The Calling

by Ken Altabef

  Alaana blinked. Old Manatook stood revealed before her. “Get up!”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “I thought—”

  “I know full well what you thought,” said Old Manatook. “It’s clear I’ve put too much faith in you.”

  “It’s the chant,” said Alaana, shouting above the rising wind. “There’s something wrong with the chant.”

  “The fault is with you,” said Old Manatook sharply. His tone rang with disappointment.

  “I can do better.”

  “And you shall have to. The ghosts have not yet been made to go away.”

  Alaana, who had hardly allowed herself a sigh of relief at the appearance of her master, saw now that the phantoms of Uwelen had risen in earnest. Moving in eerie silence, a ring of horrific figures surrounded the stone pillar, permitting no chance of escape.

  The ghosts of Uwelen were unlike any she had ever seen. Corrupted by centuries of anger and hatred, these were twisted souls indeed. Dressed only in whatever rags that still clung to them, they marched on long, bowed legs. They reached out with long bony arms, withered and dead, strung with flesh that had been robbed of all blood, bleached of all color and vitality, barely held together by a thought. They stared with dead eyes, dark and empty vessels that could suck the life, or perhaps the very soul, out of anything they might encounter.

  Slain husbands draped ropey arms across the shoulders of their mutilated wives, not in kindness or comfort but cold resignation. Fathers and uncles clung to sons and daughters in unending remorse and desperate horror. And saddest of all were the ghosts of the slaughtered children. Seething with helplessness and fear they cowered behind the adults, who could offer them neither warmth nor protection.

  “What shall we do?” whispered Old Manatook.

  Alaana shrank from the ranks of the advancing wraiths, finding them too dreadful to look upon directly.

  “It’s been much too long a time since any shaman has passed this way,” said Old Manatook. “Thunder and lightning child, what shall we do?”

  “Those of Uwelen,” said Alaana forcefully, “how they sang!”

  She welcomed her teacher’s deep, resounding tones as Old Manatook joined her in the chant.

  Darkness filled the hollow, seeming to have spilled in from all sides as much as fallen from above, as storm clouds overwhelmed the Moon. Alaana’s spirit-vision showed the ghosts in lambent detail as they pressed closer, their bloodless faces stretched and elongated by misery and an eternal hunger for vengeance.

  “They won’t get us,” said Alaana. “They’ll stop.”

  “We are here only to placate them,” reminded Old Manatook. “You see, the chant already gives them pause. They hear their names, they remember their humanity.”

  “It will work,” said Alaana.

  “Yes, it will. Again. Those from Uwelen, how they danced. They fished under the blue sky, they slept in the black night…”

  Despite his encouraging words, Old Manatook despaired of their chances of driving Uwelen’s ghosts away. He felt the starry eyes of Tornarssuk upon him, as the benevolent turgat gazed down from his celestial palace. But the great spirit would not come to their aid unless called and Manatook, remaining calm and steadfast in the face of the advancing horror, held back the call. He knew he could count on help from Tornarssuk on an instant’s notice. But they had come here to learn if Alaana could expect the same of Sila.

  His young pupil’s relationship to that great spirit was not all it should have been. Alaana had received the calling at a late age and under unusual circumstances. She had shown not the slightest inclination for shamanism prior to her encounter with the fever demon. And though her angakua had been very bright at first, that spirit light had become progressively dimmer over time. It was all wrong. Manatook felt he must be missing some obvious fact, but what? The answer lay somewhere beyond his experience.

  They delivered the last few lines of the chant in the secret language of the shamans, lines which now sounded to Manatook as if they might indeed be flawed. It didn’t really matter. The content of the chant had little bearing on the outcome, so long as the names were correct. He kept careful watch on Alaana as she recited the lines. No longer did the girl stutter and trip over the words. Good. The girl’s state of mind was clear. She was certain the chant would work. Faith was restored. A lesson learned, perhaps, but their lives were still in jeopardy.

