The Mad Trapper’sGhost

From the Nicholas Flamel’s HumanitySeries

Some people might be disturbed by this story – so be warned. Othersmight see what I’m really trying to say. ‘Humanity has a bright futureahead that we can find only after we look critically and honestly at ourpast and present mistakes.’

The Mad Trapper’s Ghost – Part OneByRussell Twyce

The snow blew in small white tornados that buffeted his stalled car. The outside temperature was not so low that he would in immanentdanger of freezing to death, but his job prospects in this devastatedeconomy were now an icicle that wouldn’t soon melt. The very last of his money had gone into his gas tank to drive him out to the work site– that was wasted cash now.“Why me?’ Donald asked the blizzard. “What have I ever donewrong?”None of his actions had merited the hard times he had descended into. The global economic situation dictated and the population sufferedaccordingly.“Now what?” He observed the small drifts already starting to build upon his car. If the snow kept up as it was now, the whole vehicle mightbe buried in a few hours.“Now,” a voice spoke from the passenger seat, “we can go to myplace.”“What the hell!” Donald swiveled to his right in shock, and hisastonishment then magnified exponentially at the sight of a fur-cladman seated suddenly beside him.“I’ve been to Hell quite a few times,” the solid-seeming ghost saidmatter-of-factly, “and I don’t find it nearly as bad as some folks makepurgatory out to be. But this is one Hell of a winter storm out here. Sowhy don’t we relocate to my cabin?”“Will I find my car again?”“What does it matter even if a truck hits it under a pile of snow?” Thetrapper said as he exited the car. “The motor is as dead as you will beif you continue to sit in it.”

Fall

[Company Address]

“Who are you?” The stranded and unemployed motorist asked as hetrudged along in the ethereal woodsman’s footsteps.“I suppose that you could call me Albert Johnson.” The mad trapperoffered over his shoulder, and the words seemed to swirl the snow witha chill wind from Hell. “I’ve had a number of names over the manyyears.”‘Albert Johnson?’ Donald wracked his brain for how he knew thatname. It was familiar but the mental snows of time and events haddrifted over the snippet. The small log cabin was snug and well chinked against the ragingblizzard outside.After brushing the snow from his clothing, Albert had busied himself infixing two mugs of steaming cocoa. The confused guest had strippedoff his outer clothes and taken a seat next to the hearth.“The only ‘Albert Johnson’ I knew of,” Donald said after his first sip of the soothing beverage, “was also known as the ‘Mad Trapper of RatRiver’. He killed one RCMP officer in the high Canadian Arctic,wounded another policeman and then was shot after leading the copsand trackers on an exciting manhunt. But that was way back in the1930’s.”“It was 1931.”“If that was you,” Donald said in mocking disbelief, ‘then you were shot9 times and your grave is in Aklavic in the Canadian Northwest Territory.”“That was neither the first time I was dead, nor the last.” The unusualtrapper lifted his shirt to point at several bullet scars. “This one finallyfinished Albert Johnson.” He appeared to be of about 30 years old:that was about the age of his bemused guest. “I was born in 1330 andmy name was Nicholas Flamel.”“You were purported to have discovered the Philosopher’s Stone.”“Apparently,” the man smiled ironically, “those rumors are accurate.”“You don’t sound like you’re French.”“An accent tends to fade after a couple of hundred years.” The onetime scrivener and alchemist joked. “But we’re not here to recount mylife or rather, my many lives. I’m with you to discuss your fate.”