by Ken Altabef
He felt a pang of withdrawal as the last few droplets of Beforetime parted from his skin to splash the black volcanic stone underfoot, then rolled like quicksilver seeking the pool in the cistern. He could hardly bear them to leave him. In their wake his skin was pale and dead. Another cage. This corpse, animated by his force of will alone, a husk of wooden flesh, its hands charred from when they had dared to touch the sun. Reminders, reminders.
He shook one last drop of quicksilver so that it fell directly in front of him and then paused to fashion it into a simulacrum of his old friend Tugto. In an instant the Tunrit shaman stood before him, tall and well-muscled beneath his furs of mammoth skin.
“Ah Tugto,” said Vithrok, “my…” He hesitated. The word ‘betrayer’ came quickly to mind but remained unvoiced. “My friend.”
Tugto didn’t say anything. Vithrok could make him speak, of course. He could make Tugto say anything he wanted. The very sight of him struck hard. The overlarge head of the Tunrit warrior maintained its usual proud bearing, the overhanging brow and deep-set eyes, the thick, flattened nose and lips. Reminders.
“You told me not to do it,” Vithrok said, waving a clawed, blackened hand in front of the figure. “You tried to stop me.”
Tugto didn’t say anything.
“Come along,” said Vithrok. “Walk with me.”
The two passed along the broad hallway, its arches and walls glittering with exquisite carvings of Tunrit design. They walked the spiral stair, Vithrok forcing his dead legs to work for him, and compelling Tugto to follow. He took a deep, and unnecessary, breath of the arctic air. Tasteless, unsatisfying.
At the top of the citadel they entered the small circular room where Vithrok undertook his great work. The dome of pure Beforetime seethed and writhed overhead, leaving only a small opening at the very apex through which shone the Never Moves, the North Star, directly above.
Draped across the volcanic rock walls of this circular chamber were an oozing jungle of chords, cables and bloodied tendons. These were the stretched-out remains of the soul of Balikqi, a shaman of the white bears of the Ice Mountain. Vithrok had broken the venerable shaman’s soul into hundreds of pieces. Some had been tortured for amusement; others had simply been consumed or left to wander, confused, throughout the citadel. But this piece, in its current configuration was truly useful.
What remained of Balikqi in this chamber had been transformed into a tool. A device with which Vithrok could throw open the sky.
The Tunrit sorcerer took his place at the top of his palace, and bade the tortured remainder of the bear’s soul to do his bidding.
“Autdlarpoq!”
The night sky parted like a curtain of thick black smoke to reveal an immense web. This complicated system of ethereal fibers, illuminated in silver-blue, stretched all the way from the citadel up into the vast reaches of sky above.
“You see?” he said to the silent figure of Tugto. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
And it was. The vast and intricate tapestry, visible only to the spirit-vision of the sorcerer, extended across the very vault of the heavens themselves, securing a foothold around the Moon and then off into the Outer Darkness.
Tugto didn’t say anything. No smile crossed his lips or twitched his whiskers. Vithrok could make him smile, if he wanted.
Vithrok placed his hands, stiff and corrupted as they were, into the very stuff of the web where it originated from the lip of the open-air chamber. He began to stretch his consciousness out along the mystical fibers. “What do you say to that, you pathetic wretch?”
Tugto didn’t say anything.
“Look at it! Ten winters I have stood here. Time is nothing. A plaything to me.”
That was decidedly untrue. Vithrok knew that Time was his darkest enemy, brought forth into this world when he had set the sun in the sky.
He threw his spirit into the web. With the utmost concen-tration he quested out along the silvery strands of psychic energy.
“I can feel it there,” said Vithrok. “The Thing That Was Cast Out. It sings to me. Even now I hold it in my hands. And I pull!”
He cast an inquisitive glance at Tugto. The simulacrum remained unimpressed.
“Stupid thing,” Vithrok muttered. “You stand there looking just like an unhappy fish!” He dissolved Tugto back into a dollop of Beforetime and breathed it in. For an instant, Time stood still. A warm rush of renewed energy sparked his soul. Here was strength enough to continue his task.
