PEGI EYERS
A "sacred red mist" seeded all life on Earth millennia ago, and can just as easily take it away. It is the same mysterious life force that is found in the womb and moontime-blood of every feminine being on the planet, and shows up in red ochre body decorations and rock paintings worldwide. Indigenous and earth-emergent societies have not forgotten this antediluvian mystery, which is our deepest collective Ancestral Memory. Moontime blood is inviolate and whole-ly, and as the Lifegivers and Great Mothers, the feminine beings and women of Earth need to be honored, loved, protected and held sovereign.
AD 1212 Ripe Berries Moon, Anishinabek Village
(near present-day Wilcox Lake in Richmond Hill, Ontario)
By the grace of the Goddess, Soul Sister allows herself to dream. Before the seismic shift that cracks open the continents, before the dominators arrive to destroy and negate the People and the land, all beings thrive in a place of pristine beauty and in a time of natural law. Through the lens of the Goddess, Soul Sister allows herself to dream that a gentle red mist is falling, and it surrounds the denizens with love, bringing them inside to join the Otter and Marten clans gathered around the longhouse fire. Soul Sister imagines this to be a true Council of All Beings, and that in the universal spirit of harmony, messages will be heard from all the worlds. As they speak in turn from both the embodied and disembodied realms, their voices seem to unite in a crescendo of song, and what they all are saying is “Kinomagewapkong.”
As the voices of the mysterious shapeshifters and thunder beings roll off into the east, spoken words flare up between the profound silences as the circle of Anishnaabe reflect on the journey that is to come. Blessed and reaffirmed by both the tribal seers and the other-than-human beings, the journey’s goal lights up every heart and mind. Around the sacred fire, people are seeking answers: those marking great accomplishments and visions, those finding new love, those recovering from illness, those full of gratitude for gifts received, and those approaching the western door. The People are experiencing different rites of passage, and it is time to embrace their collective destiny and receive the blessings of The Teaching Rocks. Young men are manifesting their strength, and more importantly, as treasured Daughters of Earth young girls are blossoming into women, and the time for pilgrimage by land and water has begun.
Mesmerized by the flames, the young woman Ankotoi has a vision of herself as a child, and of all the young girls in her ancestral line who have been told this day would come. She is blissful in knowing that with the coming of her woman-power she will be bonded with Muzzik-Qummik-Quae, the spirit of the feminine and the Earth, the Goddess of women’s mysteries, and the provider of answered prayer. As the smoke rises to the Creator in offering from Grandfather’s pipe, Grandmother passes a beautiful etched copper vessel containing the sacred red ochre to Ankotoi. With a shock of recognition, she understands that it will be her special role to carry this treasure, that affirms the luminous moon-blood of the women.
People come and go - hunters strong in their ability and power, sage women collaborating in wise spaces, children open to the unexpected. The needled trees offer shade and messages, the soft arbour holds shelter for work and reflection, and the songs of small birds confirm all is well in the world. Ankotoi falls asleep, and through the lens of the Goddess, she sees a monumental set of ancient paintings covering a great wall of stone. To one side of the rock there is a luxuriant green realm with blossoming groves in the shade of towering oaks and elms, and layers of mosses, ferns and flowers invoke a sense of timeless wonder and antiquity. The golden light falls in luminous waves between the pillar-like trees topped with the leafy domains of mysterious forms and faces. The forest is sacred, full of earth spirits and shifting elementals, that alternate between peaceful resting and the wilder expressions of wind and water. And in this space of infinite wonder, Ankotoi receives a great blessing. Soul Sister arrives and bathes her in the red light of a mystery forever bonded to the People. “For your descendants Ankotoi, for all time,” she whispers, “Kinomagewapkong.”
