The Calling

by Ken Altabef

  Alaana had suggested that Sila also stood for justice.

  “Perhaps,” Old Manatook had answered, “but what do dogs care for justice?”

  That the dogs could smell Sila on her was a good sign, said Old Manatook. It proved that the connection was still strong. There had been reason to doubt it. Apart from their initial contact during the fever Sila had not yet shown himself to Alaana again. And that was worrisome. A shaman may use helper spirits, but a guardian spirit should be the strongest contact a shaman possessed.

  Soon would come the time of Alaana’s initiation. If Sila didn’t show himself in full support of her, Alaana could not become a shaman. Alaana thought maybe failure would be for the best. As intriguing as it was to learn of this new world of spirits and magic that had opened up before her, she had no real desire to commit her life to such work. The shaman walked a lonely path, apart from all others. There were no half measures when it came to the initiation. It was all or nothing. And if she should fail, her father’s objections and worries would be laid to rest, smoothed over like a pallet of fresh snow, and forgotten. The Anatatook could find another shaman, and she could go back to being a normal person again.

  Alaana and Aquppak were both nearing the pole, running practically side by side. Arlu beggared off as Aquppak gained on Alaana. Now it was just the two of them, faces pink from exertion, the mist pumping in and out with each breath. This was not the time for gentle kicks, decided Alaana and she belted her ball as hard as she could. It was a good ball for kick racing, larger than most, made of soft sealskin scraps, some dark brown, some tan. Her mother had been sewn it with loving care, the colored pieces forming an intricate pattern. Alaana didn’t care how pretty it looked, she only hoped the stitches would hold a little while longer. But at the last moment the ball burst against a sharp ridge of crust, spewing the hair in a spiral out into the air, and dashing her chances for a rare victory.

  Aquppak danced around the finishing pole, out of breath and laughing. He made a loud victory sound like the hooting of a night bird.

  “Hai! That was great! Nobody can beat me,” he said. “It’s like I have wings.” Aquppak stuck his arms straight out like a bird gliding this way and that.

  Alaana was only mildly irritated by his silly capering. “I almost won,” she pointed out.

  “Sure, with your dog snapping at my crotch!”

  “My uncle’s dog.”

  “You can’t beat me Alaana, and you never will.”

  Alaana bent to pick up the deflated remains of her kick ball. “It was a good race.”

  Aquppak uprooted the driftwood pole, hefted it as a spear and sent it flying across the open space. “So I said,” he replied, smiling. “A great race.”

  He kicked a thin line of slush at Alaana’s knees. “Don’t worry, I’ll still let you tag along behind me any time.”

  Alaana kicked some slush back. She hadn’t expected to win anyway. It was enough to be with her friends doing normal things for a change instead of sitting in a darkened tent with Nunavik or tramping some long way across the tundra so Old Manatook could show her where to find and harvest some obscure root, herb or berry that was no good for eating.

  “Come on, Iggy,” urged Aquppak, “You can still make it.” He did a pantomime of running in ridiculously slow motions.

  Iggy made no move to get up. He had plopped down in the snow far behind, claiming exhaustion. Alaana trudged along behind Aquppak as he went to retrieve the pole. They caught up to Iggy at the crook of the river where a group of other children were gathered.

  Mikisork and his cousins were playing at shaman. One of the older boys was in the center of the group spinning himself around and around. When he finally stopped, his eyes had gone crazy in his head and he could barely stand, he was so dizzy.

  “I’ve gone out of my body,” he announced. “I’m flying! Nothing can touch me!”

  He spun some more, making a wobbly arc before the others.

  “Everything’s gone,” he said, shakily. “Everything’s gone.”

  He fell to his knees, retching. The children cheered.

  “You do it Alaana!” said Iggy. “You’d be great at it.”

  With a low grunt, Alaana refused. The game was truer than they knew. The spinning did produce an altered state of perception. To Alaana, spinning around was one thing she could no longer do. The motion played havoc with her spirit-vision, causing flashes of light both agonizingly bright and painfully dark.

