The Night Wanderer

by Drew Hayden Taylor

  The silence hung in the air. Then, for the first time that evening, Keith spoke to his daughter in a calm, measured voice.

  “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be this angry. You’re grounded.”

  “Grounded!? What am I, a kid?”

  “Yes you are. Except a kid would have more sense.”

  “Grounded for how long?”

  “Till I see some better results. Eat your dinner, then go to your room. I believe you have homework.”

  Again, the silence was deafening, until Tiffany turned away, mumbling under her breath, “This sucks.”

  That had been two hours ago. Dinner had been a chilly though tasty adventure. Neither Keith nor Tiffany said much. Granny Ruth had tried half-heartedly to start some conversation, including the news about poor Rachel Stoney. But it took at least one other person to maintain such a conversation and neither of the warring parties seemed willing to participate. Instead, only the sound of fried chicken, boiled potatoes, and overcooked green beans being eaten could be heard.

  After eating half her meal, Tiffany had excused herself to go work on a school project. Keith lost himself in his evening television shows, those endless reruns of Hollywood sitcoms that he found so funny. Tonight, though, he wasn’t laughing. The progress report sat on the coffee table in front of him, where he had thrown it

  As expected, Mr. L’Errant was absent, out doing his business, Granny Ruth supposed. So thin and pale, if it was possible for a Native man to have a pallid complexion. Probably growing up in Europe, she thought. She was quite sure that she had heard that it rained a lot over there.

  A car was driving by and out of habit she took a quick glance through the window to see who would be coming up their lonely road. It looked like the car that belonged to that Dale and Chucky, up to no good, she assumed. They were going awfully fast and she hoped nobody was walking the roads tonight. She even said a silent prayer for any local animal life that might be crossing the road. God knows those two wouldn’t have any sense to care.

  In her room, Tiffany debated her options. One was do what her father had told her. That would involve homework, which was an unpleasant thought. The other possibility was more interesting.

  “Tony, is that you?” whispered Tiffany. Tiffany had decided that most of today had been a good day, and she shouldn’t let the rantings of her father wreck her night. When in doubt, go to Tony.

  “No, I’m his father. Who may I say is calling?”

  Immediately Tiffany put on her professional voice. “Uh yes, could you please tell him it’s Tiffany Hunter. Thank you.” There was a brief silence on the other end.

  “One moment.” She could hear the phone being put down and Tony’s name being yelled. Tiffany listened intently and could make out a few seconds of hushed conversation before the receiver was picked up.

  “Hello,” came the familiar voice.

  “Hey, Tony, it’s Tiffany. It’s Saturday night. Want to do something?”

  There was another pause at the other end of the phone. Then, “Tiffany? It’s ten o’clock. It’s a little late to be making plans, isn’t it?”

  Keeping her voice low, Tiffany tried to sound enthusiastic and energized. “It’s never too late. Come on. I’ve got to get out of this insane asylum. The night is young. Let’s go do something.”

  Again, there was a pause. “Uh, yeah, sure. I guess now is as good a time as any. Want me to pick you up at your place then, in half an hour?”

  “No, not here. I’m grounded. Pull over near the wood fence down the road from me. I’ll meet you there.”

  “If you’re grounded, how are you going to meet me?” Again logic was daring to interfere with her life. Tiffany would teach it who was in charge around here.

  “Leave that to me. I got a few tricks up my sleeve that my father doesn’t know about.” She hung up the phone, put on her still-damp Nikes, and grabbed her jacket. For about two years now, Tiffany had been able to remove the screen frame in her window with a little gentle prodding, making a quiet and discreet exit from her room possible. Evidently some of her father’s handyman chromosomes had found their way into her DNA after all. It was an eight-foot drop to the ground, causing her to release a very unfeminine grunt when she landed. She would head out by the backyard path and be gone through the garden and into the woods before anybody knew. And hopefully back into her bedroom before anybody knew. She could always do her homework tomorrow. That’s what Sundays were for.

