Nowhere: Volume II of the Collected Short Stories and Novellas of Ian R. MacLeod

by Ian R. MacLeod

  I think he was probably the figure I saw roped to the whalebone stake, which I suppose means that he must be some kind of criminal or scapegoat. The tribe has obviously moved south and left him behind. I recall the stories of how the Eskimo are supposed to leave their ill, elderly and unwanted outside in winter for the cold and the wolves to finish off.

  He wants more. If he can devour unheated pemmican like this, he must be very hungry.

  But he can’t be too ill.

  Evening

  I’ve made a stupid assumption. My Eskimo-thief is a woman.

  October 24

  The storm has died down. The twilight is deepening but I still get the sun for a few hours around noon and the bay as yet hasn’t iced over.

  My Eskimo-thief is called Tirkiluk. I discovered her sex when, after she’d finally finished eating, she pulled down the saucepan from over the stove with some effort, unwound her furs and squatted over it to urinate. She’s terribly malnourished. Painfully bare ribs, a swollen belly.

  October 27

  Hard to tell under all those layers of fur, but Tirkiluk seems to be improving. She still mostly wanders up and down the ashen shore muttering to herself, or sits rocking on her haunches under a sort of awning that she’s rigged up in front of the hut out of canvas from the supply shed and driftwood from the shore. Did I really save her life? Was she abandoned by the tribe. Was I just interfering?

  October 29

  The supply ship came today. The Silverdale Glen. Tirkiluk started shrieking Kaboola!, and I ran out from the hut and saw the red and green lights bobbing out in the of the bay. Thought for one odd moment that the stars were moving.

  I got many knowing looks from the sailors when they saw Tirkiluk sitting on a rock down the beach. Many of them fished these waters before the war, and of course there are the stories about Eskimo wives being offered as a gesture of hospitality. So, and despite her appearance, the crew of the Silverdale Glen assume that I’ve taken Tirkiluk to comfort me through the months of Arctic night, and I know that any attempts at denial would have been counter-productive.

  They’ve gone now, and I’m alone for the winter. It’s likely as not, I suppose, that word of Tirkiluk will get back to Godalming.

  November 1

  Went out to collect water this morning. The storm of the past few days has died entirely, and waves are sluggish, black as Chinese lacquer. Down on the shore, discovered that the water around the rocky inlet where the river discharges has formed a crust of ice. You can almost feel the temperature dropping, the ancient weight of the dark palaeocrystic ice cap bearing down through the mountains, the weather changing, turning, tightening, notch by notch by notch. Soon, I think, the whole bay will freeze over.

  Tirkiluk still sits outside.

  November 6

  Tirkiluk and I are making some progress in our attempts to converse. Her language bears little resemblance to the Inuit I was taught, although she’s surprisingly adept at picking up English. Often, as I try to explain what the place I come from is like, and about the war and my monitoring of the weather, or when she describes the myths and rovings and bickerings of her tribe, we meet half-way. Don’t think anyone who overheard would understand a word of it, and a great deal of it is still lost between us. She seems to speak with affection for the tribe, and ignores my attempts to discover why she was left here when they moved on.

  November 12

  The bay is now solid ice, and the weather has cleared. Earlier, I stood outside with Tirkiluk, pointing out the brightest stars, the main constellations, naked-eye binaries. She recognised many stellar objects herself, and gave them names—and myths or stories that were too complex for our pidgin conversation to convey. The Inuit are deeply familiar with the night sky.

  Everything is incredibly clear, although somehow the idea of measurement and observation seems out of place. There’s an extraordinary sense of depth to the Arctic sky. Really sense the distance between the stars.

  One of the oddest things for me is the almost circular movement of the heavens, and the loss in the low horizon of stars like Alkiad, although in this dazzling darkness, many others have been gained. Counted fourteen stars in the Pleiades when my usual record is eleven, and Mu Cephei glows like a tiny coal. There is still some degree tilt to the stellar horizon. Aquila (which Tirkiluk calls Aagyuuk and has some significance for her that she tries but can’t explain) has now set entirely.

