Wicked Woods by Steve Vernon Page A

you’ve got sore feet.”
    But Mary wouldn’t listen to either her mother or her father. The truth was, she enjoyed the attention Ben and Isaac paid her. They brought her the best rewards from their hunts and kept her in food and fur. The sad fact of the matter was both Mary’s mother and father also enjoyed the food Ben and Isaac provided and their grumbling bellies stopped them from nagging Mary any further.
    But Ben and Isaac were growing impatient.
    â€œYou have to choose one of us,” they demanded.
    â€œI love you both,” Mary said.
    Did she mean it or was she only being fickle? It’s hard to know for sure. The heart is made of a hard-packed ground. There’s no hunter with an eye sharp enough to track a trail across such coun–try and know for sure that he’s heading in the right direction.
    The two friends finally had enough. On a hot August day, after a glass of cold buttermilk, they swore that they’d put an end to their quarrelling and competition once and for all.
    â€œWe’ll fight for Mary’s hand,” Ben said. “The two of us will square off and the winner takes all.”
    So they called upon the town blacksmith who forged an iron chain and drove it into both sides of a sturdy red maple stump. Each of the two suitors was shackled to one end of the chain with his left hand tied behind his back.
    â€œWe were bonded in life,” said Isaac. “We’ll be bonded in death.”
    â€œWe’ll fight to the end,” said Ben. “And the winner will take the hand of Mary Well of the Magaguadavic.”
    The townsfolk gathered to watch the battle. Today someone might have tried to stop them, or possibly dialled for the police, but these were simpler and harder times. If two men decided to fight, no one would do or say anything about it. Life went on — and no one wanted to miss a show like this.
    High upon her front porch, Mary Well stood between her mother and father. She was both flattered and excited at the prospect of the duel fought on her behalf. The two men, armed with their hunting knives, stood face to face over the red maple stump they were chained to. They fought, wielding their hunt–ing knives with practised ruthlessness. Ben was cut in the left shoulder and blood ran down his arm like a long red scarf, but he caught Isaac with a slash in the leg that painted Isaac’s trou–sers scarlet red.
    â€œYield and give,” Ben said, menacing Isaac with his knife. “That cut was close to the blood-pipe, I warrant. You’ll run your–self dry before the end of an hour.”
    â€œYour own wound is closer to the heart than mine. You’ll be lying in the dirt, cold and pale, while I’m still standing,” Isaac predicted. “Put down your knife and let’s call it quits.”
    The truth was neither of the men wanted to hurt the other more than they already had. They had known each other for many years, and as much as they loved Mary they also cared for each other. But both men were stubborn New Brunswickers who didn’t give up easily when pushed to it.
    Mary knew that too. At first she’d been excited to see the two friends fighting for her attention, but now the whole situation had changed. She didn’t want them to hurt each other. She didn’t want to be the one to blame if either man was killed.
    â€œStop!” Mary shouted.
    Now here is where individual versions of the tale begin to dif–fer. Some folks say that Mary keeled over in her parent’s arms, stone dead from a stroke. Other folks claim that Mary ran out to stop the fight and was caught by an accidental knife swing from either Ben or Isaac.
    At least I hope it was accidental. A fight to the death brings out strange emotions— although some might think it impossible that a man who starts out fighting for someone could end up hurting them, stranger things have happened. The human heart can be as dark