The Night Wanderer (8 page)

He opened the door to what had been Tiffany's room, proudly showing it to Pierre. “This is where you'll be staying. I hope it's okay. The bathroom is just down . . .”

Barely listening to Keith's descriptive map of the house, Pierre's eyes scanned the room. There was a dresser with a small television on top of it. To the right of that was a bed that seemed more fit for a young girl than a grown man. Right beside him, on the left, was a closet with five bare hangers. But most of all he noted the large window over the bed, with thin sheer curtains, tied open. He walked to the window and touched the curtains, scanning what little sky was visible through the trees. He was facing south. Through the curtain, the moon was shining into his face.

“No. This won't do, I'm afraid. It seems I neglected to tell you of a rather important provision. I'm rather rabid about my privacy. It's a peculiarity of mine. Open windows make me uncomfortable.”

Keith and Granny Ruth looked at each other, puzzled.

“I don't quite understand,” said Keith.

There was a concerned expression on the mysterious man's face. “There will be too much light in this room come the morning. I have certain medical difficulties that require an unusual lifestyle. I need four walls. No windows. Is it possible to make other arrangements?” He paused.

Keith scratched his head in thought. “Okay, then. Well, let's see. Four walls. No windows. Complete privacy. That sounds like—”

“—the basement.” Granny Ruth finished his sentence.

L'Errant smiled slightly. He had unnaturally white teeth. “The basement. That would be perfect. I am quite willing to offer a bonus for the inconvenience. It was all my fault for being unclear.”

Keith wasn't sure he was quite following this conversation. “Let me get this straight, you want to pay extra to live in our basement? It's not the most comfortable place in the world. Kinda damp. It's not finished. And lots of spiders, I'm told.”

“I've slept in far worse places, Mr. Hunter.”

“Keith.”

“Keith, then. Do we have a deal?”

“Well, one thing at least, Pierre,” said Granny Ruth. “
Aiyoo!
You've made one little girl very happy. She'll be so surprised. I'll move her stuff back up.”

“Well, all I can say Mr. L'Er . . . Pierre, is if you want to sleep in our basement, that's your business. Hell, you can hang from the ceiling for all I care.”

Pleased, L'Errant clasped his hands in front of him, then let them relax by his waist. “We have an agreement, then.” He seemed to be waiting for something. The stranger cleared his throat. “I assume the fabled basement must be down that stairway? It has been a tremendously long journey and I have things to unpack.”

Only then did it occur to Keith that L'Errant wouldn't know the way. “Follow me.” He led him to the flight of stairs, Granny Ruth following close behind.

“You poor thing, you must be exhausted,” said Granny Ruth as she opened the door, quickly turning on the basement light.

“You have no idea. It seems like it's taken me an eternity to get here,” replied their guest.

Granny Ruth made her way down the stairs, the groan of abundantly aged wood and dampness telling the world not to trust its strength for much longer.

Keith led his guest to the corner where he had constructed the room for Tiffany, a place she had earlier referred to as a reserve within a reserve. Granny Ruth started moving all her granddaughter's clothes and CDs back upstairs. Keith looked almost apologetic. “It's not much, like I said. You can still change your mind, if you want.”

“Nonsense. This will be fine. I already feel at home.” L'Errant reached into his pocket and brought out his wallet. He opened it and removed several hundred-dollar bills and promptly handed them over to Keith. “I hope this will be sufficient?”

Keith eyed the bills. That would pay all of this month's utilities and potentially several more months. Maybe having some stranger staying in his basement wasn't such a bad idea. Who knows, he thought, maybe he could talk the guy into staying a bit longer.

“Thank you very much, Mr. L'Errant . . . Pierre. Sorry. Just let us know if you need anything. Anything. Have a good night. I've got a very early morning.”

“It is indeed a good night. Sleep well, Keith.”The man was left alone in the makeshift room, a slight breeze coming from the small window next to it. It was head high in the cement, ground level outside. It was open, maybe an inch. L'Errant opened the window full, and the breeze increased. He breathed in the air deeply. It filled his sinuses and lungs. This land had an aroma that he had waited so long to smell again. He was home. And this time, he would not leave again.

