November and All the New Projects

Hi everyone and happy November! I’m just wrapping up a short vacation and have been enjoying the chance to catch up on some of my creative projects. October was a hectic but interesting month. I travelled to California for the first time to attend the 2019 International Conference of Indigenous Libraries, Archives, and Museums, which is organized by the Association of Tribal Archives, Libraries and Museums. It was such a great conference and it gave me a lot of ideas for things to do and ways to move forward at my work (I work at the the Deyohahá:ge: Indigenous Knowledge Centre in my community). 

I also attended a great event that Deyohahá:ge: cohosted with the Archives of Ontario towards the end of October. Over the summer and early fall then, I’d been busy thinking about and reading about archival practice, Indigenous knowledge and language revitalization, along with other interesting areas that have stemmed out of my various work and research projects. Because this blog is mostly a space for me to write about my (creative) writing and art, I’ve decided to create another place to write and share about these other areas in case anyone finds them as interesting as I do. In order to do that, I’ll be starting a new blog that focusses more specifically on my research. It’ll be interesting to see how this goes because I’ve always found so many intersections between what I do—writing, art, learning, researching, and trying to live a good, peaceful life, but I also recognize that each of these areas (writing, research, and art) has a life of its own. I’ve started to create the site and upload some content but it will be a few months or so before I launch it. So that’s something I’m looking forward to but in the meantime, I’m continuing on with my creative work—the work I treasure the most!  

I’ve said before that being in school for as long as I was took a toll on my creative process. This past month, I’ve been in rebuilding mode. Getting reacquainted with how I outline stories, how I set daily targets, how I set aside time for editing. I have seven projects to write across three different series to work on and I want to finish all of them within the next two years (a few of them already have first drafts and outlines), but finishing them will take time and focus. At present, I’m currently doing NaNoWriMo to get a draft of the The Lightning Song done, which is the second Cora Solomon story after The Fortune Teller’s Daughter. The moment I’m done that, I’ll be doing final edits on The Wall of Bones (The Vampire Skeleton series) and The Fortunes of Ithaca (Fortune & Fall series). In short, there's lots of exciting new stories on the way but it will take me some time to finish them up.  

Happily, there are other projects that I have finished that I’m really excited to share about. The first one is the follow up to the children’s book Treaty Baby. The new book is called, We Give Our Thanks. It’s illustrated (as Treaty Baby was) by my sister, Alyssa. I wrote the book two years ago, and she worked at the illustrations last summer. We released the book a few months ago and it’s one of my favourites!

The second project is a few poems and some art that appear in an upcoming issue of the Hamilton Arts & Letters magazine. I wrote a ton of poems over the last four years that I’ve been slowly putting together into a collection but for now, being able to share a few of them was nice. I’ll update with a link to the magazine in a future blog but in the meantime, here's one of the art pieces that was included in the edition. 

A third project is Akwa:ji:ya', another book in our Cayuga language series, which I didn’t write but have been having a lot of fun illustrating. I love working on the Cayuga books. I’ve been really doubling down on my Cayuga language learning the past few weeks and making efforts to speak as much as I can. I’m determined to level up my speaking this year and so a lot of my spare time is going into that!

And a last bit of work that is forthcoming is a short story that's part of an anthology launching in December. The book is called Bawaajigan and features a lot of wonderful work by several Indigenous authors. I’m excited for it and really love the story that's appearing in it.  I wrote it a few years back and it was inspired by dreams and some of my travels through Upper New York State.

Anyways, I’m very happy to share about these projects while I continue working on others. Being on vacation this last week has given me an opportunity to clear my head and sharpen my focus on what I want most and what I’m most grateful for: family, health, language proficiency, and creativity. There’s been a lot happening in our lives, in our community and in the world this year, and everyday there seem to be more and more reasons to think on and question how we can grow, change, make better decisions, and challenge ourselves to leave even less of an ecological footprint while still making a lasting, helpful impact on the people we like and love. For me, art, creativity and reflection is a huge part of navigating these questions and manifesting change in a positive way. I look forward to making more art for the rest of the year, and to start thinking about the projects the new year will bring! I hope you’re all well and until next time, happy creating :).  

S. 

Eclipse

Part of the reason why I’ve been doing so much art over the past year, is because I’ve always wanted to make graphic novels. Almost every story I write comes to me in some kind of visual form, and so I really want to explore this kind of storytelling over the next year. This story is one of the ones I eventually hope to illustrate. It’s also part of a collection of other writings I hope to release in a short story collection over the next year. It is a story about two assassins, and blends together fantasy, nature, history and science. It is a fictional exploration of stories about Jikonsaseh, the first clan mother, and explores different options about what the potential meaning of her name might have been and imagines a first confrontation with the wizard Tadadaho. There is also a comet and an eclipse—which is part of why I decided to share it today. 

For the PDF: Click here

For the iBook version: Click here 

For a generic EPUB: Click here

These are all the pretty versions of the story. You can also read below! This not the final polished version of the story, so my apologies for any typos or errors. 

I will definitely share more about how this story came to be in the collection. Until then, happy reading. I hope you like it.

S. 

FIRE IN THE SKY

A Short Story

A cannibal. An orator. A chief. There is even another assassin like her on this list, if the rumours are true. She reads through their names, one by one, as if choosing an entree.

"These are the same people as last time," she says.

"I know. What do you think?"

She turns to the window, her eyes finding the top of the waterfall.

I think I'm bored. I think I want out of this life. I think it's time I move on from this thing.

She lifts her glass of water from the table and takes a sip. "The cannibal looks interesting." It's not the first time his name's come up.

"A fine choice, madam."

"I'm glad you agree. Pack my things. I'll leave this evening. I should be gone for no more than two days."

"Very good. And you'll be back in time for the festival."

"The festival?" she sets her glass down, frowning. Then her face softens. "Oh that's right. For the comet."

She'd forgotten that was coming up so soon. Arthur had been telling her about it for weeks. A great fire in the sky, barrelling towards them at incredible speed. He'd been watching its progress from the contraption in his tower. She'd heard it carried another sky woman. That's what everyone was hoping at least. For someone to come and deliver them from their state of perpetual war. There was supposed to be an eclipse too, if she remembered right.

Now that was something she did not want to miss. She glances outside, watches the way the sun filters through the leaves. Through the window she can see water rush away from the falls before dropping into the great cavern below. Was there time to visit Arthur before she left?

Probably not. But it didn't matter. It would be a quick trip.

Two days. There and back. 

And then there would be one less name on the council's list.

***

The woman gets up from her chair. She's younger than he thought she'd be. He looks in his journal, at his notes. He's been studying her for weeks. Collecting reports of her deeds. She's a proper villain. A cold-blooded murderer. A snake disguised in human flesh.

She's left a trail of victims behind her a mile long and she's done it with a finesse he's seldom seen before. Case in point—no bodies have ever been found. He cannot help but respect that. 

She's a business woman, too. This restaurant he's sitting in is hers. It's renowned for its food, the grandness of its setting and its architecture. Even the rumours of her other occupation aren't enough to keep people from lining up to eat her food. The restaurant is always packed, so much so he had to make his lunch reservation days in advance. It's just his luck—or perhaps it's fate too—that he got a glimpse of her before she left.

He spears a piece of heron and pops it in his mouth, which waters at the tenderness of the bird. Blackened over fire and served with crab and garlic stuffed mushrooms, it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. He hadn't known food could taste this good. He was used to eating on the road. Boiled dinners. Dry bread. No embellishments or spices.

This meal was not like those at all.

This was the kind of food people cherished. The kind of food you wanted when you were at the end of days, as they were. He ripped apart a piece of wild strawberry bread, dipped it in the juices leftover from his mushrooms and ate it.  Then he started on the side dish—an assortment of root vegetables glazed with maple syrup and shaved pine nuts.

He closes his eyes, savours every bite.

Heavens alive.

This meal alone was enough to kill a man.

