The Golden Witch of Mahone Bay

By Tim Povhe

A series of strange and ultimately prophetic dreams lead Eleanor Merryweather, an immortal witch, to a small, mysterious island in Nova Scotia waters. There, Eleanor finds clues that indicates her missing husband's expedition may have been sent to Oak Island to locate a long-lost mystical artifact... and possibly an intricately buried treasure of fabulous wealth. For the next seven decades, Eleanor attempts to unlock the secrets of Oak Island, some of which may lead back to her own troubled past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Povhe
• Release date: Oct 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301265169

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Prologue

October 19, 1576 - Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia

The Aztec warrior stood at the edge of the island’s south shore, staring out at the late afternoon sun glinting off of the blue-green water of the bay. Despite the serenity created by the light breeze from the south and the gentle lapping of waves against the shoreline, the Aztec could feel in his soul that things were about to change.

He had accompanied the ichtecqueh, the invading Spaniards to this island, far north of the land where he had been born, in order to preserve a dark secret. The Spaniards had come here to hide an immense treasure, the accumulated wealth that they had plundered from the remnants of the Aztec nation before transporting it to this small island, one of hundreds that dotted the waters along the northern coast.

Now, the object he had once desired was buried hundreds of feet below the surface of the island, along with the treasure and a secret that was almost too horrible to contemplate, even for a battle-hardened warrior like himself.

The enormity of it sat on him like an unbearable weight, a grim reminder of the atrocities that he had committed out of greed. Over the years, Cozcatl Quezanti had spilled his share of blood and witnessed all manner of human suffering. Yet, the secret that lay deep within the earth, sealed in a chamber that was cut into the bedrock, would haunt him for all his days.

Days that now would stretch into Eternity.

Quezanti walked along the shore until he came to the eastern tip of the island, where he could see the vessels that comprised the Spanish fleet at anchor not far out in the bay. The four ships under the command of Hector DeVarez, de Rapina, Buitre, Venganza and Fortuna, were preparing for the long voyage back across the ocean, where DeVarez would present his monarchs and sponsors with a small portion of the wealth the Conquistadors had looted from the Aztecs.

It was DeVarez’s intention that the Spanish Crown would never know the full extent of the vast riches that he and his men had secured in the underground vaults on this island. The treasure was well protected and could only be retrieved by DeVarez and his crew, with the Englishman’s knowledge and assistance. In the process of sacking Chiquetzelin, they had decided to keep their spoils amongst themselves and become very wealthy men at the expense of their benefactors.

A frown creased Quezanti’s weathered face as a breeze from the bay tossed his long, dark hair around his head in wild disarray. It is time, he decided, for me to take my leave of the Spanish and that amocualli-tlacatl DeVarez once we reach their homeland. The troubled Aztec knew that he had to get away from this place, but neither did he desire to remain in this unexplored, northern wilderness that surrounded the island.

Somehow, he knew that the answers he was looking for weren’t to be found here.

He would depart with the Spanish ichtecqueh and explore the other side of the world, seeking the answers to a number of questions that had begun to plague him, while trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and the ghosts he was leaving behind.

Ghosts that would continue to haunt him throughout the annals of time.

As a warrior, Quezanti had never put much stock into the belief of fell spirits and evil forces interacting with the world of men, despite the complex religious beliefs of his people. Cozcatl Quezanti believed in making his own fortune, much the same as Hector DeVarez, the man he had come to despise.

Yet, despite his practical view of the world, the warrior was convinced that there was something unsettling, something that was inherently wrong with this island. Even before the fleet had arrived twenty-two months ago and perpetrated their heinous acts upon the enslaved Aztecs, something unnatural had occurred on this tiny piece of land, long before their coming.

Quezanti could feel it.

That aside, there was the matter of the Englishman’s discovery. Cedric Farraday, the man responsible for the elaborate trap that guarded the treasure, a man who like himself had essentially sold his soul to the amocualli DeVarez. A man who over time had befriended Quezanti, despite their differences.

They were of two cultures, yet they found themselves bound together by their respective sins. Cedric was a brilliant man, grounded in science and not swayed by superstitious beliefs. Yet, Quezanti had been there the day that Cedric had ventured into the central part of the island just below the northern cove. Hours later, the Englishman returned to the Spanish camp, shaken by something that he had seen.

Something life-altering, that he refused to elaborate on.

Quezanti knew then that the island was cursed.

Cedric would not speak a word of what he had seen, yet had gone to extraordinary measures to secretly document his discovery. Then Fate had intervened, claiming both Cedric and his secret. And in the subsequent months, the nature of that secret, along with his own dark guilt, had haunted Quezanti’s thoughts.

