So she decided not to go back downstairs and left the rest of the pictures, baby toys, electronics, and other mementos in a pile under the white wedding dress she never got to wear. She and Evan had always planned to get married eventually, and she was going to wear her mother’s wedding dress. But holding that kind of event made no sense now, and they’d never be able to mark an anniversary anyway. Still, she put her faith in the belief that this was not the last time she’d be in this place.
She pulled her scratched sunglasses back down over her eyes and walked back out into the mid-morning sunshine. It gleamed on her bare brown shoulders. She shut the door behind her without locking it and stepped down the creaky stairs. Her kids and their grandparents waited for her in the driveway.
Dan Whitesky leaned against the warm blue metal of Evan’s old truck with his arms crossed, his red cap pulled low to shade his eyes. Nicole’s father stood beside him, dressed similarly, but in different faded colours. They tied their long hair behind their heads with tiny strips of deer hide, concealing the ponytails. Her mother, Theresa stood in front of them, comfortable in her dirty grey T-shirt, tattered jean shorts, and sandals as the summer morning heated up. In the shade on the grass on the other side of the driveway, Patricia Whitesky and the two children threw a wobbly yellow frisbee back and forth.
Nicole approached the truck. Theresa put her arms around Nicole without saying anything. They broke the embrace, and Nicole stepped back to lift her glasses and wipe her eyes. Almost on cue, the children ran up to her, not sensing anything wrong. She smiled and laughed as they each wrapped their arms around her legs.
Maiingan looked up at her. His long brown hair fell over his shoulders now, as long as his little sister’s. Seven years old, the boy was growing taller. He had grown up so much since the lights went out nearly two years before, but his youthful exuberance remained intact. “Did you get my fishing rod, Mommy?” he asked.
“Yes, my boy,” she replied. His joy and enthusiasm grounded her and always reassured her about their family’s road ahead. “Your tackle box too. It’s all in there,” she motioned with her head to the packed trailer that the adults would take turns pulling into the bush.
The structures they were leaving behind would likely stand for a few more generations. The homes were perfectly viable shelters from the cold and rain. The band office, the shop, and all the other community buildings would probably last even longer. And all the infrastructure was most likely still functional. But there was no use for any of it.
Along with half the people who had lived here, the fledgling spirit they had been trying to nourish in this place had died. There was no use staying somewhere that had become so tragic. The bad memories and the sadness had smothered the good so many people had worked so hard to sustain, even in the wake of the darkness that befell them.
And when it became clear to them that they were never supposed to last in this situation on this land in the first place, they decided to take control of their own destiny. Their ancestors were displaced from their original homeland in the South and the white people who forced them here had never intended for them to survive. The collapse of the white man’s modern systems further withered the Anishinaabeg here. But they refused to wither completely, and a core of dedicated people had worked tirelessly to create their own settlement away from this town.
They also couldn’t be certain there wouldn’t be more visitors. None had come since the arrival of those from the South in those first scary months. But if civilized life remained in the cities and towns around them, the mass migration was likely already underway. No one wanted to deal with any more of them. Not now.
“Is my fishing rod in there too, Mommy?” asked Nangohns, now old enough to know how to cast — or at least drop — a line into the water.
“You bet, my girl.”
“Can we go fishing today?”
“Probably. It won’t take us that long to get there.”
“Yay!” the five-year-old started jumping up and down.
Patricia put her hand on Nicole’s shoulder. “Well, you ready?”
“As ready as I’m gonna be.”
“Okay then, let’s go.”
Nicole nodded and looked back down at her son and daughter. “Okay, guys,” she said. “Let’s go see Daddy. He’s waiting for us.”
Dan lifted the hitch of the trailer and began pulling it around the house. The rest followed in single file. They went past the shack and the firepit and hide tanning rack in the back. They reached a clearing that led to a path through the bush. They stepped onto the trail, one by one, to begin this new life nestled deep in the heart of Anishinaabe territory.
They didn’t look back.
Acknowledgements
I acknowledge and thank the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for their grant programs that supported me in the writing of this novel. As an emerging writer, I’m very grateful for these councils and the important work they do promoting and empowering literary voices in Canada. I would never have fulfilled my dream of becoming a published author without these grants.
I am extremely grateful to my employer, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, for allowing me to take leave from my duties as a journalist for months at a time to focus on this story and get it written. I am very fortunate to work for an organization that values and supports all my storytelling endeavours.
Thanks also to the Banff Centre for inviting me to their beautiful mountainside compound for two weeks in the fall of 2015, where the writing of this novel began. I’ll always remember where I was when I wrote that first sentence on the screen.
The greatest support of all comes from my life partner, Sarah. She’s always the first to lay eyes on my written stories, and her critical feedback in those early days is essential. I must give enormous thanks and love to my wife for always being my first proofreader and biggest booster. I would not have made it this far on this path without her support and advice. She motivates me every day to carry myself with honour and respect. G’zaagin!
