The Night Wanderer (10 page)

“Are you okay?” As he pulled the carpet from Tiffany, he stepped more directly into the light, revealing his features. Not bad-looking for a monster coming out of the dark. Native. Kinda looked like her Uncle David in a weird way. The adrenaline was still pumping through her veins, but she had managed to subdue the panic long enough to make several conclusions. This must be the man from Europe. But what was he doing in the basement?

“I said, Are you okay?” The stranger waited for an answer.

Fighting for her breath, she answered, “Yeah.”

“You must be Tiffany. My name is Pierre L'Errant. I am your guest. You will be delighted to know, you have your old room back. Upstairs. Your family has already moved your stuff. I'm told there's a note on the kitchen table for you explaining this.”

Another note. For a grandmother who only made it to grade six and a father who barely finished high school and never read much, there was an awful lot of note writing in their family.

She cleared her throat. “Uh yeah, sorry. You startled me. No, I just got in and was kind of tired and wanted to get to bed. I thought you were supposed to stay in my room.”

“I prefer the solitude of the basement.”

“You want to sleep in the basement? Do they do that a lot in Europe?”

He smiled. “I am not like most people. And it suits my needs.”

“Hey, I'm not complaining. Our basement is your basement. Go nuts. Have a ball, Mr. L'Errant.” It was amazing how a simple kiss can change your luck and turn your life around.

“Pierre, please.”

Now that she'd calmed down, she took him in. Kinda cute. Maybe not so much like Uncle David but still very Indian-looking. She wasn't expecting that. Thin, in a nice gray shirt. Black pants, probably why she didn't see him in the room. But he had an odd way of talking, like he didn't want to open his mouth too wide. She had seen some ventriloquists on television when she was young. He talked like them. But everybody had their own little oddities. It might be fun to have him around. Europe was always a place she had thought of visiting, once she got old enough to blow this reserve. Maybe he could tell her all the places she should go.

“So, how long you gonna be here?”

“Not long. I just have some things that need to be done.” He picked up the carpet strips and took them back to his room. As they talked, he held the pieces to the rafters and drove in the industrial staples with his thumb. In practically no time, he had the carpeted room back to its original form. Tiffany, at various times in her life, had helped her father with odd jobs around the house and knew how hard those staples were to drive into solid wood without the help of a staple gun. She was impressed.

“That's not easy to do.”

“It was necessary.”

“Do you work out or something?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “With my thumbs?”

“It's just . . . oh, never mind,” she said, laughing. “Anyway, sorry for the excitement. Didn't see the note. But no harm done. And sorry for interrupting you. It's late, so I'll head upstairs now. I'll see you in the morning.”

“I doubt it. I'm more of a night owl. I have a strange schedule, and I have informed your family not to expect me for meals. And Ms. Tiffany . . .”

“Yes?”

“I value my privacy. Especially during the day. I would appreciate it if you would value my privacy too.” The darkness she had noticed earlier had returned. It was like he was a shadow again.

“Mr. L'E . . . , I mean, Pierre. This basement is one of my least favorite places in the world. It's not like I need another reason not to come down here. Sleep as late as you want. Goodnight.” With a wave of her hand, she marched upstairs to her newly reclaimed bedroom. Today had a multitude of ups and downs, but at least it seemed to be settling on an up. She went into her room and decided she would rearrange everything tomorrow. Tiffany fell into bed, her head hitting the pillows with a soft whoosh. It was then she discovered the bump on the back of her head from hitting the furnace. Maybe, she thought wincing, she'd sleep on her stomach.

Downstairs, Pierre L'Errant surveyed his new home once more. The girl had barged in, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. The man moved again to the window. He reached out and stuck his fingers into the dirt. He could feel the leaves, the twigs, some gravel, and insects scurrying between his fingers. He squeezed the earth till it fell out of his fingers. This was the land he remembered.

With barely any effort, he gripped the sides of the window and once again pulled himself up and out. He had been scouting the area when he'd seen the girl approaching the house but had made it back in before she had managed to discover anything about him. He was lucky. The night could have ended entirely differently. There were items in his luggage that would be hard to explain. And, if the girl had disturbed him during the day . . . his options would have been limited and potentially dire for the family. Most animals survived through a form of camouflage or environmental invisibility. Pierre was no different. He had to blend in. His existence depended on it. Pierre L'Errant would have to be more careful.

Outside, he could see the cedars blowing gently in the wind. In the east, the moon was riding high above the horizon. In the bushes to his left he could hear a raccoon watching him. The dog, Midnight he believed he heard it being called, still cowered in its doghouse. He was home. It had all changed so much, but then again, so had he. Still, he hadn't changed so much that the essence of the very land he stood on couldn't call forth some buried and yet still-cherished memories.

