by Ken Altabef
“This I have done; this I will do.”
“He is old and proud, this agvisugruk,” said The Whale-Man, using the term which denoted a large male bowhead. “He has cut the water for many, many years. He has sired a great number of young who are now themselves old. He was much beloved among us, but his time grows short now. His eyesight is nearly gone, his blood grows cold. He is very dear to me. He will die for you.”
Alaana nodded gravely. “He will feed our people, our children will grow with his strength. He will warm our houses, and light our lamps.”
Usinuagaaluk spoke of some of the kiruq, the taboos of the hunt, reminding her that unmarried women must never touch the harpoons nor sew the whale boat skins. He told of the way that the skull of the whale, which contained the proud agrvisugruk’s soul, must be returned to the sea. Then the compelling voice of the Whale-Man began to fade. “See the taboos are kept.”
“I will,” she promised. “Long you have known the Anatatook. We keep all the covenants.”
The Whale-Man’s eyes closed.
Alaana awoke. As her spirit once again reunited with her physical body, she heard the sounds of the bustling Anatatook camp as if from far underwater. She drew in a deep breath of frigid air. Her body felt stiff; the weight of her ceremonial parka, made of albino caribou skin, heavy and confining.
The interior of the karigi, the shaman’s ritual tent, came into focus. Lying on the packed snow before her was a circle of bone, a single whale vertebra which she used as a portal to Usinuagaaluk’s undersea palace. Alaana had only a moment to register the patterned caribou-skin hides of the tent, the assortment of drums and masks, the rattles and ceremonial weaponry stacked in the corners, before her father’s face crowded out all else.
“Success?” Kigiuna asked eagerly.
“It’s done. We’ll have a successful whale hunt this year.”
Kigiuna’s blue eyes gleamed. “You saw him? The Whale-Man?”
“Yes,” laughed Alaaa. “I saw him.”
“What does he look like?”
“Beautiful.”
Kigiuna sat back and shook his head, sending strands of wavy black hair across his eyes. His was a face that had smiled often and laughed much. Alaana was no poet. Her ability to describe all the wondrous things she saw as she traveled the seven worlds could never bring them to life in the way her father would have liked. Kigiuna sighed. “That’s what you always say.”
CHAPTER 2
A FEAST OF CHANCES
The first snow buntings fluttered among the dim gray clouds. The appearance of the birds was a sure sign that the whales were on their way.
The Anatatook held a feast out on the tundra to celebrate the portentous sighting of the birds. At the height of the short spring day the sun peeked only a quarter above the horizon, a lopsided blaze of crimson stretching wide purple arms along the frozen coast.
Alaana had held a longstanding suspicion that the sun did not belong in the sky. What could be more out of place here in this land of unrelenting ice and snow than a flaming ball of fire hovering above it all? But the sun brought light and warmth, and on a glorious day such as this, who could argue with that?
With their spirits high, the Anatatook assembled atop a wide expanse of flat volcanic rock. This windswept strut of the cape was known as the Tongue, a rounded peninsula attached to the mainland by only a narrow spit of rock, gravel and cracked shell. This was the favorite place of their headman, Tugtutsiak. As the bowhead made their northward migration to their summer feeding grounds in spring, they must detour around the jutting spar of land, bringing them close to shore.
The Tongue was extremely cold and forbidding, exposed to the brutal winds that swept across the arctic ocean. But with the sea ice finally melted and the Tongue surrounded on every side by the blue water, it was a wonder to behold.
Alaana sank her teeth into a slab of blubber, slicing off the rest and passing it along to her father. Their feast consisted only of boiled seal meat from the stores and a little fresh-caught tomcod. Still, she thought it good to see everyone again after the long winter’s darkness, a pleasure only slightly marred by the need to wear their hoods as protection from the icy winds gusting across the Tongue. So many happy, smiling faces. So much laughter and song. And the children. The past few years had seen the Anatatook prosper like never before. Many little ones sloshed about the snow on unsteady feet. For some of them, this was their first dawn.
