The Night Wanderer

by Drew Hayden Taylor

  His own brutal acts seemed pale in comparison. He remembered a time in Switzerland when he had been caught in a blizzard for two nights and was desperate. He found haven in a small thatched house high on a mountain. And sustenance from the family that lived, or had lived, there. On the shores of Sicily, gazing southward to the far-off shores of Africa, he came upon a sailor on the beach who had been fortunate enough to survive a shipwreck, but not his encounter with Pierre. Another time, pursued by peasants in a now-forgotten country, he had been forced to take refuge in a crowded soldiers’ garrison and, for a short period of time, live off the horses in the stable.

  Every once in a while, in a crowded street, on a lonely beach, or through a frost-tinted window, he would occasionally catch a glimpse of somebody who, for a split second, was the spitting image of the long-departed Anne. Then, the guilt would once again flow through him. Of all the atrocities he had committed in his travels, that first one, to the only woman in that accursed country that had shown him any affection, was the one he regretted most.

  He remembered all of this and told the girl, holding back nothing, glad to rid himself of the memories. He talked and talked, weaving such an intricate story that the girl felt she was actually there. Or, at the very least, that Pierre L’Errant had been there. At times she was scared, the stories of hundreds if not thousands of lives being taken brutally to quench the thirst of the dark killer. But Tiffany could also feel the longing of this wanderer, the pain of not being able to return home.

  After what seemed an eternity, Pierre stopped talking, and only the crackle of the fire could be heard.

  TWENTY-SIX

  TIFFANY HAD LISTENED to every word Pierre had told her, amazed. His vivid descriptions and passionate delivery almost made it seem like he had been there. This was better than any book they had made her study at school.

  “A Native vampire! That is so cool!”

  Unknown to Tiffany, Pierre had a lemon-sized rock in each hand, and he was squeezing them firmly. He was using almost all his strength to tell the story, and what was left over to squeeze the rocks, so he would not be aware of her proximity. And her blood. Amid the crackle of the fire, he could hear the thump-thump of her young heart, pumping buckets and buckets of blood through her body. He squeezed the rocks harder, feeling one splinter in his right hand.

  Without Tiffany seeing, Pierre tossed the shattered rock aside and then added a scrap of wood to the fire. He struggled to pick up the story. “Think about his predicament. He was trapped on a foreign continent, so he spent what seemed like an eternity wandering Europe, learning, seeing, experiencing, and, more importantly, trying to lose himself in the crowd. Not to draw attention to himself. This goes on for hundreds of years.”

  Tiffany threw some twigs on the fire, sending sparks up into the sky. For a moment it made Pierre’s eyes appear to be glowing again. He seemed to be staring at her, or through her. “So why didn’t he just find a way to go home then?”

  “It was too dangerous. Travel by boat was always hazardous, and no telling what time of day the boat would dock. And while a part of him longed to return to the land he once knew, another part of him didn’t. In a way, he was afraid. He wanted the land and the people he had left behind to remember him as he was, not as he had become. So he was trapped.”

  “So how does the story end?” Pierre could see her anxious breath in the night air.

  “Everybody and everything reaches a certain point in life where even mere existence isn’t enough. He becomes bored.”

  Tiffany laughed. “A bored vampire? A bored Native vampire? You don’t think of vampires as getting bored.”

  “Look at it this way. Boredom to you is a small stream, a creek, a minor inconvenience to put up with until something more interesting happens later that day. To him, boredom was an ocean, a chasm that just got bigger and bigger. He’d seen everything, done everything, and there was nothing left to keep his interest. The world was changing and he wasn’t. Sadly, there was no end in sight. He was very bored.”

  Around them, the woods were silent. It was as if the animals of the forest were waiting to see how Pierre’s story turned out too.

  “So, does he come home?”

  The man was silent for a moment, watching the dying fire. Then he stood up and faced the young girl. “Yes, he does. He finds a way to return home. To die. Among his people there is an understanding of how the circle of life operates. With every death, there is a birth. He understood this and since he was born in that far-off village, that was where he should end his existence. Even though he had been wandering the world for hundreds of years, he was still Native deep down inside, and it was very important to him that he return home as a Native man. So as such, there were ceremonies to observe and preparations to make. For instance, before he left this world for the next, he wanted to fast, to purify himself, as was the custom of his people.”

  Tiffany looked at him funny, comprehending the story. “Fasting . . . you mean he didn’t drink anybody’s—”

  “Yes, though it was hard. Very hard. And when the proper time came, he planned to find a spot that was special to him, and watch the sun rise, for the first time in a dozen lifetimes.”

  “I guess that would be sad, if he wasn’t a vampire. You don’t often feel sorry for vampires.” She was quiet for a moment, like the forest. The story bounced around in her head, as she thought about the poor man. “This story, it’s more than just a plain-old ghost story, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. That is the sign of a good story.”

  “A mysterious Native man from Europe, showing up and hanging out in the night. Big dark cloud hanging over his head. Sounds familiar,” she said playfully.