EIGHT

H
IGH ABOVE the house an owl surveyed the landscape. With its piercing eyesight, it could see deep into the forest despite the darkness of the night. It was the perfect nocturnal winged predator. Slightly hungry, it casually scanned the terrain below the towering oak tree to see what was available. To its lower right, something caught its attention. One of those two-legged creatures that seemed to be everywhere was crawling out of a window.

Curious, it watched the human stand upright and brush himself off. And then, scanning the forest in his own manner, he looked up, directly into the owl's eyes. It was as if the two-legged creature could see the owl, quietly nestled in the thick of the branches at the top of a very tall tree. The owl was used to being invisible. In fact, the construction of its wings made even its flight virtually soundless. A whisper in a land of winds. So it should have been impossible for this creature, famous for having such poor night vision, to see the nocturnal raptor.

The human pursed his lips and emitted a note-perfect owl call: “
who . . . who . . . who . . .
” It was so perfect, even the owl did a double take. The two-legged beast could see him and talk like him. This was too much for the simple country owl. This was not the way things were supposed to be. Knowing there would be good hunting down by the lake, the owl eagerly leapt off the branch, spread its strong wings, and ascended into the night.

As the owl flew north, the two-legged creature on the ground watched it leave. Then, smiling to himself, he noticed a dead leaf hanging from his left coat sleeve. Carefully, he picked it off and let it fall. Before the orange-hued oak leaf hit the ground, the newcomer to the forest had disappeared from sight, barely making a sound. Even the owl, had it decided to stay, would have had difficulty following his movements.

There was another predator in the forests of Otter Lake.

In the stranger's youth, there had been many stories and legends told of the time animals and man spoke the same language. Then, depending on which variation you heard, communication broke down. Man and animal were still brothers and responsible for each other, but they just didn't talk anymore. Those stories came flooding back to Pierre as he made his way through the forests. The familiar animals of his youth were all around him. A skunk that was hard to miss for obvious reasons slept a dozen or so yards to his left. A small fox, unaware of the man sitting on a branch twenty feet above him, stuck his nose in a pile of leaves looking for a shrew. Even the owl the man had locked eyes with earlier was now invisible in the distance to all but the stranger's unusually strong vision.

A long time ago, in the before time, the stranger had gone by the name of Owl. He had answered to that name, proudly given to him by his parents. His parents . . . it was hard to believe a creation like him could have parents, born of a loving mother, taught to swim, hunt, and fish by a loving father. But like many things in his life, memories such as those had dimmed. Some by time, some by intention. Far in the distance he could hear this community slowly going to bed. Living their mortal existence. In some cultures, the owl was a symbol of foreboding, even of death. Some would consider the stranger to be the same.

In the uncountable years, he had killed frequently. Without thought. Without effort. He was dangerous to those voices out there going to bed, like the owl to a mouse. He was strong. He was quiet. He was deadly. And what was worse, there was nothing the unsuspecting people could have done. Because, many would argue, he did not exist. And when you do not exist, it's very hard for people to defend against you.

Once more, the stranger scanned the home of his ancestors, taking in the sights, the sounds, and the smells. In a flash, he was gone. It was time to visit the village of Otter Lake.

NINE

I
T WAS AN unseasonably warm night and the bonfire made it noticeably hotter. In a less politically correct time, some might have called it Indian summer. About a dozen cars were parked in a circular fashion around a big pit, in which the large bonfire burned brightly. As always, all sorts of flying insects holding on stubbornly to the fading warmth of the fall crowded the fire, drawn by the light but held back by the heat. Teens were scattered all around the area, sitting on car hoods, on dead logs closer to the blaze. Still others were walking around the woods farther away. Many were drinking beer, others pop. Almost everybody was having a good time.

