The Night Wanderer

by Drew Hayden Taylor

  DREW HAYDEN TAYLOR

  THE

  NIGHT

  WANDERER

  A NATIVE GOTHIC NOVEL

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  ONE DAY, down by a slow-flowing river, an ancient Anishinabe (Ojibwa) man was sitting under a tree, teaching his beloved grandchildren about the ways of life.

  He said, “Inside of me, a fight is going on. It is a terrible fight between two wolves.

  “One wolf is evil—he is fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, competition, superiority, and ego.

  “The other wolf is good—he is joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, wisdom, friendship, empathy, generosity, caring, truth, compassion, and faith.

  “The same fight is going on inside you and inside every other person too.”

  His grandchildren thought about the story for a few moments, then one child asked, “Grandfather, which wolf will win? Which one is stronger?”

  The old man smiled and said, “The one you feed.”

  ONE

  PINK. PURPLE. Some red and a dash of green. The man had seen them flicker and dance above the horizon in more than a dozen countries during his infinite wanderings. Many of those countries no longer existed, or had changed in name and form, as had he. But this time, somewhere over the North Atlantic, the northern lights seemed to be beckoning him home.

  He sat on the north side of the plane, next to the aisle, as he had insisted. As luck would have it, he had the row to himself, offering him an uninterrupted view through the window of the aurora borealis, as white people call them. The Ojibwa call them wawa-tei, and according to legend they are the torches of great fishermen who light the night sky as they spear fish. It was a good sign, and the man believed in good signs.

  There had been somebody, a small woman with an Irish lilt to her voice, seated against the window when they first took off. Her name was Irene Donovan. But once the plane was up in the air, beginning its journey to North America, the woman had relocated several rows back. It had been Irene’s plan to relax and enjoy the flight. She had not seen the movie and was looking forward to it, had no qualms about airplane food, and was hoping to nap and wake up just before landing. She loved going to Canada to visit her daughter.

  But something about her seatmate disturbed her mood. The man in the aisle seat seemed . . . dark. That was the word for it. It was like there was an ominous storm inside him. It wasn’t just his skin—and where could he be from? she wondered. The Middle East? Could he be a terrorist? Maybe he was Spanish or Central American. They were dark too. Egyptian possibly.

  But more than anything, it was the feeling of loneliness or, more accurately, the sense of emotional detachment that reached across the armrest between them. Being a good Irish woman, she stood with one foot firmly planted in the traditions of the Catholic Church and the other foot rooted in more superstitious grounds. Her family had long told stories of people who have such strong auras that they could practically overpower you. Irene, who had always felt a public distain for such beliefs, now began to wonder if there was any truth to them. Moments before, she had been cheerful and optimistic about this flight. Now, she felt engulfed in a more sober and bleak mood. And it seemed to be coming from the man seated next to her. Blocking her only way to the aisle.

  She tried to ignore the feeling, but the feeling simply wouldn’t ignore her. A half hour of squirming uncomfortably was enough, and finally she asked the flight attendant if she could move, pleading a dislike of window seats.

  “Fear of heights. You know how it is.” And she was gone.

  The man in the aisle seat was not insulted. In fact, he was pleased. He knew he was different, and was used to others avoiding him. That was fine. He was an outsider among outsiders. For if the people on this plane knew how different he really was . . . well, it was a good thing they didn’t.

  The northern lights continued to flicker in the high atmosphere— a cosmic storm of ions and solar wind welcoming him home. He and those lights were old friends. He had danced underneath them as a child. He had hunted by them as a man. And he was following them home. It was a long time in coming.

  It had taken him weeks to plan this trip perfectly. Unlike other passengers on Air Canada flight 859, the man in seat 24H could not afford any mistakes. Finding the right sequence of initiatives was essential and had been time-consuming. But survival can sometimes require that little extra effort. He had been very adamant with the travel agency about his itinerary. The plane had to take off at night, and land at night. Since this particular flight was leaving from London’s Heathrow Airport and flying nonstop to Toronto, east to west, the plane was flying with the moon. It had taken off at 10:30 p.m. and would land in Canada’s largest city at 1:25 a.m. If there were no complications, it would all work out fine. This kind of flight was called the “red eye.” He loved the irony. Again, it was a good sign.

  But should there be a problem—a delay, a forced landing, or something of that nature—he had been very specific in his seat request. In case the sun did greet the great metal bird, the man had taken what precautions he could. His seat was on the north side of the plane, away from the south-facing windows, where the sun would flood in. He was near a bathroom should he have to hide. He had chosen to travel in the fall when the sun was sluggish in showing itself. The man was nervous, but he had prepared as best he could. Now it was out of his hands. Now it was up to the pilot, the plane, and the Creator.

