Moon of the Crusted Snow

by Waubgeshig Rice

  Terry Meegis, the chief, stood near the green front door with Evan’s father, having a smoke. Evan wasn’t surprised to see Dan there. He was head of the band’s public works department and would be instrumental in any decisions that needed to be made.

  Evan and Isaiah got out of the truck and approached the two older men. The huge white diesel tanks that loomed over the shop were stained a deep orange by the rising sun. The sky above was brightening into a more comforting azure.

  “Mino gizheb niniwag. Aaniish na?” said Terry.

  “Morning,” they replied. Evan noticed dark circles under Terry’s eyes. He was only a couple of years older than Dan, but it was obvious that he wasn’t getting much sleep recently. The chief took a drag from his cigarette and ran a hand through his coarse hair. His short hairstyle caused his wiry hair to puff out around his ears and he looked just as he had for as long as Evan could remember, a reassuring constant in band life.

  The chief wasted no time. “We don’t know what’s going on with the power. Or the cellphones or the TV.” He looked at the two young men. Dan had already been briefed, so he stood slightly out of the circle, looking to the sunrise.

  “We have no communication with anyone from Hydro,” he continued. “The satellite phone’s not working, and we can’t pick up anything on the other end of the old shortwave radio. Before people start getting worried or acting crazy, we’re gonna fire up the generators. We’ll at least be able to hold them over through the weekend and into next week if we need to.”

  Evan and Isaiah nodded, then looked at each other cautiously. Terry noticed. “Don’t shit your pants,” he said. “We’ve dealt with this before. These things go out all the time. It’s just been a while since all of them were down at the same time. We’ll get the lights on for the weekend and regroup Monday.”

  Then Dan took over. “Tyler, JC, and a couple of the other boys are in there right now,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder into the building. “They’re getting the generators ready to fire up. We were scheduled to test them next week anyways. This is a good chance to do a run-through.”

  Evan breathed out in relief, a bit embarrassed he’d been so worried.

  “Joanne is down at the band office getting ready to print off notices,” Terry continued. Tyler’s mom was one of the band administrators. In a small community, family members worked together all the time. Terry and Dan had been friends since childhood, and JC Meegis, who was inside running tests, was Terry’s son.

  “We’re going to tell people that we’ve turned the generators on so no one’s food goes bad and so they can get their houses warm. If the power doesn’t come back over the weekend, we’re gonna have a community meeting Monday afternoon at the band office. I brought you guys here because I thought we needed more maintenance done inside before these machines fire up. But it looks like it’s under control.”

  The loud cranking of an engine echoed off the walls of the shop and one of the generators roared into operation.

  “So we just need you two to deliver the flyers,” said Terry.

  “Fuck, really?” said Isaiah.

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I don’t wanna go door to door on a Saturday morning.”

  “You just have to drop them off, dumbass. The power’s gonna be on, so it’s not like anyone will be demanding answers from you.”

  Evan chuckled.

  “What’s so funny, Tweedle Dum?” prodded the chief.

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay then, get your asses to work! We’ll update you later.”

  Evan looked at his father, and Dan gave him an easy smile back.

  The sun was up and shining through the dust on the windshield as they drove back east into the heart of the community to pick up the notices from the band office. Songs of heartache and liquor blared again inside the cab. The fingers of Isaiah’s left hand were curling into different positions as it rested on the steering wheel.

  “Don’t tell me you’re actually learning this shit?”

  “Huh?” Isaiah looked to Evan then down at his fingers, positioned in a C chord on an air guitar. “Oh, yeah, I was just playing along in my mind.”

  “What happened to your taste, man? You used to play the good stuff.” Evan shook his head.

  Isaiah sang along in a nasally twang, as Evan sat back and thought fondly of the heavy metal they’d listened to as teens.

  They rolled to a stop in front of the green single-storey building that housed the band office, the school, and the health centre. Evan stepped out of the truck to run in and get the flyers. He pulled the glass front doors open to find Joanne Birch waiting for him at her desk.

  “Hold on, just printing them off now,” she said, without looking up from the computer screen. “I guess everything’s working up there?” Her brown hair fell in two tight braids that draped over her black hoodie emblazoned with the rez logo — an outline of three spruce trees on the white, yellow, red, and black background of the four directions circle.

  “Seems to be,” he replied. “Everything here working?”

  “The computer and the lights are on. All systems go, I guess.”

  “When’s the last time the lights were on in here on a Saturday?”

  “Beats me, I ain’t never worked on a Saturday. It’s the band office!”

  They chortled and Evan gazed out over the spacious lobby as he waited. Its walls were lined with local art and a birchbark canoe hung from the beams below the skylight.

  “You guys staying warm at home?” Evan asked.

  “Yeah, Tyler had the furnace going pretty good. Didn’t even notice the power was off until it was time to make breakfast yesterday.” Tyler, who worked with Evan and Isaiah, was a few years younger than they and still lived at home.

  “Right on. I slacked and let ours burn out.”

  “What kinda Nishnaab are you?”

  “I know. The kids didn’t seem to mind though.”

