Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

  I know being physically able or not doesn’t define us in such ways, but things are hard when our bodies don’t work as they are meant to. Through the years, my mom has been a testimony to that. By perseverance, she has battled on through her various ills and bouts with MS. She and Aunt Val exemplify grace despite the circumstances.

  “Come on, lollygagger.” Rose winks and teases me again.

  I lap it up and grin. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  I catch up, grab her in my arms, and she squeals. I laugh and kiss her soundly, and we go in to join our family to celebrate life together.

  September 20th, 1923

  I sit in a field of grain and write. Its ripening heads are drooping over and starting to turn golden in the slanted afternoon light. The shadows play as the wind from the lake bends them to and fro. Once in a while, they swirl as if caught in some sort of eddy.

  I feel at peace in this spot. I thank God over and over again for his hand in gracing me with the role of husband and father. Mauve and I welcomed our second child into the world almost two years ago now. Daithi should have a birthday coming up soon—just a few days away from my mother’s.

  Mauve agreed to name our son Daithi. I think often of the scrawny kid who saved my life some six years ago. I did some searching and found out that after he pulled me to safety, he was shot himself and died. It makes me sad. He was a good kid with spunk and determination. Why did he die and I live? I ask myself that once in a while, and I have no answer. All I know: I have to use my chance at life wisely. I try to fill my days with gratitude and purpose.

  Our little Daithi favors me in looks, but he is Mauve on the inside clear through. He’s a jolly little chap when he’s happy, but when he’s not . . . boy, watch out. Pearl loves her little brother, Dati, as she calls him, and is a good big sister. She is Mauve’s little helper around the house too.

  Most days I assist at the shipping office. Dad does less and less, grooming me for the switching of the guard probably. I like my job, but it does not make me happy. Being outside makes me happy, and, of course, being with family.

  Great Aunt Angelica is still with us. She becomes frailer with each passing year, but she holds on, “too tough and too ornery to die.” At least, according to her. Mom says the older Angelica gets the softer she becomes.

  Mom and Dad look older and a little grayer, but the same on the inside—wise and caring as always. I hope and pray I am the kind of parent my folks were to me: caring, supportive, wise, godly, and, most importantly, present. Whatever they were doing, I was included too. Life was always about being together, and I am grateful for that kind of example.

  Lu and Peter came to visit with their family. I think they have finally come to terms with Jesse’s loss. I think of all the parents who’ve lost sons in the war . . . so many broken hearts.

  My sisters have grown up so much. Celeste pursues a college education. She wants to be a teacher. She is smart as a whip like my mother and has twice as much spunk.

  Lizzy is determined. She finishes her education here in Webaashi Bay, but she tells everyone that she intends to pursue medicine. She always tagged after Maang-ikwe when she worked on her mashkiki and picked up much knowledge here and there. Her heart has a similar calling to her great aunt’s, to help mend the broken and ill health of humanity.

  I never thought the day would come. Maang-ikwe has passed on. One day Mom just found her crippled over her work bench in her old hut, a smile on her face and her eyes staring as if seeing a welcome sight. And perhaps she was.

  She often told me that when death came to her, it would just be a doorway to a different place with Gitchi-manidoo. I like to think of her in that different place, happy, content, and at peace—things we all strive for but rarely achieve. I suppose because they are only totally fulfilled in that hidden place with our maker.

  Well, I should wrap up my ponderings. Maang-ikwe’s service is this evening. Mom wanted it at night by the light of a full moon. She said, “Maang-ikwe charted her life by the phases of the moon, and it seems only fitting she be committed to God and back to the earth under it.” We all agreed.

  Later in the day

  Oshki had gotten Mauve and their children to the service a little late, but here they stood with family over Maang-ikwe’s grave. Lanterns on poles encircling the gravesite illuminated the mourners.

  A small crowd gathered around, mostly family. Although Maang-ikwe had been well known in town, she had been a private person. Oshki’s mother had felt it best it be a simple farewell. She said Maang-ikwe would have wanted it that way. Their family had come of course: Luis and Rose and their baby girl, Marigold; the Parsons; the Smiths; Lily and Jimmy and their children; the Maddoxs; the Murrays; and a few others from town.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .” The Jesuit priest’s low voice droned on.