The server comes by and refills his glass of water with a smile.

He thinks, but is not entirely sure, that he just saw her choose her next victim.

A part of him regrets she is going to be his.

***

The thing to remember about the Finger Lakes is that like everything else they were once submerged beneath the great sea. Then came Skywoman and her giant sons, battling across the world, leaving the mark of their battle upon the earth she spun from her steps—a song of hills, slopes and valleys.

The forest has grown from such a legacy. Sugar maple and hemlock in the upper lands. Oak in the drier regions. Sycamore and cottonwood in the floodplains. There are swamps and wetlands and bogs. It is a world covered in green.

Even still, the sea makes itself known in the lakes and the rivers and the streams.

That is what she loves about water. Why she chose to live and build her restaurant near the falls. Water gives life to everything. It shapes everything. Without it—there would be nothing but smoke and ash. When she crosses the trails, sets her foot upon the land, she remembers she wants something more for herself than what she's inherited. She too, wants to give life to the world.

But an assassin cannot give life. An assassin only takes.

She lifts her face to the sky, adjusts her course and continues on. It's late summer. She doesn't need much to sustain her for this trip. Her pack is light and she moves quickly and easily across the land, almost as if she's flying. She's travelled these valleys so often there is not an inch of them she has not seen, though there are some places she does not often get to go.

Still. She craves new sights. New destinations. Further north there are rumours of a great waterfall—a place of pure magic. The story goes that a great snake fell there—a monster so formidable only the Thunder beings could defeat it.

She got chills just thinking about it.

That was the other thing she liked about water. It could calm even the most vile creatures. The most fearsome monsters. Including herself, though she had not set out to become any such thing.

If the restaurant was something she built from the ground with her bare hands then her work as an assassin was something that'd been chosen for her. Something she'd been pushed into.

Why had the council chosen her? She would never know. She'd been the youngest of five girls who'd been trained in the deadly arts. Poisonous plants. Archery. Hand to hand combat.

In the beginning, they had fought only monsters. Great serpents. Wild beasts. But then something had changed within the hearts of men. Darkness entered their spirits and she and the other girls had been sent forth to investigate. Next thing she knew; their entire purpose was altered.  

Now she was the only one left and there was always someone her masters wanted to die.

Good people. Bad people. Old people. Young people. It was this more than anything that kept her in the business. So long as the despicable council wanted something from her, she stayed off their radar. So long as she kept crossing names from their list, she could keep her secret.

***

He can barely keep up with her. She moves like wind and does not stop to eat. She doesn't stop to make camp, either, which he'd been counting on. He almost loses her twice in the night. By the time the sun breaks the sky he has found her again and only, he thinks, because she has finally stopped running.

They've come to a village, a large settlement of five hundred, maybe more. It sits in the valley between two rock faces, split apart long ago by the great giants who fought across Turtle Island.

It doesn't take him long to realize who her target is. The great wizard is notorious. A cannibal.

More than once, he's found Tadadaho's name on his own list and chosen not to pursue it. But she's not like him. She's trying to turn her life around. She's trying to leave her legacy of killing behind and start something new.

And this is exactly why he's been sent to end her.

She has, as her handlers stated, outgrown her usefulness.

***

She eases her way into the village, masquerading as a lone traveller headed over the mountain to see a distant relative in the next village over. When people will talk to her, she interviews them about the dangers that lie in wait.

The stories she hears about the wizard get crazier and crazier.  He eats people. He had his brother killed. He has eyes in the back of his head. The wind is his friend and it blows your scent toward him, making it easier for him to find and catch you. All of his limbs are twisted and crooked. He has snakes in his hair.

One thing seems to be certain. Every month, someone has to be sent to him. If they are not, he will stop the water, for he lives in a cave next to the source of the river—a mile or so above them in the hanging valley. 

Usually someone volunteers, they tell her. And if no one does, they draw stones among them. Never children. And never a woman who is pregnant or has young ones. She can see these rules don't really comfort anyone. That they live their lives trying to pretend they don't exist.

I should have come here sooner, she thinks. I should have come here first.

Children play in the centre of the village, easy games of kickball and tag. It is a small, provincial kind of place, but the shadow of the mountain still hangs heavy over them—a constant reminder of the menace that stalks them.

She finds it remarkable these people can know any kind of peace so close to a monster's lair but then that is a child's power. Their resilience and optimism can almost be mistaken for magic, their laughter a barrier between dreams and nightmares.

She doesn't want to kill Tadadaho. But his name was on the list and she chose him and so she has to deal with him. He cannot be allowed to continue in his terrible ways. 

The village has a restaurant of sorts. Not in the same league as hers but a place where she can eat a small meal of onion soup and corn bread. She pays handsomely for a pack of dried meat, offering not only gold but seeds she's planted in her own garden.

"These will grow in any conditions," she tells the cook. "Your people may need them one day. Mine did."

In the restroom, she sharpens her knife, and the tip of her spear. She counts her arrows, bundled together with the smallest and most precise bow she has. Her last weapon barely looks like a weapon at all but it is the most powerful in her arsenal. Shards of crystal mixed with salt. They fill a worn leather pouch that sits neatly in the palm of her hand. She tucks it beneath her shirt and reaches for her knife. This is the weapon she's best with.

She hates how easily her thoughts bend toward violence. She's been trying to put her killing ways behind her. Trying to find another way to heal that which ails the people of this land, asking herself what it would take. What if instead of sitting here, thinking about how to kill this crazy old man—she could heal the darkness that lay inside him?

We used to be able to do this, she thinks. We used to be able to slay monsters with our minds.

Maybe they still can.

***

He can't follow her into the village. Two strangers appearing on the same day would draw attention and he's learned by now that if he doesn't take her by surprise he might not take her at all.

He circles wide through the forest, creeping along the edges, watching the village from the trees. He's tired but he doesn't stop. Instead he travels to the bottom of the mountain and begins making his way to the hanging valley.

The air grows crisper, colder, as he climbs. The wind rustles thin branches in the trees above. Autumn will be here soon. Some of the leaves have begun to turn. Winter will follow and when it does he can finally put his weapons down and rest for the season. The thought is comforting and he pushes on, reenergized for the task ahead.

It's obvious no one travels this way very often. The trail leading over the hills is overgrown with brush and ferns. The forest is plentiful with game. Rabbits. Fox. Deer. They watch him from the sidelines, as if wondering what kind of being he is. More man? Or more monster?

Probably the latter, he thinks, for he feels right at home here on the mountain. He is not afraid of anyone or anything. He is not afraid of the wizard. When the girl has killed him and he has killed the girl, maybe he will spend the winter months here.

It's the perfect place for monsters to live.

Tadadaho's cave is at the very heart of the hanging valley, like he's chosen to place his lair at the top of the world to better torment the people who live on either side of it.

A red bellied woodpecker flitters through the brush and lands on the branch next to him. Tufts of red feathers cover the top of its head and its speckled wings are tipped with black. It twitters a song and he thinks he knows what it's saying.

She's coming.

The bird is right.

No sooner has it taken flight than he sees the top of her head, black hair bobbing up and down, the rest of her coming into view shortly after. She carries no weapon, only her pack. Her face shows the strain of the incline on her body but she does not slow down her pace and with a final burst of energy she has conquered the climb. She takes a long drink from her water bag, ties it back around her waist and wipes her face with the back of her sleeve.

There is only one thing left for her to do.

Slay the beast.

***

The sickly-sweet smell hits her like a wall of stone. Acrid doesn't even begin to describe it. This is not one dead body. This is not even a dozen dead bodies. This is the smell of scores upon scores of victims. Of flesh and meat. Of muscle and fat. Of blood and bone.

This is death, she thinks. This is death and I will never leave this cave. Never leave this scent behind.

She staggers on her feet, overwhelmed. She draws her scarf tight around her face, her mouth.

For the first time she realizes she might actually have to kill him. For who can come back from this? Who can regain their mind after this?

Who deserves to?