On one side of the plateau the women chatted gaily among themselves, surrounded by their children and the clouds of steam rising from the cooking pots. The men held forth on the opposite side, sitting cross-legged on outspread tent covers and sealskin mats. Although a woman, Alaana sat with the men. It was her duty as shaman to help them prepare for the whale hunt.
Tugtutsiak, the Anatatook headman, held place of pride at the center of the men. He was a grim-faced man of stocky build, his long hair pulled tight and secured at the back of his head with a thong. Alaana thought the headman had adopted this style to conceal the fair amount of gray that lately streaked through his dark mane. He puffed a long-stemmed clay pipe, expelling an offensive black smoke that smelled of dried willow bark. His eyes moved restlessly, dividing their attention between a study of the people around him and long, loving glances at the sea.
Three large skinboats were lined up at the spit of the shore, providing for lively conversation. Tugtutsiak’s boat was the largest and most formidable, the veteran of many long chases out on the open sea. Beside it was his son Talliituk’s craft. Built from the prime bones generated by the headman’s kills, it shared the same solid, expert construction.
Third in the line was Maguan’s umiak. The slender boat had a unique round-bottomed design. This year marked its maiden voyage. Talliituk, who sat to the right-hand side of his father, looked disdainfully at it.
“I suppose it was the best you could do,” he said to Maguan, “scrounging for scraps along the beach and begging my father’s castoffs. I wonder if it will actually float.” His smirk revealed a pair of overlarge front teeth.
“If it can float? It’ll fly across the water like a bird,” insisted Maguan, a smoldering fire alight in his eyes. Maguan had always been well-liked among the men. He was generally lighthearted and had a temper as cool as the ice-brook, but this was one thing he took very seriously. His love for the sea rivaled the headman’s. It had always been his dream to have his own whaling boat. He had prowled the beaches year after year in search of long bones, he had improvised new ways of shaping the ribs, he had imagined and prayed and hoped, and this year it had finally come true. Alaana felt both happy for her eldest brother and intensely proud.
“It seems to me your boat has a funny shape, that’s all,” remarked Talliituk.
“Your head has a funny shape,” Maguan replied. “That boat has a superior design.”
“Perhaps,” said Tugtutsiak, “if one has no regard for tradition.” Always, the headman kept one eye on the open ocean in anticipation of the first whale spout. “It seems too narrow.”
Maguan stiffened. The boat was narrow, since he’d had only short whale ribs with which to build the undercarriage. Rather than acknowledge this shortcoming he put forth a typical wide-mouthed grin. “There are advantages. It will slip through the floes, finding places where your clumsy boats can’t go.”
“Perhaps. If it doesn’t tip over.” Tugtutsiak cocked his head, still squinting. “You have to be careful. Put your heavy equipment — the spare harpoon poles and lances — in the center. And this is important, if you get a line into the whale, keep it directly out in front.” This advice was given in a flat, congenial tone to make clear that it was well-intentioned. Even so, Maguan’s face reddened.
“The proof will come soon enough,” said Maguan. He stabbed a finger toward the headman. “You hear me? I’m going to get that whale!”
“Tsst!” said Alaana sharply. “Don’t speak that way. There’s no respect in it for the whale. He will surrender to the bo
at of his own choosing and we’ll be grateful for it.”
Maguan didn’t answer his sister’s sharp rebuke. They all knew the taboos. Such prideful language was indeed not the sort of thing to say on the eve of the hunt, lest one offend the whales and spoil the bargain.
Kigiuna broke the silence. “What does it matter who gets first harpoon? Maybe it will be Maguan, maybe not.” He said this with a wry smile, knowing that the mere possibility that Maguan might bring in the prize must certainly irritate Tugtutsiak.
Alaana’s father had some gray also, but still wore his hair as in younger days, falling loosely about his face. And it was a pleasant face, marked by frequent smiles, grown relaxed with the bountiful years and the success of his children. He had become friendly with Tugtutsiak and respected his skills as both a leader and whaling captain, but obviously would like to see an upset in the outcome of the hunt.
“Perhaps Talliituk will get it,” he continued. “You know Tugtutsiak, we’ve reached that age. Our sons must begin to surpass us. It’s not such a bad thing once one learns to accept it.”
