Waubgeshig Rice - Moon of the Crusted Snow

In the still, frigid air, the faint hum of snowmobiles interrupted them. It had been weeks since anyone had ridden their machines for leisure, so the sound from the south was unmistakable. Now they were used only for hunting or running crisis errands.

Evan peered at Scott. Scott looked at Isaiah, whose eyes darted to Walter. Walter awaited a signal from the chief. “Where’s that coming from?” he thought aloud when it became clear that Terry wasn’t going to do anything.

“I think we have some visitors,” said Scott calmly. “My bet’s on the hydro line.”

“We have to go head them off,” said Walter, wearily taking control. “Isaiah, you stay here with the girls. Scott, get in with me. Evan, jump in Terry’s truck.”

The trucks roared down the hill, took a left, and went straight to the store. Four machines were approaching. They staggered the two trucks to create a makeshift blockade, although anyone looking to bypass it on a snowmobile could easily take the ditch around. Walter and Terry left their trucks running as everyone got out.

The snowmobiles neared the ridge that marked the end of the ploughed road, slowed, and slid down, stopping a safe distance from the men and the trucks. They formed a line. The second rider from the right in a dark red and black suit raised his gloved hands in a peaceful gesture. The others did the same. The man turned off his engine, stepped off his snowmobile, and walked towards the waiting men with his hands still raised.

He looked to be a large man, a little bigger than Walter. He put down his arms, and they swished against his snowmobile jacket. His heavy boots clunked against the hard ground.

The two to the left got off their machines, and the leader took off his helmet. His tousled blond hair glowed in the morning sun. His face was pale, with a square jaw and high cheekbones.

“Hello, hi…” he began, as his voice cracked. “Where are we?”

“Gaawaandagkoong First Nation. Who are you?” Terry responded.

“We’ve been travelling a long time. We started in Everton Mills. We’re so hungry.”

Everton Mills was a small city farther south than Gibson. Evan surveyed their machines and couldn’t see any sleds attached with any indication of supplies.

“If you came that far,” Walter asked, “then where’s all your gear?”

“We set up camp about an hour’s drive south of here yesterday. We’re desperate to find anyone else. Please, do you have any food?”

He held his helmet in one arm, and Evan noticed his free hand trembling. There was fear, and desperation, in his eyes. The other newcomers started walking towards them.

“We have food,” said Terry, “for our community. You can appreciate that we’re hungry here too.”

“Please,” the man said. “We’re starving.”

The three behind him wobbled where they stood. They looked weak.

“You’ll need to cooperate,” Terry continued. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Phillips.”

“Do you have a first name, Phillips?”

“Mark.”

“Mark, how do we know there aren’t more people on sleds waiting behind you to swarm us?”

“You have my word.”

“I don’t know what your word is worth.”

“I’m begging you,” Phillips pounded his fist against his thigh.

“I’m asking for your patience,” Terry said firmly. “We’re a small community. We’re already stretched thin.”

“Let us by!” Phillips screamed and suddenly charged towards Terry. Four sharp cracks rang out and the stranger crumpled to the ground. The woman screamed and the men rushed forward. Phillips rolled on the road, groaning and bleeding into the snow.

Scott held his handgun tightly with both hands, pointing at the remaining three.

“Stay back! Stay back!” he commanded. Everyone stared at him in disbelief.

“Now you fuckin’ listen to this chief!” Scott ordered. “No quick moves! If you want to come in here, it’s on our terms!” On the ground before them, Phillips stopped moving. The woman retreated back to the snowmobiles and wailed.

Terry took a few steps toward Scott. “Jesus, Scott,” he whispered through his teeth. “What the fuck?”

“There’ll be more coming, Terry,” he responded. “We gotta make a stand.” He kept his pistol pointed at the others.

“You didn’t have to shoot him. You had no right to shoot him. You’re an outsider here, too, remember.”

“He was desperate and crazy. I was protecting us.”

“What are we gonna do with the others now?”

Shit, Terry’s lost control , thought Evan. He just handed it over to Scott.

“We gotta screen them. That Phillips was obviously their leader.”

“And what do we do now with Phillips?”

“Put him at the end of the road there. As a warning.”

Scott holstered his handgun and walked back to the truck. Walter and Evan stared at each other in stunned disbelief. Terry looked at his boots. Phillips bled out on the snow.

Evan rummaged through the old man’s closet, feeling for heavy winter jackets, or at least thick wool. The dark, damp basement already reeked of mould and, as he reached deeper into the garments, the scent of mothballs danced with the must in his nostrils. He felt a coarse jacket and pulled it out into the faint daylight coming through the small window above his head. It was a formal military blazer. He recognized it from Remembrance Day ceremonies and grand entries at powwows. He remembered the old man looking proud and mighty every time he put it on.

But here, in this lonely, near-empty basement, it looked stiff and rotting. Evan held it higher for a better look. The blue wool had faded and felt thin. He noticed that the buttons on the sleeves and the breast weren’t actually gold as he had always thought as a child. They were brass and tarnished. He ran his calloused fingertip across the three smaller ones on the jacket’s left wrist, feeling the bumps and grooves of the tiny crests. He pictured the old man holding the eagle staff proudly, wearing this military garb. The buttons’ golden charm had seemed to accentuate the flags and feathers on the ceremonial stave.

But they no longer shone. They never did, really. Evan wondered if Remembrance Day would ever happen again.

The wood furnace in the middle of the room blasted heat that dissipated as it reached the unfinished concrete walls. He replaced the jacket and closed the closet door, then fed another five pieces of wood into the furnace. Isaiah would come later in the evening to feed the fire again for the old lady.

Aileen was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping from the tea she had promised Evan. She still had an old wood cookstove in her kitchen and she could handle keeping it stoked, but she was too frail now to load the furnace in the basement. The main floor was toasty and it comforted Evan to know that Aileen was okay. He took off his jacket and placed it on the back of the wooden chair across from the elder. She put down her cup and smiled at him through her big glasses. “Everything okay down there?” she asked. Evan looked down at the full cup in front of him, then to hers. She had wrapped her thin, wrinkled fingers around the hot glass for warmth. The sleeves of her pink sweater were fraying at the end.

“Yeah, everything looks good. You got lots of wood still,” he replied. “Izzy will be by tonight to top it up.”

“I really appreciate you boys doing this for me. Chi-miigwech.”

“It’s nothing, Auntie. We’re happy to help.”

Aileen was the last of the generation raised speaking Anishinaabemowin, with little English at all. She was one of only a few dozen left who could speak their language fluently. She remembered the old ways and a lot of the important ceremonies. She had more knowledge than everyone else about the traditional lives of the Anishinaabeg.