Terry’s fists clenched on the surface of the table. The hot furnace air felt dry in Evan’s throat. Scott brought his whisper down even lower, but not too low, so the first few people near the table could hear his foreboding message. “You’re gonna have to think about feeding your people. And you’re running out of options. But I know where we can find something else to eat, and I think you know what I mean.”
Scott stood up and smiled, his mouth cavernous and dark behind his big teeth “Chi-miigwech for your time, Chief,” he said, changing his tone. “I look forward to discussing this matter with you again.”
He turned around and stepped out the door, with Connor following closely behind.
Twenty-Seven
Evan struck the red match head against the gritty side of the box. A tiny orange flame crackled to life, giving off a small puff of grey smoke. The sulphur lingered for a moment, stinging his nostrils. Pinching the match between his calloused, dirt-stained thumb and forefinger, he turned the match to let the flame crawl along the small wooden stick.
It began as an orange teardrop and stretched as it crawled along the stick. As it elongated, the flame peaked at either end, like a smile. The cold air above it shimmered from the small pocket of heat. The fire crawled away from the match head, leaving curved, charred remains that almost looked like a burnt tadpole. The flame mesmerized Evan and he didn’t realize he was under its spell until he felt it burn his fingers. He shook the flame out and threw the match on the ground before lighting another.
He lit the second one and, after letting it burn for a second, placed it in an opening in the meticulously piled wood in front of him. The burning spruce and pine smelled familiar and comforting. As the orange flames emerged from the heart of the pile, a grey plume rippled upwards through the opening in the green canvas tarp above him, blending with the overcast sky that peeked through.
Evan sunk back to sitting on the old brown sleeping bag and savoured the peace as the fire crackled to life in front of him. The ground around him was clear of snow: he had shovelled out as much as he could on his last trip here, and the fire he’d lit during that visit had warmed the interior enough to melt away the remnants.
This was Evan’s secret project: a shelter in the bush that he had begun the day after the food brawl. A backup, in case he and his family needed refuge from whatever turmoil might eventually consume his community. He had begun by chopping the long, straight narrow spruce trees that would be the pillars and stripping their bark. A few days later, he had sledded out the three thick canvases, one at a time. Each trip took a full morning. He came back a few days after that to dig out a firepit and drape the tarps over the tipi frame. Here he was, weeks later, beginning to outfit the safe haven.
A pile of neatly folded wool blankets lay on the ground on the far side of the structure. Two boxes of assorted canned goods were stacked on the right. He planned to wrap the boxes with some of the blankets to insulate them from the freezing temperatures that would last another couple of months. He would have to rebuild the structure in the spring to let the poles cure properly, but for now, this experiment seemed to be working.
Evan looked over the dancing flames at the load he had just dragged over the snow. He slid his right hand into the pocket of his parka and pulled out a small purple drawstring cloth bag that had once held a stubby heavy bottle of whiskey. Its contents rattled as he bounced the satchel lightly in his cracked palm.
The bag held a simple can opener and ten small boxes of matches; an emergency supply to open the food and start a fire should he and his family have to escape to this tent in the bush. He surveyed the ground around him for a place to bury the bag. He felt about under the decomposing leaves that had been crushed into the yellow grass by the snow. The vegetation felt damp, and below the ground was frozen. He slammed the heel of his boot into the earth and a shock reverberated through his foot. The ground was still too frozen to dig.
But the fire had warmed the inside of the tent. Evan stood up to take off his heavy parka. The tipi stood almost three times his height, and he easily stepped around the fire to throw the bag overtop the boxes and blankets. As he leaned over to pick up one of the blankets, a drop of sweat fell from his long black bangs. He wiped the perspiration from his brow with the tattered sleeve of his black hoodie. How long was I sitting in front of the fire? he thought.
He pulled the top blanket off the pile and shook it open. It reeked of mustiness, like the corner of the basement from which he’d grabbed it. It was one of a few old blankets put aside for emergency situations. He couldn’t remember when he had stashed this one away but it clearly hadn’t been used in a very long time.
Evan shook it out one more time and let it fall gently on the ground. He turned back to the pile and picked up an orange blanket the same size and make as the first. He flapped it open, making the flames dance and grow. He laid it over the grey one and sat down on the insulated ground.
Sitting cross-legged, he stared into the fire, then leaned on one elbow so he could stretch out his legs. His people didn’t make tipis. They weren’t characteristic of the Anishinaabeg. But he learned how to build one from a how-to guide in a hunting magazine of all places. He and Isaiah experimented with different sizes on random excursions into the bush over the years. Right now, it was the easiest, most reliable thing he could build in the middle of the winter in a power crisis.
The warmth relaxed him, and the stillness inside the tipi soothed him. He felt the stiffness in his upper back ease. The peaceful winter day outside left the tarps undisturbed on the poles. Evan rested his head on the inside of his arm, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
~
A blizzard howled as he opened the high garage door, the whiteout obscuring his line of sight. He looked up to see a crimson sun pulsing through the winter storm, washing the snow around him in a bright red glow like the flashing lights of an ambulance. It seemed to flash in sync with the beat of his heart, which sped up as he stepped into the building to escape the storm. He pulled back the hood of his parka and his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. The pulsating flares from the sun outside did nothing to illuminate the interior of the morgue.