A dozen generations or more before, in a long forgotten time, another young man had walked this land. His name was Owl, and like many
boys his age, the trees and water that surrounded his village no longer held any mystery for him. He knew he wanted more. He had climbed every hill around his village a dozen times, swam the lakes till his arms hurt, and ran the trails until there was no place else to go. Owl had seen everything he could see and that was not nearly enough.

Owl was young, brave, adventurous, and, most dangerous of all, curious. A bad combination in a changing land. He felt like a forest fire held captive in a campfire. Owl knew his village was small and the world was big, and that was not fair. He wanted to see where the sun was born every morning, and where it died every evening. He heard stories of strange people from strange lands. That was tantalizing. Perhaps there was more to this world than what he knew to exist. It beckoned to him.

“You dream too much,” his mother told him.

“How can you dream too much?” he would ask.

Then one day, totally by surprise, his world changed. And this revolution arrived on the shores of his village one spring day, in a 14-foot birchbark canoe. People with different values and understanding were coming for a visit, and in time, they would never leave. And those dreams Owl treasured so much would eventually become nightmares.

Somewhere in a faraway country, his destiny was waiting for him.

Pierre shook his head in a desperate attempt to wipe away the memories. The images and feelings they evoked made him feel like they happened only yesterday, but that yesterday was a very long time ago. He wasn't ready yet and there was a lot to do tonight. The man had returned to these forests of his youth for a specific reason. And there was still much to see and do before the commencement.

Like smoke in a breeze, the stranger disappeared into the night.

ELEVEN

A
CROSS THE OTTER Lake Reserve, the population continued silently and blissfully unaware as an unexpected visitor reintroduced himself to the land.

James Jack was sound asleep in his bed when something woke him. A loud thump on the roof. “Damn raccoons,” he said as he reached for his underwear. But as he woke up, it occurred to him that raccoons or squirrels don't go “thump.” They can go “scratch,” “scuttle,” or “claw” or “scurry” or even “gnaw,” but not make such a hefty thump. Maybe a branch fell or something, he thought as he put his track pants on. Next came his T-shirt as he hustled out his bedroom door and then outside.

Once he was standing out in the warm October air, looking at his roof, just for the briefest of seconds, he thought he saw the biggest damn squirrel he had ever seen. Almost six-foot-one, black, leaping off the other side of the house. James Jack, janitor at the local on-reserve school, was sure he didn't see that. Couldn't have seen that. It had been seven years since James had left drinking behind, but even then, at his worst, he'd never seen anything remotely like that. But to make sure, he found himself running around to the other side of his house.

There he saw . . . nothing. Just some fog swirling around, the odd dead leaf falling to the ground, and the deep impression of two feet in the wet ground. Like somebody had jumped from a great height and landed there. It was fresh too—water was just beginning to seep into the footprints. There were no other tracks. The nearest solid surface was a large rock a good twelve feet away—way too far for anybody to jump.

Puzzled, and a little alarmed, James looked around the edge of his property, half hoping not to see anything. He knew it couldn't be burglars because it was obvious from looking at his house that he had nothing worth stealing. He didn't see anything, but something was watching him. From deep in the bush, a hunter older than James, his house, and the mayonnaise at the back of his refrigerator all put together watched him closely. And hungrily. The hunter could feel James's pulse quicken, the sweat begin to pour out of the man, and he could smell the man's fear. And it felt good. It felt right. It felt . . . tasty.

Unbeknownst to James, his life was hanging in the balance. It was literally a fifty-fifty chance that he would not make it to his door, and would not live to see dawn. He would disappear like so many others had. Now certain he could feel eyes devouring him from somewhere, James started to trot toward his door as fast as his thin legs could take him. But it seemed painfully slow, like the nightmares of his childhood in which something was chasing him and his feet seemed encased in heavy mud.

For a second, the unseen hunter's fingers tightened on the tree branch in anticipation of a death leap, but instead, a promise made to itself made the fingers loosen. Though the need to feed burned deep inside himself, the man would not feed this night. His hunger would have to remain. Lucky for James.

His chest heaving, James Jack entered his house for the second time that night. For a moment he debated whether his long absence from alcohol needed to be re-examined. He double bolted the door behind him and backed his way into the kitchen. All the time he was unaware of a set of glowing red eyes watching him through the kitchen window. That is, until some instinct of self-preservation made him suddenly turn to the window, where he was sure he had caught some floating red dots out of the corner of his eye. But if they had truly been there, they were there no longer. They had vanished. And so had any chance James had of falling back to sleep tonight. The sunflowers he had planted the spring before waved back and forth in front of the window, as if disturbed.