The Devil's Curse "Now I’m going to spin the finest of tales, one of mystery and fear," spelled the coarse words, "and if there’s anyone amoung you who do not believe in the Devil’s Curse with its ferryboat oared by the dead, you better listen carefully. Before I start this story, I must go into a bit of hocus pocus to ward off the evil eye." The yarn-spinner bunched his partial raised gnarled right hand and extended two fingers in the Figa sign. Then an oath was mumbled from his cracked lips, followed by spitting three times on the ground. "There it is done! Mighty needed to keep the Devil and his fierce lackies at bay; I had enough of these miserable creatures in my younger days..." Not a man stirred in their hardback chairs. Six grizzled lumberjacks had gathered around the inn’s roaring hearth fire where an elder patron was getting ready to spin his tale. It was at the eve of the New Year in the timber country of the high Adirondaks. The winter was harsh and the snowfalls reached the windowsills and even covered many windows of the settlement’s cabins. Every man present had filled his clay or briar pipes with good Virginia tobacco and an aromatic thick cloud of smoke drifted within the tavern. The loggers sat back in the comfort of their chairs as they enjoyed the fragrance of the shredded leaf. Tankards of good stout ale, centered on a small table, were ready for taste. The crackling fire of the resinous pine cast a flickering glow upon their hardened faces that spoke of toil in felling the birch and pine of the nearby forest. The elder refused the leaf to the taste of spirits. He was slightly bent in back and gimps in his bowed legs; and was a known as a greying veteran of those parts for nigh on forty years. His deep-set dark eyes on his grey wrinkled features had seen many incidents in his colorful life. He told of his escapades to those who had an interest and the time to listen.. All he needed was a few tots of spirits to loosen his tongue and tell one of his adventures, some pleasant, others tragic. There and then, after a couple of snootfuls and the making of the sign against the devil, he was raring to go. He spat in the fire, rubbed his chapped hands and began the story in a rough nasal tone; the words slurred haltingly from his glib tongue. "Did you ever hear of Michael the Red? Now there was a fellow as tough as a maddened bear - a hefty, red haired chap with a voice as strong as his muscles. When Michael the Red came into the town, it would be devil to care with one fistfight after another, especially when his belly was fired with the heebiejeebes of the brew. That is how he met the devil and his demons. "Every lumbering season Michael the Red went up north where there was plenty of work for a good lumberjack. He made good money, but what his sweat earned went for rotgut and other brews; never saved a penny. After the season’s work he tramped to the nearest settlement and holed up for the winter drinking to his last coin. "One time in the recent past, Michael the Red, after collecting his due from his work felling the pine and birch, sat back thoughtfully on his bunk at the camp with a comforting jug of hootch. Time was on his hands and he reckoned he would leave early the next morning. He relaxed in the warmth of the liquor savoring its fiery flavor. Slowly the lids of eyes started to close from the warmth of the spirits. But scarcely had the fellow closed his eyes he heard a hoarse chanting coming from somewhere above his head. "When he opened his eyes wider and cleared his sozzled head, he jumped from his bunk and gave a look-see from the cabin’s window. Michael saw in the sky a birch long boat with twelve skeletal creatures of hellfire at the thick pine oars rowing along; a dark cloaked figure hovered over them chanting the count of the pulling of the oars, ‘Ma ne ni ma ne mo’, stroke, stroke, oars foward. Ma ne ni ma ne mo... oars back, stroke stroke."." The elder gesticulated in an excited manner as he mimicked the rowing of the devil’s ferry. Droplets of perspiration appeared on his wrinkled brow from the exertion; and within a couple of minutes or so stopped the spirited demonstration. A swallow of the inn’s fiery brew aided him to clear his throat. The he continued in his tale as the haunted words increased in tempo. "The Devil’s Curse". Michael the Red had once heard of the fearsome tale about the ferryboat of the north that coursed its way through the rivers of the sky; it was said to carry the souls of the dead of the forest returning for a last look at their homes and loved ones. They were carried along by the devil himself - or, so folks told the tale through fear spoken by their tongues. "Suddenly he heard the howl of the creatures of hell and of the moanful chant of the dark figure coming closer to where he stood which was enough to knock the lid of the red of his head. He had known from tales that abound that Satan, himself, was looking for more men, fresh and strong, to man the oars of his