The Calling

by Ken Altabef

  “There’s just something not right about that girl,” Amauraq was saying.

  “Oh, you’re only being jealous,” returned Otonia, “because she’s so beautiful.”

  “Well, she’s more interested in fussing with her precious hair than doing any real work, that’s for sure.”

  “Her good looks are her husband’s pleasure,” remarked Otonia. “And Kigiuna’s too. A well-kept young wife makes the reputation of the house.”

  “Tttt!” said Amauraq. “I just wish she’d put down that comb and skin some fish bellies once in a while.”

  “Jealous!” chided Otonia. “She seems nice enough to me. A nice quiet girl.”

  “Quiet? You should hear the inside of this tent at night. She snores like a bull walrus!”

  The two sisters, having the identical soft trilling giggle, shared a moment of laughter.

  “She can’t sew worth a lick,” added Amauraq.

  “She’ll learn. You’ll teach her.”

  “I’ve tried. She’s clumsy, I tell you. Her fingers are too fat for the work maybe.”

  “Oh, that’s just you making her nervous, I think.”

  “I might make her nervous, but I doubt I’m making her stupid!”

  Otonia chuckled. “Amauraq, you’ve got such a mean streak. I’ll teach her, then.”

  “Fine. And you can feed her, too. She’ll eat our stores flat, I tell you. And I’ll not sleight the children to keep her in fat.”

  “You’re terrible,” said Otonia, still laughing. “Terrible, terrible. So mean!”

  “Well, it’s not as bad as all that I suppose,” returned Amauraq. She stopped to bite off the line of sinew she’d been sewing. “But I just think she’s hiding something. She’s beautiful, yes, but why wasn’t she already married? And why were the Tanaina so eager to let her go?”

  “The dowry—”

  “The dowry wasn’t so much as you may think. She can’t even look me straight in the eye, I tell you.”

  “Oh, stop that. Maguan seems so happy…”

  “Yes,” admitted Amauraq with a smile. “He’s a good boy. He’s always been very lovable. Just like Itoriksak and…” She paused where Ava was concerned, then continued, “and my little Alaana.”

  Amauraq began to cry then, and Alaana knew it was because of Ava. She couldn’t listen any more. She went outside.

  She was determined to see Mikisork. Alaana made her way to his family’s tent, hoping Miki would be inside. Tugtutsiak’s tent possessed a rarity — a thin wooden plank for a door. The plank was not connected in any way to the skins, so Alaana moved it to the side and stepped in. Alaana stood in the entrance, silently shifting from foot to foot until the women noticed she was there.

  Miki’s mother, Aolajut, and a few of her cousins were seated in the center of the tent, busy cutting patterns out of a sealskin hide. Aolajut noticed Alaana at the entrance. She offered a dry smile.

  “I was looking for Miki,” Alaana said.

  “Miki is doing work now,” Aolajut said coldly, “with his father. It’s long work. I don’t think he’ll have time to play with you anymore.” As she spoke, Aolajut looked at Alaana without any emotion whatsoever.

  Alaana didn’t know what to say.

  Aolajut added, “Tugtutsiak has already spoken to your father, but you might as well know. I’m sorry but he’s called off the marriage.”

  Alaana was stunned. “What?”

  “You and Mikisork won’t be getting married. That’s final.”

  Alaana couldn’t believe it. Her first thought was that they could run away together. But no, out on the tundra there was no place to run. Two young people could never survive alone, and her father and Tugtutsiak knew everyone in the other bands. It was hopeless.

  “But why not?” she asked.

  “Don’t you know? You’re not stupid.”

  Alaana felt as if she’d just taken a wet slap in the face.

  Aolajut continued, “What kind of wife would a shaman be? What kind of a mother? A woman has to mend the clothes and cook the food and look after the children, not chase around fighting evil spirits.”

  “The men shamans do their work.”

  “It’s not the same. A woman doesn’t send her soul flying outside of her body. What if you were with child? How would your soul leave your body then? What about the baby?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There’s a lot of things you don’t know. People don’t always marry who they’re supposed to. Tugtutsiak is a very important man. He’ll find another wife for Mikisork. If Old Manatook says we have to have a woman for a shaman, then so be it. But not in my house. Not for my son. I’m sorry.” She turned back to her work.

