to retrieve it, but then decided against it, opting instead to try to ignore the irritation and proceed doggedly onward as best he could.
    The burly frame and brute strength of the man were evident even under the large, filthy fur coat he wore, and his fluid movements bespoke a creature acutely attuned to the environment in which he existed. With his coat and cap now removed, the sweat of his exertion dampened his dirty woollen undershirt, and plastered his black oily hair to the sides of his head. Dripping, stinging water forced him to wipe his brow and eyes every few minutes. He intended to take just a short spell before continuing onward to his cabin a half mile away on the northwestern corner of the lake.
    The dog, vigilant while relaxing, bore an uncanny resemblance to its master. Even in repose, its sheer size and the muscles that rippled under its