Waubgeshig Rice - Moon of the Crusted Snow

It grew dark as snow swallowed the building. A fire burned at the far end of the foyer, flicking orange light onto the walls and ceiling. He looked up to see a frozen crust grow over the skylight, blocking out the overcast sky.

The fire in the back made no smoke or heat, only light. He walked cautiously towards it. The whole space was barren. No furniture, no supplies, no signs of any kind of human presence. As he approached the fire, he noticed strange, dark stacks lined up against the walls. They looked like rolls of blankets. But the closer he came, he realized they were bodies, frozen stiff, wrapped in blankets, and piled three-to-four high against the Gyprock walls.

He stopped and struggled to breathe. His heart pounded but his feet felt frozen. He stumbled forth, almost drunkenly. The fire danced above the floor, suspended ominously.

His heavy feet trudged slowly towards the pile of bodies on the left. Wrapped in fading material and stacked together, they all looked the same size. These were all adults, he concluded. Thank god there are no children here . The room seemed to stretch longer the closer he got to the wall. The row of frozen bodies extended much farther than he had originally realized.

He looked back down and saw thick black hair sticking out the end of a grey wool blanket. He saw his hand rise to reach for it. His fingers stroked cold, coarse hair. He ran his palm across the stiff, frigid scalp and he pulled the blanket away from the face.

The dream shocked him awake before he saw who it was. He yelped as he jolted up.

Nicole came around from the kitchen and looked at him with concern on her face. “You alright?”

Even propped himself onto his left elbow and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah,” he croaked in a hoarse voice. “Just a messed-up dream.”

Scott exhaled and relaxed his shoulder as the bull settled in his scope. He squeezed the trigger and the loud crack scattered the other nearby moose. His target fell to the snow. “Fuckin’ got ’im! Woohoo!” he belted out.

Dan, Isaiah, Evan, and Jeff Whitesky crouched in the snow behind the newcomer. “Looks like you weren’t kidding, zhaagnaash,” said Jeff, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You can shoot.”

“Ha ha!” Scott gloated. He twisted his torso to face the men behind him and squinted into the cold white landscape. “It’s been a long time since I bagged a moose in the winter. They’re basically like sitting ducks out there, eh?”

The rest rose to their feet behind him, now that the other moose had disappeared into the sparse bush. “Yeah, after the rut, the bulls tend to stick together in the winter,” Dan explained. “They don’t move too much either.”

“But we don’t like to do this much, hunting them in the winter,” added Jeff. “It’s kinda like cheating. It’s not the Anishinaabe way to take more than you need. Back in the day, before beef roasts were shipped in here, we only did it when we needed to. Only during the desperate times.”

Scott put the safety back on his .30-30 rifle and threaded his big arm through the shoulder strap. “Well, I’d say these are desperate times,” he said. “That’s why we’re out here, isn’t it?”

“No, we’re out here because you promised to play a part here,” Evan reminded him.

Scott shot him an icy gaze that the others didn’t notice. “I am playing a part,” Scott retorted. “You’ve seen what I brought to the table.”

It was a week after Scott’s arrival. When the men had met to plan their hunt, they had asked Scott what he had for guns and ammunition. He took them to the health station where he’d been staying and pulled a ring of keys from his waist to unlock one of the hard cases. A soft foam mould contained a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun, a .30-30 rifle, a smaller .22-calibre rifle, and two semi-automatic pistols. He lifted the holder to reveal a cache of ammunition. “Got enough here for when the shit really hits the fan,” he explained with pride. Evan couldn’t get Scott’s artillery stock out of his mind.

“What’s a zhaagnaash, anyway?” asked Scott. He pronounced the long vowels nasally and abruptly, and that made Isaiah and Jeff snicker.

“It’s our traditional word for ‘helpful friend,’” replied Evan.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” grumbled Scott. The others just laughed. With his wide rawhide snowshoes on his feet, Dan, the elder of the group, led the way to the moose. Scott followed with his smaller metal ones, and Jeff walked beside him, sifting through the fresh snow in his traditional snowshoes. Evan and Isaiah walked back to where they had parked the snowmobiles to bring Scott’s machine to the moose.

The three men stopped in front of the dead animal to marvel at his size. Their shadows loomed over the dead beast. “Fuckin’ right we’re gonna need my sled!” boasted Scott.

Dan frowned in annoyance as he pulled out a pouch of tobacco and pinched out a small amount. He elbowed Scott’s forearm to get his attention to hand him the pouch. “Here, take this,” Dan said. The beak of his hat concealed his eyes. “This is what we call semaa. It’s tobacco. We make an offering to give thanks to this moose for offering its life to us.”

“I’ve heard of this,” Scott said, and he silently took the pouch and pinched some into his own hand. He handed it to Jeff, who did the same.

Dan took off his hat and began to pray. Jeff pulled back the hood of his parka and removed his ball cap and Scott pulled off his black toque when he saw what the others were doing. Dan finished the prayer with a miigwech and placed the tobacco in front of the dead moose with care and respect. Jeff followed, and Scott mimicked the motions of the others.

By the time Evan and Isaiah returned with the sleds, they were ready to lift the bull on and return to town. This is where Scott’s muscle would come in handy. He’s pulling his weight, thought Evan. Maybe he’ll be useful around here.

Evan, Nicole, and their children dined under the yellow lightbulb that brightened the kitchen table. It was a moose roast with the last of the potatoes mashed for a side and heated canned corn. Evan was careful not to douse his potatoes with too much gravy. He wanted to savour them because no one knew when they’d be able to eat them again. He’d saved a few to plant in the spring, but he wasn’t sure if they’d actually grow.

Cutlery clanked against thin glass plates as the family ate their meal with quiet chatter. They all took their time over the meal without the distraction of TV and homework. After supper, they unfolded worn board games, played cards, or told stories. The pace of their lives was slowing.

“Moozoo, that’s moose,” Nicole said to Maiingan. She took every opportunity to remind them of their Anishinaabemowin words. They had language classes at school, but there had been no regular classes for almost a month. The band couldn’t justify using the fuel to keep the school open. Some teachers still held informal classes in their homes for families who wanted to maintain some kind of normal routine. But even those were happening less often. “Moozoo,” the boy repeated.

“What’s this?” Nicole asked, pointing at the corn on her plate. Maiingan stared at the vegetable, scrunching his face in concentration. “M… ma… man-daa-min?”

“Right! Mandaamin!” she said, holding out her hand for a high five. He slapped it with peak five-year-old force. “And that is?” she asked, pointing at the potatoes.

“Piniik!” he shouted. Nicole smiled and raised her palm for another celebratory slap.

The children were learning their language earlier and better than their parents had. Evan and Nicole had grown up in an era when Ojibwe wasn’t spoken much with the younger generation at home. It was only two generations before Nicole and Evan that speaking Ojibwe was punished at the church-run schools that imprisoned stolen children, and the shame attached to it lingered. Evan and Nicole had vowed to make things different for their kids. They had given them Anishinaabemowin names with pride — Maiingan meant “wolf” and Nangohns “little star.”