So there she sat, under stars far older then she could contemplate, smoking her cigarettes. She was thinking about her cousin Tiffany and her new boyfriend, wondering if someday she’d get a boyfriend. Or if she wanted one. Every relationship she’d seen start up had eventually come apart. Many times, especially on beautiful nights such as this, she thought it was better to be alone. The peace, the quiet, maybe it was better to spend your life alone, just you and your thoughts. She had never bought into all that romantic crap anyway. Nothing could beat a peaceful evening like this. Sharing it would mean talking, and there would go the peace.
Then, off in the distance, coming down Joplin’s Turn, she noticed a car approaching. She didn’t recognize it, and it was getting kind of late for strangers to be driving the reserve roads. It was driving slow, like it was lost. Or looking for someone. It drove around the day care, then suddenly turned toward her in the playground.
Trish became uncomfortable. Living in a small community she knew who to avoid and who to trust. But this was a strange car, and all bets were off. Trish put one foot on the sandy ground as she slowly slid off the picnic table, ready to run if necessary. Admittedly, she was curious, but she was smart enough to know curiosity could cause a lot of damage if you weren’t careful.
The car came to a stop directly in front of her. The engine hummed, almost silently, as Trish put her second foot on the sand. There was something definitely creepy about the car and the way it just sat there. Like it was judging her. Around her everything seemed to go silent. In fall, most of the insects were gone, but there were still enough animal noise coming from the grass and bush to let you know you weren’t alone on the land. But now, silence. Just the sound of the car idling.
“You looking for something?” She hardly recognized her own voice.
The window slowly came down, revealing . . . blackness. Trish could just barely make out the lit gauges on the dashboard, but other than that, it was like looking into the bottom of a well. Nothing. Then she heard the voice.
“Yes.”
It was rich, deep, and had an almost echoing quality. The single three-letter word she heard was crisp, strong, and commanding. There was somebody in there, in the shadows, but she still couldn’t see him. But he could see her, and she felt alone and vulnerable.
Any other night she would have run, but for some reason, Trish was rooted to the sand, her left hand grasping the top of the picnic table. Her mind was dizzy, and it was like there was a fog billowing through her consciousness. She was finding it hard to concentrate. The measured tone of the voice and the blackness that she saw in the car seemed to be pulling her. But once more she found the conviction and nerve to speak. “Wh . . . who . . . ?”
For a second and a half, there was silence. Then came the response: “Come here, please.” This time, the voice sent a ripple down her spine, though she couldn’t quite say it was a chill. It was just her body reacting to the man’s tone. Though it went against all the types of survival training they taught her and all the other kids in school, she found herself approaching the car. The voice was a magnet, pulling her legs closer. Something within her knew that she should be kicking up stones to the nearest house as fast as her legs could carry her, but . . . maybe she could do that later. Trish leaned over and looked in the car window.
For a moment, it seemed like the dark frame that sat in the driver’s seat had red eyes, but then she realized it was probably the reflection from the dashboard lights. “I’m looking for Keith Hunter’s house. Where is it, please?” It was then Trish was sure she smelled something. No, not smelled exactly. But something was coming from the inside of the car that Trish was sure she’d encountered before. That time on a field trip when they went into caves carved out of the Canadian Shield thousands of years ago. Or when she climbed that five-hundred-year-old pine tree. Or when she took that shortcut through the graveyard. It was definitely not a new-car smell.
Involuntarily, Trish found herself pointing toward the dirt road leading to the Valley. “That way. Just before the turnoff to the lake. Thirteen Muriel’s Landing. Look for the doghouse out front.” She was speaking the words, knew that was where her cousin lived, but it was like her knowledge was in one room and her willpower was in another, and the door between the two was locked. The voice had the only key.
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” The electric window raised up and Trish automatically stepped back from the car. She could hear the engine being put into gear and then the car picked up speed and left, heading directly for the Valley. With a thump, Trish sat back down on the picnic table, trying to remember something.
