by Ken Altabef
“How do you feel?” Kigiuna asked the groom. He clapped Maguan on the shoulder, then slapped him lightly on the cheek.
“I am happier than any Anatatook man has ever been before!” said Maguan, his face aglow.
“This is what they all say,” remarked Kanak. “At first.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Kigiuna. “Pilarqaq is a true beauty. Your reputation is on its way up, my boy.”
On this day it was Pilarqaq’s joy to be hostess and the mother of the house. Amauraq had been relegated to the background where she must toil over the pots and stews, leaving the serving to her son’s new wife.
Maguan’s bride was unique at the gathering for she held the attention of both the women and the men. Her impressive parka with its squirrel fur tassels made it seem the other Anatatook women went around dressed in miserable rags. Her luxurious hair flowed loosely about her shoulders and down her back.
Pilarqaq held aloft a plate of boiled meat, and spoke the ritual words, “Enjoy the meat, my guests. I trust you will all eat your fill. Hurry, hurry! Empty the pots quickly so that we may load them up again.”
She said nothing else to the men, going among them only to serve lumps of boiled walrus. She presented an impressive piece to Maguan, held at the end of a pointed sticker of caribou antler. The new wife politely licked the bloody juices dripping down the meat so that they wouldn’t mess up her husband’s shirt or run down his fingers too much.
Alaana had seen women do the same at every ceremonial dinner, but she sure hoped Miki didn’t expect her to do that for him. She had asked her mother about it once. Amauraq had said the men worked so hard for everyone, fishing and hunting all day in the cold, that she saw no harm in showing them a little respect.
Maguan stuffed the food into his mouth. Taking a lusty bite between his teeth, he sliced off the bulk of the slab and passed it along to Kigiuna. And so went the meat from Kigiuna to Kanak and then to Anaktuvik and on and on down the line. The meat was followed by a choice slab of blubber that disappeared in much the same fashion. When the blubber had gone halfway across the room and all present seemed to have adequate amounts of blood and grease smeared on their faces, Maguan called out to Pilarqaq for a new slab of meat.
Itoriksak passed around a little seal skin basin full of drinking water. Melted from snow in the same pots used to boil the meat, the water had a light brownish color and little globules of animal fat bobbing about on the surface.
Tugtutsiak entered the tent, followed by his wife and three eldest sons. He was headman among the Anatatook and the captain of the whaling boats. He tossed a large sealskin bag full of mussels onto the floor in front of the groom.
Tugtutsiak was a short but powerfully-built man only a few winters older than Kigiuna. He was distinguished from Alaana’s father in that he owned only one face. That face held eyes which gazed always far away and a hard-set mouth whose lips pursed in grim determination. He smiled only rarely and Alaana had never heard him laugh. She supposed this was because Tugtutsiak, more than anyone else, lived in a state of constant worry over the food supply. It fell to him to wrestle with important decisions of when and where to move the camps, based on his dealings with the shamans. He anxiously awaited their negotiations with the spirits in regard to the caribou hunts, and of course, the whaling trips. Tugtutsiak had a deep love for the sea and whaling seemed to be the only joy for him, although this too was dangerous work.
Mikisork yanked at Alaana’s shirt. “Wrestle me,” he cried, “wrestle me!”
He offered a crooked wrist. Alaana, preoccupied with a wonderful bit of seal meat, brushed him off.
“Wrestle me!” he insisted in a high, happy voice. Alaana intertwined her wrist with his and they began to pull and laugh and pull. Mikisork and Alaana were fairly well-matched, even though Miki was definitely a little bit stronger. There were so few girls in the village Alaana had grown up with mostly boys for friends and had gotten pretty good at wrestling. In the end Miki fell forward, giggling, and let her land on top. Not content with such a suspicious victory she threw her arms around his neck and kicked him playfully in the ribs. She was not as gentle as she might have been and Miki, practically strangling, called out for help. As ever, Iggy came to his friend’s aid, peeling Alaana from Miki’s back and tossing her among the parkas. Iggy went straight for her weak spot with an onslaught of tickling under the armpits.