  “Again,” said Old Manatook. “The spirits begin to falter. But it is not done. Put aside your resentment. Ask Sila for help. You mustn’t think ill of your guardian spirit.” Again Manatook held Tornarssuk at bay.

  “I don’t think ill of him,” said Alaana.

  “You do,” snapped the old shaman. “I can feel it. And if I can feel it, the turgats certainly can as well.”

  The ghosts stepped closer and Alaana realized they were, each and every one of them, looking directly at her.

  “This is no good, Alaana. The shaman can not hesitate. Is Sila with us or not? Are you going to do this? Or not?”

  “I’m going to be the shaman. I’ve already agreed to that.”

  “Going to be the shaman? That’s not good enough. You have to want to be the shaman.”

  “I do. I want to help.”

  Alaana’s angakua began to burn more brightly, and the ghosts again halted their advance. Manatook sniffed the crisp night air. All was still. There was no trace of the mystical winds this night, no taint of Sila.

  “Again,” said Old Manatook. Alaana launched into the chant once more. This time he allowed the girl to go it alone. Her voice was confident and strong. He felt the power rising as Alaana’s spirit burned so very brightly.

  With a mixture of amazement and satisfaction, Manatook saw the character of the spirits begin to change. Tortured expressions melted away as icy, pale faces were replaced by pink skin and warm living flesh. The twisted mouth drew closed, the eyes sparked back to life. The ghosts glanced sidelong, looking as if they had just wakened from a nightmare. They turned toward each other and saw friends and neighbors, tribesmen and loved ones.

  Old Manatook had come to this place many times before and, with Kuanak or Civiliaq beside him, had performed the same chant and the same ritual. Always the souls of the tormented, temporarily soothed and satisfied, went back into the ground, back to the phantom burial mounds in the mists of Uwelen. But this time, under the steady hand of Alaana, the spirits began to glow. Infused by the girl’s power, they shot up into the night sky in a stream of white light. It was just as the chant had ordered them to do. Go off to the sky and be free. Everything is swept away. And gone.

  Alaana fell to her knees. Her face was as pale as crusted snow but she was smiling.

  “We did it,” she mumbled, shivering. Old Manatook knelt beside her, putting his arms around the girl to help warm her.

  “You did it,” said Old Manatook. “The ghosts of Uwelen have gone across the divide, to the distant lands. They will trouble Nunatsiaq no longer.”

  “And they will be safe,” said Alaana. Manatook thought this an odd thing to say, unless Alaana had meant safe from becoming demons.

  “Yes,” said Old Manatook. “So you see? The chant was not false after all.”

  “It was flawed,” said Alaana softly.

  “Really? Then how then could we succeed?”

  “Because I knew that you were with me. I had faith in you.”

  Old Manatook grumbled in surprise. “I did nothing. I didn’t call on Tornarssuk.”

  “Then who?” asked Alaana. “Was it Sila? Did you see him? Did you see Sila?”

  Old Manatook would not lie to his student. “No.”

  “I don’t care,” said Alaana. “It doesn’t matter, so long as they’re safe.”

  “It does matter,” huffed Manatook. “I had hoped for you to learn the importance of faith today. Without faith in your spirit guardian the chant will not work. Nothing will work. You were slow in learning this lesson, and now I find your faith is misplaced.
You had faith in me, but I did nothing. All your faith must be in Sila.”

  “I felt something,” said Alaana, weakly, “but I didn’t see him.” Alaana closed her eyes. “He didn’t come.”

  “That’s because you did not ask properly.”

  Old Manatook turned away. Sila had not come. This miracle had been achieved by the power already within Alaana, raw power which had now been greatly depleted. Worse yet, the strength and luster of Alaana’s angakua was fading rapidly. Something must be done about that, too. The girl lay shivering in his arms, exhausted. She might have died from the exertion.

  Old Manatook wrapped her in a loose tent cover, and Alaana fell off to sleep. He carried the girl back to the sled.

  The old shaman looked out over the snow-covered ruins of Uwelen. The night was now quiet and still. Not surprisingly there were no signs of the pack of wolverines. After all that had happened here tonight, they wouldn’t be back.

