Review: “Moon of the Turning Leaves” by Waubgeshig Rice

By Marcelle Kosman

Art by Michelle Campos Castillo

Indigenous futurism is the heart and soul of Anishinaabe author Waubgeshig Rice’s 2023 novel Moon of the Turning Leaves. This much-anticipated sequel to his bestselling 2018 novel, Moon of the Crusted Snow, returns to Evan Whitesky and his community, now a decade into their post-blackout life in the bush. Like its precursor, Turning Leaves plays elegantly with the conventions of science fiction (sf), and in particular with the genre’s post-apocalyptic and dystopian subgenres. To categorize Turning Leaves as post-apocalyptic or dystopian, however, would belie the novel’s emphasis on Anishinaabe resilience in the post-blackout world.

When thinking and writing about post-apocalyptic sf, there is a tendency among white settlers like myself to forget (or ignore) that when our ancestors arrived on Turtle Island several hundred years ago, they put into motion a series of apocalyptic maneuvers to ethnically cleanse the land of Indigenous peoples and then claim it as uninhabited. The term “apocalypse” is thus profoundly unsuitable to describe the challenges of the permanent power outage faced by Evan and his community. Readers of the preceding novel, Moon of the Crusted Snow, will remember that the character Aileen, a respected Elder and the oldest member of the community, calls the word apocalypse “silly”; she reminds Evan (as well as readers) that Anishinaabek peoples have been surviving the apocalypse since the days they were forced from their ancestral lands by white settlers (the Zhaagnaash). She says, “The power’s out and we’ve run out of gas and no one’s come up from down south… Our world isn’t ending. It already ended. It ended when the Zhaagnaash came into our original home down south on that bay and took it from us. That was our world."¹

After centuries of surviving, it is fitting that this second part of Rice’s story should centre the Anishinaabe capacity to thrive. The reader sees that as colonial ways of living are continually eroded in the years following the blackout, Evan’s community (re-formed as Shki-dnakiiwin) heals and begins to flourish. However, a colonial scheme remains in place, and that is the community’s displacement up north and consequential isolation from their traditional Anishinaabe territory. There is simply not enough fish and game to sustain the growing Shki-dnakiiwi community long-term. In a speech that echoes the wisdom of Elder Aileen, Evan’s daughter Nangohns argues passionately in favour of leaving the bush to reclaim their traditional territory: “I love it there, and I respect that land. But you all know we were supposed to disappear there. They sent us there to disappear. They didn’t want us to survive on that land. They wanted us to die.”² Shki-dnakiiwin’s separation from traditional Anishinaabe territory is thus framed not only as the novel’s central problem, but also as a lingering colonial violation in need of redress.

In sf scholarship and fandom, the precipitating event of a text’s new world order is often called its “novum”; generally anything with a world-altering impact can be a novum, including a widespread power outage. As Evan, Nangohns, and several community members journey south (Zhaawnong), past their former Rez and its nearest cities, to find a safe home for Shki-dnakiiwi, readers may understandably look forward to a full revelation of what caused the novum, of why the power went out. They will be left wanting. Indeed, rather than speculating on the cause of colonial Canada’s collapse, the unanswered question of the blackout suggests that the cause itself is entirely irrelevant. The reader’s attention, instead, is concentrated on the resurgence of traditional practices and ceremonies, what the characters refer to as “the old ways,” that guide the characters to live with respect, openness, and community.

Like Moon of the Crusted Snow, Turning Leaves is a remarkable and generous example of story as teaching. I had not, for example, anticipated that I would find myself acclimatizing to the text’s dedicated and waxing use of Anishinaabemowin (Billy Merasty’s narration of the audiobook greatly assisted with my learning and I would encourage anyone new to the language to listen to the audiobook). Rice’s reverent descriptions of ceremonies, sweats, funeral rites, and even meals occurring across multiple Anishinaabe communities emphasize the community-mindedness of Anishinaabek ways. The novel is punctuated with examples of characters learning from their Elders, struggling with the language, and passing on their own teachings. At one point in the novel, Evan finds himself the de facto elder of his group, and he expresses his despair at not knowing the appropriate ritual for the moment. The moment, however, is a success; Evan’s companion, Tyler, assures him that he has indeed fulfilled all of the obligations. That the reader’s learning largely occurs in tandem with lessons for the characters reminds us that learning is always ongoing, both within and outside of the text. 

The publication of Moon of the Turning Leaves comes at a time when the world is in transparent need of healing. Global capitalism has demonstrated its capacity to adapt and morph to new conditions despite the staggering evidence of its irrelevance to humanity. It is for this reason that I remain struck by Rice’s continued withholding of the cause of the blackout. This authorial gesture seems to me a transparently symbolic choice, a lesson in its own right. It teaches us that what grinds the world as we know it to a halt is far less important than how we adapt to that change. Moon of the Turning Leaves is thus an urgent reminder that Indigenous futurity is always more hopeful and generative than colonial power.

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Notes:

1. Waubeshing Rice, Moon of the Crusted Snow (ECW, 2018), 149–150.
2. Rice, Moon of the Turning Leaves (ECW, 2023), 110.

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Marcelle Kosman (she/her) works as an instructor in English & Film Studies at the University of Alberta on Treaty 6 territory where she lives in a little house with her family. When she isn't teaching, she is contributing to the Witch, Please Productions media empire by co-hosting Material Girls, a scholarly podcast about popular culture, and Gender Playground, a podcast dedicated to the joys of gender-affirming care for kids.