The Story Behind the Story with Rick Revelle of Napanee, On, Canada.

This week you get to meet Rick and he is sharing his SBTS for all you visitors.

Rick will be joining us in July at the GMRD Book Fair and I’m looking forward to meeting him.

Read on my friends.

 

 

Rick's early years were spent in Wilton and Odessa Ontario. He lived for 32 years in Glenburnie Ontario and since 2019 in Napanee, Ontario.

He is the author of four Historical Fiction books and one fiction novel. 
I Am Algonquin (2013), Algonquin Spring (2015), Algonquin Sunset (2017) were published by Dundurn Press. Algonquin Legacy and The Elk Whistle Warrior Society by Crossfield Publishing.

The Algonquin Quest series takes place on both sides of the St Lawrence River Valley and the Great Lakes and to the Rocky Mountains during the years of 1320 to 1350’s. It follows an Algonquin Native family unit as they fight to survive in the harsh climate of warfare, survival from the elements and the constant quest for food of this pre-contact era. His readers are introduced to the Algonquin, Anishinaabe, Lakota, Mi´kmaq, Mohawk, and Lakȟóta, languages as they are used in the vernacular in the four novels.

The Elk Whistle Warrior Society is about a secret society of Native women who hunt down human traffickers and murderers of Native women and abusers of Native children. All the women have either a masters or PhD degree and a Martial Arts black belt. They do not use guns, only the weapons of their ancestors.

 

Title: The Elk Whistle Warrior Society

 

 

Synopsis: The Elk Whistle Warrior Society (2023) is about a 650 year old Native women secret society. They have always been protectors of Indigenous women and children. They have always hunted down human traffickers and murderers of Native women, plus the abusers of Native children. The women all have either a PhD or master’s degree, plus a Martials Arts black belt. They do not use guns, only the weapons of their ancestors. They are aided by selected male warriors and the legendary Memegwesi warriors who are the Little People and the protectors of children.

All the women have a tattoo of two blue feathers on their right shoulder and the men have the tattoo is found on their left calf.

 

 

The Story Behind the Story: I have written five books. My first book was published when I was 61 years old. Each of my books have strong Indigenous women. My previous four books were a series called The Algonquin Quest Series that followed four Omámiwinini (Algonquin) brothers during the early 1300’s pre-contact. The books are I Am Algonquin (2013), Algonquin Spring (2015), Algonquin Sunset (2017) and Algonquin Legacy (2021). During the writing of the final book, I wrote in the beginnings of a Native woman’s society. I was very excited about what I could do with this idea. As soon as Algonquin Legacy was finished then published,

I had The Elk Whistle Warrior Society almost done. My publisher Tina Crossfield liked the story, and I sent it out to a dozen women across Canada for a pre-read. All the responses from these women were that they really liked the premise and the strong women. One lady who is an actress said she wanted to make a TV series out of the book. I now have a Shopping List contract with her to produce the book into the TV series in the USA.

 

Website: Go HERE.

A question before you go, Rick:

Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?



Rick: I do my best writing long hand. I have always found that when I write this way my pen can keep up with the quickly flowing ideas that are streaming out of the file cabinets in my brain. I have a favourite bar here in Napanee where I have written two books, my 4th and 5th. Plus, now working on my 6th. I love writing on the train or when we go on a cruise, always longhand. When I write long hand in scribblers, I usually write about twenty-five pages in a session. Once I get home, I can turn these twenty-five pages into fifty or sixty when I add dialogue and do my research.

When I write at home, I brew a carafe of green tea with sage and lemon added, plus about five tea bags. I close my office door, then write until my kidneys almost explode. While writing in my office, I am surrounded in a world of battles, hunts, smells, noise, and everything else that I am creating.

I have always found that I am much more relaxed transposing from my scribblers into my computer. The long hand notes are sometimes 4 to 6 weeks old and many times when I read what I wrote I get excited about the notes. Usually, I have forgotten what I had written and when I re-read the pages it gives me an injection of adrenaline to continue with the book.





An Excerpt from THE ELK WHISTLE WARRIOR SOCIETY:

 

TUESDAY LUNCH

 

 

I was twelve years old in the summer of 1959.  It was the first week of July and it was hot. Having just finished cutting two lawns in the town next to our reservation, I had $4 in my pocket from my morning’s labour of six hours. Looking down at my sneakers, I saw that they were green from the juices of the dewy grass. I had bought the lawnmower in the spring with money made trapping muskrats and beaver that winter. I knew I smelled like gasoline and fresh cut grass, but my work was done for this day and my stomach was growling.

       Parking my lawnmower on the lawn in front of the big windows of the café, I made sure that the bungee cord that held my gas can on the deck of the mower was secure. Checking to make sure I still had the eight quarters and two one-dollar bills in my small, beaded change purse, I walked up to the door and peered in at the clock; 2:10 in the afternoon. Next, I checked out the large hand-printed sign in the window:

 

WE SERVE INDIANS HERE MONDAYS TO THURSDAYS FROM 2 TO 4 PM

 

Good! I was in the time frame that I could get served.

       The slight breeze coming from the south caused the overhead oval sign hanging by chains to emit an eerie creaking sound. Dabs of rust pocketed the white background of the sign, faded blue lettering seeped through the patina to silently announce Judi’s Café.    

When I opened the door, the warning bell rang and I hurriedly clambered into the booth where I could watch over my mower and still see the soft pine lunch counter where eight stools were lined along the counter. They were chrome with red leather seats, matching the leather seats in the booths. I was the only customer in the place.