  Oshki listened and looked up at the moon smiling down on them. His thoughts drifted from the priest’s words to a tale his great aunt had told him when he was a child. Maang-ikwe’s mellow and slightly nasal voice spilled out the story in his memory . . .

  “Now there was Moon whom Gitchi-manidoo made. Moon looked down from heaven. He liked to watch de life of men, but he sad not to gaganoozah, talk, with man. Gitchi-manidoo knew Moon could not talk men’s talk, so he thought of way. He asked Moon question.

  “‘Moon, you tired of always being de same color?’ Moon say, ‘’Eya,’ yes. Moon not think of that before, but he tired of gray. So Gitchi-manidoo gave him gift.”

  “What did the moon get?” Oshki widened his eyes and asked. The firelight of the hearth danced behind them.

  “Moon’s maker say to him, ‘I give you red, orange, blue, gold, and silver to dress in.’

  “Moon pleased, but he ask, ‘How I know which color to put on?’

  “Gitchi-manidoo tell him, ‘Sun will tell you.’ So . . . Moon listens for Sun and its light to tell him when to dress in a different color.”

  “Does the moon have a favorite color?” Oshki asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Is the moon happy wearing different colors?”

  Maang-ikwe smiled at him. “It is just so, ingozis. Moon is happy, he wear color so Anishinaabe know when to do certain things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Harvest and thanks. Planting and protect. Joy and laughter. Sorrow and tears.”

  Oshki was puzzled. He had an inclination of what she meant, for the moon glowed orange often at harvest time, and he had seen it look golden and full every once in a while. Oshki couldn’t remember seeing the other colors, though.

  “Will I see all the colors of the moon? Will the moon tell me when to do these things?” Oshki watched his great aunt. He loved her stories, but he often did not understand them.

  Maang-ikwe paused and gazed at him so hard it almost hurt. He wanted to turn away but didn’t.

  “What is it?” he finally got up the courage to ask her.

  “Ingozis, my son. I see a silver moon.” Maang-ikwe placed a shaky hand on his chin.

  “What will a silver moon tell me?” Oshki’s brows puckered together.

  She hesitated, sighed, and trailed down the curve of his smooth boy cheek with her wrinkled finger. “Silver a metal that chases away maji-manidoo, bad spirits. The light of de silver moon a cleansing light. It save you from bad things and help you remember Gitchi-manidoo, who protects.”

  Maang-ikwe’s hand hovered a few seconds longer at Oshki’s cheek, then she dropped it back into her lap and turned her head to the low, flickering flames.

  Oshki looked at his aunt’s profile and wondered when he would see this moon and what he would need protecting from . . .

  Oshki had forgotten about the tale over the years, but it was by the light of a silver moon he’d been spared. When Daithi had helped him to safety, he’d gone in and out of consciousness, but through his inward travels, he recalled feeling arms around him, as if protecting him. He hadn’t thought of the tale at that time, but he had when he ha
d pulled Luis from the slimy trench at Vimy Ridge, and he thought of it now as his family huddled around Maang-ikwe’s grave.

  Oshki watched as his mother shed one tear after another. When the priest finished, she laid a pouch of tobacco atop the coffin. Oshki noticed the names carved into stone at the right of his great aunt’s resting place. Maang-ikwe had been laid next to his grandparents: John Pierre and Celeste Follett.

  After the father’s final “Amen,” the group dispersed from the hole and the mound of fresh dirt.

  “Do you want me to stay by you for a while?” Jacque asked Jenay.

  Oshki took a firm stance by his mother. “I’ll stay.”

  Jenay nodded and whispered to Jacque, “We’ll be fine. Go with the children.”

  “As you wish.” Oshki’s father kissed his mother on the cheek and went to assist Mauve and the children as they left the gravesite.

