by Ken Altabef
The storytellers told of their lives in the Before, when anything might happen without consequence or strife. For most, the Beforetime had become a distant memory and these fanciful tales an amusement only. For Vithrok the wounds remained painfully fresh. If the others were content to live in darkness and struggle and freezing cold, he was not. It seemed the Tunrit had resigned themselves to rely on the Sighted Ones to get them through. Tulunigraq and the others accepted the responsibility and the status that came along with it. Vithrok saw it differently. He was not content to shepherd the people through their lives like helpless pups. He wanted them to have warmth on their faces. He wanted them to see.
When their stores were full they would return sometimes to the top of the world and work to fulfill Kidan’s vision. The citadel of the Tunrit rose up higher and higher. It was slow going, in the dark, cutting the massive blocks of stone and dragging them to this place along the sledge routes from the south. How many turnings for each block of stone? Even Kidan had lost count.
Vithrok could have helped the others by manipulating the inua within the blocks. Stone spirits were slow and stubborn, but would surrender to his manipulations when pushed to the point of pain. It was all a matter of will. But as the others lent their hands and their strong backs to making Kidan’s dream a reality Vithrok had other things to do. He had his own dream and he devoted himself to that goal relentlessly over the long ages. He sat on his lonely perch on the high ridge where the others could not see, Kidan’s stargazing mechanism poised before his eyes. He watched the movements of the stars as they marched across the sky, round and round.
From across the divide it called to him in a secret whisper. It had no voice with which to speak; it was not alive. But its heat, its warmth, the light it could offer for their lives, these things spoke to him across the distance. The thing that burned on the other side of the sky.
He let the Tunrit toil in the darkness. He did not bend the stones to his will. That secret he did not share with the other takpiksuk. He had shown the Sighted Ones too much already. Now he understood the need for secrecy more than ever before. The others could not be completely trusted.
A series of snow hares lined up before him. Twelve in the row. He held them fast, then bade them hop forward each in turn. Their soul-lights glittered with white fire. When he asked them to move, they resisted. His brow creased in concentration as he applied the cutting edge of his will to their souls. They wanted so very much to scamper, each in a different direction, but he held them. He held them all. And he made them dance. Even if it killed them, he made them dance.
The sky turned and turned. All the while the world grew colder, the ice crept farther south. The giant sloths disappeared, and the great wolf-bears passed into extinction as well. The cold was relentless. Could the Tunrit stand it? Vithrok didn’t want to find out. To his mind, they shouldn’t have to stand it.
Violent creatures came out of the cold, things the Tunrit had never seen before, monsters that came to life only at temperatures so low they had never existed before, whirlwinds of destruction intent on shredding the flesh from their bones. Vithrok and the other Sighted Ones repelled them as best they could.
And still the ice crept.
At last the alignment came right again. Vithrok approached Tulunigraq in secret. He pleaded with Tulunigraq for aid, abasing himself before him on hands and knees, but found him still resistant to the idea. Very well. Vithrok smiled and said it was all right. He had come to an understanding.
Tulunigraq watched the other carefully with his small, black eyes. “It’s for the best,” he said. “Deep down, you know that I’m right.”
“I know,” said Vithrok.
Later, when Vithrok came for him, Tulunigraq saw it coming. He reacted very quickly, going for his spear.
Vithrok was unarmed; he needed no weapon. He reached out with his mind, flexing his will across the space between them. Tulunigraq’s soul-light was perhaps the most beautiful of them all. It sparkled almost as brightly as the stars above, a clear bed of azure shot through with fireballs of crimson and violet. There was so much of the Beforetime still left within him.
Vithrok held him in a well-practiced grip. Still, a Tunrit soul was far above that of the beasts of the field. Tulunigraq struggled mightily, the spear held immobile in his hand. His soul surged, forming spikes of blade-edged panic. Vithrok’s will lay over him like a smothering blanket, his control precise.
“Hold still,” said Vithrok, “and it will go easier. I promise you.”