Whatever it was, it was gone. It was as if a page had been seamlessly removed from the book of her life. She took out another cigarette and, lighting it, looked up at the stars. Otter Lake sure was boring, Trish thought. Sure wish something interesting would happen around here.
SEVEN
GRANNY RUTH LIKED to knit. It was something she had been doing for more than sixty years and she was good at it. Her small hands could barely hold the needles when her own grandmother had taught her the first knit one, purl two. Knitting had always been a practical activity for the women in her family. During both her parents and her own family’s more trying economic times, she could always provide warm, cheap clothing. And whatever people didn’t wear, she could sell to a shop in town. In today’s world, though, knit clothes weren’t in demand. People wanted more contemporary styles and materials. Now, she mostly knitted out of habit.
It was the same with her language. She spoke Anishinabe like she remembered it as a child. In her long years of existence, she had seen it weaken, wither and then go on life support. Now Granny Ruth was one of the last fluent speakers of the language on the reserve. In fact, she recalled the very first English word she learned in school: “Hello.” She distinctly remembered her teacher, an Englishman named Hughes, saying that on the first day. Luckily, Otter Lake had been one of the few Native communities that had a school located on the reserve. For many years now, Granny Ruth had heard horror stories about what went on at all those government places they called residential schools. Every day she thanked God for letting her stay in Otter Lake, with her family.
That little five-letter English word that took her three days to figure out opened the floodgates in the community. The years passed, and radio, television, music, books, and a host of other life-changing media came rushing in. All in English. And like water pouring out of one glass into another, the use of the Anishinabe language decreased while English practically overflowed. Now she had a head full of Anishinabe words and practically nobody to share them with. Oh sure, there were still a few in the village who could understand, even contribute the odd phrase or sentence, but there were no more opportunities to slip into an Anishinabe conversation like you would a warm bath. It was her one big regret in life. She should have done more to teach Keith and Tiffany.
But as her own mother used to say, regrets are cheap. That’s when you’re looking backward. Hopes are when you look forward. Everybody has regrets, but only a special few have hopes. So, Granny Ruth always tried to look forward. Knitting helped her focus and think. Many of the problems in her life had been sorted out over the construction of a sweater or a pair of socks. This thing between Keith and Tiffany was her most recent bugaboo. She didn’t like it when they fought. But at least that meant they were talking.
She stifled a yawn as she started on a new row, her knitting needles clacking in the kitchen twilight. Seventy-four years old and she still had pretty good eyesight. Keith was down in the basement, trying to make Tiffany’s room a little more comfortable—his way of meeting his daughter halfway. All things considered, he was a good son, and a good father. One day Tiffany would realize that.
Once more, the night’s stillness was broken by Midnight’s raucous bark. “Omaajiisa awh nimoshish!” Granny Ruth muttered, cursing the dog as she put her knitting aside and stood up to investigate. Her bones and groans reminded her
of her age better than any calendar could. That dog was probably mouthing off at a squirrel or raccoon. Hopefully not a porcupine or, heaven forbid, a skunk. She had washed far too many skunk-scented dogs in her life, and the novelty had worn off way back.
Then, just as sudden as Midnight’s howls, there was a firm and confident knock at the door. It was late, almost 11:15 p.m., and no self-respecting person would be out visiting at this hour, unless they were drunk or in trouble. She was half tempted not to answer it, but Keith’s voice echoed out of the basement.
“That’s probably Mr. L’Errant. He said he’d be getting here late. I’ll be up in a second.”
Of course, the guest. Her eyesight might have been good, but Granny Ruth was only too conscious of her failing memory. Nobody likes to be reminded they are getting old, and sometimes, in moments such as this, she felt as old as the hills. But she still remembered her manners. Granny Ruth opened the door.
“Aiyoo!” was all she could say.
Mr. Pierre L’Errant stood there, barely visible against the evening darkness. A handsome young man, Granny Ruth immediately thought. Maybe early twenties or mid, but it was hard to tell. There was a worldliness to him, specifically his eyes, that defied age. He was a bit thin, kind of sad-looking, with a piercing gaze that surveyed her and the room with an unusual intensity, but he was clean and well dressed. And the funny thing was, he looked Anishinabe. Very Anishinabe. Almost more Anishinabe than her. She had been expecting some white European guy, but there, standing in front of her, she would wager good money on the fact he was Anishinabe. The cheekbones, the nose, the eyes, everything about him fairly screamed an Aboriginal ancestry.
