The Tundra Shall Burn!

by Ken Altabef

  It was near sunset when Alaana returned to the Anatatook camp. As promised, the lamps burned brightly. The dogs came out first, yapping and darting around her, and then the men and the women. And the children. As she passed through the camp, joyous shouts rose up from the riverbank and the people began cheering her success. Alaana paused as she noted the rising trails of smoke from the canvas tents of the English travelers’ encampment, which resided now several hundred paces in the distance.

  “The disease shall pass us over,” she proclaimed loudly. She paused when she reached Ben and Walter Gekko. “No one else will be harmed.”

  More shouts of praise erupted from the group.

  “Well, if you say so...” replied Gekko.

  “I’m certain of it. I smothered the demon in its own foul bedclothes.”

  Gekko smiled and nodded his head. “Killed it, did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” said Gekko. “The disease is gone. The village is safe?”

  “Yes,” repeated Alaana, becoming slightly annoyed by Gekko’s questions. “The evil is passed. But one thing is still unclear to me. Tell me why you stayed behind when your countrymen ran seeking safety?” She indicated the far-off camp.

  “Oh, yes, well I hadn’t anything to worry about,” said Gekko. “You see, I happen to be immune to the smallpox.”

  “Immune?” repeated Alaana. She had difficulty forming the English word which Gekko had used.

  “It means ‘protected’. Yes, that’s a fair word. Protected. I suffered a case of the disease when I was quite a bit younger.”

  Alaana was still puzzled.

  “So having encountered the disease once before,” Gekko continued, “I’m completely safe now. It can’t harm me again.”

  After a moment’s reflection, Alaana’s face brightened considerably. “Very good,” she added, smiling broadly. “We have something more in common than I realized, my friend. Very good! Yes, now do I begin to understand.”

  CHAPTER 3

  DEMON IN A BOTTLE

  One more drink. That was all he needed. Just one more.

  Aquppak stumbled along the frosted path, his legs unsteady. He tripped and went down on one knee in the frozen slush.

  It was a wet, miserable day but the sun was shining. Although the harsh light aggravated his headache, the warmth was welcome. Judging by the purple tint against the ice mountain at the horizon he thought it must be late afternoon already, the short spring day nearly half over.

  Aquppak felt a spurt of bile rise in his throat and wanted to vomit, but nothing came up. He tried to spit out the sour taste but his mouth was too dry. He needed a drink.

  But he was late. The Company ship had already come in. The beach, a mass of trampled slush and sand, played host to only one final barge. Still, a large number of people rushed back and forth, unloading cases of merchandise from the piles of sacks and boxes stacked along the shore. Only one barge left, waiting for a load of skins to take back to the cargo ship. The day was late and he had probably already missed out on the best trade goods. He only hoped there was still some rum left.

  He struggled to his feet. A muddy road, glistening with melted snow, threaded along the path toward the trading post. The string of low buildings bore the familiar colors of the British East Asia Company — gray clapboard walls with bright red roofs easily visible from the air or in a storm. Surrounding the post were the sod houses and ragged tents of the hangers-on, Inuit people who cleared ice from the bay and unloaded cargo when they weren’t trapping furs and begging scraps from the kabloonas. Aquppak didn’t beg. Not anymore.

  Thoughts of his miserable childhood came unbidden to his soggy brain. He thought of Alaana, the shaman. As children they had played together. They had all been great friends — Alaana, Mikisork, Iggy. And when the other children abandoned Alaana, when they feared her because she was becoming the shaman, it was only Aquppak, true and loyal Aquppak who stood beside her. He hadn’t thought about it; it was simply the thing to do. Hadn’t he himself grown up feeling like an outcast? Ah, but these were bitter memories of his childhood, things he’d rather forget. Why couldn’t he forget? With no good male in the family, only his grandfather Putuguk, weak Putuguk, old and frail and unable to hunt, Aquppak had been forced to beg food from the others, a poor orphaned boy dressed in dogskin rags. Rags. He remembered the time when they had climbed Dog Ear Ridge as children and he had saved Alaana’s life. He hadn’t thought about it. It was just a thing that men, and even boys, did.

