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  Even the schoolmaster felt it necessary to comment, using the words like “intriguing” whenever a less learned member of the local populace would broach the subject in his presence.

  Not that anybody in Tickles really cared where Uncle Jim hid his moonshine, or indeed said anything the least disparaging about his making it and selling it. You talk about keeping the wolf from the door! In those times the wolf didn’t dare come near the door for fear of being eaten on the other side. So you couldn’t very well come down hard on a man who was trying to raise his economic status from nothing to something above that by selling a drop of moonshine on the sly now and then.

  Besides, Uncle Jim Donnelly made the best kind of moonshine, as the constant trade to his back door after supper every evening testified. He was very careful about keeping his can and pipe clear of “vardygrass” (verdigris), so you didn’t have to worry about anything like that—I mean being poisoned every time you took a swig or whatever. And his prices—at ten cents a flask—were, as they say today, competitive, in that everybody who made and sold moonshine charged exactly the same amount.

  There were even those who claimed to have solved the mystery.

  “He hides it outdoors in them bushes,” was the solution advanced by Ritchie Nolan, resting his arms on an old, empty oil drum just outside J. J. Mahaney’s store. “. . . Along that line of old stakes. We was in there one night ’n I was watchin’ ’im through the winda ’n he went right along by them bushes . . .”

  Being aware of the known character of the individual speaking, and his fondness for anything that came out of a corked bottle, the little group surrounding the drum did not greet this explanation with their usual show of comradely support. Marty Gull’s response was an immediate snort of contempt.

  “’N sure, if he were hidin’ it under the bushes, ’n it were as easy as that, wouldn’t you be lookin’ fer it yerself? Wouldn’t you be findin’ it? Fer the love of the Lard, Ritchie . . .”

  Which was a valid rebuttal when you considered the fact that Ritchie Nolan could sniff out a bottle of alcohol if it were wrapped in a squid trap and hidden under Long Point.

  “I can guarantee ye he’s not hidin’ it where it can be seen,” ventured Theophilus McCurdy, scuffing out a cigarette in the gravel, “that’s fer sure. What with everybody cuttin’ back ’n forth to the graveyard like that . . . ’n the Mountie’s on the prowl day and night. . . . No, he’s not hidin’ it where it can be seen . . .”

  Which they all agreed was good sense on Uncle Jim’s part, since obviously anybody with a grain would never hide something where it could be seen.

  “No, he’s not hidin’ it where it can be seen, but he’s got to be hidin’ it somewhere,” avowed Marty, with the air of one who is convinced that he has the only possible solution to the mystery.

  “Yes, he’s got to be hidin’ ’t somewhere . . .” echoed Josie McCue.

  In matters of this nature, Josie usually listened attentively and always agreed with whoever spoke last.

  Ritchie Nolan shifted his position on the oil drum and the others focused their presence in his direction. Any movement on Ritchie’s part usually precipitated perilous thought of some kind.

  “What say we goes up tonight and buys a flask . . . ’n one of us stays well back ’n watches. . . . Say from a spot inside the graveyard fence. There’s lots of spots ye can hide inside the graveyard fence . . .”

  The idea burst upon the quiet of the afternoon like the brilliant discovery of that famous Greek man in the bathtub, generating stirs of interest around the drum, until the weight of the last part of the sentence made itself felt upon the circle of consciousness. The idea of standing alone in a graveyard for half the night was not one that was particularly appealing, especially to people who were not wholly convinced that nothing existed outside this mortal domain. For once Marty Gull was slow to respond, and he didn’t speak with his usual tone of commanding authority.

  “That’s what we’ll do. One of us’ll stand inside the graveyard fence . . .”

  His confirmation of the plan was followed by a second, longer pause, a pause ended by Josie’s predictable echo.

  “Yes, one of us’ll stand inside the graveyard fence . . .”

  After which he also settled back into a deep and profound consideration of Ritchie’s proposal. Since Theophilus was the only one left to speak for or against the plan, they all felt that somehow he would provide the solution to their silent dilemma.

