The Calling

by Ken Altabef

  All her life she’d heard tales of the miraculous things shamans could do. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to be counted among them. As long as she didn’t end up all gloomy and careworn like Old Manatook, or like Kuanak with the palsied hand and the one blind eye, or poor Civiliaq, gutted by a demon in the Underworld. Did none of them end up happy?

  With a sigh, she drifted off to sleep.

  But sleep for a shaman-in-training was not the same as for a carefree child or a normal woman. There was little rest in it. As her mind relaxed, her spirit strode boldly forth, stepping across into the world of dream. Walking in the dreamlands had changed now that she was tasked with reporting every dream to her teacher. To help remember the details when she woke, she paid strict attention as they happened. She remained aware that she had left her body behind, as most people were unaware. In this way the idle workings of her sleeping mind transformed into true journeying.

  This night she dreamt of a barren wasteland of dried, cracked earth. The snow had all burned away, leaving the ground hard and brown. The sky blazed with the colors of sunset.

  Suddenly she felt the sting of fiery acid against her ankle. An ebony hand reached up through one of the cracks. Her spirit-flesh burned. The hand yanked hard, pulling her down to one knee as it drew her toward the crack in the earth.

  She glanced down into the blackened abyss. It was one of the lumentin, a leering demon surrounded by a smoky haze. Desperate, hateful, it wanted to pull her under, to destroy her. Alaana struggled against its deadly grip, trying to brace her other foot against the hard ground but the earth was so dry and brittle, crumbling away, and the crevasse grew even wider. It was inevitable that she’d be dragged down.

  Another demonic hand reached up and pulled even harder. Alaana felt a rising panic. All was lost.

  A shadow crossed the grasping arms and the demon’s grip faltered. A moment’s hesitation was all she needed. Alaana kicked free.

  She rolled over, hugging the ground.

  “Step carefully, little bird.”

  Alaana looked up. Civiliaq stood over her.

  “Civiliaq!”

  The bare-chested shaman smiled and nodded. All in all, he looked little worse for having died. Clean-shaven as always, his glossy black hair arranged in a pair of neat braids that fell on either side of his smiling face. Alaana noticed the intricate designs that covered his arms and bare chest were drawn backwards, as figures most often appeared in the dreamlands. His tattoos looked even more fabulous than ever, etched now in deep purple and black against the shaman’s pale spirit-flesh. A big, black raven spread its wings across his bare chest, having just pounced atop a snake that circled his narrow waist. A ring of protective amulets hung silently, stitched into the skin across his neck. Serpentine loops and circles of mystic design covered his broad shoulders and ran down and around both arms. Most impressive of all, a pair of large feathered raven’s wings, which had been merely tattoos in the waking world, now extended from the backs of his shoulders.

  “Civiliaq? How can you be here?”

  “I walk again in dreams, as does anyone your mind may conjure.”

  “Oh,” said Alaana, rising to her feet, “I forgot where I was.”

  Civiliaq smiled affably. “You are asleep. And you dream of me! I’m flattered, little bird.” He reached a hand down to pull Alaana up.

  “I never thought I’d see you again,” said Alaana, taking his hand. It felt solid enough. Civiliaq gave her fingers a hearty squeeze as she rose to her feet.

  “You miss your old friend Civiliaq,” said the shaman. His smile drifted away. “Of course I’m not really here. My soul is trapped in the Underworld, where I am debased and tortured for trying to help you and the others.”

  “I’m sorry…”

  Civiliaq bowed his head slightly. “You don’t have to be sorry. After all, it wasn’t you who betrayed me. It was not you who damned me.”

  Alaana knew he was talking about Old Manatook. She’d never been told exactly what happened when the three shamans had fought the fever demon, but she’d figured most of it out for herself.

  Civiliaq’s wings flapped twice, very slowly. “And that’s why I’ve come. To help you. Your education is woefully incomplete so far. There are things Old Manatook is not showing you. Squirrel-men and golden walruses are all well and good, but there are too many things he is keeping from you.” Civiliaq gestured with the single black feather he held in his hand, pointing it toward the crack in the blasted earth, toward the lumentin.

