“How’d they get here, I wonder.”
Pierre smiled. “Obviously somebody dropped them.”
Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Well, I know that. But how would they end up here? And how did you find them?”
Kneeling, Pierre dipped one hand into the water of Otter Lake and brought it out again. He watched the liquid slowly drip through his fingers. “My . . . family told mea lot about thisplace. As I explained to your father and grandmother, my ancestors came from Otter Lake. I was told so much about it that I feel like I’ve actually been here. That is why I am here. But I am confused. Some things are not as they should be. This lake for instance I do not rememb . . . the water shouldn’t be this far up the shore. It has changed.”
This was something Tiffany did know for sure. Everybody in the community knew about the changing water levels. You couldn’t go out onto the rivers and lakes without seeing half-submerged logs and tree stumps, remnants of what appeared to be underwater forests. Poking up out of the water, they were frequent hazards to boaters.
“Oh, that’s because a couple decades ago, the government thought it would be a good idea to fiddle around with the rivers around here. They put in some sort of lock system that regulated the levels of water. Took some water out of some places and put it into other places. Around here, the lake rose a couple of feet. My grandmother tells me this shore extended out about two dozen feet or more when she was young. There’s now a swamp over there. Supposedly the whole shoreline has changed.”
“Thank you. I did not know that.” Tiffany still had the arrowheads in her hand and held them out in her open palm for Pierre to take, but instead he took her hand and closed it around the arrowheads. “They are yours. I have others.”
She looked at them again. They might make a good set of earrings. But since one was broken, maybe a nice choker or necklace instead. For now, she put them in the front pocket of her jean jacket. “You know, I’ve always heard stories there was a Native village somewhere around here, hundreds of years ago. But nobody knows where it was. Hey, maybe you found it.”
“I’ve always been . . . lucky in finding things,” said Pierre. Again his voice sounded sad.
There was an awkward pause as the wind returned, moving across the lake to do magical things with their hair. Once more, Pierre closed his eyes as he lost himself in the flow. Watching him, Tiffany noticed how he seemed at peace with the now-chilly wind. Even the man’s jacket seemed to move with its pulse. Tiffany stated the obvious. “You like the wind, don’t you?”
Pierre opened his eyes. “The wind likes me.”
“You’re a very strange guy.”
“It’s all a matter of perspective. But thank you, regardless.”
“You do love that word perspective, don’t you? And not a lot of people would think being called weird was a compliment.”
“To me, strange is just another way of saying unusual. And unusual is just another way of saying special.”
Inside Tiffany’s head she was thinking, No, strange is strange. Perspective or no perspective. “Anyway, thanks for the arrowheads. But I’m late for dinner already. I’d better be heading home. I’ll leave you here, with the wind.” With renewed energy, she scrambled up the grassy hill, back to the muddy trail leading home.
Pierre stood up, his long, thin coat flapping in the wind like leather wings. “Would you like me to walk you home? It might not be safe.”
Already a little creeped out by this basement guy, Tiffany took an involuntary step backward. “Thanks, but it’s just a little farther on. I’ve been down this trail a thousand times.” The man seemed nice but those weird eyes, being friends with the wind and all, and the way he talked. . . guest or no guest,Tiffany planned to keep her distance.
Suddenly, Pierre turned his head and shoulders to the left with astounding speed, his senses attuned. His whole face seemed to blur in the motion. “What? What happened?”
Still staring off into the woods, he said, “Something just died.” He sniffed the air once. Then twice. “It was a pheasant. A fox caught it. Killed it almost instantly. A quick death.”
Tiffany took a long look, but the darkness of the night, and the deeper darkness of the woods, revealed nothing to her. “How can you tell?” She didn’t know if it was Pierre or the breeze off the lake that was now giving her the shivers.
