The Night Wanderer (22 page)

Pierre placed his cold finger in the steaming tea. He could feel the warmth spread through the rest of his fingers. “I've lived in several countries. All over the continent, in fact. I . . . my family found it better to keep moving around. A lot. I've lived in practically every country in Europe, come to think of it. From Russia to Portugal. From Ireland to Romania.”

“Ever been to that Monaco place, where Princess Grace used to live?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes. A few times actually.”

“How about Italy? I've seen beautiful pictures of it.” Granny Ruth had always harbored a secret desire to see that country. The food, the history, and the scenery captivated her.

Just to the left of the house, a skunk sniffed the air, trying to figure out what aroma was flowing on the wind. Skunks were not very familiar with tea. “I once spent sixty years there.”

It took a moment before Pierre's words sunk into Granny Ruth's consciousness. “What did you just say?”

“I said I once spent six years there. When I was young . . . younger.” He then spouted off several sentences in Italian, telling her what a charming woman she was and thanking her for the tea.

“That sounds so pretty. People of your generation are so lucky. I don't think I've ever been more than two hours from this very spot, and you've been to all those wonderful places in your few years.” As she talked and sipped her tea, Pierre slowly poured his through the seams of the deck, as quietly as possible. To his sensitive hearing it sounded like Niagara Falls, but Granny Ruth didn't seem to notice. “How old are you, by the way?” she asked.

For a moment, to Granny Ruth, Pierre seemed lost in thought. But only for a few seconds. “Almost twenty-three, the last time it mattered.”

“So young, and so much to see still.”

Once more, Pierre seemed a thousand miles away. This time he spoke slower and there was an odd depth to his voice. “Perhaps. And what do you do when you've seen it all?”

The old woman smiled. “I don't think that's possible, young man.” There was no smile in Pierre's voice. “All things are possible. Sometimes, you don't want to see anymore. Sometimes, you've seen enough. Sometimes, you just want to sleep.” He caught her looking at him. “Metaphorically, of course.”

“So serious, a young man like you. Never say stuff like that to an old woman, it just might come true. There are still a few things I have yet to see in this big world. I ain't going anywhere quite so soon.” She found herself wagging her finger at him.

Pierre couldn't help but smile at the woman's feistiness. “Good for you.”

Her point made, Granny Ruth heaved her sizable bulk out of her chair, gathering up her empty cup. “Ah, what do you know, you're not even a third of the way through your life. I've got underwear older than you.”

“If you say so.” They were quiet for the moment, both lost in their thoughts on this cool fall night.

Granny Ruth finally broke the silence. “Tell me, Pierre, your European grandparents ever told you about the wendigo?”

In the semi-darkness of the patio, she could see him nod. “What did they tell you?”

“Demons. Or monsters. Cannibals whose souls are lost. They eat and eat, anything and everything. And everybody. They never get satisfied. In fact, the more they eat, the bigger they get, and the bigger their appetite becomes. It's a never-ending circle. They become giant, ravenous monsters marauding across the countryside, laying waste to it. They come in winter time, from the north.”

“That's one story. Another says they were once humans who, during winter when food was scarce, had resorted to cannibalism. By eating the flesh of humans, they condemned themselves to aimless wandering, trying to feed a hunger that will not be satisfied.” Lost in the story, her mind back to the time when her own grandmother would tell her these tales, Granny Ruth unconsciously slipped into Anishinabe, but Pierre scarcely noticed. He was listening too intently.

“Some say the only way to kill one is to burn them in a fire, to melt their frozen heart. Only then will they be destroyed and free.”

Again, silence descended on the patio. This time, Pierre broke it. “Why are you telling me this now?” he asked in English.

Instantly this brought Granny Ruth back to the patio, to the tea, to now. “I don't know. You seem to be doing quite a bit of wandering yourself. I kinda get the hint there's something in you that's not satisfied. Am I a crazy old woman, or am I a clever old woman?” She gave Pierre a look that was teasing, yet at the same time inquisitive.

“L'Errant is French for the Wanderer,” was all he said.

“Imagine that,” was Granny Ruth's response. “I want some more tea. How's your cup doing?”