  Alaana was desperate to speak to Miki, but she remembered the frightened look in his eye that afternoon. And then his tears. Mikisork’s face had already spoken with a fullness of its own. They had shared so many good times together, darting through the camp on secret adventures, playing with the dogs or pretending to be caribou, holding sticks to their foreheads as antlers. All of that was gone now, washed away in an instant. Miki was afraid of her.

  And Tugtutsiak would find another wife for him. Just like that. Alaana felt as if she were a tiny auk, captured along the cliffs, and someone had pressed their thumbs into her chest, crushing her heart.

  She stood by the entrance for a few moments more, but no one offered her tea or said anything else to her. She went away.

  She decided to try and sharpen some of her father’s tools. It might not take too long, she thought, if the tools were willing and provided she asked the spirits inside them very, very nicely.

  CHAPTER 15

  FIRST JOURNEY

  Kigiuna pressed his face into the caribou fur as he hauled it from the sled, wiping the frost from his cheeks. The short hairs, stiffly frozen, grazed roughly against his skin.

  He lay the pelt down on the pile. The sleds were loaded high with caribou carcasses still thick with summer fat and the dogs were tired and irritable after the long pull. They snapped at each other between the sleds, which had been arranged in a semicircle before the meat rack.

  Kigiuna felt little better than the pack animals. The men had been on the trail for ten sleeps, following a herd of caribou as they made their southbound migration before the freeze-up. His entire body was stiff and half frozen. All feeling had gone from his legs and hands, but his shoulders were on fire from driving the team.

  The other men finished racking the meat and walked over to him.

  “What’s this?” asked Tugtutsiak.

  “I’ve separated the furs by family,” explained Kigiuna.

  Nuralak, who was the leader of the other major family group in the community, nudged one of the piles with his boot. His long face was impassive, but he was clearly not pleased.

  Kigiuna shrugged, struggling to control his irritation. How dare they question his intentions? “The distribution is fair.”

  Tugtutsiak refused to even look, while Nuralak glanced cursorily and said, “I suppose.”

  “These are set aside for Putuguk’s family,” said Kigiuna, pointing to a few he’d reserved for the old and infirm hunter. “Three full hides, two white bellies, six legs. Isn’t that what you would’ve done?”

  “It is,” said Tugtutsiak. “Just the same, it’s not your place to divide our kills.”

  Kigiuna’s anger flared despite his best effort to maintain a carefully crafted neutrality of expression. “I only wanted to get it over with quickly, so we can put away the dogs and go home.”

  “As do we all,” commented Nuralak. “Let’s say no more of it.”

  Tugtutsiak grunted softly.

  “It was a great haul,” said Kigiuna, even though there was substantially less meat than in previous years. He threw his hands in the air in a victory salute favored by the men, smiling broadly. Once again he found himself playing the fool to chase away whatever suspicion had been caused by the intensity of his emotions. To the Anatatook, an angry ma
n was a dangerous man, a man to be watched closely, a man who could never be trusted.

  “A great haul,” agreed Tugtutsiak, in his usual smugly dismissive tone.

  “I’ve seen better,” said Old Manatook, who had suddenly appeared behind them.

  “Here. We’ve set aside some furs for you and Higilak,” said Nuralak, gesturing toward the pile Kigiuna had made for Putuguk.

  The shaman waved them away with his hand. “No need. I’ve more than enough,” he said. “Let’s not forget Putuguk.”

  “There’s plenty of meat,” said Tugtutsiak, although he also knew it wasn’t true. “We’ll feast well tonight.”

  “Ahh, a warm meal will be welcome,” added Nuralak with a sigh. “I’ve forgotten what my wife’s cooking tastes like.”

  “I think we should store this meat here,” said Old Manatook. “We’ll be moving inland in two sleeps.”

  This sudden change of plan surprised all the men. Kigiuna wondered what might have happened while they’d been away.

  “Store the meat?” asked Nuralak. “Why? Surely we’ll find more caribou near the bay?”