  “B’ys, c’mon. What are ye ’fraid of . . . ? They’s only a bunch of dead people.”

  His vocalizing of this realistic fact did nothing to ease the apprehension that had accompanied the articulating of the plan. Marty Gull snorted a second time, but not as vehemently.

  “I suppose youse not afraid to stand in the graveyard, Theo?”

  Too late, Theophilus realized he had been caught in a trap of his own creation. He wasn’t that eager to stand around among headstones after dark, but he had brought himself to the point where the pride of saving face before his buddies now prevailed over the good sense in the head upon his shoulders.

  “Sure, what’s to be ’fraid of . . . ? They’s all dead, ain’t they?”

  To which there was a certain quiet agreement before they all left for their respective homes.

  * * * *

  True to plan, the four b’ys met that night just around the turn before the graveyard road. Theophilus McCurdy was smoking his fourth cigarette in just under an hour. They huddled together by the ditch, speaking in hushed tones. Marty Gull had assumed the role of director of operations, and was whispering directions with the same sense of urgency as a platoon commander laying out plans to secure some close military objective.

  “Theo, you go up ’round the back. We’ll wait awhile . . . then we’ll go in ’n buy the shine . . .”

  Theo nodded his head by way of agreement, scrubbed out the cigarette he was smoking in the gravel, then proceeded to light another in its place. Marty, having once watched a war movie where the sniper shot a smoker every time he lit up, was quick to pounce on the foolhardiness of this latter action.

  “Fer the love of the Lard, Theo. Ye knows he’s goin’ to be lookin.’ ’N he’s goin’ to see that cigarette in the dark. . . . G’wan, fer the love of the Lard. Nobody is goin’ to bite ye . . .”

  Which isn’t always the best kind of encouragement to have someone enter a graveyard alone at eleven o’clock in the night, especially when you consider the frayed nerves and jittery feelings that usually accompanied one’s presence in that particular locale.

  Not that Theophilus McCurdy was concerned about being bitten by those who came back to roam the world from their place of rest. In his mind they didn’t have to go that far. All that was necessary for complete paralysis and an instant heart attack on his part was their momentary appearance anywhere in his immediate presence.

  He edged his way toward the cemetery gate, trying to walk as quietly as he could so as not to attract unwanted attention from the other side of the graveyard fence, keeping his eyes on the ground as much as possible so he wouldn’t have to look at the eeriness of the headstones silently reflecting the light of a full September moon.

  He took up his position on the little rise inside the gate, the only spot where he could get a clear view of Uncle Jim walking along the bushes, trying to restrain the repeated swallowing that had become a constant part of his overall physical condition since he entered the graveyard. He stood stock still—his mother had once told him he made enough noise to wake the dead—and drew his collar up tight around his neck as protection against any untoward presence that would approach him from behind.

  Now it was at times such as this that Newfoundland weather can become downright troublesome. The wind picked that particular moment to swing in from the north and shroud the cemetery in wisps of feathery ground
mist, covering it with a vaporous blanket. Theo stood there, sweating and shaking, as damp shrouds and formless creatures slithered toward him, bent only on tripping him up and casting him down with the dead that rested beneath him. But he remained, too frightened to move, as tentacles of fog curled around his legs, cementing his feet to the ground on which he stood.

  Meanwhile, the b’ys had strolled up the path to Uncle Jim’s house, acting nonchalant and deliberately talking loud, as if Uncle Jim was supposed to know what they were up to and somehow be totally fooled by their actions.

  * * * *

  What happened next wasn’t supposed to have happened at all, and would never have been anticipated by the b’ys no matter how long they stood talking and planning around the oil drum.

  In accordance with the plan, the b’ys were supposed to request a flask of shine—which they did; Uncle Jim would leave the house to procure the flask—which he did; then Theo would see where he was hiding it—which he didn’t.

  Uncle Jim did leave the house for the moonshine, but he didn’t head straight for the hiding place. He was shrewder than that, which explains in some measure why his stash was never discovered and why he was never caught.