Alaana knew that Miki had let her win. He was always so concerned about everybody else’s feelings, even in such little matters. That was one of the things she liked best about him. Aquppak never let anyone win at anything, and neither would Iggy. She glanced at her intended where he sat joking with the other boys. He was such a gentle soul and not all full of himself like the others.
Old Manatook entered the tent, bringing a seal so freshly killed it was not even frozen in death yet. No one knew how he could catch one all by himself, so far from the shore and in the middle of summer. Such questions were not asked of him. And if there were fresh claw marks on the animal’s neck, nobody spoke of it.
Once the old shaman joined the party the men grew talkative and excited. Old Manatook had boundless energy for such an old man and on this day, as on many joyful occasions, he put away all seriousness, any whiff of dark spirits left behind, and he sang and danced with a carefree abandon. He truly was a marvel. His eyes dazzled. He stood a head taller than the rest of the stocky, broad-shouldered Anatatook men. Only the few eldest among them had any gray among their uniformly dark hair, and none the pure white of Old Manatook.
Alaana was glad to see him acting so relaxed and happy in contrast to his usual cranky nature. Raising the people’s spirits was one of the shaman’s duties, whether it came easily to him or not. She could not imagine herself in that same role. Not now or ever.
The men told a variety of stories and jokes, many reserved especially for the occasion of marriage. Kanak, seized with the spirit of the day, sang this song:
“What dowry shall I offer, for my bride, for my bride?
A walrus hide, a walrus hide!
And not some flimsy patched-up thing
Bring me the hide, tall and wide, tall and wide.
You lonely young man with no bride,
Sing with me, sing with me!
I’ll let you lay with my walrus hide!”
Kigiuna slapped his hand on his knee to get their attention, then launched into the familiar tale of how he had, years ago, got his wife Amauraq. Alaana had heard the story before, but she listened again anyway. She liked the way her father told it.
“She tried to hide in her family’s tent, playing shy,” Kigiuna said. “I had been courting her the entire summer and winter was fast approaching. You know how difficult it is to drag a woman from an iglu in winter — there’s only the one narrow entrance tunnel. A summer tent is much easier. Clearly, it was time for action. I had arranged it all with her father beforehand of course, but still I must abduct her properly as any decent groom would.
“I tried to catch her when she came outside to pee, but she was quick! She’d dart back in, fast as a fox. She was determined, too. I think she could’ve kept it up forever. But I had resolved not to break camp without a wife. I ripped my way into that tent,” and on this part he demonstrated a great feat of strength tearing the caribou flaps asunder. “And burst in. Children ran screaming before my feet. Amauraq tried to hide under the sleeping furs, but I tore them away.” He smiled slyly as he glanced over at the other side of the enclosure to see if he might catch the eye of his wife, but the women were busy with their own business.
Alaana was familiar with her mother’s version of the tale and it differed considerably from this one. The way she told it, the entire affair was her idea.
Kigiuna continued, “I started to yank her away but she grabbed the tent pole, resisting with all her strength. Oh, but I pulled hard and fast. The whole tent shook, ready to come down on our heads. My marriage-mother screamed!”
Here he broke out lau
ghing again and had to stop. He imitated the shrill screams of the lady in question, and everybody laughed. “I pulled Amauraq, she pulled the tent pole, the whole thing ready to come down. She chomped down on my hand! That’s right, she bit right through the skin and into the meat of me. I pulled some more, and wouldn’t you know she was never going to let go, that tent pole ripped right out of the ground, tore the tent cover in half. I roared and charged at her like a mad bull, rolling her along the ground and outside of the tent. In the open air, we had room to maneuver and a proper audience as well. Her family cheered her on, urging her to make a good show of it; my relations spoke for me. She still had the tent pole in her hands. She swung it at me. Oh, it was some fight! She clawed at my face like a wild woman, but I got her up on my shoulders. She kicked her way loose. I pulled her up again. She got loose again, sending me crashing into the meat rack. But I got hold of her a third time and that was the end. It was the happiest day of my life. Oh, did I forget the part where she tore out some of my hair? That too!” He shook his head gaily. “But I got her on my sled and the game was over at last. If you ask me, Maguan, you had it way too easy.”
