The Night Wanderer (12 page)

And after much preparation, the first batch of the hot steaming syrup was poured over a big pile of snow. Portions were respectfully presented to the elders, but once that was done, it was a free-for-all and adult and child alike scrambled to taste the sweetness of the forest. Owl looked forward to it every year, but this year for different reasons.

“We have guests arriving. We must show them a proper welcome.” Those were the words of his father.

“What guests?” he had asked.

“Traders. Traders from far to the east. I have word that they are interested in our animal pelts. They will trade us many valuable things. So hurry, my son, with the sap. I am told to expect them tomorrow.”

Strangers? From the east? “Would it be the white men with hairy faces we've heard about?”

His father nodded and left the wigwam to make further preparations. Owl was thrilled at the thought of meeting these people of legend. Finally, some excitement.

Keith had noticed the change in Pierre. “Hey, you okay? What's a matter? They don't got maple syrup in Europe?”

Awoken from his bittersweet memories, Pierre stole another hint of the bottle's quintessentially Canadian essence on his finger and transferred it to his tongue. But any more and he knew he would be ill. “No, not like this. Pancakes like these aren't that popular, and it's mostly corn syrup in Europe. Myfamily used to make maple syrup. Poured it on snow—”

“—And then eat the snow. I used to do that too, a long time ago. This old guy at the edge of the reserve, oh about two miles from here, used to make maple syrup at his sugar bush, and when we were young, me and my friends would go over and watch. And occasionally he'd let us have some. God, that seems so long ago.”

Pierre put the bottle down. “It does seem so very long ago.” Once again, he clasped his hands in front of him, fingers intertwined. “Yes, indeed, it is wonderful to be home. But don't let me interrupt you. You must hunt . . .”

Keith zipped up the canvas bag. Everything he would need was in that bag. He had his gun and jacket. And his pulse had slowed down. He was ready for duck. “No, just waiting for Charley to arrive. He's my cousin.” He dropped the bag on the floor with a thump and tightened his boots. “I'm surprised you're up, Mr. L'Errant. Especially considering you only went to bed a few hours ago. Dawn is in about an hour.”

A strong shake of Pierre's head told Keith he had misjudged the situation. “I haven't been to bed yet. I've been out, wandering. Exploring the landscape. Taking in the surroundings, the air. I couldn't wait. I'm just getting back in.” He added, “And like I said, please call me Pierre.”

This surprised Keith. “You're just getting in? Jesus, it must be cold out there, and your coat don't look too warm.”

Again the European smiled his weak, closed-mouth smile. “Thank you for your concern, but I assure you I was quite content.”

Keith got a mug out of the cupboard and poured himself and his guest some coffee. “Well, a good cup of coffee can warm the soul. Help yourself.”

“No, thank you. It might . . . keep me up.”

Practically draining his mug in one gulp, Keith let out a small belch. “I'd use it in an I.V. if I could. But if you're still going to be up, you might want to watch the sunrise from the living-room window. I tell you, you'll swear you've died and gone to heaven. It's the prettiest thing you'll ever see. The way it comes up over that lake, it's a sight you'll never forget. Trust me.”

Pierre glanced at the living-room window. “Oh I trust you, Keith. However, it's rather . . . late for me. I'm sure there will be other sunrises. There always are.”

Shrugging, Keith said, “Your choice. Oh, can you do me a favor? Can you remind Tiffany to feed Midnight? That's our dog out front. I usually do but . . .”

“I won't be up for several hours. Perhaps you should leave her a note. And I should warn you, dogs and I don't get a long very well.” Once more Pierre inhaled the maple syrup but did not taste it.

Keith rummaged around a drawer, finally finding a scrap piece of paper and a pen. “Don't worry about it. Midnight don't get along with anybody.” Charley was late and Keith was getting annoyed. He left the note on the table, beside the maple syrup bottle. “Did you see anything interesting out there while you were walking?”

“It's all interesting.”

Keith nodded. “Before Tiffany was born, I moved to the city for a while. Wanted to see the world, you know how that is.” Now it was Pierre's time to nod. “Only lasted about a year and a half. It was too fast there. Missed the quietness of the woods. Actually, if you know how to listen, the woods aren't that quiet.”

Again, the man from Europe nodded.

“It took me a while, but I finally realized this was my home.”

“It can sometimes take people a long time to realize that,” Pierre said as he noticed a small cut on Keith's cheek, near his right ear. Evidently the man had cut himself shaving this morning. He could see the small bit of coagulated blood moving as the man talked. To Pierre, it was like a beacon of light in the darkness. He couldn't take his eyes off it while Keith kept talking.

“Yeah, I guess. Then I moved back home, got married, had Tiffany and . . .” His voice trailed off for a moment. “Well, what can I say. Times change. But you don't want to hear about all that. Neither do I.” Then Keith went silent and turned away, breaking what seemed to be a spell cast on Pierre by the small red nick.

Realizing he'd been staring, Pierre turned away and put the lid on the maple syrup bottle. “Yes, they do change. You live with your daughter and mother. No wife?” Pierre had just been making conversation, trying to regain his composure, unaware of the door he had just opened. Then he looked over his shoulder as his host struggled to answer.

“No. No wife. She's . . . gone. Left.” It was uncommon for a grown Native man to show strong emotion in front of a stranger, guest or no guest, and Keith was no different, though Pierre's acute senses told him the man's blood pressure and temperature suddenly became elevated. It was the sudden shock of the question, like doing a ninety-degree turn with no warning, that had sent Keith Hunter reeling. Nobody really mentioned Claudia anymore, and if they did, it was never so casually. And the pain of how she left was never far from the surface.

