and murky as the waters of the surging Magaguadavic.
I donât know if either of those versions is true. The way I was told the tale, both menâs knives did the deed, catching the girl square in her heart as she tried to step between them, piercing her more surely than any of cupidâs well-sharpened arrows.
âIâm sorry,â were her last words.
Before the sun had sunk beneath the red painted evening sky, Ben and Isaac had either killed each other or died from their wounds. No matter how you tell the tale, three hearts stopped beating over one fatal love. Thatâs bad arithmetic by anybodyâs bookkeeping.
Folks around Bonny River claim that the red maple stump is still there in the woods beside the fast-flowing waters of the Magaguadavic River, stained with the three loversâ blood and the taint of the rusted iron chain that shackled them in life and death. On moonlit nights, the ghost of Mary Well is said to wanâder the shores of the river, keening for the two loves she careâlessly threw away, all because she couldnât, or wouldnât, make up her mind.
So how did Mary Well die? Which version is true?
I guess youâll have to make up your own mind about that, now wonât you?
17
G HOST H ILL
LYNNFIELD
About twenty kilometres north of Calais, Maine, lies the pretty little town of Lynn-field, New Brunswick. Deep in the heart of this town is a shadowy hillside, shrouded with poplar and mountain ash. The folks around Lynnfield call it Ghost Hill and itâs a common stunt for the school kids to dare one another to run up to the top. Nobody can resist a double-dog dare.
You get an eerie feeling walking on this hill. As if something or someone is watching you. The air around Ghost Hill is always chilly and hushed. Not even a breeze dares stir this dark little hummock.
âItâs the perfect place for a graveyard,â some people will tell you, and if you ask nicely enough, theyâll be more than happy to tell you why. It seems that back in the mid-1800s this property was owned by one William McGeorge, the foreman of a logging crew. He didnât spend all that much time in town. He was far happier out in the woods, felling timber, making what money he could.
Money was an awfully big word for Mister William McGeorge. It was a big part of his life. He just couldnât get enough of it. Bluntly put, the man was tighter than a frozen clam. He wouldnât give you last yearâs calendar if you promised to burn it for him.
As you can guess, William wasnât all that well liked around town, but truth to tell nobody would say boo to him. He was a big man and a big employer, so it wouldnât pay to make trouble with William McGeorge. There was no reason to. He paid his men regularly, if not well, and he rarely caused problems.
At least that was the case until the census man from Frederic-ton came into town.
Nobody really paid much attention to the census taker. They gave him whatever information he asked for because that was the law, but the truth of it was they didnât really see much sense in what he was doing. They knew they were all there, and they only needed to count heads when it came time to carve the Thanksgiving turkey âeven then, numbers only mattered because whoever came first got the drumstick and whoever came last wound up with a hunk of bread and some turkey grease.
âWe knows we counts,â they would say. âOur fingers, our toes, and our paycheques. What else is there to worry about?â
No sir and no maâam, nobody paid much attention to that skinny little census taker from Fredericton except old hard-hearted William McGeorge. You see, that census taker was riding one of the finest-looking white mares that he had ever seen and William McGeorge just had to have that horse.
âA horse that fine would fetch a bucket load of dollars at the market,â William said. âSomehow Iâve got to put
I donât know if either of those versions is true. The way I was told the tale, both menâs knives did the deed, catching the girl square in her heart as she tried to step between them, piercing her more surely than any of cupidâs well-sharpened arrows.
âIâm sorry,â were her last words.
Before the sun had sunk beneath the red painted evening sky, Ben and Isaac had either killed each other or died from their wounds. No matter how you tell the tale, three hearts stopped beating over one fatal love. Thatâs bad arithmetic by anybodyâs bookkeeping.
Folks around Bonny River claim that the red maple stump is still there in the woods beside the fast-flowing waters of the Magaguadavic River, stained with the three loversâ blood and the taint of the rusted iron chain that shackled them in life and death. On moonlit nights, the ghost of Mary Well is said to wanâder the shores of the river, keening for the two loves she careâlessly threw away, all because she couldnât, or wouldnât, make up her mind.
So how did Mary Well die? Which version is true?
I guess youâll have to make up your own mind about that, now wonât you?
17
G HOST H ILL
LYNNFIELD
About twenty kilometres north of Calais, Maine, lies the pretty little town of Lynn-field, New Brunswick. Deep in the heart of this town is a shadowy hillside, shrouded with poplar and mountain ash. The folks around Lynnfield call it Ghost Hill and itâs a common stunt for the school kids to dare one another to run up to the top. Nobody can resist a double-dog dare.
You get an eerie feeling walking on this hill. As if something or someone is watching you. The air around Ghost Hill is always chilly and hushed. Not even a breeze dares stir this dark little hummock.
âItâs the perfect place for a graveyard,â some people will tell you, and if you ask nicely enough, theyâll be more than happy to tell you why. It seems that back in the mid-1800s this property was owned by one William McGeorge, the foreman of a logging crew. He didnât spend all that much time in town. He was far happier out in the woods, felling timber, making what money he could.
Money was an awfully big word for Mister William McGeorge. It was a big part of his life. He just couldnât get enough of it. Bluntly put, the man was tighter than a frozen clam. He wouldnât give you last yearâs calendar if you promised to burn it for him.
As you can guess, William wasnât all that well liked around town, but truth to tell nobody would say boo to him. He was a big man and a big employer, so it wouldnât pay to make trouble with William McGeorge. There was no reason to. He paid his men regularly, if not well, and he rarely caused problems.
At least that was the case until the census man from Frederic-ton came into town.
Nobody really paid much attention to the census taker. They gave him whatever information he asked for because that was the law, but the truth of it was they didnât really see much sense in what he was doing. They knew they were all there, and they only needed to count heads when it came time to carve the Thanksgiving turkey âeven then, numbers only mattered because whoever came first got the drumstick and whoever came last wound up with a hunk of bread and some turkey grease.
âWe knows we counts,â they would say. âOur fingers, our toes, and our paycheques. What else is there to worry about?â
No sir and no maâam, nobody paid much attention to that skinny little census taker from Fredericton except old hard-hearted William McGeorge. You see, that census taker was riding one of the finest-looking white mares that he had ever seen and William McGeorge just had to have that horse.
âA horse that fine would fetch a bucket load of dollars at the market,â William said. âSomehow Iâve got to put
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