The Night Wanderer

by Drew Hayden Taylor

  “Must have been in a hurry,” she said aloud. Not for the first time, she thought how unusual their houseguest was. He sure could move through the bush very good. Like one of those old-fashioned Indians from long ago.

  TWENTY-TWO

  TIFFANY WAS COLD, hungry, miserable, and a few other adjectives that, given the chance, she would have gladly shared with somebody. Anybody. Instead, she huddled there, continuing to cry and sniffle, in the long-deserted treehouse she had retreated to. Way back in the woods, she’d always gone there when she felt the need. It had been built some dozen years or so earlier by male cousins who lost interest in it after discovering the infinite delight offered by girls. Adolescence does that.

  She had discovered it once when chasing after Benojee, several years back. Still sturdy and livable, it didn’t take her long to sweep out all the dead leaves, insects, and spiderwebs that had accumulated in it. It became her special place when she needed a retreat. Like today. The structure itself was located about fifteen feet up, in the crook of an ancient cedar tree, right next to a sizable apple tree. Depending on the time of year, she could stay there and have a snack without even leaving the safety of the treehouse. Unfortunately, this fall was not one of those times of year. Her growling stomach was her only companion.

  During the day she had managed to grab a few hours of sleep in between trying to figure out what to do with her life. Hard enough at the best of times, doubly hard when you’re freezing and hungry. Here she was, Tiffany Hunter, motherless (well, technically not, though she might as well be), failing in school, a screwed-up relationship with her father, boyfriendless (if that was a legitimate word), and now a runaway. It was around this time people usually said, “Well, at least things can’t get any worse” and then they promptly did. So she refrained from saying that to herself.

  Tiffany had spent all her waking hours trying to find a way out of her current situation. As usual, she’d come up with several options. She could always go back and apologize . . . no, that was not really an option. Her father would hold it over her head till the day he died. And then probably have it inscribed on his tombstone. Or hers. Scratch that one.

  She could keep running and running until she found a place to settle down. That, too, wasn’t a good option for a number of reasons: first of all, she had once toyed with the idea of going to Hawaii. There, even homeless people could have nice year-round tans. But Hawaii was a very long walk from Otter Lake and, eventually, once she hit the West Coast, a bit of a swim too. Plus a sixteen-year-old runaway Native girl with no money, no friends, no support, only the clothes she had on her back . . . she’d heard real-life horror stories that started like that on the news.

  What else was there? Too young to join the army. Too normal to become some crazy woman living in the forest with dozens of squirrels to keep her company. Too addicted to hot showers to be a hobo. She could always get a job somewhere, doing something that didn’t require a particularly strong knowledge of history or algebra. But what could she do? Tiffany hated doing dishes and cooking in her own home, so a career in the restaurant business would be impossible.

  And of course, there was her threat. That she actually said it surprised even her. Suicide . . . the word itself sounded scary. Scary but seductive the way it slid off the tongue. Several years ago, Lynn Grass took her own life. Tiffany had known her, went to school with her, and occasionally sat with her at the ball games, and she always seemed so happy. Until she used her father’s hunting rifle. There were all kinds of questions and committees and other stuff like that trying to find out why. In the end, nobody every really figured it out. She came from a good, intact family, school was no problem, and she was popular. Now, whenever anybody mentioned her name, it was usually followed with a sad and puzzled sigh.

  Lynn had everything to live for, or so it seemed. And then there was Tiffany, who at the moment didn’t. She knew all the stats about Native youth suicide, there were posters all over the community center, and there were pamphlets given out at school and at the medical clinic. But in the end, they were all just words on a page. Nothing to do with real life. Words on paper meant nothing compared to pain in your heart.

  Tiffany didn’t want to die, but there wasn’t really a lot that living had to offer. And being dead couldn’t be any worse than how she felt right now. In fact, it would be peaceful. And it would have to be warmer than she felt now. There was no way she could feel colder.

  The more she dwelled on her situation, the more depressed she became. And the darker it became outside. In all her life, she’d never taken the time really to appreciate the total and complete darkness that came with nightfall in the forest. From the safety of her well-lit house, it looked plenty dark outside anyway. But about to spend what may be her first night of many nights in the treehouse, it wasn’t just dark, it was really black. Even the moon could offer little assistance this deep in the woods. It was as dark as Tiffany felt. On most nights, Tiffany would never admit to being scared of being alone in the dark. That was for kids. But tonight, however, her self-confidence was fading, and she longed for any light—a flashlight, even a pack of matches.

  Thwack.

  It came from outside. Some sharp, loud noise that immediately stiffened Tiffany’s body. Her nails dug into the dry wood as she vainly attempted to press her back farther into the questionable safety of the makeshift wall. The noise, possibly a stick breaking, possibly a weathered apple finally giving in to gravity and falling to the ground, or the spine of some animal being broken by another animal, made her body tense and her pulse increase.

  Tiffany’s legs continued to push her against the one windowless wall, hoping to get as far away from any potential evil that might decide to enter the premises via the windows or small doorway. There was only one problem. She had neglected to inspect the weathered planks of wood holding the tree house together. In short, the nails embedded in the wooden planks were rusted and weak. Add to that Tiffany’s increasing weight, and there was only one possible result.