  And then the other one came along, that brown-skinned man, Ben Thompson. Aquppak stopped to catch his breath along the uphill path to the trading post. He ran a hand through his greasy hair, forcing big breaths of the chill air into his aching lungs, though it made him feel weak and dizzy.

  Ben. Alaana had rescued him from the Yupikut raiders, Aquppak didn’t know quite how, and the two came back to the Anatatook camp, hand in hand. By this time Aquppak had begun to make something of himself. He had practiced tirelessly with the bow and the spear, and shown himself courageous and quick. He had worked hard to become one of the best hunters among the Anatatook, to wipe away the dirty smudge of memory that was the dogskin boy. He had sent Putuguk away, sent the useless old man to die alone out on the tundra. He wanted no more reminders of his childhood; he was a different man, a better man. But even though his grandfather went away, Putuguk was not really gone. Aquppak remembered him at odd times, seeing his face among a crowd, or in a pattern of the crusted snow. The old man would not leave him, would never leave him. In recent days he seemed always there, around every corner, haunting him. Putuguk had raised him, smiled at him with a mouth where only a few yellowed teeth remained, had cared for him and, unwilling to embarrass his adopted son any further, had died for him. The past could never die so easily. Why had he ever thought otherwise?

  “Leave me be, old man,” said Aquppak. “Why don’t you just leave me be?”

  He tried to spit the memory of his grandfather out onto the snow lest he choke on it, but his mouth was too dry. He needed that drink.

  He hauled open the heavy door to the post, overbalancing and nearly going down again. He clung desperately to the brass door handle for a moment, straightened himself up, and went in.

  Just inside the main door, the fur-trade room was a large rectangular area, twenty feet square, its walls lined with shelves packed with trade goods. Sacks of flour, sugar and tea, boxes of ammunition, fox traps and hunting equipment. Pots, pans, heavy clothing, snowshoes and other gear hung from hooks set along the rafters. Of course, they kept the booze out of sight.

  Without benefit of fire or stove, the big interior room was hardly any warmer than the tundra outside. A long wooden counter ran across the far end where the exchanges were made. A representative of the Company stood there and three local women inspecting the skins. Aquppak joined the line of hunters and trappers waiting their chance.

  One of the women glanced at him disapprovingly, then turned back to the skins. Aquppak thought of Alaana.

  She should have been his. He had proposed marriage to Alaana, and he would have married her when no one else would, as unbeautiful as she was, and he would have been on the sure path to supremacy among the Anatatook. But Ben had entered the picture. What did she see in him? Unbelievably she had chosen Ben over him, and that hurt. That hurt. Why would she pick that dark-skinned freak, homely and awkward, and no use at all on the hunt? He, on the other hand, was a great hunter, handsome, prized among the Anatatook. Then when he tried to take Alaana by force to show her the seriousness of his intentions, she cut him with a knife…

  Aquppak had married Ivalu out of last resort, an older woman, a widow. She was little more than a field mouse to him. He had cared nothing about her except that she mend his clothes and keep him warm at night and bear his two sons. And all the while Ben had Alaana for his wife. There was nothing he could do about it. Except work even harder. And so he rose within the ranks, by way of good deeds and prowess, to becom
e the Anatatook headman. He had a destiny to fulfill and he rose to meet it. He had earned everything he had ever wanted and deserved — reputation, place of pride, the respect of all the men and the admiration of the women. Dogskin Aquppak had finally been banished from memory forever. His family had the finest furs and food enough to spare. Now the beggar boy displayed his largesse among the less fortunate of the band, and he became known for his generosity. He had everything.

  He had visions in his head at night, of elevating the Anatatook, making them the masters of Nunatsiaq. But there was a rift among the people and only one thing stood in his way — Alaana. That was when he made his one big mistake. Getting rid of Ben should have been a simple thing. Ben was weak and didn’t know how to fight, and with him out of the way Aquppak would have another chance at bringing Alaana to his side. It should have been so easy, but the shaman had sent demons against him. That witch!

