The Tundra Shall Burn!

by Ken Altabef

  When he reached the outskirts of the Iakkut encampment, Vithrok dropped his cloak of snow. The people of the camp, already running before the blustery wind, cried out in sudden alarm. Vithrok cast his spear, the huge flint point taking a man full in the chest, and running through the one who stood behind, killing two men in one stroke. Vithrok swung down from his mount, the name-soul of Kritlaq hovering at his shoulder, a blood-red ball.

  The maguruq snorted and shuffled its pointed, cloven hooves on the ground. It gathered its powerful hindlegs and leapt, landing on a pair of men with an earth-shaking crash. One man went down, trampled beneath the cloven hooves. The great beast turned its snout to the other and lunged, taking the man’s upper body between its jaws all the way to the waist. It bit down with a shattering crunch which left the lower half of the body dangling from its mouth by strands of severed muscle and intestines. The maguruq shook its thick neck and the groin and legs flew off to the side trailing red gore. The beast rocked its top-heavy shoulders from side to side, and reared its head back. It parted crimson-stained teeth to let loose its distinctive howl.

  The Iakkut people looked on in horror, all the fight already drained out of them.

  “Where is your headman?” asked Vithrok.

  One of the Iakkut pointed toward the severed body, saying, “That was him.”

  Vithrok placed his boot on the flank of one of the men he had downed and pulled his spear free.

  “And the shaman?” he asked.

  “I am here,” said a man. Vithrok turned. The shaman was small, even for a human, and dark skinned. His nose was unusually thick and wide, his short legs bowed. His parka was adorned by rows of eagle feathers about the shoulders and waistline, and his boots trimmed with the same. He wore a birdskin cap, with the beak of an eagle at the front.

  The little man stood uncertainly before Vithrok, already aware that his time had come. Vithrok noted the shaman’s angakua, a feeble light at best, nesting within his chest.

  “Tiff…” the little man stammered, “Tifamia…”

  “Tifmiaqpak, The Great Gray Eagle,” said Vithrok, “will not be coming to your aid this day. But you already knew that. What you don’t know is why.”

  The shaman put his trembling hand to his mouth, chewing on the fingers in a pathetic way. “Why? Why would he forsake me?”

  “Tifmiaqpak won’t be able to help you,” said Vithrok, “because he is already mine. I took his soul half a moon ago, just as I am going to take your own.”

  Fear ignited in the shamans eyes. As fear and doubt are lethal to any shaman, he was as good as dead already.

  Vithrok held up a hand, clenched in a tight fist. The Iakkut shaman stood frozen in place, unable to move. The sorcerer ran his eyes along the remainder of the villagers. Some cowered behind tents and sleds loaded with equipment, others fingered their weapons hesitantly. All paid close attention to the scene. Always it was the same; they expected their shaman to save them.

  “Ikiruq!” said Vithrok, calling the shaman’s body to flame. The shaman’s furs ignited, burning with white hot flame that instantly rendered the skins to ash. The little shaman screamed as his skin burned but, still held fast in place, he was helpless to do anything but suffer. “Fire,” Vithrok said. “The gift of Raven.”

  Vithrok released his hold. The Iakkut shaman ran three jittery steps, screaming, and fell down dead into the snow. The flames fizzled, sending gouts of steam up as the fire extinguished. The shaman’s soul, released from the body, tried to take flight but Vithrok raised his fist again. Taking hold of the shaman’s inua, he regarded it carefully. The special light was there, the shaman’s light, a tiny dollop of the Beforetime.

  Vithrok tore the angakua free and held its light in his hand. Though none of the others could see, to his spirit-vision it appeared as a glittering ball of quicksilver, ebbing and flowing with liquid light. He became mesmerized by the rare colors, the ever-changing nature of it. One of the Iakkut sensed an opportunity and hurled a hunting knife. The blade grazed Vithrok’s shoulder, parting the rotten furs he wore. A well-thrown spear struck him in the chest but was turned aside by the rows of animal teeth that covered his war shirt.

  Vithrok didn’t even notice these attacks. He drew the Beforetime inside himself where it merged for safekeeping with his own inua. It tasted like strawberries. He felt a rush as if he were soaring above country, flying free, the world once again full of infinite possibility. He felt the bliss of liquid starshine flowing in his veins.

