Blood and Mirrors

Prologue

June 1978

Henry chased horror stories. A history major, he spent his summers away from Yale, tracking down the historical truth in what most people think is only fiction. A story is what brought Henry to the village of Brigus, Newfoundland. The small hamlet was isolated by cliff and ocean to one side, and weather-beaten terrain to the other. A virtually unknown place, Brigus was home to only a handful of families, generational inhabitants hardened by harsh winters, rough waters, and salt spray. Henry was advised by Maudie, the sturdy lady who'd rented him a room for the night, that the story he was after was best told by Brigus' storyteller-laureate, a fisherman named Ben. Ben, Maudie had directed, could be found every night on his well-worn seat in the local watering hole having dinner, and at least one drink, with the boys. He was a regular fixture in the pub and, by all accounts, Ben was the town's only real tourist attraction. Ben was known to entertain the occasional wanderlust tourist, which is what Henry had disguised himself as, giving them a souvenir in the form of a story to carry back with them to the mainland. Maudie told Henry to look for Ben's sign, he'd be sitting under it at some point.

Henry set off to the pub eager to hear the story. He stepped up onto the veranda of an old yellow house with a sign outside that identified it as "The Brigus Pub" and opened the squeaky screen door. The pub was really just the main floor of a house, configured with a small bar, and some mismatched tables and chairs. The few locals who were in, all looked up, then nodded at Henry in welcome. The walls had pictures of fish and rough-faced, rosy-cheeked men holding them, boats and seascapes. A big fish mounted on a board decorated the wall behind the bar. On the far right of the bar was an old stool, the rest of the stools were full, but this one, worn smooth on the top and with a slight depreciation in the wood that would allow for the fit of an arse seemed off limits. A sign hung above the stool, just a bit of wood with some fancy lettering done in marker saying: 'Here sits Ben who'll tell you May snow is good for sore eyes.' Henry had no idea what that sign meant, but he understood who's chair it was.

"Sit anywhere, love," a female voice called from a swing door leading to the kitchen, "I'll be right with ya."

Henry sat at the small table closet to the empty stool. The waitress kept her word and came out shortly to take his order and pour his drink.

Henry hitched his head in the direction of the handmade sign.

"What's it mean?" Henry asked her as she set down a glass filled with dark amber rum on ice. The smell of it burned at Henry's nose, he was usually more of a wine guy.

"That's Ben's seat. He'll be in shortly. If you feel like a story he's got the gift of the gab.Tell's a good yarn. Some say his stories are true mind ya, but, who knows anymore. Ah, here he is. Your ears must've been on fire there, Ben. Just talking about ya."

"Aye? Lizzie my love, good to know I'm always on your tongue," the man who entered said in a flirty tone to the waitress. "Now, get in there and fire me up a scoff. I'm starved."

"Go on with you, Ben," she said with a wink and a smile. She rolled her eyes, shook her head and retreated back into the kitchen.

Ben was a large man, both tall and round in the belly, with grey scruff more than a beard. His skin was worn and weathered and showed his years of working on the water. He wore a knit toque, even though it was a warm summer night and a long sleeve button down shirt, old and worn, but clean. His hands were large, thick and calloused. He nodded at Henry and smiled wide, though there weren't too many teeth left to show off, and took his seat. Turning to face him he pulled his booted legs up onto the rung on the bottom of the stool.