Shadows

by Ken Altabef

  “Five hindquarters is more than we need,” said Ben flatly. “And as you say, my skills don’t merit an extra share.” He put an emphasis on the word ‘extra.’

  A little smile twisted the corners of Aquppak’s mouth.

  “Ah, so that’s how it is,” he said. “Take it. You should be rewarded. Alaana chose well.”

  “Chose?” asked Ben.

  “Well, yes. We were all there.” Aquppak gestured to the round of men. A conspiratorial smile lifted his wind-burned cheeks. “She had three predictions from the men, and she chose among them. She chose me.”

  Ben flared with indignation. “She chose nothing. The spirits spoke to her.”

  “She went into her little tent and we sat outside. We waited.” Aquppak gestured toward the men, “And then when she came out we spoke first. I’m not questioning her wisdom, but it’s easy to believe she simply went along with what I said, knowing I would be right.”

  Again the men found Aquppak’s tone somewhat amusing. Emboldened by their support, he added, “Just as she always followed Tugtutsiak.”

  Once again Ben was faced with a taunt which held more than a little truth. While he might have expected such disrespect from Aquppak, the support of the men was disturbing.

  “Take it,” Aquppak said again.

  Ben frowned. “This is more than we need.”

  Aquppak, his eyes glowering, his thin lips smiling, shook his head. “As you say. I'll divide it among the others. Noatak, who has no father, could use a little more, and then there is Old Amaluk. He’ll be glad for your generosity.”

  The caribou crossing brought the Anatatook farther south than ever before. Alaana had never visited the bed of the Silver Tongue this far into summer, and didn’t anticipate the deep puddles of gray water throughout the marshy ground. She stepped carefully, but still the water oozed up over the cuffs of squirrel fur at the tops of her mukluks. Already she was shivering from cold, wet feet.

  She brushed aside the tall sedge at the foot of the lake, uncovering a family of arctic terns nesting in a shallow depression among the grasses. The male gave an impudent squawk at the shaman’s interruption, jabbing its red beak at her foraging fingers. Alaana withdrew, her hand pursued by the red beak and tiny black head. With a flutter of its expansive wings and forked tail, the tern ran circles among the tall grass in an attempt to drive her off.

  Alaana went back to rummaging in the muddy ground beneath the sedge. Where the arctic violets grew in a circle, she would find the bulbs of Black Claw root. She brushed the flowers to the side and dug down, drawing up the dark bulb, split at the end into two parts resembling the claws of a small animal. The bitter herb had many uses. A brewed draft might relieve pain in the joints and muscles or, placed beneath the tongue, the pulpy fruit was an aid for clogged digestion. Dried and powdered, she planned to use this herb in her trip to the Moon. She would need it soon; the Moon was nearly full. Time to make the journey for Kala and Mikisork.

  A warbler’s cry rang out. Alaana looked up. A lone caribou stood at the water’s edge, staring at her from beneath a pair of perfectly arched antlers.

  “Don’t worry,” said Alaana. “You weren’t promised us this day. You’ve nothing to fear from me. Go ahead. Drink your fill.”

  It was an old buck, still lean from the long winter. Not satisfied with Alaana’s whispered reassurances, the buck ran off on spindly legs.

  “Angatkok?”

  Alaana turned. It was Tooky.

  “Oh, Tooky. You surprised me. And the buck too, I see.”

  Tooky, as unsure and hesitant as ever, said, “Should I go away?”

  Alaana lifted the root to her nose, scratched at its peel and sniffed. “I’m finished here, and chilled to the bone. I’ll walk you back to camp.”

  “Good,” she said.

  Before they left, Alaana turned back, indicating the wetlands with a sweep of her arm. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Tooky nodded uncomfortably, having no interest in puddles of water and tall grasses. “I came to ask you something.”

  Alaana returned a questioning look.

  “For your favor, angatkok.”

  She didn’t like the frightened way Tooky was looking at her. “Go ahead.”

  “I know there are things you can do. With roots and things…” she gestured toward the Black Claw in Alaana’s hand.

  “I want to get rid of the baby,” she blurted out. “Before everyone finds out.”

