The Monster of Twenty Mile Pond Read online

  “Which means neither story is much of a corroboration of the other and might easily be destroyed in court. But maybe some of the other stuff I’m starting to dredge up might support her. What about you? Do you think she’s innocent?”

  “It may be pure faith, but whatever happened down by the lake that day, I do think she’s innocent of murder. I’m just playing devil’s advocate here. I can’t help thinking of what you would do to me if I were alleging what Esme and you are alleging, and you were cross-examining me about it on the stand.”

  “Hoard up past resentments a bit, do you, Jen?” We both laughed and she placed her head on my shoulder.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On an excuse, I made an appointment with the engineer in charge of the water supply and its treatment for the city. His name was Lancelot Yeo. He had immigrated here from England many years ago, and was inordinately proud of the purity of the water he’d been responsible for ever since.

  I had a convenient client whose file was dormant. Last year, he had wanted to sue the city because, he said, his tap water stank. After investigation, I’d been persuaded he had no case and I encouraged him to get his pipes checked and save himself a lot of money by not going up against city hall.

  I told Lancelot Yeo that the information I wanted on the quality of his water was off the record and without prejudice. I just wanted to confirm what I’d already satisfied myself about, namely, that there was no basis to my client’s complaint that the city was responsible for a smell of algae in his water.

  “Shouldn’t I have the city solicitor here?” he asked.

  “By all means if you wish,” I replied. “But that would force me to go to court for an order to produce documents and reports and all the attendant publicity.”

  “All right, then, let’s hear what you want to know.”

  “What is the quality of the water from Windsor Lake like before it enters the treatment plant and gets chlorinated?”

  “Amazingly clean, clear, and pure,” said Mr. Yeo. “The raw water in the other reservoir, Bay Bulls Big Pond, is already excellent, too, but not as good as Windsor Lake. It makes no difference, of course, because both supplies ultimately come out of their treatment plants identical in quality. I think perhaps the lake is so pure because it’s a geological depression, not fed by surface streams or rivers, and its only recharge is by way of precipitation and groundwater from springs at the bottom. One of our new technicians said, after he’d taken his first sample, that it’s almost as if something is out there keeping it clean.”

  I took a sip of the coffee he’d given me. “Why? Has anyone ever seen anything out there?”

  “You mean like Old Twenny, the monster? No, but when the lads are out on the lake in their boat, inspecting and checking from time to time, they don’t let their hands dangle in the water, either.” Lancelot Yeo laughed.

  “Twenny, the monster? Is there talk among your men of some sort of a monster out there?” I laughed, too.

  “Oh good heavens, no. I’m sorry I mentioned it. I hope you’re not going to bring that nonsense up in court.”

  “My goodness, no,” I assured him. “You’ve given me everything I need in order to confirm that I made the right decision in advising my client he should back off. But during my inquiries, I’ve heard vague murmurings about something in the lake.”

  “Oh, you must have run into old Uncle Hughie Tucker. He’s the main culprit.”

  “Yes, I’ve talked to him,” I said. “He tells some good stories, all right. But he seems intent on debunking the whole idea of a monster in the lake.”

  “The tried and true technique of a master spinner of tall tales,” said Lancelot Yeo. “Spread your blather around everywhere and say you don’t believe a word of it, that it’s all a lot of drivel—it gives credibility to you as the spreader of the nonsense to begin with. But he’s not alone in his yarns out there.”

  “You’ve heard of others?”

  “Well, you know, a lot of people around here come originally from Devon in England and Waterford in Ireland,” said the Englishman. “Delightful counties, both of them, but both could be described as domains of moors, bogs, and monsters, not to mention fairies, fiends, ogres, giants, trolls, and gnomes. All highly transportable across the Atlantic, evidently, and all right at home out here in Newfoundland.

