Crow Winter Read online

  Dedication

  For Dad and all those under the blue skies of Timiskaming

  Epigraph

  If you talk to animals they will talk with you

  and you will know each other.

  If you do not talk to them you will not know them,

  and what you do not know you will fear.

  What one fears one destroys.

  —Chief Dan George, My Heart Soars

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. Homecoming

  2. The Blue Skies

  3. Àndeg

  4. Wîgwas

  5. Catch Up

  6. Headstone

  7. Cedar by the Riverside

  8. Memories and Weeds

  9. Ogâs

  10. “I Remain, Sir, Your Obedient Servant . . .

  11. Tense

  12. Onadotân

  13. Alone

  14. The Sweat Lodge

  15. The Doorway

  16. Evidence

  17. Sasàgiwichígewin

  18. Teachings

  Epilogue: An Old Crow

  Author’s Note on Language

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Homecoming

  I always thought it would be Raven.

  The one who finally decided it was time to teach me. Raven seemed like the right fit. In all the big stories, he’s the leading man. A beautiful bird with glossy black feathers. He’s strong and graceful. Got a sharp wit and clever tongue. I heard that he found the First People on the beaches of the West Coast. That he stole the sun one day just for the fun of it. Tough, self-assured, a good sense of humour. All the things a real Spirit Guide should be.

  As I drive, I press the lever down to wash the windshield and watch as the pale blue liquid shoots onto the glass. I hold it down longer than I should, watching as the wipers move back and forth. Most of the bugs come off in the first pass, but a particularly juicy one stays put. No matter. I know this road well. The early-August corn is high in the fields on either side of me. I roll the windows down to let the fresh country air into the car. A flurry of birds rushes into the sky from one of the fields as I pass. I track their silhouettes for as long as I can, then return to scanning the highway stretched out in front of me.

  Raven was always the one the elders and other storytellers told us about. Tales of how he stole Crow’s potlatch. How he made that proud bird sing and sing and sing until his voice was nothing but a croak, all while Raven gorged himself on food. How he’d created the world and then messed it up. A trickster and a transformer. A herald of change, sometimes by accident and sometimes on purpose. A writer who only ever uses ink, who thinks that using pencil means admitting to mistakes.

  And yet I know why it couldn’t ever have been Raven. He doesn’t belong to us. The Indians of Spirit Bear Point don’t tell stories about Kakagi. Sure, I can smirk knowingly when I hear people talk about him here and there, but he’s not mine. Me and Raven—we’re different beasts. Hell, me and Raven aren’t even the same kind of Indian. We aren’t even neighbours. Something like three thousand kilometres separates us. No, it could never have been Raven.

  Then Wisakedjak maybe? “Whisky jack,” as my pale-skin brothers and sisters call him. Funny how saying it like that makes people understand. As if it’s unheard of that the White Man might know a few words of a Native language, leastways enough to understand what we’re saying. But no. Easier to throw in alcohol. Another Indian always hounded by booze.

  He’s a trickster too. One of many in a long line. A brother or cousin to Raven and Coyote. Wisakedjak is closer to home, a neighbour who lives in the next town over. He’s a nice guy, a friend to the People. But he’s not a friend of mine. He lives farther south and farther west. So, it wasn’t Wisakedjak either. That’s his Cree name, and I am not Cree.

  Anishnaabeg call him something else.

  Nanabush.

  Yes. Now that I’ve said it, thought it, felt it, I know that it’s right. It’s a name that has a certain weight on the tongue. A taste. Like lit sage in a windowless room. Or aluminum foil on an old filling.

  All the stories about Nanabush read like the memoirs of an ancient troublemaker. Someone with the power to do great things but who doesn’t want to put in the work. The old, good tales they tell around a fire say he was here when the world was young. That he was a child of the People and of the gods—if you can call them gods. Not our word, but I don’t know what else to think. He had power, but so did everyone. Power that is unnoticed becomes stale. So Nanabush did what he wanted. Served himself and his interests. I think of him as a creature of endless summer. Someone who says, “I have time, so I’ll do it later.” Later, later, later, until it’s too late.