  His journey had started in Ireland. Not that long ago he had stood on its western coast, near an area called Erris Head, the closest part of the country to North America. There, on a sheer limestone cliff buffeted by bitter gale-force winds, he looked across the vast blue water. It was a cold and damp night on that precipice, but he didn’t feel the elements. He was lost in thought. Somewhere, several thousand miles west, was a place he had once called home. It had birthed him. Nurtured him as a child and young man. But he had turned his back on it so long ago—angry at what the Fates had done to him. Ashamed at what he’d become. Though he swore he would never return home as the monster he had become, this feeling had always been there, somewhere deep inside his soul. But like an uncomfortable recollection, he held it in place. It was like a scar—you noticed it, were aware of it, it held memories, but you could ignore it anytime you wanted.

  But recently, he hadn’t been able to stop looking westward. He had done it in Norway, in Italy, in Spain. No doubt that was the reason he ended up here in Ireland. Legend has it St. Brendan, an Irish adventurer, had journeyed some 1500 years ago across the forbidding water and spent a decade in that far-off land. The man had read the stories of St. Brendan. He had all the time in the world to read. St. Brendan told of islands of ice. Of mountains that spit fire. And of the strange people who populated distant lands where he administered the words of God. This man’s people, if the stories were true.

  It was there, on that
windswept jut of Ireland’s coast, that he made his decision. Looking toward that distant soil was eating away at him. He did not want to spend eternity gazing after the setting moon. It made him uneasy. It was time to deal with the past. And one thing he was sure of: no matter how long ago the past occurred, it colored the present and influenced the future. And there was so much more future. There was always so much future. No one knew that more than him. It was too cloudy to see the northern lights, but he knew they were up there somewhere, flickering and dancing. Perhaps, he had hoped, they would light the way home for him.

  And, as if requested, they did.

  TWO

  TIFFANY HUNTER’S FEET hurt. They had hurt all day, and probably would hurt all night, because of the shoes her grandmother had bought her. Not because they were too tight, but because they were too large. It seemed to be a tradition in Tiffany’s family to buy clothes and shoes that were a size or two too big. All her life she’d grown up wearing baggy clothes, her mother and then grandmother telling her, “You’ll grow into them. Better too big than too small.” So Tiffany Hunter’s feet hurt because the new shoes she was wearing were size eight instead of seven. Her feet were sliding all around in the shoes that, on top of everything else, were too shiny and girly. She preferred running shoes, but Tiffany had been at the mercy of her grandmother’s generosity. Even with a fixed income, the old woman still had more money than Tiffany.

  She had tried explaining to Granny Ruth that some size-seven Filas would be perfect. Preferable, even. “Everybody else at school wears them!” As much as Tiffany thought of herself as being independent and a rebel, more often than not she obeyed the governing laws of high-school style.

  “Nonsense,” Granny Ruth had replied, her thick Native accent revealing her position as the matriarch of the Hunter clan of the Otter Lake Reserve. “Them look like boy’s shoes. You’re not a boy. I’m not so old I don’t know the difference. Now these are proper girl shoes. Just like your mother and me used to wear. Ho, look. They’re from China. They got small feet over there. Better get them a little bigger, just in case.”

  “Granny Ruth! I’m sixteen. I’ve stopped growing. This is as big as my feet are ever gonna get! At least I hope so,” she had added as an afterthought. Tiffany even lifted up her foot and slammed it on the shoe counter to emphasize her point. However, that fact seemed irrelevant to Granny Ruth. “Caween”—the single Anishinabe word spoken by the old woman—conveyed a lot more than a simple no. It was in the tone of “conversation over.” Tiffany had complained, “You never listen to me!”

  “Oh, like you know everything.” That was Granny Ruth—short, sweet, and to the point. No one but the Pope himself could convince her that just maybe, possibly, somebody else might be right. So she bought Tiffany the large, shiny shoes.

  From that day forward, Tiffany had sworn never again to shop at Wal-Mart. Truth be told, she did have a deep love for her Granny Ruth and couldn’t blame her for being herself. But Wal-Mart had made it possible for Granny Ruth to shop cheaply, and provided the atrocious black shoes that felt like sweaty, unfashionable, glistening boats on her feet. Somebody had to be blamed.

  But she kept all of this to herself because at that very moment, sitting beside her, driving his 1994 Dodge Sunrise, was Tony Banks. And Tiffany wanted to make damned sure Tony Banks would never know anything even slightly negative about her. Tony was Tiffany’s boyfriend . . . that had such a nice ring to it. Or, better yet, she was Tony’s girlfriend. Either way she was happy.

  “You look like you need help,” were the first words he had said to her about a month ago. Oh, she’d seen him around school a lot, he was hard to miss: tall but not too tall, nicely built but not too nicely built, and hair that had a kind of shaggy look but not too shaggy. But this was the first time he had ever spoken to her. And it was in the library, of all places. A place where geeks went to practice geekiness. Normally Tiffany wouldn’t be in the library, but she was researching a class project. There she was, going through a bunch of car books—specifically stuff for carburetor settings—or at least that was what she thought she was researching. Like a lot of her subjects in school, she had trouble understanding the relevance of the material. Her frustration must have been pretty evident because that was exactly what brought the luscious Tony Banks over to her study stall.

  “Yeah, um, I’m trying to figure out how you set up a carburetor, you know, for a car.”