“Good evening,” he said. The man spoke with a mannered clip, his voice textured and yet deep and confident. It had the hint of some accent or accents. L’Errant smiled slightly with his introduction. Then he thrust out his hand in a well-oiled manner. “My name is Pierre L’Errant. I apologize for the late hour, but I believe you are expecting me.” She took his hand and thought it must be a cold night outside. The poor man’s hand was frigid.
“Yes, yes, Mr. L’Errant. Sure we’ve been waiting for you. You come in here right now. Your hands are freezing. Poor man. I’ll turn up the heat. Get you nice and warm. How about some tea? I got some right here . . .” L’Errant tried several times to interrupt the old woman, but better men than him had tried. Instead, she went to making the tea like a marine preparing for battle. “You were probably expecting my son, Keith. He’s downstairs, but he’ll be up quick. How do you like your tea? I don’t know how you people in Europe drink your tea . . . We don’t have anything special here, just plain milk and sugar. Honey, if you got a craving. Keith!! Mr. L’Errant is here. Bizhaan maa! Just fixing up some things proper in the basement. My goodness, you must be tired, coming all that way. I’m surprised you found us tucked away back here in the dark. Anyway, silly me, my name is Ruth Hunter, but people in the village just call me Granny Ruth. You can too, if you want. Or just Ruth. Whatever tickles your fancy. Well, here’s your tea.”
She placed the tea into his hands, wrapping his fingers around the steaming cup. He tried to thank her, but once again his words got lost in Granny Ruth’s one-sided conversation. “Now tell me, I don’t mean to be rude but you ain’t what I was expecting. You look like you could have grown up right here, not in that far-off Europe country. You look like an Indian, Mr. L’Errant. Anybody ever tell you that? You really—”
“Ms. Hunter . . .”
Granny Ruth stopped talking.
L’Errant cleared his throat. “Where to begin. First of all, thank you for the tea, but it’s a little late for me. I’m very selective about what I . . . drink, especially at this time of night. Secondly, yes, I am quite tired. Fatigued, in fact. It’s taken quite a bit out of me to make this journey. I’m not as young as I look. And thirdly. Yes, you guess correctly. I am . . . of Native ancestry.”
There was an awkward silence, eventually broken by the steady sound of approaching feet on a flight of stairs. Keith, wiping his hands, entered from the basement door. Keith smiled immediately upon seeing his new houseguest.
“You must be Mr. L’Errant. Well, I’ll be, if I didn’t know you were from Europe, Mr. L’Errant, I would swear you were a cousin. Hi, I’m Keith Hunter, and I guess you’ve met my mother. Welcome to Otter Lake.” He thrust his hand out and took Pierre’s, shaking it hard. He, too, couldn’t help noticing how cold the man’s hand was. And strong.
L’Errant returned his smile, though never parting his lips. “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here. I’ve wanted to see Otter Lake for a long time.” The man placed the still-hot cup of tea down on the Formica table, little droplets dripping down the cup’s outer lip due to Keith’s exuberant handshake.
“They’ve heard of Otter Lake in Europe? Wow. I thought we were in the middle of nowhere. Maybe we ain’t as small as we thought, eh Mom?” Instinctively, Keith washed his hands. “So what made you come all the way here?”
It seemed as if L’Errant was choosing his words carefully. Maybe it was a European thing, they thought. “It is a long story, but my ancestors came from this area. A long time ago.”
“And they ended up in Europe? From Otter Lake? Don’t hear about a lot of Indians, Otter Lake ones or not, living way over there. Were they in the war?”
For the first time, L’Errant looked puzzled. “The war?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard stories of some of our boys enlisting to fight the Germans and never coming back. I supposedly have a great-uncle that fell in love with a Belgian woman and stayed over there after the war was over. Was it something like that?”