  Alaana shrugged. “I suppose he’ll show me in time.”

  “In time, or not at all,” returned Civiliaq, “and such a misjudgment may very well lead to your destruction. There are things I must show you. Terrible things. I don’t want to frighten you but I feel it’s my responsibility. Remember, I’ve always been a good friend to you. I’ve always protected your family.”

  Alaana nodded. For all his haughty conceits, Civiliaq had never done anyone harm.

  “Fine,” said Civiliaq, “This is a good place for a lesson. We have everything we need.” He raised both hands above his head, as if drawing down the clouds from the sky. The shaman’s face hardened with intense concentration as he worked his fingers in the air, drawing a picture out of dreamstuff. The ground covered with white snow again. The air took on the chill of winter.

  “Look upon Kayoutuk, shaman of the Tungus.”

  Alaana gasped. She saw a vision of a man running — a shambling horror, his skin flayed off, dripping blood, his guts opened up. Intestines looped out and trailed down in a bloody mass which he trampled underfoot in his mad rush forward.

  The man moaned in hopeless torment. He stumbled blindly onward, seeing nothing as he passed directly in front of Alaana.

  She cringed, stepping back. It was the most terrible thing she had ever seen. “What happened to him?”

  “He made one mistake,” answered Civiliaq, “as did I.”

  Alaana turned her head. “Take it away.”

  “Not until a hard lesson is learned. One mistake is all it takes. The shaman’s dance is a way of prayer. Its purpose is to pay homage, to give proof of your sincerity to the power of the spirits and beg their aid. But their sympathy may so quickly turn to anger. The form of the dance is important. Kayoutuk made one single misstep, perceived as insult by the turgat he had been meaning to impress.”

  “But what spirit?” whispered Alaana.

  “Look up and see.”

  Alaana raised her eyes to see an enormous figure striding toward them across the flats. This was Erlaveersinioq the Disemboweler, a gigantic figure of death, whom the Anatatook also called the Skeleton Who Walks. Instead of ears, the yapping maws of a pair of ferocious dogs sprouted from each side of the turgat’s head, their fangs dripping ichor and blood. The spirit’s eyes, dead in their sockets and as large around as summer houses, looked down upon Kayoutuk as he stumbled along the bloodied snow. As the eyes swiveled around, Alaana prayed they wouldn’t come to rest on her.

  Thump, thump, thump! The great spirit’s every footfall shook the earth. Alaana felt each step rumble through her. She had the urge to bolt and run but Civiliaq stood fast beside her, showing no fear.

  Erlaveersinioq’s mouth was a bloody rent, filled with more rows of dagger-teeth than anyone could count. Alaana imagined the torture of being swallowed down that long, horrible throat. Screams of women and children rose from its depths, and blood dribbled down the chest in a heaving torrent. As it walked along, six slender arms, the color of midnight blue, clawed violently at the air.

  “It could have been any of them,” explained Civiliaq. “They don’t tolerate failure. The turgats, the great spirits, they are so far above us. Even the most powerful shaman is nothing to them. We beg favors from them and sometimes they look down and give us a little. But just as likely they can be temperamental, spiteful and cruel. They can crush us in an instant.”

  “Please,” said Alaana, glancing away. She couldn’t look upon it any longer.<
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  “I don’t show you these things to frighten you, but to help you,” explained Civiliaq. “Open your eyes, little bird. There is nothing to fear.”

  Alaana gazed again at the empty tundra. She let out a long sigh, shaking her head to recover herself.

  Civiliaq’s hand clamped hard on her shoulder.

  “We’re not finished,” he said.

  “I don’t—”

  “Shhh. More to see, more to learn. If the Anatatook happen to travel to the other side of Big Basin, you might encounter this one. Iakka, shaman of the Yakut people.”

  Civiliaq’s hands moved around again, forming another vision from the dreamstuff. He used the black raven feather as an artist’s brush, adding detail to the scene. Alaana saw an abandoned village take shape around them. Half buried in snow, only the tops of the tent poles and meat racks could be seen. A sense of grim foreboding came over her as the expanse of haunted wasteland came to life.