  “Well, good thing you can at least put some videos on the TV now. I bet their patience is wearing thin. You’re lucky you got a good kwe at home to raise them right.”

  Evan nodded. His heart fluttered.

  Joanne rolled over to the printer, then back over to him, and handed over the stack of sheets. “Alright, here ya go. Have fun!”

  As he stepped outside, Evan looked down at the flyer he was to distribute.

  NOTICE

  COMMUNITY-WIDE POWER OUTAGE

  EMERGENCY POWER GENERATION IN EFFECT UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

  PLEASE CONSERVE ENERGY WHERE POSSIBLE

  USE WOOD STOVES AND FURNACES AS PRIMARY HEAT SOURCES

  SAFELY STORE FOOD

  NEXT UPDATE MONDAY

  HAVE A GOOD WEEKEND

  MIIGWECH,

  CHIEF AND COUNCIL

  Six

  It was dark by the time Evan and Nicole dropped the children off at Dan and Patricia’s. Inside, only the living room lights were on. Maiingan and Nangohns ran to their grandparents with open arms even before taking off their winter jackets.

  “Ah, n’nohnshehnyag!” said Patricia. “My little sweethearts, come to your nookomis.”

  “Thanks for taking them,” said Nicole.

  “You deserve a night off,” Patricia responded. “Go relax.”

  They waved at their children, who waved back, jumping up and down at the prospect of a night with their grandparents.

  “That used to be hard,” said Nicole, as she walked down the front stairs, “but some nights, it’s pretty easy.” Evan laughed.

  The roads were dark — the council had decided against turning on the community’s few street lights — but the homes scattered along the route all now had some light pouring out into the evening. As he drove to Tammy’s place, Evan noted which homes were obeying the band’s request to limit power use.

  �
�Shit, look at Vinny’s place,” he said. “He’s got every fuckin’ light in his place on!”

  Vinny Jones’s two-storey home was unusual in this community of bungalows with raised basements. He’d been able to afford it because he worked in the mines to the west. Tonight his house stood out even more as it blazed with light.

  “He’s probably got his stereo right cranked too,” added Nicole. “He’s gotta be having a party down in his basement.”

  “When the shit really hits the fan, what are people like him gonna do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ah nothing. I’ll go talk to him tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, talk some sense into him.”

  Most of the other houses had only a couple of lights on, either in the living room or kitchen. Many of the family dwellings here were identical, trucked in on the ice road one half at a time and fastened together. It was easy for Evan and Nicole to pinpoint which light was on in which room. The older homes, some crumbling and facing demolition, were harder to figure out.

  They pulled in at a house that looked much like their own. The living room was dark, but they could see activity under the dull kitchen light of Tammy’s home. Evan knocked and opened the door without waiting for a response.

  “Biindigeg!” bellowed Tammy’s husband, Will. “Let’s get this game on the go!” They both heard the slowness in his voice.

  “Hold your horses!” teased Nicole as she reached down to untie her boots. Evan threw his leather jacket on the chair, and they joined Tammy and Will at the table.

  Tammy sat on the near side, twisting around to rest her arm on the chair so she could greet them. Her black hair hung smoothly over her loose navy blue blouse. Across from her, Will held his arms outstretched in a comfortable welcome, Metallica’s Master of Puppets album stretched across the T-shirt that covered his middle-aged gut. At the centre of the table, a large plastic bottle of rye and another of rum sat surrounded by several big bottles of Coke and ginger ale.

  It was supposed to be a dry community. Alcohol had been banished by the band council nearly two decades ago after a snarl of tragedies. Young people had been committing suicide at horrifying rates in the years leading up to the ban, most abetted by alcohol or drugs or gas or other solvents. And for decades, despairing men had gotten drunk and beaten their partners and children, feeding a cycle of abuse that continued when those kids grew up. It became so normal that everyone forgot about the root of this turmoil: their forced displacement from their homelands and the violent erasure of their culture, language, and ceremonies.

  But sixteen-year-old Justin Meegis was the breaking point. The teenager had been drinking with friends, and in his stupor stabbed his grandmother over what should have been a minor argument. She died, and so did he after turning the knife on himself. The only logical recourse for the community leadership was to ban alcohol. Almost twenty years later, the regulation was seldom enforced, and alcohol was smuggled in and stockpiled in homes, especially for nights like these.

  “Ev, can you grab some ice?” asked Tammy. Evan grabbed the white plastic tray from the freezer and dumped the cubes into a waiting plastic bowl.

  He sat down and generously poured rye into the plastic cup in front of him, adding ice and ginger ale. Nicole mixed rum and Coke. Like many people in the community who still drank, they didn’t talk about it. It was easier to ignore all the sadness and despair that had come to their families because of alcohol if they just pushed it out of their minds. They indulged to have fun, relax, and forget.

  “So, anyone out there following chief and council’s wishes?” Tammy asked.

  “Yeah, most people,” said Evan. “Others, not so much.”

  “Like who?”

  “You can probably figure it out if you think about it.”

  “Let’s just say the people who usually don’t have to worry about their bills are carrying on like that,” added Nicole.