  “You’ll never be the shaman,” said Tugtutsiak’s third son, Oaniuk, “You won’t even spin around.” His starkly dismissive tone stabbed at Alaana. It was such a simple thing to them. Spin around and be the shaman.

  Alaana’s eyes met Mikisork’s. He shrugged as if to say, “What does it matter?”

  Iggy said, “Let’s play feats of strength.”

  This was Iggy’s best game. He was stronger than anyone else in the circle. Alaana and the others hunted about the river bank for stones of various sizes, arranging them in order of increasing weight. The boys took turns trying to raise the stones above their heads. Alaana made a poor showing of it, Aquppak didn’t even try, and second place went to Oaniuk. Iggy beat them all. The boys cheered him as he growled like a bear and swung his hands, shaped into claws, in the air.

  Then Alaana had an idea. She remembered something Old Manatook had shown her a few weeks ago on one of their long tramps inland. They had walked for three days to get to a certain spot where star anise could be found, a plant whose aroma was particularly pleasing to the spirits of grazing animals such as the caribou. Old Manatook planned to teach Alaana the secret of finding the star anise in the dark by its scent alone.

  After a long day spent scrambling over rocky ground they came to a huge ledge of soapstone. Old Manatook ran his hand along the glistening, smooth surface of pearly gray. He regarded the mound carefully. The rock was scarred where the Anatatook men had worked on it.

  “I was thinking,” he said to Alaana, “perhaps your brother’s new wife might appreciate a nice soapstone pot.”

  Alaana, who was still out of breath from climbing up the hill, nodded her head absently.

  “Let’s see your knife, girl,” said Old Manatook.

  Alaana obliged, pulling out her little knife.

  “My father made it for me,” said Alaana, “It’s a good knife.”

  “So it is,” said Old Manatook. Fashioned from the rib-bone of a brown bear, wound around with a sealskin thong for a handle, the blade had a fair cutting edge which tapered to a neat point. Kigiuna, who was good with working antler and bone, spent a lot of time making tools and small toys for the children.

  “Good enough,” mused Old Manatook.

  “For what?” asked Alaana. She had caught her breath and was eager to get moving again. The sooner they reached their destination, she reasoned, the sooner they could start back for home.

  Old Manatook slapped the mound of soapstone. “Let’s make your sister a nice new cooking pot. Cut off a big piece.” He inspected the rough areas where the stone had been worked before and demonstrated to Alaana where she could cut off a sizeable chunk, large enough for a spectacular pot. By using the existing contours, it could be done without having to cut through too much stone. “Right here, I should think,” he said, pointing out the exact location, “and come around to here.”

  “Now? Do it now?”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s going to take a long time. What about the star anise?”

  “It can wait,” said Old Manatook. He settled down in a crooked niche in the rock-wall and closed his eyes. “Let me know when you’re finished.”

  Alaana had no experience cutting soapstone. That was something the men did.

  Did Old Manatook think she couldn’t do it? With an exasperated sigh Alaana took up the challenge. She had seen her father do it, with long steady strokes of the blade, back and forth leaning down on the knife.

  It was hard work. After a long time she had only etched
a little groove in the soft stone. She blew the shards off, and watched them drift to the ground. They were long and thin like hair. At the base of the stone she saw something move.

  She heard a tiny cry which sounded like, “Ooort.”

  Looking closer, she saw something move again. It was a small lump of gray soapstone, quite round, that seemed to have tiny arms and legs. She reached for the thing. It reacted with a start, but couldn’t roll away fast enough, propelled only by such delicate limbs. She picked it up, finding it pleasantly warm in her hand.

  “Weyahok,” it said in a small, squeaky voice, “Weyahok.” The word meant ‘stone’.

  Alaana couldn’t see any mouth from which the sound might have come. The creature had no face.

  “Is that your name?” she asked. “Stone? Or is that what you are?”

  “Girl like,” it said.

  Alaana chuckled. “You like me, or do you mean I like you?”