  Gazing into the clear night sky, Manatook was tempted to call upon Sila himself. He had done so once before, trapped in the blizzard, and the Walker In The Wind had saved him. But this was different. One might beg assistance from turgats in time of need, but for a man to call upon such a great spirit to explain itself? That was definitely not the Way. His appeal would be ignored, or otherwise lead to his instant demise, crushed under the heel of the wind.

  “If there was need, Sila should have come,” whispered Old Manatook to his left shoulder.

  “I told you this wouldn’t work,” answered Quixaaragon. The creature of white light flapped its scaly wings indignantly.

  “And how did you know?”

  “I just knew.”

  “Hmmph.”

  For a spirit helper, Quixaaragon was neither very servile nor responsive. The tunraq did not answer to the shaman’s will, and was just as likely to give orders as take them. They had met many years ago when the spirit had stumbled across Old Manatook, a traveler in the dream world, and attached itself to him. Quixaaragon was a wayward fragment of a dream, but Old Manatook had never discovered for sure whose dream it might have been and had long since given up hope of finding out. A curious relationship had formed between the two of them, but Old Manatook found Quixaaragon to be as wise as he was ancient, and its advice always sound. It had taken a keen interest in the development of Alaana.

  “It would have worked,” insisted Old Manatook. “That pack of wolverines spoiled it. They drew me out, forcing my hand. They would have killed her.”

  Quixaaragon said nothing.

  “I had to reveal myself to her,” fumed Old Manatook. “But I don’t think she understood anything.”

  “You’ll have to tell her some time,” remarked Quixaaragon.

  “Not yet. I don’t care if the girl knows, but not the rest of them.”

  “Not even after all these years?”

  “No. Not even after these many years.”

  “Is this vanity, Manatook?”

  “No,” snapped the old shaman. “It is love. And something I will not justify to you. The point is, the test was spoiled. Once I came into it, everything was ruined. We can’t know what might have happened. Would Sila have left Alaana to die?”

  Quixaaragon snapped its pointed beak at the shaman’s broad, sloping nose. “Do I need to answer that? Of course he would have.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe Sila saw that I was there, and there was no real danger.” It was hard to tell. The turgats cared very little for lesser creatures, only intervening if called on in a very specific way.

  The little dragon tilted its round head up at the shaman and said, “The proper question is – would Sila have failed to come if correctly called?”

  “Would he? You tell me. You act as if you know everything.”

  “Only bits and pieces. Fragments and echoes. I am only a wandering bit of a dream after all.”

  “A very powerful dream,” mumbled Old Manatook thoughtfully.

  “An ancient one. And my memory for things is not always as clear as it used to be, if it used to be at all. I falter, seeing only ripples in the pool. I am incomplete. Sometimes I think I am merely a weapon, searching for my target.”

  “Well, point yourself somewhere other than me if you please.”

  “Not to worry, old friend,” returned Quixaaragon. “But I am certain of this: the girl must not die.”

  “Sun and Moon, this is all my fault, my failure. Now the test has spoiled its own purpose. Alaana knows Sila didn’t come. Doubt has been raised where there should have been confidence. And look at her now, so weak and helpless, her light almost gone. I’ve done her no good at all. I should have taught her better. I should have led her away from her resentment, not let it fester like this.” Manatook took his face in his hands. “What must I do?”

  “Try again. Find a way.”

  “Good advice, as always.” Old Manatook looked down at the thing perched on his shoulder but instead of smiling he bared his large white teeth. “I still don’t have an answer. Would Sila come if he was called?”

  “Maybe he’s not always able to respond. Maybe his situation is not so different than your own. Your people call you home and yet you remain here, with her. You promised to go to them, if there was need.”

  “How can I go? I can’t leave her like this.”

  “That’s your choice.”

  Manatook waved his arm at the tonraq’s head, but his fingers passed through the white smoke. “Leave me be.”