  He would always take what we would call today precautionary measures. He would stand on the back step first to have a good look around, then take his time walking toward the bushes, peering this way and that to ensure nobody was either watching or following.

  That night he never got to the bushes.

  In fact, he never got into the yard. His back door opened directly onto the graveyard, and as he stepped into the moonlit night, his eyes alighted on a dark, motionless form seemingly suspended in the ground mist between the two cemetery gateposts. Theo, silhouetted as he was against the backdrop of headstones which sat silently on the hill, illuminated by the halo effect of a full September moon, the ground mist swirling about him in an ethereal manner, was, in effect, a first-class apparition.

  Uncle Jim, whose nerves hadn’t been helped any by being his own best customer all his life, reacted accordingly.

  He stood paralyzed with fright, expelling what breath he could muster to utter what was intended as a prayer for his deliverance from the spectral form that hovered just feet ahead on the rise.

  “Blessed and holy Mother of God, have mercy. . . . Blessed and holy Mother of God . . .”

  This prayer must have given him a certain spiritual and physical strength, since he bolted back inside the house with a speed that belied his years, all the while pronouncing the same holy words as an unconscious means of controlling a very conscious sense of terror.

  He stopped just inside the kitchen door and stood transfixed on the floor, white as a sheet, wild-eyed and trembling, trying as best he could, in spite of a dry throat and a good deal of sweating, to describe what he had seen, the telling being interrupted at intervals by the same earnest, repeated prayer.

  “Blessed and holy Mother of God, have mercy. . . . Blessed and holy Mother of God . . .”

  This induced added amazement on the part of the incredulous gathering, since up to that point they had never heard Uncle Jim say a prayer of any kind in his life.

  Julia Donnelly, absorbed in her knitting, and totally unperturbed by the goings-on around her, was less than empathetic, since all she could offer was “Good ’nough for ye, drinking that ole moonshine all day long. Ye’re liable to see anything . . .” although she did boil the kettle and mix him a big drink to steady his nerves.

  Meanwhile, the combination of ground mist, headstones, time, and cold were exerting their cumulative effect on Theo’s mind and body, and the lights of Uncle Jim’s house were becoming more invitingly comfortable the longer he stood on the rise. Then when he saw Uncle Jim bolt back into the house, the thought instantly entered his mind that the Mounties must have alighted on the scene, that another raid was in progress, and that perhaps he should get out of there as fast as he could.

  He was helped in his decision by the appearance of a gigantic brown owl that had its nest in a birch tree at the end of the graveyard and which decided at that precise moment to investigate the strange, alien form that had invaded its territory. It swooped down behind Theo in complete silence, alighted on a higher gravestone a few feet to his rear, then let out a hoot you could hear across Conception Bay. Theo cleared the graveyard fence like an Olympic hurdler, and arrived at the main road with such speed that they say the owl is still blinking with astonishment.

  Needless to say, nobody was in a hurry to rush out and, as the politicians say today, affirm or deny what Uncle Jim had witnessed.

  So by the time the more courageous did venture through the still open back door, Theo had disappeared, the owl had flown back to its nest, and all that remained to greet their expectations was the quiet of the graveyard in the moonlit silence of the September night.

  Uncle Jim ushered everybody home with a “No moonshine tonight, b’ys, no moonshine tonight . . .” which he repeated a number of times between intense bouts of chattering teeth, and the b’ys departed, none the wiser with respect to the hidden moonshine, but much more sober than they usually were on leaving Uncle Jim’s kitchen.

  * * * *

  The rest, as they say, is epilogue.

  Uncle Jim gave up drinking moonshine entirely, although he continued to make and sell it, and, as they say today, conducted a thriving business until times got better and everybody got jobs and it became the mark of success in outport life to display large bottles of rum and whiskey on small, newly purchased outport coffee tables.

  The mystery of the hiding place was eventually solved, but not in Uncle Jim’s lifetime, and you might say he carried his secret to the grave, or the graveyard, whichever you prefer.