  “What the . . . !”

  Suddenly the planks on the north side gave way under the pressure of Tiffany’s legs and she almost fell backward from the tree-house into the bush below. Luckily, only two planks came loose near the bottom, allowing her shoulders to get wedged between the more solid strips of wood on either side. Her heart pounding, Tiffany freed herself awkwardly from the loose boards, scratching her wrist badly in the maneuver, and crawled to a corner of the tree-house. There, wedged into the wall joint, she tried to calm her heartbeat and her breathing.

  Great, now there’s another way into the treehouse, she thought. Maybe I should have let myself fall. Down into the darkness to whatever made that noise.

  To make things worse, her stomach ached, reminding her that her bottomless pit was even more bottomless than the one outside. All she’d had the whole day was a pack of gum she’d found in her pocket. Hardly filling. And unfortunately it was sugar-free too. If it was possible to be more miserable, she couldn’t imagine it.

  Add to that the audio ambience of the forest, the blowing of the wind, the calls, scratching, and scurrying of all the various animals that chose to live in Otter Lake—the forest was a surprisingly noisy community. Little of this soothed her. She just continued to huddle down, lamenting her situation, cornered by her imagination. And there was still that noise that came from outside . . .

  About an hour later, through her self-obsessed consciousness, she heard a twig or stick break outside, near the bottom of the tree. At first, she thought nothing of it because it was smaller then the original thwack. Besides, twigs or sticks break all the time out here. It was a forest, after all. The whole area was made of twigs and sticks, and logic dictated that there would be plenty of random twig- or stick-snapping. There was absolutely no chance there was a sick pervert waiting for her at the bottom of the tree, slowly making his way up the planks of wood nailed to the side that provided easy access to the treehouse . . . Absolutely not, she tried to tell
herself. But once more, there was that spasm-inducing, terror-creating thwack that almost killed her. Tiffany was pretty sure sick pervert types were well known for making big thwack noises. What other kind of noise could they make?

  On the positive side, it could be a rabid bear. Or a hungry pack of wolves. Or maybe it was a pizza delivery man who psychically knew she desperately needed a mushroom, onion, and pepperoni pizza. Hopefully with some garlic bread and a diet Coke.

  Then, just as suddenly, the forest went silent. As if all the furry and feathered occupants of the immediate area had thought better of going about their nightly business in so loud a manner. The wind also thought better of blowing, and the trees thought it a proper time to take five. It was now ominously quiet. Too quiet. If noisy was one, and quiet was ten, this would be a twelve. The same scale could be applied to Tiffany’s nervousness. If calm and mellow was one, and a panic attack was ten, again this would be a twelve.

  It was so eerily quiet. Right now, she would have welcomed a good solid thwack.

  As quietly as humanly possible, she crept on her hands and knees to the doorway of the treehouse. She knew this sudden silence was not normal, and that somehow it was related to the two snapping sticks she had just heard. In three heartbeats she debated her options: continuing to hide in the corner, which was not that effective since she was not really hiding behind anything, or investigating and, if necessary, running like she had never run before. Already in her mind she had worked out an escape strategy. The largest limb of the apple tree, almost three feet in thickness, ran perpendicular to the doorway of the tree house. It continued on for about eighteen feet on a downward slope. Near the end, it hung just about six feet from the ground. If needed, she could scurry down the limb as far as she could, jump, do a roll, and end up running all in a few seconds. It was like that old joke she’d heard once:

  How fast can you run?

  It depends on what’s chasing me.

  She didn’t want to find out how true that might be.

  Deciding, she slowly made her way to the doorway, cursing her father for making her run away like this. Cursing herself for not being better prepared. And cursing whatever may be down there. Though currently ambivalent about life and existence, she felt it was far better to be the one in charge of making such a monumental decision than leaving it up to a second party. Especially considering the only protection she had on her at the moment was the two arrowheads Pierre had given her yesterday. Without an arrow to attach them to, and a bow to shoot them with, they were quite useless.

  In the pervading quiet, the rubbing of her jeaned knees on the floor and her hands scraping on the worn wood seemed positively deafening. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she made it to the doorway, and using every bit of confidence and bravery she could muster, she forced her head over the edge and looked down to the bottom of the forest floor. There she saw . . . nothing. It was still very, very dark, and though her eyes had long ago adjusted to that darkness of life in the midnight woods, it was all a black blob, with scattered indefinable lumps and shapes. If something was down there, it could be standing directly below her and not be seen.

  For a second, however, it seemed like she saw two fireflies in the tree next to her . . . though fireflies were usually white or a pale yellow, and these ones seemed to be reddish. And they were around in the spring, not the fall.

  Tiffany listened, her ears almost aching with the effort. But nothing. Blind and practically deaf . . . that did not bode well. What the hell, Tiffany thought, if I’m gonna die, let me face it. At least if she was horribly killed, mutilated, or something like that, she wouldn’t be found wearing those atrocious shiny black shoes. Now that would be truly mortifying.