What was it that the Englishman had seen?

The Aztec’s thoughts moved from the seemingly distant past to the far future. Before he had secured the infernal object deep underground, it had offered him a brief glimpse into the centuries to come. Somehow, in ways he could not comprehend, it had allowed him to see a crossroads in his life that was yet to happen, of a time and place that were not yet familiar to him. An intersection point, where his destiny and that of someone else would come together, seemingly bound by the cursed ground that he was now standing upon.

Her face was unknown to him, for the thoughts trapped in the talisman had revealed to him that she was yet unborn. Yet it was her fate to travel a similar path to his, a path that would one day bring the two of them together.

How those trapped minds could know this was far beyond his ability to understand. All he knew was that despite his initial desire to possess the talisman, once it had become his, he wished himself to be rid of it. Because of that wish, the infernal object now lay buried deep below the island’s surface. And still he could feel its power and hear the voices contained within.

Just as he could hear the voices of those who would never leave this place.

Cozcatl Quezanti could bear this place no longer. Despite his misgivings about his alliance with the Spanish and the amocualli-tlacatl they followed, he would depart with them shortly. He would leave his past behind him, likely never to return to this accursed speck of land.

The breeze shifted again and this time it was noticeably cooler. Quezanti stared up at the clouds that had begun to fill the sky, slowly obscuring the sun from view. It was as if the elements of Nature were reflecting his own dark mood, casting a pall on the world below.

A storm was coming.

CHAPTER ONE

January 19, 1795 - Oak Island, Mahone Bay

The early morning air was quiet and very nearly still as the small skiff made its approach to the island. The cold waters of the bay gently lapped against the sides of the narrow, three-man vessel, the only sounds that could be heard. Two men occupied either end of the small boat, steadily matching each other’s rhythm with their oars.

The third occupant sat hunched in the middle, bundled up in a heavy wool Navy peacoat, watching the island loom larger as the two men brought the skiff into the wide cove on the north side. A lone gull glided overhead, momentarily riding the slight breeze coming in from the bay, then flapped its wings to bank away from the island, heading east.

Moments later, the two men brought the skiff into the cove and made landfall. Crowder, the sailor sitting in front, leaned over and experimentally poked at the crust of ice they had run the skiff into. Satisfied after a couple of thunks that the ice near the shoreline was solid enough to support his weight, he carefully hopped out and pulled the bow up out of the water while Young, the sailor sitting in the aft section, balanced the small vessel with his ore. Seconds later he stood and climbed out to assist Crowder in hauling the boat ashore.

To the young woman who remained in the skiff, the island seemed eerily quiet.

After spending another moment securing their conveyance on the beach, Crowder reached out and assisted the young woman out and onto the shore. He nodded at her as she stood and gazed around at the island they had been searching for since arriving in Nova Scotia. Even with her husband’s map, it had taken several days for she and her crew to locate the correct one out of the hundreds that dotted the waters of Mahone Bay.

We’ve finally arrived, Ma’am, Crowder said in the same respectful tone that was ordinarily reserved for the captain or first mate. Despite being neither of these, the young woman actually outranked the captain in some regards, as the ship they had just rowed out from belonged to her in the first place.

Eleanor Eccleston turned from the view of the island’s interior to face Crowder and Young. She was about to reply to the young sailor when a sudden, sharp wailing pierced the still, cold air. Eleanor’s eyes widened in surprise, staring up as the sound echoed through the tree-tops. She walked a few tentative steps inland, away from the ice-covered shore, then paused.

Once again, the keening sound broke the morning air, slicing through the silence like the fine blade of a sword cleaving a deck-line. The young woman closed her eyes, listening to the cries echo in her mind. She concentrated and was able to discern that it was indeed many voices crying out as one.

Human voices, crying out in torment.

Not the sound of an animal, Eleanor thought as she opened her eyes and looked over at her two companions. From the looks on their faces, she could see that they had heard the cries as well, which meant that the cries were real and not just inside her head. The anguished sound was heard once more, then just as abruptly as they had begun, the voices ceased their wailing. The air was silent once more.

Eleanor folded her arms tightly across her chest, as if to ward off the chill she was now feeling. She knew that she had not imagined it, that what she had heard had been the cries of tormented souls, souls that were somehow bound to this place.

And she was fairly certain that she knew where on this island those cries most likely had originated from.

Did you hear that? she asked. It was a rhetorical question, as she was certain that the two young sailors had heard the very same thing she had. Slowly, both men nodded.

Was that some kind of animal? Young asked. Eleanor shook her head.

No, I don’t believe so.