  “I’m not certain,” said Old Manatook. His hesitation seemed slightly embarrassing. For a brief moment he appeared awkward and very old as he outlined his plan. “We leave a full half of the meat here. As soon as the hunters have had some rest, we move. Perhaps we can catch the herd on the far side of Big Basin.”

  “Why go so far south? So early?” asked Kigiuna sharply.

  “If we miss the herd, we’ll starve next spring. Our stores are low as it is.”

  “Let’s send a scout,” suggested Kigiuna. The reason Old Manatook wanted to store so much food suddenly became clear to him. It was a protective measure, just in case he was wrong. He didn’t know where to find the herd. “Kuanak always used to go and scout before any big move.”

  “That was when there were three of us,” said Old Manatook calmly. “Now I’ve too much to do all at once.”

  “We can send Maguan,” offered Kigiuna. “He knows the way.”

  Old Manatook shook his head. “We can’t wait. The omens are clear. We must move in two sleeps to catch the herd at the crossing.”

  Kigiuna looked to the other men for their opinions. A wrong move could be a terrible mistake. Nuralak’s word carried a lot of weight, but he said nothing.

  Tugtutsiak had final say on the band’s movements. “We shall do what he says,” the headman said with finality. “Old Manatook is usually right about such things.”

  “Usually, but not always,” grumbled Kigiuna. “If he’s wrong—”

  “Are you questioning my judgment?” asked Old Manatook, speaking in a perfectly calm tone.

  “Mitaanginnaqtunga,” said Kigiuna, indicating that he’d been simply joking. “Of course no one can be correct every time.” He stepped away so that he didn’t have to say anything more. He directed Maguan to pile their share of the skins on their sled and drag it to their tent while he saw to the dogs. As he unhitched the cross beam, his team followed eagerly behind, knowing their next meal would be delivered at the kennel.

  “Omens,” mumbled Kigiuna as he walked. He had no desire to follow nebulous signs that nobody but the shaman could see. Even Kuanak, who was a shaman himself, had always relied on scouts.

  Kigiuna yanked at the traces to keep his lead dog, Tiggat, from following some stray scent. He gave the line an extra jerk, eliciting a startled yelp from the big dog. He told Tiggat, “Old Manatook says the omens are clear, but he acts as if he’s unsure.”

  He put the dogs in their places, shouting at them to stop their jumping about. “Qaluk, qaluk,” he said, assuring them they were about to be fed. By the time he tied them all up, Alaana had arrived with the food bag.

  “Maguan told me he brought down two bucks,” Alaana said excitedly.

  Kigiuna took the bag and began tossing chunks of old trout to the dogs. They tore into the fish, powerful jaws crunching half-frozen meat. “He did well. He’s got a good eye for—”

  Kigiuna was surprised when Tiggat nipped at his hand, breaking the skin. He swung the food bag into the big dog’s nose. Tiggat whimpered at the blow and bowed his snout halfway to the ground.

  Kigiuna stepped forward and kicked the dog in the ribs. It was difficult to gauge how hard he struck since his feet were still numb from the cold, and he felt unsatisfied. He gave the dog another shot, envisioning Tugtutsiak’s smug expression as his foot connected. He wanted to give him one for the old shaman as well, but Alaana spoke, saying, “You don’t have to hit him!”

  Kigiuna faked another blow with his boot, pulling up short. Tiggat, whose head was already bruised and bloodied, flinched away. “Everyone beats their dogs,” Kigiuna said. “Otherwise they wouldn’t behave.”

  “Old Manatook doesn’t whip his dogs.”

  “Is this what Old Manatook’s been teaching you these days? How to be disrespectful to your real father?”

  “No,” Alaana replied, the word a frustrated whisper.

  “Then what goes on in those tents on the hill?” Kigiuna spoke sharply.

  “I can’t speak of it.”

  “Is that so? “I seem to remember a girl who was all too eager to break the rules before.”

  Alaana’s eyes went wide. “I want to tell you. But I’m forbidden to talk of it, or something terrible will happen.”

  “That’s what he says?”

  “It’s true,” said Alaana, shaking her head. “I know that it’s true.”

  Kigiuna snickered and resumed tossing the food at the dogs. A sizable piece landed directly in front of Tiggat. The big gray huskie looked mournfully at it but did not eat.