ferryboat. Michael was also aware that those who were sighted by the Devil’s gaze were doomed unless one could run faster than the creatures of hellfire could row. "The lumberman decided to to quit the lumber camp immediately and hit the trail as fast as he could. The clear sky of the night was almost as light as day with the northern lights glimmering in their myriad of colours, a fitting backdrop to the scene. He grabbed his ready packed knapsack, took one look at the brilliant sky to the damning sight of the nearing devil’s birch skiff. With another quick glance above he scurried from his cabin and searched out the trail. Then, as fast as his heavily booted feet would allow, he pounded the packed earth in the attempt to skirt the devil’s search. "Yep, trust the devil to lay snares for his victims. Small grey mounds with tangled vines were raised along the trail that impeded the hurried feet of Michael the Red. He managed to skirt every one except the last, which was spread high, between groves of tall pine and birch. The lumberjack was stymied in his attempt to pass, and in anger kicked the blocking mound. The earth burst open and a black furry creature, the devil’s own, leaped from the ground and gnarled at the boot that disturbed him." The elder’s hands spread wide to indicate the size of the monstrous creature of hell. With gesticulation through body movements, he gave a simulated vision of the terrible power of the beast and the ensuing struggle. His audience watched, awed by his excitable words and action. "The beast snarled fiercely at the retreating figure and with one bound leapt at Michael’s throat. The lumberjack fought the lunging creature with all his might that he possessed. With his right hand he seized the top jaw, with his left he gripped the bottom jaw. Then he ground his fangs together and held them tight while the enraged beast kicked and squirmed. "After a moment or so he quickly let go the muzzle of the creature and quickly grabbed its furry tail. Michael the Red spun the beast round and round. The beast yelped and howled and soon became dizzy. Michael then gave a mighty heave and threw it in a backbreaking dash against the timber, stilling the creature’s breath…" The greying veteran’s word increased in the tone of excitement as he drove the fury of the story into the minds of his listeners. No one stirred as they were entranced by his sharp-cut phrases. "Michael the Red clamoured over the mound and ran as swift as the wind, followed by the devil’s longboat with the dead men pulling hard on the oars to catch up with him. The chase continued throughout the night as the lumberjack dodged under the cover of the pine and birch; all the time he heard the hoarse chant of the cloaked figure, ‘Ma ne ni ma ne mo, stroke stroke.’ It was only when the northern lights began to dim at the call of the cock that the ferry boat dissapeared and vanished from the river in the sky." The Elder paused in tale, and hacked a coughing fit, much to the annoyance of his spellbound audience. "So what happened next?" one chap blurted out as he tapped on his pipe to clear the ash... The greying veteran, rubbed his warming hands, and with an open mouth spat once again onto the burning logs. Then he turned and faced his expectant listeners. "Wal’ I’ll spell it out. Michael the Red was a darn lucky and fortunate man to have outrun the devil’s birch ferryboat and lived to tell the tale. And to fight with a hellhound. All in one night... Tis’ true upon my spoken oath... But, the devil left his mark on him. Yep, the mean critter caused a felling pine to gimp his legs." "Yep, Michael the Red was real lucky. Carried on in the only work he ever knew, despite the limp of his legs. Only when the red of his hair turned to the grey of the hills did he put down his ax. But, he never stopped his carousing with a belly full of the brew." A moment or two he gave for a restful pause to the words of the story. The elder looked into the grizzled faces of his audience; then with a sweep of a thin gnarled hand gave a sign which indicated its ending, ‘That’s it, t’ain’t no more to tell.’ A battered mantle cloak set on top of the stone hearth chimed the twelfth hour, ushering in the coming of the New Year. Glasses were raised to the advent. Afterwards a call was heard, ‘Time, gentlemen’. With the stretching of arms and the scraping of chairs, the group left the warmth of the fire. The loggers all gave their short phrases on a ‘nice fitting story for the evening’. Then they bundled themselves in their fur-lined great coats and flapped caps and fitted their snowshoes to their feet. With a wish of a good cheer for the New Year to each other, they made their way to the cold of the falling snow. The landlord paused in his work in the cleaning of the inn and turned towards the hearth where he saw the seated elder still in the comfort of the dying embers. "Well, Michael, me laddie. Tis’ a fine tale told. Time to head for home..."
Copyright © 2002 Norman A Rubin |