  Weyahok purred softly. It was the sound of tiny bits of gravel rustling down a slope.

  “Put that silly little thing down, and continue with your task,” said Old Manatook. He was balanced in the rock niche in a very odd position, his back along the ground with his long legs sticking straight up in the air, and Alaana had no idea what he might have been doing. His eyes were closed.

  Alaana did as she was asked. She noticed Weyahok had climbed up onto her boot and nestled itself comfortably in the bend of her ankle.

  When the bulk of the day had passed Alaana became too tired to continue. Her arms were aching. Old Manatook inspected her progress.

  “That’s a good start,” said the old shaman. “I suppose you’ll be able to finish it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, when else?”

  They camped for the night in the lee of the cliff. Alaana was ravenous from the exertions of the long walk through the slush and the cutting of the stone. After a warm meal she fell right off to a welcome sleep, although Old Manatook wakened her several times in the night to hear about her dreamings. Alaana groggily related those she could remember, concerned mostly with trudging uphill and endless sawing at a gigantic mound of unyielding soapstone.

  Next day, Old Manatook offered no help on the cutting. He sat cross-legged and in deep thought, gazing out along the countryside. Their vantage point allowed a striking view of the winding peaks and valleys and frosted hilltops of the area. At times he mumbled a few words, as if catching up on some bit of pleasant news or conversing with old friends. For Alaana the work had become slow and difficult due to painful blisters along the sides of her fingers. She might have brought her mittens had she known she was in for this type of work. The fatigue of her arms and shoulders was a dull ache punctuated with fire at every stroke of the knife. Her blade had become so worn there seemed not much point in using it at all. Finally she gave up.

  “Knife’s too dull,” she announced, upset at having ruined the knife. Old Manatook took it from her without a glance. He stooped to inspect the progress on the stone. “Half a day more and you’ll be through,” he said dryly.

  “Not with that knife,” said Alaana.

  Old Manatook handed back the blade. It was every bit as sharp as before. That was a neat trick, Alaana thought, and at least a useful one. But how had he managed it? Alaana might have asked, except the old shaman never answered such questions directly. Old Manatook caught her inquisitive look, and offered this enigmatic statement, “In time.”

  The shaman’s estimate proved far off the mark. Perhaps he hadn’t taken into account Alaana’s tortured arms and shoulders or her raw fingers. At last, after working the rest of the day with breaks only for meals, the big piece of soapstone began to sag. With a triumphant blow Alaana snapped it off from the rest of the mound.

  She offered the piece to Old Manatook for inspection. Now that the bulk of the day was gone; they’d have to make camp and sleep again before setting out after the star anise. At least there was no shortage of food, as Old Manatook had caught a pair of snow hares for their supper.

  “It’s a rough job,” said the old shaman. “And poorly shaped for a pot. I suppose you might work it into a small lamp or some such, after a fashion. You’ll have it done before year’s end, I’m sure.”

  Alaana was undaunted. Pilarqaq might enjoy a new lamp of her own just as well as a pot.

  “There is perhaps an easier way,” mused the old shaman. At that he braced his long legs before the soapstone mound and, pushing up the sleeve of his jacket to the elbow, extended his gnarled hand.

  To Alaana’s surprise and fascination, the shaman’s hand passed into the surface of the stone as if it were made of water. Old Manatook moved his hand around as if rummaging through a sack of old hunting equipment. At last he withdrew a perfectly-formed soapstone cooking pot of an elegant design.

  “How?” asked Alaana in amazement. “How did you do that?”

  Old Manatook smiled, his black eyes beaming beneath their snowy brows.

  “How? I merely asked the spirit of the stone to give it up. He’s a nice enough fellow when you get to know him, you know.”

  Alaana turned the pot over in her hands. “That’s a nice looking pot,” she said.

  The little bit of the stone spirit still within the pot thanked her for the compliment.

  “Let me show you something,” Alaana said to the group of children at the river. She kneeled before the largest of the stones, one which not even Iggy could have hoped to lift.