She catches herself. It is not her place to judge. Only her place to carry out the sentence.

Someone has to decide—to say when enough is enough. But it's not her. At least, that was what they were told, she and her sisters. That they should be proud. That they were putting an end to the terrors in the night.

What causes the terrors in the first place? Her sisters once asked. Wouldn't it be better if we stopped that first?

She stopped seeing the other girls after that. One by one they disappeared until it was like they never existed.

Her eyes scan the darkness. White and grey bones litter the floor.

They are animal bones, she tells herself. Every last one of them. Animal bones. And the people who are sent here pass safely over the mountain. The wizard does not catch them. But they still do not return, because who would would want to pass this place a second time?

The story makes her feel better. Breathe easier.

It might even be true.

Something moves in the corner of her eye. She freezes. Her head twists to the side. Her spear is in her hands and in two steps she has her would-be assailant pressed up against the walls of the cave, her blade pressing past his leather vest and into his gut.

"I was wondering when you were going to show your face," she says.

***

Her spear jabs into his stomach.

"Ow!" He winces. "Stop it."

She presses him harder. "Why are you following me?"

"Why do you think?"

"Only a fool would come here." Her eyes narrow. "Or a murderer. Which are you?"

A pile of dead leaves rattles the floor of the cave, swirls around their feet and drifts out of the entrance in a tiny whirlwind. It is not a natural wind. He looks past her and his heart skips a beat.

Tadadaho stands there, watching them.

He is hideous. A horror to look at, as terrible as all the stories suggest. He can feel the wizard's magic creep toward them, crawling over his skin like a thousand fire ants, preparing to sink their teeth in.

The wizard raises his hand, long fingers reach out.

"Oh no."

White and blue light fills the cave and a crackling noise echoes off the walls as he hurls a ball of light at them. The girl dives out of the way, dragging him with her and in his head, he makes note of the fact that she has just saved his life.

The ball of light hits the side of the cave where they once stood. The walls tremble and shake. Splintered rock falls from the darkness above. One shard strikes him on the back of the head.

"Ow. Shit." He reaches up and feels the blood through his matted hair. "That escalated quickly."

He raises his bow and takes aims at the wizard.

"No!" She claps her hand down on the arrow's shaft, forcing the tip to the ground. 

"What are you you doing? He'll kill us both."

"We can save him," she says.

"Save him? Why would we want to do that?"

"Look at him! He's human. Just like you and me."

He hears her words and knows they're true. But even hearing them can't stop what he sees when he looks at the old man. Twisted. Crazed. Gone made with power. Probably cursed.

"Why did you come here if you weren't going to kill him?"

Her breath is ragged. "Because. I came here to help him."

***

In truth, it's been a long time since she's killed anyone. That's her secret. Her restaurant is filled with the people she was supposed to have killed. But instead of bringing them death—she brought them freedom and healing. Found them. Sent them away with strict instructions on what to do and when to do it. And later, after they become new people, they make their way back to her with new identities and new faces. Forty-nine in all and her staff is still growing.

She's only ever killed two people and while she can't take it back—their deaths haunt her.

But she does not know if she can do the same with Tadadaho. There is too much evil. Too much darkness.

The old wizard comes at her and she hurls the salt into his face. He screams, his hands clawing at his eyes as he staggers away. His movements are so pitiful, she cannot believe she just inflicted more harm on his damaged spirit. And yet—this cave is evidence of what he's capable of.

I'm helping him. In the long run. I'm helping him.

She has to believe that. 

It was foolish to come here without more magic—she can see that now. But she has enough power with her to keep him here, keep him from leaving this mountain, keep him from clogging up the flow of the river with his sorcery. It will have to be enough—at least until a more permanent solution presents itself. She's just lucky she's not here alone.

"Keep him away from me, but don't kill him," she tells the young man.

"Why should I listen to you?" he asks.

"Because. This man is a sorcerer. A powerful one. And if you think you stand a chance against him with your bow and arrow you're an even bigger fool than I thought."

She digs into the pouch gathering a handful of salt. She whispers an incantation under her breath to invoke the full power of the crystals it contains. She moves as fast as she can, tracing an area outside the cave. Her feet carry her over rock, over water, all the while creating a boundary of where Tadadaho can and cannot travel, penning him in like an animal.

It is not a pleasant thing to do to another person, but she can't see another way. She returns to the entrance of the cave and calls into it. Her voice sounds into its depths.

"There is food enough to sustain you out here on the land, but the villagers who take the mountain pass will no longer be at your mercy."

Her voice is softer when she next speaks.

"I will come back for you. Or someone will. Someone who can truly help ease your suffering."

***

He follows her back down the mountain. Her movements are sluggish and awkward, or about as sluggish and awkward as he can imagine them getting. It would be a good time to kill her, really. She's tired and weary. But he's not sure he can just do the deed. Not after what they just saw. Not after what they just shared.

Evidently, she doesn't feel the same way. The second they reach the valley she wheels around, her bow drawn, ready to shoot an arrow into his face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he says, lifting his hands up.

"What are you doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious? I came here to kill you," he says.

"Why?" she demands.

"Because. Your name's on the list."

She processes that with a blink. "I didn't realize there was more than one."

"I reckon there has to be, when you're on it," he shrugs, his hands still in the air.

"So what now? Do we fight?" Her voice carries a slight mocking tone.

"We could. But I was thinking we could have a meal together instead."

She raises her eyebrows. "A meal together. You think I'm going to have dinner with someone I know is trying to kill me?"

"Why not?"

"Because that's insane."

"It's a little insane. But there are crazier things." He gestures toward the mountain behind them as if to prove his point.

She narrows her eyes at him, her head tilting as she considers his offer. Her skin is smooth and golden. Her hair as black as crow's feathers. There is something intimidating about her and it isn't just her skill. It isn't even her beauty. Something burns inside her. A mission. A sense of purpose that has nothing to do with killing.

There is something else between them too, he realizes. They are both young. Both attractive. He is suddenly conscious his playfulness could be construed another way.

It should bother him, but it doesn't. Indeed, he is more drawn to her than he wants to admit. He wants to—needs to—spend more time with her.

Any other assassin would have said no to his offer. Not her.

She lowers her bow. "We can eat at my restaurant. Until then. Keep your distance."

"Upon my honour," he says, laying one hand over his heart.

They walk in silence for a while. As they cross back over the land, the tension between them grows less and less pronounced. Nothing would erase it completely, of course, but after a time he deems it safe to address her once again.

"So those crystals you have. You're sure they'll hold him?"

"They'll hold him."

"How do you know?"

"Because. They're special. They have power. When used for the right purpose."

"To heal people," he says.

"That's not all they do. But it's one thing."

"How did you become an assassin?"

"I didn't choose this life, if that's what you're asking. My parents died when I was still a girl. The people who raised me so—," she cuts herself off. "Gave me to another family. They were the ones who taught me this."

"I see."

There was a long silence. "What about you?"

"My parents died when I was young as well," he says. "I suppose I just had to look out for myself. And one thing led to another. And another."

"Not a very happy story."

"Few stories are."

"That's true," she says.

They continue on, moving alongside the river. Every once in a while, their arms brush up against one another. She is exhausted but trying to pretend she isn't. She stumbles and instead of striking her down he reaches out to catch her, holding her arm as she steadies herself once more.

Finally, they reach the great village and walk along the streets until the lights of her restaurant come back into view.

She stops at the bottom of the stairs leading up to it and turns to him. The moon shines bright on her face making her beauty almost otherworldly. Can he really kill so lovely a woman?

Yes. The answer is yes. But not if he waits.

"Tomorrow then?" she asks.

He pauses. "Yes. Tomorrow."

***

She stands in her room, in the dark, clutching the bag of crystals to her chest. The light of the moon shines through her window and onto the floor, pooling around her feet like a puddle.