  Then again, I remember hearing how G’tchi Manitou sent him here to teach the People. His first task: naming all of the plants and animals. That must have been difficult. I have a hard enough time choosing a name for pets. I can’t imagine having to figure out that a silverfish should be called a silverfish. But he did it. That Nanabush. He named everything from the eagle in the sky to the fish in the sea.

  I never understood how he could be a brilliant shapeshifter one moment and then the next he’s tumbling naked down a hillside. Makes me wonder how he stacks up against all the stories about him. Smart guy, dumb choices?

  Is that why he came to me? So I could piece his story back together? He’s looking for a chance to rewrite his history.

  I’m getting ahead of myself. After all, that crow only shows up when I’m sleeping. Could be a dream. Or a hallucination. Thinking about it only raises more questions. Who is Nanabush and why would I pick that figment of my imagination to fixate on?

  Honestly, we’re strangers. I’m making all of this up to try to reconcile the mess that is my life. No job. Dead dad. Why not enlist some made-up shapeshifter to try to teach me a few lessons in the old ways?

  Could that be it? Nanabush, the Spirit Guide.

  Well, if that’s the case, then I should introduce myself.

  Hello, Nanabush. My name is Hazel Ellis. Can’t wait to get to know you.

  That’s a lie, but I think it anyway.

  I keep driving, across the bridge that hangs above a river of clear, fresh water, through the Québécois town of Ste-Marie des Oblats, until I cross into Rez country. The houses get smaller and the lawns are less tidy, filled with toys, bicycles abandoned haphazardly as the kids raced in for dinner. Some of the yards are even littered with garbage. That’s what happens when you miss pickup day. One good breeze and the lawn doubles as a trash pile. A pack of Rez dogs crosses in front of my car and I have to slow down. They’re led by a boxer-mix with one white ear who pauses to look at me while his packmates hurry to the other side of the road.

  As I drive past the motley pack, a weathered wooden sign in the shape of a medicine wheel comes into view, telling me: “Minwa pijawok! Welcome to Spirit Bear Point First Nation.”

  2

  The Blue Skies

  The sky is always clearer here. Rows of birch, aspen, and pine stretch until their limbs touch the clouds. When the wind weaves through the trees, it’s as if waves are crashing onto the shore of a sea. People here take it for granted because they haven’t left this place. But I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been there. These leaves sound like the ocean.

  The Trans-Canada cuts right through the reserve, which means there’s always traffic. The only gas station runs out of gas so often that it’s more of a corner store. Sometimes we have to boil our water before we drink it, but that’s only if pipes burst. Spirit Bear Point is far from perfect. But I don’t care. It’s home.

  A line of cars and two transports hauling logs pass too quickly along the highway that’s a stone’s throw from my front door. The speed limit here is fifty kilometres per hour. Which feels like a crawl from the ninety kilometres per hour of the Trans-Canada. But seriously? It’s always made me crazy how fast people speed through the Rez. Just because you don’t have to make any real turns to get back on the open road doesn’t mean you can speed through and hit whatever stray dog or kid is running around.

  The first transport’s horn bellows like a steam engine as two little kids with scraped knees walking by jump up and down excitedly on the roadside. They pump their arms repeatedly to sign to the second trucker to pull his horn, but they’re left disappointed. I watch as they throw obscene gestures at the back end of the transport before picking up their bikes and pushing them across the road toward the trailer park.

  “Any more boxes left in that old Toyota?”

  Mom is standing in the entryway. She’s leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed, watching me. Her face creases into a small smile. My mother, Nora Ellis, is who people envision when they think of Native women. Perfect brown skin, white even teeth; fine lines at the edges of her eyes that are the only sign of her age. Her jaw is angled, and she has cheekbones that most people get by using makeup and a paint-by-numbers guide. Her dark hair pulled half back from her face means she’s been in the kitchen baking beans or bannock or maybe even both.