“I am quite fine. Thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” She opened the screen door and had one foot through before stopping. Without turning around, she said, “Pierre, I expect you will be off tonight, doing your wandering.”

“Quite probably.”

“If you happen to run across my granddaughter . . .”

“I'll know what to do.” A lone and already missing girl, wandering the dark and dangerous woods . . . it was almost as if the Fates were taunting him. Under normal circumstances, he would have taken advantage of the situation. Or simply walked away in search of less obvious prey. But these were not normal circumstances. Also, the smell of the old woman, so tantalizingly close, was near to driving him to distraction. Granny Ruth was far older than most of the people that would generally have caught his attention, but the thirst in his throat, the aching in his belly, made him aware of the almost-thundering beat of her heart. The sound flooded his sensitive ears. It was all he could do to gently put down the cup.

“Thank you.” Granny Ruth finished crossing through the doorway into the living room. She turned around to close the screen door. “I'm sorry this has . . .” But there was no reason for her to finish her sentence, for the deck was now deserted, except for an empty cup on the arm of a wooden chair, and stray scattered beams of moonlight dancing on the wood. Though her ears were old, she could still hear surprisingly well. The dried leaves and dead underbrush that surrounded their house told her nothing of any travelers.

“Must have been in a hurry,” she said aloud. Not for the first time, she thought how unusual their houseguest was. He sure could move through the bush very good. Like one of those old-fashioned Indians from long ago.

TWENTY-TWO

T
IFFANY WAS COLD, hungry, miserable, and a few other adjectives that, given the chance, she would have gladly shared with somebody. Anybody. Instead, she huddled there, continuing to cry and sniffle, in the long-deserted treehouse she had retreated to. Way back in the woods, she'd always gone there when she felt the need. It had been built some dozen years or so earlier by male cousins who lost interest in it after discovering the infinite delight offered by girls. Adolescence does that.

She had discovered it once when chasing after Benojee, several years back. Still sturdy and livable, it didn't take her long to sweep out all the dead leaves, insects, and spiderwebs that had accumulated in it. It became her special place when she needed a retreat. Like today. The structure itself was located about fifteen feet up, in the crook of an ancient cedar tree, right next to a sizable apple tree. Depending on the time of year, she could stay there and have a snack without even leaving the safety of the treehouse. Unfortunately, this fall was not one of those times of year. Her growling stomach was her only companion.

During the day she had managed to grab a few hours of sleep in between trying to figure out what to do with her life. Hard enough at the best of times, doubly hard when you're freezing and hungry. Here she was, Tiffany Hunter, motherless (well, technically not, though she might as well be), failing in school, a screwed-up relationship with her father, boyfriendless (if that was a legitimate word), and now a runaway. It was around this time people usually said, “Well, at least things can't get any worse” and then they promptly did. So she refrained from saying that to herself.

Tiffany had spent all her waking hours trying to find a way out of her current situation. As usual, she'd come up with several options. She could always go back and apologize . . . no, that was not really an option. Her father would hold it over her head till the day he died. And then probably have it inscribed on his tombstone. Or hers. Scratch that one.

She could keep running and running until she found a place to settle down. That, too, wasn't a good option for a number of reasons: first of all, she had once toyed with the idea of going to Hawaii. There, even homeless people could have nice year-round tans. But Hawaii was a very long walk from Otter Lake and, eventually, once she hit the West Coast, a bit of a swim too. Plus a sixteen-year-old runaway Native girl with no money, no friends, no support, only the clothes she had on her back . . . she'd heard real-life horror stories that started like that on the news.

What else was there? Too young to join the army. Too normal to become some crazy woman living in the forest with dozens of squirrels to keep her company. Too addicted to hot showers to be a hobo. She could always get a job somewhere, doing something that didn't require a particularly strong knowledge of history or algebra. But what could she do? Tiffany hated doing dishes and cooking in her own home, so a career in the restaurant business would be impossible.

