Wicked Woods Read Free Page A

that his journey to the camp, and his attempt to lay the ghost to rest, wore ten long years off the man in ten short minutes. He said the necessary sacred words, sprinkled the ground with holy water, and waved a blessed crucifix about every inch of the camp — all the while the Dungarvon Whooper continued to raise his unholy racket.
    The local folks claim that the Dungarvon Whooper haunts these woods to this day. They claim that there isn’t a speck of underbrush or a wildflower that will grow upon the shared grave of the camp boss. Storytellers swear that the Whooper will lure men out into the woods and frighten them away. They will tell you to beware the scent of freshly baked bread and the sound of frying bacon, which precede an ungodly whooping noise. Horses rear and dogs howl and not even so much as a chipmunk dares walk these woods.
    Or so they say.
    The Whooper has made such an impact on the area that in the early 1900s, the first train to run from Quarryville to Newcastle was called the Dungarvon Whooper. Some said because of its eerie whistle, while others thought that it was because of the ungodly ruckus raised by the lumberjacks riding the train to and from town on the weekends.
    Around that time a strange hermit was spotted twice in the Dungarvon Woods. Some folks believed that he was the one making all the noise, while others wondered if maybe the hermit wasn’t Ryan himself somehow raised up from his empty grave.
    Whooper or whopper, you decide. Folks in the Miramichi area still warn travellers against camping anywhere close to Whooper Spring or the deep flowing Dungarvon River, and that’s all the warning that I need to hear. The Dungarvon Woods will never fall quiet.
    Now whoop it up good and loud —because I believe you’ve been holding your breath for awhile.

2

F OOTSTEPS
L EADING
N OWHERE
    RICHIBUCTO

    On the eastern shore of New Brunswick, about midway between Miramichi and Shediac, lies the little town of Richibucto. The history of the town goes back to 1604 when Samuel de Champlain decided to establish a col–ony there. The harbour was good and it provided access to the New Brunswick interior. Some folks claim this was the first European community to be estab–lished in North America, although that is still open for debate.
    It is funny, isn’t it, how much of his–tory is open for debate. So much of what we read is just educated hearsay. The historians of the world are nothing more than a pack of learned storytellers, with a chalkboard instead of a campfire, spinning yarns and telling tales. It’s that touch of uncertainty that teaches you never to take the world at face value.
    The name Richibucto is derived from a Mi’kmaq term mean–ing river of fire. It is said that the Great Spirit sent the first people here to live, telling their chief that there existed a wonderful land buried deep behind the sunset, warmed by a fast-flowing river of fire.
    There is a story they tell of a barque that sailed out of Richibucto Harbour back in 1860. The barque’s name was Amity and it was built near the town of Sackville, New Brunswick, and owned by a cartel of Nova Scotian businessmen. The name Amity brings to mind thoughts of harmony and friendship, but let me tell you that barque was about as far removed from peaceful as could be imagined.
    I should start by telling you just what a barque is. A barque is a sailing vessel with three or more masts, mostly square-rigged. They were primarily used for hauling cargo. They were slow and sturdy and cheaply built. They were considered a perfect invest–ment for any enterprising merchant, as well as prime targets for pirates and brigands of all shapes and sizes.
    Our story begins as the Amity set sail from Richibucto Harbour with a cargo of softwood packed into the hold. It was a fine sunny day and the captain was confident of a safe and rapid journey. However, the Amity lost an argument with a sandbar and ran