  “It’s the same with names of things. Take Devon and their ponds, for example. They have no body of water large enough there to constitute a lake, so they don’t even use the term. Everything is a pond. When they came over here, therefore, all bodies of water, big or small, were ponds. Hence a body of water relatively larger than the rest and entitled to be designated a lake anywhere else but Devon and here, had to have a size designation stuck on the word pond to elevate it above the ordinary. Ergo, Twenty Mile Pond.”

  “It’s a good name, though,” I said. “I like it, personally.”

  “As do I, except for the fact that it gives the impression that the people who first saw it were so unworldly as to be flabbergasted by the huge size of that little lake just twenty miles in perimeter. Probably not even that big, since some say that the twenty miles is the distance from St. John’s to the end of the lake and back to St. John’s again. In fact, it’s a pathetically small body of water, as anyone who tries, as I must, to keep a few gallons of H2O in it during a dry August, is painfully aware.”

  “To your knowledge, has it ever gone dry or nearly dry?”

  “No, no. A slight exaggeration there on my part. But the idea that it is capacious enough to contain a monstrosity of some sort is ludicrous. Yet some such notion seems to persist, even among those who ought to know better. There was another episode recently that briefly fanned the fire among a few gullible yokels.

  “A helicopter pilot flying over Windsor Lake thought he saw a huge, grotesque shape moving under the water, but it disappeared as abruptly as it appeared. He was so intrigued that he flew lower and lower and landed on a spit of land out in the middle. There’s even a video on social media of the chopper landing. But absolutely no one has reported a similar sighting before or since, either from a helicopter or a low-flying water bomber. The pilot himself said afterwards that it had to have been a trick of the light. And of course, as a lawyer interested in the nature of proof, yourself, you will appreciate that the inability to authenticate a sighting of something, or to duplicate an experiment, or to repeat an experience reported anecdotally, is the very definition of ‘non-scientific.’ I rest my case.” Lancelot Yeo slapped the top of his desk with both hands rather decisively.

  Needless to say, I didn’t try out my sighting of a tentacle whipping out of the lake and seizing a gull in mid-air on him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  On my next visit to Hughie Tucker, he said to me, “You’d better get as much out of me as fast as you can, because I’m getting married and moving into another suite with the new wife in a little while.”

  I passed him the flask of rum. “Congratulations. Where are you going to hide this then?”

  “I won’t need to. Love conquers all. I won’t have to drown my sorrows nearly so much then. One a day from the front desk will be enough. The new wife likes her one ounce of rye a day, too, so we’re all set for having our snort together. Right compatible.”

  “But why won’t I be able to get any more out of you after you get married?”

  “Too busy doing the husband-wife thing, b’y. She said the both of us will be ‘prioritizing our activities’ more then. That means picking and doing the stuff that she thinks is good and important.”

  “Good job I got here before that happens, Hughie. Because I was talking to a man the other day who says you’re the main culprit when it comes to spreading around myths about Old Twenny. He swears you only pretend you don’t believe the guff you’re throwing out in order to give greater credibility to yourself as
a source of the nonsense. I’m glad I got a chance to get your take on that.”

  “That arrogant Limey fella, right? I met a lot like him when I was overseas in the war. Some people find him very hard to take, but then we probably only won the war because the Brits thought they were so much superior to everyone else. How could they possibly lose, up against a bunch of Huns and wops? They were too good to lose, so they didn’t lose. You’ve got to love their attitude.”

  “I’m not saying who it was, Hughie. That’s not important. What’s important is that it made me think you do, in fact, believe there’s something out there.”

  “Whether I do or not, what you’ve got to ask yourself is this: If there is something out there, where in the name of God could it have possibly come from?”

  “And?”

  “There’s an old guy down in Horse Cove who’s got some ideas on that.”

  “Horse Cove? That’s St. Thomas, down by Portugal Cove, right? Do you know what he says?”

  “Yes, but you should get it from the horse’s mouth. Tommy Squires. He claims he’s a descendant of Tommy Picco from down that way.”