  “Iakka,” said Civiliaq, “a shaman who became a tarrak. A dark, angry spirit. He abused his power and became a sorcerer, commanding his will upon others, twisting their souls, forcing them to do his bidding. He made them do little things at first but the temptation was too great. In time the Yakut people were marched about like puppets at the whim of the sorcerer. But in the few moments of free thought left to them, communicating in whispered tones and hand gestures, the men decided what to do. The sorcerer must be killed even at the cost of all their lives, this was their solemn vow. They planned their trap in desperate, stolen moments and then they sent a score of arrows into his back. He lies there still, covered by the snows of years gone by.”

  The coal-black tail feather of the raven pointed to a mound just in front of Alaana, the tips of several arrow feathers just piercing the snow cover.

  “His spirit is a different matter,” said Civiliaq, “not so easily disposed of.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “It’s still here. Can’t you feel it?”

  Alaana shuddered. She did feel the old shaman’s twisted spirit, still possessing the village it had consumed. It had taken root among the shattered tents, the wrecked meat racks, the broken kennels and the corpses of the people and dogs he had killed. Their ghosts had become a part of him and they did not rest easy. Like nettles under the skin they writhed and twisted, stabbing at their murderer.

  “Iakka’s soul is still here,” repeated Civiliaq. “He suffers in eternal damnation and misery. Sometimes the wind blows his screams across Big Basin. I’ve heard them on cold nights. Haven’t you?”

  Alaana nodded. She had! “Oh, it’s real,” she said. “It’s true.” All around her the mingled screams of the murdered and the murderer rang out, piercing her very soul. She put her hands over her ears.

  Civiliaq nudged one of the girl’s hands down with a sharp elbow. “Of course it’s true.”

  “I don’t want to wind up like that! Not ever!”

  Civiliaq frowned. “Of course you’re not eager to learn this, but I wouldn’t be your friend if I let it pass without due warning. The dangers of being the shaman are great.”

  “My mother said it was a gift.”

  “What do mothers know of such things? You must be careful, little bird. A dream so quickly may turn to nightmare. Too often without warning. That’s what happened to me. We can’t finish your lesson without a visit to your dear old friend Civiliaq, and the demon that torments me still.”

  Alaana cringed at the memory of the fever demon. To this day she lived in fear of that hideous old hag. A row of gray figures wandered in the mist behind Civiliaq, all victims of the sickness. All children. She closed her eyes.

  “Don’t look away,” barked Civiliaq. “Let me show you what they’ve done to me.”

  “I don’t want to see,” said Alaana. “Not that! Not her!”

  “But you must see. If I was destroyed by a single doubt and a feckless friend, what chance do you have? You are riddled with doubts. You can’t hide that from me. Not here. I worry for you. What will become of you, little bird? You are so full of doubts. And remember, you have the same deceitful friend as I.”

  “Old Manatook?”

  “Old Manatook. We three went down, and he came away alone. Think on this. Have you ever seen his true soul-shape? I’ll bet you haven’t. Don’t feel bad about it. Neither have I. There are things he hides even from his fellow shamans.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You don’t know!” snapped Civiliaq. “I tell you he is not what he seems. That’s for certain. Who knows where he goes alone on his long journeys to the north? Do you?”

  Alaana shook her head.

  “And why did he not end the fever demon? He didn’t kill her, just pounded her into the snow. Why did he leave her alive to torment me, abandoning me, trapped in the Underworld? She has clipped my wings! My ties to Tulukkugaq – the Great Raven – are severed. He cannot help me now. He cannot hear my cries!”

  Alaana noticed that the wings sprouting from the shaman’s back had been stripped away. His tattoos began to smolder, sending curls of gray smoke up from his body.

  “No one can help me. I am adrift and alone. Same as you.”

  Alaana didn’t know what he meant by that, but she dare not ask. Her head broiled again with the fever as if the demon had taken hold of her once more. She felt dizzy and weak.