After ten winters, the Thing was held firmly in his grip. And he had begun to pull it closer, using the secrets Balikqi’s tortured soul had revealed to him. The celestial bodies were nearly in alignment, weight and counter weight, the Moon itself the main point of leverage.
At point of contact, the soul of the wretched Thing brushed against his own. Its sibilant whisper magnified to a terrible shout. Vithrok bit back against the pain. Its hatred and anger was almost impossible to bear. He felt it searing white-hot against his own soul.
Still he pulled, straining at the web like an animal.
At the other end the writhing ball of utter darkness gave way, just a little. It squealed with delight.
“I hear you!” roared Vithrok.
He pulled again, and again.
Amid the delighted gasps from the Thing, another voice reached his ears. It was weak, coming from far away, dry and faltering with extreme age. “This is folly.”
Vithrok’s hackles pricked up. That voice brought a flare of anger and disdain, dredged up out of his own distant past. It was the voice of the real Tugto, an ancient Tunrit shaman, speaking from his resting place up in the sky.
“Not so,” said Vithrok. “One day soon the sun will rise, unsuspecting, for the final time. It will take up its journey across the sky, marking Time for the last time. And its crimson orb will look down upon me, Vithrok, the last of the Tunrit, and I will look back and I will smile as I bring down that forgotten finger, that dark thumb to do it right in the eye!”
“Another mistake. You can not … stop Time… nor move it backward,” said the haunting, disembodied voice.
“I brought it here, and I’ll make it stop. It will work!”
“Your plan… can not succeed. Blotting out the sun… won’t bring back the Beforetime.”
“Of course not,” said Vithrok. “For that great and wondrous task, I shall need the Raven.”
The voice of Tugto fell silent.
“Ah,” said Vithrok. “Didn’t think of that, did you?”
CHAPTER 8
OUTBOUND
Alaana cinched down the last strap, securing her provisions low to the center of the small one-woman sled. She traveled light, carrying mostly food for the dogs. Even with six dogs in harness the journey to the Ice Mountain would take at least three sleeps along the soft trail. It would be hard work for the huskies and she would need to feed them well. The dogs, already in harness, seemed restless to depart. Tuneq, the lead male, snapped angrily at the others to keep them in line.
“Stay here!” Alaana commanded, knowing she shouldn’t leave them for too long.
The dogs continued their tussling and yapping. She could have used someone to help watch them. But then again, she was the shaman.
Alaana drew a deep breath, invoking the peace of mind that enabled the spirit-vision. She looked upon the dogs with these special eyes, their souls revealed to her in all their wonder as scintillating spheres of blue-gray light centered in each animal’s chest. They were so honest and loyal and true. They were simple and they were happy.
“Sit still, my friends,” she whispered in the secret language used by the shamans, a tongue that spoke directly to the soul. “I’ve just one last thing to do and then we’ll fly across the snow. You’ll run and run and run. Then I will feed you until bellies full. I promise. Just stay a moment.”
The dogs settled down. Alaana kicked a spike into the slush and secured the lead trace. The flank dogs might bicker a little, but she would return before Tuneq had a
chance to pull up that stake.
Alaana set off across the camp. She had already said good-bye to her two grown children Noona and Kinak, but there was one other she wished to visit.
She found Tama playing on the flat bank of the river with Talliituk, the daughter of Kala and Mikisork. The two girls had found a small wooden hoop, probably broken off a barrel left behind by some long-gone kabloona caravan. The children rolled the hoop back and forth in the slush, making patterns with the deep ruts it left behind.
“Good morning,” said Alaana. Talliituk’s mother Kala returned her greeting with a pleasant smile. Her small, perfectly round face looked beautiful in the early light of spring, her cheeks flushed by the chill breeze. Kala had married Mikisork, a boy to whom Alaana had been promised as a child. Their marriage had been called off when Alaana became the first female shaman in the northlands. She had been a young girl, looking out over the tundra with an uncertain future and a broken heart.
