Goblins Return to Cape Breton, Oct., 1954

45° 42' 18.04" N  60° 19' 41.56" W

 

Late one afternoon in early October, Uncle Caleb arrived unexpectedly. He was wearing his black and red checkered coat and carrying his rifle. When my father went to the bedroom to get his .303 Lee-Enfield, I knew that a spur-of-the-moment hunting expedition was in the works. My persistent begging to tag along was rewarded but I would come to regret it.

 

During the twenty-minute drive to Framboise Cove no deer stood conveniently along the roadside to make things easy. They would need to stalk their prey this time. The Ford turned down Pig Point Road and bumped along for a mile-and-a-half until it came to Morrison’s Beach. Just above the dune, my father turned the car around, so it faced north with its back to the sea and the southerly wind. The Atlantic seemed as restless as the hunters. When I asked to go along, the answer I got was not the one I’d hoped for. “No. Stay in the car!”  Subsequent pleading quickly faded when I saw that my father’s patience was wearing thin.

 

I watched the two men walk up the road and disappear into a patch of stunted spruce. From previous excursions I knew that deer frequented the grassy ridge on the far side of the trees. The light was already beginning to fade, when I returned my attention to my immediate surroundings. To my left was the skeleton of a whale that had washed up several years before. The bleak bones had faded to white. To my right was the brackish pond where I almost drowned the previous summer. As the shadows deepened, so did my fears and soon I was wishing I’d stayed home. Every sound was menacing. Bears were always front and center to my anxieties but tonight there was a much more pressing matter. Uncle Otis had decided to inform me about the local goblin population. According to his sources they had disappeared from Cape Breton around the turn of the century but now they were making a comeback. A few had been seen on the island as recently as a week ago.

 

Abandoned in this secluded landscape between a ghastly skeleton and a sacrificial pool, with monsters on the prowl, was almost more than I could bear. I thought about going in search of my guardians but was afraid that the consequences of finding them might be worse than not. Better to face the dangers from the relative safety of the car. Staying put, however, came with a dilemma. There was no way of knowing if the goblins were already aware of my presence and just how vulnerable I was. If I opened a door or window to look around, I could give myself away. The smart choice was to remain quiet and still.

 

I ducked down below the window level, curled up into a tight ball, and leaned against the door behind the driver’s seat. With eyes closed, I tried to guide my thoughts toward more pleasant things but that didn’t work. Courage, faith, and positive thinking were in short supply that night. If only I had brought my bows & arrows. The murmur of the stiff breeze through the tall, coarse grass contrasted with the thunderous surf pummeling the beach behind me. The entire shoreline convulsed with the raw energy of the ocean. The blend of it all was more soothing than I realized. Gradually my breathing synchronized with the cycle of the crashing waves, and I fell asleep.

 

I was rudely awakened by a bright light shining in my eyes. For a moment I had forgotten where I was. The focus of the beam suddenly shifted to the window on the far side. Staring back at me, with its hideous face pressed against the glass, was a goblin. I tried to scream but no sound would come out. When I heard laughing and pounding on the roof, I caught a tentative breath but was afraid to exhale. “Did we give you a scare?” yelled Uncle Caleb. A moment of respite came when I recognized the voice, but when he opened the door, I was leaning against – I fell out.

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“Shoot the goblin!” I pleaded, but he made no move to do so. My father was looking in the trunk for rope and putting his rifle away. Neither of them seemed to understand the urgency.

 

“There are no goblins,” said my father, “It’s just us.” In the dark he had held the face of a dead deer against the window while my uncle shone the light on it. Half of its head had been blown away, taking its right eye and right antler with it. Even then I knew this was not the kind of prank that can be appreciated by a six-year-old. I still see goblins lurking behind the eyes of those innocent creatures. My old nightmares had disappeared with the bump on the head, but that’s another story. This evening’s unpleasant episode would spawn new, terrifying dreams with themes all their own.

 

With the big buck stretched across the front like a massive hood ornament, we began making our way back up Pig Point Road towards home. There was sparse visibility between the dead animal and the fluke-like protruding sun visor, so my father had to cock his head to see where he was going. From my perspective, in the back seat, the full moon focused single-mindedly on that mutilated head. Trauma, I would learn, can have many origins.