It was 1804 and Thomas Conway’s life was governed by the seasons — there was a different job for every month.

Though he was a young man, he had earned a reputation among his neighbours in St. Bride’s as a hard worker. He had to be, if he hoped to provide for his growing family. His wife, Emily, was pregnant and he was determined his child would want for nothing. So Thomas fished, planted, cut firewood and hunted as the seasons allowed.

Of all his duties, hunting was his favourite. It didn’t seem like work at all. He was a good shot and fox, partridge and caribou were plentiful. Rarely did he emerge from the woods without furs and fresh meat.

A Winter’s Journey

It was a beautiful winter day in St. Bride’s — the sky was blue and the snow crunched cleanly underfoot. Thomas would have liked nothing better than to spend the day in the woods. It was perfect weather for cutting and hauling firewood but today he had other plans — he was going to deliver winter provisions to his father in Point Lance, some 20 kilometres away.

Thomas readied his pony and sled, threw his gun over his shoulder, and set out.

Fresh, unblemished snow covered the trail. Thomas wondered how long it had been since anyone had passed this way — maybe a while. Winter was not the time for a long, cross-country journey if it could be avoided; there were too many hazards and the weather was too unforgiving.

Lost in thought, Thomas rounded a bend.

There, barely a stone’s throw away, in a clearing on the edge of the road was an impressive caribou — a black stag.

He’d almost missed it.

The Black Stag

The pony halted immediately, flattening her ears.

Instinctively Thomas reached for his gun. This was too good an opportunity to miss — a chance for fresh meat in the dead of winter was never to be squandered. He raised the gun and took aim. With the stag so close, he couldn’t miss.

He fired.

The sound of the shot reverberated through trees but nothing happened. He was sure he’d struck the stag but the animal just stood there — uninjured and unconcerned. He couldn’t believe it; not since he was a boy had he missed such an easy shot.

Fortunately, the animal hadn’t bolted.

Thomas hastily reloaded his gun and shot again. Once more he was sure he’d hit it, but all evidence was to the contrary.

It hardly made sense; if nothing else, the stag should have been spooked but it didn’t appear the least bit concerned.

The darkly beautiful animal remained in the clearing.

So, for the third time, Thomas loaded the gun. He took two slow strides toward the stag, carefully aimed and fired.

He could not have missed.

As he lowered the gun, Thomas kept his eyes on the animal. He waited for it to stumble, to fall to the snow. Instead, the stag slowly turned its head and gazed toward him.

It had a look in it’s eye like Thomas had never seen. He couldn’t explain it. It was as if the animal see through him. The hair stood up on Thomas’ neck.

The shadows seemed to spill from the forest, Darkness surged like a wave across the white of the snow. Everything vanished; everything but the stag and its horrible eyes.

The only sound was the pounding of his heart.

He needed to leave. He had to put as much space between himself and the clearing as possible.

Not wanting to provoke the stag, Thomas backed carefully toward the sled. As soon as the reigns were in his hands the pony took off, as if she too were eager to leave this place.

Faster and faster she galloped, they soared down the snowy road until the houses of Point Lance came into view.

Bad Powder

As Thomas pulled up outside his father’s house a group of men — mostly friends from Point Lance — came to greet him. As they helped unload the sled Thomas told them of the stag, how close he was to it, and how it seemed immune to his shots.

He didn’t even try to explain how he felt when the stag looked at him; he knew he could never find the words.

Still the men could see he was troubled. They tried to lighten his mood. They teased him about his marksmanship; they said maybe his hunting days were past him.

His father, trusting his son’s aim, said the gunpowder must’ve gone damp.

He might be right, thought Thomas, the story didn’t make much sense.

Still, his father hadn’t seen the look in the stag’s eyes.

Short Days & Long Nights

Winter days are short in Newfoundland and the nights are long and dark. If Thomas hoped to travel home in daylight he had no time to linger in Point Lance — the sun was already low in the sky.