As the voices of the mysterious shapeshifters and thunder beings roll off into the east, spoken words flare up between the profound silences as the circle of Anishnaabe reflect on the journey that is to come. Blessed and reaffirmed by both the tribal seers and the other-than-human beings, the journey’s goal lights up every heart and mind. Around the sacred fire, people are seeking answers: those marking great accomplishments and visions, those finding new love, those recovering from illness, those full of gratitude for gifts received, and those approaching the western door. The People are experiencing different rites of passage, and it is time to embrace their collective destiny and receive the blessings of The Teaching Rocks. Young men are manifesting their strength, and more importantly, as treasured Daughters of Earth young girls are blossoming into women, and the time for pilgrimage by land and water has begun.
Mesmerized by the flames, the young woman Ankotoi has a vision of herself as a child, and of all the young girls in her ancestral line who have been told this day would come. She is blissful in knowing that with the coming of her woman-power she will be bonded with Muzzik-Qummik-Quae, the spirit of the feminine and the Earth, the Goddess of women’s mysteries, and the provider of answered prayer. As the smoke rises to the Creator in offering from Grandfather’s pipe, Grandmother passes a beautiful etched copper vessel containing the sacred red ochre to Ankotoi. With a shock of recognition, she understands that it will be her special role to carry this treasure, that affirms the luminous moon-blood of the women.
People come and go - hunters strong in their ability and power, sage women collaborating in wise spaces, children open to the unexpected. The needled trees offer shade and messages, the soft arbour holds shelter for work and reflection, and the songs of small birds confirm all is well in the world. Ankotoi falls asleep, and through the lens of the Goddess, she sees a monumental set of ancient paintings covering a great wall of stone. To one side of the rock there is a luxuriant green realm with blossoming groves in the shade of towering oaks and elms, and layers of mosses, ferns and flowers invoke a sense of timeless wonder and antiquity. The golden light falls in luminous waves between the pillar-like trees topped with the leafy domains of mysterious forms and faces. The forest is sacred, full of earth spirits and shifting elementals, that alternate between peaceful resting and the wilder expressions of wind and water. And in this space of infinite wonder, Ankotoi receives a great blessing. Soul Sister arrives and bathes her in the red light of a mystery forever bonded to the People. “For your descendants Ankotoi, for all time,” she whispers, “Kinomagewapkong.”
Janell’s Journal, Nogojiwanong, May 9, 2039
Leaning heavily on my cane as I enter the sacred grove, sinking down with an effort to perch on the largest stone in the circle, I am pleased with the way the forest looks today. The dark gold sun in a light blue sky glimmers through the trees much as it used to, and the burgeoning foliage, birdsong and small scurrying things make me happy. This kind of rewilding was what we always hoped for – before The Waves – and even the aches and pains of advanced old age cannot diminish my pleasure today. My heart swells as I acknowledge that if nothing else, the ancient power of nature has not abandoned us, and the regenerative Green Fuse of story and song lives on, to sing us into being.
Micah is gone again – every day the same – yet here in the abandoned house on Harper Road at the corner of Rye in what used to be the industrial district of Peterborough, his missions are short and he is home most nights. Twenty years after The Waves, I still make the trek to Lansdowne, leaving the shelter of the forest and hobbling along the overgrown stream past the vine-tangled Starbucks, which I always stare at longingly with the same jolt of memory. Ah, memory! The only reliable thing in this post-apocalyptic world, and mine is as sharp as ever.
To think that I used to spend hours of café culture enjoyment in that dilapidated structure - either socializing, conducting meetings, surfing the web, conversing online with sharp minds in social justice all over the world, getting over-stimulated on jazz, or writing to my heart’s content. And the coffee! Oh fuck, what I would do for a Starbucks Pike Place now - with triple heavy cream, sprinkled cinnamon and nutmeg on top, and a free refill too. Fuel for the heart and soul, that dark brew ran our civilization.