  “That’s where you usually find them.” Tony cleared his throat. “Why are you looking up carburetor settings?” He sat down beside her. Tiffany could feel his leg against hers. “Most girls aren’t usually into that.” He looked genuinely interested.

  “Automotive care. It was either that or shop, and I’m not really interested in learning how to operate a circulating saw. At least learning about a car might come in handy someday, I suppose.” He smelled so clean. Nice shirt too, with a line pattern that showed off his chest. “But this carburetor thing is really pissing me off. I don’t think I’ll ever need to set a carburetor. That’s what mechanics do. Not girls.” She realized she was giving a speech and shut up immediately. She was rewarded with an amused smile.

  “Not a very politically correct thing to say.” He cleared his throat again. “Anyway, my father’s a mechanic. What kind of car are you looking for?”

  “Dodge Caravan.”

  Tony snorted derisively. “A minivan. I hate minivans. Don’t you?”

  Immediately she nodded. So far in her sixteen years she had yet to develop a firm opinion on the status of Dodge Caravans, but if Tony Banks didn’t like them, that was good enough for her. He leaned over, took the book from her, and started to rummage through the pages. “These books are impossible to read, but working in my father’s garage has taught me a few things.” Then suddenly, there, in front of Tiffany, lay all the vital statistics of the Dodge Caravan. Everything she needed to know—more than she would ever need to know—found for her by Tony Banks.

  “Glad to help.” He put the book down, smiled and turned away. Then he started coughing and clearing his throat. Unwilling to let him just leave like that, Tiffany heard herself ask, “Something wrong with your throat?”

  “Yeah, gets like this in the fall. Allergies and dampness, I think. Let me know if you need any more help.” Across the library, Tony’s friend George waved to him and Tony waved back. Then he was gone, disappearing into the shelves of books. She stared at the Dodge statistics for a moment, not really seeing them, but hearing Tony’s cough across the silent library. Maybe there was something she could do for him.

  So now they sat, hand in hand, as he drove her home. What had begun in the high-school library was continuing on a lonely Ontario highway, and Tiffany was pleased. The guy beside her was tall, good-looking, and had his own car. For Tiffany, it was definitely a hat trick. They had been dating for almost a month and were still feeling each other out. This was Tiffany’s first real relationship and she was nervous, though again she would never let Tony know. Cool and laid-back. That was the image Tiffany wanted to project. Whining about sore feet simply did not fit into it.

  “What are you thinking?” Tony suddenly asked.

  Oh no, he had caught her staring at him, like some love-starved fourteen-year-old. Tiffany opened her mouth to respond but decided to use the international, all-purpose teenage response. She shrugged. And it was a good shrug, because Tony nodded knowingly and went back to negotiating the long road to Tiffany’s house.

  Under the collar of his shirt she could see the weekah root lying against his chest, still wrapped in the thin buckskin pouch she had given him. He no longer coughed or cleared his throat, and Tiffany took full credit for that. It was Granny Ruth that gave her the remedy, but it was Tiffany’s idea, and that’s what counted.

  That night, after the chance encounter in the library, Tiffany had asked her grandmother what to do about a pesky frog in the throat. “Chop the legs off and fry ’em up!” she answered with a cackle. That had been Granny Ruth
’s favorite food as a child, but she hadn’t had any frog’s legs for many years now. Nobody seemed to remember how to cook them or why they would eat them. For the old woman, it was just one more thing that had disappeared since her childhood.

  But a quick roll of Tiffany’s eyes let her know her humor was not appreciated. “What’s his name?” asked Granny Ruth.

  “Whose name?”

  “Whoever has this frog-in-the-throat problem. I know it ain’t you. Your father’s fine. So it has to be somebody else, and probably not from the village. Maybe somebody you got your eye on? You’re about that age. Is it or ain’t it?” Granny Ruth sat back, waiting for a response. And Tiffany found herself blushing, which isn’t easy when you’ve got a dusky copper complexion.

  Granny Ruth smiled at her granddaughter’s discomfort for a moment and then left the room. Now Tiffany was sorry she’d asked. One thing Granny Ruth was known for, other than notoriously bad taste in shoes, was knowing interesting Native facts like traditional remedies. Maybe she knew something that Tiffany could give to Tony. And she could say it was secret, ancient Native stuff. That always sounded cool.

  Granny Ruth re-entered the kitchen, this time with something in her hand. She held it out for Tiffany to see. She vaguely recognized it. “Weekah root?”

  “Have him, or whoever, wear this around his neck. Get him to chew a bit of it occasionally. Should clear up whatever’s bothering him. If what he’s got ain’t too bad and he don’t die.” She laughed again until she noticed Tiffany wasn’t laughing. “In my day, people would have thought that was funny.” For Granny Ruth and many of her generation, weekah root, which grew deep in the swamps, was a cure-all for many ills. It was even supposed to keep angry dogs away if you carried it in your pockets.

  Two days after their encounter in the library, Tiffany found Tony at his locker. She held out the root for him, neatly wrapped in a buckskin thong, except for one exposed end. “What’s this?” was his predictable question.