“It pays to have friends in the south,” said Tugtutsiak dryly.
“And a sizable dowry to part with, I’ll bet,” added Kanak.
Kigiuna declined to comment. He leaned back, rubbing the last remnants of blubber from the greasy beard and mustache that framed his mouth.
Tugtutsiak’s uncle Krabvik, who was old and crazy and had a face like a slab of dried fish, began to sing:
“Who will carry my pretty sister?
Her face is flat, her hips are fat.
Who will care for my pretty sister?
Her knife is dull, but her tongue is sharp.”
Alaana had a hard time deciphering all the words. Krabvik’s teeth were mostly gone and he was laughing hysterically at every line. He went on:
“Who will marry my dreadful sister?
She has no fingers, she can not work.
Who will bed my monster sister?
She has pointed arms, she has pointed legs.
Put her on the sled, take her to bed…”
Alaana supposed there must be a final line of the song, but by this time Krabvik became so consumed with laughter his delivery ended in a gurgle as he fell sideways with glee, unable to finish. If there was more to the song they would not hear it this night.
Tugtutsiak’s wife Aolajut passed around another platter of fish eyes and sweet tallow lumps. But this was nothing compared to what came next. Not to be outdone, Anaktuvik had disappeared into the meat locker outside his tent and brought back the most festive food of all. It was a giviak. With a great sense of ceremony he hauled the frozen carcass out before the men.
It was the body of a small seal, emptied so that only the skin and blubber remained, creating a special type of a sack. Two winters ago the thing had been stuffed with auks, tiny birds that flock along the sea cliffs. Alaana recalled when she and her brothers had run along the scree at the base of the cliffs, making crazy noises to flush the little birds out and into the waiting nets of the women. The birds had to be carefully prepared for the giviak. Most importantly they must be killed a certain way, by crushing the breastbone with pressure from the thumbs at a particular place just above the heart.
Anaktuvik sliced open the belly of the sac with his long hunting knife. This proved hard work as it was still frozen, but he went at it with gusto, cheered on by the men. He dug out frozen chunks of pink meat and cured feathers. The men attacked these treats without any help from the women. The women were hardly aware of the giviak at all. Alaana could tell by the looks on their faces that they were deeply immersed in one of Higilak’s romantic stories.
Maguan flipped a frozen tidbit to Alaana and she shared it with Iggy. She chewed it slowly, crunching and spitting out whatever bits of feather and bone came loose as it thawed in her mouth. The taste was sensational. The blubber had seeped into the bird meat as the giviak lay buried all summer, creating an incredibly pungent taste.
To Maguan went the ultimate prize, the frozen lump of blood which collected around the auk’s crushed heart. Still frozen, he popped the crimson oval into his mouth and then laughed delightedly, falling off the mat and into a swoon, rolling about on the floor muttering, “Delicious, delicious.”
Kigiuna laughed.
Anaktuvik went back to the carcass. Now sufficiently thawed, he went at it again peeling entire birds from the compressed mass, passing them out to the men.
Kigiuna took one of the little birds in his mouth. Securing the legs between clenched teeth, he brushed off the fermented feathers in a trickle of downy snow that fell across the front of his shirt. With delicate motions of his teeth he separated the skin and turned it inside out. Remarkably, he tossed the meat aside. He was only interested in the skin. He sucked the skin into his mouth and pulled it out against his raking teeth, stripping off all the delicious bird fat.
Alaana and Iggy had seen enough. They scrambled toward the place where the bird had landed among some carving tools stored at the side of the tent. Alaana greedily took a bite from her half. This thawed version tasted considerably different than before. The soft, oily bird-meat now carried an intensely sour taste. Alaana’s mouth watered as it never had before. She desperately wanted more. Iggy rolled his eyes with delight, but there was so little and it was soon gone.
