The Night Wanderer (11 page)

Rachel Stoney was a very old woman. Older than even Granny Ruth. Longer ago than both would like to remember, back when the world was young, Rachel used to babysit Granny Ruth. But unlike Granny Ruth, Rachel had not had any children or, as a direct result, any grandchildren or great-grandchildren. She had no problems with that. Nobody to clean up after, nobody to tell her what to do. A decade or two ago, she had suffered a stroke that robbed her of her ability to talk and walk. But that didn't matter, Rachel was her own best friend and she was quite comfortable with that. She now spent all of her time at the Otter Lake senior citizens' home near the lake.

Due to the unknown quirks of biology and psychology, Rachel Stoney never needed more than three hours' sleep a night. Nobody ever knew why, even she didn't. Nevertheless, it was a fact. The night shift at the home had long ago got used to Rachel wheeling herself around the building at all hours of the night. As long as she didn't bother any of the other residents, or endanger herself, they were fine with it.

Often Rachel could be found sitting on the lakeside deck of the nursing home, watching yet another night come and go in her life. She knew the moon and stars better than most astronomers. With the nice thick quilt a niece had given her twenty years ago, she would sit there, staring out to the world and the heavens. She was old. Alone. In a wheelchair. Silent and ancient, she felt like the rocks that were scattered along the shore.

The Otter Lake Nursing Home had been built some twenty-two years earlier. It stood on the west side of the Valley, near Hockey Heights. Across the lake she could see the odd porch light or car lights of someone returning home late. And in front of her was her nightly visitor, the moon. She could see it reflected in the water, as she silently sat there, the small waves playing on its face. Much of it was hidden by the trees across the small bay to the east. But enough shone through to give it a webbed or cracked appearance on the lake surface. The old woman would spend hours watching the moon, and it was said Rachel Stoney had more patience than the heavens themselves.

Tonight, her thoughts turned idly to long-dead friends and family. While she was indeed her own best friend, Rachel had been a loyal and kind sister, niece, and aunt. She missed all the ones that had traveled on before her, and at times like this, she wondered if it would be much longer before she joined them. When you can't talk, and are confined to a wheelchair, your thoughts can often become heavy with memory and longing.

Rachel was staring directly at the watery moon when two things happened. First, a raucous outcry came from a nearby tree as a family of crows was rudely awakened by the shaking of their comfortable branch. Like dark demons they flew off in different directions, startled and angry. Second, she instinctively looked up to the branch so recently evacuated by the crows. There before her eyes, Rachel Stoney was sure, positive in fact, she could see the dark image of what appeared to be a man standing up, on a branch, silhouetted against the bright disc of the moon.

Then suddenly he disappeared, leaving only the large maple branch undulating softly in the night, released from some great weight. And then more movement caught her eye. It was something dark and big crawling down a pine tree growing along the shore. Upside down. She saw the figure pause, turn around till it was facing skyward, then turn around again until it was once more crawling like a bat headfirst down to the base of the tree. Once more it was the shape of a man. She was sure of it. But it didn't move like any man should.

Rachel knew she was old, couldn't talk, couldn't walk, and her hearing was almost just as bad. But for some strange reason, God had let her keep her eyesight. Now, she wondered why. The staff found her still sitting there silently the next morning, her eyes fixed upon the horizon. A look of wonder and perhaps a touch of fear on her cold, dead face.

Dead at eighty-five from a heart attack, it said in the papers. According to the coroner, something had shocked her to death.

TWELVE

L
OTS AND LOTS of maple syrup was the only true way to eat pancakes. At least that's what Keith believed. Especially Granny Ruth's pancakes, which tended to be a little more like bannock, the thick fried bread Native people are known for. The added sweetness cut the toughness. Still, he couldn't stand to face a weekend without at least four of them in his stomach. Kept him warm in the cold, he believed.

She was flipping two more. “Ya think I maybe should make some for Mr. L'Errant? You know, 'case he gets hungry? He is our guest.”

Keith shook his head. “You heard him. He don't want them.”

It was still dark out, and Keith was anxious to get started. You had to get up pretty early to call yourself a duck hunter. Within the next half hour, Keith hoped to be well ensconced in his duck blind about twenty minutes away by boat. He had few real pleasures in life, but duck hunting was one of them. Whether with some good buddies or by himself, he would sit there, surrounded by nature, waiting, thinking, relaxing. Time stood still in a duck blind, only the growing daylight giving away the rotation of the Earth.

Granny Ruth served him another pancake. Keith already had the syrup bottle in his hand. “Is Charley picking you up?”

Between dripping mouthfuls, Keith nodded.