L’Errant was silent for a moment, taking in what had just been said. Then he nodded his head. “Yes. That’s exactly what happened. It was the war. You have a lovely house. Is it just the two of you?”
“I sometimes wonder that, Mr. L’Errant.” Keith snorted. “I have a teenaged daughter somewhere. Tiffany. She’ll be home a little later . . . hopefully. She won’t be any bother.”
Granny Ruth looked out the doorway, toward the man’s car. “Do you have much luggage?”
“No, I prefer to travel light. Just a bag or two.”
Keith started toward the door. “I’ll get them.”
Before he could move more than a few steps, L’Errant put his hand up to block Keith. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I am quite self-sufficient, a solitary man with solitary needs. I thank you for your hospitality, but you’ll find I’m the perfect houseguest. And I will carry my own luggage. Also, don’t expect me to join you for meals, as I eat alone, on a very specific diet. Doctors orders, I’m afraid. I am also somewhat of a night owl. As a result, I am a very late sleeper and will quite probably spend practically all my waking hours at night. Be assured I will not disturb you with my nocturnal movements. And I hope you will grant me the same graciousness during the day.”
Keith shrugged at the man’s requests. “Whatever you want, Mr. L’Errant. Our house is your house.”
L’Errant smiled. “Excellent. And there is no need to be so formal. Please, call me Pierre.”
Both Granny Ruth and Keith responded at the same time. “Pierre.” “Good. Now, I believe I have a room somewhere . . .”
Suddenly Granny Ruth jumped into action. She had been captivated by the unusual young man and had momentarily forgotten her hospitality. “Of course, of course. Silly me. Follow me, Pierre. Your room is right here.” She trotted, as much as her old legs would let her trot, down the hallway to the door at the very end. Keith wasn’t far behind.
He opened the door to what had been Tiffany’s room, proudly showing it to Pierre. “This is where you’ll be staying. I hope it’s okay. The bathroom is just down . . .”
Barely listening to Keith’s descriptive map of the house, Pierre’s eyes scanned the room. There was a dresser with a small television on top of it. To the right of that was a bed that seemed more fit for a young girl than a grown man. Right beside him, on the
left, was a closet with five bare hangers. But most of all he noted the large window over the bed, with thin sheer curtains, tied open. He walked to the window and touched the curtains, scanning what little sky was visible through the trees. He was facing south. Through the curtain, the moon was shining into his face.
“No. This won’t do, I’m afraid. It seems I neglected to tell you of a rather important provision. I’m rather rabid about my privacy. It’s a peculiarity of mine. Open windows make me uncomfortable.”
Keith and Granny Ruth looked at each other, puzzled.
“I don’t quite understand,” said Keith.
There was a concerned expression on the mysterious man’s face. “There will be too much light in this room come the morning. I have certain medical difficulties that require an unusual lifestyle. I need four walls. No windows. Is it possible to make other arrangements?” He paused.
Keith scratched his head in thought. “Okay, then. Well, let’s see. Four walls. No windows. Complete privacy. That sounds like—”
“—the basement.” Granny Ruth finished his sentence.
L’Errant smiled slightly. He had unnaturally white teeth. “The basement. That would be perfect. I am quite willing to offer a bonus for the inconvenience. It was all my fault for being unclear.”
Keith wasn’t sure he was quite following this conversation. “Let me get this straight, you want to pay extra to live in our basement? It’s not the most comfortable place in the world. Kinda damp. It’s not finished. And lots of spiders, I’m told.”
“I’ve slept in far worse places, Mr. Hunter.”
“Keith.”
“Keith, then. Do we have a deal?”
“Well, one thing at least, Pierre,” said Granny Ruth. “Aiyoo! You’ve made one little girl very happy. She’ll be so surprised. I’ll move her stuff back up.”
“Well, all I can say Mr. L’Er . . . Pierre, is if you want to sleep in our basement, that’s your business. Hell, you can hang from the ceiling for all I care.”
The Night Wanderer Page 5