The Night Wanderer by Drew Hayden Taylor

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.