Nature has reclaimed the strip now. Back in the day I used to wish for the forests to fill in throughout the shopping district, as it made it less alienating and concrete-laden somehow. I remember the summer of 2017 when the endless rains spiked the growth of my favorite trees, and made every green space in Peterborough feel lush and refreshing. My ritual in those days was to stretch my legs after a particularly rigorous Starbucks session and imbue the area with my love of nature. Wearing cool trendy outfits, funky jewellery and expensive Taos sandals, I would admire the many groundhog burrows along Rye, hoping for a sighting and wondering about groundhog culture. Sending out my respect and love to Earth Community, I would marvel at the clean water and tiny trout in the beautiful stream flowing out of Harper Park, past the warehouses, taxi stands and backwater businesses.
Yesterday Micah assured me that if he can finally get into Fortress Costco, there are mounds of Starbucks coffee just waiting! I wonder what day will come first – that unlikely event or my own demise?
Micah is gone again – every day the same – yet here in the abandoned house on Harper Road at the corner of Rye in what used to be the industrial district of Peterborough, his missions are short and he is home most nights. Twenty years after The Waves, I still make the trek to Lansdowne, leaving the shelter of the forest and hobbling along the overgrown stream past the vine-tangled Starbucks, which I always stare at longingly with the same jolt of memory. Ah, memory! The only reliable thing in this post-apocalyptic world, and mine is as sharp as ever.
To think that I used to spend hours of café culture enjoyment in that dilapidated structure - either socializing, conducting meetings, surfing the web, conversing online with sharp minds in social justice all over the world, getting over-stimulated on jazz, or writing to my heart’s content. And the coffee! Oh fuck, what I would do for a Starbucks Pike Place now - with triple heavy cream, sprinkled cinnamon and nutmeg on top, and a free refill too. Fuel for the heart and soul, that dark brew ran our civilization.
Nature has reclaimed the strip now. Back in the day I used to wish for the forests to fill in throughout the shopping district, as it made it less alienating and concrete-laden somehow. I remember the summer of 2017 when the endless rains spiked the growth of my favorite trees, and made every green space in Peterborough feel lush and refreshing. My ritual in those days was to stretch my legs after a particularly rigorous Starbucks session and imbue the area with my love of nature. Wearing cool trendy outfits, funky jewellery and expensive Taos sandals, I would admire the many groundhog burrows along Rye, hoping for a sighting and wondering about groundhog culture. Sending out my respect and love to Earth Community, I would marvel at the clean water and tiny trout in the beautiful stream flowing out of Harper Park, past the warehouses, taxi stands and backwater businesses.
Yesterday Micah assured me that if he can finally get into Fortress Costco, there are mounds of Starbucks coffee just waiting! I wonder what day will come first – that unlikely event or my own demise?
Janell’s Journal, Nogojiwanong, May 13, 2039
When the Second Wave of poison air happened, somehow we survived, hunkering down in the basement of our house out on County Road 2 as the red-rust clouds kept slipping over. Keeping our breathing contained in filters and masks, we made forays out for food and water. Our needs were minimal, and by Day 3 our goal was to emulate the Kogi in Colombia, who encourage the more telepathic members of their tribe to stay in a cave, slow their vital signs and meditate for decades. Deep sleep to minimize the PTSD, stretching, short walks, losing weight, slugs of booze, books by candlelight and desperate plans filled our days. So many were caught unaware, and billions were dead. What strange force could vaporize a body? We still don’t know the answer.
I have to laugh – what would the Transition Town people think of our lives now, I wonder? The “Three Pillars” of transition I recall – economic localization, community building and resilience - seem hopelessly naïve. All that speculation on alternative energy and localvore didn’t lead to much change in the end. A couple of token electric cars cruising the streets of Peterborough, and people worrying about climate change as they went about the daily machinations of Empire that created global warming in the first place. All of it seems so laughable now.
They forgot the most important pillars:
“Thou shalt be a warrior and bear blades,
thou shalt be hermetic and enjoy isolation, and
thou shalt live with a burden of grief too heavy to carry.”