  Quixaaragon’s form dissipated but its voice lingered, saying, “Let me ask you this: Are you going to succeed in her training or aren’t you?”

  It was a trick question, but an incisive one. At once Old Manatook realized there could be only one answer.

  “Of course I am going to succeed,” he said.

  CHAPTER 25

  SIEEAKTUQRUK

  “Wake up! Wake up!” squawked Itiqtuq.

  Alaana could barely force her eyes open. “Let me alone!”

  With a sudden start she realized she’d spoken out loud. She dare not turn to face her father, a notoriously light sleeper, for fear of finding him awake and staring back at her. She just wanted to sleep. She was so tired.

  Itiqtuq pinched her on the cheek with its beak. Alaana smacked the little auk skull away.

  “Awwwwrrk!”

  She didn’t want to remember the dream. It had been a bad dream. It was all bad dreams for her lately. The ghosts of Uwelen haunted her, even after she had set them free. Small fragments of their suffering, thrown off in their moment of release, clung to her soul, coming out at night as she slept.

  The list of names took on new significance. Nerugalik, an old man, had been strangled and stabbed by Yupikut raiders. Tassiussaq, a young girl, pushed down into the snow and roughly used. Nontak, her father. Insane with grief, he had opened himself with a long hunting knife.

  “I expected you to comfort them,” Old Manatook had said, “not release them.” The old shaman told her that nothing could be done about these haunting echoes except perhaps an undertaking to the dream world to try and sort them out. He promised they would go when they found time. Meanwhile, the bones of those who had gone before peopled her memory, their tortured voices rang out in her dreams. Determined to ignore them, Alaana pulled the sleeping fur closer against the chill of the night.

  Itiqtuq pecked at her again. It had never done that before. The dream. The dream. It had been a bad dream, but it had not been about Uwelen. She must remember.

  Itoriksak on the ice. The seal hunt. The images came rushing back to her. Her father had been there.

  Itoriksak walking along the new sea ice. An ominous sound cut the frigid air, the rumbling of unsteady floes grinding against each other. A moment of fearful expectation always followed such a noise, as all awaited the thunderous crack that must surely come. The soft green ice fractured at Itoriksak’s step, directly below his boot. His leg went plunging in. An instant later the ice sheet pulled back, crushing the leg at the thigh. She heard Itoriksak screa
m. That scream, so shockingly frightful, so vivid and gut-wrenching — that was what had set the dream apart. Alaana recalled the moment vividly. As the merciless ice pulped Itoriksak’s leg she glimpsed her father’s face, contorted with horror and fear. And then her brother fell under. Itoriksak. Dead and gone. Swallowed by the icy sea.

  Alaana shivered, the memory having grown so painful and fresh. She turned toward Itoriksak, who slept beside her on the platform. Undisturbed, her brother’s face appeared serene in repose.

  She reached over and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, a gesture mainly intended to comfort herself against the lingering horror of the dream. She couldn’t bear to think of anything happening to Itoriksak.

  Itoriksak murmured softly. All was well. So tired. Alaana drifted back to sleep. Please, she thought, let there be no more ghosts tonight.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this right away?” demanded Old Manatook. His angry words echoed along the vast emptiness of the windswept tundra.

  Old Manatook held his snow knife in hand, having just sliced through the well-packed drift along the pressure ridge. He was halfway through assembling their practice iglu. Alaana had once asked why they couldn’t simply ask the snow to shape itself into the house the way they did with the soapstone. Manatook had replied that the spirit of the snow lay spread out across all of the land and was so vast and sleepy it could never be roused to action. It had to be worked by hand. This was no great inconvenience, after all. If the snow was firm enough, they could raise the iglus in a very short time.

  “Well? Don’t just stand there. Answer.”

  “I didn’t remember,” she said. “Itiqtuq helped me and I did remember, but then I was so tired. I forgot again.”

  “This was not something to forget! If it was as vivid as you say, this dream is important. This was sieeaktuqruk, a Big Dream.”

  “What does it mean?” asked Alaana, suddenly alarmed at having made such a dangerous mistake.