  November 20

  The gales have returned, and Tirkiluk and I now share the hut. Much to her puzzlement, have rigged up one of the canvas awnings across the roof beam, which makes for two very awkward spaces instead of a single moderately awkward one. She sleeps curled up on a rug on the floor. When I lie awake listening to the wind and the ice in the bay groaning, can hear her softly snoring.

  November 22

  Must say that, despite reservations about her personal habits, I welcome her company, although I realise that I came here fully expecting—and wanting—to be left on my own. But she doesn’t intrude, which I suppose comes from living close to many other people in those stinking little tents. We can go for hours without speaking, one hardly noticing that the other is there, so in a sense I don’t feel that I really have lost my solitude. Then at other times, we both become so absorbed in the slow process of communication that yesterday I forgot to go out and knock the ice off the transmitter wires, and nearly missed the evening transmission.

  She told me an Inuit story about the sun and the moon, who came down to earth and played “dousing the lights”—a self-explanatory Inuit sex-game of the kind that so shocked the early missionaries. But the sun and the moon are brother and sister, and in the steamy darkness of the an Eskimo hut, they unwittingly broke the incest taboo. So when the lamps were re-lit, the moon in his shame smeared his face with lantern-soot, and the sun set herself alight with lantern oil, and the two of them ran out across the sky, where they still chase each other to this day, yet never dare to meet. It all seemed so poetic—and the story was such an effort to for Tirkiluk get out—that I didn’t attempt ask what happens when there’s an eclipse.

  November 28

  This morning, took a shovel from outside to clear a way through the crystal drift that half-covers the supply shed. Hands were bare, and the freezing metal stuck to my skin. In stupid panic, I ripped a big flap of skin off my palm. I staggered back out of the gale into the hut, dripping blood, grabbing the medicine box and trying to open it one-handed. But Tirkiluk made me sit down, and licked the wound—which was oddly soothing—breathing over it, muttering what I imagine is some incantation, making me stretch my fingers. The weirdest thing is that it hardly hurts at all now, and seems to be healing already. But I’ve dosed it in iodine, just to be safe.

  December 1

  Hand almost completely healed.

  Better weather—the low cirrus sky glows with an odd light that could be the hidden moon or refracted from the sun or even the Northern Lights. Tirkiluk and I went out walking along the flat glistening bay. With her encouragement, I took out the .22 rifle, and had a lucky shot at a seal that was lying on the ice. The bullet was too small to kill, but Tirkiluk ran over to the creature as it lumbered around, apparently too lost or dazed to find its airhole, and slit it wide open with the bone-handled knife she always carries. Blood and hot offal spewed everywhere, dark as ink, and the flanks quivered and those big dark eyes still stared as she proceeded to eat the steaming liver, offering it to me to share.

  Somehow, I would never have considered killing any of the local wildlife without Tirkiluk. But with her, and despite the churning in my stomach, it seemed oddly right. Against Tirkiluk’s protests, I have lugged the carcass back to hut and left it outside to freeze. Did have plans to try to cook it, but now I’m just wondering how I’ll ever get rid of it in the spring.

  December 2

  Needn’t have worried. I was woken last night by a shuffling and grunting outside the hut, and by Tirkiluk’s smelly hand pressed hard across my mouth
to make sure I stayed silent. We crept to the window together and cleared a small space in the dirty crust of ice. There was a polar bear, dragging off the carcass of the seal. An incredible beast. Know now why Tirkiluk didn’t want me to drag the seal back to the hut. And understand the Inuit word ilira, which is the awe which accompanies fear.

  December 7

  Looking back at this journal, I see that I imagined Tirkiluk’s name was Inua when I saw her at the camp-ground. She tells me now that Inua is actually some fingerless hag who lives at the bottom of the sea, although she can’t or won’t explain why there should be any connection with her.

  December 13

  Beyond the edge of the bay, hidden in a steep ravine that I must have walked past many times without even noticing, Tirkiluk has shown me a place of bones. Somehow, the ice and snow hardly settle there. Thought at first that it was simply a place where unwary caribou and musk oxen had fallen and died over the years, but to my horror, and in the eerie light of a clear moon, I saw that there were many human skulls amongst the rocks.