Of course, the apocalyptic violence happened that everyone dreaded. Isn’t the default of human nature to be savage in times of stress and deprivation? I also get a laugh remembering all the New Age fin-de-siècle delusions of “human evolution” or “human ascension” or “human transformation” or whatever the hell it was – what a pack of amusing fairy tales those tropes turned out to be! In the end, all the self-improvement, seed-saving, sustainability studies, green energy initiatives, and alternative economies did not prepare anyone for the abandonment of this strange new world.
I have to laugh – what would the Transition Town people think of our lives now, I wonder? The “Three Pillars” of transition I recall – economic localization, community building and resilience - seem hopelessly naïve. All that speculation on alternative energy and localvore didn’t lead to much change in the end. A couple of token electric cars cruising the streets of Peterborough, and people worrying about climate change as they went about the daily machinations of Empire that created global warming in the first place. All of it seems so laughable now.
They forgot the most important pillars:
“Thou shalt be a warrior and bear blades,
thou shalt be hermetic and enjoy isolation, and
thou shalt live with a burden of grief too heavy to carry.”
Of course, the apocalyptic violence happened that everyone dreaded. Isn’t the default of human nature to be savage in times of stress and deprivation? I also get a laugh remembering all the New Age fin-de-siècle delusions of “human evolution” or “human ascension” or “human transformation” or whatever the hell it was – what a pack of amusing fairy tales those tropes turned out to be! In the end, all the self-improvement, seed-saving, sustainability studies, green energy initiatives, and alternative economies did not prepare anyone for the abandonment of this strange new world.
Janell’s Journal, Nogojiwanong, May 19, 2039
Micah has returned. The yield today is an ancient box of energy bars we may or may not be able to eat, a case of pineapple juice in jars, new asparagus and wild leeks, and best of all – a couple of bottles of Courvoisier from a fancy cold cellar up on Hilliard. He also brings me yet another bag of fabrics and old clothing. Edibles don’t last long, but the detritus of civilization still surrounds us. As much as I critiqued the hegemony of capitalism back in my radical days, in a haze of cognitive dissonance I would walk through spaces like Walmart, Chapters and the like with keen enjoyment. Everything was so bright and clean, and there was always something new, cute and colourful on the shelves and racks. Somehow, with the potential acquisition of beautiful things, the marketplace lent an allure of pleasure and hope to life. Now the shrines to consumerism are all gone, and the ethical war between my eclectic-collector self and my social-critic self is a fond memory. Contradictory habits gave way to the new era of a single-minded, post-collapse self, as I fight the compulsion to go brittle with grief on a daily basis.
Micah also brings news of the neighbours in our small community. It’s funny how we always thought we needed to be with other people 24/7, but the habits of solitude and hiding have marked us forever. It must be the overwhelming sadness that keeps us apart in our separate dwellings. Lorraine is doing well over near the hospital. Micah brought her a couple of bottles of Courvoisier too, and her lovely ginger tabby Cinta has given birth to a healthy litter of kittens, which lends new life to the menagerie of dogs, rabbits, raccoons and deer already living in her yard. We have been invited to her Croning ceremony and rite of passage in the shell of the collapsed synagogue next Friday. So it seems that sacred space still remains, in one way or another.
Lorraine was one of the “lucky ones" too. Like us, she had bad dreams the night before and when the first red glow began on the horizon, fled to her guest room in the basement with lots of towels and masks, where she filtered out the killing haze. From the territory that used to be the Riverview Zoo, Micah brings word that Angus, Aaron, Liberty and Scout have expanded their field of Three Sisters, and have begun work on an herb room expansion for their lofty dwelling. Morgan and Sky have finally transferred their family photos from the mansion up on River Road, to their downtown house “The Silver Bean.” They were babies during Second Wave, and their mom Kendra kept them safe in the root cellar after her inexplicable nightmares. She crossed over just last year, and every single day we still miss her crazy wit and wisdom.