And of course, there was her threat. That she actually said it surprised even her.
Suicide
. . . the word itself sounded scary. Scary but seductive the way it slid off the tongue. Several years ago, Lynn Grass took her own life. Tiffany had known her, went to school with her, and occasionally sat with her at the ball games, and she always seemed so happy. Until she used her father's hunting rifle. There were all kinds of questions and committees and other stuff like that trying to find out why. In the end, nobody every really figured it out. She came from a good, intact family, school was no problem, and she was popular. Now, whenever anybody mentioned her name, it was usually followed with a sad and puzzled sigh.

Lynn had everything to live for, or so it seemed. And then there was Tiffany, who at the moment didn't. She knew all the stats about Native youth suicide, there were posters all over the community center, and there were pamphlets given out at school and at the medical clinic. But in the end, they were all just words on a page. Nothing to do with real life. Words on paper meant nothing compared to pain in your heart.

Tiffany didn't want to die, but there wasn't really a lot that living had to offer. And being dead couldn't be any worse than how she felt right now. In fact, it would be peaceful. And it would have to be warmer than she felt now. There was no way she could feel colder.

The more she dwelled on her situation, the more depressed she became. And the darker it became outside. In all her life, she'd never taken the time really to appreciate the total and complete darkness that came with nightfall in the forest. From the safety of her well-lit house, it looked plenty dark outside anyway. But about to spend what may be her first night of many nights in the treehouse, it wasn't just dark, it was really black. Even the moon could offer little assistance this deep in the woods. It was as dark as Tiffany felt. On most nights, Tiffany would never admit to being scared of being alone in the dark. That was for kids. But tonight, however, her self-confidence was fading, and she longed for any light—a flashlight, even a pack of matches.

Thwack.

It came from outside. Some sharp, loud noise that immediately stiffened Tiffany's body. Her nails dug into the dry wood as she vainly attempted to press her back farther into the questionable safety of the makeshift wall. The noise, possibly a stick breaking, possibly a weathered apple finally giving in to gravity and falling to the ground, or the spine of some animal being broken by another animal, made her body tense and her pulse increase.

Tiffany's legs continued to push her against the one windowless wall, hoping to get as far away from any potential evil that might decide to enter the premises via the windows or small doorway. There was only one problem. She had neglected to inspect the weathered planks of wood holding the tree house together. In short, the nails embedded in the wooden planks were rusted and weak. Add to that Tiffany's increasing weight, and there was only one possible result.

“
What the
. . . !”

Suddenly the planks on the north side gave way under the pressure of Tiffany's legs and she almost fell backward from the tree-house into the bush below. Luckily, only two planks came loose near the bottom, allowing her shoulders to get wedged between the more solid strips of wood on either side. Her heart pounding, Tiffany freed herself awkwardly from the loose boards, scratching her wrist badly in the maneuver, and crawled to a corner of the tree-house. There, wedged into the wall joint, she tried to calm her heartbeat and her breathing.

Great, now there's another way into the treehouse, she thought. Maybe I should have let myself fall. Down into the darkness to whatever made that noise.

To make things worse, her stomach ached, reminding her that her bottomless pit was even more bottomless than the one outside. All she'd had the whole day was a pack of gum she'd found in her pocket. Hardly filling. And unfortunately it was sugar-free too. If it was possible to be more miserable, she couldn't imagine it.

Add to that the audio ambience of the forest, the blowing of the wind, the calls, scratching, and scurrying of all the various animals that chose to live in Otter Lake—the forest was a surprisingly noisy community. Little of this soothed her. She just continued to huddle down, lamenting her situation, cornered by her imagination. And there was still that noise that came from outside . . .

About an hour later, through her self-obsessed consciousness, she heard a twig or stick break outside, near the bottom of the tree. At first, she thought nothing of it because it was smaller then the original
thwack
. Besides, twigs or sticks break all the time out here. It was a forest, after all. The whole area was made of twigs and sticks, and logic dictated that there would be plenty of random twig- or stick-snapping. There was absolutely no chance there was a sick pervert waiting for her at the bottom of the tree, slowly making his way up the planks of wood nailed to the side that provided easy access to the treehouse . . . Absolutely not, she tried to tell herself. But once more, there was that spasm-inducing, terror-creating
thwack
that almost killed her. Tiffany was pretty sure sick pervert types were well known for making big
thwack
noises. What other kind of noise could they make?