  From the top of a large pine tree, some distance away, the man watched her leave. He even managed to smile a little. The more things changed, the more things stayed the same. He knew he was observing one of the truest laws of the universe—a need for young people to escape the presence of their parents. Usually clandestinely. What Tiffany was doing had in one way or another been done by the youth of every culture in every part of the world, ever since windows had been invented, and before. He himself had not been immune to its cry.

  Owl’s back and shoulders hurt. He had been paddling for a month now, straight. He was sitting in a huge canoe, full of rich furs these traders had spent the winter collecting. Evidently they were very precious where these men came from. Now they were taking their cargo back to that big village to the east to be sold. And Owl was going with them.

  When these strange men with their strange hairy faces and clothes had come to his village, Owl had been fascinated. And that night, as stories were told around the bonfire, he became more fascinated, if that was possible. Tales of far-off places, and strange animals, and even bigger canoes than the one he sat in took the boy’s imagination captive and refused to release it. His father and the other village elders were wary of these men, for they had heard stories about them. Strange stories. But Owl was more interested in stories that told of big fishes called whales, and giant wigwams of stone called castles.

  That night, as he tried to fall asleep, he could only lie there among his snoring relatives, thinking thoughts of exciting new places and the people in them. The longer he lay there, the more demanding his need to see them became. By dawn, the young man had come up with a plan. It would mean leaving his family, but he could always come back. It would mean deceiving them, but he could always apologize later, when he returned with great gifts. In the end, it wasn’t that hard a decision after all.

  Two hours after the traders left, Owl quietly left the village, a few possessions in tow, cutting across a portage to meet up with the caravan of canoes. At a point of land, Owl managed to flag down the lead canoe, which carried the chief of these traders. As it pulled onto shore, Owl stood as tall as possible, and tried to look strong, stating simply, “I want to go with you. I can paddle twice as long as any of them,” indicating the other white men. Several of the men in the lead canoe laughed and talked among themselves in their strange language they called French. Then there were some smiles and there seemed to be a consensus. Owl officially joined the birch-bark procession.

  They told him they were going off to some place called Montreal. And then to an even farther land called France. Each morning for what seemed like forever, they paddled toward the rising sun, and away from the setting sun. Each stroke brought Owl closer to his destiny.

  Way up above the community of Otter Lake, the man surveyed this little slice of the world. The evening had not gone as expected, but as he had once been told, the Creator had seen fit to create an unpredictable world. And it was up to each of us to survive as best we could. And survive he had. He’d lived through death, pain, loneliness, and a thousand other emotional discomforts that would have torn other people apart. But still he survived.

  A long time ago a German writer had told Pierre, “That which does not destroy us, makes us stronger.” It was a fitting comment on the existence of the new arrival in Otter Lake, for he had indeed survived much more then a dozen average men could. And as a result, he was strong. Very strong. However, Pierre had also heard that same German writer later went insane in Italy. Destroyed by his own mind. Irony,
the man felt, must be the Creator’s middle name.

  Montreal it was called. It was huge, full of what seemed like thousands and thousands of these strange white people, and it smelled. The streets smelled. The water smelled. The people smelled. At first, Owl was overcome by the noise and smell, but after a few days, he became less nervous and once more, his excitement returned. This new environment was more than he had ever expected.

  Luckily, one of the voyageurs had taken him in and let him sleep in his storeroom. Owl was there resting when the same voyageur ushered a stranger into the cramped space. The young man rose to meet the stranger, who seemed to study him with a practiced eye. There was something different about this white man, his face seemed oddly marked, like somebody had poked a porcupine needle into it repeatedly.

  “It’s what’s left after smallpox, in case you were wondering. But don’t worry, I had it when I was a young man,” said the stranger in French. Owl, a bright and eager young man, had been struggling to learn the language but currently had only a bare grasp of it. Owl merely smiled and nodded. “I hear you want to leave this wretched country and go to France,” added the stranger.

