The Calling

by Ken Altabef

  Old Manatook shook Kigiuna off. He planted one hand flat in the middle of Kigiuna’s chest, holding him back like a dog. His expression was determined and thoughtful. A definite glimmer of hope shone in the shaman’s eyes. Kigiuna had no choice but to keep back.

  Old Manatook straightened Alaana’s body as it lay, arranging the girl’s arms flat against her sides. He brushed the windswept hair from Alaana’s pale, lifeless cheek.

  Placing one hand on either side of her face, Old Manatook bent over the child.

  Though it cost him a small portion of his own soul, Old Manatook reawakened his student with the breath of life. As he kindled Alaana’s inua back to life, their spirits mingled for an instant. He felt her power rise again, and he tasted it carefully. Something strange. Something wrong.

  Alaana’s eyes fluttered open, her lungs gasped the cool air.

  The strength and luster of Alaana’s rekindled angakua was redolent with light and energy, stronger than ever before.

  “Sila is powerful,” said Alaana softly.

  “Yes,” said Manatook. “Sila is powerful.” In this fragile state it would not be wise to tell her otherwise. Let her confidence, so hard won this day, not be shattered. But there would come a reckoning for the trick that had been played on them this day.

  Old Manatook whispered in the girl’s ear, “You are now as my daughter. But that does not diminish the other. Now you have two fathers.”

  Kigiuna swept Alaana up in a cathartic embrace. This lasted for some time, the man muttering quietly to his daughter, offering desperate promises, protestations of love and whatever else. Manatook paid no attention; he was weak and shaken to the core.

  When Kigiuna finished, he turned to face the shaman. He tried to frame some words of thanks, not knowing quite how to proceed, but Old Manatook cut him off. “You should return ahead of us to the camp,” he said. “Ready the people. Tell them their new shaman returns to them today.”

  Old Manatook draped the coat around Alaana’s naked shoulders.

  “This was sewn for you by my wife, Higilak.” It was a ceremonial parka, fashioned from an albino caribou hide. Alaana gratefully felt its warmth surround her.

  “It’s inlaid with polar bear teeth for strength and caribou ears for luck,” said Old Manatook. “If you concentrate you’ll notice a tiny portion of Higilak’s spirit imparted to the skin, such care did she take in sewing this for you. I have put your things in the pocket.”

  Alaana’s hand felt the familiar contours of an auk skull, a small lump of soapstone and a portion of walrus tusk.

  “They’re gone,” she said. “Where have they gone?”

  “Who?” asked Old Manatook.

  “Nunavik. Weyahok. Even Itiqtuq. They’re all gone.”

  “Don’t worry yourself over them,” said Old Manatook. “In many ways spirit helpers are just like mortals. They like to go visiting too. You can never be certain where they’ve taken themselves.”

  “What if they don’t come back?”

  “Then we shall have to work just a little bit harder,” said Old Manatook. “One step you have ascended, one goal attained. There is much more for you to learn. This was just another step on your journey; it may take the rest of your life to understand what you have experienced in this one brief moment.”

  “Nivliqtiriarit! Cry out with joy! Our new shaman has come!”

  Old Manatook timed their arrival perfectly. The first streak of orange came pouring over the horizon as they topped the rise, bringing with it the golden haze of the dawn. With the sparkling dawn breaking at their backs, Alaana appeared resplendent in her new white parka. “Timing is everything,” whispered Old Manatook, “and a little sunlight on the snow never hurt either.”

  Alaana was met by all of the Anatatook, assembled at the edge of the settlement to await her arrival. She had never seen so many warm, joyous faces. Everyone was cheering. Cheering for her. She felt happier than she had ever been.

  She felt flush with power. She finally understood her place among them. Having at last gained the approval of Sila, there was nothing she couldn’t achieve.

  Almost nothing. Mikisork smiled at her, a tear in his eye, and then he lost himself in the crowd, having stepped behind the others.

  Maguan hugged her close. “I knew you would make it,” he said into Alaana’s ear. Alaana realized her elder brother was as proud and happy as she had once been to see Maguan land his first seal.

  Over her brother’s shoulder, Alaana caught sight of Kigiuna. Her father wasn’t basking in the adulation of the crowd. His eyes didn’t have the glint of a man pleased with the status that having a shaman in the family would bring. His face still held a far-away look, burdened with a host of unspoken worries and cares.