  “The Tommy Picco? The young fellow who saved everyone in the boat by chopping off the huge tentacles of a giant squid that were wrapped around it, pulling them under?”

  “One and the same, sir. You’d better see him quick, though, Bill. I haven’t heard he died, but I don’t know how much longer he’s got for this world. Geez, when he goes and I go, there won’t be anyone left to spread around the whoppers.” Hughie picked up the phone. “I’ll give him a shout and tell him you’re coming. He doesn’t reveal everything he knows to just anyone. Now what’s his number? I haven’t talked to him for six months.” He dialled a number from memory. “And, Bill, don’t mind what I said before: when I’m hitched you can still come and visit whenever you want. Just call first to see if I’m here. She’s got me mesmerized with ‘activities.’ Next week we’re going to the Arts and Culture Centre for something or other.” He smiled happily. “Did you ever hear the like, the Arts and—? Oh. Uncle Tommy, how’re you doing, it’s Hughie. Good, good. Listen, I’ve got this big important lawyer here who’s so clever he appreciates a drop of black rum, and he wants . . .”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Driving to Uncle Tommy Squires’s house, I passed the home of my old girlfriend’s parents, or what used to be their house. Were they still there? She herself had moved to Vancouver years ago, generating another unholy row regarding the kids and their father. But the sight of the house brought on a feeling in me now, as it had not done any time I’d driven by it in the past twenty years, of ineffable sadness. I’d had some great times there with Ramona. Maybe my abrupt abandonment of her had brought out that nasty, mad side of her. Maybe if I had wed her, we would have had a marriage as marvellous as the two years that preceded my vision, and I wouldn’t be afflicted now by this—face it—unresolvable and ceaseless anxiety over Molly and Esme.

  I recognized as I passed the house the reasons behind my nostalgic sentiments: I was being faint-hearted in the face of this ghastly challenge presented by my two teenaged responsibilities, and that had spurred me into being egotistic enough to think that I, the wonderful and lovable me, could have altered a woman’s basic character.

  I dismissed all that and pulled into Tommy Squires’s driveway. He lived in a neat little local-style saltbox house that, as Hughie Tucker had described it, looked like a beautiful rough pearl in a box of tinsel and spangles, in among those big, modern, glitzy abodes that had taken over the shore.

  Hughie had told me that Tommy was well into his eighties and nearly blind, but acute of mind, and that his slightly younger sister, Melissa, lived with him. After our hellos she excused herself, “to let you men talk your important business,” and went out of the parlour, grinning, into the kitchen.

  Uncle Tommy started right in. He was a great-great—he didn’t know how many greats—nephew of the famous Tommy Picco. In fact, he was named after him. He supposed that I knew all about what young Tommy had done way back in October of 1873.

  I said I had a general knowledge of the adventure, and he said he’d better give me a brief summary, then, to make sure, before getting to the other stuff that was not well-known at all, hardly known by anyone, and he wouldn’t be telling me now—no offence—if Hughie Tucker hadn’t vouched for me.

  He started his narrative, and proceeded as if he was reading from a script. He’d recited this before. Twelve-year-old Tommy Picco from Portugal Cove was out on Conception Bay in a dory that fall with a couple of fishermen. Suddenly, at a distance, they saw a big heap of something floating on the water. One of them thought it might be wreckage of some sort, but no one really had any idea what it was as they rowed over to it. When they got close enough, one of the men poked at it with a gaff.

  Immediately, the massive heap came to life and loomed up out of the water. It was a huge, ugly monstrosity. It had enormous green eyes as big as dinner plates, which looked at the fishermen with a fury that terrified them. A big, hard, sharp beak protruded from the middle of its face, like a giant parrot’s beak, and two of its thick, long arms, which had suckers with teeth on them, wrapped themselves around the boat and started to pull it over and under.