They had been there for about two hours and Tiffany dreaded going home. She knew she had nothing to look forward to other than concrete cinder blocks and a malfunctioning sump pump. Here, by the fire, she had Tony. This was her first bush party with his friends and so far she was enjoying it. Sort of. There were some familiar faces she recognized from school, others that worked at the McDonald's or places like that. But none of her own friends were there. It took a while, but she finally realized that there were no other Native kids at all. Only her. She tried not to let it worry her—after all, she would have to get used to this if she wanted to be with Tony. People just brought people they knew. And Tony knew her.

And where was Tony? He had gone off to pee behind one of the bushes what seemed like ages ago. This location had been a favorite hangout for years, resulting in a party practically every weekend until it snowed. It was secluded but accessible. The pit had seen several generations of fire builders and party animals over the years. It was a wonder the trees and bushes in the immediate area weren't dying of urine poisoning.

“Hey, miss me?” Tony slid onto the hood next to her.

Tiffany was leaning over to kiss him when she noticed a strong odor. “Tony, is that what I think it is?”

He took his coat off and wrapped it around her. “Oh that. Just smoking a joint, that's all. Getting into the party mode.”

It's not that she minded Tony doing stuff like that, or at least she tried to tell herself that. After all, he was a year older than her. And Tiffany Hunter did not consider herself a prude. This very evening, in fact, she had downed two beers, and sixteen-year-olds who drink two beers cannot be called prudes, she reasoned. But her mother had been a chain-smoker, and the smell of smoke constantly coming off her mother's clothes, their couch, even their curtains had dimmed Tiffany's interest in smoking of any kind.

“I know, you don't like it. That's why Mitch and I smoked it over there. See, I'm always thinking of you.” That sounded like an odd way of thinking about her, but Tiffany decided to let it pass. She didn't want to argue. Instead, she looked around at the crowd once more. An awful lot of white faces.

“Want another beer?” asked Tony.

Tiffany took the beer, not sure if she wanted another one. “Don't any of your friends know anybody from Otter Lake?”

“I think George's father hires a fishing guide or something over there. And Jamie gets his cigarettes from somewhere on the reserve. And there's a Native guy on Terry's baseball team. Why?”

“I don't know. Just curious.”

She could see people near the fire, occasionally stealing looks at them and talking in hushed tones. Tiffany had seen stuff like that all night, and it was beginning to make her feel uncomfortable. Why were they looking at her, and at her and Tony? She wanted to ask them directly but thought better of it.

“Tony, why do those guys keep looking at me funny?” She pointed discreetly to three boys near the fire, each with a can of Labatt's Blue in his hand. Tony casually glanced in their direction.

“Oh them. That's Dave and his two cousins. It's nothing.”

“It must be something.”

“Well.” Tony, for the first time that night, seemed a little uncomfortable. “You're the first Native person to come to one of these. That's all. They were probably just commenting on that. That's all.” He took big swig of his beer.

“How come?”

Tony shrugged. “I don't know. I've only been coming to these parties for a few years. Maybe nobody from Otter Lake ever wanted to come.” Tiffany found that highly unlikely. There had always been a bit of friction between Otter Lake and the rest of the area. In the high school, each hallway belonged to a different part of the county. Since most of the students were bussed in, they tended to congregate together and took over different parts of the school. There was some intervillage rivalry, but any difficulties that had developed had seldom entered Tiffany's specific world.

Though the night was hot, Tiffany was beginning to feel chilly. “Maybe I shouldn't have come. I'm feeling weird here.” She saw another two people near a cedar bush taking turns looking and whispering. “Tony, have you ever gone out with another Native girl?”

Tony laughed. “No. You're the first. Have you ever gone out with a white boy?”

Smiling, Tiffany shook her head.

“There you go. It's a learning experience for the both of us.” He gave her a quick squeeze.

“Hey, Tony!!” On the other side of the bonfire, a group of four girls waved to him, then beckoned him to come over. Smiling, he waved back.

“Hey, Julie's back in town! She was at her parent's cottage up north. Just a second, I'll be right back.” He jumped off the car and went running toward the girls.