Tomorrow night she will watch the sky from Arthur's telescope but tonight, she gazes upon the stars with her own eyes. She can make out a single, orange speck. Seven dancers, rising and falling. The great bear, howling its way across the world—his pursuers at his back.

All of these things look different when seen up close, through Arthur's telescope. Next to the crystals, the telescope is the closest thing she has ever known to magic. It has shown her the moon and more. Planets with their own families orbiting around them, a silent sentry. Arthur thinks maybe they are also moons but she is not sure. She doesn't need answers the same way he does. It's enough to be able to look out and know that the universe is much bigger than she is. That it will go on much longer than she will.

She has a feeling her time is coming to an end.

It doesn't have to. She could kill the man. But she knows she won't. Knows she can't.

Her only hope is mercy and compassion. It always has been.

Her sleep is deep and dreamless.

***

The food is especially good tonight. They are served a full course meal, though not from the menu. Instead she picks everything they eat, from the main dishes to the sides. 

Venison with prawn and pine. Trout with wild rice and a raspberry glaze. Nuts coated with honey and maple syrup, served on a bed of green, leafy lettuce. Sliced bison with turnip and radish. The stuffed mushrooms he had the first time he ate there.

He eats everything she brings him without fear. In his bag he carries an antidote for any poison she could possibly hit him with and he's starting to think she's telling him the truth about her desire to heal rather than harm.

He's dressed up for the occasion and is pleased to find that she has, too. He wears a black shirt, a black leather vest and black pants. She wears a red dress, embroidered around the hem and cuffs with an elaborate flower pattern. A necklace of turquoise hangs around her neck. Her soft-soled boots lace up to her calves, made from worn black leather, the assassin's calling card. Hers have been polished to a shine. Her raven hair is parted on either side of her face and hangs down in loose waves.

She is as beautiful as the food tastes but he is still going to end her.

They chat idly. About the food, the festival. The comet that is coming. She tells him she has plans to watch it, describing a great looking glass he can hardly believe exists.

A server comes and clears the dinner plates away and as dessert is served, the subject turns to the matter they have both been avoiding.

"I can see you have questions," she says. "Why don't you ask them?"

"All right." He takes a bite of his dessert—chocolate coated strawberries with walnut shavings sprinkled over top and served on a flat corncake—and swallows. "You let him live. Why?"

She frowns and cocks her head. "Not the question I thought you were going to start with."

"But it's the one I have. Tadadaho's a monster. You'd have been doing everyone a favour if you killed him. So why didn't you?"

"Does the reason matter?" She arches one eyebrow. Her voice carries a challenge. "You're going to kill me anyways."

"Humour me."

"I already did tell you why. Was my reason not good enough?"

"Not really."

She makes a face at him. "Why not?"

"Because you had a job to do. You swore an oath. You swore you would carry out the council's orders."

"And I have been."

"Rehabilitation is not a part of the plan," he says in a wry voice.

She shrugs. "My plan is better."

"I doubt the council sees it that way."

"I don't care what they see. I know I'm right."

"Well it doesn't matter if you're right, does it? You've screwed yourself. Why didn't you just kill him and save your own neck?"

"Because that’s not who we are." She slams one palm down on the table. Their glasses rattle and hop. Her eyes are blazing and for a moment, her beauty burns so bright it takes everything in his power to look away. And he has to look away. He can't allow himself to see her sincerity, her conviction.

"They will come for you." He forces himself to speak, lifting his gaze to hers.

She lets out a noise of disgust. "Then let them come. You think I didn't know that was a possibility? They can't stand to see a woman grow strong. They can't stand what will happen when we lead. When we succeed."

She sits back in her chair. Her eyes move over the restaurant.

"It took me years to build this place. Stone by stone. I met a glassmaker, Arthur. An engineer who travelled here when the doors between our world and the others were still open. Before the bluff fell."

He nodded. He knew the story of the bluff. The stories say it had been a portal once, between their world and six others. Realms of beauty and magic and science. Then for no reason whatsoever—it had closed. All the light had vanished with it and darkness had risen up in its place.

"We built the windows. The lights. The mirrors. Everything you see here, we built together. Because this is what happens when you honour the gifts of another person. You can make things, greater than you can alone."

"Buildings fall. People die."

She snorts. "You know nothing."

"I know you let a murderer live."

"You're right. I did." She glares at him from across the table. "It's a mistake easily rectified."

There. At least she's threatening him now. He needs to see her venom.

"So what now?" he asks.

"The way I see it—we have a choice." She sets her elbows on the table. "You can try to kill me, if that's what you want. If you can't be dissuaded from your mission, so be it. But I saved your life in the mountains and so you will not try to trick me into death. We will fight face to face, weapon to weapon."

He nods. It was fair. It was more than fair.

"Sounds reasonable. And the other option?"

"You could join me," she says.

"Join you?"

"Yes. You could put down your weapons and you could join me. You could help me protect these people. You could help me build a different future."

He almost laughs. Was she serious? Does she really think he would ever consider helping her?  

"When do we fight?"

Colour drains from her face but her voice is steady. "After the comet. I want to see it. And I want you to see it, too. Maybe it will knock some sense into you."

She pushes her chair away and gets to her feet. "Until then," she says.

"Until then."

***

The fields behind her restaurant are filled with food. Tonight's festival is not just for the comet. The harvest is coming and standing here looking out at their huge and wild garden, she knows this will be their best year yet. There are pumpkins and squash. Potatoes and carrots. Rows upon rows of corn.

It shoots up into the sky, a foot or more taller than she is. She walks beside it, trailing one hand through its leaves as she goes.

Arthur is waiting for her when she finally returns.

"I thought that was you," he says. "What are you doing here? I thought you would be down at the festival by now."

"You know how I feel about crowds."

"I do know. Which is why I've ordered us a special treat. It'll be ready in the tower. We'll watch this comet in style," he says. His eyes glow with an anticipation she shares. "It's the dawning of a new age, dear friend. You'll see."

She does want to see. She wants to see it all unfold. She wants to hear Arthur's stories again, the story of other worlds and wonders. But when she looks into her future all she can see is darkness. The fight that is coming.

She wishes she felt better about it.

Arthur steps closer to her, his face a mask of concern. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," she lies. "It's just the wizard. I guess I'm still thinking about him. I wish I could have done more for him."

"The answer will come. It's as I said. The world is changing."

She forces herself to smile. "And not a moment too soon. Go on without me. I'll be there soon."

She waits for him to go and turns around again, to gaze out at the fields. Laughter and music drifts up from the village.

So much happiness and here she is thinking what weapon she'll use and whether she'll really be able to use it.

Footsteps sound behind her and she turns, expecting to find Arthur.

Instead the assassin stands there in his all-black dinner clothes, an arrow drawn and pointed at her face.

***

"What are you doing?" she asks. Wide eyes move from his face to the weapon in his hands. It's obvious he's caught her off guard—that she expected him to keep his word.

"I can't wait until the comet passes."

"Why not?" Her voice is sharp, alert.

"I think you know why."

She takes a deep breath and lets it go, closing her eyes. When she opens them again he can see years of suppressed guilt and shame swirl inside them.

"They were your parents, weren't they?"

He nods. He can still remember finding their bloated bodies slumped over the dinner table, their plates still full with food. It is not the kind of sight you leave behind. Not the kind of smell you ever forget.

"You poisoned them."

"I didn't know." She shakes her head. Her voice is barely a whisper. "They told me it would put them to sleep, nothing more. That it would make it easier to take what we'd been sent for."

"Their crystals."

"Yes."

Crystals. His parents murdered for a pile of liquid rock. But of course, they are not just any rocks. They carry the old magic.

"I am so incredibly sorry," she says.

He doesn't answer her. He is not sure what to say. The council told him she would try to trick him, that she would try to turn this around on them. But he's an assassin. He's gotten good at reading people moments away from death and though he wants to believe this is all an act—that she's just pretending—he can't. 

A lump formed in his throat, making speech difficult. "I know," he manages and cringes at the way his voice catches against it.