Tugtutsiak belched loudly and that got all the men going. Soon a contest broke out to see who could express his appreciation longest and loudest. Kanak won the day as he burped and broke wind ferociously at the same time and everyone laughed.
Alaana felt herself growing tired. A belch of her own brought forth the sensational sour taste of the giviak once more, startling her back awake.
She noticed her father had fallen asleep. Like most of the men Kigiuna slept very little during the long days of summer, preferring to spend as much time as possible out on the hunt, banking stores for winter’s long night.
Iggianguaq, having achieved the impossible and gorged himself to satisfaction, had closed his eyes. He lay on the floor, his head nestled atop Miki’s bare ankles. Filled to bursting with food, Alaana felt her own eyes closing. She had a supremely contented feeling. Times were good when food was plentiful.
She wished she could keep this feeling always in her heart. It was a feeling of warmth and love, of safety and security within the community. Alaana thought the wedding feast a remarkable success. It was good Pilarqaq had joined their family.
CHAPTER 11
MORE SECRETS
As Alaana peered at the figure on the platform, she began to feel afraid. Putuguk lay unmoving, his eyes closed, his face relaxed as if he were merely asleep, as if all one would have to say to him was, “Heya! Wake up! Get going!” and he would snap out of it. But his skin had taken on a dull gray color and his breathing was rapid and shallow.
“My father doesn’t speak,” said Tikiquatta. “He doesn’t move. He can’t eat or drink.”
Word of Putuguk’s illness had already spread throughout the Anatatook camp but Tikiquatta, kneeling beside her stricken father, repeated the details. “He suffered pains in the head and eyes for three days and a great fatigue as if some heavy weight were bearing down on him. Finally he lay down to sleep and did not wake up.”
To the large group packed inside the karigi, the daughter’s despair transformed the sad story into a call for action. An expectant silence fell among them as they sat in a loose circle around the platform.
Alaana felt sorry for the old man. He had long been a fixture in the camps. Many people disliked Putuguk because he had grown weak and could no longer work, but he had several children in his household including her friend Aquppak and two small grand-children. In light of Putuguk’s inability to keep his family fed without help from the others, her father felt some sense of responsibility toward them. Kigiuna said that so long as Putuguk could still keep up with the sleds during the seasonal movements of the band, he
was as much an Anatatook as any.
Putuguk had seen more than his share of misery. His wife died young and his son and daughter-by-marriage, who had been Aquppak’s parents, were dead as well. Alaana thought maybe he had simply had enough. That was the way with old people sometimes, wasn’t it?
All eyes turned to the shaman.
Old Manatook lay a reassuring hand on Tikiquatta’s shoulder. The shaman cut an impressive figure under the bright summer light spilling down through the tent’s smoke hole. The sunlight lit up his blood-red parka as if he were robed in a sheath of fire. “Trouble has come here,” he said in a powerful, commanding tone of voice. “We shall have it out!”
Old Manatook inhaled sharply. The mixed scents within the crowded tent spoke to him of frequent meals of fish and seal oil, the musk of recent lovemaking, and the pungent aroma of Tikiquatta’s fear. He bent to snuffle at Putuguk’s cheek, but his nose discovered no clue as to the nature of the illness. He undertook a full inspection of the body, in full view of the people.
He lay hands on Putuguk’s temples, taking a measure of the body heat. He pressed a thumb against the lower lid to gaze into the man’s left eye, where the soul could best be seen. The eyeball was motionless, indicating the sufferer had not gone wandering to the dreamlands. His soul-light was still present within, but had grown dim and inconstant, as the last flicker of a dying ember.
“We will have it out!” he said again.
He selected a small drum from the row of masks and drums arranged behind the platform. The drum had a round head of stretched fawn skin no larger than the palm of his hand. A thin line separated the surface into two equal parts representing the worlds of the living and the dead. Though small, the drum had a strong connection to the Underworld, and had always proven reliable. Old Manatook pressed the beater into Alaana’s palm, taking a moment to instruct her on the proper rhythm for the ceremony.