The Mark of the Dowser

A week after Tom Ferguson got killed in a freak accident at the Town Lanes bowling alley that he owned, Rick Petrie got a visit from Birdie Robbins. Robbins was a thug and he did jobs for Ferguson now and then. The type of jobs most people didn’t want to do, or had done to them. Petrie pretty well ran the alleys for Ferguson and had nothing to do with his horse racing and moonshine businesses. Petrie was an honest guy, who knew how to stay clear of Ferguson’s bad moods and sneaky business deals. He had shut the doors to the Lanes after Ferguson died and figured someone would come looking for the keys someday soon. He was surprised when it was Robbins.

“Lazy Rick, it’s been a while,” said Robbins. Petrie didn’t even want to let him in the house but Robbins just muscled his way in. “The old lady home, Rick?”

“Shopping,” said Petrie never one to be too verbal. Especially around the likes of Ferguson and his pals like Robbins.

“Spot of tea Rick. You can make a pot of tea can’t you now.”

“What do you want Birdie?”

“Is that anyway to treat a visitor.”

“Not an uninvited one.”

“Let’s sit,” said Robbins pulling out one of Petrie’s old wooden kitchen chairs. “You closed down the alleys. Anyone been around asking yet?”

“Looks like that’s you.”

“Just me?”

“Yep.”

“Shame about Tom.”

“Shame, yeah,” said Petrie not revealing any remorse. Tom Ferguson was an awful character. He only worked for him because work was hard to find. He was far removed from wanting to be a coal miner like most of the other men in town. Ferguson had given him the moniker ‘Lazy’ though he wasn’t, but couldn’t shake it either.

“You don’t seem too upset about it Rick. Him being your boss and all. Dying like that.”

“The missus will be home soon Birdie. Say what you want.”

“Since you ask so nicely I suppose I will.”

“All ears.”

“Tom was into it with the Clancey’s a number of years ago. You know about that.”

“Just heard him mention it once or twice,” said Rick wondering where it was going. The social visit was wearing thin.

“There was a thing between them about the moonshine. When the Clancey’s were muscling in on the business. Tom never liked competition.”

“Tom never liked much of anything, except money.”

“That’s right. He never liked those guys. And they didn’t like him.”

“Yes, and?”

“Well, I’m getting to that Ricky. Seems Tom had made a giant batch of moonshine a number of years ago, bragged it was the best he ever made. He wouldn’t sell it either. Word was Tom was going to cause some trouble for the Clancey’s, dry up the market, then spring this high proof silvershine on all the good old boys. Make a giant killing on it all at once. That was the story.”

“Never heard it Birdie.”

“Not many did. But somehow word of this got out to the Clancey’s. One of Tom’s men must have told one of them, and they let the cops know. Imagine that.”

“Tom lost it all?”

“Of course not. He pays the cops, well, a few cops. They warned him. When they got to the warehouse at the Track where he had it all hid, it was gone. Not a bloody drop. Cops were plenty pissed. Wasted a trip out to the race track and then hoping to keep a few bottles for themselves, before smashing the rest of them.”

“Typical Tom move.”

“Yeah. That’s right. Then me and the fellows went out and burned the Clancey’s still down. Justice for the rats.”

“They’re still in the business,” Petrie said trying to piece together the reason for Robbins’ visit.

“They are. Didn’t even seem to care we burnt down that old still of theirs. Next question.”

“I don’t have any questions.”

“Sure you do. Aren’t you wondering what happened to all that silvershine Tom had hid away.”

“Whoa now Birdie! I don’t have any silvershine of Tom’s. No way.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Robbins. “Tom buried it. And he left it there. And the story is he decided he would leave it there, dig it all up some other time, when he needed the money. But you know what happened.”

“He never dug it up,” Petrie replied. “It’s still there, somewhere.”

“That’s right. He put it in this giant fallow potato field. Buried it a couple of feet deep.”

“How do you know all this anyway.”

“Tom had an acquaintance. Seems he was a partner in the bowling alley, the horses, all kinds of stuff.”

“Who was that?”

“That you do not need nor want to know,” Robbins said with a worried look on his face.

“What do I have to do with this.”

“You don’t have anything to do with Rick. It’s your wife I need, not you.”

*********

Rick Petrie waited until evening to tell his wife, Shannon, what had happened. Her fiery red hair glowed with annoyance. It took a while to convince her, but she knew what kind of person Tom Ferguson was and how he had mistreated her husband over the years. Now it was as if he had come back from the grave to push him around one more time. God knows what trouble could come to her husband if he refused what Robbins wanted of her. There was simply no telling with these people.

“I have to cut an alder branch tonight then,” said Shannon.

“Why not tomorrow when we go out there?”

“Because, that’s how it works for me Rick. You know that. I have my ways. Let’s go down the path right now for God’s sakes.”

Rick took his pocket knife and he and his wife walked down the little path that led from their house to the nearby brook. Alder bushes grew plentiful back there and it took no time for Shannon to find the one she wanted. He cut it for her, she held it in both hands walked around a bit and said it would do. Rick stripped it of its bark as they walked back to the house.

