Free The Night Wanderer by Drew Hayden Taylor

noticed a dead leaf hanging from his left coat sleeve. Carefully, he picked it off and let it fall. Before the orange-hued oak leaf hit the ground, the newcomer to the forest had disappeared from sight, barely making a sound. Even the owl, had it decided to stay, would have had difficulty following his movements.
    There was another predator in the forests of Otter Lake.
    In the stranger’s youth, there had been many stories and legends told of the time animals and man spoke the same language. Then, depending on which variation you heard, communication broke down. Man and animal were still brothers and responsible for each other, but they just didn’t talk anymore. Those stories came flooding back to Pierre as he made his way through the forests. The familiar animals of his youth were all around him. A skunk that was hard to miss for obvious reasons slept a dozen or so yards to his left. A small fox, unaware of the man sitting on a branch twenty feet above him, stuck his nose in a pile of leaves looking for a shrew. Even the owl the man had locked eyes with earlier was now invisible in the distance to all but the stranger’s unusually strong vision.
    A long time ago, in the before time, the stranger had gone by the name of Owl. He had answered to that name, proudly given to him by his parents. His parents . . . it was hard to believe a creation like him could have parents, born of a loving mother, taught to swim, hunt, and fish by a loving father. But like many things in his life, memories such as those had dimmed. Some by time, some by intention. Far in the distance he could hear this community slowly going to bed. Living their mortal existence. In some cultures, the owl was a symbol of foreboding, even of death. Some would consider the stranger to be the same.
    In the uncountable years, he had killed frequently. Without thought. Without effort. He was dangerous to those voices out there going to bed, like the owl to a mouse. He was strong. He was quiet. He was deadly. And what was worse, there was nothing the unsuspecting people could have done. Because, many would argue, he did not exist. And when you do not exist, it’s very hard for people to defend against you.
    Once more, the stranger scanned the home of his ancestors, taking in the sights, the sounds, and the smells. In a flash, he was gone. It was time to visit the village of Otter Lake.

NINE
    I T WAS AN unseasonably warm night and the bonfire made it noticeably hotter. In a less politically correct time, some might have called it Indian summer. About a dozen cars were parked in a circular fashion around a big pit, in which the large bonfire burned brightly. As always, all sorts of flying insects holding on stubbornly to the fading warmth of the fall crowded the fire, drawn by the light but held back by the heat. Teens were scattered all around the area, sitting on car hoods, on dead logs closer to the blaze. Still others were walking around the woods farther away. Many were drinking beer, others pop. Almost everybody was having a good time.
    They had been there for about two hours and Tiffany dreaded going home. She knew she had nothing to look forward to other than concrete cinder blocks and a malfunctioning sump pump. Here, by the fire, she had Tony. This was her first bush party with his friends and so far she was enjoying it. Sort of. There were some familiar faces she recognized from school, others that worked at the McDonald’s or places like that. But none of her own friends were there. It took a while, but she finally realized that there were no other Native kids at all. Only her. She tried not to let it worry her—after all, she would have to get used to this if she wanted to be with Tony. People just brought people they knew. And Tony knew her.
    And where was Tony? He had gone off to pee behind one of the bushes what seemed like ages ago. This location had been a favorite hangout for years, resulting in a party practically every