Excerpted: Nauetakuan, a silence for a noise by Natasha Kanapé Fontaine, translated by Howard Scott

I’m walking along the shore. It’s raining. The night deepens, under thick grey clouds. There’s not a sliver of sky to be seen, nor even fathomed. Not hoped for, nor expected. Space extends in time. Time runs out in the sand.

As for me, I’m walking. But my feet are heavy. My knees hurt. I try to take another step, with difficulty. There’s no heaviness in the air, nothing but the cloud cover that weighs on my head.

I recognize the beach at Pessamit. I’ve spent so many summers here. I know those waves by heart, even though more than fifteen years separate us. Fifteen years, in seconds, is less than the grains of sand needed to build a castle. Gradually, the sky takes on a violet colour. The breeze tries to tug at my hair, but with uncanny slowness. And then it gets stronger, regains its force, gusts fill the space all around me. It’s almost as if the wind is trying to tear off my clothes. I can’t breathe anymore.

A shrill cry cuts through the air. Did I just scream? Stars break free from the clouds and fall by the thousands, straight down, toward the surface of the Saint Lawrence. Glimmers of blue.

A huge bird makes its appearance. At first I believe it is soot-coloured, but no, it’s an indigo blue so dark it looks black. The crest on its head makes it look like a Great Condor, but it’s even bigger than the King of the Andes. Gigantic. The wind grows stronger with each beat of its wings. The bird is giving birth to a hurricane.

It soars in figure eights from east to west above the churning waters of the Saint Lawrence, and I’m hypnotized, unable to run away. My feet sink into the beach, like I’m being sucked in by quicksand.

Suddenly, the bird changes direction, makes a last turn, offshore, before speeding straight toward me.

“Nooooo!”

This time, it’s clearly me who is screaming.

I throw myself to the ground, my face in the sand, which releases my feet. I flip onto my back and notice that the clouds are once again changing colour, to a summer-afternoon pink that goes on forever.

The giant bird, which I can no longer see, screeches again. I cover my ears and open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I feel panicky but stay as still as possible. My survival instinct tells me I’ll be less visible this way to the eyes of the powerful creature. My whole body curls up in fear.

And then, silence. Nothing moves. I sense that night is falling. I still have my hands over my ears, but even so I think I can hear a dull noise rising. I don’t know what it is. I wait another moment. I don’t want to make a move that could cost me my life if the bird is still there.

Why was I never told that Pessamit is inhabited by such a giant, dangerous creature? How can they let children play outside, without protection, when such an animal is lurking? Am I the only one who knows it’s there?

After letting these thoughts wash over me for what seems like a long time, I decide to uncover my ears and lay my hands on the brown sand. Around me, nothing is moving. I look up, trembling. The sky, which barely a moment ago was filled with clouds, is clear. There are millions of stars.

I turn and see the Saint Lawrence reflecting the glimmers in the sky. It went to sleep to let the stars sparkle. The bird is gone, but instead of being reassured, I feel sad. Everything now seems dreary.

The blue light of dawn filters through the curtains of the bedroom window. Everything is peaceful, even Katherine, sound asleep on the other side of the bed. Monica blinks. She tries to hold on to the images of the dream she has just had, but she has only a feeling of anxiety and confusion.

She feels a need to go to the bathroom and throws back the sheets, although she’d love nothing more than to dive back into the dream. She gets up and walks silently along the hallway toward the bathroom. Once her bladder is relieved and her hands washed, she goes back the other way, wrapping her arms around herself to warm up a bit. It’s cool in Marie-Anne’s basement. The day before, after a supper livened by the antics of Laurie’s children, she just trudged through the house, exhausted, to get to the bedroom. Now, curious about the memories this place might stir, she heads to the open room that occupies most of the basement. In one corner, work tables are buried under closed white boxes. Monica goes over. Among the boxes are little bags of glass beads in various colours. On a shelf on the wall, up high, sacks filled with pieces of leather await. Nearby, there’s a jar with tools, which she recognizes at a glance.

Monica remembers her grandmother’s skill at making moccasins, the techniques she tried to teach her a few times. Probably Marie-Anne, or perhaps Laurie, has taken up the torch. Monica also wanted to learn, more than anything. Maybe part of that longing was simply wanting to learn something of her grandmother. Yet Monica did learn something from her. It will take time before she can start studying again with someone who has carried on her grandmother’s skills and who can teach her this ancient art.

She crosses the room, back to the area occupied by a television and a big sofa. Toys are scattered on the furniture and the floor. The scene conjures up a happy image for Monica. Josh and Michael have toys to play with while the women are beading beside them. The young woman tries to see if there is a clock anywhere. Her phone is still in the bedroom, and she doesn’t want to wake up her friend. Not finding anything downstairs, she heads up to the kitchen, as quietly as possible.

As she tiptoes up, she looks at the walls, more closely now than she did the day before: they’re full of framed photos, colour illustrations. Big eagle feathers too, and what look like sacred objects. Outside, through the sheer curtains, she can see the dawn in the distance, above the Betsiamites River.

She suddenly has an urge to go walking on the beach. Why not go and quietly watch the sunrise? She decides to make a discreet foray into the bedroom after all, and, after getting dressed, goes back upstairs and quietly leaves the house. She walks along Pisto Street toward the Saint Lawrence under a comforting blue-and-purple sky.

The street follows the curves of the little bay, which takes in the waters flowing from the Betsiamites River before letting them join the strong current of the Saint Lawrence.

The cool morning air fills Monica’s lungs. Walking in this vision of the village, at five o’clock, under the first few rays of the morning sun, is like walking in a dream, almost too good to believe. Yet here she is.

* * *

About the book: Monica, a young woman studying art history in Montreal, has lost touch with her Innu roots. When an exhibition unexpectedly articulates a deep, intergenerational wound, she begins to search for stronger connections to her Indigeneity. A new friendship with Katherine, an Indigenous woman whose life is filled with culture and community, emphasizes for Monica the possibilities of turning from assimilation and toxic masculinity to something deeper and more universal.

Travelling across the continent, from Eastern Canada to Vancouver to Mexico City, Monica connects with other Indigenous artists and thinkers, learning about their traditional ways and the struggles of other Nations. Throughout these journeys, she is guided by visions of giant birds and ancestors that draw her back home to Pessamit. Reckonings with family and floods await, but amidst strange tides, she reconnects to her language, Innu-aimun, and her people.

A timely, riveting story of reclamation, matriarchies, and the healing power of traditional teachings, Nauetakuan, a silence for a noise affirms how reconnecting to lineage and community can transform Indigenous futures.