“Set it right there,” Shannon said pointing to corner in the kitchen. “I’m going to bed.”

Rick didn’t know if that was in invitation to join her or a warning to stay away. He knew she was upset. He also knew she was worried about Birdie Robbins. Her only reaction to when he told her earlier who had come around was to say, she’d heard of him. Hearing of someone was a code women used to say when the person in question was no good. And in this case had to be dealt with. The next day.

Robbins had told Petrie where to meet him in the morning. It was about a half hour drive out into the countryside, down a long lane and then up a short driveway mainly grown in by bushes. Once you were in, a huge field on the order of a few acres popped up as if out of nowhere. It was bounded on all sides by a mixture of spruce and hardwood trees, mainly poplars and birch with a smattering of maples. Robbins had said it had once been a potato field but Ferguson had acquired it from a reluctant farmer years ago. For a while he kept a couple of horses on it. The fencing had all but disappeared and the field was covered by a mixture of tall grasses.

“This is it?,” Shannon said as they pulled up their old car. “Shit, it’s a big enough field Rick.”

“Yep, and there’s Robbins by his truck.”

“Okay, let’s get this over then.”

“Good to see you Shannon,” Robbins said as he snuffed a cigarette butt out on the ground with his boot. “I see you brought your magic wand with you.”

“You want me to find this stuff, don’t make any jokes,” Shannon said.

“Touchy.”

“I don’t care who you are, or who you work for Mr. Robbins, but if you don’t shut up and keep any negative thoughts out of your head this will all be a waste of time.”

“Look Mrs. Petrie. I understand. It was my idea actually. My mother could do this. I seen it plenty of times myself. So, I’m a believer. But the thing is we are going to find this moonshine, there will be no doubt, got it. It’s here somewhere.”

Shannon swept her arm around the vast grass filled field. “It may take all day.”

“We have all the time in the world, don’t we Rick,” Robbins said.

“Let her get started then.”

Shannon Petrie held the two ends of the Y-shaped alder branch at her sides with the one foot long main branch outward. She held the branch with her palms downwards. It had dried out nicely over night and she felt it was more than adequate for the job at hand. Considering they were looking for a specific cache of liquid she felt it best to start at the near end of the field and begin to walk in a zigzag fashion. The silvershine could be buried anywhere in the field so she may as well be systematic in her approach. The stick would tell her when they were upon their desired object, not point or drag her to it. If it was here she would locate it, she was sure of that. Then the men could dig it up and they’d get to go home. Somewhere she would rather be.

“You two wait her,” she said and set off.

“She’s been at this a long time eh,” said Robbins.

“For years. Her mom had the gift too. Handed down through the women in the family.”

“Her old man, no?”

“He couldn’t find a pouch of tobacco if it was in his shirt pocket.”

“You ever give it a whirl.”

“Not my area.”

“My mother could do it,” said Robbins.

“Not you.”

“That’s why your Missus is here.”

“Aha, lucky for us,” Petrie said.

“I heard there was this couple in Mabou. Both could divine. The rod would pop up crazy for him and dip to the ground for her. Happened all the time, just like that.”

“Circus act,” said Petrie. “You sure this is the right place. And all this booze hidden here?”

“I told you yesterday. I was told.”

“By this unnamed man.”

“You know Rick. I thought I made it clear. You don’t need to know anymore than what I tell you. We find the booze, dig it up and maybe I even give you a few bucks to forget about it all. Buy your wife some gloves for the winter.”

“Sure Birdie,” said Petrie not sure of himself at all. “Here she comes.”

Shannon Petrie didn’t look happy as she made her way back to the two men. He legs were scratched up from the weeds and thorny plants mixed in with the tall grass.

“Give me a smoke, one of you,” she said.

Robbins lit one up and handed it to her. “Any luck?”

“Not so much as a tiny dip.”

“It’s a big field,” said Robbins.

“I know. I just wanted a smoke.”

Rick Petrie knew that Shannon wanting a smoke while divining was not a good thing. She never did that. To locate water or a missing object took concentrated focus. It involved a lot of will. Stopping in the middle was not part of the process. But it was what Shannon did when she was frustrated with something. It allowed her time to think. Whatever she was thinking wasn’t what Birdie Robbins would want to know.

It was three hours later when she had gone over the field twice in two different directions. She even held the divining rod palms up and gave it a go. She had Rick cut her a new branch from a pin cherry tree. But nothing happened. Robbins was growing frustrated. He kept looking at his watch as if expecting something. The day that was sunny at first grew dark. Large clouds passed in front of the sun and seemed to linger there. Rick paced around the field pulling out the odd grass and chewing on it. The day became unrelentingly long.

Robbins insisted Shannon go over the field again. He kept saying the bottles were there because he was told they were and they would find them no matter what. Damn that Tom Ferguson and his crazy schemes. And now he had this other man with a claim on all Tom’s businesses. Right of the blue. Damn.