Years later Alaana had journeyed to the Moon to beg a pregnancy for Kala from the Moon Maid. The Moon Maid, a true romantic at heart, had played a trick on them all. Little Talliituk didn’t resemble Kala in the least, and Alaana suspected the mischievous fertility goddess had given Kala the child she and Mikisork might have had if she hadn’t become the shaman. If she had been allowed a normal life. Kala and her husband had named the child Talliituk in honor of a fallen comrade.
Alaana would never regret her decision to marry Ben, but her own children had both been tainted by her calling. Noona, with her strange silver-toned eyes, was haunted by visions, though she would speak little of them; and her son Kinak, strong in body but not quite right in the head, suffered unearthly horrors as well.
But Alaana had come to the river to see Tamuanuaq. As always, her heart leapt at sight of the girl’s sweet little face. Though Alaana loved all children, this one was truly special to her. Tama possessed the soul of her former daughter of the same name, who had been killed by the vengeance of the Whale-Man and then restored to this body by her guardian spirit Tsungi. Although names passed down through the generations, bearing their special gifts, Alaana had never seen a case where an individual’s entire soul was reborn to walk the snows a second time. Tama was, and had always been, a marvel to her. Now at ten winters, Alaana was able to watch her develop into the young lady her daughter would have become.
Tama was being raised by her mother Tooky and her adopted father Iggy. Alaana paused to exchange some light conversation with the couple.
“A good day for a journey,” suggested Iggy.
“I suppose,” returned Alaana.
“Oh, cheer up,” said Iggy. He was a huge man, sometimes called the Big Mountain, though now at forty winters there was quite a bit of fat hugging his muscle. “Look at this,” he said, smiling. “The three of us and our children. And springtime again.” He indicated Alaana, Mikisork and himself, all of whom had been inseparable as children.
“The four of us, in springtime,” said Alaana wistfully. “Those were happy days for me.”
“Happy days for all of us,” said Mikisork, “Now I’m already starting to feel the weight of my years in my bones, and our children are nearly grown.”
“Four?” asked Tooky. “Alaana, you said four.”
“Yes,” said Alaana, “we were always four. We’re just missing Aquppak.”
Iggy groaned. “Good riddance. I need him like I need a second hole in my bottom.” Iggy grinned his old, carefree grin, turning his prodigious backside toward the group. Mikisork laughed. Tookymingia clucked her tongue and told him to stop.
The four of us and our children, thought Alaana. Aquppak had two sons as well, still living among the Anatatook as children of an outcast. Mikisork had fathered the daughter Alaana might have had with him, and Iggy was raising Alaana’s lost daughter, returned from death itself. What a crazy world.
“We haven’t seen the last of Aquppak,” said Alaana, “He’ll be back.”
“I hope not,” said Iggy.
Alaana took her leave. She found her dogs restless and bickering, her tupilaq and her family gathered around her sled. Her son Kinak was trying to quiet the big lead dog, who had torn loose from the stake.
“Do you have to leave today?” asked Maguan.
“Yes,” said Alaana.
She noted an unusually sharp tone to her brother’s words as if he were trying to make her feel guilty for leaving them this way. Maguan’s face, much longer and sadder than in former years, hinted at desperation. It was the headman’s responsibility to see that the people didn’t starve. But it was difficult to locate a migrating herd among the infinite expanses of snow and ice unless the shaman provided clear direction.
“The men are getting restless,” said Kigiuna.
“We need to find the herd,” said Maguan. “Have you nothing for us?”
“Nothing,” said Alaana. “I’ve asked many times, but Tekkeitsertok doesn’t bother to answer. I’m sorry.” She didn’t want to say any more on the matter. Alaana tried not to discuss spiritual matters with the people, not even her brother. The spirit world was a dangerous place. They should know and obey the taboos and that was all. They didn’t need to know that a Tunrit sorcerer lay in wait for them, plotting and planning their destruction. They didn’t need to know a monstrous fist hung over them, waiting to come crashing down.