       The owner, a scum bag, who we called the Toothless Wonder, came over and growled at me, “What do you want today, Buck?”

       “Can I have a hot dog and fries,” I answered.

       “Yep, if you have the money to pay ahead of time. You know the rules, Injuns pay up front!”

       I took a dollar and twenty-five cents out of my pocket. When I gave it to him, I said, “I also want a coke and a banana split.”

       He wiped his nose with his apron. “Coming right up Injun Boy.”

       I glanced out the window, keeping a close eye on my lawnmower. A Native guy who I had never seen before walked into the restaurant, announced by the bell on the door, and sat on the end stool near the cash register. He had shorts on with a tattoo of two feathers on his left calf and wore a tee shirt that said Warrior on it. Huge biceps rippled when he moved his arms. His hair was cropped in a brush cut, definitely residential school upbringing. He looked Blackfoot, no meanness in his eyes, just a sense of purpose. A roll of duct tape, a hatchet and a knife hung from his belt.

       The owner came over and said, “I have never seen you before, and I know all the Injuns around here. What do you want?

       “I came to handle some business in town and then taking the 3:04 train east. I’ll have two cheeseburgers and a Fanta orange drink.”

       “Money up front, Red Man.”

       The guest paid with a two-dollar bill, looked the Toothless Wonder in the face and just smiled.

       My food came along with 5 cents change which I put in the jukebox to play my favourite song Lonely Teardrops, by Jackie Wilson. The food had only cost $1.10 but the scum bag kept a dime for himself.

The dog had mustard and onions on it and I put a big dab of ketchup on my plate to dip my hot dog and fries in. The food calmed my nerves down and I had to keep wiping the mustard from my face as it drippled down my chin. I loved onions and when one fell from the bun, I would stuff it into my mouth with my fingers. My hands were dirty. The Toothless Wonder wouldn’t let Indians use his washroom to wash up or to pee.

       I finished my dog and fries washed down by the ice-cold coke and he brought me my banana split. I looked at the clock, 2:31.

       The bell above the door rang again, and in walked a tall Native woman dressed in shorts with a tank top and a tattoo like the Blackfoot man, except it was on her right shoulder. She looked Anishinaabe, but not from around here. Her hair also had the residential school cut.  From her waist hung two knives, one on each hip. As she walked by me, I caught a whiff of perfume, soft and spring like. Lilac. She sat three stools down from the Blackfoot man.

       “Well Pocahontas, what can I do you for,” sneered the Toothless Wonder.

       “A ginger ale, I have to catch the 3:04 train and haven’t got time to eat.”

       “Money up front, Injun Girl!”

       She tossed him a dime and smiled.

       She turned and looked out the window as a small funeral procession passed. All of the people were Native. The men were solemn, and the women were sobbing and wailing.

       The Native woman turned, looked the Toothless Wonder in the face and said, “Who died?’

       “Some Injun girl hung herself.”

       “Hmm, I heard that was the third one in a year and a half and they all worked for you at one time,” she replied sharply.

       “Coincidence,” he replied.

       Yea, I muttered to myself, except Lisa Beaver had told me what had happened here last fall. She was so ashamed. The sudden sound of duct tape being tore from a roll brought my attention back to what was about to happen.

       The Blackfoot stood up with a strip of duct tape and grabbed the Toothless Wonder by the head and wrapped the duct tape around his mouth in three quick turns.

       The woman grabbed the Toothless Wonder’s wrists in a vicelike grip and laid them flat on the pine counter. Meanwhile, the Blackfoot man pushed his back against the owner, pinning him against the counter so he couldn’t move. Next, he slipped his knife from its sheaf and laid it on the hot burner where the hotdogs simmered in a pot of water. He then turned and reached around the man with both arms and held his hands flat on the counter.

All the while the Toothless Wonder was trying to scream through the duct tape and all that came out was a muffled sound.

I watched as the woman quickly pulled her knives, one in each hand and drove them into the Toothless Wonder’s flattened hands pinning them to the counter.

       As The blood spurted up, the Blackfoot warrior swung his hatchet, cutting off both of the owners’ thumbs with a swiftness of a hawk diving for a rabbit. Blood spurted all over the counter The Blackfoot warrior reached for his red-hot knife and cauterized the spots where the man’s thumbs had been and around the two knife blade wounds, stopping the bleeding.

       The Toothless Wonder looked like he was going to pass out, so the Blackfoot man took a cold pail of water and doused his head.

       The woman grabbed the man’s sopping wet head in her hands and said, “Listen carefully to me. We know you raped those three dead girls while they worked for you. We also know that they never reported it to the law because it would be an Indian’s word against a white man’s word. Today you lost your thumbs, but if we ever hear about you again, it will be the rest of your fingers, and maybe your life. You tell the law this was an accident; your life depends on it”

       The Blackfoot warrior handed the woman a wet dishtowel and she wiped the blood from her hands. I heard the train whistle as it pulled into the station and looked at the clock; 3:03, a minute early.

       As the two walked out of the restaurant, the Warrior nodded at me. I watched as they boarded the eastbound train. I went to the bathroom, peed, washed my hands then walked out the front door. I grasped the handle of my lawnmower and pushed it down the dusty street back to the reservation. One wheel was squeaking, I’ll have to oil that.

            

            

 

        

  

 

 

Thank you for being our guest this week, Rick. We wish you much success with your stories. See you in July.

 

And another BIG thank you to all our visitors and readers.