by Ken Altabef
Misana rushed to give her daughter a heartfelt embrace.
“Thank you, angatkok,” said Ipalook sincerely. He turned to Alaana and clasped her hand warmly with both of his own. He bowed his head slightly. “Thank you.”
Alaana was taken aback. Ipalook, the longstanding friend of Maguan with a sour disposition, had so often teased her in the past. This reaction was the last thing she had expected. Alaana was embarrassed at having been thanked. She’d done nothing but shake the rattle, and even that had been completely unnecessary.
CHAPTER 23
BLACK FACE
It was not yet the deep winter cold, the cold that renders every breath a painful chore and sucks the life from the body. Nor was it the stinging midwinter cold that eats relentlessly away at hand and face wherever it may find them. But the wet cool of summer had become the dry, hard cold of early winter with breath clouding all day from start to finish.
Old Manatook seized the first opportunity, as soon as the fresh ice made such distant travel possible, to take Alaana on a long journey. They had been at it for two days, traveling east and then north. With a team of three well-fed dogs eager for the run, their sled flew across the tundra. Makaartunghak, Old Manatook’s gigantic gray huskie, pulled mightily at the lead with two smaller dogs in swing positions. The team would’ve been an even four but Old Manatook’s other dog, Yipyip, insisted on riding on the sled. Yipyip, a coal-black mixed breed, sat beside her master on the front stanchion. The little dog rested her head on the shoulder opposite where the winged creature often resided, giving a balance of black and white to frame Old Manatook’s face.
The sled sped along the hard pack, crossing a wide basin between the glaciers. With no trail to follow they advanced erratically, their path winding around a chain of small frozen lakes. Old Manatook kept mostly silent, concentrating on the way before them. The fresh ice could be treacherously thin where swift water ran below, and often bent and creaked beneath their runners.
The fast-moving dogs churned up clouds of snow. Wherever the spray struck Alaana’s parka it stuck, fringing her garments with frost and tiny icicles. She didn’t know their destination, the point of some mysterious errand which Old Manatook said he had put off for too long already. Alaana knew this territory only through the tales and recountings of others. She was determined to memorize all the landmarks as they passed. More than any other Anatatook she must know the region, she had been told, for when the angatkok went traveling it was most often alone.
Sometimes she ran along behind the sled to warm up. Drifting snow, tossed about by the brisk arctic wind, swirled at waist height, only occasionally rising high enough to swat her face. Alaana kept her nose tucked into the flap of her hood to prevent the ground blow from freezing the skin off her cheeks.
The sky deepened from cool blue to gloomy indigo. Night was almost upon them. Old Manatook pointed out Black Face, a ridge of dark stone that rose far above the tundra, its surface covered with a delicate white tracery of frozen run-off from above. They kept close to the sheltering rock, safe from the northerly winds.
Yipyip curled herself in Alaana’s lap as if seeking warmth there. Actually her motivation was the exact opposite. The mysterious little dog blazed with her own inner fire and Alaana wrapped herself around its pleasant warmth.
“Hooo,” said Old Manatook, ordering the dogs to stop. Black Face opened before them, a heel of rock thrust out from the cliff like a petulant jawbone. An arch of ancient stone marked a cave entrance.
“This is an old resting place,” said Old Manatook. “We’ll stay here for the night.”
Alaana hopped down from the sled and began to untie the gear. She was eager to set up the tent but Old Manatook placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. He sniffed at the air like a hound.
“Wolverines are about and they’re hungry,” said the old shaman, his eyes scanning, his nose drinking deep. “Eight or ten of them. They have our scent already, and they intend to attack.”
Alaana scanned the view to the south. The flat expanse of tundra showed no signs of life or movement. The many jagged rocks scattered about the base of the cliff would provide the wolverines an opportunity to approach unseen.
“We should go,” she said.
Old Manatook shook his head. “This dampness in the air foretells a storm. Makaartunghak is worth three wolverines in a fight. We can handle them if necessary, but if they should tear down the tent in the middle of the night we’ll have real trouble. We’ll be better off inside the cave.”