  Pierre smiled his distinctive smile, though it seemed filled with pain. “Maybe you’ve heard the story before. But it’s late. I told you this story because I believe you and this ‘bored Native vampire,’ as you call him, have much in common. You both have responded to incidents in your lives rather drastically. Bad and misdirected decisions were made. However, as you have told me repeatedly, it is none of my business.”

  Tiffany didn’t believe him and told him so. “You don’t care if I kill myself or not.” It was unthinkable that he didn’t care. In fact, in the last hour or so, she had grown to like Pierre L’Errant and his unusual ways. The possibility that she didn’t matter to him had never entered her mind, until now.

  “It’s been a long time since I cared what anybody does. It’s been my experience that youth only listen to themselves. Just remember, a lot of people die every day, most against their will. It’s a great disrespect to them to choose it so frivolously. But . . .”

  Tiffany couldn’t see his face in the darkness of the waning fire. “But what?”

  “But if you want, I will help you.” In a fraction of a second, if not quicker, Pierre had the girl by both arms, easily lifting her into the air and slamming her against a giant oak tree. Tiffany was more than startled, her breath was forced from her body by the impact, and the shock of the split-second movement left her stunned. Pierre’s dark face hovered unnervingly close to hers.

  “Do you want to die? I can arrange that. Quite easily.” His breath was raspy, like he had a bad cold. And the young girl had an odd thought for such a dangerous predicament. Tomorrow, if she survived, she’d have to wear a long-sleeved shirt, at least for a few days because as sure as there was a half-broken branch sticking her in the butt right now, she would definitely have bruises on her shoulder and arms come the morning.

  For a second, neither said a word. All that could be heard was Pierre’s forced breathing, and Tiffany’s panicked gasps.

  “Pierre, are you going to hurt me?” She was amazed she could get the words out. Not moments ago they had been having a great conversation. Now, he literally had her in the palms of his hands.

  Pierre was silent. Tiffany, though terrified, marveled at his strength for keeping her suspended a good foot and a half off the ground for such a long time
, with no visible strain. Abruptly, Pierre looked up to the sky, then just as quickly let go of the young girl and dropped her to the ground, disappearing into the forest with surprising speed. As he dissolved into darkness, the young girl thought she could hear him saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  Tiffany found herself rubbing her shoulders as she got to her feet. “Pierre?” She looked upward as Pierre had done and noticed the northern lights had come out. It was unusual to see them so strongly in the fall. High above Otter Lake, they danced and flickered as they always had. And always would.

  Tiffany quickly weighed her options. Not long ago she was seriously considering ending it all. But not more than a minute ago, somebody offered to kill her. During that moment she had a revelation. She didn’t want to die.

  Part of her was still concerned about Pierre, but the other part of her could feel the bruises beginning to develop on her arms, and Tiffany finally concluded that maybe she should get the hell out of there. He was gone, like the night had swallowed him whole. And she found herself alone in the bush, with visions of vampires still very fresh in her mind. Too fresh, like maybe one was out there loitering, waiting for her.

  Scared, she started to run. She didn’t know what she was scared of, maybe it was Pierre and maybe it wasn’t. The only problem was she didn’t know where to run to. She went a dozen steps in one direction, then two dozen in another. All the time, she kept running into trees, bushes, muddy patches, and a variety of other woods-related obstacles. Then, off in the distance, she heard a wolf howling. There hadn’t been a wolf in this area since long before she was born.

  Now panicked, she ran full tilt in the direction of her house, all thoughts of depression and suicide frightened out of her mind. Then suddenly, Tiffany went down, screaming in pain, falling over a rock and hitting her head.

  A few decades back, when the Otter Lake band office had contemplated doing some farming, they had piled all the visible stones into a boundary fence. It was very picturesque in the daylight but invisible at night. Subconsciously Tiffany knew it was there, she’d climbed over it a thousand times in her life, but she had miscalculated in her terrified haste. The result being a large 176-million-year-old granite boulder being rudely attacked by a sixteen-year-old shin.

  If the night could have got any worse, it just did. Favoring her injured leg and rubbing her left temple, she let out such a scream of primordial frustration and rage that all the animals within range rolled over in their dens, annoyed.

  When she was finished, she heard footsteps walking along the rock fence. “Feel better?”

  She could barely make out his outline. “You’re . . . you’re not going to hurt me again, are you?”

  The dark figure kneeled down beside her, his left hand supporting his weight on a nearby stump. “No. I will not harm you.”

  “Good, because I think I’m hurt already.”

  “You’re not hurt. You’re bruised.”

  “You’re not going to . . . to do anything weird, like bite me or anything?” she asked.

  Pierre noticed the blood slowly dripping from her head. For a moment, he was mesmerized. “No. I will not. I . . . am not well. I apologize for my earlier weakness.” Then he ripped some moss from a nearby rock and lightly wiped the blood from her forehead. To Tiffany he seemed to stare at it for an unusually long time, but eventually he dropped it. “Besides, I thought you didn’t care what happened to you.”

  “I don’t want to be alone out here.”

  “Would you like me to take you home?”

  She nodded, and he lifted her up and jumped down to the other side of the fence. “Then I will take you home.”