  “He’s been acting up all day,” Kigiuna noted, now eager to change the subject.

  “He’s sick inside,” said Alaana. “He’s going to die.”

  Kigiuna looked askance at his big boss dog, squinting one eye. If what Alaana said was true, he saw no sign of it.

  He leaned down and sniffed at the dog, but there was no reek of sickness. He turned to Alaana. “How do you know this?”

  Alaana shrugged. “He told me.”

  “Shamanic knowledge is experienced, not taught,” said Old Manatook. “Each to his own, I can only guide you on your journey.”

  “I understand,” said Alaana.

  “Laughable,” quipped Nunavik.

  “I’m ready!” insisted Alaana.

  “One hopes as much, ungarpaluk,” said Nunavik. The walrus leaned back thoughtfully, pausing to pick some remnant of a ghost fish from his front teeth with the edge of a flipper. “Be careful. There is a certain overpowering joy to the trance state. You must be able to resist it and keep going. Remember the objective of the journey is to bring back knowledge and power in order to help other people. It is a serious purpose.”

  "These realms are entered not for play, but knowledge,” said Old Manatook.

  “Is there an echo in here?” snapped Nunavik. “Didn’t I just say as much?”

  Old Manatook huffed. “And you’ve said more than enough. Quiet now. We need hear the drum, not your shrill, weedy little voice.”

  Alaana and her teacher sat side by side in the karigi, the special tent used by the shamans of the Anatatook. The air was moist and stuffy since the vent hole had been covered to dim the light. Still, midsummer could not be kept out. It took advantage of leaky edges, it crept in through the seams of the caribou hide, it crawled under the flap.

  Alaana felt warm, wearing a light, tan-colored parka of short-haired caribou. Old Manatook was stripped bare to the waist. In stark contrast to the mostly hairless bodies of the other Anatatook men, his chest was frosted with curly white hair.

  The sunlight made their task more difficult, but Old Manatook thought it important that Alaana embark on her first journey from this place, set right in the middle of the Anatatook camp, as a reminder that her power belonged to the people.

  He rummaged among the drums and the masks arranged along the sides of the tent. The instrumen
ts came in all shapes and sizes, trimmed with animal bones and fur tassels. Every drum had its own beater, ranging from a slender shoot of whalebone to Kuanak’s prized drumstick, covered with the skin of a wolf’s tail. Each housed a companion spirit, revealed to Alaana’s eyes in varied colors and textures depending on their powers and purpose.

  Most of these belonged to Old Manatook and had been crafted over the many years of his lifetime. The equipment of Wolf Head and Civiliaq was arranged carefully off to the side. The helper spirits which had inhabited the drums had fled upon their masters’ deaths, but the masks might still be used later, perhaps by Alaana, when she learned how.

  “Deep breaths,” said Old Manatook. He placed a large round mask over his face. The mask was made of wood with a rich brown color and had at its center a round hole that almost resembled a mouth. A series of concentric circles, cut deep into the wood, radiated outward from this central void. Eye slits were placed along the curve of one of the ripples. Behind them Alaana saw Old Manatook’s smoldering eyes, alight with blazing soul fire.

  The mask was old, very old. Alaana could sense its ancient power. The seasoned wood had a faint smell of crisp mountain air, charged as if caught in the moment just after it had been sizzled by lightning.

  Allowing the drum to speak, Old Manatook said nothing more. The large oval drum had a deep bass note, a voice from far away, calling Alaana to surrender herself, to abandon all thought and care, and drift down and down. The rhythm was dull and unvarying, the pace exactly that of a heartbeat in deep slumber.

  Old Manatook stopped abruptly.

  “And this is important,” said the old shaman. “Beware fanged reptiles at any cost. Anything with fangs must be avoided.”

  “And any spiders or swarming insects you may encounter,” added Nunavik. “Pass around them or go back if they stand in your way.”

  Old Manatook grunted softly, indicating that Nunavik’s interruption held some merit. “I should have mentioned the spiders. But the snakes are the main thing. They are to be strictly avoided. We won’t be staying long in the Lowerworld anyway. We’ll just traverse the tunnel, have a glimpse at what lies beyond, and return.”