Quietly, Granny Ruth put the pans in the sink. On the counter beside her were three pancakes covered with plastic wrap. “I'll clean up a bit later, after Tiffany and I have our breakfast.
Mno' shiwebizin
, my son. Bring me back many ducks.” She squeezed his shoulder as she put the pancakes in the refrigerator. Then she walked past him, intent on crawling back into the comfort of her bed. She may be seventy-four years old, but she would never be too old to cook breakfast for her son. At whatever hour.

Keith was left alone in the kitchen, with only the sound of his chewing, and the tick of the clock in the shape of the Last Supper that hung over the stove. From where Keith sat, the window looked black. Somewhere in the sky there was a three-quarter moon, but the poplar and cedar trees hid almost everything the skies offered. Still, he watched the window, waiting for the lights from Charley's truck to enter his driveway.

Finishing the last bite of his pancake, he wiped up the residual maple syrup with his toast. Fueled and ready to go, he grabbed a used and heavily duct-taped canvas bag. Inside were some extra socks, gloves, shotgun shells, and other assorted duck-hunting necessities. He added a big thermos of coffee that hopefully would still be hot two or three damp hours later. From the front closet he grabbed his shotgun, a large pump-action Remington, and a big, thick plaid jacket. That jacket had been hunting ducks as long as he had. It was old, smelly, with stains and rips all through it—just like me, he sometimes joked. But Keith would no more go hunting without it than without his shotgun. He was all set.

“Going hunting?”

The suddenness of the deep, still voice made Keith drop his gun and it bounced off the table, then off the chair, and finally landed on the floor. Standing at the doorway to the basement was his houseguest, calmly watching Keith prepare for aquatic and avian battle.

“Geez, you scared me! I could have shot you, you know! Don't ever sneak up on a guy carrying a gun. You could get yourself killed!” Keith was breathing heavily and was trying to stop his heart from beating so fast. Pierre stepped into the kitchen and bent down to retrieve Keith's shotgun. He handled the hefty weapon like it was no heavier than a broom handle, then examined it for a moment before handing it back to the hunter.

“Yes, that was foolish of me. My apologies. Your rifle appears intact. No damage done.”

Still trying to recover, Keith sat back down in his chair, placing the shotgun across his lap. Pierre watched him, somewhat amused. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“That's okay. I'm okay. But, my God, you move quietly. Those steps are more than thirty years old and they creak like anything. If I'd known you were going to be staying down there, I would have replaced them. But I didn't hear a thing when you . . .”

“I was worried that I might wake somebody. I can be quite quiet when I have to be.” Pierre stood with his back to the light, the shadows hiding his face.

“Obviously.” Keith checked his gun over, making sure the safety was still on and the barrel hadn't been damaged. “How is the basement? Had any second thoughts, maybe?”

“None whatsoever. I find it quite charming. It—” Pierre's face took on a look of concentration. Finally, he inhaled deeply. “Maple syrup! Is that maple syrup I smell?” Almost eagerly, he scanned the kitchen counters.

“Yeah, right here. You got a good nose,” said Keith, pointing to the center of the table. “Just had pancakes this morning. Want some? Granny Ruth made extra in the fridge.”

Pierre picked up the bottle gingerly. “No, no thank you. My diet prohibits me,” he said, still studying the bottle. He smelled it again, then, quite daintily, he rubbed the lid of the syrup bottle with his little finger. There was residue on it and he licked the tip. His eyes closed as memories came flooding in. They flowed through him like an electric current.

An afternoon long, long ago. It was spring, with just a hint of snow on the ground. But it was late enough in the season for the blood of the maple tree to wake from its winter slumber. Slowly, then more quickly, the sweet sap made its journey from the soil up to its still-bare branches, on its way to rouse the leaves and start the summer. But before it could do that, it had to make its way past the taps and spigots buried into the tree's bark. As they had done for thousands of years, the Anishinabe were harvesting this precious liquid, determined to turn it into sugary gold.

Helping this year, as he did every year, was Owl. Now a young man, but still with a boy's taste for sweetness, he worked hard, carrying the containers full of sap to be boiled. Around him, excited children urged him to move faster. Just as he was, they were eager to taste the syrup that would be distilled from the sap.

“Hurry, Owl. You're too slow,” they all cried. Instead of being angry, he smiled. He knew how anxious they were because it wasn't that long ago he would have been urging on his own relatives in anticipation of sweet snow.

“If I move any faster, I'll spill it. Then you'd have to wait even longer.” That silenced them. For a few steps anyway.

After a long and hard winter, everybody in the village—from the most ancient elder to children that could barely remember the winter before—looked forward to the yearly ritual. As always, food was lean
and hard to get during the snows, and this was the Earth's first gift, telling the people better times were just ahead.

The whole village participated in the making of the syrup. Often times the eager children got in the way, but they were children, they were supposed to get in the way. A child who wasn't curious, or excited, was a sad child indeed.