  I shake my head. “Nah, this is the last one.”

  “Bring it inside. You’ve got a lot of unpacking to do. I don’t want these boxes and bags in the front room forever, you know.”

  I readjust the box in my arms, nudge the back door of my navy blue Toyota shut, and start for the front
steps. The gravel crunches under my feet, distracting me. A crow croaks loudly on the power line above my head, startling me so much that I nearly drop the box. I turn to look and that black bird, with its shiny feathers and dark eyes, is staring right back at me. A flicker of recognition brushes my skin with goosebumps.

  “Nanabush.”

  And just like that, my mother has my attention. I look at her incredulously. “What?”

  She nods to the bird on the wire. “He used to change into a crow. At least that’s what my mother told me. You ask Terrance Sutherland, though, and he’ll tell you it was a rabbit. That Nanabush was always a rabbit. But I don’t believe it. I think a crow’s better, don’t you?”

  I keep my eyes on her a moment longer before looking up at the black bird again. It’s still staring down at us. Tilting its little head back and forth, ruffling its feathers as it readjusts on the line when the wind picks up and shakes the wire. The crow lets out a few more caws before I look away, although I can still feel its gaze. I wonder if I’ve got something shiny on, but then I remember that’s a magpie thing. Or is that crows too?

  All I can think about are crows. What are they symbols of? I remember all those highly caffeinated 8:30 a.m. English literature lectures. Crows are ominous. They spell doom for the person who hears them. They’re mysterious and sometimes magical. Signifying intelligence, destiny. What’s the nursery rhyme again?

  One for sorrow,

  two for mirth,

  three for a wedding,

  and four for a birth.

  five for silver,

  six for gold,

  and seven for a secret never to be told.

  Sorrow it is. Fitting.

  They remember faces, too. I can hear my dad’s voice in my head, echoing like a cheesy soap flashback. Crows are smarter than we give them credit for. They’re memory and truth and creation.

  Funny how you always remember something you’re trying to forget. Can’t think of him now. I just got home. There’ll be time for those memories later. I push him from my head, but he won’t go.

  They’re manipulative, though. Don’t ever forget who the most famous crow of them all was. Shapeshifter.

  Trickster.

  “Hazel?”

  Mom’s talking to me again. I turn to look at her, smile. “Did you say something?”

  “I said that you came home at a good time. Weather’s still nice. Come on,” she says.

  The door shuts with a thud, setting off a soft tinkle from the magnetic República Dominicana chime that’s stuck up near the top. I kick off my shoes and turn into the living room. I step over the large pile of boxes and bags, dropping the one with miscellaneous items onto the couch. The warm scent of my mother’s famous baked beans invites me into the kitchen, where she’s standing at the counter, the sleeves of her plaid button-down rolled up to her elbows. She’s wearing a T-shirt that says, “Tax Exempt.”

  “Supper should be ready in maybe fifteen minutes. I’m just waiting on the bannock to get nice and golden. You want some lemonade?”

  “Geez, is this a powwow feast or something?”

  “Tsk, no. It’s just Minute Maid. I love you, kid, but lemons were not on sale this week.”

  Mom lifts the lid off the crockpot, scrunching her nose, and quickly replaces the cover. I watch her and the simple, easy way she moves about the kitchen. She barely has to look when she reaches up into the cupboards. Everything in here has stayed the same since my older brother was a baby. Sure, the cupboards have been repainted and the tile on the floor has been replaced, but it’s still the same kitchen. It’s got the same memories locked inside the yellowing cabinets and the mock-granite countertops.

  Being here is comforting and makes me feel safe. It’s a relief. Coming home is my way to pause while I try to figure out the next part of my life. I don’t know if that means learning how to move on, but for now I’m happy to be here. City life has a way of devouring a person, and a year ago, right after everything went to shit, I gladly welcomed the distraction. School was my way of forgetting and ignoring all of the hurt that had built up inside of me. But once I had finished, crossed the stage, held my degree? It all rushed back into my life. I spent all of July shut up in my apartment, shifting between anger and disbelief until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “You glad to be home?” Mom asks, brushing loose strands of hair from her eyes as she continues to adjust the flavour of the beans.

