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Village Squire, 1980-03, Page 10destroyed by the Senecas and other tribes, He decided to say nothing, but to take them back with him to New France, where they could join their brothers, those Hurons who had escaped from the other massacre. Both men had been so occupied with the sad tale, that they didn't see the bear club ambling up to the spring for a refreshing drink. If they had, they would have known that the mother bear wouldn't be far behind. As it was, they only looked up when the stillness of the forest was fractured by a scream from Waboos. Jumping to their feet they immediately realized the terrible danger they were in, for all three of them were between the bear and her cub. With incredible speed, the enormous black bear, a deep and menacing growl emanating from deep within her, bore down upon the woman. With an awesome sweep of her mighty front paw, she bowled Waboos into the cedar bushes, instantly breaking her neck. Wihtout slowing down she took a beeline to Wawajeegjedge, who fought back fiercely with his copper knife, for he was unable to reach his spear. Emile jumped for his flintlock, for at the moment the bear was more to be feared than the Seneca warriors. Frantically, he poured firing powder into the pan, his hands shaking, for the bear had already killed the brave, and was now coming for him. High on her hindlegs, blood from the knife wounds gushing from her sides, she was an awesome sight. From her mouth bloody foam sprayed on Emile before he was able to point the gun at the mighty chest and pull the trigger. It seemed to be an eternity before the ignited powder reached the firing chamber of the ancient arquebus. But when it did, a terrible blast of flame and smoke engulfed both man and beast, the bear collapsing with its glossy black coat smoldering from the close firing. The last thing Emile remembered was the stench from the animal's mouth, a bonecracking embrace, and then --darkness. • * • + • When he came to, it took him a while to remember where he was. Then his eyes focused on the spring, but the bear cub was gone. When he rose to his feet, miraculously unhurt, he turned to where the Indian and his wife had been killed by the bear. But instead he saw a neatly mowed lawn, with a cornfield in the background. Slowly it dawned on him that he had just wakened from a horrible nightmare, while sleeping in his lawn chair. This was the twentieth century; not some pioneer time. He was a farmer, with a beautiful cornfield in the place where, in his dream, the great trees had been. Somewhat sheepishly he grinned at PG. 8 VILLAGE SQUIRE/MARCH 1980 himself, but then, all of a sudden, the terror of the dream gripped him again. It looked so damn real. Stealthily, so as not to awaken his wife from her afternoon nap, he fetched a shovel from the shed and began digging in the place where, in his dream, the Indian had been killed. It was easy digging in the soft earth, moist from the water of the little spring, and he was not surprised when, a few minutes later, his shovel brought up a human skull. When he started digging in the place where the woman had fallen, he knew that here too he would find human bones. But it was with a great dread in his heart that he turned to the place where he had been sleeping in his lawn chair only moments before; and when his spade encountered both animal and human bones, mixed together, he screamed. s•ssr*• It was at this point that Emile dePont stepped into his pick-up truck and came to me. Late that Sunday afternoon, my house- keeper announced that there was an agitated farmer who wanted to speak to me. I was tired and told her to send him away, to come back some other time, but he wouldn't go. So I put on my cassock and bid him to come in. When I saw how excited he was, and how disturbed he looked, I poured him a stiff brandy and took one myself, to keep him company. When he had calmed down somewhat, he told me the story I have just recorded for you. May God forgive me, but I couldn't suppress a smile when I heard his tall tale. I was sure that Emile duPont, who was a very indifferent churchgoer, either was slightly drunk, in which case I regretted the brandy, or that he had a mental problem. I went with him to banish the nightmare from his mind, but he would have none of iL He went to his truck and brought a dirty feedbag into the manse, brushing aside my protesting housekeeper. In the feedbag was a skull and several bones. I didn't smile anymore. I told him not to tell anyone and called the town constable. Together we went to Emile's farm, and Constable Hunter said that he had to report this to the coroner's office, and not to disturb the dug holes any more. To make the story short: archeologists from the University of Western dug up the whole lawn, much to the chagrin of Emile's wife, but they didn't find any more bones than Emile had already uncovered. They measured and tested, and con- cluded that the bones were of an Indian man and woman. Separately were the bones of a white man underneath the bones of a huge bear. From the size of the Indians, the archeologists concluded that they were probably native peoples who lived here before the white man came, and who were massacred by the Iroquois about 1650. It was all so uncannily as Emile had told me, that I was shaken to my very roots. I called the archives in Quebec, inquiring if there had been a scout by the name of Emile duPont, and they answered that duPont was such a common name, that it was entirely possible. Emile was never the same after this experience. Soon after, he sold the farm and moved away. Who cam blame him? After all there are not many people who dig up their own bones. Can it be sheer conincidence that Emile duPont bought the very place where a previous Emile duPont was killes1 some 300 years earlier? Is there reincarnation? If so, what am I to believe? I have been a priest for almost fifty years. Never before has my faith been shaken. I rue the day that Emile duPont came to my door. I will seal this letter now. When I die, which will be before long, this letter must go to the bishop. My faith is lacking; doubts assail me, and I haven't the strength to confess to my Superior. I pray that God may have mercy on me, for I'm not so sure that the bishop will. mo ma Lax - Qgoa,aoa©Doollou 882 ONTARIO ST., STRATFORD Telephone (519) 271-7371 HEADQUARTERS FOR ALL WOOD FINISHING, REFINISHING AND TOUCH-UP PRODUCTS. WESTOCK COMPLETE LINES OF THE FAMOUS Qaa•Cieii BRANDS: Sheffield Deft Circa 1850 Watco 18th Century Duratite AND Color Your World STAINS, SEALERS, URETHANES AND VARNISHES PROFESSIONAL - PRODUCTS & ADVICE FOR PROFESSIONAL RESULTS