  Alaana’s gaze shot to her belly. Underneath Tooky’s anorak she could see the little soulfire burning there, small and indistinct.

  “There’s no need for that,” she said. “The stores are full. We’ve plenty of food.”

  “I can’t stand the thought of it.” Tooky began crying. “I want to forget what happened, but she won’t let me. And when the people see…” She clutched at her belly as if there was already a bulge underneath the anorak.

  “Everyone already knows what you did.”

  “Well they don’t need to be reminded of it at every turn. How I caused–”

  “I was responsible,” said Alaana.

  “You told us not to break the taboos. You made sure we knew. But we were foolish and unmindful. It was my fault.”

  “You or I, or us both. What’s the difference?” said Alaana, “But the child is not to blame.”

  Tooky flushed and more tears came. “If you don’t help me now, then I’ll just put it out into the snow when it comes. That’s all.”

  “You will do no such thing.”

  “But you have reason to hate the child more than anyone. How will you look upon her face day after day and be reminded of your loss?”

  Alaana shook her head. A child’s face would remind her of nothing but sunshine and hope. As for the loss of Tama, it was not likely she would ever forget. She pointed at Tooky’s belly. “That child is mine. That child belongs to me.”

  “Yours?” Tooky’s hands shot protectively to her abdomen and Alaana knew she had her.

  “Mine,” she said coldly. “And I forbid you to harm it. Do you understand?”

  Tooky’s fear of the shaman returned. She nodded her head.

  “Now go,” said Alaana. “There are new hides to be staked and stretched. Put your hands to useful work, and the people will forget.”

  CHAPTER 20

  TO THE MOON

  The hunting parties lingered out on the trail for several days, tracking down the last few caribou Tekkeitsertok had promised them for the summer. Since Kigiuna went with the men, Alaana once again enlisted her tupilaq as drumbeater.

  Tikiqaq was not difficult to find. Tooky had taken to carrying it around in her amaut like a child. Alaana supposed toting the creature on her back was better than always waiting for it to trundle along and catch up. Unfortunately this plan enticed a long chain of children to follow behind. They had become fond of the little tupilaq, having grown accustomed to its horrific appearance as only children could.

  The tupilaq enjoyed the children’s attention as they shouted gleefully at it. Tiki waved a clawed hand back at them, smiling. For the first time, Alaana realized, her tupilaq was capable of being happy.

  Alaana hated to break up the fun but she needed the creature’s help.

  “Come,” she said. “We go on a journey.”

  “Yes,” replied Tiki. “To kill Kritlaq! Kill!” Its face hardened once again, blackened lips pulled back to reveal a mouth full of pointed teeth.

  The children cheered.

  “No,” said Alaana. “Something better than killing Kritlaq.”

  The tupilaq appeared puzzled. It could imagine no such thing.

  Alaana lifted it out of Tooky’s pouch. “You are going where no tupilaq has ever gone before.”

  They spent the rest of the day in the karigi preparing for the journey. Alaana ground the Black Claw root into a fine black powder and instructed Tikiqaq in the proper drumbeat for a visit to the Moon. While waiting for the night to deepen, Alaana spoke to Tiki of many t
hings. The tupilaq, sitting on its tail flipper, listened intently. It was like an empty vessel, Alaana thought, and she was determined to fill that cup with kindness. In a low, soft voice she told Tiki of the wonderful life the Anatatook had in Nunatsiaq. She told it of the strong men, so devoted to providing for their families that they journeyed all day in pursuit of game and spent endless winter nights out on the sea ice waiting for a seal to come up for air. Tiki had once been a seal, probably caught by one of Kritlaq’s men during the previous winter, but had only hazy recollections of such an existence.

  Alaana told it about the devotion of the Anatatook women and how they took care of all the little details that the men might otherwise forget, such as mending the rips in their coats and softening boots frozen solid during the night. She described the feast they had recently held on the promontory of the Tongue while Tugtutsiak had still been alive. Alaana spent a great deal of time relating fond recollections of the headman, whom she dearly missed. She felt these things important for Tikiqaq to know. She described in succulent detail all of the delicacies the Anatatook had eaten and all the songs they had shared. Some of these wonders, like the joy of children, the tupilaq had already witnessed firsthand.

