Snawey

The slush that greets him is as indecisive as the foggy air that threatens rain. A narrow river follows the side of the trail that has stood established for generations. He trudges through the space that he and his father had often occupied. His mind swirls with thoughts of how his forefathers had once found peace on the land where he now stood, surrounded by a forest of thin stumps. Trevor sits down next to the tree from his father’s story and takes out his wrinkled flask of water. The leather, dry even in the humidity, brushes his lips for a moment before slow tears begin to rain from his eyes. The tears continue until they blend with a light drizzle from the sky of clouds above. Once the rain returns to a thick fog once again, he begins to remember all of the lessons his father had taught him about the trees. He remembers sapping the lighter trees earlier and saving the rich dark-coloured ones for the spring. He remembers his father’s warnings to never waste, and how the bark of the dying trees could be used to treat the sick. He remembers the name of the sweet sugar, the siwkewiku, and the trees that it came from, the mighty snawey. The last thing that he thinks of is the story of Sismoqnapui’skwe’j, the sweetwater maiden, who discovered how to make the sweet liquid and taught her findings to her people. He gathers a small stream of sticky sap from a notch in the tree into a stained glass jar and takes one last deep breath of the heavy air before returning back down the narrow path.

Their wide footprints leave a trail through the deep snow as the moose traverse the budding forest of the sugar-maples. The night sky overhead is adorned with the stories of leaders and friends from long ago. Some distance away, underneath the same dancing sky, a young girl wakes from her sleep to see her grandfather walking into the woods. She was used to seeing her grandparents walking into the forest together, however, her grandmother had not survived the harsh winter. She gathers her belongings and hurries after her grandfather. Eventually, after several tough winter days, her grandfather takes a rest on a rock by a river and sets up his shelter for the night. Before drifting off to sleep, he takes his tomahawk and makes a notch in a nearby tree. His granddaughter sees the tomahawk and sets up a fire to start preparing a meal for her grandfather. The scent of the food draws him out of his shelter of sticks and brush, and he smiles when he sees his granddaughter. The food that she had prepared tasted different from anything that he had ever before enjoyed. After finishing his meal, he glances at the tree where his tomahawk stays notched and notices the sap running down the side. In the years to come, she would tell her story to her friends and family while making sweet meals with the sugary sap of the maple tree.

Izzy lazily rolls out of bed as the metallic dinging of her alarm sounds on. She washes her face and quickly flips through the day’s paper before leaving in her rusty truck for work. As she arrives at the day’s worksite, she’s happy to see that the machines are already lined up and ready. Cradling her coffee, she listens to the soothing low voice of the radio host until her coworkers show up in their trucks. They set to work, shaded from the early morning sun by the thin roofs over top of them. The day was dragging on as per normal until late in the afternoon when Izzy saw something that made her freeze in place. The mess of metal and wire that she sits atop hums to a stop as she approaches the edge of the forest. In the sky, the sun was eager to set, but in the last shreds of sunlight, she sees a figure draped in some sort of fur standing calmly in front of a tree. In her line of work, tree-huggers were not uncommon, but something about the stature of this one catches her off guard. He couldn’t have been 400 metres from the river that marked the end of her assigned zone for the day, and he stood as still as the trees that stood tall over top of him. She was always told to wait until the protesters dispersed and to never leave her vehicle, she knew those rules were made for safety, but she knew somehow that the man wanted only to talk. She climbed down the stiff ladder and approached the man, avoiding fallen branches and debris as she went. As she gets closer, she notices that the man was holding a baby boy in his arms. 

“Nothing I can say will sway your actions, this I know. All I ask is that you leave me this tree. My father brought me here once when I was young, and his father did the same before him. One day I wish to bring my son here and tell him all that I know.”

He was speaking to her not out of anger, but with genuine love in his voice. She looks down towards the baby who stares straight back at her with piercing brown eyes. She stays silent, trying to think of what to say as the colour slowly drains from the edge of the sky above her. As she returns to her crude machine, the night sky comes to life with all of its intricate stories dancing atop a black stage. The unnatural yellow of her headlights pierces through the bodies of once sturdy trees as she returns home. A cool wind settles in blowing harshly atop the barren landscape. She drifts off to sleep under a warm woollen blanket, dreaming of the man, his son, and the tree with the notch and the trickle of sap.