Why were we all spared somehow? Why were we singled out? Like the eternal quests of all human beings subject to the whims of the gods and nature, what was the reason? At our weekly summit meetings in the womb-like space of the Only Café we speculated on our survival for years, alternating between guilt, horror, grief, pride and wonder. Among the weather-riven artworks and portraits on the walls we continued to search for our fellow citizens - but to our sorrow, only an overwhelming silence replied. Today, wherever we go, the only sounds are nature. I actually enjoy the quiet, very much. Too bad it came at such a price.
Micah also brings news of the neighbours in our small community. It’s funny how we always thought we needed to be with other people 24/7, but the habits of solitude and hiding have marked us forever. It must be the overwhelming sadness that keeps us apart in our separate dwellings. Lorraine is doing well over near the hospital. Micah brought her a couple of bottles of Courvoisier too, and her lovely ginger tabby Cinta has given birth to a healthy litter of kittens, which lends new life to the menagerie of dogs, rabbits, raccoons and deer already living in her yard. We have been invited to her Croning ceremony and rite of passage in the shell of the collapsed synagogue next Friday. So it seems that sacred space still remains, in one way or another.
Lorraine was one of the “lucky ones" too. Like us, she had bad dreams the night before and when the first red glow began on the horizon, fled to her guest room in the basement with lots of towels and masks, where she filtered out the killing haze. From the territory that used to be the Riverview Zoo, Micah brings word that Angus, Aaron, Liberty and Scout have expanded their field of Three Sisters, and have begun work on an herb room expansion for their lofty dwelling. Morgan and Sky have finally transferred their family photos from the mansion up on River Road, to their downtown house “The Silver Bean.” They were babies during Second Wave, and their mom Kendra kept them safe in the root cellar after her inexplicable nightmares. She crossed over just last year, and every single day we still miss her crazy wit and wisdom.
Why were we all spared somehow? Why were we singled out? Like the eternal quests of all human beings subject to the whims of the gods and nature, what was the reason? At our weekly summit meetings in the womb-like space of the Only Café we speculated on our survival for years, alternating between guilt, horror, grief, pride and wonder. Among the weather-riven artworks and portraits on the walls we continued to search for our fellow citizens - but to our sorrow, only an overwhelming silence replied. Today, wherever we go, the only sounds are nature. I actually enjoy the quiet, very much. Too bad it came at such a price.
 |  |
Janell’s Journal, Nogojiwanong, May 22, 2039
What we call First Wave happened suddenly on October 5, 2019, when the power grid fell worldwide. But not just the power - every single radio and electronic technology stopped working. That same force – terrorist, hacker, skilled consortium, solar eruption or unknown entity - somehow miraculously shut down and dismantled the nuclear reactors too. The community mobilization that followed in the time of the communications blackout was not very effective. People began searching for generators and cars that weren’t electronic, using the last of their gas to seize supplies from stores and leave town, join loved ones elsewhere, or find the perfect place to hunker down. After that, the looting and violence set in with a vengeance. Even in Peterborough, gangs formed to fight over territory, and the conflict deteriorated into mass stabbings, bombings and other savagery. And just when things were beginning to settle down and enter an adjustment phase, that’s when Second Wave came. It was only last year that John figured out that Second Wave arrived exactly 9 months to the day, after the electromagnetic pulse of First Wave. What this means we still don’t know.
Yesterday we heard sharp drumming from the northeast and were called by Turtle Woman to another ceremony at Market Hall. After Second Wave, she was the first person we met when we tentatively approached the downtown. Odayan, her black lab, came bounding up to us near the Holiday Inn. From Odoonabii-ziibi where she had been fishing, Turtle Woman raced over and grabbed our hands, her long skirts billowing and her braids flying. For all we knew we were the only survivors in the world, and we claimed each other as kindred spirits with the fierce liberation of rescue, and tears of communal joy.