  Three years after he died, his son came back from Toronto to fix up the place and put a new fence around the property. When he pulled up the old stakes, he noticed that they weren’t pointed at the end, like stakes are supposed to be. Then when he drove his first new stake, he felt glass shattering. He pulled up that stake, leaned in over the hole . . . and you can guess what he smelled.

  “Well,” he said, “I’ll be damned. . . . The skipper was hiding it under the stakes. He was hiding his moonshine under the stakes all the time. Well, I’ll be damned . . .”

  We don’t know if Uncle Jim’s son was ever truly damned for happening upon the discovery, but sure enough, every stake hole had a full bottle of moonshine, well-hidden by the old stake that seemed to be innocently rotting away above it, testimony to the fact that Uncle Jim died with his boots on—or his brew on—again, whichever you prefer.

  So the mystery, if you will, ceased to be a mystery, and the matter of where Uncle Jim hid his moonshine passed into that great oblivion of communal bad memory; and, except for the odd person who would be truly impressed by what was nothing short of an ingenious way of outwitting the world—and the law that was supposed to govern it—was rarely spoken of thereafter.

  Not that the outport of Tickles dispensed with puzzling over mysteries. In that sense, outport mysteries are like useless “angashores.” There’s always another one waiting to take its place around the corner, and Uncle Jim’s encounter with the unworldly visitor was seized upon with a relish that knew no bounds.

  “Yes, the b’ys went up to get a flask, ’n when he went out to get the shine that’s when he saw it . . .”

  Which were the facts of the case as everybody saw them, and were agreed upon much the same as in a court of law, the explanations for the strange phenomena varying according to the individual speaking.

  “’Tis his mother,” averred the postmistress, “coming back . . . where he put her out that time and she had to go live with her daughter in Englee . . .”

  “No, my dear, ’twas the widow Morris,” countered Aunt Mag. “She wisht Jim Donnelly for all the moonshine he sold Bill Morris. They says that�
��s what he died with . . .”

  Even the b’ys had their theories, which they exchanged while they were standing on the wharf waiting to ship their squid.

  This time Ritchie Nolan was sitting on a “gump” chewing a big wad of gum.

  “I says he didn’t want to sell us the shine. He caught on to something when he saw Theo wasn’t with us . . .”

  Marty Gull didn’t agree with that.

  “Naw. He musta seen the Mounties or something. Somebody said they was parked just down the road. . . . That’s what I says . . .”

  “Yes, somebody said they was parked just down the road . . .” confirmed Josie.

  Theophilus McCurdy was more relieved than anything.

  “I knows one thing. Whatever ’t was, I’m some glad it wasn’t there when I was there. That owl was bad enough. . . . Lard dyin’, if I’da seen that udder thing I would’ve . . .”

  Which sentence we will leave to the outport reader’s imagination to finish, familiar as they would be with such experiences of their own under similar circumstances.

  To date, the mystery of the strange apparition in Tickles has never been solved, and probably won’t be—until they put a new fence around the cemetery or bring in really detailed weather forecasting or something, and then we’ll have a perfectly rational and normal explanation, as befits our modern times.

  THE ART OF SELF-DEFENCE

  “So you’re from Newfoundland, eh?”

  The big man shifted his weight forward as he sucked in his coffee. The sneering, provocative tone was deliberate, intended to humiliate. He was addressing a younger man of much slighter build sitting directly opposite him. A husky man in gold-frame glasses and an attractive woman in her mid-thirties looked on apprehensively. They had witnessed their superior’s badgering many times before and they didn’t enjoy it; but there was nothing they could do.

  Their superior was the editor-in-chief, and they were his unwilling partners in this all too familiar routine. The woman, the editor’s private secretary, considered it sadistic. The husky man in the gold-frame glasses thought it disgusting, but he was not a man of confrontation and he had never learned how to deal with his superior’s cruel temperament. The smaller man didn’t respond, simply nodding in agreement as he fingered his serviette.