The Night Wanderer (21 page)

The girl had been nice to him. Everybody else was staying away from the young Anishinabe, because he was dying. Nobody told him this to his face, but they didn't have to. He had something called “measles,”
and while these white people usually recovered, even as children, for some reason it fed more strongly on Owl's people. He had been ill with it for four days, and had since been “quarantined”—yet another new word to learn—in a remote part of the palace. Only this young girl, he had found out her name was Anne, was brave enough to tend to him in his feverish and spotted state.

Day after day, she brought him fresh sheets, bathed him with cool water, and tried to feed him. Sometimes he could eat. Most times not. Yet she stayed there when nobody else would come. Even though it was obvious he was not going to recover, she still came, a smile on her face and her arms full of things to make him feel better.

If he had been healthier, and more fit, maybe he would have fallen in love with her. Instead, he was merely grateful that this country did not contain just demons and liars. They found it hard to talk for she spoke some remote dialect of French, and he another, one used by sailors. All he could make out was that it was her Christian duty and she was a palace servant girl. That was enough for him, as he repeatedly dozed of to sleep during the cool baths that kept his fever down.

Then on that final night, when his body was failing him, and he knew it was time for him to join his ancestors, something strange and wonderous happened. The girl had long since gone to her own chambers to sleep, so Owl was all alone. Somehow he managed to crawl to his feet and stagger over to the window overlooking the courtyard. Opening it, Owl wanted to look westward, to where the moon was setting. That was where his land and people were. He would die looking in the direction of home. A place he never should have left.

How long he had been sitting on the window ledge, he had forgotten. By this time, he was passing in and out of consciousness. One of the last two memories he had was of the young girl Anne—maybe he had fallen in love with her after all, and then to die—the irony of it made
his sore throat manage a small laugh. His very last memory was of something coming in through the window, darting across his very legs as he sat there, barely conscious. Whatever it was had red eyes. And sharp teeth. That was the last image he had of that night, and that life.

The late-evening peace was suddenly shattered by the ring of the phone. Startled, Granny Ruth groggily reached for the phone hanging on the wall behind her. But before her hand reached the receiver, Pierre's hand was already on it. Delicately, he lifted it and handed it over to the old woman. “It's probably for you,” he said with a smile. For a second, Granny Ruth thought she could see something odd about his teeth, before his smile quickly vanished.

“Oh, you're up. Thank you.” She took the phone, shaking the cobwebs from her still-sleepy mind. “Hello?”

Pierre sat down in the seat in front of her, a curious look on his face. Though he'd only been in the house a brief period, he had already assessed a pattern of life among these people. And now it seemed to have been broken. Dishes left over from the morning not washed. The kitchen looked uncharacteristically still in use. And Granny Ruth looked tired and worried. Something was amiss. Not that Pierre cared. It was just something he noticed.

“No, Keith, she hasn't shown up yet. I think we should call the police.” This definitely perked up Pierre's ears. Police and people like Pierre didn't mix well. There were always questions that he would prefer not to answer, and prolonged periods of time where control of his surrounding environment could be taken away from him. Unwanted attention could come his way and this could definitely complicate matters. He cocked an inquiring eyebrow at the elder across the table from him. His acute hearing could, even at this distance, make out what Keith's voice said over the phone. Evidently he had already flagged down Officer Kakina, the reserve cop, who said she'd keep an eye out for the teenager during her patrols. Meanwhile, Keith was going to continue to search as much of the reserve as he could. He urged Granny Ruth to call Tiffany's friends once more. Then they hung up.

“Trouble?” Pierre inquired.

“Oh, just a bit. That Tiffany. Her and her father got into a fight this morning, and she's done gone and run off. We've been looking for her for a better part of the day. She said some scary stuff when she ran off. So, we're kinda concerned.” That was obvious. Full of nervous energy, she got up out of her chair and started stacking plates, but one fell out of her hand and smashed on the floor. Granny Ruth stopped moving, though her body still trembled. Slowly, Pierre got down on one knee and started picking up the pieces.

“Oh, I'm so sorry . . . I'm just a bundle of nerves. I don't know what I'm doing . . .” The old woman seemed confused.

Without looking up, Pierre made a suggestion. “Why don't you make some tea?”

“What a wonderful idea. Tea. I'll make some tea. ”Now with a definite and attainable purpose, Granny Ruth puttered, engaged in a flurry of tea-making activity. Pierre gathered up the last of the plate shards. Once the kettle was on the stove, she got out two cups from the cupboard and placed them on the table. He immediately noticed this and debated objecting, as next came the milk and sugar.

“Really I . . .”

With a soft thump, she sat back down at the kitchen table and started premixing her tea cup. “I couldn't tell you how many cups of tea I've had in this house, and in the house I grew up in. Probably enough to fill that lake. Including the pee that followed. Every once in a while Tiffany or one of her friends would try to get me to try one of them herbal flavoured teas everybody is drinking these days, but it's not for me. Give me that good old Red Rose orange pekoe tea every time. Tea just wouldn't be tea without my Red Rose. And you ever try and put milk in some of those herbal teas? They go sour just like that!” She snapped her fingers to illustrate her point. “Do they drink any tea where you come from, Pierre?”

“Tea is very big in England. They even have a part of the day put aside for it.” Small talk was never one of Pierre L'Errant's strongest survival skills. But he was nothing if not adaptable.

She nodded. “Yeah, I heard that somewhere. Them white people have a time put aside for practically everything. Tea, meetings, when to go to the bathroom. Can you believe it? Oh, listen to me babble. I'm an old woman with a lot of history in my brain. Sometimes it leaks through.” She checked on the kettle but couldn't help looking out the window again. “Oh, Tiffany, where are you?”