  Civiliaq went on, “I am trapped in the Underworld — I dare not show it to you! But of course I must.” He raised his arms to the heavens once more. The sky darkened.

  “No. I don’t want to see any more!”

  “I’m sure you don’t. You’d rather stumble blindly forward doing just what he tells you to do. He killed my father, did you know that? The shaman that trained me, I mean. As true a father as I ever had. Manatook slit his throat, murdered him right in front of all the people. Let us have a look at that instead!”

  “No!” said Alaana. “I won’t!”

  “You will!” fumed Civiliaq, flecks of spittle flying from his lips.

  In the dreamlands, the power of the dead shaman was too intense to resist. Alaana felt helpless before him. There was only one thing she could think to do.

  “Itiqtuq!” she called out. “Itiqtuq!”

  She felt the amulet warm inside her palm, a tiny auk skull with dead eyes and a downy tuft of tan feathers at the top. “Wake up! Wake up!” it screeched.

  With a startled groan, Alaana sat up. She was breathing hard and fast.

  Her mother had heard her shout and turned toward her.

  “You’ve had a bad dream, Alaana. That’s all,” she said. She brushed the hair from Alaana’s forehead. “I shouldn’t wonder with your father away. It’s over now. Go back to sleep.”

  Alaana settled back down under the furs, though she felt not at all reassured.

  Her mother sighed. “It was only a dream.”

  But Alaana knew differently. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly swallow. Itiqtuq squawked once more, reminding Alaana that she had been instructed to relate all of her dreams, in detail, to her teacher in the morning. How could she tell Old Manatook about this? It was impossible. The things Civiliaq had shown her, and the things he’d said, were all true. Maybe Old Manatook couldn’t be trusted. Alaana wished there were someone else she could talk to about this. But there was no one.

  CHAPTER 18

  “IF SHE IS TO BE THE SHAMAN…”

  Tugtutsiak tilted the sealskin pouch, spilling the dried leaves across the flat surface of the gray rock. Old Manatook reluctantly bent forward to sniff at them. He detested the smell of tobacco.

  He scented nothing out of the ordinary, stirring the crumbling brown leaves with the tip of his finger until satisfied. The soul-lights within the plant were quiet and at peace, without sign of disease.

  “It’s clean,” he said. “There’s no taint.” After their recent trouble with the fever demon, Old Manatook personally inspected all trade goods that came from the white men.

  Tugtutsiak separated th
e tobacco into two small piles, offering one to Nuralak. He drew out a small pipe made from the hollowed flute of a walrus tusk, and thumbed the bowl full. He gestured toward his pipe as if expecting the shaman to provide the spark. Old Manatook ignored him, gazing instead at the scenery.

  Behind the bluff on which they sat lay an expansive view of the whole of the Anatatook camp. Several families had just recently returned to form the combined winter camp on the sea ice. The people below bustled with eager activity. It was a time for greeting friends and catching up on news, exchanging gifts and pleasantries.

  Tugtutsiak gazed out upon the opposite slope. A pair of huge shimmering bergs rose on either side, reflecting blue from the sky. His gaze trailed all the way down to the gleaming ice-foot that frosted the beach. Dark blots speckled the ice, each one young a seal basking in the sunlight. Tugtutsiak watched them roll and frolic, knowing the bellies of the Anatatook would not get any of them until the ice was ready to take a man’s weight.

  His attention was recalled, as always, to the rolling sea. “I never tire of looking at it,” he said. “How far does it go, Manatook? Have you ever reached the end of it? Can anyone?” The headman gestured toward the open sea with his unlit pipe. He craftily waved it where Old Manatook could not help but notice, but the shaman ignored him.

  “We’ll have to start hunting seal right after the freeze-up,” Tugtutsiak continued. “Our stores of caribou meat are low.”

  “That was a poor hunt at Forked River,” said Nuralak.

  “The herd is thinning,” said Old Manatook. “They graze farther to the south every year.”

  “Or perhaps,” said Tugtutsiak, “Perhaps you chose the wrong place for the hunt.” He struck his flint against the stone, without effect.

  “Perhaps,” admitted Old Manatook.