“Only about three accidents and an extra ten centimetres of snow!”
I sat up as the car skidded again. Wet snow built up on the wipers and the windshield with each passing swipe.
“Cedar Swamp School’s next on our tour,” Dad joked, trying to take our minds off the weather.
I groaned. He always had the same spiel whenever we came this way to Granddad’s.
“School Section Number 4, built in 1874, and the meeting place for the vigilantes who burned out the Donnellys.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes. Still, Dad’s history lesson did distract us from the storm.
“Today’s February 4, isn’t it?” Jennifer asked. “The anniversary of the Donnelly massacre?”
“You’re right, Jennifer,” Mom said. “You’ve heard this story before, haven’t you, Jason?”
“Yeah, Mom, a million times.”
I watched the blinding snowflakes hurtle toward us. The white wall of snow was hypnotizing me, so I was sure Dad was having a hard time keeping the car on the road.
“James Carroll, the constable from Lucan, led the vigilantes,” Dad said. “They met at the schoolhouse early in the morning of the fourth. Between complaints about the Donnellys and several passes of the liquor jug, they decided the Donnellys had to go.”
“But I’ve never understood why,” I said, needing to keep my mind off the storm.
Mom and Dad looked at each other in surprise. Dad even glanced in his rearview mirror to make sure it was me in the back seat. After a short pause, he launched into the story again. “Jealousy, I gather.”
“Jealousy?” Jennifer said. “I’ve never heard that before.”
Nor had I. I leaned over Mom’s seat to hear Dad better.
“The Irish,” Dad continued, “were all hard workers, hard drinkers, and hard fighters. The Donnellys seemed better at all three than most. They farmed; they worked in logging camps and railway lines; they operated stagecoaches. They prospered in very hard times.”
“But that doesn’t seem to be enough reason to murder them.” I was really awake now.
“It was a brutal life in Lucan in the mid-1800s,” he continued. “There were stories of farm thefts, livestock mutilations, fights, stagecoach feuds, and barn fires. Locals never forgave Jim Donnelly for the murder of Pat Farrell, even though he spent the seven years he was sentenced to in Kingston Penitentiary. While he was away, his wife, Johannah, raised their seven boys and daughter, Jennifer. The boys had to learn to take care of themselves and to look after their mother. They learned to work hard and defend themselves. Their reputations started early.”
“But, Dad,” Jennifer said, “that’s still not enough reason to murder them.”
“Tom!” Mom suddenly cried. “Look out!”
A flurry of blinding snow smothered the windshield as the car bucked a heavy snowdrift. I banged against Mom’s seat and lurched toward Jennifer, grabbing her before she slammed her head into Dad’s headrest. We both fell back against the bench seat.
“Thanks, Jason!” Jennifer whispered.
I grinned. “Watch it, Stilts!”
I knew she really hated that name, but this time I was using it to let her know we were still friends. She took the hint and smiled in return. Pushing myself closer to the window, I peered into the raging storm. Even though it was daytime, the sky shifted from light grey to a more ominous black.
“Jennifer,” I said, “look at those strange clouds!”
She leaned across my chest and stared at the flowing shapes. “They look like galloping horses.”
“Without heads,” Dad said. “Legend, rumour if you will, has it that you can see galloping headless horses in the night sky over the Roman Line every February 4.”
“Wow!” Jennifer and I said at the same time.
As I studied the ghostly clouds drifting across the bleak sky, one of the blackest shapes veered across the hood of the car and momentarily blocked Dad’s view of the road. As the vehicle bounced in the snowdrifts and spun in a full circle, the countryside flashed before our eyes and we hurtled helplessly across the road into the ditch on the opposite side. When the car hit the ditch, a wall of snow covered the back window. Dazed and confused, we all started to talk and move at once.
“Sit still!” Dad ordered. He seldom raised his voice, and when he did, he always got everyone’s attention. Slowly, he opened his door and stepped into a knee-deep drift. “We’re stuck!”
“Stuck! But, Tom —” Mom said, beginning to panic.
“Easy, Ellen,” Dad soothed. “We turned on the Roman Line about two kilometres back. My dad’s place isn’t far. See! There’s Rob Salts’s place, the old Donnelly Homestead. We’re nearly there.”
“What was that shadow?” Jennifer asked, shivering. She had moved from her rear seat.
Dad chuckled. “The Midnight Lady, I imagine.”
“Who?” I gasped.
“Thomas Kelley’s Midnight Lady. According to him, she rides every February 4 on the Roman Line, seeking revenge for the Donnellys.”
“Really?” I’d heard more stories about the Donnellys in one day than ever before in my life, even from Granddad.
“Let’s go, Jason!” Dad said. “We’ll walk to Granddad’s and get his tractor to pull us out. Ellen and Jennifer, you stay here.”
“But, Tom!” Mom protested.
“It’ll be better for you and Jennifer to wait in the car and keep warm,” Dad said. “We’ll be back in a jiffy. I promise.”
Dad and I began walking. Smooth, wind-sculpted snowbanks stretched everywhere I looked. Some tapered into the surrounding open spaces, while others filled the road’s width.
“Dad,” I said after we’d struggled about halfway to Granddad’s, “do you believe those stories you told me?”
“What stories?” he said as he laboured awkwardly through the snow.
I knew he had other things on his mind, but I wanted an answer. Besides, I figured talking about the Donnellys might help us keep our minds off the storm. “Those ghost stories about — never mind.”
Dad turned and faced me, blinking away some swirling snowflakes. “No, I don’t really believe in ghosts. I’ve heard those stories ever since I was your age. Most people around here don’t like to talk about the Donnellys at all. Those that do seem to add to the tales with each telling. Even Rob Salts doesn’t put too much faith in some of the stories he hears.”
“But I thought he was a trance clair ...”
“Clairvoyant,” Dad finished. “That’s right. He’s a professional and has studied the issues extensively. But at the same time he’s quite serious about the history of the Donnelly family and won’t accept anything but the facts. He offers a great tour of his farm. We should go someday this spring.”
Plodding headfirst into the storm, we nearly missed Granddad’s lane. The snow was piled almost as high as the posts marking his laneway. We climbed over the drifts on our hands and knees until we reached my grandparents’ back door. Dad pounded heavily — Granddad was slightly deaf and his eyesight was blurred. After about the fifth bang, we heard footsteps shuffling across the kitchen floor. A loud crash erupted, and Granddad muttered a curse. Soon the flowered lace curtains parted from the window on the back door.
“Who’s there?” Granddad demanded.
“Dad,