  Carrying her, he walked through the woods, carefully negotiating a path. Tiffany marveled at his ability to make his way through the bushes, especially in the dark.

  “Did you see the northern lights?” she asked.

  “I saw them.”

  “Pretty, huh? You realize, when we get back, I’m in deep, deep trouble.”

  “Perhaps, but it shall pass. As I said, there’s boredom, and there’s boredom. Same with trouble. On a global scale, your father’s anger is quite miniscule compared to the real tragedies out there. Besides, do you have an alternative?”

  A branch of some sort slapped her face, making her wince. “Good point.” Then, with a laugh, she added, “Besides, might be some Indian vampires out here. Don’t want to run into any of them. I hate hickeys.”

  By the time they got back to the Hunter home, it was quite late, almost dawn. As they approached, they noticed the house was ablaze with lights, and that Keith’s truck was gone. “I guess Dad’s out looking for me?” Pierre simply nodded as they went up the back steps to the deck. He put her down and as he reached to open the patio door, Tiffany pulled something out of her pocket.

  “Pierre, I don’t know if this will mean anything to you, but if you want, you can have this.” Puzzled, Pierre took what appeared to be a necklace from her. He could tell right away what it was.

  “Weekah root.”

  “Yeah, it belonged to my boyfriend, but I took it back. I mean, you gave me the arrowheads, right? It’s supposedly good for what ails you.” Pierre gripped it tightly in his hand.

  “I remember. Thank you.” He opened the door for her.

  Inside, they saw Granny Ruth, sleeping in her big stuffed chair, quietly wheezing, her knitting still on her lap. The guilt hit Tiffany. “Look at her. She should be in bed. This isn’t good for her, and it’s because of me. Should I wake her up?”

  Pierre shook his head, and some pine needles fell out of his hair. “She looks safe enough for the moment. I’d go look at those wounds of yours first. Clean the dirt out. I think your night has been difficult enough, don’t you?”

  Tiffany didn’t bother to answer, knowing it wasn’t necessary. She disappeared into the bathroom, limping severely, and Pierre heard the water running. Then he turned his attention to the sleeping grandmother. Her head had rolled down onto her chest, a little off to the right. Her glasses were dangerously close to falling onto the floor. Pierre took the glasses off and placed them on the coffee table. She mumbled something in her sleep and her head fell back.

  Pierre stood there, watching her, seeing the bone structure in her face of a people he’d thought he’d long ago left behind. Silently, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear. It was a private message, meant only for her ears, and he spoke it in Anishinabe. In her sleep, she smiled and responded, talking in a language she thought she’d never hear again.

  In the bathroom, Tiffany thought she could hear Granny Ruth mumbling something. Drying her hands, she limped out to investigate, but her grandmother was still asleep. Pierre was nowhere to be seen.

  “Pierre,” she whispered, not wanting to wake her grandmother, but the house was silent. “Pierre!” Oh well, she thought, she’d see him later. Man, he was strange—a great storyteller one minute, and terrifying the next. Still hobbling, she returned again in the bathroom, this time for a couple Aspirins for her headache. Then it was time for bed. Dawn was only an hour or so away.

  She flicked the switch and her bedroom quickly flooded with light. She grabbed her favorite worn-out T-shirt for sleeping, and put it on. Off went her shoes, which had definitely seen their last days. Tomorrow she once again faced the wrath of the shiny black shoes, but that experience would probably pale in comparison to dealing with her father. A necessary evil, she figured. And if she remembered correctly, tomorrow was Monday . . . actually, it already was Monday and school was in a couple hours, and there was that history test she had barely studied for. Terrific. But as Pierre said, there are worse things in the world.

  Dressed for bed, she returned to her grandmother, still sound asleep, but with a content smile on her lips. Tiffany wondered what secret dreams she must be having. She placed a gentle kiss on Granny Ruth’s face before putting her hand on her shoulder and shaking it softly.

  “Granny, wake up. It’s time to go to bed.”

>   TWENTY-SEVEN

  AMILE AWAY, on a small rock platform high near the top of the drumlin, sat a man stripped to the waist. In front of him was a bowl containing burning sage, a tiny pile of tobacco on the rock beside it. The sun would rise in a few minutes and he was ready and eager to see it. Way off in the distance he could see the small island where he had left those two idiots who had accosted him the night before. He had been sorely tempted to deal with them in a much harsher manner, but that would have interfered with his plans for fasting. Instead, they would have woken up naked amid the moist lush foliage of poison ivy. Elders are often called upon to teach those younger than themselves lessons. And there were no elders older than him.

  Smiling broadly, the man started to chant an ancient song. It was practically light already, but the sun had not yet appeared to take him home. Around his neck was a thin strip of leather holding some weekah root.

  To the north, he heard a sudden volley of gunshots. The hunters were busy. The ducks had finally arrived on their journey, while another journey was ending.

  Then, after so long, Pierre L’Errant saw the sun peek boldly above the horizon. And it was glorious.

  Acknowledgments

  AS WITH MOST literary creations, regardless of their origins or substance, books are seldom born in a vacuum or desert. Like alchemy, there are many different elements that go into the caldron to synthesize what you hold in your hands.