  I plunk myself onto one of the stools at the island and lean forward onto my elbows. “Yeah, it’s a nice change. I’m excited to sleep tonight without someone stomping around in the apartment above me.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she says. “It’s a good place to recharge those old batteries, eh?” She moves over to the stove and flicks on the oven light, then bends down to peer through the tempered glass at the bannock. She clicks her tongue, muttering about it taking forever.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “I mean, it’s not like I have anything lined up for myself here, but I guess that’ll be a worry for another day. I should just shut up and enjoy the wide-openness of not having to work.”

  She straightens up as she looks at me. “Weird not to be going back to school?”

  I nod. “But like, it’s not like I had a whole bunch of friends there or anything. Most of the people I hung out with were Gus’s friends. I’m not missing anyone. Just, I dunno, the freedom and the structure.”

  “Bit contradictory there, kid,” she says with a smile. Mom comes over and pulls me into a side hug. “Ah, you’ll be fine, just you wait. You’ll settle in and before you know it you’ll be happy that this is your new normal again.”

  “Uh-huh. Hope you’re right.”

  She kisses the top of my head and walks back over to the counter to check on the crockpot once more. The rich, woody scent of maple syrup and liquid smoke fills the room as Mom spoons the beans into two mismatched floral-patterned bowls. I watch the way her shoulders shift as she breathes in. She pauses momentarily, the wooden spoon hovering over the crockpot. She clears her throat. “I’m gonna need your help picking out a monument.”

  “What?” I say, caught off guard. “Are you serious?”

  Mom’s moved from the counter to stand at the island across from where I’m sitting. “Yeah, I don’t know if I’ll pick the right thing. I mean, your father was always so particular about good materials. I think if I go alone, I’ll muck it up.”

  “Jesus, Mom, can’t you at least let me unpack a little before we start with this?”

  “I’m sorry, Hazel, but you being home to help with his last wishes and all has got me thinking about it.” She places her hands on the countertop of the island and grips a little. She’s doing her best to keep her emotions tucked away, but they’re creeping up on her. “I can’t stand the thought of him lying in that place without any sign that says he’s there. There’s grass there now, you know? It’s not just some big patch of dirt anymore, but plain old stupid grass. The same kind that dogs piss on.”

  I reach out and put my hand overtop hers and she stops talking. “Kaye Mâmâ, it’s okay. Let’s just eat, all right?”

  She nods and I stand up to move to the table.

  Outside, the crow is cawing.

  * * *

  My bedroom, like much of this house, has remained unchanged since the day I left for university. The walls are a golden yellow that glows when the morning light pours through the windows, and the duvet is covered in daisies. The window looks out onto the front lawn and the pair of skinny evergreens planted there. I can also see the highway from here, which made it a great place to watch the school bus zoom by on those days back in high school when I hit the snooze button one too many times.

  I’m taking a break from hanging up clothes to dig through the biggest of my sealed boxes. It’s mostly books. Getting it up the five stairs of our split-level house proved to be very difficult. Mom even cursed a few times, twice calling the books stowed away inside the box wabi-jishkish. A fair judgment, considering most of them are the remains of my hard-earned, very White, very male-centric English degree.

  I settle the books into their new home on the worn bookshelf in the corner. It’s made of light wood—birch or something—and has been left natural. The only stains on it are the five letters of my name written in the untidy scrawl that six-year-old me thought was wildly artistic. I used black wax pencil. Mom was so mad when she found me etching my mark into the beautifully crafted bookcase. I remember her shouting that it had been built by my grandfather back before he was ogima, so it was a big deal that I had ruined such an important family heirloom. But she never tried to remove it. Maybe it eventually became a sweet memory of a younger me. Or maybe she knew trying to wash it away would only smudge it more.