They had been watching television one night when Tiffany had been off with her friends and Granny Ruth had been in her room. Five words: “Keith, I'm tired of this.” It's been said that sticks and stones can break bones but names (and words) can never hurt you. Well, whoever said that had either never been in love or fallen out of love. Those words, and her subsequent departure, hurt him far worse than any stick or stone.

“Tired? Well, it is getting kind of late,” he said as he was trying to understand what she was saying.

“Not that tired. Tired of living with you. Tired of your grumpiness. Tired of being your wife.” What followed was a long dissertation about his faults and how many times she had tried to reach out to him, to let him know she wasn't happy, that something was wrong in their marriage. But true to his nature, Keith had seen only what he wanted to see. He had never noticed her going to bed after him, or spending more time over at her mother's, or simply not talking anymore. Marriages are like house plants, they have to be nurtured and looked after. Alone, they shrivel up and die. And Keith was a hunter, not a gardener.

“I love you. But I'm not in love with you.”

And with that, eighteen years of marriage had begun its slow journey to ending. Keith looked at her to see if it was a joke. It wasn't. Or he was the joke. Claudia got up, grabbed her coat, and walked out the door. It was a dramatic exit for sure, but over a year later, Keith could still hear the door closing in his mind. He had always thought they would be together forever. That's the way married couples were supposed to be.

And that's how Tiffany found him, still sitting on the couch, when she got home an hour later. Sitting there like a deer with an eighteen-wheeler barreling down on him. Claudia had gone over to Kim's to tell Tiffany what was happening. Together they sat in silence, for hours. The sun disappeared, then reappeared. Granny Ruth, not feeling well, had gone to bed early. And it was there, on the couch, early that next morning that she found them still sitting there, and learned how their family had changed forever.

Not really caring about the Pandora's box he had just opened, Pierre was unsure how to respond. Instead, there was an awkward silence in the room.

“I see. I'm sorry,” was all he could muster.

Clearing his throat, Keith went back to preparing for his day. “Well, yeah. Like I said, things happen. So not a lot of strangers come to Otter Lake. Something to do with your family?”

Pierre seemed puzzled. “My family?”

“Yeah, the ones that went over to fight in the war and stayed behind.” A car was coming down their road but instead of turning into their driveway it kept going. Another duck hunter, no doubt. Getting that early start. “Damn that Charley,” Keith muttered.

Grabbing his things, Keith went to the front door and headed out. Midnight saw him emerging onto the front porch and started to wag his tail. Then he saw the tall, dark stranger right behind him and the wagging tail was quickly tucked between his legs. Several whimpers followed as Midnight backed into his little doghouse, almost pushing it over.

“Yes. Of course. Actually it was my father, I mean, great-grandfather who participated in . . . um . . . the First World War, not the Second. My roots there go way back.”

Keith took a seat on the steps. Pierre, however, preferred to stand. “Wow, your family's been over there for a long time. I've said it before and I'll say it again, you sure do look full-blooded to me. You could almost pass for my father or uncles.”

“Actually, I have a lot of different types of blood flowing through my veins. But I still consider myself Anishinabe.”

Reaching back, Keith slapped him on the leg. “Well, good for you. We get a lot of people around here who show up claiming to be one-sixty-fourth or something like that, and looking whiter than a ghost. Your great-grandfather's genes were sure strong.”

Pierre thought for a moment, assessing everything that had just been said. He decided to solidify his story. “I should also mention that my grandmother on my other side was also Anishinabe. That might account for my more Aboriginal appearance.”

Keith turned around to look at him. “She was? She couldn't have been in the army too.”

Silently, Pierre considered his options. It had been a long time since he had to explain his supposed background in such a detailed manner. “She was part of a dance troupe—traditional Native dance troupe—that was touring Europe at the time. And she met my grandfather, and the rest, as they say, is history . . .” He hoped that would be enough to satisfy the hunter. His explanation was getting far too complicated. Lies, like stories, should be simple.

Now it was Keith's turn to be silent. He absentmindedly flicked the safety off, then on once more. Then, after some thought, he spoke up. “Wow, that's some story. Your life is a lot more interesting than mine, that's for sure.”

The lonely sound of a motorboat drifted in from the lake. More hunters, less ducks, Keith thought. Then a second motor could be heard starting up. Because of the peculiar shape of the village of Otter Lake, a bulge of land surrounded by water, sound carried quite a distance. It seemed the world was waking up to the lure of duck for dinner.

“Damn it! Where is that Charley?” Keith grumbled in frustration.

Not really caring about this Charley fellow, Pierre turned toward the lake that lay hidden by trees, and took in a deep breath. The aroma of pine, fresh water, wood smoke, all the familiar scents of home flooded into his lungs. “Can't you just smell that lovely breeze? It carries the memories of this land.”

Almost immediately, a pair of headlights turned into the Hunter driveway. The tardy Charley had finally arrived. Keith grabbed up all his gear and made his way down the short flight of stairs.

Pierre watched him go. “I take it that must be your ride.”

Keith threw his stuff into the back of Charley's truck. With a wave of his hand, he said good-bye to Pierre, who remained standing on the porch. “Well, gotta go. You best get some sleep. Don't want you getting sick and dying in my basement.”

Once more, Pierre smiled his closed-mouth smile. “I am on my way to bed as we speak. Good hunting, sir. Duck was a favorite of mine as a child.” He opened the door and disappeared inside.

As Keith slid into the passenger seat, Charley asked, “Who was that?”

Doing up his seatbelt, Keith's only reply was, “Just a guy staying in my basement.”

Charley put the truck into reverse and started backing out of the driveway. “Looks kind of weird to me.”