  Inevitably Alaana’s talk turned to the sweetness of her lost Tama. She spoke of her coy smile and equally lovable pout, and the way she ran in the snow, leaning forward as if struggling against a strong headwind.

  The tupilaq reacted in its usual fashion. Missing the point entirely, it issued a series of vague threats against the Whale-Man. There was much talk of biting and chewing of fins before Alaana cautioned her creation to silence. “It’s best not to speak against the Whale-Man,” she told Tiki, “especially if you ever intend to taste saltwater again. He would crush you without a moment’s pause.”

  When the full Moon appeared through the open ceiling flap of the karigi, Alaana donned her Moon mask. The mask portrayed a large, round, bone-white face. A long thin nose sloped down toward a wide gaping mouth with wooden pegs for teeth. One eye-hole was cut in full circle, the other crescent shaped.

  Alaana signaled for Tikiqaq to take up the drumbeat. She pushed all stray thoughts aside and took up the chant Old Manatook had taught her years ago. Tilting her head back to view the luminescent outline of the Moon through the top of the tent, she emptied her mind of anything except one idea — an entreaty to the Moon-Man for aid in this journey. She did this for Kala and Mikisork, she reminded herself. To get them a baby to love.

  But thoughts of her own lost child crept back in, spoiling her concentration. A trip to the Moon, she thought, was not such an easy thing in the first place; worse still with all the obstacles that she was putting in her own way.

  Alaana grunted in frustration.

  Tiki took offense. “I did it right,” it said, flailing the drumbeater in the air. “I’m sure I did it right.”

  “You’re doing fine,” answered Alaana. “It’s my fault. Taking flight isn’t the work of a heavy heart.”

  She might have to admit to Kala that she was unable to help. Maybe she was no longer fit to be the shaman at all. She was broken. Unless she found her daughter’s wayward soul, unless she could comfort her husband by telling him that all was well, she might never fly again.

  She settled herself. Sila had assured her she would find Tama’s soul. Perhaps this was the day. But she wouldn’t find her sitting here, cross-legged in the karigi. Tama might well have flown to the Moon where the spirits of deceased shamans often wandered. Tama might be there.

  In a mad rush, her spirit left her body and bolted up into the night sky. She pulled the tupilaq’s hodge-podge inua with her.

  As they sailed upward the tupilaq whooped with glee.

  The full Moon drew them along. At the mid-point Alaana’s soul-woman flipped over, hugging Tikiqaq protectively to her chest and they went from flying upward to falling down toward the Moon’s craggy surface. The two plummeted with frightening speed, the tupilaq screeching with delight. With sufficient last-moment concentration Alaana managed a soft landing atop the shimmering alabaster surface.

  When the dust settled, Alaana pointed at the huge ball of blue and green that now took up a large portion of the night sky.

  “That’s our world,” she said to Tikiqaq. “The whole of it.”

  The tupilaq let out a tiny gasp of awe.

  “Kritlaq is there,” reminded Alaana. “So far away.”

  “So small,” said Tiki.

  “Yes.”

  They had landed not far from the Moon-Man’s gigantic iglu. The dome rose up behind them, blocking out half the starry sky. Alaana expected to find the great spirit sitting before his home, lost in quiet contemplation as he had always been before. Instead, the Moon-Man was running his dogs around the circular rim of one of the craters.

  The sledge, which was fashioned from the massive jawbone of a blue whale, was pulled by a team of four. The immense dogs were made of moonbeams and star dust, their smooth fur glowed silver-white, their hot breath leaving trails of vapor that drifted and settled along the surface of the Moon.

  Seated on the sledge, the Moon-Man whipped his dogs to a frenzy. He was a tall, stern-faced giant with an enormous bleached-white gourd for a head. He wore a set of faded clothes worn so thin it was impossible to tell if they had originally been fur or cloth.