Her eyes well up with tears. She's holding her hands up in front of her and he knows he's won. She's not going to fight back. He's caught her somewhere she would never take a weapon. She is ready to die, but she still wants to understand why and how.

He can see her piecing it together in her mind. Patching his movements together.

"You followed me,” she says. “You wanted to make sure it was you and not the wizard who killed me."

"It wouldn't be revenge if it weren't by my hand.”

"So you let me stop him. And you let me come back here. To this place."

Her eyes flicker around her, at all the things that are growing, at the one place she would never want to see violence. All her staff knew of the time she spent here. How sacred a space this was to her. It was not so hard to get them to speak of it. They were so proud of their mistress, after all. Happy to speak of her.

"Yes."

She gives her head a little shake, touches her hand to her face to wipe away her tears. "You're good," she says. "I never saw you coming."

Do it now. Do it now before you lose your nerve.

"Turn around."

She turns, strands of her black hair catching in the breeze. The sky is dark now except for a single fire blazing in the sky, moving closer and closer. There is no one around to see, just rows upon rows of corn.

"They're coming for you, too," she says. "Your name is on the list."

"I know."

He was a loose end. It was to be expected. He lowers his bow and takes his knife out from his belt. He reaches around her and places one hand on her forehead.

He hesitates—knows he shouldn't.

"You know why I came," he says. "But do you know why they sent me?"

Her voice is small. "Because I didn't take the crystal back. Because I told them I couldn't find it."

"You lied," he says.

"I lied."

"What did you do with it?"

"I kept it. I found someone to tell me what it did. They did that and more. They taught me to heal people. They thought I was special..." her voice trails off. She shakes her head and her hair brushes against his face, filling his nose with the scent of corn and honey.

"And then I made a decision. I used the money I earned from my jobs to pay the people I hired."

"You paid your staff with the money you were given to kill them?"

"Yes," she says. "What happened to your family should never have happened. And as long as I live, it will never happen again. I swear it."

His hand tightens on the handle of his knife. It is too much. Too, too much.

He leans forward, resting his head against her shoulder. "I want to believe you," he says, not bothering to disguise the anguish he feels.

"Then look around you," she says, her voice choking with emotion. She turns in his arms and lifts her tear-stained face to his. "This is who I am. This is what I built. Every day from that day, this is what I have created with my regret. With my sorrow. Your parents did not die in vain. They launched a revolution."

Her hands cup his face. He lifts his gaze to hers.

"And our work is not done," she says. "Join me. Help us. You don't have to kill for them anymore."

His knife falls to the ground. His hands clasp her shoulders and they drop to their knees, together. His fingers are tangled up in her hair and he is gripping her so tight he is half-afraid he will squeeze her to death. She doesn't notice. Her face is buried in his chest and she is sobbing into it. They go on for some time, finally breaking away from one another. The comet blazes across the sky, illuminating both of their faces.

He stares into its blistering light, searing the sky like a torch. He feels like his old self is melting away, and he can see with piercing clarity the pain he's inflicted. The harm he's caused. The lives he's taken.

No more. Every desire he once had for vengeance is gone. There is much to repair. Much to atone for. Hope sparks like fire inside his chest.

She's right. What happened to him should never happen to anyone ever again. The time for change has come.

No doubt the council will send people for her. For him. But they will stand together. The new dawn is rising. With any luck, this time it will rise on the side of the people.

THE END

Sneak Peek - A Work in Progress

Illustration by Sara General 

Hi everyone and happy August! I hope you’re having a great summer.

A few years ago now, I found myself in between books and unsure about what to write. After a few weeks of indecision, I wound up starting a rather fun project that I never actually intended to publish—or even finish—but started to become more and more invested in the longer I worked on it. Once the rough draft was done though, I put it away and moved on to writing something else. I never really intended to return to it. That all changed when I happened across the book in May/June of this year and found myself getting caught up in the story again and next thing you know the book I was supposed to be writing had fallen by the wayside and another book had emerged in its place! And now that book is (mostly) done. 

It's an adaptation of the wonderful and much-loved Pride & Prejudice except all of characters are Indigenous and they live in a fictional First Nation community called Smoke River. And honestly—this book was so much fun to write. I love Jane Austen's books (we had a fabulous Jane Austen course in my undergrad where we read all of her books) and throughout the years I'd occasionally wonder how the stories would play out if they were told with an Indigenous lens. Once I started, I found there was so much that was different (certainly more than I've probably captured), that it became really challenging to write. It wasn’t just a matter of updating the narrative to a modern, Indigenous context. There were these big shifts that had to be accounted for and so I tried to be conscious of those, as well as the portrayals of various characters. But even though it was challenging, it was so great to write it while holding things like Indigenous women’s rights and collective responsibility, language and lacrosse and Treaties in my mind.

And though these more serious concepts bubble to the surface in this adaptation, the book is also very much about the love story between the characters, Elizabeth and Darcy. It also includes some of my own love for language, language revitalization and the resilience of our communities (and also probably, my own appreciation for the challenges of dating and finding companionship—an agonizing experience all on its own). 

As part of getting the book ready for publishing, I thought I would share the first few work-in-progress chapters here. If you have a Kobo or a iPhone (or iBooks app), you can download the first five chapters here (there is also a pdf that can be read on most devices). They are formatted with the really lovely new ebook creation service Vellum. So if you are also a writer looking for ways to make your stories look clean and professional, this will give you an example of how this particular service looks. This book still has to go through another round of edits and copyedits, so my apologies in advance for any typos, but there was something about the green, leafy forest and warm summer days and approaching thunderstorms that made me want to share it now. And so here it is!

The working title of this book is Pride & Rezjudice. (I'm still searching for the right title, or maybe this is it, I don't know!).  As I mentioned before, it’s a light-hearted, funny, contemporary telling of a famous love story from an Indigenous perspective. 

For the PDF: Click here 

For the Kobo version: Click here

For iBooks: Click here

Chapter one is available below :). I hope you enjoy it!

S. 

P.S. I made this cover in Canva—a free web-based graphic design tool service that is super accessible and easy to use. The illustration is one of my own that I am using until we do a proper cover. But I wanted to sneak peek preview to be pretty :). 

Chapter One

Everyone knows that trying to find a partner who has a good mind, speaks the language and is ready for a healthy relationship can be somewhat difficult; goodmindedness being one of those Haudenosaunee traits that everyone talks about and virtually everyone has a varying definition of. 

As a concept, it was a powerful one, often said to be more journey than destination. It was a state of being that could be yours one instant and gone the next, and yet the happiest households always seemed to thrive best when it was present for at least one moment—however brief—every day of the week. 

Filling a home with language could be even harder in these times when virtually all Indigenous languages were critically endangered and given the prevalence of English media. English was quite simply everywhere. On phones and television. Computers and newspapers. Snapchat and Instagram. 

And although finding language or goodmindedness in another person seemed hard—and finding them together even harder—things were changing in Smoke River. It was subtle, incremental change that not everyone noticed and that from time to time was eclipsed by tragedy, loss or political turmoil. But it was change enough to keep Mrs. Benedict’s dreams alive; that all five of her daughters would have healthy, meaningful relationships and that they would go forth from her home to create homes of their own, ones that shared her values and her deep and abiding respect for language, culture and ceremony. 

So imagine her surprise and excitement, when a promising candidate for a son-in-law rented Mr. Martins’ two-story log cabin on River Road. 

“Did you hear who rented Elmer Martin’s place down by the river?”

Mr. Benedict was watching a TED talk on his iPad and wasn’t feeling inclined to answer her. 

“Mr. Benedict, did you hear me? I asked you if you heard who rented Elmer’s old place?”