Alaana refastened the thongs she had already untied, then took hold of the traces. When she tried to lead the dogs inside, Makaartunghak balked at her efforts. He much preferred a warm burrow in the snow to the cold stone interior of a gloomy cave. The big dog, pulling back with all his prodigious strength, was too much for Alaana to handle.
“I’ll take them,” said Old Manatook. “You’d better see what you can find growing among the rocks to use for torch and fuel. Without a good fire, we won’t last the night.”
Alaana dared not venture too far from the entrance. Just outside the cave mouth she found a few clumps of short heath growing between the rocks and the tips of upland grass peeking out like stubble above the crusted snow. She thought she saw shadows slinking nearby as she picked her way among the stones, but the light was fading quickly and she couldn’t be sure. In any case there was no doubt of the wolverines. By now their smell was thick all around. Her heart pounding, she pulled the frozen grasses up by the handful, pausing just long enough to scrape some dry moss from the stones.
Old Manatook had prepared a place for the fire. In the darkness he’d found an old log set aside long ago. The wood was ancient and hard enough to pass for stone. As Alaana arranged the log and the grasses, the wolverines began a chorus of starved, frustrated cries outside. A dark shape flitted across the cave entrance.
Makaartunghak, who had been set loose from the traces, darted forward. He crouched just within the cave opening and hurled his own wild bark out into the night.
Old Manatook commanded him, “Stay here!”
Makaartunghak glanced unhappily at his master, then snapped his head back to resume his watch. Old Manatook tossed a slab of dried fish at him but the big dog ignored the food, aiming a series of low growls at the cave mouth.
The other dogs were content to huddle at the side of the cave, bickering over the last scraps of the meal of minced salmon Old Manatook had given them. Yipyip, a black shadow, slipped outside.
“Heya!” said Alaana. “Yipyip!”
“She’ll be fine,” said Old Manatook.
“I hope so,” said Alaana. “I’ve been thinking. There must be a way to convince the souls of the wolverines to leave us alone.”
“You may ask, but it won’t work. Hunger speaks loudest of all things.”
“Can’t you force them? Compel their souls to go away?”
“No,” said Old Manatook. Alaana could see little of her teacher’s face in the dark except for his eyes, which were alive with soul fire. “That is the difference between a shaman and a sorcerer, and a sorcerer is but one step from a demon. We ask. We cannot do more. Now, start the fire.”
“The smoke will choke us in here.”
“I think not,” said Old Manatook. The dark silhouette of a finger passed before Alaana’s face, and she followed it upward to see a star-lit vent hole at the top of the cave.
The spirit within the log was ancient and drawn thin, a dim glimmer barely clinging to this existence. It said it had once been a tree and been quite happy at it, but had now been only a log for a long, long time. Ages had passed since it had thought much about anything at all, but it admitted to being at least curious to see what it would be like to be smoke instead.
Alaana asked the tiny spirit within the dry moss to spark into flame, and offered apologies to the grasses.
The fire caught and flared up.
“That’s good,” said Old Manatook. He had upended the sled beside the hearth
, and already begun draping his wet clothes over the runners to dry. Old Manatook was the oldest man Alaana had ever seen. Naked, he looked as if his skin did not fit him well; it sagged and wrinkled in odd places like a loose shirt that he might simply shirk off at any moment.
Alaana stopped in the midst of unfastening her parka. The far wall of the cave, bathed now in warm amber light, had caught her eye.
Men from ages past had marked the wall, blowing powdered paint over the backs of their hands to leave behind the outlines of broad, thick-fingered palms.
“This is a Tunrit cave,” said Alaana. Now she understood the unlikely vent hole, which had been carved out of the rock ages ago by men of legendary muscle and sinew.