Turtle Woman found a sweet abode in her old neighbourhood up near Chemong on Victoria Avenue, and her strength and leadership have been a blessing to us all. And even though we are here at the end of the world, we haven’t forgotten our lessons in Allyship to First Nations. Our entire community continues to defer to Turtle Woman, the strongest dreamer of us all. Our true Elder, she is even older than I (!) and for weeks on end, we may not see her. But Micah passes his favorite hangout Hutchison House, and comes near every single day to check for smoke and the telltale sounds of activity. With her prompting we agreed to rename our territory Nogojiwanong in honor of the original inhabitants of the land, and to join Turtle Woman in her inconsolable mourning at the lack of Indigenous community. The absence of her people added a further layer of stabbing grief and longing. How could fate be so cruel, to deprive First Nations of their rightful place, in what is surely a post-colonial world?
We compare our dreams often, and as a group have shared the same on a number of occasions. One night it was great rivulets and sheets of water - water, water everywhere - and sure enough, a few days later another flood came to rival the one in 2004. Ensconced safely in the museum on the hill, we amused ourselves for a week trying on Settler outfits, re-purposing old bric-à-brac, and playing with the antiquated gadgets. Eventually, the water began to seep in through a corner of the archives, but it didn’t seem to matter. We had already been mourning Peterborough for years, and the lives of the local Empire-builders were insignificant to the challenges we now faced.
Yesterday we heard sharp drumming from the northeast and were called by Turtle Woman to another ceremony at Market Hall. After Second Wave, she was the first person we met when we tentatively approached the downtown. Odayan, her black lab, came bounding up to us near the Holiday Inn. From Odoonabii-ziibi where she had been fishing, Turtle Woman raced over and grabbed our hands, her long skirts billowing and her braids flying. For all we knew we were the only survivors in the world, and we claimed each other as kindred spirits with the fierce liberation of rescue, and tears of communal joy.
Turtle Woman found a sweet abode in her old neighbourhood up near Chemong on Victoria Avenue, and her strength and leadership have been a blessing to us all. And even though we are here at the end of the world, we haven’t forgotten our lessons in Allyship to First Nations. Our entire community continues to defer to Turtle Woman, the strongest dreamer of us all. Our true Elder, she is even older than I (!) and for weeks on end, we may not see her. But Micah passes his favorite hangout Hutchison House, and comes near every single day to check for smoke and the telltale sounds of activity. With her prompting we agreed to rename our territory Nogojiwanong in honor of the original inhabitants of the land, and to join Turtle Woman in her inconsolable mourning at the lack of Indigenous community. The absence of her people added a further layer of stabbing grief and longing. How could fate be so cruel, to deprive First Nations of their rightful place, in what is surely a post-colonial world?
We compare our dreams often, and as a group have shared the same on a number of occasions. One night it was great rivulets and sheets of water - water, water everywhere - and sure enough, a few days later another flood came to rival the one in 2004. Ensconced safely in the museum on the hill, we amused ourselves for a week trying on Settler outfits, re-purposing old bric-à-brac, and playing with the antiquated gadgets. Eventually, the water began to seep in through a corner of the archives, but it didn’t seem to matter. We had already been mourning Peterborough for years, and the lives of the local Empire-builders were insignificant to the challenges we now faced.
Janell’s Journal, Nogojiwanong, May 24, 2039
John has just left, which reminds me of the miraculous day Micah spotted the formulaic paintings on the wall up at the wild lands of what used to be Trent University. Those scribbled calculations filled us with a ridiculous hope, that there were other folks in our area with resources, hearts and hands. John was also glad to find us, and moved his base of operations closer, taking up quarters in JoAnne’s Health Food Store farther down the river. I find it amusing to think of John, whose gaunt and dark physique fits the “survivalist,” “prepper” and “doomer” mold better than the rest of us. John had determined with much mathematical wrangling that the red-rust gas was the same substance that had “seeded” human life on Earth at the beginning of all time. His theory on “Ancient Origins” was just as plausible as anything else we came up with, around the battered old table at the Only Café. And yes, he was also a dreamer.