It wasn’t really an old place. Elmer had built it before he went to live in Southern California, where he’d been living for the last five years. Everyone had thought that he would come back—including himself. But then he got swept up in his work in a place called Silicone Valley—a strange name if you asked Mrs. Benedict—and decided to relocate. The house had sat empty for most of the last five years, which Mrs. Benedict felt to be a real shame considering the lack of housing on the reserve, and she made certain to let everyone know it whenever occasion arose. For all of her love of goodmindedness, Mrs. Benedict was a woman with opinions that bordered on judgemental and it gave her great joy to express them—especially with her husband, despite the fact that he grew weary of hearing them over and over again. 

“No dear. I didn’t hear,” he answered her now. “I’m watching a talk about astrophysics, and since I’m not an astrophysicist—I need to pay attention.”

“It was rented to a young man from Kahnawake,” she said, ignoring him. “His name is Charles Bingley. He speaks the language and he goes to longhouse. And he’s single and doesn’t have any children.”

Mr. Benedict did his best to suppress a groan. He knew that in his wife’s eyes, this made Charles something of a rare a commodity but it didn’t make it any less strange to him that she viewed him as such.  

“How great would it be if he married one of our daughters?”

Here again—Mr. Benedict grunted. He knew that nothing would bring Mrs. Benedict more joy than seeing each of her daughters married to nice partners, but the way things were going—he didn’t see it happening. 

And he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it to. 

He missed the days when all they worried about was the girls graduating from high school. Missed the late night studying. The frantic searching for answers and explanations—math had changed so much since he’d been in school. No, he wasn’t ready for whatever the next phase was. Not yet. And he didn’t understand why they needed to be thinking of such things. After all—their children were happy. Successful, even. 

Their eldest daughter Jane had spent the last three years working at the local elementary school as an educational assistant. His middle daughter Elizabeth had secretly accepted an offer to do a Masters in Fine Arts at Emily Carr (he knew this because he opened her acceptance letter) and Lydia and Kitty were quite too young to be thinking about getting married. They were having trouble enough making them go to school, despite Mrs. Benedict’s hounding them. As for Mary—Mary was more interested in trees and plants than people, and he was hardly of a mind to take her from that.  

“Why are you always in such a hurry for the girls to get married?”

Mrs. Benedict stiffened and her lips twitched. She had an option here. She could let her anger show or act like his comments didn’t bother her. Not for the first time, she wondered why he couldn’t just understand. Hadn’t she told him time and time again that a household required a two-person income to be sustainable? Hadn’t they both agreed that the only way to pass on language and culture to future generations was if both partners valued it? And who, if not the parents, were responsible for creating a network of like-minded individuals for their children to potentially wed?

“Oh Mr. Benedict! Do I really need to explain myself to you? Can’t you just realize this is important?”

Of course, he did recognize the importance. Nothing would have brought him more joy than having a child-in-law who had a job, knew the language, was trying to make a difference for their people. That being said, he didn’t see the point in foisting his daughters on the poor fellow who’d rented Elmer Martin’s place. Besides—he didn’t want anything keeping Elizabeth from going to Emily Carr. Not a single thing. Even a boy from Kahnawake.

No, no, no.

It was far better that they didn’t meet this Mr. Bingley at all. The girls were doing well enough without the distraction and this was hardly Regency-era Britain. As Indigenous women, his daughters had power and autonomy. And while settler populations had yet to fully examine their own dark history to enact real change in Indigenous-settler relations, there was reason to be hopeful that some things—education, language, ceremony and a connection to the land would be enough to carry his daughters through the never-ending storm of culture clash. 

He comforted himself that there were good people to be found everywhere on Turtle Island, Indigenous and non-Indigenous alike. 

Besides which, what were men compared to rocks and mountains? Forests and lakes? Fields and bogs? Swamps and crags?

Mr. Benedict contented himself that he knew the answer to that question. 

Mrs. Benedict pitied him for it. 

Chapter Two

Though Mr. Benedict showed no sign of wanting to meet Charles Bingley, he was nonetheless one of the first who had occasion to do so. Despite his earlier misgivings, he left the meeting deeply impressed by the young man and he knew at once that Mrs. Benedict would feel the same—which made him all the more reluctant to tell her about it. 

But try as he might he could not avoid it, for Mrs. Benedict was a singularly determined and focused woman, and it was only a matter of time before the subject of Mr. Bingley came up again.

“There’s a social tomorrow night after the sing.” Mrs. Benedict told him over tea. “I wonder if he’s going to come?”

“I certainly hope not,” Mr. Benedict replied, scrolling through his iPad. “I don’t think we should go either. It’ll be too busy.”

“Mr. Benedict, how can you say such a thing? And put that thing away. Can’t you see I’m trying to talk to you? Don’t you care?”

“Now don’t say that, my love. You’ve been talking non-stop since we got married and I’ve always been willing to lend a ready ear. Why, I think I’ve committed to memory almost every word you’ve ever said. Would you like me to show you?” 

“You must invite him,” Mrs. Benedict said, sounding petulant.

“If I do that it’ll seem like we’re trying to market the girls to him. And if we’re going to market them—why don’t we just go ahead and make a short commercial for each of them? I could play them for him on my iPad.”

“We could even make them on your iPad,” Elizabeth chimed in, entering the room and joining them at the table. “There’s a great app for that.” 

“Why thank you Lizzie! See, my love? Problem solved. We’ll make each of the girls a commercial and then Bingley can just tell us which of them he wants. I hope it’s Jane,” he added. 

“It probably will be,” Mrs. Benedict said absently and for one heart-stopping moment he became terrified she truly was thinking of making advertisements to barter their daughters away to perfect strangers. “But we’ll do no such thing, Mr. Benedict. Why do you always have to try my patience?”

“I didn’t realize you had any to begin with,” he said.

Mrs. Benedict glared at him feeling like she was in a perfect state of misery. It was hard for her at times like these, to not feel like she had married the wrong person. 

“I’m never going to be a Tota,” she announced. 

The rest of her daughters had chosen that exact moment to enter the room.

“There, there Ista. I’m sure one of us will have a baby sometime in the next five years,” said Elizabeth, her voice filled with the kind of careless cheer that self-possessed women often have.

“I’ll be an old maid then. Too old to pick up a baby.”

“Nonsense. Babies are very light,” Elizabeth said.

Mrs. Benedict snorted. “Mrs. Abrams already has two grandchildren.”

“You shouldn’t be keeping score, Ista. ‘Comparison is the thief of joy’,” Elizabeth quoted.

“I have none.” Mrs. Benedict was mulish. 

“Maybe one of the girls will have a set of triplets?” Mr. Benedict suggested.

“I hope it won’t be me,” said Mary, picking up a cloth and polishing a rubber plant.

“And I just know that Mrs. Elm will be parading her pack of daughters around. All seven of them.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ll be there with your five. A much more sensible number,” Mr. Benedict said. 

“How will I? You’ve already said we weren’t going!”

“Did I then? I suppose I’ll have to let our newest neighbour know that I won’t be attending after all.”

Mrs. Benedict’s back straightened so quickly, someone might have shoved a measuring stick down her shirt. “What do you mean? You’ve been to see him?”

“Of course I’ve been to see him, my dear. Weren’t those your exact orders?”

“Oh Mr. Benedict!” Mrs. Benedict clasped her hands together.

“What is he like, Hanih?” Lydia cried. “Is he handsome?”

“I’ll bet he is,” Kitty said. “What colour are his eyes? I hope they’re green. Some guys from Kahnawake have green eyes.”

“What does it matter what colour his eyes are so long as he can speak the language?” Elizabeth asked. 

“Quite right, quite right, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Benedict declared, even though it was obvious to everyone else that Elizabeth was being sarcastic.

“Well, his name is Charles Bingley. An older name, not very common. He was very amiable. He speaks a slightly different dialect, but I think he’ll get along just fine here. And yes, I did tell him that I would help him get acquainted with the area. He’s quite interested in doing some fishing while he’s here.”

“We have plenty of fish!” Mrs. Benedict cried happily. 

Mr. Benedict rolled his eyes. Everyone pretended not to notice. 

“Yes, dear. We’re practically mongers.”