  Once again, Alaana felt insignificant and small. If she dared approach, her inuseq would surely be blown away by the great swirling turmoil the dogs were churning up, or inhaled by their overeager snouts. She sat on the front step of the celestial icehouse and waited. The summer nights were so short, she feared that soon she would miss her chance and be drawn back to earth.

  Eventually the lash fell silent and the Moon-Man cried out for the team to stop. The four dogs, still pulling the sled, started back toward the iglu. Once they caught scent of Tikiqaq they scrambled around the little creature, snarling and flashing gigantic white teeth.

  The tupilaq, dauntless as ever, stepped forward to meet them. The huge dogs took up positions around Tiki, barking and snapping, heedless of the snarls that issued from the seal’s mouth. But when the tupilaq squawked at them from the raven’s beak embedded in the middle of its forehead, the dogs rocked backward. Tiki pressed its advantage and squawked even louder. The dogs leapt back in fright. Alaana chuckled softly.

  The gaunt figure of the Moon-Man stooped, snatching the tupilaq up by the scruff of its neck. “What’s this? Tangling my traces.”

  As he held the tiny black seal in front of his craggy face, his crescent eye narrowed. He dug his fingers into the creature’s eyes. Tikiqaq made a pathetic gurgling sound.

  “Don’t hurt him!” pleaded Alaana.

  The tupilaq’s eyes, which were rounded chips of obsidian, popped out of its head and rolled to Alaana’s feet. They lay starkly against the Moon’s ivory surface, staring up at her.

  The Moon-Man, whose name was Annigan, rolled his gigantic head downward. Slowly, he turned toward Alaana, “Does this pup belong to you?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “You made it poorly,” said Annigan, as he set Tiki down beside its master. “It sees only through darkness and hate. No longer. Now let it see properly.”

  Tiki turned toward Alaana, its eyes now shimmering moonbeams.

  The Moon-Man settled down at his place on the porch. He moved slowly, giving Alaana the impression of a fragile old man.

  She stood up. “I am Alaana of the Anatatook. Father Moon, I beg your–”

  “I don’t get many visitors,” said Annigan. “I remember you. Come. Sit down.”

  Alaana did as she was told. “I’m surprised you remember me. It’s been a very long time since I’ve ventured up here.”

  Annigan looked surprised. “A few turns. It’s nothing really. And besides, not many can do what you did. Shifting a mountain.”

  Twelve years ago, the white bears of the ice mountain had begged her help. Their shaman, Balikqi, had spent half a lifetime creating psychic tendrils
in the sky. Using the Moon as a lever they had moved a mountain a few paces to the side to allow warm water to flow again into their feeding grounds.

  “We couldn’t have done anything without you to anchor the web, Father Moon.”

  “So polite,” mused the Moon-Man. When he spoke he seemed to be addressing nothing in particular, as he gazed out across the Moon’s ivory surface. “That’s what I liked about you. Yes, I remember.”

  “And it was really Balikqi did most of the work,” added Alaana.

  “Yes. Humble,” said Annigan. “Tell me. How fares Balikqi?”

  “He’s dead. The strain of moving the mountain was too much for his heart. He was very old.”

  “So soon?” Annigan seemed to be addressing this question to the skies above.

  A long silence followed, but it was not so awkward as Alaana would have imagined. She felt strangely comfortable sitting here in the Land of the Sky, beside this venerable and kindly spirit. The Moon-Man appeared always at ease, a legendary figure who shined his silvery glow at night to light the way for the people below. He seemed to forget that Alaana was even sitting beside him, a solitary being who only wanted to be left alone to admire the stars above and think his cosmic thoughts by himself.

  “I’m looking for a child,” said Alaana. “A young girl who may have passed this way.”

  “I don’t get many visitors — only sometimes a shaman who died and lost his way.”

  “You would remember her,” said Alaana hopefully. “She sang a song of the starlings. Her voice…” Alaana choked back a sob. “Her voice was high and soft and light as a feather, her heart light as a feather.”

  “How wonderful,” sighed Annigan softly. “No, I don’t remember seeing anyone like that.”

  “Are you certain?” asked Alaana, pressing her luck.

  “Yes.”

  Alaana’s heart sank.