The pony trotted along the road to St. Bride’s easily enough, perhaps not as fast as usual but that was understandable — she’d had little time to rest from her run earlier in the day.

By the time they approached the clearing — the place where he’d seen the stag — it was dark.

He could feel his apprehension growing. It was as if he were being watched, as if from every gap in the trees there might be eyes looking at him.

His heart was racing.

He wanted to get back to St. Bride’s as fast as possible. He wanted to fly past the clearing but, the pony seemed to be losing steam. He urged her forward but it was useless —she came to a stop.

The clearing was dead ahead.

Through the darkness, he couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead.

The pony tossed her head back. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared. She stomped at the snow under foot. Again he urged her forward but she wouldn’t budge.

Thomas reached for his gun and powder horn.

Then it happened.

Back in St. Bride’s

It was long after dark and there was still no sign of Thomas.

Emily peered from the kitchen window, hoping for some sign of her husband. It wasn’t like Thomas to be so late.

She checked the supper she’d been warming on the stove when, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of some motion. It was the pony. The animal was running straight for the house — it came to a stop right outside the door.

She through the door open. The animal looked exhausted. It’s harness was broken and the sled was missing. Worst of all, there was no sign of Thomas.

At dawn the people of St. Bride’s began a search. They followed the road toward Point Lance until they came to a clearing. There, on the road, they found Thomas dead.

His body had fallen across the sled. The contents of his powder horn were spilled across his face. The snow around the sled was undisturbed and there was no sign of a struggle. Thomas’ seemed completely uninjured.

What, exactly happened to Thomas, was a mystery.

As word of his death travelled, the men of Point Lance remember the tale of the black stag Thomas had told and how apprehensive he seemed about the animal.

Had Thomas had fretted so badly over the stag that he’d frightened himself to death? But, if that were true, what caused the pony to brake free of its harness?

Maybe it had been no ordinary stag?

No one could say.

More Tragedy & Mystery

A short time later Emily gave birth to a healthy baby boy. She named him Thomas, in memory of his father.

Emily, like many in St. Bride’s, placed great faith in the church. She wanted to have her son properly christened as soon as possible.

In those days there were few clergy stationed along the coast. If she was going to have him blessed by a priest, she was going to have to take him from town.

As soon as little Thomas was old enough to travel, Emily bundled him up for the journey. She was accompanied by Thomas’ brother and a man who was boarding with them for the winter.

The ground was still snow-covered but they made good time crossing the country. They found the priest and little Thomas was christened.

It was the last time any of them were seen alive.

The body of Emily and the baby were found on the road, not far from the clearing where Thomas had died. The baby was still cradled in Emily’s arms, tucked deep into her chest as if she were protecting it. The bodies of the men were found a short distance away.

All were warmly-dressed and there were no marks on their bodies.

The only clue was their footprints in the snow.

It looked as though the travellers had been walking then suddenly began to run, scattering in all directions.

Whatever had caused them to run left no trace in the snow, but those who had heard Thomas’ story felt sure the black stag of St. Bride’s had been there.

And, for all anyone knows, it may be there still in the forests along Placentia Bay.

Story Notes

The Black Stag is one of the classic ‘ghost’ stories of Newfoundland and Labrador. The oldest version I’m aware of appeared in the Newfoundland Quarterly in December 1910 and is credited to James McGrath of Cuslett.

In the preamble to the tale the Newfoundland Quarterly notes, “Mr. McGrath has heard this story so often that he believes it, as do many other residents of the Cape Shore.”

In the 114 years since Mr. McGrath shared the tale, it has been told again and again. In my re-telling I stayed pretty faithful to the core ‘facts’ of Mr. McGrath’s version but I allowed myself to have fun too, and imagine what it might be like to encounter a spectral caribou on a dark snowy road.

I think It’s an experience I’d like to keep strictly imaginary!