"I’ve had enough Mr. Robbins,” Shannon said as she slowly wandered back to the truck where her husband and his new pal were smoking. She tossed the pin cherry branch to the ground. “There’s no use.”

“No go,” said Petrie more to himself than his wife.

“You are supposed to be the best dowser for miles around,” said Robbins angrily. “People say you find water in minutes, you know the depth, even if it’s drinkable. ‘She found my pocket watch in the sand at the beach.’ ‘She found my eyeglasses lost in a field covered with manure.’

“Some god damn diviner you are.”

“Screw you,” Shannon said as Robbins grew angrier waving his arms around until he heard a voice behind him and the handle of a cane catch his arm.

“There’s no need of that, is there, my little Birdie,” said the stocky cane-carrying man. Robbins swung around to face the person who he hoped would not show up until they found the silvershine.

“Oh Jeez. I guess not,” Robbins stammered.

“Step aside will you,” said the man. “May I introduce myself to you Mr. and Mrs. Petrie.”

“Where did you come from?” said Rick.

“I was just out for a stroll. Parked my car down the end of the lane there a bit. Nice place out here. Lovely piece of land. Tom Ferguson left it to me. After he died that is. Awful accident in the bowling I heard. You were there correct?”

“I, ah, was, yes. Awful.”

“Squished by a three hundred pound pinsetting machine falling on him, imagine.”

“But you were saying who you are,” said Rick nervously.

“Yes, you know us,” said Shannon. “Who are you?”

“My name is Boyce. I asked my man Birdie here to try and locate something for me. Something quite valuable. You were helping, but?”

“I can divine my way to China Mr. Boyce, but there are no bottles of silvershine buried here. Mr. Ferguson must have steered you wrong.”

“Could I see your hand,” said Boyce. Shannon hesitated about letting the man who just wandering out of the air touch her but he seemed to have an aura about him. She could feel something and wasn’t sure if it was good or bad, it was just there. Strangely it seemed like the pull her divining rod would make. Her husband looked over and shrugged his shoulders in tacit agreement.

“You have the mark of the dowser,” said Boyce while holding her hand. With a fingertip he gently traced a crease line in her palm from where the index finger joined straight across the palm down to the middle of the wrist. Shannon looked puzzled. “You never even knew did you?”

“Never thought about it,” she said looking more closely at her hand. It tingled where he had touched her leaving a faint, warm feeling.

“It runs in the family,” said Boyce smiling. “Let’s do a little experiment. Now I trust Mr. Robbins saying that you can do this. Yet something seems amiss. Why not just divine a nice pool of water for now.”

“That will be easy,” Shannon said. “Give me that branch Rick.”

Within minutes of Shannon Petrie walking around concentrating on water and not moonshine alcohol, her alder branch began to twist, burning her hands, and then took a dive that almost dropped her to her knees. She would tell her husband that evening it was the strongest pull she ever felt. The power of attraction was tremendous.

“Jesus,” said Robbins. “Will you look at that. Maybe you want to dig a well here.”

“Get the shovels,” said Boyce. “See what you find.” It took ten minutes for Petrie and Robbins to hit the box. It was half the size of a coffin. When they pulled it up and cracked it open there were at least a hundred bottles of Cape Breton silvershine packed amongst what looked like old hay and degraded newspapers.

“This doesn’t make sense,” said Shannon.

“Would the water witch like the first drink,” said Boyce.

“I’ll pass.”

“Open one Mr. Robbins,” said Boyce. “Take a swig.”

The bottles were corked. It took a minute to pull it loose. Robbins sniffed it, looked puzzled and took a drink. He spat it out. “It’s water.”

“No wonder I found it,” said Shannon looking hard at Boyce. “But alcohol can’t turn to water.”

“No it can’t, can it,” said Boyce. “The bastard.”

“Who,” said Petrie. “Not us.”

Boyce looked ready to explode, then he took a deep breath and exhaled. “Smash them all Robbins.”

Rick and Shannon stood still and smoked as Birdie Robbins took out a fake bottle of silvershine and broke it on the ground. Boyce wandered off twirling his stick like Charlie Chaplain did. He was whistling a tune as his past relationship with Tom Ferguson came in focus. Then he faded off in the distance.

“Bastard?” said Shannon.

“Tom did this,” Rick said. “From beyond the grave.”

“Just like him,” said Robbins. “Tell Boyce you hid the shine for a rainy day. Then sell it to the Clancey’s. Keep all the money for yourself. Fake all this feuding stuff. No wonder they never really cared much about us burning down their still. They had a 100 bottles of Ferguson’s stashed somewhere.”

“I want to go home,” said Shannon.

“Nobody rips off Fred Boyce,” said Robbins as the last bottle smashed to the ground. Rick Petrie shook his head and tossed his butt to the ground. “Except a dead man.”

THE END

BIO: Paul MacDougall is a writer, playwright and newspaper and radio columnist from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. He writes fiction and non-fiction and has had ten plays of his staged in Cape Breton. He is the author of ‘Distinction Earned, Cape Breton Boxing Legends, 1946-1970.’

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