Once more, he could only hear the sound of ticking in the kitchen. “Perhaps I should—” The kettle started to sing and she quickly turned it off and brought it to the table, as she'd done tens of thousands of times before. As before, he started to object, but with the same result.

“No thank you. I have to—”

“Nonsense, you need a good cup of tea. With all these weird hours you keep, God knows what you're eating. To tell you the truth, Pierre, you ain't been looking too good. I'm concerned.”

It was true. Pierre wasn't feeling very well. He felt weak and uncomfortable. He hadn't felt like this in a long time. Like all hungry beings, part of him was screaming to be let out to do what it did naturally. It craved. And it was beastly strong. Pierre was doing everything in his power to keep control of himself and his body's wants. He had maybe one more day, if that, then his corporeal essence would eventually overcome his willpower. Unlike normal human beings, what made Pierre L'Errant different also had the ability to satisfy its needs if the mind wouldn't let it.

That was another reason he didn't appear too healthy. Self-denial is a very strenuous activity. One that requires great energy that currently was coming from nowhere. His body was beginning to feed on itself, which confused the instincts that had allowed him to survive for an ungodly length of time. Those same instincts told him food was a scant distance away. On the other side of the table.

Granny Ruth smiled softly at him as she poured the steaming liquid into the teapot. “I hope regular milk is fine. I ain't got none of that skim milk stuff.”

He forced another smile. “That will be fine.” He went through the motions of picking up the milk and adding a couple of drops into his empty cup, as he'd seen them do in England. Mixing it with a spoon, he added some sugar like he'd seen Granny Ruth do. Pierre smiled pleasantly. “Tea is as different as the people who drink it.”

“I know. We used to have all kinds of medicinal teas. It was our teas that allowed those French explorers to survive the winters all those years ago. Cured their—what was it called—scurvy. Full of vitamin C, I'm told.”

“Cedar tea.”

Granny Ruth looked surprised. “Yes it was. How did you know that?”

“I read a lot.”

Puzzled but impressed, Granny Ruth poured the tea. Pierre sniffed it. Its pleasant aroma once more reminded him of the time he had spent in Britain. Granny Ruth also savored the smell of the tea before drinking it with a wink toward her tenant. With her eyes on him, he raised the cup to his mouth and pretended to sip it, letting the liquid barely touch his lips.

“Delicious,” he said.

“I make good tea, don't I?” She smiled proudly, then added, “Hey, come with me.” She got out of her seat and made her way across the living room. Pierre, puzzled, had no choice but to follow. Opening the screen door, she urged her guest out onto the back deck. “Let's enjoy our tea out here.”

There were four wooden chairs scattered across the smallish deck badly in need of varnishing. Granny Ruth lined up two, with cushions, facing east. With a satisfied sigh, she sat down. “We can watch the moon rise. I used to be much more of a night person, like you, when I was young. Now, I get tired so early. Enjoy your youth while you can, Pierre. There will come a day, young man, when you will be going to bed with the sun. Mark my words.”

Pierre didn't say anything. He pretended to take another sip. As always, he could hear the animals of the forest going about their nightly business. Hunting for food, both animal and vegetable. That's all, he sometimes thought, the night was good for.

The old woman breathed in the air and sat back. She was still worried about her granddaughter and where she might be, but right now there was nothing she could do. Except drink the tea. Maybe talk to her guest a bit. Perhaps he could take her mind off the useless waiting she was doing.

“So, what makes a sophisticated man like yourself want to come all the way from Europe to our little Otter Lake?”

Pierre put his cup down on the deck. “As I told you—”

“Some things. But you don't travel all this way to see where your great-grandfather came from, in the dark. That's kinda strange. And something's haunting you, young man. I can see it. It's like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. You're mighty young to have that look . . . and I kinda get the impression you can only get rid of it by coming here. My son might buy your story, but I don't.” Granny Ruth looked at him with curious eyes. “You're a very weird man, Pierre L'Errant.”

“I'm from Europe,” he responded.

“I've haven't met a lot of you European people, except seeing them on television. But you ain't European like them. Or like anybody else, for that matter. You're just different. Come on. What's your story?” She paused as she studied him closely. She wanted an answer to her questions. “Well?”

The woman was indeed intuitive. Perhaps a little too intuitive. Any other time Pierre would have known how to handle the situation, but times had changed and there were more important things at hand. Instead, he decided to sprinkle his lies with a little truth. Sometimes that can throw the most persistent tracker off the trail. He cleared his throat. “I often heard my great-grandfather talk of Otter Lake. So often that I felt I'd been here. That I'd actually walked among these trees, climbed the hills, felt the cold slap of the lake in spring. They talked about it so much, I felt like I knew every ravine and hill. But obviously the place has changed . . . that's why I spend so much time wandering. Trying to find familiar landmarks and such.”

“The years can change a lot of things. And a lot of people. But why go about at night? Wouldn't it be easier to see Otter Lake during the day?” For old eyes, Granny Ruth's could sure be piercing.

“I suffer from a condition called porphyria. My skin is sensitive to strong light. It can . . . hurt.”Modern medical science had provided him with a viable excuse. This wasn't the first time somebody had inquired about his unusual lifestyle.

Granny Ruth thought about this for a moment before nodding her head. “Sounds harsh, young man. But I wish more kids today had your connection to the land. Two generations removed and you still want to see and walk the land. So where'd you grow up? In Europe, I mean.”