“I can smell the blood on the wind.” It was definitely Pierre that was supplying the shivers. “And I heard it die. With barely a sigh.” With that cryptic statement, he turned back to face her, and this time, she was sure of it. His eyes . . . something about those eyes definitely left her feeling uncomfortable. They were looking right through her in some bizarre way. “Perhaps my hearing is better than yours.” Yeah right, thought Tiffany as she took another step back. And this guy was sleeping right below her—scary dreams tonight.
“Well, lucky fox. I like pheasant. Anyways, gotta go. Dinner and all. Bye. Have a good night.”With that, she ran home as fast as she could.
In a way, Pierre admired the girl’s confidence. In these woods filled with their own kind of death, she didn’t seem to fear much. He wondered if she knew there were things in the night far worse than mosquitoes, bats, bears, or anything a girl in central Ontario could have experienced. Though his stomach needed different nourishment than Tiffany’s, it still announced when it was hungry, and the proximity of the young girl’s warm body had awakened it. But for reasons of his own, Pierre chose to ignore it.
Instead, he listened to her travel the path all the way home. He heard her stumble over a root, slap to death at least three mosquitoes clinging to the remnants of Indian summer, and heard the whining of Midnight as she ran past his doghouse and up the stairs to the front door. Of course, the remaining mosquitoes were uninterested in him, as he stood there silently on the shore.
SIXTEEN
DALE MORRIS AND Chucky Gimau were not nice people. As the saying goes, they were “known” to the police, and just about everybody else. They had grown up in Otter Lake, and other than a four-year stint traveling a small part of the country enjoying some of the finer local and provincial jails, they were content to live at their dead uncle’s house and do what they could to survive. Often at other people’s expense. They were known to fight at the drop of a hat, and whether they won or lost was often irrelevant. Who they fought sometimes seemed an afterthought too. They just loved the feel of a bony hand crashing onto a chubby chin, or a workboot burying itself deep in the belly of some poor fool. They were simple people with simple pleasures.
They grew small amounts of pot way back in the woods, which helped offset the expenses of their slothlike existence. Neither would know what to do with a job application form unless it was to roll it up into a joint. Though Dale was remarkably handsome, substantially more than his slow-witted cousin Chucky, both had the look of people who were just marking time until the law, God, or some other larger influence swooped down and saw to it their ending was much more interesting than their life.
Chucky’s real name was Maurice, but for a number of reasons he had willingly taken the nickname of a demented and possessed doll made famous by a string of supernatural horror movies. First of all, he was shorter than Dale, by about five inches. And secondly, “Like the doll, I always come back!” he liked to say proudly. Mainly though, he changed it because when he was young, most of his family shortened his real name, Maurice, down to Mo when they referred to him. And “Mo” is an abbreviated Anishinabe word for shit. Everybody, except Chucky, found that quite hilarious.
At this very moment, both were driving back from town, where they had just picked up some beer and groceries which included several boxes of Kraft Dinner, something they considered their own personal manna from heaven. On special occasions, they would add chopped wieners to the pot. Despite their poor diet, they had managed to grow fairly strong. This made pushing people around and beating them up far simpler.
Tonight, however, payback had come to town.
“Hey
, look,” said Dale. He was pointing to the ballfield. Chucky squinted in the darkness. Since it was late and there was no game, the floodlights were not on.
“Where? Where . . . where you pointin’?”
Dale shoved his arm right past Chucky’s nose, almost taking the tip off. “Over there, you idiot, on the bleachers. There’s somebody sitting there.” Dale slowed the car down, an old beat-up Honda Civic. Two bags of groceries fell over in the back seat, spilling boxes of macaroni and cheese all over the floor. “See him now?”
Not wanting to disappoint his cousin, Chucky’s eyes scanned the bleachers as ordered. There! He spotted what Dale had seen, on the top row of the bleachers near the first baseline. Somebody outlined against the glow of the moon on the clouds. “I see him . . . don’t know him. Can’t really see, though. How about you?”
The car came to a stop. Dale took another peek. “Nope, too dark. Hey, wanna have some fun?” He smiled and a thin drop of chewing tobacco juice trickled down his chin. He quickly rubbed it away. Chucky smiled in anticipation. As was always the case with duos like this, one person came up with the ideas and the initiative, the other followed because that’s all he was capable of doing. Dale had only to say “jump” and Chucky would make somebody jump.