  The feeling passed quickly. This man had not been much of a shaman. His people looked on, afraid to engage the giant Tunrit or his horrific beasts any further. Obviously they hoped he might be satisfied by the death of the shaman and leave.

  Perhaps the name of Kritlaq thought the same, for it asked, “Are we finished?”

  “No. Take his body,” Vithrok told Kritlaq. “We have more work to do.”

  The name-soul did not hesitate. It flowed into the charred corpse which lay face down, simmering in the wet snow. Kritlaq urged the dead muscles to action, making what was left of the body to stand up, a horrific figure, seared flesh hanging in strands, foaming gristle dripping.

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Kritlaq. Its voice sounded thick and soupy as most of the tongue had burned away.

  “Now we kill all the rest. Kill them all, every woman and child.”

  Vithrok urged his maguruq to action. Their natural instinct was to rip and rend, and he had only to release them from restraint. The magnificent beasts charged through the camp, turning their jaws on every living body they could find, crushing them and tearing them apart at a whim. The tents and meat rack went flying, shattered as the great beasts leapt again and again, talons raking and slashing, lost in a frenzy of bloodlust as they chewed their hapless victims to bits.

  Kritlaq moved among the wreckage with a bloody spear point, ending anyone wounded or trapped beneath the collapsed structures.

  Someone let the huskies loose. The dogs ran wild through the place, barking and howling. They nipped at the maguruq’s legs, but neither claw nor fang could penetrate the thick hide they found there. The maguruq made short work of them all, tearing them to pieces, biting through flesh and bone as one. One of the monsters took three huskies in its mouth at once and its dagger-like teeth clamped shut, spraying blood in a wide fan, then shook its head to whip hot, sticky blood into the air.

  Easily routed, the remaining Iakkut and their women tried to flee. Where they might go, out on the featureless plain, or how they might hope to survive, they gave no thought. Vithrok summoned force of will. He raised both hands, commanding the very stone of the earth to rise up in a ring around the camp, shaping the stones into sharp edges pointing inward. The stones shrieked and grated as he twisted their spirits, but Vithrok was already drunk on his heady draught of Beforetime. None could escape the thorny wall of stone.

  He scanned the area with his spirit-vision. When he could see no more living souls he quieted his maguruq and signaled to Kritlaq.

  Kritlaq forced the dead shaman’s body to move, but the crusted joints and flaking sinews were slow to respond.

  “Wait!” said Vithrok. “There is one more, a young boy hiding under the tent there. Finish him Kritlaq and be quick about it.”

  The burning man pulled aside the thick double-layer caribou hide. The boy tried to run but slipped in the snow. Kritlaq ran him through with the spear.

  “What now?” Klah Kritlaq asked.

  “Now we wait. Tulukkaruq can not long ignore such a feast as this.”

  CHAPTER 16

  HIDDEN DANGERS

  The sea.

  The soul of the sea, so immense and powerful a spirit, surrounded them, enveloped them, held them close. Its pale blue-green luminescence went on and on, stretching as far as the eye could behold, which seemed an eternity. Nunavik had forgotten how wonderful it felt to be nestled in its loving embrace. This soul was so vast its touch could only vaguely be felt; benign and peaceful, it promi
sed a safe haven for all, it promised peace, it whispered absolution.

  The sea was alive with other souls, a multitude of lights rushing by. So much life. Nunavik had forgotten this too. Sunlight spilled down through the drifting floes above, painting vivid pictures with the colorful algae that grew on the undersurface of the ice. Schools of cod and halibut, their souls yellow, white and tan, flowed beneath the ice, nipping at the algae. So many different fish, different souls. Some stately and reserved, others curious and playful. In his time he had known them all. Now they were distant memories, estranged relations, old friends.

  The lake children shared his amazement. For them everything was both new and wonderful.

  “Stay close,” said Nunavik. “There are dangers here, more than you know. We’ll just have a quick look around and then I’ll signal for Taamnapkunami to bring us back.”

  Ikik blundered into a mass of deep sea tuna, batting them with his flippers in a sort of a game the gigantic fish did not appreciate.

  “Don’t do that!” said Nunavik.

  Uuna found herself with a jellyfish on the tip of her nose.