Tulunigraq writhed in defiance and then in pain. The spear point moved not at all.
Vithrok held fast. “The battle is already lost, my brother, or you would have made the thrust already. You can not get free. Perhaps if you were strong enough. Perhaps if you knew the way.”
As their minds struggled against each other, Vithrok felt something break. Tulunigraq’s soul shrieked in agony and rage. And Vithrok was sorry. He was very sorry for that.
“Perhaps,” Vithrok said, “you would have learned this trick yourself if you hadn’t been so quick to accept things as they are.”
The struggle continued but Tulunigraq’s resistance soon weakened. His soul thrashed and convulsed. Crack. Snap. He was flinging himself against a solid wall, with disastrous results.
“You are going to help pull the ball of fire into the sky,” said Vithrok.
“Never,” returned Tulunigraq.
“What?” asked Vithrok, tightening his grip. “Say again?”
Tulunigraq could not.
Tugto and Oogloon awaited them on the ridge. If they thought it strange that Vithrok and Tulunigraq should come together, or that Tulunigraq’s resistance had succumbed to a sudden change of heart, they did not speak of it.
Tugto stared for a moment, squinting his eyes at the sight of Tulunigraq’s soul-light. Vithrok did not give him the chance to wonder too much. Instead he lined the other three up and intoned the words that brought the blue tether through from the other side.
“Quamaniq niuruq siqieiq,” said Vithrok. Again he raised his hands to the sky. “Quamaniq, quamaniq.”
The blue light extended and Tugto grabbed hold. Tulunigraq showed no hesitation at all. His eyes, glazed, did not meet with any of the others.
“Quickly,” said Vithrok, placing Oogloon’s hands upon the wire. “Send your minds up along the tether. Reach forward in the way that I have shown you.”
Vithrok’s consciousness slid upward into the night sky. He found the task more difficult than he had imagined as he must drag Tulunigraq along with him. It didn’t matter. He was not going to fail. As they extended their will to the other side of night the fiery ball called to them, practically drawing them along.
“It’s too bright,” said Tugto.
“Don’t look,” said Vithrok. “Don’t look at it. Extend downward, rooting yourself into the very rock of the earth! Pull, Tugto. You are the strongest of us all! Pull!”
“I’m afraid,” said Oogloon. “It’s too hot. It will burn us.”
“You have felt such heat before,” said Vithrok. “You walked through the heart of a raging volcano, you felt the blast of atomic fire. Remember? You didn’t flinch from it then. In the time Before.”
“It could not hurt us then.”
Vithrok felt Oogloon slipping away. The idea that this attempt might fail solely because of another’s weakness had not occurred to him. He had been so concerned with whether or not he could do it. He had not accounted for them. Even now Tulunigraq struggled to break free of his control. Vithrok could not extend his will to all the others as well.
He created for himself a pair of hands. This was the task of creation, of shaping one’s will in order to do the impossible. It had been so easy in the Beforetime, when magic was everywhere, when they lived magic and breathed magic. Now, using only the scraps that were left after the Great Rift, the exertion was almost impossible. Vithrok felt his soul straining, his very existence ripping apart. Still he created the
hands and he thrust them into the ball of fire. The pain was incredible.
“I have hold of it!” he said. “Oogloon, take hold of me. Pull against me. You will not burn. Our moment is at hand.”
Suddenly he felt Oogloon’s determination surge. Faced with such leadership and sacrifice he was not going to let Vithrok down.
The four of them pulled.
And the sky ripped open.
And the ball of fire came into the world.
Vithrok released the tether and they all fell back. His physical hands had been charred and burned, reduced to little more than blackened claws. But instead of pain he felt only joy.
It was daylight! The Tunrit, most of whom were assembled on the plain below, stopped whatever they were doing and looked up.