They opened their car doors and emerged into the night. They passed through the batter’s cage toward first base, walking with confident swaggers. There, they could see the person better. He hadn’t moved. In the near darkness, they couldn’t tell if he was even looking at them. Dale moved to the right side of the bleachers while Chucky sauntered over to the left. Still the man didn’t say move or say anything. Probably scared stiff, thought Dale.
“Hey, do we know you?”
“Yeah, do we?” contributed Chucky.
The only response was a big moth flying into Chucky’s face, making him shout briefly, ruining their intended ominous approach. Dale decided to ignore his idiot cousin for the moment.
“Hey, did you hear me? I asked you a question.” Again no response. By this time, Dale was getting annoyed. This guy wasn’t acting the way he should. He should be trembling, stammering, trying to find a way to escape. Hell, Dale would even accept the man peeing himself. But instead, the man just sat there. Almost like he wasn’t afraid of them. “Looks like maybe you lost the power of speech, buddy. Hey, Chucky, why don’t you help the man look for it?” Smiling, Chucky hopped up on the first level of the bleachers, now only two levels away from and a little to the right of the seated man. He put his foot on the next row but didn’t commit his full body weight just yet. Like other similar times, he might decide to use it as a spring board in case the guy tried to get away.
“Do you know . . .” The man finally spoke, his voice calm and cool, as even and smooth as the bark on a poplar tree. “. . . this place right here was where the sweatlodge was built. Far enough away from the main village to be private, but still easily accessible. Sometimes there would be two, even four set up, depending on how many people came to the village. It was a powerful place once. Now it’s a baseball diamond. I could barely find it. I’m sure there’s some sort of irony involved. But that’s probably of no interest to you.”
Dale was trying to figure out what relevance the man’s speech had with what they were there to do. The man didn’t make any sense. There were no sweatlodges here, never had been. Before it had been a baseball diamond, it had been an empty field full of abandoned cars. And that was a good twenty years ago or so. That last line also sounded like he was making fun of him. Somebody needed to be taught a lesson.
Or maybe, thought Dale, he’s crazy. They were always good for a laugh. Chucky, on the other hand, was developing a different idea about their prey, having a different view, from a different angle, of the man atop the bleachers. For some reason, and he couldn’t figure out why, Chucky was sure he could see the man’s eyes glowing, but he knew it wasn’t possible. The moon was to the man’s back, and their car headlights were off and no other cars were coming. Maybe because he was so close or something . . . but even that didn’t make any sense. Whether you were closer or farther away shouldn’t matter. Eyes don’t normally glow. At least none he’d ever seen.
“Hey, Chucky, our friend here thinks there’s a sweatlodge on second base. Maybe one in right field too.” As usual, Dale laughed at his own joke. Then he joined Chucky on the first level of the bleachers.
He spoke to the man again. “Do you know there’s an admission fee to this baseball diamond? Basically everything you got in your pockets. That might make us more agreeable. Huh, Chucky?” He looked over at his cousin for backup, but Chucky was acting strange. His head kept shifting back and forth from the stranger to him, as if trying to figure something out. Then, for a second, he caught Chucky’s eyes. Normally they had a confident, nothing-can-bother-me, I-read-a-book-once type of glaze to them . . . but tonight, right now, they looked very un-Chucky. It was almost as if he looked scared, or close to it. And not a lot of things, other than snakes and tapioca, scared Chucky.
“Chucky, what’s up, buddy?”
“Dale, his eyes!” Chucky hissed the words as he pointed to the stranger. Dale turned his attention back to the top of the bleachers, as did Chucky. The man was gone. There was nothing sitting on that top row. The man had disappeared. Disappeared quickly. Dale ran up to the top to scan the diamond. But it was as still as a graveyard. Chucky stayed where he was, turning around and around in a slow circle, making sure nobody was sneaking up on him.