Figures of the Tunrit were drawn in dark silhouette against a brown ochre background of cracking paint. Bulky men with overlarge heads, carrying arrows and spears. The Tunrit had lived here in the dark days of the world’s beginning, leaving behind the marks of their hands on the wall in silent memorial of their struggle to survive in those wild times. It seemed to Alaana that the cave still echoed with their voices, cries of determination and strife, glad shouts swelling up after a successful hunt, and the melancholy laments of all that had been lost to them.
The ancient paint was chipped and flaking away, etched by moss at the damp fringes. The paintings must soon be erased completely, but how soon? Having stood for thousands of years, how fast does time eat them away, Alaana wondered.
She thought the paintings both crude and beautifully evocative. The long-tusked mamut marched there, outlined in white and gray, tremendous shapes with humped backs and powerful limbs. Other strange beasts with bony faces and odd-shaped horns stalked among the shadows, their long snouts and crushing jaws ready for a charge at the Tunrit hunters.
Smoke swirled before the paintings, and the shifting firelight made it seem as if the animals had come to life, tensed and ready to leap out of the rock wall itself. At the lower edge of the wall Alaana noted a strange figure. More finely rendered than the others, it stood apart. A tall Tunrit, dressed in a long gown of matted grasses. His face was empty except for two sooty black circles that represented eyes. But strangely, as the flickering firelight touched the cave painting it seemed as if the eyes glowed red to match the burning embers of the hearth.
“That figure on the wall…” said Alaana.
“A Tunrit Sorcerer,” explained Old Manatook, without looking up. He was busy giving his feet a vigorous rubbing-down before the fire.
Alaana felt a wracking chill and turned away. She shook off her wet clothes and hung them out to dry. She sat naked before the small fire, grateful for the log’s generous gift of warmth. Old Manatook handed her a slab of dried fish with two lumps of caribou fat draped over the top.
“Where is this place we’re going?” Alaana asked. “Won’t you tell me?”
“Hmmm, I suppose I shall have to at last.” With the harsh yellow highlights and deep shadows thrown across his face by the shifting firelight Old Manatook looked even more dour than usual. “It’s a foul place. A place of great danger, Alaana. Murdered souls fester there. There was a war, and people killed in their sleep. I’m no storyteller, so I’ll just come out with it. If my Higilak were here she could make you see it clear and feel the true horror of it. But perhaps this is not a tale you want to know too well.”
The dogs crept close to the fire, all except Makaartunghak who held his position at the entrance in answer to the frustrated cries of the wolverines. The huskies settled around the old shaman, their noses low to the ground, as if they too would hear the tale.
“It happened like this: A man from Uwelen was traveling to the south with his wife, and came upon a rival band. A stranger in their camp, he was killed by a man in need of a wife. When this news reached Uwelen the man’s relatives sent out a revenge party. They were confident of success. They had many excellent archers among the Uwelen and good spearmen as well. When their enemies saw the party approach they sent out their own hunters. The two groups faced each other across a field of ice, and the drifts grew red with blood. In the end the men from Uwelen took back the woman who had been stolen.
“They returned home from their war victorious, but found they had lost all. In the absence of the strong men, Yupikut raiders had set upon the village of the Uwelen. They took the women and slaughtered the old men left behind to guard them. Children’s bodies lay strewn in the snow, the dogs nibbling at their faces. Such is the cruelty of the Yupikut.
“It was too much to bear. Some men fell dead on the spot, their hearts bursting with grief. Others killed themselves or turned against each other, adding to the toll of tormented ghosts. Some had the idea to reclaim the women, but in truth once the Yupikut got finished with them their husbands couldn’t want them back. They went after the Yupikut anyway, knowing they would be killed.”
Old Manatook turned his head toward the cave entrance. The smaller dogs had approached Makaartunghak and begun sniffing at his still-uneaten slab of fish. With a swipe of his massive paw the big dog sent them creeping back to the fire.
“We shamans come here to Uwelen whenever we can, so that the evil does not spread and threaten us as well. It’s a long time since I’ve passed this way. I fear we’ve neglected Uwelen. There are too many tasks to do and too few shamans in Nunatsiaq nowadays.”