“I need a new outfit!” Lydia proclaimed.

“So do I,” Kitty said quickly.

“We all need new outfits.” Mrs. Benedict declared.

“If everyone’s getting new outfits, I want a new book,” Elizabeth said.

“Oh Lizzie. You’re never going to find a husband if you don’t stop reading so much.”

“Exactly, Ista.” Elizabeth sat back in her chair with a satisfied smile. “Exactly.”

Chapter Three

Word of the arrival of the newest inhabitant of Smoke River First Nation spread quickly. From discreet Facebook messages to coy texts, in no time at all, the women of Smoke River became aware there was a single, childless, employed and very attractive young man living in the large house on River Road. And apparently, he hadn’t come alone. His younger sister had come along to help settle him in, and so had his best friend—about who little was known. 

All in all, there was a general air of excitement, mystery, determination and dread accompanying the Benedict family as they set out for the social that evening.

“Oh, of course.” Mrs. Benedict mumbled. “Everyone and their daughters came out tonight. Look. There’s Lucy Anderson. She never comes to these functions. She’s just here to make sure her daughter gets the first shot at Bingley. Everyone knows she hasn’t been to a social in years.”

Elizabeth held her tongue. She didn’t like when her mother decided to judge people, but there was no point trying to get at it with her right now.  “Look there’s Charlotte!” Elizabeth said happily and rushed off to meet up with her friend.

Charlotte and Elizabeth had become friends when they both attended the same off-reserve high school. They’d also gone into an immersion program together once they’d graduated. Elizabeth had stayed on for the second year of the program before doing her undergrad and was a moderately good Cayuga speaker now. Charlotte had gone to university in the City of Brantwood after the first year. She’d since graduated with a degree in information management and was trying to get into a graduate-level information sciences program. She worked part-time at the library but was anxious to find something more permanent.

“Hi Charlotte!”

“Hey Lizzie! Come to meet Bingley, have you?” her friend teased.

“If my mother has her way, my sisters and I will be the only ones to meet him. Is he here yet?”

“No. He should be here soon enough. He’s not here alone though.”

“Wise man,” Elizabeth said. “Who’d he come with?”

“His sister, Caroline. She’s a piece of work, let me tell you.”

 “How so?”

But before Charlotte could say anything more, Bingley himself walked into the room. Elizabeth would later think it was entrance worthy of a movie. The entire longhouse went silent. It didn’t help that the singers were in between songs, so that each and every head turned toward the door. 

There was nothing disappointing about Bingley. He was a most attractive young man. He had dark skin and rich brown eyes. His sister was practically his twin—beautiful and slender, with almond shaped eyes and black hair that fell straight to her waist. In between them stood another man. He was taller than either of them and just as attractive, though his skin was slightly fair. There was a standoffish air about him—as if he was daring someone to judge him.

“Who’s that?” Elizabeth asked.

Charlotte smiled. “That, Lizzie, is William Darcy—the richest man in Akwesasne.”

“Cigarettes?”

“Strangely—no. His grandfather made a lot of money working in patents and put it away into trusts. His father became a lawyer, and then of all things—won the lottery. When he died—he left it all to Darcy. They both did.”

“Wow.” Elizabeth whistled low. “Must be nice.”

“He’s quite educated, as well.”

As fascinating and educated as Darcy was—Mrs. Benedict only had eyes for Bingley, who stood with Charlotte’s father Mr. Longboat and his wife. In no time at all, she had rounded up her daughters and shepherded them over to where Bingley and his company stood. 

His sister, Caroline seemed bored and didn’t do much to hide her obvious displeasure with the entire evening. Elizabeth did her best to ignore her. She had made a promise to herself after graduating high school that she would not subject herself to the company of mean, negative girls and she wasn’t about to make an exception just because someone was new to town. But Bingley’s attitude more than made up for his annoying sister. He had an easy-going manner and was delighted with everything; the music, the longhouse, and most especially—with Jane. 

Indeed, as the night went by, it became obvious to everyone in attendance that the eldest Benedict had captured his special attention. When he and his partner trapped Jane and Elizabeth between them during the Duck Dance, his eyes shone and his laughter could be heard across the entire room. 

They were in such great spirits, that when Rabbit Dance started, Elizabeth immediately turned to Darcy and asked him if he’d like to dance with her.

His mouth grew tight and she could have sworn his eyes darkened like a demon’s—at least, that’s how she put it to Charlotte later.

“No.” His answer was brisk, abrupt. “I’d rather not.”

Elizabeth forced a smiled onto her face. 

“Sure. Dancing’s not for everyone.” And then she quickly moved away from him. Five minutes later, everyone in the longhouse had heard about how William Darcy had snubbed her.

“Don’t even worry about it,” Charlotte said. “He’s a jackass.”

“Yeah. Well—he’s a jackass who just completely humiliated me in front of the entire community.”

“So? At least now everyone knows what a jerk he is. And how very kind and polite you are to ask a stranger to dance.”

“Which does pretty much nothing for my pride, but whatever,” Elizabeth joked. She wasn’t about to let Darcy get to her. She would move on and forget his slight and had started to do just that—when the sound of Darcy’s voice drifted through the air towards her.

“I’m tired,” he said. “I want to go home.”

“Oh come now, Darcy! We’re having so much fun. Why don’t you dance?”

“I’m not in the mood to dance. Besides, there’s no one here to dance with.”

“What do you mean? There are tons of girls here. And they’re all very nice and attractive.”

“You were dancing with the only attractive girl in the room.”

“She’s amazing, isn’t she? But her sister Elizabeth is quite good looking, as well. And very smart.”

“She’s adequate, but not good looking enough to tempt me, I’m afraid. You should go back to your companion. I’m fine. I’ll manage until you’re ready to leave.”

It was a good thing it was dark—for Elizabeth’s face flushed with embarrassment and she was sure it showed. Charlotte reached out and squeezed her hand. 

“Count yourself lucky, friend. If he liked you—you’d have to talk to him.”

“You’re right.” Elizabeth forced herself to laugh. “As it is, I wouldn’t talk to him for all the money in the world.”

They laughed and abused him a little bit more, each one trying to outdo the other in how grateful they were to not have to speak to the insufferable William Darcy. Finally, they went back in, danced a few more dances and by the time they were finished she was feeling much better. 

 Amidst the crowd she met up with her sister Jane and together, the two of them went to the dining hall to find something to drink. Bingley followed behind them—as did his sister and Mr. Darcy. 

“So what do you do?” Bingley asked Jane, as they waited for their strawberry juice.

“I’m an educational assistant.” Jane told him. 

“That’s incredible. Do you speak the language?” 

“Jane’s a great speaker,” Mrs. Benedict proclaimed, appearing out of nowhere and edging between Jane and Bingley. “She teaches the kids at her school.”

“Is that true?” Bingley asked her. 

“Yes, but I wish I spoke better.” Jane said modestly. “Elizabeth is much better than me. I feel like I have a lot to learn.”

Elizabeth smiled. It was just like her sister to divert attention from her self to others—and just like her mother to try and embarrass her.

“Charlotte and I both went to the immersion high school,” Elizabeth explained. “Then we took an adult immersion program when we left school. We were very fortunate to do so.” 

“What are your plans now?”

Elizabeth fell silent. She did not know how to answer this question. She hadn’t told her mother about her plans to attend Emily Carr. It seemed unwise to do so now, in the middle of the social. “I’m not sure. We’re both waiting to hear back on our grad school applications.”

“Charlotte always did struggle with her grades,” Mrs. Benedict said. “It was good of Lizzie to help her along.”

“Charlotte does just fine without me.” Lizzie said, annoyed with her mother for insinuating that Charlotte was somehow incapable. 

“She failed the third grade you know. They wanted to keep her back, but her mother insisted they push her through.”

“Honestly, mother. This is hardly the time to talk about all that.”

“What? Everyone knows.”