  Oshki took one last look at the hole where his great aunt’s body rested. Gratitude rose in his heart that Maang-ikwe’s spirit dwelled with her maker now. Jenay looked over the familiar faces and accepted everyone’s condolences as they moved on. One by one, they trickled away until Oshki and his mother were left with one man and woman. Oshki didn’t recognize them, and he was pretty sure, from his mother’s expression, that she didn’t either. Although, something about the man’s profile looked vaguely familiar to him.

  “You . . . knew my aunt?” Jenay asked in a whisper across the hole.

  The evening made the sound of her voice carry. It seemed too loud to Oshki’s ears in this place devoid of life.

  The man shook his head. No.

  He turned to the woman by his side. Her ash-blonde hair shone through the black lace atop her head. Oshki could see her beauty despite her apparent years and the evening light. Shadowed lines creased her honey-colored complexion around her mouth and eyes.

  The man spoke softly to her. “Wait for me by the chapel.”

  The woman nodded, glanced at Jenay and Oshki with empathetic, blue eyes, and moved away.

  The man turned his head and answered Jenay. “I . . . knew her but not well.”

  His voice startled Oshki. His mother put a hand to her chest, and Oshki heard her suck in a quick breath. A faint Ojibwe accent shrouded the man’s words. Oshki strained his eyes to try to see the fellow better. The man had on a suit, cut in rather an outdated style; he wore his dark hair long and uncovered; his skin appeared to blend in with the shadows; and he smelled of sage, cedar, and wood smoke.

  Maang-ikwe’s scent, Oshki remembered.

  The fragrance made his great aunt suddenly appear before him in his mind. Oshki watched his mother study the man too, his image peculiar but not unfriendly.

  Maybe he’s from Maang-ikwe’s loon clan? Oshki’s mother had told him that she’d sent a message to the mission on the reservation where Maang-ikwe had grown up.

  Jenay spoke and introduced herself and Oshki. “I am her niece, Jenay, and this is my son, Dominique Cota, although we call him Oshki.”

  She smiled slightly and looped her arm tighter through Oshki’s arm. Oshki rested his hand on top of hers.

  The man looked at her. While he did, Oshki took further note of him. He noticed that the man was older than his mother, his wrinkles deeper than hers. His eyes shone black in the dim light of the lanterns, streaks of silver in his hair gleamed in the glow, and his skin color matched hers.

  “I know,” he responded in a firm but quiet voice.

  His mother and the man stared at each other, then the man turned his steady gaze on Oshki. Oshki felt a tingle run down his spine. He looks like Maang-ikwe looked when she would bore into my spirit with her black-bead eyes.

  Jenay leaned into Oshki’s side and gripped his arm. Oshki’s eyes flicked to where his father and the woman he didn’t know waited outside the chapel. Jenay’s hand went to her temple. Oshki steadied her.

  “How would you describe her?” The man’s blunt question startled them both.

  Oshki wondered how his mother would sum up her aunt; words didn’t do Maang-ikwe justice.

  “Wise. She was a healer, and . . . she loved God. All who knew her thought highly of her,” Jenay told him.

  That comes close, I guess, Oshki thought.

  “And she was good to me, like a mother.”

  Jenay ventured a slight smile at the man, who stood so straight-faced and expressionless in front of them. Oshki offered a smile as well, hoping the man would feel at ease.

  “At least she was able to be a mother to someone.” The man’s voice held a sad ring of regret to it.

  “I . . . what do you mean?” Jenay’s voice caught and faltered.

  Oshki couldn’t guess what the man referred to. It was as if the man begrudged his mother the care she had received from Maang-ikwe as a motherless child.

  As if he’s jealous, Oshki guessed.

  The man sighed, long and slow. “She never told you?”

  His eyes focused on Jenay.

  Oshki searched his mind for what the man could mean. His great aunt had been a quiet woman, secretive, some would say, but as far as Oshki knew she had kept no secrets from the family.

  Apparently, she did, he realized.

  “Told me what?” Jenay asked.

  The man replied with weighty words. “That she had a son.”