He couldn’t make out the neatly arranged lines of bodies. His hands trembled under his thick snowmobile mitts. He panicked and bit on the end of the right mitt to pull his hand out and thrust it into his pocket to grab his flashlight. His hands shook as he cradled the light close to his chest and struggled to find the switch. The red light from the outside intensified and his breath grew shorter. His chest was tight and he struggled for air. To his relief, he located the button and the blueish light shot upward and back down to the floor as he got his panicked hands under control.
All that remained were the old, tattered blankets that had wrapped the bodies. It looked like they had decomposed into nothing.
His heartbeat echoed loudly in his ears. A fierce trembling overcame his whole body and his pupils dilated. A deep, guttural growl boomed behind him and drowned out the howl of the wind. Whatever stood in the snow just outside the garage door wheezed as it drew in a breath, and let out a harsh, threatening snarl at a pitch just higher than a bear’s. Evan stiffened, momentarily paralyzed, before he summoned the courage to turn and face it.
A feral odor, like a rotting heap of moose innards, wafted briskly into the garage. A tall, gaunt silhouette stood in the doorway, outlined by the scarlet blizzard behind it. The smell made him gag. The creature hunched forward. The hair on its broad shoulders and long arms blurred the lines of its figure. Its legs appeared disfigured, almost backwards. But its large, round head scared him the most. It breathed out another savage rumble.
Evan slowly raised the flashlight, illuminating the figure’s pale, heaving emaciated torso under sparse brown body hair. He brought the beam up to its face. It was disfigured yet oddly familiar. Scott. His cheeks and lips were pulled tight against his skull. He breathed heavily throu
gh his mouth, with long incisors jutting upward and downward from rows of brown teeth. His eyes were blacked out. If it weren’t for the large, bald scalp and the long, pointy noise, this monster would have been largely unrecognizable.
The beast Scott had become lunged forward.
Twenty-Eight
The water bubbled in the big black pot on top of the wood stove in the basement. Wearing thick oven mitts, Nicole grabbed the handles and turned to walk it carefully back up the stairs. The morning sunshine outside was bright enough to light the basement so she didn’t need to juggle a flashlight as well.
Her hands ached and her arms trembled by the time she made it upstairs. She trudged across the kitchen floor and grimaced as she hoisted the pot of hot water onto the useless electric stove. She turned to the sink to arrange the clothes she was about to wash. Underwear, socks, and T-shirts always got priority, with jeans and sweaters going through only if they began to stink. She scooped a small amount of powdered detergent out of the bottom of the box and sprinkled the grains sparingly over the laundry.
Nicole grabbed the pot of water and poured it into the wash basin. As it splashed onto the clothes and steam swelled into her face, she turned her head to the living room behind her. “How you guys doing in there?”
“Good,” Nangohns replied. “We’re building a new house for Nookomis and Mishomis!”
Nicole put the empty pot back on the stove top and picked up the wooden spoon beside the sink to mix the detergent into the clothes. “A new house! I’m gonna have to come and see that!”
She looked into the living room, where she saw her children sitting on the carpet, playing with toy blocks. Nangohns’s pink sweatshirt was fading and the holes in the knees of Maiingan’s small jeans were growing daily. Both kids would outgrow these clothes soon anyway, and somehow they’d have to find some bigger ones soon. They both looked up at her, smiling.
“Why do Nookomis and Mishomis need a new house?” Nicole asked. “Theirs is still in good shape,”
“This one’s their summer house,” replied Maiingan.
“Summer house!” echoed the girl.
“Oh, I see. Why do they need a summer house?” Nicole untied her bun and regathered it more tightly and neatly.
“Just in case,” Maiingan said and turned his eyes back down to the interlocking plastic.
“Just in case, eh,” she muttered. “Well, I gotta go outside just for a minute.”
“Okay, Mommy,” Nangohns answered.
Nicole went back to the kitchen to get the pot and came back through the living room to put on her winter boots. She didn’t bother grabbing her jacket from the coat rack. She opened the door, went quickly out into the chill, and dipped the pot into the high snow. She packed the snow into the pot and brought it back into the house.
By anyone’s guess, it was mid-March. Terry Meegis was probably the only one who still knew the exact date. Nicole preferred to wait out the winter rather than lament the days since the power went out or generate any false optimism about how close it was to spring.
But the more tolerable temperatures and heavier snow indicated that winter had peaked. At least a month and a half of snow and cold remained, but the days were longer and the twilight hung long over the horizon in the luminous blue that foretold spring. Soon there would be no more snowmelt for drinking, cooking, and washing water and they would have to figure something else out. There would be no return to running water.