  “Watch out. They sting,” said Nunavik. He spun madly around, trying to keep up with the three. Ikik took a bite out of an unsuspecting sea urchin.

  “Where’s the octopus?” asked Siqi. “I want to see it.”

  “All this and you need an octopus too?” remarked Nunavik.

  He suddenly heard Uuna cry out. She was flanked by two ghastly creatures. They were as long, if not as plump, as the lake children, crusted with barnacles and sharp, glistening scales. Each had a gaping mouth set in its armored head, clacking jaws full of needle teeth. Their sleek forms cut the water with knife-like movements. These were the guardians of the deep, Sedna’s pets.

  “Time’s up!” shouted Nunavik. He ignored the protests of the lakespawn as he centered himself, concentrating force of will on one solitary pinpoint of the water. He thought hard, turning the inua of the droplet from sea’s blue-green to the pale blue light of the secret lake. In this way he opened his lifeline to the Lowerworld.

  “Taamnapkunami,” he called “Taamnapkunami!”

  He stared desperately into that little pinpoint of light. “Taamnapkunami, you old fool. Bring us back!”

  A large crimson figure cut in front of him. It goggled at him with a pair of pitiless black eyes. Kktakaluk, Sedna’s mate, was a giant sea scorpion twice the size of a man. It was blood red in color, a living horror of spines, claws and armor plating. It reached a giant claw toward Nunavik.

  The walrus, moving swiftly for such a bulky creature, evaded the strike. A thorny set of mandibles wavered as the scorpion spoke, saying, “You should not have come here.”

  Nunavik had lost the pinpoint of pale blue light. But it must still be there.

  “Taamnapkunami, you idiot! Wake up!”

  Kktakaluk slashed forward with its sharp, spavined tail, nearly cutting Nunavik in half. The lake children, oblivious to his plight, were being corralled by the pair of gargoyle fish circling quickly about them. They did, however, witness the Sea Mother as she appeared out of the swirling waves. Sedna was too magnificent not to see.

  Dreadful Sedna, sharp-boned, high-cheeked, hawk-nosed. Her hair was wild and dark, strewn with strands of seaweed and kelp that writhed in the water like snakes; her flesh shone a scaly green, slick with sea slime. Her eyes were like knives, her mouth cruel, her lips thin and blue, forming a crusty cave in which resided the dagger-teeth of a barracuda.

  She was said to be the daughter of two giants, born with such an uncontrollable urge for flesh that she tried to devour her parents in their sleep. Or perhaps she was a young beauty forced to marry an elderly neighbor, who by some trick turned out to be a monstrous carrion bird, leaving her no route of escape except into the salty depths. Or perhaps, as others said, she was a poor orphan girl mistreated by her community and cast into the sea by the other children, who cut off her fingers as she clung desperately to the side of the kayak.

  Her hard, cold fish-eyes glared at Nunavik, unblinking. Her hair was a tousled mess, having accumulated the sins of men. Any visiting shaman was expected to immediately brush all the broken taboos from her head. Nunavik wished he had brought a comb.

  “She’s glorious!” remarked Uuna.

  “That she is,” said Nunavik.

  “Not for you,” Sedna said. “For you I am slow death come to call.”

  “Wait just a minute,” said Nunavik. He backpedalled with his broad tail fin, describing a little circle out of the way of the scorpion’s claw. Before he could say more, Sedna seized him. She used the water as her weapon, enveloping the golden walrus in a constricting band of extreme pressure. Crushing to death, thought Nunavik, that was her favorite way of killing.

  “Wait!” he cried. “I can explain.”

  “Explain the death of my daughter?” sneered Sedna. “I don’t think you can.”

  She turned her attention to the lake children. Still maintaining pressure on the walrus she asked, “But what creatures are these? I have never seen their like before.”

  Uuna did a little flip in the water. Siqi paddled around behind Ikik.

  “Where do they come from?” asked Sedna.

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” boomed a great voice from behind. They all spun round to see the Whale-Man fast approaching from the rear.

  Usinuagaaluk, the guardian spirit of the whales, was the most gigantic creature Nunavik had ever seen. Even in the vastness of the seascape his immense form blotted out half the sea. His hide was completely black, except for an irregular pattern of white skin splashed across the lower lip which gave the impression of a beard suitable for such an eternal spirit. His glistening skin shone with starshine that matched a twinkling in his massive eyes.