  Said her tribe has several places like this, where they leave their dead. I suppose there’s little chance of burial with the ground frozen for almost half the year, and any bodies left out would be dragged away like my seal. But she’s matter-of fact about it. She kept pointing and saying something about herself, and repeating bits of the story of “dousing the lights”, and the sun and the moon. There’s some message I don’t understand.

  December 18

  Understand now why Tirkiluk was abandoned. Discovery is of far more than academic curiosity. Hardly know where to begin.

  Have seen her semi-naked a few times. She doesn’t exactly wash herself, but she goes through an elaborate process of scraping her skin clean with her knife. Although I’ve tried hard not to look at this and other aspects of her toilet, it’s difficult to have something like that going on in the hut—usually accompanied by her rambling half-spoken songs—without taking notice. She’s put on some weight, but I’d assumed until now that the continued swelling in her belly was a by-product of earlier malnutrition. Now, I realise the significance of the sun and moon incest story that she keeps telling, and the reason why she was thrown out of the tribe.

  Tirkiluk is heavily pregnant, by a half-brother named Iquluut. Think he was the hunter I saw looking down at me from Point B all those weeks ago. He’s a senior in the tribe, twice her age, and apparently as the male he’s regarded as blameless in the liaison, even by Tirkiluk herself. I shouldn’t try to judge, but I know that in many ways the Inuit treat their women badly. A “good” wife is regarded as being worth slightly less than a decent team of dogs, and a “bad” one is unceremoniously dumped. And love doesn’t come into the Inuit way of life at all, although lust—male, and female—certainly does.

  But there’s nothing I can do about all this. Winter has closed in, and Tirkiluk and I are stuck together like Siamese twins in this hut. Just hope she can find a better life with some other tribe in the spring—although she says she’ll have to travel what she regards as impossibly far to reach any of her people who will take her. Have to see if I can’t wrangle her a passage down to one of the southern ports on the supply boat when it finally comes in the spring, although I saw enough of “westernised” Eskimo life around the docks at Neimaagen not to wish it on anyone. Least of all Tirkiluk.

  December 19

  Have looked in all the reference books I’ve been provided with, and wasn’t surprised to find that there was no guidance about childbirth. Can’t bring myself to radio Godalming for advice. Not sure whether that’s pride, or the certainty that they wouldn’t respond.

  Christmas day—

  and I’ve opened the bottle of rum that I’ve been saving until now. Tirkiluk spluttered and spat out the first sip, but then a wide grin spread across her broad face, and she held out her cup and asked for more. Eskimos are obviously used to drink. Think, in fact, that she’s holding it better than I am.

  Did my best this morning to tell the Nativity story—very appropriate in the circumstances. Tirkiluk knows all about Christian heaven and hell. She thinks hell is a warm place where only whiteman is allowed to go. Can think of worse places than hell. Even now, in the cheery glow that comes from the drink and the light of the stove and the lanterns, the cold penetrates easily through the triple insulated walls of this hut, and a sense of damp chill slides like an embrace around your back and into your bones. You can never escape it. As far as I can tell from talking to Tirkiluk and re-reading the books, the Inuit don’t believe in an afterlife. The spirits just drift and return, drift and return.

  Even today, the war must go on. Both trekked up to Point B to take measurements from the few instruments that haven’t frozen solid. The wind was biting, driven with gravel-like ice, but I taught her Once In Royal David’s City as we felt our way in the wild grey darkness. Somehow managed to sing, even though had to turn our heads away from the wind just to breathe.

  Could stand my frozen beaverskin coat up on its own like a suit or armour when we returned to the hut, and somehow it made an odd, dark presence. I think of that line about “the other that walks beside you” in The Waste Land, and Shackleton’s account of that terrible final climb over the mountains of South Georgia. Tirkiluk’s matted and moulting furs work far better, although that’s probably simply because it’s her that’s wearing them.