I don’t like this, Ma’am, Crowder said. There’s a fell feeling to this place. He glanced over at Young, looking for support. The other sailor nodded in agreement.

I agree with Matt, Mrs. Eccleston, Young said. Perhaps the stories we heard while in Halifax are true. That there is a curse on some of these islands.

Like this one, Crowder added. Eleanor shook her head once more.

No, I don’t think this place is cursed, she said, removing one of her gloves to brush at a long strand of blond hair that persisted in falling over her right eye. She surveyed the line of trees that began several feet away from the shore, shrouding the heart of the island from view. Haunted perhaps, but not cursed. Those were souls crying out in torment.

Ghosts? Young asked.

More like tortured spirits, if you will. Souls that have somehow become trapped here, unable to leave. She turned to face the men. But that doesn’t mean that they intend us ill-harm. They may not even be aware of our presence here.

Can you be sure of that, Ma’am? Eleanor turned to face Crowder and shrugged in response.

Not with absolute certainty, no. Eleanor paused, looking around to get her bearings. Though the inside pocket of her coat contained a fairly detailed map of the island, she didn’t feel the need to pull it out to examine it. Over the last thirteen months, she had memorized every landmark, every detail, to the extent that she was fairly certain she could find the spot she was looking for.

But she needed to do it alone.

Adam, Matt, I appreciate your efforts to bring me over from the ship, Eleanor said. But now I need to strike out on my own. I believe what I’m looking for lies a few hundred yards west of here, on the other side of the island. Stay here in the cove and keep an eye on things while I’m gone. The two young sailors exchanged glances.

I’m not sure that’s a wise idea, Mrs. Eccleston, Young ventured. You goin’ off by yourself like that, I mean. Crowder nodded in agreement.

Adam’s right, Ma’am, he said. This is no place for a lady to be wandering around all alone. I don’t think the cap’n would be very pleased with the two of us if something ill befell you while you were here. A thin trace of a smile crossed Eleanor’s face. She had expected some resistance to her idea.

Although a fair percentage of the crew, including Young and Crowder, had been hand-picked by herself before leaving London, they were still a superstitious lot. The crew was also having a hard enough time trying to reconcile themselves with the notion of having a woman aboard ship, something that for decades, sailors had viewed as bad luck.

Especially a woman that many believed to be a witch.

Your concern is noted and appreciated, gentlemen, Eleanor responded. But I promise you I will be all right. There may be restless spirits here. There might not be. In either event, I don’t believe that I will be in harm’s way. I came here to learn if my husband’s ship was sent to this island to locate a specific artifact. She smiled as she gazed at their concerned faces.

And I intend to find out, ghosts or no ghosts. The two young sailors nodded.

Yes Ma’am.

Aye, aye, Mrs. Eccleston. Eleanor smiled at their reluctant acquiescence.

Don’t worry, she said with a jaunty air, pulling her glove back on. "If there’s any problem with the concept of me wandering around on my own, I’ll simply remind Captain Wyngate who owns the Evangeline." Crowder and Young again exchanged looks and shrugged.

In that case, good luck then, Ma’am, Crowder offered.

"Thank-you, Matt. I may have the ability to use magick, but I’ll take any luck I get as well." She glanced again towards the west, to where she could feel the... object that beckoned to her, that had lured her across the ocean in search of answers.

I don’t plan to be gone for very long, but if you boys get hungry before I return, please feel free to break out the provisions and eat. Don’t hold the table waiting for me.

CHAPTER TWO

As Eleanor walked southwest, heading into the woods, her thoughts became more focused on what lay ahead. Finally, after months of planning, speculation, endless questions and doubts about her sanity, Eleanor had finally arrived at a place where she felt she might find some answers.

Answers to questions that had plagued her for several decades.

In the year since she had begun dreaming about the warrior, Eleanor had become convinced that a psychic artifact of unusual power was responsible for her dreams and ultimately, for drawing her to Oak Island. Slowly, as the few clues she had unearthed began to fall into place, she realized that there was a reason for the siren call she felt and if she was right, the strange beckoning she felt was the key to solving two of the three biggest mysteries in her life.

Not the least of which was learning the fate of her husband, Thomas Eccleston and his crew.

As to the identity of the dark-haired stranger who had spoken to her in the dreams, Eleanor had no idea whatsoever. Dusky-skinned and tall, he had a mane of straight dark hair streaked with grey, and very dark eyes. And though he spoke in a language she couldn’t readily identify, in the dream she was able to understand his words.

The answer you seek lies below the surface.

