The Night Wanderer by Drew Hayden Taylor Page B

up to its still-bare branches, on its way to rouse the leaves and start the summer. But before it could do that, it had to make its way past the taps and spigots buried into the tree’s bark. As they had done for thousands of years, the Anishinabe were harvesting this precious liquid, determined to turn it into sugary gold.
    Helping this year, as he did every year, was Owl. Now a young man, but still with a boy’s taste for sweetness, he worked hard, carrying the containers full of sap to be boiled. Around him, excited children urged him to move faster. Just as he was, they were eager to taste the syrup that would be distilled from the sap.
    â€œHurry, Owl. You’re too slow,” they all cried. Instead of being angry, he smiled. He knew how anxious they were because it wasn’t that long ago he would have been urging on his own relatives in anticipation of sweet snow.
    â€œIf I move any faster, I’ll spill it. Then you’d have to wait even longer.” That silenced them. For a few steps anyway.
    After a long and hard winter, everybody in the village—from the most ancient elder to children that could barely remember the winter before—looked forward to the yearly ritual. As always, food was lean and hard to get during the snows, and this was the Earth’s first gift, telling the people better times were just ahead.
    The whole village participated in the making of the syrup. Often times the eager children got in the way, but they were children, they were supposed to get in the way. A child who wasn’t curious, or excited, was a sad child indeed.
    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.
    â€œWe have guests arriving. We must show them a proper welcome.” Those were the words of his father.
    â€œWhat guests?” he had asked.
    â€œTraders. 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—”
    â€œâ€”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