The Night Wanderer (19 page)

Weakening, he began to slow down. The blur became more recognizable, until finally Pierre came to a stop and leaned against an aging pine tree, trying to recover his breath. Half of the tree was dead, filled with termite holes and displaying evidence of decades of massive woodpecker attacks. At best it had only a few more winters left in it before gravity became stronger than its roots. One time that pine tree had been young, just like he had. Now they had both seen too much and lived through too many years.

Maybe he had known that tree when he was young. Perhaps as a child he had tripped over it in play, or maybe shot an arrow into its side as he struggled to become a warrior. It was unimportant. The past was the past. Pierre had long ago given up the notion of changing the past, for it was a harsh mistress, and it would change for no one. Only the present and the future were his to mold.

Owl was lonely. He sat in his room, as he had done for days and weeks and months, in this far-off land called France. The journey across the vast water they called an ocean had been long, and he had been made sick by the motion of the ship. And the journey to this hollow stone mountain called a “palace” had also been long and arduous. The food, the clothes, the land, everything about this place was different. And Owl had long ago become tired of different.

He wanted to go home. He missed his family. His missed the beautiful nights, the laughter of his people, the village he had once thought of as boring. Over here, much like in Montreal, even the air smelled funny. But the young man had no way of getting home. It was much too far to walk, let alone swim. So here he sat, in this room for long stretches of time, until he was beckoned by their king to wander out among these strange people. They wanted him to talk Anishinabe, sing some of their sacred songs, and prance around like some animal. They were a strange people, these French.

Owl thought of his parents, his sister, and all his friends and relatives, wondering if he would ever see them again. Slowly, little by little, the young boy was beginning to hate white people. Hating what they had done to him. Why they had left him in this strange place? Why wouldn't they let him return home? He wished there was some way to get back at them.

The only bright light in his now-dismal life was a girl. He had seen her frequently from across the courtyard, and occasionally she brought him his food. She appeared to be about his age, but had light brown hair and striking green eyes. The different-colored eyes of these white people never failed to amaze the young man.

The longer Pierre stayed on his ancestral land, the more memories came flooding back. But first things first, he had to find the place to hold the ceremony. He had come home with very specific needs and plans. This was his second night here and he had allowed himself the luxury of reveling in his past, but that time was over. It was now time to move on. Once more he scaled a tall tree, making it to the top in less time it would have taken a squirrel. From atop the huge oak, he surveyed the surrounding area. Much had changed, but the Earth had a longer memory than man or the trees. It changed more reluctantly. To the north he saw what he had hoped to see, a large hill rising high above the treed canopy. It was a drumlin, an ancient tear-shaped reminder of long-past glaciers, lying a ways inland from the lake. At least the years had not changed that.

If the drumlin remained as his memory pictured it, there would be a flat stone high up on the far side, facing east. He had once prayed to the sun and Great Spirit there an eternity ago, on his vision quest. On that day he had a vision and became a man. The stone would do for what he had in mind. He knew it was no longer used for such activities, but he hoped its sacredness would still be valued by the local people. He would see. He could make it to that stony prominence in no time.

Smiling, he jumped lightly from the top of the oak and landed on the naturally carpeted forest floor with barely a sound.

TWENTY

T
IFFANY MADE IT HOME just past midnight. The house looked dark and she had been sure her father would be waiting out front with an ax or something. Luckily, her imagination was more dangerous than reality. She hoped her father had not found out about her little nocturnal exit at all, but she couldn't be sure. Quietly circling around to the back of the house, she leaned the stepladder against the wall just below her window. Before climbing up, she looped a clothesline rope she kept hidden for just such an emergency through one rung in the ladder, then through a railing near the back door, and then up into her bedroom.

Once inside her room, she gently knocked over the stepladder, and pulled on the rope that dragged the stepladder along the ground toward the back door. When it was close enough, she let go of one of the loops and pulled on the other end, making the rope disappear completely into her room, removing all evidence of her departure and reappearance. Her friend Darla had taught her that little trick. Not exactly James Bond stuff, but effective.

Tired, angry, and generally upset, Tiffany took her jacket off, mulling over what to do. She knew tomorrow there was still her progress report to deal with, which she'd been putting off for more than a week. And there was no Tony. All in all, she had a pretty bleak Sunday ahead of her.

Exhausted, she fell back on her bed, a dull thump acknowledging her arrival. She lay there for a moment, briefly wondering if her mother had stayed, how things would be different today. Would she be failing at school? Would her relationship with her father be so awful? Would Tony still have dumped her? Would she have started going out with Tony in the first place? Hard to say. It was one of those questions best left to philosophers and science-fiction writers.

