The Lunenburg Werewolf (19 page)

The “Lutin,” or “little people,” were a type of fairy-hobgoblin who reputedly came over to the New World from Old France with the first French settlers. They were believed to be both bad and good, and there wasn't much of a rule as to how they might behave. It depended upon which way the wind was blowing, I suppose. On any given day, the Lutin might helpfully shave the master's chin before he even woke from his bed, or they might shave his head instead.

The Lutin are well known in the French Shore region of Nova Scotia, where the old people still braid the manes of their horses to keep them safe from the Lutin, who are fond of tangling the horses' manes into untamable elf-locks. However, this particular tale actually comes from Havre Boucher, a small village in the belly of St. George's Bay, approximately ten kilometres west of the Canso Causeway.

Depending on who you talk to, the village of Havre Boucher is either named after its ice-locked harbour or Captain Francois Boucher of Quebec, who stayed here through the very harsh winter of 1759. Over the years, the village has served as a haven to many different groups, including a small band of surviving Acadians, a few French settlers from Arichat, and a handful of Irish families who arrived in the early 1800s.

According to legend, there was once a log chapel that sat on the western point of the harbour. The church was run by a group of French missionaries and was attended by local Mi'kmaq.

The candles were burning, the hymns were being sung, and the good missionaries were kept up the whole night long praying and practising their best exorcising techniques on the night that Liam went out riding with the Lutin…

A Nag Named Plodder

Many years ago there lived a young man named Liam, who resided in the little town of Havre Boucher.

“I have such poor luck,” he complained to anyone who was foolish enough to listen. “I live in such a very poor town in such a very poor province.”

It was true. Liam did not have very much luck to his name. He had a few sheep, some holes in his boots, and a pair of empty pockets. In addition to that, he had a rundown farm and a ramshackle barn and a tired old horse named Plodder, who was his best friend in the world.

Every morning, Liam would go to the barn to find Plodder looking more tired than ever. No matter how much he fed the old horse, no matter how much water he gave him, and no matter how long he let him rest, Plodder kept looking more tired by the day. Each day the horse's rib bones spindled out a little farther beneath his ratty old hide. And each day his knees bowed in more and his legs lanked out more and his teeth drooped a little lower from his big flappy lips.

“Every morning the horse looks as if it has been out for a hard gallop all night long,” Liam said. “In a few more nights there will be nothing left of it but a rattling old horsehide sack wrapped around a bag of broken bones.”

Then, early one morning, Liam found that Plodder's mane and tail had both been braided overnight. They were pretty braids, with long black ribbons of eel grass and ivy woven through them, but since old Plodder was built for nothing more glorified than pulling a dull plow, Liam just couldn't see the point.

That is, until he talked to his next door neighbour, Old Man Levasseur.

“Your problem is simple,” Old Man Levasseur said. “Your horse is being ridden by the Lutin.”

“What's a Lutin?” Liam asked.

“The Lutin are what we Acadians call faerie people,” Old Man Levasseur said. “The Lutin mostly leave us people alone but they have a love of horseback riding and a fascination with the tying of knots.”

“How long will this go on?” Liam asked.

“Most likely until your horse dies from exhaustion,” Old Man Levasseur replied.

“Isn't there anything I can do about it?”

Old Man Levasseur shrugged and thumped his pot-belly three times fast. “Put a silver coin in a bucket and let the horse drink from it,” he advised. “It is the strongest protection against the Lutin that I know of.”

“And where would I find a silver coin?” Liam asked. “I barely have two brass pieces to rub together.”

“Then try sprinkling some salt on the ground,” Old Man Levasseur said. “The Lutin hate the salt.”

“Why waste good salt on the dirt?” Liam asked.

“If you pinch your pennies any harder, the queen will blush,” Old Man Levasseur teased. “Maybe you could just try setting a trap?”

Which is just what Liam did. The next evening, after putting Plodder into the stall, Liam laid seven rawhide rabbit trip-snares about the old barn in such a fashion that no matter how carefully someone approached the stall, he would be bound to catch his foot in one of the trip-snares.