“Charlotte was very sick that year,” Elizabeth said. “She missed a lot of school. It wasn’t because she couldn’t do the work.”

“Jane is very healthy,” Mrs. Benedict said, leaping at the chance to showcase another attribute of her eldest, most attractive daughter. “I always joke she got the best of our genes. She could have been a model you know—a talent scout once came and asked her to take pictures for him. But Mr. Benedict didn’t like the idea. I must say, I don’t really like it either. It’s much better that she’s here. She works at the school, you know? Now she only needs to get married. I thought for sure she’d be married already. She had a fellow that she was seeing for a few years. He asked her to marry him but she said no.”

Elizabeth felt Jane stiffen beside her and Bingley seemed to struggle to determine which part of Mrs. Benedict’s long speech he ought to respond to.

“That’s only because he asked her at a hockey game,” Elizabeth laughed, trying to diffuse the awkwardness that had fallen across their conversation. “And he didn’t bother to ask Hanih if it was okay.”

“And you think that’s important, do you? To ask a girl’s family if they approve of the match?” 

Everyone’s eyes swung towards Darcy. 

Elizabeth lifted her chin. That actually wasn’t her view, but she wasn’t about to take sides with Mr. Darcy—if it was his. “Well, of course.”

“That’s a little patriarchal, isn’t it?”

“It’s respectful.” Elizabeth said coolly. 

“Interesting. In this day and age, I would think that a young woman would resent a young man asking her family about anything to do with her private relationships.”

“It’s true that women must make their own decisions about who they choose to spend their time with. But the family ought to have an opportunity to make out a potential partner’s character and share those thoughts with their daughters.”

“Daughters will do just as they please anyways,” Darcy said. 

“Of course they will. But at least they’ll know that the lines of communication are open and that the family will be there to support them in the event of marital breakdown.”

“Which is more often that not, wouldn’t you say?”

“Relationships are challenging,” she acknowledged carefully. 

“They shouldn’t have to be.”

“Perhaps they wouldn’t be—if people took the time to get to know one another properly.”

“And how do you propose people go about doing that?”

“By taking time to get to know themselves. By expressing their true selves to one another.”

“That’s difficult to do when people are just getting to know one another, especially if they’re being judged for how they choose to express their affection.”

“You’re referring to what I said about the hockey game,” Elizabeth said. She shrugged. “Well, I stand by that comment. There are good and better ways of expressing one’s affection.” 

“Are there?” Darcy lifted his eyebrows. “So what do you recommend, to encourage affection?”

“Dancing.” Elizabeth answered, lifting her chin. “Even if one’s partner is merely adequate.”

Mr. Darcy’ lifted his head and his lips parted ever so slightly, but said nothing. Elizabeth smiled and having made her point, spun on her heel and drifted back towards the dance floor.

That's all for now! Feel free to let me know if you want me to post a few more chapters here! S. 

Write Your Story. Start Today - Part Two

Richard Wagamese has passed away. He was a wonderful and talented Indigenous writer whose books were the recipients of many awards. He was also one of those few authors whose books both my parents and I really liked. I remember reading A Quality of Light as a teenager and just being completely blown away. To this day, it is one of my favourite books. I never met Richard—I only knew him from Facebook and Twitter, but he was always kind in his posts, open about his struggles and his dedication to writing and to helping other writers. My thoughts and prayers go out to his family and friends. 

After a week where I did little else but read article after article for my dissertation, his passing reminded me of how wonderful art is and how important it is to take the time to make it. To hone your skills and share what you love and are passionate about with others. 

In December of last year, I met a lady from my community who was trying to find a printer for a book she had written. It was a memoir. I shared the name of my printer with her and asked her about her work. My baby was coming down with a cold though, so I became distracted and had to leave the event early. I found out later that the lady had passed away at the start of the year. It made me feel so sad. Sad that her book didn’t become a book, even though I know that she was loved and appreciated and will be remembered fondly by many. Still, I've continued to think about her and her story. And to think about other people I know who have creative inclinations and are gearing up to write or to paint or make something. Thinking about what I can do to encourage them or to be more helpful when people are looking for help. I have some plans in mind. Some things I am going to try. This post is one small way of sending a big burst of encouragement to you all. To write your story. To make your art. To start today. And to those of you who have already started—to encourage you to keep going.  

As you may have noticed from my Facebook, Twitter and Instagram pages—I’ve been doing a lot of art lately. I’ve also been reading and writing and practicing the piano a lot more. I’ve been doing all of these things because there are projects I want to do in each of these mediums. This has come as something of a surprise to me. I've always known I wanted to be a writer and a storyteller, but I didn’t know I wanted to be an illustrator or to tell stories through music. I probably should have known. There were all kinds of signs. (I used to have art shows in our living room when I was a little girl, displaying my work for my parents to come and purchase. My most expensively priced piece was $1. And guess where I displayed them? My old upright piano).

Anyways—it’s wonderful that these things have come back to me as an adult and I am so thankful I’m in a space to pursue these dreams. I’m also grateful they’re the kinds of pursuits I can include my daughters in. My toddler loves to paint and is already playing very cool little songs on the piano that she sings along to. My baby has also taken a special liking to toy instruments. They both love books.

So I’m happy to be able to share my art here. To share about my learning process and the steps I’m taking toward becoming an illustrator, similar to the way I’ve shared my writing journey over the last few years. Especially because I know there is so much learning to come—I’m definitely one of those people who embraces the notion that learning is a lifelong process. Case in point—I’ve learned more about writing in the last five years than in the fifteen preceding them and it seems like the things there are to learn next only multiply. But best of all—it’s fun. The things I’ve learned, I’ve learned by writing. By editing. By re-writing. By reading. I’ve learned by finishing one story and starting the next. By focussing on the work.

I’m trying to take some of these same principles and apply it to my art. To learn by creating things often and regularly. To take online classes (I’ll blog more about those in the future). To play with filters to learn what colour palettes I like and to give me ideas about what I can try next time. All in all, it has been awesome to be able to share the work I’ve finished with my family and friends. Indeed, every single piece of art I’ve made this year has taught me something different. But the biggest thing they’ve taught me is how important it is to just create. To practice. To try new things. To finish what I start.

Hearing about Richard’s passing was a reminder that we never know how long we have and that it's so important to make the most of each moment. To make the art that only we can make. So in honour of that, I thought I would share a few pieces I’ve worked on lately. There's even more on my Art page. 

Happy creating everyone! And if you haven’t started yet—then consider this your personal message to get going! The world is waiting for your art. So am I :). 

S. 

Our First Cayuga Language Comic

Hi everyone! 

I am really, really excited to share a sneak peek of a project I’ve been working on for the last few weeks with the help of my wonderful husband, Kehte Deer. (He wrote the story and did such an awesome job!). 

This is our first real attempt at working on something that has always held a special interest for both of us—a comic/graphic novel style representation of a Haudenosaunee story told in the language. I know our comics will only get better as my art and language skills improve, and even though it's our first effort, I still wanted to share it with you!

My book, The Vampire Skeleton, is very loosely inspired by this story and when researching that book, I had come across a number of different versions of the story. The comic adaptation is inspired by a story J.N.B. Hewitt collected in November of 1896, a version of which my husband discovered this past summer and shared with me. This also makes November 2016, the 120th anniversary of this particular telling. Very cool! 

I am still learning about the process of making comics (and will probably redraw this one in the future), but I was fortunate to get a lot of help from my sister and frequent collaborator Alyssa, who added some really great elements to the work. Making comics is one of her dreams as well, so this whole project has been an awesome learning experience for all of us. 

In honour of this special 120th anniversary, we will be releasing more cool things that we’ve created through the month of November as well as some behind-the-scenes pictures and blogs on our production company website (www.spiritandintent.com), Twitter & Facebook page.

Please visit us to make sure you don’t miss these super awesome posts :). And here's a PDF of the story as well!

Nya:węh and we hope you like it! 

S.

THE VAMPIRE SKELETON