Governor General's Literary Award winner Darrel J. McLeod publishing first novel this fall get a sneak peek

Cree writer Darrel J. McLeodis known for his personal and intimate memoirs. He's published two MamaskatchandPeyakowboth of which explore his youth and childhood. McLeod was raised by his mother,Bertha, who is a residential school survivor, and was bullied by white classmates, lived in poverty, endured physical and sexual abuse and lost several people he loved. Both books resonated with readers and critics alike:Mamaskatchwon the2018 Governor General's Literary Award for nonfictionandPeyakowwas shortlisted for the Hilary Weston Writers'Trust Prize for Nonfiction.

Now, McLeod is taking his storytelling skills to a new genre: fiction. His first novel,A Season in Chezgh'un, will be published in fall 2023.

A Season in Chezgh'unis a fictionalized year in the life of aNehiyaw man and what he experiencesworking in a remote B.C. First Nations community.

James, a man from a small settlementin Northern Alberta has created a comfortable life for himself in a trendy neighbourhoodin Vancouver. He has all the things he once dreamed of hetravels, has great friends, a great career and a caring partner but part of him is wary of assimilating into mainstream culture.

When his mother dies suddenly, James embarks on a journey to reconnect with his roots. After securing a job as a principal in a remote northern Dakelh community where he encounters poverty, cultural disruption and abuse, he is haunted byghosts from his past that threaten to throw him off balance.

As the splendour of nature and theculture and spirit of the Dakelh peoplebegin to bring him solace, James fights to keep his dark side at bay.

I hope to provide a fascinating read that depicts a world most will never experience: life on a typical Indian Reserve in Canada- Darrel J. McLeod

"InA Season in Chezgh'unI hope to provide a fascinating read that depicts a world most will never experience: life on a typical Indian Reserve in Canada. I hope my novel seeds a profound desire to know more the desire to connect personally with indigenous communities and individuals as neighbors, friends and maybe even lovers," McLeod told CBC Books via email.

McLeod isfrom Treaty 8territory in Northern Alberta. Before his retirement, McLeodwas chief negotiator of land claims for the federal government and executive director of education and international affairs with the Assembly of First Nations.

A Season in Chezgh'unwill be available on Oct. 7, 2023.Read an excerpt below.

He had dreamed about it yet again: his great-grandfather's trapping cabin where he spent his earliest years. Oddly shaped and built with huge glass windows, and cedar instead of pine almost no right angles trapezoids on all sides. A cathedral ceiling. The roar of clashing currents at the confluence of two unequal rivers, shimmering rapids, standing waves and eddies. In the centre of a meadow, a colourful canvas tipi. Crimson-tipped Indian paintbrush all around.

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Scattered in the clearing that surrounded the cabin, animal hides stretched across frames made of bamboo canes with their unmistakable knobby, round knuckles. One hide was vast with long shaggy fur an appendage, like an elephant trunk, hanging down. The second had a ferocious head with yellow, dagger-like canines protruding from its mouth, golden fur with brown markings, a stubby tail. The third hide was that of a gigantic bison plush fur.

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A man and woman, both elderly, stood by a roaring fire, its base contained by large stones. Sparks spitting and flying into the air. A spiralling haze of smoke the precious and ingrained odour of wood burning. James stood across the fire opposite the couple, who spoke Cree, smiling and giggling, and he responded in kind. At times, the three of them spoke and laughed in near unison.

As always, when he woke up, James wondered what guidance the dream was offering. Was it meant to assuage the aching hollowness in his chest that had at times overwhelmed him since his mother died? Was he seeing his great-grandparents, Kkwhtikowiw and Skoww the ones she had always spoken of with such reverence? They did live to a ripe old age. The look in their eyesa disarming gentleness of spirit he hadn't seen for as long as he could remember.

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The hides of prehistoric animals what was that all about? And the land... the pastoral rolling hills covered with Jack pines, spruce, trembling aspen and weeping birch; it was clearly the boreal forest where he was born, to the east of two mountain ranges: the Coast Mountains and the Rockies perhaps depicted in an ancient era. The river valley. There was always a river or stream in his dreams, as there had been in his childhood surroundings.