When First Wave came Micah and I survived quite well out on the farm. We already had an old Dodge Fargo, and forays around the district to visit polite country dwellers uncovered caches of gas and other supplies. When we returned to the surface after Second Wave had passed, we decided to move into the city, where there was plenty to “scavenge and manage.” Paradoxically, the forests in the city provided a wealth of edible plants for our vegan diets. After finding Turtle Woman, Kendra, Morgan, Sky, Lorraine, Angus, Aaron, Liberty, Scout and John, a typical day would involve scouring neighbourhoods, finding any pre-electronic ignition vehicles that were left, combining them at Loblaws (putting the best in the Chapters lot), stacking gas cans in locked sheds, picking through Value Village and other shops, sorting goods into various buildings, and generally just mucking around with “stuff.” By 2027 we had organized and inventoried the entire city, and spent our days schooling Morgan, Scout and Sky, maintaining the existing gardens, crafting, and forest farming.
When First Wave came Micah and I survived quite well out on the farm. We already had an old Dodge Fargo, and forays around the district to visit polite country dwellers uncovered caches of gas and other supplies. When we returned to the surface after Second Wave had passed, we decided to move into the city, where there was plenty to “scavenge and manage.” Paradoxically, the forests in the city provided a wealth of edible plants for our vegan diets. After finding Turtle Woman, Kendra, Morgan, Sky, Lorraine, Angus, Aaron, Liberty, Scout and John, a typical day would involve scouring neighbourhoods, finding any pre-electronic ignition vehicles that were left, combining them at Loblaws (putting the best in the Chapters lot), stacking gas cans in locked sheds, picking through Value Village and other shops, sorting goods into various buildings, and generally just mucking around with “stuff.” By 2027 we had organized and inventoried the entire city, and spent our days schooling Morgan, Scout and Sky, maintaining the existing gardens, crafting, and forest farming.
Janell’s Journal, Nogojiwanong, June 30, 2039
A hectic time. Last week we had another communal dream. All of us were on a different journey through time and space, but as we compared notes it became clear that our dreaming centered on a pilgrimage to various ancestral locations. Liberty traveled over the Namibian Desert to the rock paintings in a mountain cave, I approached the chalice well at Glastonbury through old-growth forest and past sunlit pools, John was conversing with the Goddess Mari in the Basque Hills, Lorraine was walking the labyrinth in Chartres Cathedral, Angus was dancing around the Callanish Stones, Micah rode on horseback to the Temple Mount, and Aaron found himself beside a beacon bonfire on the summit of Safed. Were these dreams prophetic? Or a call to action? Turtle Woman assures us that we will understand – all in due time.
Today the women were called to help Turtle Woman with her monumental red-ochre petroglyph paintings on the interior walls of Market Hall. She is in a creative frenzy for some reason. Turtle Woman had us collect the best blankets from our lockers over at General Electric, and bring them back to stack in the corners. We are a community of sisters, daughters and mothers, and are deeply blessed with her wisdom, stories and guidance in the women’s mysteries. As beeswax candles illuminate the space, we take turns singing our favorite silly songs, celebrating each other, and praying for good health in both Ojibwemowin and our own language.
Two days ago, the guys (with Morgan and Sky of course) left on a mission to the ghosted GTA. The aging Sea King helicopter they hauled back from Trenton a couple of years ago needs a new part, and Angus is finally ready to visit the street where he grew up, in Richmond Hill. Since nature has been healing this brave new world with her powers of green growth and remediation, we have all slowly adjusted to our beloved places as tableaus of destruction. After his strange dreams just before Second Wave, Angus hunkered down in his cottage at Clear Lake and eventually made his way to the city, finding the beautiful multi-racial family of Aaron, Liberty and baby Sky in the process. Some day we will learn what transpired between them in those dark, dark days, and what bonded them forever. How incredible that the children among us are free of PTSD! This is the only reality they have ever known, and they are rapidly becoming our true Elders.