  “What are you going to do with that?” asked Oaniuk sarcastically. “Crawl under it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Alaana could see the spirit within the stone, a dim feather glow deep in the heart of the rock. Wake up, she said to it in the secret language of the shamans, Wake up and let me in. The spirit was fast asleep and didn’t wish to be disturbed. Alaana felt a momentary panic, thinking this stunt was not going to work. Once more she would be made to look foolish in front of everyone, especially Mikisork. He watched with keen attention, a slight smile of expectation crossing his lips. Alaana smiled back.

  Wake up, wake up. She nudged the spirit of the stone with her mind, but again there was no result.

  I’m coming in, she thought. Just for a moment, I’m coming in.

  Alaana’s hand passed into the surface of the stone, disappearing to the wrist. The other children gasped in astonishment, hung in silence for a moment and then burst into a babble of excited chatter.

  At the same time, Alaana felt the mass of the stone collapsing around her hand. The spirit within the stone had no patience for being used in this manner, and Alaana knew what she had attempted was wrong. A shaman should never act in this way.

  Alaana screamed with pain. Her hand, trapped within the stone, was being crushed. She couldn’t pull it out.

  “What’s wrong?” shouted Miki.

  Alaana couldn’t answer. She glimpsed Miki’s horrified expression through her own slitted eyes.

  Let me go, she thought, let me go. It was no use. Her fingers felt ready to pop from their sockets.

  She sunk her other hand into the pocket of her parka and clasped the carved tusk of ivory. Nunavik, she pleaded, help me!

  “Oh, what have you gotten yourself into now?” answered the mystical walrus.

  “Get me out!” screamed Alaana, in a terrifyingly pained voice. The shouts of the children, who could hear Alaana but not Nunavik, took on a panicked tone. Mikisork screamed. Iggy grabbed hold of Alaana’s arm and tried to pull it loose.

  “I can do nothing,” said Nunavik, “Except to have cautioned you not to proceed with this foolish endeavor in the first place, had you bothered to ask.”

  Alaana grabbed Weyahok, who rested also within her pocket.

  “Ooort! Help!” said Weyahok.

  “Yes, help!” moaned Alaana. Her hand felt as if it was being crushed to jelly.

  The little stone spirit flew into a panic. “Girl hurt. Ooort! Help! Brother Stone, nice stone. Nice.”

  Th
at’s it, thought Alaana. Suddenly realizing her mistake, she reached out again to the spirit in the stone. Brother Stone, she thought contritely, I shouldn’t have disturbed your slumber. It was all she could do not to scream again. She thought, Please move aside and let me pass.

  The spirit in the stone purred sleepily.

  Please, thought Alaana. Please!

  The stone released its hold on her. Iggy, still tugging mightily, overbalanced and flew backward, landing atop Oaniuk. The older boy pushed him away, saying, “Get off. Fool!”

  Remarkably Alaana found her hand whole and uninjured. The few children still at the scene seemed suddenly embarrassed by their own panic and fear. They looked at Alaana as if she’d been playing some type of cruel trick.

  “Thanks Iggy,” said Alaana, clapping her friend on the shoulder. “You really are a strong man.”

  Alaana met Mikisork’s eyes, finding them the perfect mirror to her own. His cheeks, as hers, were wet with tears. She held up her hand to show it wasn’t hurt and tried to smile. By the time she had wiped the water from her face Miki had already turned and run off, a tiny figure fleeing toward the camp.

  Alaana stooped to retrieve Weyahok, who had fallen from her hand during the ordeal.

  “Girl hurt?” Weyahok asked.

  Alaana did not answer.

  When Alaana returned to her family’s tent, she found a tiny bracelet tossed onto the snow near the entrance. It was a tricolor bracelet made of strips of walrus, seal, and caribou skin braided together. She recognized the bracelet. She’d given it to Mikisork as a token of friendship.

  Her mother’s sister Otonia was visiting their tent. Seated on the platform at opposite ends of a kayak cover they were mending, they didn’t notice Alaana.