But they did need food and she was supposed to find the herd for them and convince Tekkeitsertok, lord of the hooved beasts, to agree to a successful hunt. To that end she had made obeisance with sage and star anise in order to beg that great and venerable spirit for his assistance. All of that, with no luck at all.
Kigiuna slapped his thigh in frustration. “We stand very close to the edge,” he said. “Hunger times beckon. You don’t remember the lean years we had before you were born. If we don’t make a big kill now — while there is still time — we’ll be all year struggling to catch up. And if we don’t fill up the stores before winter--”
“Do you think we don’t know that?” snapped Maguan.
“You don’t know!” returned their father. “You don’t know what happens to men in the long winter dark without food. They turn on themselves like animals. Even the best of us. Bad times are coming.”
Alaana had the same feeling, but wouldn’t admit it. “Winter is still far off. I’m sure we’ll have a spring hunt, and it will be a good one.”
“I know,” said Kigiuna, backing off. “And I know you two will handle it. I only want to make sure you take the situation in hand, and treat it seriously.”
“I’ll try again,” Alaana promised, “as soon as I return.”
“And when will that be?” demanded Maguan. “Must you leave now? You’re not Old Manatook you know.”
What did he mean by that, Alaana wondered. Her predecessor Old Manatook had split his time, serving as shaman for both the Anatatook and the bears of the Ice Mountain as well. And he had let no one starve. But those were different times. There had been more shamans for one thing, and better ones. Now it was just her. And doing a poor job of it as usual.
“Father’s right. Something is wrong,” said Alaana with a gesture out toward the horizon, “and it’s my fault.”
“You blame yourself for too much,” said Maguan. “Everything isn’t your fault.”
“This is,” insisted Alaana, “I’m the only one who can set it right.”
“Very well. If you must go, you must go,” allowed Maguan, forcing a half-smile. “Meantime, I’ll send out scouts and we’ll see what we can see. Maybe we’ll catch the northbound caribou at the Forked River. You know, sometimes I wish we’d accepted Sir Gekko’s offer. With those rifles we could take the caribou at a distance and be sure of our stores.”
“We can’t do that,” said Alaana. “Such disrespect will anger Tekkeitsertok for certain, and the vengeance of the spirits is swift and unrelenting.”
Maguan frowned, an expression that had become much too common on his face these days. “Sometimes I thi
nk the spirits are not on our side at all.”
“They’re not,” said Alaana. “You make a big mistake if you think them merciful or kind. They have neither affection nor concern for human beings. They don’t have to be fair, or even reasonable. They existed in the Before, before human beings, before the Tunrit, before everything. And I assure you, we are nothing to them. Nothing. Occasionally they take pity on a poor shaman’s plea. That’s all. Men have no guardian spirit to speak for us as do the caribou, the bear, or the other beasts.”
“Why don’t we have a guardian spirit?” asked Maguan. “It seems like some sort of cruel joke.”
“Perhaps that’s all it is,” replied Alaana. “A joke. I don’t know. Maybe you should ask the Raven, lord of all of nature’s cruel jokes. Not that such a spirit would bother to answer. Their passions and appetites are not for us to know. The spirits are as spiteful and careless as a storm out on the tundra. What use is there in crying out to the sea not to freeze you? What good in asking the lake not to drown you, or the ice not to close over your head?”
“You can sway them,” pointed out Kigiuna.
“Sometimes,” agreed Alaana. “On my knees. More often than not, my pleas fall on deaf ears and cold hearts. But angered, they will bring us low. That’s for certain. No guns for the hunt.”
“If you say so,” said Maguan. “Anyway, maybe we can get a whale this year. That would be good too.”
Alaana turned away. The previous headman had ruined whaling for them, probably forever, by abusing the taboos. Alaana’s relationship to the Whale-Man had been destroyed, resulting in the death of her daughter. The Anatatook had not caught a whale in ten years. All of them suffered for it, but for Maguan, who had always held a great love of whaling, it was especially tragic. He had finally become the premier whaling captain, but the only whale they ever got was one trapped in the ice and already suffocated. Another failure.
“I can promise no such thing,” Alaana said. “And I don’t have time for any more talk.”