It started innocently enough. My eighty year old mother-in-law wanted to find some of her relatives. That they were dead and residing appropriately enough in a cemetery didn’t dampen her enthusiasm for the quest in the least.

You would think locating dead relatives would be a fairly easy task, considering that their mobility is somewhat restricted.

We rummaged through several cemeteries on the finger of land that separates Trinity and Conception Bays in Newfoundland, without digging up the hint of even a second cousin four times removed.

Eventually we found ourselves in an old decrepit graveyard that had been abandoned by all except for the permanent residents and one got the feeling had they been more mobile they would have left the premises too.

After searching in vain in that bedraggled weed patch masquerading as a cemetery, we called a halt to our search.

Before we left, I sat down on a comfortable soft mound on the ground to retie my shoe lace while my wife started to wander back to the car and my mother-in-law inspected one last decaying tombstone.

At some point in the tying of my lace I noticed that my white shorts had turned black. That’s strange, I thought. I then noticed the black was migrating up onto my shirt. I slowly realized the black on my shorts were ants and the soft comfortable mound I was sitting on was an ant hill.

As my wife and mother-in-law looked on in amazement I flailed away at the ants while divesting myself of my clothes, save for my sneakers and socks.

So there I was, wearing not much more than ants and a look of panic dancing and jumping around the tombstones while at the same time slapping my hands at the army of ants who were making themselves at home on my various body parts.

In the middle of my gyrations an old man materialized. “Are you going to paint your face?” he asked me.

“Paint what?” I managed to shout while rolling about the ground.

“I saw a fellow on TV the other night-on a program about the Amazon. Except for the shoes and socks he was dressed like you, only he had his face painted. He was dancing and jumping around just like you too.”

I managed to mumble through the leaves that had gotten into my mouth while I was rolling on the ground, that I was indeed not an Amazonian, nor was I going to paint my face or anything else.

“Does he belong to you two?” he asked my wife and mother-in-law who were slowly edging their way to the car.

They denied any knowledge of me while moving more quickly to the car.

“You belong around here?” he asked.

“No.” I replied, while doing a pirouette that would have made Nureyev green with envy.

“Where you from then?” he asked.

“Random Island.” I replied, while slapping at my arse.

“You sound like you’re from some place else,” he probed.

“Well, originally I’m from Toronto.” I replied, doing a jig and evicting ants from my belly button.

The old man paused for a second or two and then said, “Well that probably explains it then.

Minus most of the ants and wearing most of my clothes, I joined my wife and mother-in-law in the car where they ignored me as best they could. My mother-in-law said pointedly, “I didn’t see anything.” My wife assured her that she hadn’t missed much.

Unfortunately I still felt as if I were crawling with ants.

This feeling persisted and intensified so much that I pleaded with my wife to stop the car at the nearest secluded pond so that I could dive in and wash away the feeling of ants crawling on my body.

When we finally found such a pond I was so beside myself that I vaulted out of the car before it came to a complete stop, stripped off my clothes and dove into the water.

Immediate relief!

After a few minutes of diving under water and splashing about I looked up toward the shore and saw a dog with a cocked rear leg doing his best to raise the level of the pond. Beside the dog was a man.

“You’re in my drinking water.” he said.

I looked at the dog that was still hard at work and then back to the man and said, “What?”

“That water you’re splashing about in is what I make my tea with,” replied the man.

He also informed me that the majority of the town council would take a dim view of a naked man splashing about in the town water supply.

The dog, who apparently was a kindred spirit to me, didn’t seem to mind my presence in the water. He was now blissfully sitting in the water having a luxurious bath. Perhaps he, too, had had an encounter with crawly things that day.

Not wanting to do a disservice to the man’s tea, I stood up to make my way out of the water.

Upon doing so I heard shouts behind me. I turned around and saw a group of female hikers.

I sank back down into the water and looked around for help from my wife and mother-in-law.

They, however, were in the car driving away.

The man asked me, “You belong around here?”

“No,” I replied, sinking deeper into the water.

“Where you from then?”

“Random Island,” I said, going into even deeper water.

“You sound like you’re from away.”

“Well originally I’m from Toronto” I mumbled as I moved out into even deeper water.

While he pondered over my answer I sank under the water, the last shreds of my dignity floating to the surface in my air bubbles.

Before I went under I heard him say, “Well that probably explains it then,” and I saw the group of female hikers nodding in agreement.

© Mike Cook 2006