The Night Wanderer by Drew Hayden Taylor Page A

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.
    â€œThank 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
    G RANNY 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