  He pointed his rostrum directly at the walrus. His mouth, full of glittering baleen, opened slightly. “Where do they come from?”

  “Never you mind,” said Sedna. “They belong to me.” Though she appeared tiny in the shadow of the gigantic Whale-Man she stood fearfully erect, her sea-green scales bristling, her eyes glowering. Sedna was not a spirit to trifle with.

  “But I do mind,” said Usinuagaaluk. “They look like whales to me.”

  “They aren’t,” insisted Sedna. “Unless you’ve been up to some deviltry behind my back. They are fish of the sea, and everything in these waters belongs to me.”

  “Except for the whales,” said the Whale-Man. “Do you need reminding?”

  Sedna released the walrus from her grasp as the Whale-Man charged.

  In the massive shock wave, Kktakaluk was batted carelessly aside. Nunavik ducked under as he passed, narrowly avoiding another sweep of the claw.

  The Whale-Man smashed into Sedna. The Mistress of the Sea stood firm, easily withstanding the attack. She gave no ground at all. Raising her slender arms and fingerless hands, she pushed back against the gigantic whale spirit. The huge whale tilted backward, letting out a grunt that shook the waves.

  “Run, children!” said Nunavik. “Hurry. Fly away!”

  The Whale-Man’s gigantic fluked tail smashed down into the sea-bed. The ground cracked, sending coral scattering all over the place. A multitude of fish, suddenly uncovered, flitted this way and that, and a large octopus was unearthed. Nunavik hoped Siqi hadn’t seen it, but in the upraised cloud of silt he could no longer see the orange forms of the lakespawn. He hoped they were getting away.

  He heard Sedna grunt and then shout, “Leave off, you witless fool!”

  And with that Nunavik retreated into his left tusk. The actual tusk fragment was still held in the physical world by Alaana. But as his spirit-form resembled exactly his once-living body, the left tusk bore the image of the sigils carved into the physical tusk long ago, runes that allowed him to hide his soul within the tusk. In a state of panic, Nunavik withdrew, like a flower collapsing inward on itself, folding the entirety of his spirit-form into the spirit-tusk. The rest of his golden body disappeared from si
ght. The fragment of spirit-tusk drifted down into the settling silt.

  Gekko read the letter again and again. He was well used to decoding messages and rooting out secrets, but his wife remained a mystery to him in so many ways. She wrote plainly and from the heart, and yet no matter how much time he spent with the paper, poring over each word as an oracle, trying to decipher its true hidden meanings, he came no closer to understanding.

  The letter was dated 12th March, 1905. Three months ago, he noted. It had been shipped and sailed and carried and dragged by the hands of more men than he could count, to wind up with him, warm and cozy in the ‘white man’s room’ at Old Bea.

  He sniffed at the fine silk paper but there was no lingering trace of any perfume; all scent of home and hearth had been leeched away during the letter’s long journey. Gekko studied his wife’s elegant, carefully crafted script. The hand was sure, showing neither weakness nor the slightest tremor. For a woman with so little time she took plenty of care in writing him. She paid attention to small details like that. The letter read:

  ‘Dearest Husband,

  ‘Spring has come at last to Derbyshire. The birds sing me awake every morning, the buds on the trees whisper to me their promises of renewal. I can’t wait to see them all come to bloom. It shall be glorious. A few crocuses have already opened up, adding a startling touch of yellow to the east-facing garden. The weather has been fine, just perfect for long walks among the early blooms. Of course these walks have me thinking of you always and wishing you could be here with me.

  ‘Don’t take offense at that, as surely none was meant. I understand completely why you must be precisely where you are and why you must remain. But I do miss you terribly. And besides, your presence here could do little for me in the end. Enough talk of that, I won’t crowd this letter with such tidings.’

  Gekko felt a pang of guilt as solid and real as a bare-knuckled fist to the face. A childless wife, waiting for him in a gabled house in Paddington Road. Margaret was a small, delicate creature with blue eyes and a sad smile. He had so long been away, this their second year apart. There it was. She had purposely instructed him not to feel guilty and that made his dereliction all the more plain and miserable.