This story would not have become a novel without the keen eye and editing expertise of the mighty Susan Renouf. She read a first draft years ago while we were discussing another literary project, and decided she wanted to take it on. She believed in this story from the beginning, which filled my heart with promise. Her masterful editing and constructive encouragement greatly bolstered the narrative from start to finish. Huge thanks, Susan.
I must acknowledge and thank the rest of the team at ECW Press, who were nothing but a delight to work with as this book developed and emerged. Everyone has made me feel right at home throughout this process, from editorial to marketing. I couldn’t have asked for a better publisher for this project. Gratitude to Jen Knoch and Laura Pastore, who took the last passes at the manuscript and further polished it.
Because the story is set in a fictional location a little farther north than my home territory, I asked the extremely resourceful Derek Fox of Bearskin Lake First Nation to take a look at an early draft. As someone who grew up in northwestern Ontario, he offered very valuable insights that helped me paint a better picture of the community and its unique characteristics and challenges. Chi-miigwech, Derek!
There are bits of very basic Anishinaabemowin scattered throughout this novel. Those words and phrases reflect my own rudimentary understanding of the language, but I did need some assistance with honing in on some specific elements. My brother Mskwaankwad was immensely helpful throughout the writing of this book, answering texts and phone calls and providing his own insights as an Anishinaabemowin teacher. Chi-miigwech n’shiimenh!
The windigo is a looming, often implicit figure in this story. The figure is hinted at, but its image doesn’t emerge until closer to the end. The written references are based on stories I heard from elders in my community as I grew up. Many of these stories came from my own father, John Rice, and elder relative
s like my aunt, Clara Baker. The dream image of the creature written here is also an homage to legendary Anishinaabe storyteller and author Basil Johnston, who documented important windigo tales in his books like The Manitous.
The late Richard Wagamese was a close friend and enormous support who kindly encouraged my writing. There is a long list of Indigenous authors and storytellers who have inspired and mentored me on this journey. They’ve blazed a trail for aspiring writers like me, and continue to create powerfully important works that are changing the world around us. One I’d like to acknowledge is Richard Van Camp, who offered some vital feedback after reading an advance copy of this book that resulted in the changing of a key detail. He’s also a hugely talented and wonderful human being!
Family is everything to me. In recent years we’ve lost three monumental loved ones who shaped my life around stories. My aunt Elaine Kelly was my first teacher and opened my eyes to the world of Indigenous literature. My grandmother Ruth Shipman was a master orator who made up stories on the spot. My grandmother Aileen Rice shared ancient Anishinaabe tales to build a foundation of culture. They are greatly missed and loved always.
Thanks and big love to my mother, Mona Joudry, my stepparents, grandfather, brothers, stepsiblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, extended family, and friends for their ongoing encouragement.
Finally, I’d like to acknowledge everyone in my life who told me stories and listened to me tell stories. Thanks to Lee Maracle for suggesting this simple yet important gratitude, and for her ongoing guidance and support.
About the Author
Waubgeshig Rice is an author and journalist originally from Wasauksing First Nation. His first short story collection, Midnight Sweatlodge, was inspired by his experiences growing up in an Anishinaabe community, and won an Independent Publishers Book Award in 2012. His debut novel, Legacy, followed in 2014. He currently works as a multi-platform journalist for CBC in Sudbury. In 2014, he received the Anishinabek Nation’s Debwewin Citation for excellence in First Nation Storytelling. Waubgeshig now splits his time between Sudbury and Wasauksing.
DISCOVER ONLINE
A profoundly moving exploration of our capacity to heal one another.
Ellie and Eric Nyland have moved their two sons back to Eric’s childhood farmhouse, hoping for a fresh start. But there’s no denying it, their family is falling apart, each one of them isolated by private sorrows, stresses, and missed signals. With every passing day, Ellie’s hopes are buried deeper in the harsh winter snows.
When Eric finds Hannah Finch, the girl across the road, wandering alone in the bitter cold, his rusty police instincts kick in, and he soon discovers there are bad things happening in the girl’s house. With nowhere else to send her, the Nylands reluctantly agree to let Hannah stay with them until she can find a new home after the Christmas holidays. But Hannah proves to be more balm than burden, and the Nylands discover that the only thing harder than taking Hannah in may be letting her go.
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Copyright
Copyright © Waubgeshig Rice, 2018
Published by ECW Press
665 Gerrard Street East
Toronto, ON M4M 1Y2
416-694-3348 / ecwpress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editor for the press: Susan Renouf
Cover design: Michel Vrana
Cover artwork: © David Caesar / www.davidcaesar.com
Author photo: Shilo Adamson
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Rice, Waubgeshig, 1979-, author
Moon of the crusted snow : a novel / Waubgeshig Rice.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77041-400-6 (softcover).—
ISBN 978-1-77305-244-1 (HTML).—
ISBN 978-1-77305-245-8 (PDF)
I. Title.
PS8635.I246M66 2018 C813’.6 C2018-902543-3 C2018-902544-1
The publication of Moon of the Crusted Snow has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and by the Government of Canada. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays. Ce livre est financé en partie par le gouvernement du Canada. We also acknowledge the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, and the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Moon of the Crusted Snow Page 18