However, on the next morning, Liam found that his trip-snares had been gathered up and braided into a very neat bundle. Plodder was leaning in the stall, looking even more tired than ever, with a long strand of blue jay and crow feathers woven into his braided mane and tail.

“Traps don't work,” Liam told Old Man Levasseur.

“Of course they don't,” Old Man Levasseur retorted. “The Lutin are far smarter than your average rabbit is.”

“So what can I do?” Liam asked.

“There is another way,” Old Man Levasseur said. “You're bigger than the Lutin, aren't you?”

“How would I know?” Liam said. “I've never seen a Lutin.”

“Well, why don't you try catching him tonight?” Old Man Levasseur asked.

“And how do I do that?” Liam asked. “Is there a spell I should recite? Will I need to wear a crucifix or say the Lord's Prayer?”

Old Man Levasseur shrugged. “A prayer never hurt,” he said. “But mostly I was just thinking you ought to sneak up and jump on his back.”

Which is just what Liam set out to do.

Man Versus Lutin

Plodder looked gaunter then ever by moonlight. It gave Liam a case of the bitter shivers as he stood there in the shadows of the stall. It was a good thing old Plodder was feeling so tired, because a good hard rearward kick from him might have crushed Liam's ribcage in on itself.

“This is a bad idea, isn't it, boy?” Liam whispered.

Plodder whinnied in agreement.

Going out of his way to antagonize something so magical and powerful as a Lutin certainly was a very bad idea. There was no telling what this Lutin might do to Liam if he had the notion to hurt him.

But Liam needed that horse. He was far too poor to even consider buying a new one. And besides, Plodder was the closest thing to a best friend that Liam had ever had. There was no way on this green earth that he was going to let the Lutin ride old Plodder into the dirt.

Suddenly Liam saw the tiny little Lutin creeping into the horse's stall. He looked as if he had been built from mosquito bones and cat whiskers. He was thin and wiry, with a long needle nose that looked sharp enough to serve as a stinger. He had a nasty little sneer that looked to have been carved onto his tiny leather face. His skin was dusty grey, tinged with a hint of river moss. The only spot of colour upon the Lutin's entire body was a bright red cap that perched nattily upon his head.

Liam waited patiently. He knew that he would only get one chance at catching this little man.

The Lutin tiptoed closer and then all at once he leaped upon Plodder and kicked him in the ribs with a pair of heels that looked as sharp as hunting knives.

Liam leapt too. He grabbed hold of the Lutin, but touching him was as painful as picking up a mid-summer hornet nest. Liam screamed and tried to pull his hands free, but the Lutin braided Liam's fingers into Plodder's mane in less time than it might take you to take a good deep breath.

“Help!” Liam yelled.

Suddenly, Old Plodder reared up and leaped clear over the stall gate, dusting the cobwebs from the barn rafters. The barn doors flew open before the horse, as if they'd been kicked.

Liam squeezed the Lutin harder. No matter how much hanging on hurt, he was determined not to let go.

“Set me free!” the Lutin shrieked.

“Leave go of my horse,” Liam said. “Or I'll squeeze you until your eyes bleed.”

“Then ride with me,” the Lutin said in a voice that sounded like a pit saw crossed with squeaky chalk. “And I will show you a treasure beyond your wildest of dreams.”

And Plodder took off galloping.

Liam's Long Midnight Ride

Liam had never seen a horse gallop so hard and so fast. Plodder hit the Strait of Canso and leaped over it. Liam took a panic stricken half-second blink at the water surging below him and braced for the impact of the inevitable landing to come. Only the landing never happened.

Old Plodder must have been crossed with mythical Pegasus himself, because instead of falling, the old nag rose higher and higher into the night sky, nearly flying headlong into a great horned owl.

“Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo,” said the great horned owl. “Whooo, whooo?”

“Me!” shouted Liam.

“Take a look down, why don't you?” the Lutin asked. “And forget about your bird watching.”