  “Hello? Is anybody down there?” The silence seemed to amplify her quivering voice. There was no response. No, wait a minute . . . there seemed to be a slight, barely audible rustle somewhere down there in the black hole of Otter Lake. “I can hear you. You better stop fooling around. This isn’t funny.”

  “I never thought it was,” came the response from the darkness outside.

  TWENTY-THREE

  TRACKING THE GIRL had been surprisingly easy. The night hid nothing from Pierre, and the girl obviously did not bother to obscure her trail. And what signs he could not see on the forest floor, he could find in the air itself. Pierre could smell Tiffany. The man was a born hunter and his whole body was designed to hunt, kill, and feast. His body and senses, now aflame with hunger, latched on to her scent and followed it through the woods like a missile. In a remarkably short period of time, he found her, in this tiny shack in the tree. Sitting there. Occasionally sobbing.

  He took position in a nearby tree, to watch. Right now his body, so used to hunting, was waiting for the grisly payoff. So the man patiently waited for the blood lust to calm. If he entered the tree-house now, the girl would have a whole new set of problems. Instead, he sat there, watching, smelling her, listening to her, and biding his time. Once, in a flash of blinding hunger, he had almost leapt across the void between the two trees. But from deep within, where his last reservoirs of strength lay waiting, he held on to the tree. Desperate to maintain control, his hand easily broke a thick branch without scarcely being aware. The loud, cracking noise startled him.

  It took time, but eventually Pierre regained control of his body. He relaxed again, for how long he didn’t know. His body was now practically a stranger to him. For the moment, he sat in the crook of this tree, watching Tiffany, pondering what to do. The pondering eventually led to wandering . . .

  Within hours, Owl wasn’t Owl anymore. The man, or creature, Owl didn’t know what to call the thing that had changed his life, had left after taking some of the young man’s blood and then sharing some of its own.

  “You come from a new land, a new people. I am intrigued. I will let you become the first of your kind to join my kind. If you survive long enough, maybe you will return to your home.” With those cryptic words, it disappeared back out the window, leaving behind a barely conscious young Anishinabe man, unaware of what was happening to his body and his very existence.

  His body burned as it changed. The fever the measles had given him was nothing to what now wracked his body. It was as if it was being turned inside out. He felt his incisor teeth growing, his muscles becoming stronger and his senses more acute. Between his howls of pain, and his convulsions, his hypersensitive ears could hear familiar footsteps approaching his door. He knew instantly who it was. There was a knock.

  “Monsieur, are you all right?” came a young voice.

  It was Anne, awakened by his anguished cries. She opened the door to enter. From across the room he could smell her fresh, clean skin. Her hair still smelled of firewood. And he could see her. It was deep into the night in a room with no candle, and he could see her as if it was high noon. But it was what he heard that doomed the girl. He could hear her heart pumping—loudly and strongly. What once had been Owl could actually feel the blood pumping through her. In fact, it drowned out the pain of his metamorphosing body.

  She found him lying on the floor, rolling around in obvious pain. She rushed to his side and knelt down beside him.

  “What is wrong? Did you fall out of your bed? I will call the doctor again.” Before she could leave, he grabbed her arm in a steely grip. He didn’t know why, or what he was doing. It was as if his body had taken over his mind.

  “Please, monsieur, you’re hurting me.” Then, as it seemed he must do, he drew her closer. Until he could feel her beautiful hair against his face. He opened his mouth. She opened her mouth, to scream. Only she never got the chance. Somewhere deep inside, what was once the young Anishinabe boy known as Owl mourned the lost life of the young French girl, as the thing he had become feasted.

  Then everything went dead.

  When Pierre heard the girl almost fall out of the tree house, he decided it was time for action. He rose to his feet and slowly made his way toward the rickety structure. Through its window, h
e could see the girl moving. She was nervous, terrified in fact, which made her aroma stronger, more enticing. Once more, he kept his body in check. But for how much longer, he couldn’t say.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TIFFANY’S HEART LEAPT up into her throat and practically out into the forest. Instinctively, she lurched to the left and hit her head on the doorway of the treehouse, actually seeing stars like in all those cartoons she had watched. Cradling her head, she scrambled to the side of the treehouse, away from the proximity of the voice. She tried to scream, but she couldn’t catch her breath. Instead, she merely grunted. A very unappealing, unsophisticated grunt.

  She could hear more rustling outside, this time making its way along the tree branch to the treehouse itself. It or he (definitely a masculine voice), or whatever it was, was getting closer. In a few seconds it would be in the treehouse with her. Tiffany had nothing to protect herself with. To put it mildly, Tiffany Hunter was terrified and assumed this to be her last few moments on this Earth.

  Suddenly, a large dark figure appeared in the doorway, blocking the sparse stars peeking through the forest. Frozen with fear, Tiffany watched the thing pause before gliding through the small door.

  “You realize everybody is looking for you. And you hit your head, yet again.”

  Again it spoke. Much closer this time. But there was no noticeable menace in its voice. In fact, it seemed somewhat familiar—a low, melodious tone hinting of faraway places. Tiffany could almost recognize it.