He let his mind dwell on his homeland settling back into the fantasy of buying back a parcel of the territory that comprised his mother's and grandparents' homeland his homeland which his mother had described with reverence and nostalgia.

The aroma of coffee disrupted his thoughts. Franyo was up. James flipped the eiderdown aside, slipped on his blue housecoat with white stripes, which matched Franyo's with brown stripes, and sauntered downstairs. He spilled coffee into a mug and joined Franyo on the balcony, gave him a quick peck on the lips and sat. He let his mind dwell on his homeland settling back into the fantasy of buying back a parcel of the territory that comprised his mother's and grandparents' homeland his homeland which his mother had described with reverence and nostalgia; recalling her childhood living on the land, in simple seasonal dwellings, communing with the birds and small animals, harvesting food and sacred herbs. She had loved to recount stories her father and grandfather told her of their lives as braves, hunting in a vast territory that spanned the plains and went right up to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains...

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James's family hadn't been granted land by the government, neither as Indian reserve nor as private property, as so many others had been. His mosomakgrandfathers and great uncles had been hunting and gathering in the forest the spring the Indian agents and land commissioners showed up. They didn't get counted and didn't get to make their "X" on a document that was meant to provide a definition of what rights they, their children and grandchildren would have into the future. It wasn't just the land they'd lost; it was their entire way of life and family dynamics. In truth, that was the ache he felt in his chest: a palpable yearning to visit unspoiled homeland, likely prompted by his last few visits with his mother, when she'd flown to Vancouver to see him. She had lamented having lost their traditional
way of life.

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After each visit, he'd fantasize about buying the land back. He never told her about it not wanting to get her hopes up, understanding it would take years if he could do it at all. He felt elation when he thought about this, the precious and full memories of being on the land with his mother, aunts, uncles and cousins picking gooseberries, strawberries, raspberries, collecting wild mint or taking road trips to just observe the beauty of the rolling hills, creeks and
rivers, and to feel the thrill of animal sightings.

He felt elation when he thought about this, the precious and full memories of being on the land with his mother, aunts, uncles and cousins picking gooseberries, strawberries, raspberries, collecting wild mint or taking road trips to just observe the beauty of the rolling hills.

This elation drained to emptiness. James knew that getting their land back was impossible. Yet each time he had this dream, he wanted to call his Auntie Clara and Uncle Charles to tell them he was going to do it he was going to buy back their land one day. But at that moment, he had no money and it would all sound foolish. Nevertheless, he could start to investigate bare land must be cheap, and it was likely still undeveloped where his community had lived. Well,
undeveloped except for pumpjacks, compressor stations and above ground pipelines. At the onset of oil exploration, the government had forced his family to move and then blew up the concrete bridge they had built only a few years earlier.

He looked over at Franyo, contentedly smoking and scanning the morning newspaper. He didn't need constant conversation, and James liked that about him. Comfortable silence was a sign of acceptance and peace among Cree people, and James remembered basking in it as a child, looking up at the pensive adult faces during long lulls in their confabs all conducted in their language. But right now, he wished that he could talk to Franyo about his dream, the vision of the old ones James's ancestors recurring now, and of his fantasy to reclaim ancestral land. He knew it was important, yet he couldn'tdiscuss it.

Franyo might think he was crazy a savage and James had worked so hard to get away from all the negative trappings and stereotypes the poverty, the tragedy, intensity and stigma of being Nehiyaw. This is what his people called themselves: Nehiyaw. It was a neutral term meaning people of the land, but he'd only ever heard the word used in a pejorative, condemning way, when someone's behaviour or appearance was repulsive: mah sskwc kiyapic nehiyaw...or as kids, they would say nnnch ever Indian.

Excerpted fromA Season in Chezgh'un, by Darrel J. McLeod, 2023. Published by Douglas & McIntyre. Reprinted with permission of the publisher.