Back in the basement, Nicole dumped the snow into the large plastic basin a few metres from the wood stove. A collection of basins, buckets, and bins held melted snow water. On the other side, a smaller number of large pots contained water that had already been boiled for consumption. It was an efficient rotation and it hadn’t taken too long for them to adjust. After all, it was how Dan and Patricia’s generation had grown up.
Nicole heard a knock. She put the pot on the floor and walked upstairs to see Tyler standing at the door. Two braids hung behind his ears and his grey toque was pulled down over his eyebrows. He feigned a weak smile when he saw her. Without going all the way to the door, she waved him in.
Tyler stepped inside and closed the door. He looked at the kids on the floor and smiled. “Boozhoo binoojiinyag!” he declared warmly. “Hey, kids! Whatcha doing?”
“Making houses!” Nangohns replied.
“Oh, ever good houses. We’ll need to give youse guys a job next summer!”
Tyler turned to Nicole.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Is Ev around?”
“No, he went out into the bush to check some snares.”
“When do you think he’ll be back?”
“I dunno. Probably soon. He left pretty early this morning. What’s going on?”
He sighed, and his broad shoulders drooped. “Auntie Aileen died.”
Nicole covered her mouth. Tears welled in her brown eyes.
Twenty-Nine
Evan ran the back of his moose-hide glove across his face. The rabbit-fur trim collected his tears. He struggled not to sob as he and Tyler pulled Aileen’s body across the heavy snow. His chest felt tight, his arms heavy, and his legs burned as he lifted each snowshoe forward.
He had arrived home from his trip into the bush the day before to find Tyler walking down the steps. Aileen’s niece Amanda had gone to check on her and found her dead, bundled in her bed at home.
Evan had felt numb at first and he hadn’t cried over Aileen’s death until later at night. She had been his surrogate grandmother, his go-to elder whenever he had questions about the old ways, and he had loved her. He hoped she had enjoyed his visits, for they had always been special to him. He had known she would go eventually, but he had hoped that it would not be this soon.
The smell of sage smudge lingered in his nose, and the travelling song her family had sung for her rang in his ears. Before Evan and Tyler had shown up, her children and grandchildren had debated over where she should go. Tradition called for four days of grieving and celebration before giving a body back to the earth, but the ground was still too hard for burial. So her family had spent the night singing songs and making initial preparations for her journey to the spirit world, outfitting her with the traditional medicines and tools she needed to cross over safely.
Their snowshoes flapped against their boots. Tyler cleared his throat. “Uh, so how are we supposed to put her in there?” he asked nervously. Neither wanted to look back at the elder’s body wrapped in dark grey blankets on a bed of cedar boughs.
“I think we’re just supposed to smudge around her,” Evan answered, patting his front left pocket to feel for the sweetgrass Amanda had handed him. “Then we have to put down tobacco and ask for her to be safe there.”
“Okay. Are we supposed to do a song or anything else?”
“No, Amanda said they’d come down later to do another song.”
“Alright,” Tyler said in obvious relief. These protocols were new to him too.
They walked up over the hill that used to be the driveway to the office. The road lay at least a metre and a half beneath the snow, but it was easier to walk across now that it was late winter. The powder had compacted and they sank less each day. The walls of the band office came into view, and Evan took a deep breath.
The air was damp. The sled glided along with a muffled whoosh. Evan and Tyler guided it carefully towards the building that once bustled with life but now only housed the dead. Their regular trips here throughout the winter had made trails and a clearing in the snow in front of the garage door that clanked and rattled as Tyler pulled the chains from the inside.
Their sorrow kept them silent. Evan pulled the sled slowly onto the cold concrete floor. He dropped the yellow rope and finally turned to look at the elder’s body. The rolled blankets fit snugly around Aileen’s small frame. He pictured her resting peacefully on her bed of cedar.
Evan looked back to the three rows of bodies that stretched wall to wall, and from the back nearly all the way to the door. “Goddamn, I think you’re right.”
The death toll had reached twenty-two. Twenty-three, if you counted Mark Phillips, the man Justin Scott had killed at the beginning of winter. But his body was not here. It still lay on the outskirts of the reserve, frozen and buried in snow where it had been left in the moments after he was shot. There was still some room at the front, but it was small and cramped by the door, and both men wanted to give Aileen the dignity of sufficient space.
“Alright, let’s go see how we can do this.” Evan stepped through the bodies to the back. It was darker the deeper they went into the garage, and the bodies that lay towards the far wall were no more than silhouettes in the dim light.
The friends remembered exactly which person lay where, the circumstances around their death, and the day they brought them to this unfair and uncertain industrial tomb. Both thought of the spring to come, of the necessity of digging twenty-three plots by hand, and burying each person in the rez cemetery. It would be a daunting, traumatic task.
Evan sighed. “Well, let’s move them all a bit closer together to make more room at the front.”
“Yeah, that’s probably the best way to do it,” Tyler agreed. “If we just move them all a little bit to the side, that’ll open up some room on the ends.”
Evan nodded. Tyler continued, “And I hate to say this too, but there’ll probably be at least a couple more people who won’t make it out of this winter alive.”
Moon of the Crusted Snow Page 16