  A deck of cards lay idle at the corner of the table for the remainder of the night. Instead, the two couples sat for hours, refilling their cups and getting up only to use the bathroom. The conversation meandered from hunting and the weather to rez politics and the local gossip.

  Eventually Will passed out at the table, and Nicole manoeuvred Evan to bed in the spare room. They were both too drunk to drive home and the kids were sleeping over at their grandparents’ anyway.

  Waking up the next morning to a still house with the pungent aroma of stale cigarette smoke hanging in the air, Evan felt his usual conflicted morning-after emotions of guilt and defiance. He and Nicole got up quietly and went to pick up the kids. They rode in silence, both looking straight into the bare gravel road before them.

  Seven

  The wind picked up in the early afternoon. Dark clouds rolled in right after. Flurries soon blew around and settled on the ground, speckling the dead leaves and the dirt roads with white flakes that clustered in small, light piles. The howl of the wind kept almost everyone indoors. As the sky grew darker with the increasing snow, families turned their attention to creating comfort in the bright, warm confines of their homes.

  Everyone knew a blizzard was imminent. It was usual this time of year. But the radio and online weather reports were silent and no one was sure exactly when the weather would hit.

  But here it came, coating roofs, stairs, driveways, and roads with a blanket of snow that seemed to thicken with each blink of the eyes. Evening seemed to creep in quickly. Men and women scurried outside to shovel driveways, salt stairs, and haul wood. Dogs huddled in their shelters and under porches. Snow squeezed the remaining birds out of the fall sky.

  The temperature drop and the building wind bit at cheeks and stung eyes and nostrils. Each breath chilled, making survival chores harder. Sweat soaked toques and froze in eyebrows. Hands cramped around shovel handles as fingers grew numb.

  The only vehicles to brave the roads were the trucks of the band’s employees. A major snowfall meant they were immediately on the clock, clearing snow from the dirt and gravel routes on the rez. Each drove on his own to the shop where the ploughs, trucks, and salters were parked. They rolled them out in careful succession, relying on their customary choreography to keep the roads clear. If the blizzard didn’t let up, it was a routine they’d be repeating into the night.

  Maiingan looked out the window, his small hands holding on to the wooden sill so he could hike himself up onto tiptoes. He was barely tall enough to peer into the darkness. He saw blurry white headlights coming from the left through the thick blowing snow. “Mommy, is that Daddy?”

  “Maybe, my son,” Nicole answered, not looking up from the book she was reading to Nangohns. “Wave anyway. Even if it’s not him, the other guys would be happy to see you.”

  The boy waved and smiled widely even though his small head in the large picture window would be barely visible from the road. He continued flapping his hands until the pickup truck with the blade attached to the front bumper was well out of sight.

  The smell of bannock wafted through the house, enriching the aroma of the moose stew simmering on the stovetop. It was comfort food, but it was also fuel in harsh winter weather. Nicole had offered to make it for the guys working tonight for whenever they needed a rest and a meal. Evan had spread the word, and the crew would likely start taking up the offer in the coming hours.

  Despite the hardship and tragedy that made up a significant part of this First Nation’s legacy, the Anishinaabe spirit of community generally prevailed. There was no panic on the night of this first blizzard, although there had been confusion in the days leading up to it. Survival had always been an integral part of their culture. It was their history. The skills they needed to persevere in this northern terrain, far from their original homeland farther south, were proud knowledge held close through the decades of imposed adversity. They were handed down to those in the next generation willing to learn. Each winter mar
ked another milestone.

  Nicole closed the children’s book, Jidmoo Miinwaa Goongwaas, and kissed the top of Nangohns’s head. “There you go, my little star,” she said, switching from the Anishinaabemowin in the book to English. “Now you know about the squirrel and the chipmunk. You two stay put, I’ll be right back up.”

  She got up from the couch and walked down to the basement to put more wood in the stove. “Everything will be okay, my loves,” she said into the dark silence.

  Eight

  Fluorescent lights buzzed over Terry Meegis and the band councillors, who sat at two grey plastic tables at the front of the gymnasium, the centrepiece of the community complex and the biggest gathering space on the rez. Three hundred chairs were lined neatly but only about fifty of them were occupied.

  Terry turned to his cousin Walter. “Jesus, where the hell is everyone?”

  “Shoulda promised proper food.” Walter looked like a taller, younger version of the chief but with long hair.

  “How the hell we gonna cook for this many people? We’re on the auxiliary generator power already. Besides, we could be looking at food rationing.” Terry ran his fingers through his hair and sighed loudly.

  “Don’t worry about it, Terry,” Candace North said. “They’ll show up. It’s harder to get around with all that snow, especially for the people who have to walk here.” She flashed a sweet smile that pushed her cheeks up into her wide-set eyes. Short and heavyset, she was Isaiah’s mother and the “auntie” of the council who was most often the voice of reason during meeting disputes. “Let’s give them another half hour or so. It looks like the coffee and cookies are holding them over,” she reassured, gesturing at the few dozen in the crowd. “Go have a smoke.”