Here’s what I’ve been reading lately:
Moon of the Crusted Snow, by Waubgeshig Rice
With winter looming, a small northern Anishinaabe community goes dark. Cut off, people become passive and confused. Panic builds as the food supply dwindles. While the band council and a pocket of community members struggle to maintain order, an unexpected visitor arrives, escaping the crumbling society to the south. Soon after, others follow.
Moon of the Turning Leaves, by Waubgeshig Rice
Twelve years after the lights go out . . .
An epic journey to a forgotten homeland
What can I say? These two books are perfect!
When I first started reading the second book (Moon of the Turning Leaves) after years of re-reading the first one, I kept hoping that there would be many more books in this series.
But once I finished, it felt complete. It’s not that there’s nothing left to say or imagine – and maybe Waub will indeed follow up with more – but these two books do the important work of drawing the reader in and compelling them to “imagine otherwise” beyond the scope of the story itself.
Can you see yourself in the world that Rice has created? What would that be like? What kinds of things could you be doing now to avoid the terrible possibilities explored in these stories, and what could you be doing to create resilient and reciprocal communities?
A horror novel that explores inter-generational trauma, Indigenous masculinity, and relationships with more-than-human kin, without catering to the non-Indigenous thirst for rez trauma? Sign me up!
Jones shies away from nothing, but brings rooted nuance to the struggles and tragedies of his characters. Representing Blackfeet experiences and worldview, the book teaches as much as it entertains – I finally know what the name of the southern Albertan town Ponoka means! – without ever feeling preachy.
I’m a scaredy-pants when it comes to horror but I’ve re-read this a couple of times now – I sort of skim through the gory bits to be honest. This book will appeal to all audiences, but its modern take on Indigenous themes of imbalance and consequences are what really elevates the narrative in my opinion – turning it into more than entertainment and pushing it into the realm of what I consider to be Indigenous futurism. Sometimes it can be hard to relate to our sacred stories set in the distant past – this book asserts that these teachings are as relevant today as they were tens of thousands of years ago and offers a cautionary tale unblunted by the imposition of white supremacist settler colonial capitalism.
The animal antagonist is not terrifying because it behaves contrary to the “laws of nature” – but instead because this is what Indigenous Peoples have always been taught would happen if we transgressed. Each character’s tragedy unfolds inexorably, and each undoing exposes the unavoidable consequences of generations of colonial violence – without ever letting the transgressors off the hook for the event that started it all. Yet this remains a profoundly hopeful story, offering the possibility of escaping curses, and “acting otherwise.”
“River Mumma is an exhilarating contemporary fantasy novel about a young Black woman who navigates her quarter-life-crisis while embarking on a mythical quest through the streets of Toronto.”
Not an Indigenous book per se (though it sure felt like that to me… and we need to be having have more nuanced discussions about Black Indigeneity in the Americas outside of our kin who are Black and Indigenous), this book shines as an Afro-Caribbean futurist text, confronting colonial baggage and asserting a worldview that is of here.
Fantasy novels set in Canada and the United States are dominated by Euro-western myths, from Greek and Roman gods to the creatures of the British Isles. I’ve always wondered why these beings would leave their own spiritual realms to invade ours – but then again the answer seems obvious.
In contrast, Reid-Benta’s exploration of Afro-Caribbean spirituality and worldview is the antithesis of invasion – an ontology born in the Americas, yet often treated as more “foreign” than satyrs and faeries and elves – uncovering layers of history and presence that Canada seems intent on ignoring. The protagonist’s journey of reconnection is particularly familiar as an Indigenous reader, and while I lack the specific cultural context to understand all the nuances and references, it’s clear this book is more than just re-imagining of euro-western urban fantasy. It is an assertion of belonging and place unbound by borders – arbitrary divisions that cannot stop powerful beings from traversing land or water when necessary to ensure balance is restored.