It was then she noticed her bedroom door was open. Tiffany was sure she had closed it before she left the house. Not much point in sneaking out if your door is wide open and all the world can see that you've snuck out. She got up to close it and saw, stuck to the door, another note. Instantly her stomach jumped up into her throat and all hopes of ever growing old evaporated. In the last couple days she had come to the realization that no good could come from any notes left in this house.

She read it by the light of her clock radio.

Tomorrow morning, I want to talk with you.

Dad.

Nine seemingly innocent words, dripping with forewarning and danger. Tiffany knew sleep would not come easily tonight. And to think her last meal, traditional for a condemned prisoner, had been french fries, which, come to think of it, she never even got to eat. Life did truly and completely suck.

A while later, unable to sleep, Tiffany did something she thought she'd never do. Buried in a small pink box under her bed were some letters that she had sworn she would never look at again. She never even wanted to acknowledge their existence, but these were desperate times and she felt they called for desperate action. Slowly, just as the moon was making its journey to the far horizon, she pulled out a letter.

It was the last piece of correspondence from her mother. It had arrived about five months ago. Most of the world revolved around email, but Tiffany's mother, of a different generation and a different technology, still preferred to communicate the old-fashioned way. When it had arrived, Tiffany had crumpled the letter into a ball and thrown it in the garbage. Then she had retrieved it and put it in her little pink box. At the bottom of that letter was a phone number. An Alberta phone number.

The phone rang several times before somebody picked it up.

“Hello?” came the puzzled, annoyed, and definitely sleepy voice. Though Edmonton was two hours behind, it was still late by her mother's standards.

“Mom?”

There was a pause, then a female voice instantly awake. “Tiffany? Tiffany, is that you? Oh my baby, I've been hoping you would call me. I've missed you so much.” The words came pouring out like a flood. “It must be almost one in the morning there . . . is something wrong? How's your grandmother? Is she okay?” No mention of Dad.

“Mom, I miss you.” Tiffany curled up on her bed, hugging her pillow. She fought back tears.

“I miss you too, baby. I'm so glad you called. What's wrong?”

“Mom . . . I . . . a lot! I just broke up with my boyfriend. I'm losing my friends. Dad's mad at me. School is bad. I hate it!”

“You had a boyfriend? What was his name?”

Sniffling, Tiffany rolled over to get more comfortable on her bed. “Tony. But he dumped me because . . . something about Julia and his father not wanting to pay taxes and bracelets . . . Dad hates me and—”

“Your father doesn't hate you.”

“Yes he does. You don't know him anymore. Ever since you left . . .” Tiffany couldn't continue.

“I'm sorry, honey,” was all Claudia could find to say.

“Why did you have to leave, Mom? Everything was fine and then you left with that white guy! You shouldn't have done that.” All the emotion of the evening's events were pouring out of her.

“Tiffany, things were not all right. Your father and I weren't talking anymore. I was a roommate more than a wife. And—” Then, in the background, Tiffany could hear a man's voice mumbling something, and Claudia responding in a hushed tone. “Tiffany, you're upset. This is not the time to be talking about this. Can we—”

“Mom, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm just upset. Um, can I come out there?” A couple of hours ago Tiffany would never have conceived of asking such a thing. But reality has a nasty way of changing one's priorities.

Another pause, then a more hesitant voice responded. “Honey, I really want to see you too. But I have to tell you something first.” There was another pause. “Tiffany, I'm going to have a baby. But I don't want you to think . . .”

That was all Tiffany heard. Hurt, anger, upset, and a half-dozen other emotions made her slam the phone down. Then she disconnected it, severing all potential lines of communication. Her mother was pregnant . . . with another man's baby. A little half brother or sister. She knew she had lost her mother a long time ago, but now, as far as she was concerned, dirt had finally been thrown on the grave. Her mother had started a new life, in another city, with another man, soon another child.

Alone in her room, she cried herself to sleep. The world was a terrible place, with terrible people in it. And there was nothing she could do about it.

The morning came way too early for Tiffany's comfort. And true to her expectations, she did not have a restful night. Every squeak, every groan of the house, every thump of the furnace made her imagine her father walking to her room, ready to wreak severe yelling of a paternal nature. But after her late-night phone call, she didn't care much anymore. That would take concern and effort, things she was dangerously low in.

Sundays, like Saturdays, were meant for sleeping in. Somehow it felt morally wrong to be awake, wide awake, at eight o'clock. Whatever her father had in mind, Tiffany hoped her grandmother would be a calming influence.