  Aquppak grunted, biting down on the pain, and stumbled backward. He felt a renewed agony every time he recalled the attack, those hideous shadow things, things that haunted his nightmares. They had surprised him, raking his skin with acid claws, snapping his bones like kindling. He knew no way to fight them as they ravaged his body, forcing him to shrink away into himself, into a pit of fear born of helplessness.

  A cold sweat broke over his skin, a wave of nausea rippled through his gut. Gahh, he shouldn’t think of it! The scars on his body told only half the tale. They had torn apart his very soul.

  He had been helpless against them, inhuman spirits of darkness, dredged forth by the vengeful shaman. And when he was broken and beaten down, when the people turned against him, a screaming mob crying out for his blood, Alaana had spared his life. Idiots! It should have ended there. Maybe Alaana had let him live only to further humiliate and debase her rival, the once-great warrior. But Aquppak was not one to lay down and die in the snow. He had resources. He had friends outside the band. And so he suffered exile. Driven away from his people, from his sons and family, from his post as headman of the Anatatook. Sent away in disgrace. In one moment, he had lost everything. And it could all be laid at Alaana’s feet. His childhood friend, his greatest enemy, Alaana had taken everything from him. She had ruined everything. If there was one thing he was going to do, he was going to get his revenge.

  “Aquppak!”

  He opened his eyes, his head pounding, still shaky on his feet.

  Henry Jackson, the assistant manager at the post, stood before him.

  “I thought I told you not to come back in here,” said Jackson. “And empty-handed to boot! You have anything to trade?”

  Aquppak feebly waved him away. “My traps are full, I’m sure of it. I’ll bring you the skins tomorrow.”

  “Your traps?” asked Jackson. “When was the last time you’ve checked them? The other men use them and move them around. You wouldn’t even find them.”

  Aquppak heard snickering and turned around. A few of the younger men had joined the line behind him. They continued laughing and shaking their heads.

  “You do that?” he asked.

  Kullabak, tall and broad at the shoulder, simply laughed again, hefting the pile of fine blue fox furs in his hands. “Uqalaitchuq taaffaqti,” he said. Stupid drunk.

  Aquppak growled with rage, bawling back a fist. Kullabak exchanged amused glances with his friends. Jackson slapped Aquppak’s hand down.

  “Don’t go starting any trouble. You’re not welcome here, begging tea and hardtack. Get out.”

  “You’re going to push me out? Just like that?” Aquppak shook his head violently. He jostled the men in line in front of him, and was shoved away.

  Then, without warning, Aquppak whirled around and swung at Kullabak. The blow missed its mark, going wide. Aquppak bent forward and, almost as an afterthought, Kullabak brought his knee up to Aquppak’s chin. Laughter roaring in his ears like thunder, Aquppak wiped at his split lip.

  “You made me bleed,” he said, stunned.

  “If such a little tap draws your blood,” returned Kullabak, “you should go and lay down and let the snow fill your mouth. Maybe go check your lines. I’ll tell you where they’re buried.”

  “I’ll get my rifle, and I’ll kill you,” said Aquppak. In truth, he didn’t even own a gun.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” said McPearson. The post manager was a large, powerfully built man with a mop of bright red hair and a ragged beard to match. He stepped between the two men, made a quick show of inspecting Kullabak’s furs, remarking on their quality. They were mostly winter skins, with long, thick hair on them. He then took up a fistful of Aquppak’s parka and drew him away.

  “I’ve been patient with you,” he said in a low voice close to Aquppak’s ear, “because I owe you my life. And Randy McPearson isn’t a man to forget that kind of debt.” Ten years earlier, while Aquppak had served as headman of the Anatatook, McPearson and his partner had come among them. In those days the traders were as helpless as babes out on the tundra and survived the ordeal solely by the good nature of the native people. Trapped in a horrific snowstorm, Aquppak had led the band to safety at significant risk to his own life. It was during that exposure, McPearson recalled, that Aquppak had lost his left ear to frost. “You were the headman--”

  “I was,” said Aquppak. “I was the headman.”

  “I know, I was there. You were brave and strong. And when you first came here an excellent trapper. But now you bring me precious few skins and you’ve drunk away all your profit.”

  “I’ll get more.”