  This, Owl understood. Again, he nodded, only this time more eagerly.

  “Me . . . France . . . go, please,” he said in his limited French.

  The pockmarked man smiled, revealing several missing teeth. “I’m sure we can arrange something. You look strong and healthy,” said the man, once more assessing the Anishinabe’s muscular frame. “You’ll survive the journey.” He abruptly turned to the voyageur. “Very well. I’ll take him.” Just as suddenly, he left the room.

  “Congratulations, my savage friend,” said the voyageur, slapping Owl on the back. “You have your wish. You are going to France. Ah, what an adventure you have before you.” Smiling broadly, the Frenchman handed the young man a wooden bowl filled with steaming stew. “Eat well, my friend. You will need your strength.”

  Owl, understanding only that he was somehow going to this far-off place called France, also slapped the voyageur on the back. Then, eagerly, he began to consume the stew. He was very hungry.

  Once more, the smell of the pine tree had brought back ancient memories. The wind blowing through the upper branches called to him, and with little effort he climbed to the top. There, standing at the tree’s crown, he could see the land. Even though the night had come, and the moon was frequently hidden by roving bands of scattered clouds, his eyes could see a great distance. To the southwest, over the horizon, lay the huge city. Its glow lit up that hemisphere of the sky. Closer he could see the river he had swam as a child, now more crooked and misshapen. The hill he and his friends had climbed so long ago sat to the west. There was now a house at the top. And a swimming pool. There was a crystal-clear lake right there and this family had decided to put in a swimming pool. It puzzled the man on the branch.

  Still closer, he saw trails, and paths, and roads, and hydro lines criss-crossing the land he had called home. So much had changed. But at the moment, his chief concern was hunger. The man was hungry, and that hunger had almost made him deviate from his plans. His encounter with the girl known as Tiffany had reminded him of his true nature. Luckily, he had realized the situation in time and managed to contain the problem. But he knew his will-power would grow exponentially weaker as his hunger grew stronger, until the point was reached where his rational mind would no longer be in control, and only instinct would exist. Then, there would be major problems. Because of this, he knew he only had one, maybe two more nights before things became intolerable. And he became intolerable.

  Still, the night afforded him some comfort. From his perch, he watched the young girl make her way along the path, heading toward the road. He could see a raccoon hiding in a tree almost directly above where she was walking. Just to her left was a brown rabbit, its nose quivering in the night air. His ears also told him that the door to her room was being opened as Tiffany made it to the outskirts of the marsh. Keith had entered, the progress report in his hand, wanting yet another conversation with her about it. Instead, he was greeted by an empty, mocking room and an open window. The stranger heard Keith utter an expletive loud enough that the squirrel sleeping in their attic woke up. More trouble in the Hunter family.

  But the man had problems of his own to deal with. He leapt from the top branch, plunging past and startling a sleeping crow on a branch below.

  EIGHTEEN

  TONY HAD BEEN strangely quiet as they pulled into the restaurant parking lot on the edge of the reserve. Tiffany had thanked him for picking her up on such short notice and so late, but he only gave a weak smile in return. Around his neck he still wore the weekah root out of habit. The weird thing was, there was just a faint hint of something girlish coming from him, like perfume. Maybe he was using new soap, she thought.

  “Man, I’m glad to be out of there. My dad’s been giving me so much grief over my marks and everything else. Hey, let’s not go home tonight! Let’s drive around and see what this county does at dawn. If I’m in trouble, might as well make it worth my while.” She was excited and pumped for an evening of who knew what.

  “Maybe,” Tony replied as he turned off the car radio. “Is something wrong?” she asked. Before answering, he looked at her and gave her a sad smile. “What is it?”

  “Nothing, it’s just . . . I don’t know,” he answered as he got out of the car. Intensely concerned, Tiffany followed suit. They began walking toward the restaurant. After the way her evening had been going, Tiffany was afraid to probe any deeper.