  Jenay sucked in her breath.

  A son! Oshki would never have guessed his great aunt harbored such a secret. His mother’s heart must hurt knowing that Maang-ikwe kept this from her.

  “What?” He spoke for the first time, his voice sounding like a hammer in the quiet.

  His mother stood speechless next to him.

  “I’m her son.” The man’s words pierced the darkness and brought some light.

  Jenay stood ramrod straight next to Oshki.

  She spoke out the truth. “Then . . . you are . . . my cousin.”

  “Yes.” The man’s tone was hard to read.

  Is he happy about that fact? Oshki wondered.

  “But how . . . why did she never say?” Her voice cracked again in a pleading, broken tone.

  How could she not have wanted to be with her son? Why did she hide him from us?

  The man sighed again and placed the black hat he held in his hands on his head. “It’s a long story.”

  Jenay looked back towards Jacque. Oshki glanced at his father, who probably wondered what was taking them so long.

  “My husband is waiting for us to join the rest of the family. We are going to Oshki’s house for a light evening meal. Will you and your companion . . . join us?” She checked with Oshki. “Would that be all right, Son?”

  “Yes. By all means. Please join us.” Oshki tried to make his words sound welcoming.

  Jenay spoke up again. “You can tell us the story on the way.”

  The man nodded and walked around the grave towards them. He offered Jenay his hand. She took it. They stared at each other for a few moments until they both echoed each other’s temperate smile.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, cousin.” The man’s tone held some sympathy.

  “And I yours,” Jenay replied in an empathetic voice.

  He extended his hand to Oshki next. “I’m sorry to meet you under such difficult circumstances.”

  “Yes.” Oshki didn’t know what else to say.

  The man let go of his hand. “My wife, Emily, waits for me.”

  He motioned towards the woman by the chapel.

  “I will be glad to meet her.” Jenay smiled. “You seem to know my name, but what is yours?”

  Now that the man stood near Oshki and his mother, he could clearly see the evidence of the man’s heritage—Anishinaabe.

  “My Ojibwe name is Niin-mawin. Some of my friends call me Laramie.”

  “Does your name have a particular meaning?” Jenay asked.

  Oshki knew the importance of a name in Ojibwe tradition.

  “Laramie means ‘tears of love’. Niin-mawin means, ‘I cry for him.’”


  Oshki thought of the story that must be behind such a name. Likely filled with drama and pain.

  He looked forward to hearing it, as he supposed his mother must.

  Oshki led his mother and Niin-mawin to join their family at the chapel. Niin-mawin began his tale in a low voice with a rough but soothing edge to it.

  “She told me a harvest moon shone on the eve I was born . . .”

  The End

  Autumn Comfort Tea

  This is a recipe for a hand-blended tea from ingredients that I grew, except the spices.

  It’s simple, light, and comforting.

  Ingredients:

  1 and ½ T. dried apple

  2 t. dried sage

  2 t. dried mint

  1 t. dried chamomile

  2 T. cinnamon bark chips

  ½ t. crushed clove buds

  Instructions:

  Chop dried ingredients separately before measuring.

  After chopping mix together well.

  Store in airtight container away from light.

  Use 1 t. per 8oz of boiling water.

  Steep for 4-5 min. in an infuser.

  ~

  Enjoy!

  Author’s Notes

  Silver Moon portrays a harsher picture than I have previously etched with Ruby Moon and Blue Moon. Being wartime, the story needed a taste of the raw reality of war to give it substance. I wanted my characters to wrestle with their guilt, fear, and loss in relation to WWI and the horrific scope it entailed. I hope I formed a realistic image of wartime struggles for you with my words.

  Researching every aspect of Silver Moon gave me enjoyment. I don’t consider myself an expert on WWI, and, in fact, I knew only basic information—what I remember from history classes and personal reading—before I started writing. I found the best assistance online. The Canadian Encyclopedia at www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca and www.greatwar.co.uk became valuable tools as I crafted Silver Moon. Canada’s role in the first WWI was significant in force, loss, and advancement.