The words echoed in her mind, their meaning no clearer to her now than they were when she had first heard them thirteen months ago. Taken literally, Eleanor assumed that the artifact that was beckoning to her across time and distance was buried, presumably on this island. How deep and whether she’d be able to recover it easily remained to be seen.

As for the nature of the artifact and what it might actually be... She had suspicions, feelings that had grown even stronger on the voyage across the Atlantic. And the closer she got once again to the Canadian Maritimes, she was convinced that not only was she close to finding an object that had been sought for centuries... It might also solve the mystery of her husband’s disappearance.

Absently, Eleanor rubbed the ring finger of her left hand with her thumb, as though a ring were still present there. It was a reflex action, one she knew she did from time to time without even really being aware that she was doing it. In reality, it had been a long time since her hand had borne a ring on that finger.

A very long time.

Several years before they had been married, Thomas had fashioned a ring for her from a fragment of unusual ore he had discovered on the northern coast of Scotland. The ore, which resembled pewter but was infinitely more durable, also seemed to exhibit magickal properties as well.

Eccleston created a signet design that was patterned after his own Masonic ring; simple but elegant, with Theban runes on both sides and crowned by an encircled pentagram on its flat surface. A neutral symbol, denoting neither good or evil, the five-pointed star within a circle represented unity, wholeness and infinity. To Eccleston, the ring was the personification of the serene young witch he was in love with.

And it had been Eleanor’s prized possession until it had been stolen by her envious younger sister.

Eleanor shook her head, trying to dispel the unsettling thoughts of a bygone time. Evangeline’s fate was unknown to her as well, having fled the British Isles for the New World after taking her sister’s ring. The only thing that Eleanor was certain of was that her sister had gone insane... And that Evangeline was no longer alive.

For Eleanor had felt the moment that her younger sister had drawn her last breath, trapped and terrified in some unknown location. In addition to searching for Thomas’ ship, Eleanor had used both her resources and her contacts within the British Admiralty in an attempt to locate her sister’s final resting place.

That too, had met with failure. But now, after several decades of living in a secluded section of Newfoundland, the youthful-looking witch hoped that she was on the path to finding answers.

An image of the mysterious stranger from her dreams briefly flashed through her mind as she continued her westward trek through the woods. Not only was Eleanor positive that she had never seen or met this man, he appeared to have been born in a different age entirely. Again, she was struck by the feeling that he was a warrior, either an Incan or Aztec. She wished that she had a wider familiarity with ancient languages other than Latin. She felt that his words, spoken in his native tongue, held the key to his identity.

The answer you seek lies below the surface.

Could it be true? Could this unknown talisman that called to her, that exuded a power unlike anything she had felt before, actually be the legendary artifact she and the other members of the Sisterhood of Skye had been searching for?

Was the Shard of Danann actually buried on Oak Island?

For the umpteenth time, Eleanor considered the possibilities and was convinced that she right. With every step closer to where the object was buried, she could feel its power and was convinced she was right. And she was now equally certain that this island and its secret was the reason that the Sect of Abiff had sent her husband’s ship on a return expedition to Nova Scotia, sixty-six years ago.

The Sect of Abiff. A secret organization of Freemasons working from inside the offices of the British Admiralty, the Sect had been funding expeditions to study certain esoteric mysteries found around the globe for decades. Like the pieces of an intricate puzzle, the Sect had been intent on locating artifacts with unusual or supernatural properties, amassing a collection of relics in their hidden vaults.

And it was the Sect’s Division Six that had sponsored Thomas Ecccleston’s two previous expeditions to the eastern shores of Canada, in search of the fabled lost city of Norumbega.

On his third and final voyage Thomas, along with a crew of thirty-one men aboard the refitted fifth-rate vessel HMS Surveyor, had vanished without a trace. Eleanor had spent decades and much of her own fortune in an attempt to locate him, or at the very least, learn of his fate. To that end, she had cultivated an ongoing rapport with various high-ranking officials within the Sect, which had eventually resulted in her obtaining a decommissioned Navy ship of her own, in order to continue her hunt.

Now, after long years of searching, she had finally come across a clue that had led her here, to this small, remote parcel of land, a mere four hundred feet from the mainland of Nova Scotia. Most ironic of all, the clue had been provided by her missing husband.

On the surface, there was nothing in particular about Oak Island that signified there was anything special about it. Like so many of Mahone Bay’s islands, it was a rugged, uninhabited rock sporting both flora and fauna, about one mile in length and less than half of that across.

Surveyed in 1762 by Charles Morris and divided into 32 lots, the 140 acre island was covered by a canopy of trees comprised of elm, birch, alder, and a variety of pines, along with the tall oaks for which it had been named. The island was also home to a variety of wildlife, including skunks, raccoons,