Today the women were called to help Turtle Woman with her monumental red-ochre petroglyph paintings on the interior walls of Market Hall. She is in a creative frenzy for some reason. Turtle Woman had us collect the best blankets from our lockers over at General Electric, and bring them back to stack in the corners. We are a community of sisters, daughters and mothers, and are deeply blessed with her wisdom, stories and guidance in the women’s mysteries. As beeswax candles illuminate the space, we take turns singing our favorite silly songs, celebrating each other, and praying for good health in both Ojibwemowin and our own language.
Two days ago, the guys (with Morgan and Sky of course) left on a mission to the ghosted GTA. The aging Sea King helicopter they hauled back from Trenton a couple of years ago needs a new part, and Angus is finally ready to visit the street where he grew up, in Richmond Hill. Since nature has been healing this brave new world with her powers of green growth and remediation, we have all slowly adjusted to our beloved places as tableaus of destruction. After his strange dreams just before Second Wave, Angus hunkered down in his cottage at Clear Lake and eventually made his way to the city, finding the beautiful multi-racial family of Aaron, Liberty and baby Sky in the process. Some day we will learn what transpired between them in those dark, dark days, and what bonded them forever. How incredible that the children among us are free of PTSD! This is the only reality they have ever known, and they are rapidly becoming our true Elders.
Janell’s Journal, Nogojiwanong, July 2, 2039
Our travelers have come back with an amazing tale. On their way up Yonge Street from the ruins of the Buttonville Airport, they passed a ramshackle Taco Bell near Wilcox Lake, covered with the same red-ochre petroglyphs as the ones Turtle Woman has been painting on the walls of Market Hall! And then, behind the building Scout noticed a smouldering fire in a beautiful circle of cut stones. In a state of high alarm and excitement they searched the immediate area and the tangle of suburbia beyond, but found nothing indicating human habitation. Standing in front of the painted symbols glowing in the twilight, they marveled at the astonishing yet familiar patterns. The entire group was convinced that the human makers were nearby, but night was descending. So, driven by the need to consult with Turtle Woman, they set out for home.
Janell’s Journal, Nogojiwanong, July 3, 2039
I can’t describe the state Turtle Woman is in (!) as Micah drives off with her, leading a convoy of Jeeps driven by John, Angus, Aaron and Scout.
Janell’s Journal, Nogojiwanong, July 6, 2039
We are having a communal lunch of apples, walnuts, greens and pumpkin seed butter in the Only Café, and all of a sudden the young ones hear the Jeeps coming in from the south. As we make our way outside, the convoy pulls up, and Micah, John, Angus, Aaron and Scout appear to be in tears. Turtle Woman is the first to step out, and she raises her arms in some kind of benediction. We watch in amazement, speechless, as a dozen folks of all ages, apparently First Nations, gently step out of the vehicles and approach us with smiles on their faces.
How grateful I am to be alive, to witness this day! After a couple of hours of hugging, laughing and feasting, we all fall silent as Turtle Woman begins to speak of the pilgrimage to come. She has determined that tomorrow morning, we will all travel together, north to Kinomagewapkong. My old frame is vibrating as I listen to her, and I hope I am up for the journey. Are we about to learn the answers to our most pressing questions?
How grateful I am to be alive, to witness this day! After a couple of hours of hugging, laughing and feasting, we all fall silent as Turtle Woman begins to speak of the pilgrimage to come. She has determined that tomorrow morning, we will all travel together, north to Kinomagewapkong. My old frame is vibrating as I listen to her, and I hope I am up for the journey. Are we about to learn the answers to our most pressing questions?
| "Soul Sister" originally appeared in Aphotic Realm Magazine: Dystopia June/July 2018 www.AphoticRealm.com |  |
 | Pegi Eyers is the author of Ancient Spirit Rising: Reclaiming Your Roots & Restoring Earth Community, an award-winning book that explores strategies for uncolonization, social justice, ethnocultural identity, building land-emergent community & resilience in times of massive change. Stone Circle Press |