"Yes, Direxa. Of good Puritan stock, I added."
She spoke no agreement this time and told me to consult her if I had
questions.
"Direxa, she's long dead!"
"I know, she still talks to me," Meg whispered turning to walk away.
In a typical fashion, I thought of the lore concerning the supernatural
adolescent reading had brought me--the Superstition mountains of
Arizona, dream time and the Darling range in Australia's north, the
Snowmen, the Wendigo tales of the Coast Salish Indians. These, it
seemed, were not more exotic than the home spun tales of my province's
eastern townships, Lennox and Addington. Those two ghostly minutemen
drilling in the marshes of the Ontario Coomb, Canada's answer to the
Fens district of East Anglica. Strange, much as my presence here
volunteering information to a woman who freely talked in lurid details
concerning poor Humboldt's death but not of cars that visited these
roads at night, clairvoyance, poltergeists or spells that bound her to
a second home.