Eyesight to the blind. They could hardly believe it. They spun around, looking into each other’s faces for the first time. Vithrok wished there was more for them to see beside endless sheets of snow and ice, but as they gazed at one another he thought there was feast for the eyes aplenty. The snow and ice sparkled brightly in the new light. The men began to whoop and holler and dance around on the plain. People cried out, laughing and exclaiming over their good fortune.
Vithrok thrust his burning hands into the soothing snow and pulled them out, charred down to the bone. He sat atop the ridge, completely drained of strength. He could do no more. He did not need to frolic in the light, for he had been able to see all along. He had seen better than anyone. He did, however, bask in the warmth that fell down from the sky.
Tulunigraq did not speak, but sat upon a rounded stone, rocking slowly back and forth. A little broken sound came trickling out from his beak-like mouth.
Oogloon went to join the others in their frolic, as sight was as new to him as it was to the blind ones.
There was light and warmth.
The rest of the day was spent in rejoicing and celebration.
But it became apparent that the ball of fire was falling. Where it had begun at the center of the sky’s dome, it was slowly but steadily moving downward. The Tunrit realized that eyesight would soon be denied them once again. As the horizon was set aflame with the setting sun, the people looked around one last time.
Tugto remained by Vithrok’s side. They rejoiced together at the sight of the men so happy. Tugto called it the greatest day the Tunrit had ever known even as it became clear to them that something had gone wrong.
“It’s going down,” said Tugto. “It’s sinking into the ground. The sky is bleeding red.” He looked over at Tulunigraq as if expecting the bird-like Tunrit to squawk and crow about how he had been right all along. Tulunigraq, still sitting on his stone, said nothing.
Vithrok lifted Kidan’s stargazing device but his ruined fingers would not allow for the workings of the tiny gears. He threw it down in frustration. He could not understand the problem.
“I made a mistake,” he said. “I was so preoccupied with bringing it here I gave no thought to how we would be able to keep it. All is lost.”
“Still,” said Tugto, “It was a wonderful gift for the people. They will not soon forget it. Look below. They are sorry to see it go, but they are still smiling.”
“I only hope they will forget,” said Vithrok. “It is a cruel gift, so soon taken away. Once before we had everything, only to see it taken from us. We lost everything.”
“And you told us not to despair. We have come far. It’s all right.”
“This isn’t what I wanted,” said Vithrok. He looked over at Tulunigraq, who did not meet his eye.
After the sun was gone the Tunrit turned away from the darkened sky. They took shelter from the winds in the nascent citadel. All were exhausted from the exertions of the day, both physical and emotional. Little was said, as all stood in taciturn agreement that sleep was best.
They awoke to face the darkened sky as if nothing had ever happened. The massive block they had brought up from the south was fitted into place using the system of pulleys Kidan had devised. Its surface, they found, was not entirely straight. They would work at scraping the stone flat, a process that would take many turns of the sky to complete. Vithrok left them to it.
Tulunigraq refused to eat. Indeed if they had not brought him inside the citadel he would have spent the night at the mercy of the raging winds. He sat with his back to one of the mighty stone walls, his head lolling aimlessly on his chest. That he had injured himself in the bringing of the fireball was all the others knew. Vithrok knelt over his friend. When he saw the way Tulunigraq’s soul-light had changed, he felt ill. If there were any way to undo the damage he had caused, he would do it.
“You must eat,” he said. “Or I shall chew the meat and spit it into your mouth like any bird of the field feeds its young.”
He reached for Tulungiraq’s beak-like mouth, his injured fingers burning at the touch. A wild commotion outside caught his ear.
What new danger was this, he wondered. What new tragedy must befall them now?
He stood up, his legs tired, his whole body as weary as his spirit. There was too much noise outside. He ran down along the short corridor and emerged into the frigid air.
The Tunrit cheered, putting forth a tremendous outcry of joy. They were spread out before him, their backs to the citadel. But even so, Vithrok could see the orange glow that had appeared on the horizon. The wonder of light had come over them once more, the ball of fire rising from the east. Rising! The men swarmed around him, fighting for their chance to embrace their hero, cheering his name.
