Buried Blanket

A Red River Métis Fable

Not too long ago, there lived a fox named Roux. His fur was red as the prairie dust, and he moved with the quiet grace of someone always watching.

But Roux was not like the other creatures. He came from two worlds, from deep in the bush where his father had sung him lullabies, and from the open plains where his mother taught him to walk proud, even when the sky grew heavy with judgment.

Roux, like all foxes, lived between those places, never fully of the forest or the field. He moved with the quiet grace of someone who watched more than he spoke, shaped by two heritages yet carrying his own path. And like his kind, he had learned to survive through cleverness, not force. But in a world that wanted him to choose one side or disappear altogether, his silence grew heavy. He began to wonder if being unseen was safer than being whole

As a kit, Roux wore a woven blanket patterned with the colours of his family, reds and blues, handed down through paws long gone. But as he grew older, things changed. The crows whispered in the trees, mocking his words, as if they twisted like riverpaths that they did not understand, or care to know. The wolves snarled at his stories and called them lies.

So Roux did what many others had done, he folded his blanket and pressed it tight to his chest before burying it beneath a cedar tree. He stopped speaking in his mother’s tongue, and told the wolves he was just like them. 

And for a while, it worked. He was left alone. He was safe.

But he was also quiet in a way he had never been. His tail dragged and his senses dulled. He grew afraid of river reflections, because sometimes he thought he saw the old blanket waving back at him in the water.

One evening, an old beaver sat beside him on the bank.

“You don’t feel like yourself,” the beaver said, eyes following the slow river. “But there’s an ache where something used to be, and it’s waiting to return.”

Roux said nothing.

“You’ve buried something that belonged to you, that your ancestors bled and danced and sang to give you. When you forget who you are, the ones who tried to silence you win a little more.”

Roux blinked, unsure whether to feel ashamed or angry, or both.

So that night, he dug beneath the cedar tree and retrieved his blanket. It was dusty and the threads were worn, but the colors were still there. And when he wrapped it around himself, he remembered the songs, the food, and the laughter of his mother. The blanket was not perfect, but it was his. 

He didn’t shout his truth, and he didn’t have to. He just stood taller, spoke clearer, and wore the blanket with quiet pride. Others noticed and some even came forward with buried bundles of their own. 

Hiding yourself may protect you, but it also silences the ones who came before. In knowing who you are, you become not just yourself but part of something far older, and far stronger.