Tugtutsiak steadfastly refused to smile, but nodded slightly. He took one final puff at his pipe, but the weed had all burned down to ash. “Young pups are always coming up. They have to challenge their elders. I’m not afraid of new ideas.” He squinted as he looked again in the direction of Maguan’s boat where it was propped up for the launch. “But I think,” he added, “as the world grows older, things are not as good as they were before. I remember as a young boy so many whales came here that the crews hunted only the young ones. We would throw ice at the older whales to chase them away. Used to be men could ride the waves up and down the coast, gliding like snow starlings with only a few slaps of the paddles. But we are poor copies of those men and now our boats are clumsy and frail. Nothing new is very much good.”
“Not so.” Kigiuna waved a hand toward Alaana, saying, “My daughter, who makes kinsmen of the spirits. And Talliituk…” He seemed at a loss to recall one of the young man’s superior qualities, so offered instead just a smile and nod of his head. A few of the men chuckled. Talliituk was a poor whaler and certainly no match for his father.
“Well, you’ll not hear me indulging in prideful language on the eve of the hunt,” grumbled Talliituk in his own defense. He bowed his head in an exaggerated gesture of piety meant, no doubt, to cast further shame on Maguan.
“Good,” said Alaana, “because the whales know everything. Everything we say, everything we do. Now let’s go over the preparations again.”
“Again?” muttered Tugtutsiak.
“Again,” said Alaana firmly. “The harpoons and pole-hooks are properly cleaned?”
She awaited a nod from each of the men, then continued. “There shall be no contact with your wives after tonight. Tomorrow I shall see to the blessing of the equipment.”
“Ah, here she is,” interrupted Aquppak as his wife brought forth a platter heaped with steaming organ meats. Ivalu avoided eye contact with any of the men as she handed her husband the tray, which was fashioned from the shoulder blade of a whale, and walked away. These were the choicest morsels taken from the walrus Aquppak had speared from his kayak the day before. Soured raw meat, tongue, heart, liver and intestines.
“No animal liver!” warned Alaana as the others reached for the food.
“Not for the whalers,” said Aquppak, tearing off an oversized handful of pink flesh and stuffing it into his mouth so that the juice trickled down his chin. “But I’m not going out on the water.”
Alaana didn’t partake of any of it, keeping true to her proscriptions as shaman, but Aquppak declared the liver tasted particularly wonderful. He made an exaggerated show of savoring the delicacy denied to most of the others, then launched into the tale of his walrus hunt. His story of the kill, embellished as it was, brought forth sarcastic comments from the whalers. These pertained mostly to his gross immodesty, since none could doubt his skill or accuracy. Aquppak was the most impressive hunter the Anatatook had ever seen.
“And a spectacular shot it was,” he insisted. “One throw, straight through both the heart and the lung. Thirty paces.”
He cocked an eye with intense concentration and mimed a mighty spear throw.
“And choppy water. Did I mention that? The kayak was rocking, this way and that.” The handsome young man broke out laughing as he shook exaggeratedly to and fro, bumping shoulders with the men on either side.
Not to be outdone, Tugtutsiak gave a hand sign to his wife. “Tooky, where is that surprise I had set aside? Bring it here, girl.”
Amid all the delicacies and laughter, Alaana felt relaxed and content. She had great confidence in Tugtutsiak. This trip made a pleasant diversion from their routine. The hunt would make them late for the salmon run at the established weirs, but a successful whale hunt would fill their coffers just as well and a whale had already been promised to them.
Alaana’s greatest failing as shaman was a weakness in securing game. Sedna, the Mistress of the Sea, whose duty it was to apportion seal and walrus to be eaten by men, would not even recognize her. Sedna had hinted that Alaana was not a true shaman — sparking a nagging doubt about the origins of her power and the uncertainty of her relationship to Sila, the Walker In The Wind. Unlike the close bond that most shamans enjoyed with their spirit guardians, Alaana had little contact with the stormy wind spirit. She had an ability to see and communicate with the spirits and ask their help, but that was all. Sila didn’t appear when he was called and offered very little by way of support or advice.