“Vithrok!” they yelled in joyous frenzy. “Truth! Light-Bringer!”
CHAPTER 25
A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS
“So, how have you been, my friend?” McPearson asked.
“Good,” said Aquppak, having a little trouble with the English syllable and cutting the word short. “Good. Fishing’s good. Lots of fish.”
They sat on bare, cold stones in front of the headman’s tent. For McPearson even the cold was preferable to the interior; he found the stench inside the tents simply unbearable.
“Good,” he returned, stretching the syllable out with a hint of his natural Scottish brogue, as it was meant to be pronounced.
“Fish are good,” replied Aquppak. “The women and children good.” He stretched the syllable with a newfound silky purr.
McPearson smiled broadly. Given a few more years, he’d have this savage conversing with a classic Glaswegian accent. He exchanged a meaningful glance with Roy Oakes, who offered his own happy smile saying, “Splendid.”
Aquppak struck McPearson as curiously young for a headman, but also a relaxed and capable sort. Oakes had described him as ‘generally all right if you could stand the smell’ and McPearson did not disagree. Aquppak owned a handsome grin and displayed it often, with a deferential little nod of the head as these fellows so often did. An adolescent hint of a mustache and beard tickling the corners of his mouth and chin contributed to his youthful appearance. Yet there was something in the off-hand glances which emerged between the smiles, something that betrayed a sly and subtle cleverness.
Having spent quite a bit of time around Company men, Aquppak had picked up a fair amount of English words. He traded a few pelts down at Pelly Bay but nothing along the magnitude the big-wigs who headed the British East Asia Company wished to initiate. The newly coroneted King Edward had a particular interest in the arctic and a distinct lack of his mother’s patience. He sent inexperienced and heavy-handed emissaries into the field, much to the chagrin and annoyance of Victoria’s more established agents. Give it time, McPearson had begged them, theses arctic natives are a reclusive and suspicious lot. Give them time. The concepts of trade and monetary exchange were completely foreign to them and they had to learn it from the bottom up.
Of course this brand of tutelage required frequent and expensive visits to the remote and ever-shifting encampments of the nomads. Progress was slow in coming, and hard-won through an eternity of harsh conditions and unbearable cold. Thi
s meeting represented a significant step — this was the first time he and his partner had been allowed to see their camp. Progress.
McPearson snickered. What did these people know of progress? Living as they did, dressed in skins and rags with nothing but a shabby tent to keep out the elements. Hygiene was unknown to them and the women, or what could be seen of them beneath greasy hair and dirt-smudged faces, did not inspire in him the desire to establish any sort of close contact. This was a fact to which Aquppak remained completely oblivious, as he put forth repeated assurances that some of these Anatatook beauties would be happy to spend time with the visiting men.
“Here she comes,” announced Aquppak in his best Queen’s English. “This is our very good shaman.”
They all stood up as the woman approached. McPearson regarded her warmly, though from the corner of his eye he noticed Oakes flinch slightly. She was hardly a pretty sight. This was the fearsome tribal shaman in all her glory — a short, serious-faced woman, dressed in a white parka decorated with rows of dangling amulets made of animal parts, mostly withered caribou ears and polar bear teeth. When she turned her head McPearson noticed that her right ear had been roughly cut away leaving an uneven stump. Overall she appeared quite savage and rather homely. McPearson had been told she was the same age as Aquppak, which was just shy of thirty, but she appeared significantly older. Unlike the headman, whose shoulder-length hair hung in long strands that often fell before his eyes, the shaman’s hair was pulled back in an uneven pony tail. McPearson resolved that upon his next visit he would gift these people with a good English scissor.
The shaman’s mouth, which was wide to begin with, widened a little more in greeting the visitors but this slightly jerky movement, overshadowed by a pair of stony, expressionless eyes, did not seem to bear friendliness of any sort.
Oakes stepped forward to shake the woman’s hand.