  Lost the blood from my right foot entirely today, and after nearly roasting the dead white flesh on top of the stove, gave in to Tirkiluk and let her hold it and rub it against her hard round belly, clicking the odd-shaped stones and polar bear teeth that she has strung around her neck. For the first time in my life—and in the oddest imaginable circumstances—I felt a baby kick. But, as usual, she muttered some incantation, and as usual, it seemed to work.

  I’ve just radioed Godalming. Was rather hoping for more than the usual Message Received code I got in return.

  ──────────────────────────

  Godalming no transmission stopped No ship for months Must live with this pa

  Leave my possessions to my beloved Mother in the ho

  ──────────────────────────

  Strong enough to keep record now. Important if things turn for worst. No excuse for it. My clumsiness. Not Tirkiluk. Stupid accident. I was drunk. The lantern went over. Should have gone out. But lid was loose. My fault. Idiot. Flaming oil. Everywhere.

  Tirkiluk and I are sheltering by a wall of rock and of drift-ice, with what remains of one wall of the supply hut for a roof. The fire was terrible. Much worse in this cold place. The wind so strong. It and the flames fuelling each other. Supply hut went up too. Gas canisters. The oil drums. The lanterns. Explosions. Nearly killed. Everything.

  Easier to list what we do have. Thought to drag out our clothing before too late. Some of the bedding. Some canvas. Managed to get back in and save some food, not enough to last the winter. Tirkiluk breaks the cans open with her knife. Contents are ice. No way of warming them. Eskimos carry fire with them through the winter. A tribe’s greatest treasure.

  Beam of roof fell. Hit my legs. Tirkiluk’s alright but can hardly walk and there’s the baby. Haven’t moved for don’t know how. Cold incredible to start with there’s no pain no cold now. Fever, then this. Can’t feel my legs. Graphite breaks and paper is brittle, but if I’m slow writing is easy.

  Can watch the stars turn. Everything freezing. Ice drifts through gaps in canvas and roof like smoke. Place stinks of us and the flames. Rememberer Tirkiluk now. How she healed me. Chanting, salt ice on my lips, teeth chattering. The hard cold holding me in white bony arms. Lights in the sky. Other lights. Could feel the spirits. Whispering, gathering round. Smoke and ice. Cold breath. Their names tumbling on the wind. So many, so old. Wizened faces. The spirits don’t mind the cold. This is their home. I don’t belong. I leave my bones in a quite place where the wolves can’t get them.

&nb
sp; Scratches of light. January meteors. The Quadrantids. Izar a dark binary. I’m freezing. I don’t feel cold. Dreamed that Tirkiluk had lost her fingers. Snapped off like icicles. She was Inua, fingerless hag, muttering under dark ice in the depths of the ocean.

  ──────────────────────────

  Tirkiluk is near to her term. Tells me everything in her own language, and now I understand. Our lips are frozen as we speak, but perhaps the truth of it is in our minds. She tells me that she can’t move now and that the bleeding is coming and that she and the baby will die.

  The tins are useless. Need proper food. Water too. Must make the effort. Foolish kaboola whiteman with my own bare hands. Must try.

  Small victory today, but think we now have a chance.

  Went out onto the ice with a spear fashioned from hooked and sharpened transmitter strut, arial cable for a line. No bleeding. Legs gave way once, but otherwise no problem. Knelt down and licked and scraped the new ice with my bared teeth, tasting the salt that is still in it. Thickness impossible to judge by sight alone, but taste is a clue. At the thinnest point lies a clear circle of water, and a tiny ridge of ice around it that seal-breath has made. The ridge tells who and when and how many have used it.

  Crouched down. Waited. Time froze over. Just me and the hole in the ice and the cold stiffening my clothes and the mountains like the shoulders of gods behind me and stars turning in the endless glowing darkness. Silence was incredible. Silence is the thing that’s struck me most since the burning of the hut. Always associated fear with noise. But fear is silence, and if you face the silence and listen to it and go through it, you eventually come to a dark place of deeper peace, like diving into that black circle of water as I wait for the seal, becoming part of everything. Found I could stop my breathing, and the slow ragged thump of my heart. Felt I was no longer real yet knew I would snap back into existence when the seal surfaced to breathe.