But Alaana had an invaluable partner in Tugtutsiak. The headman had an instinctual and unerring ability when it came to predicting movements of the caribou herds, or determining a site for the winter camp that would prove replete with seal. When Alaana had assumed the duties of the shaman at age thirteen, it had been Tugtutsiak who had kept the band alive despite the young girl’s faltering relations with the game spirits. Over time a mutual respect had grown up between them, but this had been hard won in the early days.
“Nuralak asks when we shall move south?” said Aquppak, bringing the conversation around to a serious topic. He spoke for Nuralak, the head of a powerful family who was still at the winter camp. Nuralak, like Aquppak, was chiefly a hunter of caribou and musk ox and had little interest in whaling. “The salmon won’t wait for us, you know.”
Tugtutsiak frowned. “We’ve time.”
“If we delay here too long we’ll have trouble,” continued Aquppak. “If we miss the run, there will be a lot of empty bellies next spring.”
“Not until I get my whale,” growled Tugtutsiak. His statement was punctuated by a tremendous cracking sound as one of the melting masses of ice on the shore shifted and broke away from the berg. “And with a bowhead cut up on the shore the winter stores will be generously taken care of.”
Aquppak was about to press his point, when Tugtutsiak stood up.
“Speaking of bellies full,” he said, “Let’s see what Tooky brings.”
Tugtusiak’s new bride was a lovely young woman, delicate in face and figure. The men were careful not to let their eyes linger on her, though some seemed hard pressed to pull them away. Alaana offered the girl a half-smile, thinking she would look even more beautiful once Tugtutsiak had a chance to fatten her up.
Tookymingia was a gift from one of the southerly bands, a gesture of reconciliation. For Tugtutsiak it was an enormous point of pride. Few among the Anatatook were so successful and strong that they could afford to keep two wives even in the best of times. Many criticized this marriage, mumbling in low tones that it was disgraceful for the father to have two women when his youngest son was not yet married. There were so few eligible girls among the band, a legacy of the lean years that had marked the early days of Alaana’s career as shaman when many of the women had not been able to keep their girl-children. Things were better now, Alaana assured herself. She had grown into the role.
Tugtusiak’s first wife, Aolajut was handli
ng the arrival of this newcomer to their tent much better than might be expected. Tugtutsiak had so many skins to prepare and maintain, especially in regard to his kayaks and large boats, that it was clearly too much work for one woman alone. Aolajut appreciated the help. She was neither diminished nor irritated by the new wife’s presence. She prided herself on being an exceptional housekeeper and superior seamstress, even if the younger bride held the headman’s gaze and bedtime attentions.
Tugtutsiak received a sealskin bundle from Tooky. He unrolled it before the men. The mat contained a heaping portion of mattak. “I’ve brought this,” he said. “I’ve been saving it for some time. It’s not much.”
In truth it was plenty. A cheer rose up from the men at sight of it. Huge discs of narwhal skin, fermented in the meat caches until the blubber turned green and the skin buttery soft. The men leapt at the platter with delight, some actually jumping up from their seats to devour the delicacy. There were groans of satisfaction as the men savored the taste with their eyes closed. The women and children didn’t get even the smallest piece of it. Perhaps that was just as well. The mattak was so sour Alaana doubted they would have wanted it anyway.
Tugtutsiak handed Alaana a piece on the flat of his knife, and the shaman drew the square of warty skin, dripping with red-black juices, into her mouth. The intense, sweet-sour taste brought a tear to her eye.
CHAPTER 3
VITHROK AWAKES
Vithrok is flying.
Bathed in the white-hot ecstasy of the Beforetime, he soars across time and space. There can be no up or down, no here or there; there is only fluid motion, a cavalcade of sound, flashes of every color that has ever existed, a million wonderful sensations in collision, sparkling acid-sharp as they burst upon his consciousness all at once. A cold wind slapping his face, an exultant breath of sweet air that seems to last forever, a draught of cool water to rage a burning thirst. He is covered in water; he is awash in fire.