  “Sure you will.” McPearson smiled, revealing two gold teeth. The fur trade had been good to him. “You look like you haven’t eaten in a week. I have a few yeast cakes for you, on credit. One last time. But no more. Don’t come back here with no skins. You’re stinking up the place. And don’t pick fights. Especially with Kullabak. He killed his brother-in-law, you know. Spent four years in the prison down at Halifax for it. He’s the toughest man around. He’d kill you just as well as look at you.”

  Aquppak didn’t like the way McPearson was speaking to him, as if he were a child. He began to object but the manager cut him off, saying, “You saved my life and I won’t forget it but you’re straining my patience every time you come in here empty-handed. I’m busy — lots of work to do here when the ship comes in, you know that. And I don’t want any fighting in my place. Okay?”

  Aquppak didn’t answer.

  “Alright, alright,” said McPearson, still guiding him toward the front door. “I know what you really want. I’ll give you a taste. Come round back. I don’t want anybody else to see.”

  Aquppak found his way to the rear of the building. The sun already snuggling the far horizon, it was colder outside than he thought. A taste of whisky would be fine. Of course McPearson often promised him free samples and then forgot to come outside and deliver them.

  There was a pile of fresh garbage behind the shack and with the supply ship just come, there was bound to be something there. Aquppak shooed away a pair of stray huskies picking at the pile. They yapped at him, retreated a few paces, but stayed close. The former headman continued rooting around in the garbage, trying to ignore the voice of Putuguk that spoke inside his head, saying, “Beggar boy, beggar boy.”

  “Leave me be!” he moaned.

  At last he found an empty fifth of rum, with a few swallows still left in the bottom. Aquppak sucked it down greedily, feeling the warmth tickle his empty belly. He settled down on the pile and closed his eyes. Maybe McPearson would make good on his word and bring a little more.

  His mind drifted, thinking of the Anatatook, his two sons who still lived with the band and had seen their father run off in disgrace, and eventually back to Alaana.

  There was no hope for it. He could live with his fall from power and having lost everything else. But the worst pain of all was his stark rejection by Alaana. Alaana. He would never forgive her for that. He could hardly bear the thought of it even now, all these years later.

&nbs
p; A kick in the ribs startled him awake.

  “Maybe I should just let you freeze to death here in the snow,” said a man, his back to the setting sun, his outline framed in dark silhouette.

  “Maybe,” grumbled Aquppak.

  The man hauled him up. “Come. I have food and a fire.”

  CHAPTER 4

  MASKS

  “Did I ever say the life of a shaman was easy?” Nunavik had asked her that, so many years ago.

  No, thought Alaana. No, you never did.

  Alaana took a long, weary breath. She was tired. The battle with the fever demon had taken a lot out of her, a reminder that she was neither as young nor as strong as she used to be. At thirty-nine winters she had most likely reached the mid-point of her existence on this world. That is, if she was lucky enough to live a full lifetime. As a shaman such things were never to be taken for granted. Just a few days ago she had thought for certain she was going to be killed by the demon. But somehow — seemingly by lucky chance alone, as Gekko had explained it — she had not only survived but managed to win out, protecting her people from danger. The disease had passed them over completely, and already Tunnillie’s blisters had begun to heal and crust with bright yellow scabs. The children were safe.

  The Anatatook were ready to travel once again along the game trail, following behind the wandering herds of caribou. Alaana spent the morning arranging the ceremonial masks in her karigi, a large tent in the center of the Anatatook temporary encampment. Tikiqaq, her faithful tupilaq, shuffled back and forth on its hind flippers dragging the heavy masks and getting repeatedly underfoot.

  For twenty-six winters Alaana had served as shaman, and over that time each of these masks had become either old friends or grudging allies. She ran her fingers along the antlers adorning the mask honoring Tekkeitsertok, the guardian turgat of hooved game animals. Alaana would soon don this mask in solemn ceremony in order to travel to the Wild Wood, the spiritual realm of Tekkeitsertok. In the spirit’s great wooden bower she would seek a small favor, some assurance that her band might find a nearby herd for their sustenance. And she would pay for this promise of game with a tribute of piety and sincere respect.