  Young Tommy Picco moved fast. He grabbed a hand axe and chopped frantically at the tentacles that gripped the boat until he had severed them. All the while the wounds gushed blue blood, and the monster finally hurtled away under the water, spurting massive clouds of black ink. No one in the boat doubted that twelve-year-old Tommy had saved the lives of all on board.

  Meanwhile, the severed tentacles flopped down in the boat and were brought to shore. The larger one was eaten by dogs; the fishermen kept the smaller one. When it was stretched to its full length, it turned out to be nearly nineteen feet long. The men awarded the tentacle to Tommy for his courage and quick thinking.

  Tommy’s clergyman in Portugal Cove told him of the Reverend Moses Harvey in St. John’s, an eminent naturalist who had a worldwide reputation for examining strange creatures and monstrosities of the deep. He had made it known that he particularly wanted to obtain samples of the fearsome “devil fish,” the giant squid, which Tommy’s clergyman thought the tentacle might belong to.

  Driven by a desire to advance scientific knowledge, though some have suggested he might also have had thoughts of a reward in mind, young Tommy brought the tentacle into the city by wagon and delivered it to Dr. Harvey. The renowned naturalist was overjoyed and recompensed Tommy most suitably.

  Now, just in case anyone had become skeptical of the truth of Tommy Picco’s exploit, Tommy Squires said to me, there was a historically documented case from Logy Bay just a month later. Fishermen there found a whole giant squid dead in their nets, and they carried it in to Moses Harvey as well. A picture at the university in St. John’s showed the big squid draped over some sort of a crossbar, with its tentacles, many feet long, doubled over and hanging down into Dr. Harvey’s bath.

  Tommy’s sister, Melissa, called out from the kitchen: “It’s on the Internet, too. You can see it there plain as day. I can only imagine what his poor wife must’ve thought.”

  “So all of that is well-known,” said Uncle Tommy Squires. “But what I’m going to tell you now, sir, is hardly known to the public at large at all. It’s been a family secret for generations.”

  Melissa appeared in the doorway with a big grin on her face; I could tell she was trying not to laugh at her brother’s words. “Would you two like a cup of tea?” she asked.

  “Or something with a bit of a harder kick?” inquired Tommy, hopefully. I turned down both offers and urged him to go on.

  The success of the Logy Bay fishermen with their whole squid caused intense competition, he said. That same autumn young Tommy Picco and some friends caught two smaller squids in nets in Conception Bay, two juveniles they thought might be
giant squid youngsters—though, some said, they were more like octopuses—and put them still alive in a barrel of sea water. They loaded the barrel aboard their wagon to carry the creatures in to Professor Harvey. They drove by Twenty Mile Pond, right where the old Portugal Cove Road ran very close to the water, and there and then the squid, or whatever they were, started to flail about in the barrel most alarmingly. It was almost as if they could sense the closeness of the big pond even though it was fresh water.

  The boys tried to keep the barrel upright and struggled to keep the lid on, but in the commotion, the barrel fell off the cart and the two creatures slithered out, slunk across the few feet of beach rocks, and dived right into the pond. The boys were frightened to death and swore not to say a word to anyone about this accident because, only shortly before, the pond had become the new water supply for the city. They knew that the squids would not live long in fresh water and they were worried that the dead bodies would soon be discovered floating on the surface. Of course, everyone in Portugal Cove knew what they’d been up to, so Tommy Picco and the others were sure to get the blame for befouling the drinking water reservoir, when the corpses surfaced.

  They waited and waited, often going to Twenty Mile Pond to scan the waves and the shores for any signs, hoping that they could retrieve the bodies before anyone else saw them and skedaddle out of there. But no bodies ever appeared, and, save for some chosen family members of Tommy Picco’s who knew the truth, nothing was heard of the unfortunate mishap ever again. Except, perhaps, that some busybodies started trying to frighten everyone by spreading around rumours about something scary in the lake.

  “Can you remember any rumours, Mr. Squires?”