“Ghosts and more ghosts,” said Alaana with a sigh. “It seems as if there are ghosts everywhere we turn.”
Old Manatook nodded. “This is a harsh and unforgiving land. Nunatsiaq provides for us, but only what we wrestle from its grasp. And also it takes. It takes. Many come to a bitter end among the ice and snow. Even good people are driven to do terrible things when their bellies are empty and the cold claws at them and the sun closes its golden eye and goes away.”
“I think it’s a beautiful land.” replied Alaana.
“Yes. That too.”
“It doesn’t matter how hard it is,” added Alaana. “We survive. Just take a deep, deep breath and feel it fill you up. That’s the most beautiful thing of all.”
“Now you’ve got it.” Old Manatook actually smiled. The emotion did not sit well with his face. His cheeks bulged oddly as if the wrinkled flaps of flesh might fall off at any moment.
“You’ll do the task tomorrow,” he added. “But remember the danger. These ghosts thirst for nothing but revenge, and they no longer care who they seek to punish. To be lost in the spirit world is a terrifying fate for these mortal souls. Without our help they become confused and wander the wastes, like a foul breeze in the night, killing women and children in their sleep. Their names remind them, ground them to their past. Do you remember the chant? Do you remember all the names?”
“Will the names bring them peace?”
“Peace is dearly bought for those who die in such anguish. Better shamans than I have tried. If we were all to work together, it might be done. But such a gathering is not possible. For now we can only soothe these tormented souls and send them back to sleep for a little while.” Old Manatook shook his head. “That’s the head and the hindquarters of it. Now let me hear the chant.”
Alaana sat up straight, careful of the dogs beside her. With a warm, furry body to either side she had begun to feel very comfortable and sleepy. She shook herself awake, and began to recite:
“Those from Uwelen, how they sang,
Those from Uwelen, how they danced,
They fished under the blue sky,
They slept in the black night.
These poor souls, who stir around us,
Let them not fall into sorrow.
A thousand times the starry sky has turned,
And still they wander, lost and lonely.
You are not forgotten.
You may sleep without care.
We remember.
Just so, just so, what are your names?
Ituituq, Kajorsuq, Qanorme,
Nerugalik, Nontak, Tassiussaq,
Guide your families to their rest now.
Everything is swept away.
And gone.”
“That’s good,” said Old Manatook. “But the power of these old songs fades after being used again and again. This one is almost worn out. The last two lines must be delivered in the secret language of the shamans.” Old Manatook hesitated. His left eye squinted as he struggled to remember the verse. “It is this: Iluquaan sanfiyaqtuq pavva iqsisaaqtuq. Tifitkaa.”
Alaana was not yet an expert at the secret language of the shamans, but thought the translation sounded flawed and said so.
“Tornarssuk save me from this insolent pup!” grumbled Old Manatook. “The translation stands. That’s it. If I remember correctly, and I do.” He squinted again, and Alaana thought she’d never seen her teacher looking so old and uncertain. “I think.”
“Will the chant be enough?”
Old Manatook muttered a curse. “Of course not! The chant is almost irrelevant. You must call on the power of Sila.”
Alaana leaned into the fire and rubbed the chill from her shoulders. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why was I chosen by Sila? He said I would restore the balance, but what does it mean? The balance of shamans?”
“Possibly. Or something more.” Old Manatook threw up his hands. “You must seek these answers from Sila. You must call on him for aid whenever you are in need. As I do with the Great Bear.”
Alaana settled back down among the dogs. “Tell me again about Tornarssuk,” she said, eager to lead the conversation away from Sila.
Old Manatook smiled, which was a rare thing indeed. “He is the tireless master of the white bears. Born in the time of the Rift as were all the great turgats, he has watched over the world for a long, long while.
“This frail human body,” continued the shaman as he gestured toward his bare, sagging chest, “cannot endure the presence of such a great power for very long. So he comes only when necessary. We have an understanding. A part of him waits for me in lonely places. I know that if I am in need, he will always help. This gives me confidence. You must have the same confidence if you are to go forward.”