“Where the hell did he go?” Dale was angry. He didn’t like it when things went wrong. He was used to being the dominant force in any encounter. People were not allowed to disappear on him. “Chucky, do you see him?”
By now, Chucky knew there was a different set of rules in effect. Though most of Otter Lake considered him the least intelligent of the two, he did have a protective instinct, something similar to when a dog or horse feels an earthquake coming.
“Dale, let’s get out of here. This ain’t right,” said Chucky in a tremulous voice.
Then the lights on their car came on. And then the engine. “There he is. Come on, Chucky.” This was now personal. Racing down the steps, Dale leapt over the short fence. Chucky, however, was not as confident.
“Uh, Dale . . . Maybe we should—”
Dale didn’t hear him, as the music from their radio suddenly came on. Another leap and he was over the first-baseline fence and directly in front of his car. Breathing heavy, he was ready to do battle with the man who had momentarily unnerved him. But there was nobody there to teach. The car was empty. The door closed. Dale flung the driver’s side door open, hoping the man was hiding on the floor. Instead, all he found was McDonald’s wrappers and Kraft Dinner boxes.
Okay, thought Dale, this is getting a little weird. Let’s cut our losses before this ninja dude really takes a dislike to us. He turned off the radio and looked out toward Chucky. “You’re right, let’s get out of here. Get in the car.”
Silence.
Dale straightened up, every hair on the back of his neck standing just as straight. He was alone.
“Chucky?” If Dale had ever in his life sounded weak, it was now. Much like the man before him, Chucky wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. The far bleachers were deserted, the batter’s cage and the diamond, the same. The laws of nothing interesting happening in Otter Lake had been violated. And it was just Dale’s luck that it was on his watch.
In a small voice, Dale summed up his decisive action regarding his missing cousin: “Bye, Chucky. You’re on your own.” With his foot on the accelerator, and his hands locking the doors, Dale and his Honda Civic left the baseball diamond as fast as Japan’s best mechanical engineers could allow them. The car turned the corner with a squeal and went up the hill. In forty-five seconds, the baseball diamond had disappeared completely. Just like the stranger and Chucky.
Dale was confused. What should he do in a situation like this? Call the police to report a suspicious character and a disappeared
cousin? Dale was too used to being the suspicious character. He was sure the police would be just as a confused as him. As for Chucky . . . he didn’t want to think about that. Not till he himself was safe somewhere.
He turned onto Joplin’s Road and tried to coax a little more power out of the outdated engine. He topped Gooseneck Hill and was rapidly obeying the laws of gravity on the other side when he noticed something. His rearview mirror, with the dreamcatcher hanging from it, was missing. It had been there when they’d stopped the car at the diamond. Dale reached up and touched the broken metal stub that remained. How strange, he thought.
“You must be Dale,” said the cold, emotionless voice from the backseat. Dale was not having a good day. Neither were his pants and underwear at that particular moment.
SEVENTEEN
IT WAS DIFFICULT to say who was more angry, Tiffany for having her room invaded by her father, or Keith for discovering the hidden progress report. Accurately put, they were two storms in one room, both blowing very hard.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were failing?”
“I’m not failing. It’s a progress report, not a report card. And why the hell did you go ransacking my room?”
“I wasn’t ransacking it. I was looking for batteries. And don’t swear! Why didn’t you show this to me when you brought it home—” Keith looked at the date. “—ten days ago!?”
“Because I knew you’d flip out. I’m handling it. I can’t believe you invaded my privacy.”
“You’re not old enough to have privacy. When were you going to show me this?” He waved it in the air.
“When I got better marks. That way you wouldn’t have a coronary. Have you done this before? Come snooping around my room?”
“What if I did? What would I find then?”
“What do you care anyway? You can quit pretending, Dad.”
“Pretending what? What are you talking about?”
“You driving Mom away. Wanting to put me in the basement. Breaking into my room. You just don’t care about any of us. About me.”
The Night Wanderer Page 11