  Once inside Gretchen’s German Food Extravaganza, they sat at a small booth in the back. The place catered more to passing truckers than to teenaged relationships in flux. Nobody in recent memory knew who Gretchen was, and there was nothing vaguely worth the title “Extravaganza” coming out of the kitchen. But at least it was open.

  They were alone in the restaurant, except for a bearded trucker heavy into his fourth mug of coffee and second bowl of chili. Outside, his rig was parked on the far left of the lot, a big eighteen-wheeler hauling four hundred cases of thesauruses.

  Right away the attending waitress, Sally-Ann, approached. “What’ll you two have?” You could tell this was the thirteenth thousandth time she’d asked that today. By routine, Tiffany and Tony ordered one Coke, one diet Coke, and a plate of fries. Tiffany once again nervously played with the bracelet on her wrist.

  “Tony, Darla and Kim told me Julie has a bracelet just like mine. Except hers was gold?” Tony didn’t respond. “Was it the one you said you bought for you mother, using my card?”

  “Tiffany, oh geez. Man, I hate this.” Tony squirmed in his seat. He was clearly uncomfortable. Why, Tiffany was afraid to ask, but the answer seemed obvious.

  “It, um, it didn’t fit my mother.”

  That was the best he could do? thought Tiffany. “So you gave it to Julie instead?” She had clearly overrated him.

  “Well, you see, you gotta understand—”

  “What do I have to understand?”

  Tony took a deep breath. “Tiffany, this is too hard. It really is. People are talking. My parents are saying things. I know your dad is. Going out shouldn’t be this difficult.”

  “What’s difficult about it? I don’t understand what is so difficult?” Once more, Tony took a deep breath. “Well, for one thing, does your father pay income taxes?”

  Tiffany, for a second, wasn’t sure she heard correctly. “What?”

  “Income taxes. Does you father pay them? My father keeps talking about that thing with your status card and he says you guys get a lot of freebies. My father hates that. He thinks all Canadians should pay taxes. I have to pay taxes for the work I do for my father and I’m only seventeen. I don’t think it’s right that your dad or you don’t have to.”

  Once more Tiffany was trying to understand what was going on. Her head was swimming, trying to grasp the reality of the conversation. “You’re arguing with me over taxes. I don’t know anything about tax
es. This is ridiculous.” And then it clicked in. It was so clear. So obvious. So desperate.

  “You don’t care about all that stuff either. It’s what your friends have been saying about me, isn’t it? That’s what all this is about.”

  Silently, Tony looked out the window as Tiffany watched him, waiting for an answer.

  Tiffany finally found her voice. “What are you trying to tell me, Tony?”

  The waitress showed up with their drinks. Sally-Ann could tell this was a case of young love past its prime, and were she a decade or two younger, and hadn’t been on her feet for seven straight hours with three more to go, she might have cared.

  Clearing his throat, Tony looked Tiffany straight in the eyes. For two seconds before looking out the window again. “I think we should go our separate ways. It’s not working out.”

  Just then, Tiffany got a glimmer of realization. She followed it to its logical conclusion. “Is that what you think? What does Julie think about all this?”

  This caught the young man’s attention. “What?”

  It was all becoming obvious to Tiffany, horribly obvious. “You’re seeing Julie now, aren’t you?” Tiffany felt like such an idiot. That was probably Julie’s perfume she smelled on Tony. “That’s why you’re breaking up with me, isn’t it?”

  Tony tried to laugh it off. “Don’t be silly. Of course not. You’re a little paranoid, Tiffany.”

  Sally-Ann arrived with a fresh, steaming plate of fries. Any interest that Tiffany might have had in them had evaporated. Tony looked uncomfortable, reluctant to meet her gaze.

  “You prick!” She practically spit the words out.

  “Now, Tiffany, don’t overreact. Let’s be grown up about this. You’ll find somebody else. Just have some fries and I’ll give you a ride home.” Tony’s words had little effect. In fact, she found them kind of condescending.