The Devil’s Axe
I’d like to share a story tonight; that Charlie Finlayson, an old hunting guide I met a couple years ago told to me. We both camped on a lake not far from here, along with his hunting party. We were talking about finding old artifacts from the bygone era of forestry and the fur trade. When I told him about this here axe head, and that I’d picked it up from out of a lake near an old HBC post, Charlie gave me a warning: never to fit a handle to this, and never to curse while swinging an axe.
Years ago these forests rang with the sound of axe blades felling Red and White Pine. The first white men here to take up the axe for timber harvests were Norwegians, Swedes, and mostly Finns. But as the appetite changed from hand piled short cuts to 16 ‘ logs in the late 1930’s, the call went out to men who could both fell trees and drive horse teams, to skid them down to the rivers. Most of these crews came from Quebec farms, and one of these men was known by the name of Alphonse.
Alphonse grew up in a little valley in the hinterlands of Quebec, where along with his brother Theophile, they worked their parents’ small farm in summer, and worked in the bush camps all winter. Come springtime the two brothers would return once more to their valley home. Alphonse was the older of the two, and stronger of body, but weaker of mind. They were tremendous friends as well as brothers, and were inseparable. One summer however, everything changed. Theophile was called into town to see the parish priest, where he was rewarded for his good Catholic devotion with a calling to the Mother Church. Theophile would enter the seminary. Papa and maman were immensely proud of their son, and spared no one their outpourings of joy, including Alphonse. After some time, even the loving brother Alphonse grew weary of hearing “Theophile this”, and “Theophile that “. His workload on the farm also grew, without his younger brother to share the toil. But working in the lumber camps was no escape either, for word of his brother Theophile even reached him there. After a time, hearing his brother’s very name was enough to sting his pride and raise his anger. One late afternoon, as he was cutting trees, he grew tired and frustrated. Alphonse was behind in his quota, and try as he might; he could not work hard or long enough to catch up. It was then he started to curse. First he cursed the trees, then he cursed his boss, and then he cursed his camp. Finally Alphonse began cursing God above, and with every swing of the axe, he heaped shame upon the Lord’s name. Exhausted and spent, the woodcutter collapsed against a stump, and pleaded aloud for an answer to his troubles. He became aware of a shadow standing amongst the firs, and soon the shadow stepped out to reveal a well dressed gentleman; wearing a fine fur coat, and a luxurious beaver hat. The fine gentleman asked “Alphonse, why are you so sad?” Alphonse shared his misery with the kindly stranger, and felt better for it. The well-spoken gentleman said “Alphonse, I can help you with all your problems, for you see I’m a business man, and can grant you all you desire, for a small fee.” In a matter of moments, Alphonse had agreed to sell his soul for the mighty sum of endless strength and stamina, just so long as he cursed God as he swung his axe. When he hesitated on this bargain, Lucifer added, “ If you curse with all your strength, the one whom you hold most dear, you’ll defeat all mortal challenges. My small recompense, shall be your soul, at a time of my choosing.” As Alphonse stretched out his hand in agreement, he carelessly nicked his wrist on the axe blade next to him. Swiftly the Devil scooped up the stained snow, and melted into the shadows, softly laughing.
After three long years, it became too much for Alphonse to bear; summers spent toiling on the farm, winters wasted hewing timber and skidding logs, and all the while hounded by the news of his saintly brother Theophile. . One late afternoon, after the last log had been sledded to the frozen river, he collected his pay and slipped out of the forest. Alphonse never set foot in the valley again. But, he didn’t disappear altogether.
When word had reached Quebec that there was a need for boucherons who could both cut timber and drive teams in the forests north of Superior, Alphonse answered the call. He quickly found work, and soon made a name for himself as the finest lumberjack ever to come from the east. One day however, another burly woodcutter named Sigurd challenged Alphonse to a friendly competition; single bit axes only, and the winner would be proclaimed the best, from Lakes Nipigon to Superior. A site was chosen in front of the local HBC post, not far from here, and bets were laid. The two combatants quickly set to work, chopping madly while the camp cheered them on. But, as Alphonse swung away, he saw the other keeping pace with him. It was then he remembered his secret pact, and so Alphonse began to curse. Alphonse spared no holy name in his madness, and soon heaped dreadful scorn on whomever, and whatever all others hold sacred. Incredible strength and stamina swept through Alphonse, but so too did anger and fury. He was mere moments from victory, when looking across at his challenger; he glimpsed a small crucifix around the man’s neck. Images of his meek and loving brother sprang to mind, and in a final anguished roar Alphonse spat out a curse on his brother’s name “Theophile!”
CRACK!!
When the acrid smell of sulphur and smoke cleared, only a shattered axe remained where Alphonse once stood. Stunned faces stared at the scene, and an unholy silence stilled the air. The camp exchanged knowing looks, muttered some prayers, and hastily tossed the scorched and pitted axe head into the lake. No one dared speak of the danged boucheron Alphonse, or his sweet brother Theophile. And from that day forward, all aged and rusted axes found in lakes of this region, are considered unlucky, and never to be refitted; and never, never, must a curse be uttered while swinging an axe.