Waubgeshig Rice - Moon of the Crusted Snow

Evan looked down at his boots. His damn temper had gotten out of control again, which hardly ever happened before all this. “They ran out of the fruit cocktail in there,” Tyler quipped. Evan snorted and wiped his warm snot on his sweater sleeve. He looked back at Scott, who just shook his head.

“Is the whole gang inside?” Scott asked Evan, who nodded. “Alright then.” He looked to Connor and gestured with his head in the direction of the building. “Let’s go.”

Both men strolled past the queue of hungry people, who stared at them in resentment. Scott towered over everyone else in the community, even Tyler, and Connor was only a few inches shorter. Their pale faces shimmered in the daylight. Scott ignored everyone, but Connor surveyed the line cautiously. Scott threw the door open and walked inside.

Debbie, Walter, and Terry looked up to see the men stroll in ahead of the line. Walter sighed, and Terry guided his expression to neutrality. Debbie handed a bag to a young father at the front of the line and asked, “What’s up, boys?”

“Oh, we just came by to see how the handouts were going today,” Scott answered. He sauntered towards the table and sat down in one of the open chairs at the side. Connor stayed at the wall by the door. He scratched his thick red beard before putting his hands in the pockets of his snowmobile jacket.

“Steady as she goes,” Debbie replied.

“Really?” Scott cocked his head. “Because it looked like you had a brawl outside just a couple minutes ago.”

“People are hungry,” Debbie shrugged. “It’s cold out today too.”

The people standing in the inside food line watched Scott uneasily. He looked at the line of brown faces with hollowing cheeks. The heads without toques or ball caps were shaggy and greasy. The growing desperation was palpable and none of the leadership in the room could deny it.

“If you guys want some, you’re gonna have to go to the back of the line,” Debbie said as she handed another full canvas bag back to a young woman. “We gotta keep this going.”

Scott cleared his throat and fixed his eyes on Terry and Walter, who were trying to focus on the lists of people and supplies in front of them. “I think we’re good for today, thanks,” he declared, as if to make some kind of point. “We snared a few pretty big rabbits the other day. That’s probably more than you can say for anyone else here.”

Terry’s eyes cut sharply to Scott. Scott stood up and stepped closer to them. The young woman waiting for her food shuffled backwards. He put both hands on the table and leaned in. His deep-set blue eyes moved from Terry to Walter to Debbie and back.

“I know you’re running out,” he whispered. “And if you think you can just brush off shit like what just happened outside, you’re delusional.” He leaned in closer. “They’re gonna go crazy. They’re gonna get violent. And when the last can goes from that room in the back there, they’re gonna come for you. Unless they get their shit together, you’re gonna have a serious crisis on your hands.”

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.

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.