  Old Manatook left her in the embrace of her eldest brother. The old shaman felt weak and badly in need of rest. He was not needed here. This celebration was for Alaana.

  Higilak broke away from the crowd and rushed immediately to her husband’s side. Seeing his unsteady condition, she propped herself under one of his arms to help him to their iglu. He leaned only the slightest bit on her; she could never hold his weight.

  “There was never any doubt,” she said. “I knew you’d bring her through.”

  “Hmmph. She has come through,” replied her husband, “but not in the way I expected. Always with her there are mysteries heaped upon mysteries. Why should her initiation be any different?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “When Kigiuna went out after you I feared the worst. I knew he meant to kill you.”

  Old Manatook snickered. “Hah. He tried.”

  “But you said you weren’t going to stop him.”

  “I didn’t. His eyes were opened by the spirits themselves. He will be a great help to his daughter from this day on, I think.”

  “You made everything right,” she said, squeezing his arm.

  “I had less to do with it than you imagine.”

  “So you say. You are as humble as ever, my beloved husband. I’m just happy you and Alaana have both returned, alive and well.”

  “I can’t stay long,” said Manatook softly.

  Higilak sighed. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here with us now.”

  CHAPTER 32

  ANOTHER BIRTH

  Old Manatook drew in a deep, cool breath. The feeling was nothing short of pure invigoration.

  “Alaana was right,” he said. “There is nothing better than a draught of cold winter air. A long journey before me. A strong heart beating within my chest. Whatever lies ahead, I am ready for it.”

  He stood in the shadow of a great white berg, a half day’s travel from the shore, an old man with a lined face, tall and wiry, dressed in a faded parka and furry polar bear trousers. He glanced back at the distant winter camp where all the Anatatook families had joined together to work the sea for seals.

  “They can do without me for a while. After all, they have a fresh new shaman in Alaana.”

  “A bit too fresh,” said Quixaaragon. The helper spirit sat perched atop a ledge in the ice cliff.

  “Hmmmf. The seal are still plenty enough to keep the men busy. The raiders are far to the south. Whatever lays ahead, she can handle it. She’s different now. I see new strength of purpose in her since the initiation.”

  “An odd sort of initiation. Sila came?”

  “Something came,” said Old Manatook grimly. “But it was not Sila. Not the Walker In The Wind. Of that I am sure.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. Something pretending to be Sila.”

  “Pretending?” Quixaaragon searched the old shaman’s eyes. “And you won’t tell her?”

  “How can I? Reveal to her that her call had not been answered? Shatter her confidence and leave her helpless. Without confidence she can do nothing.”

  “But misplaced confidence?”

  “Can work just as well. For now. There’s nothing else I can do. Take Sila away from her and replace it with what?”<
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  Quixaaragon fluttered its leathern wings.

  Old Manatook leaned closer. “You know?”

  “No,” replied the white dragon.

  “You were there, watching from round the corner. What did you see?”

  “I saw nothing,” said Quixaaragon. “I felt something. A spark. An echo.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” growled Old Manatook. “Have it out!”

  Quixaaragon snickered, flicking the tip of a wing as if to remind the old shaman that threats, implied or otherwise, were singularly useless against a dream made of white smoke. “I felt a connection, that’s all. Very faint. A connection to the one who dreamt me.”

  “And who is that?”

  “I don’t remember. It was so long ago.”

  “Sun and Moon! Doesn’t seem like something you’d be likely to forget.”

  “Perhaps I never knew.”

  “Don’t be coy with me, little spirit!” said Old Manatook. He thrust his hand into the space where the bird-like head, crowned with a ring of small horns, stared placidly back at him. His fingers grappled only empty air.

  Old Manatook turned away. He regarded in turn the trail he’d taken from the Anatatook winter camp and the open tundra that lay before him. “I can’t replace her faith in Sila with nothing. That’s for certain. One day she’ll find out. Then we’ll know.”

  “Someday,” said Quixaaragon, who had reappeared in the niche in the cliff.

  Old Manatook sniffed carefully at the night air, finding the way before him clear of the scent of any potential adversary. “There is too little time left. I must go.”

  “You’ll make faster travel if you go without the sled and dogs,” suggested Quixaaragon.

  “You’re right about that.”

  Old Manatook unhitched his pair of dogs from the traces. He carefully dismantled the small sled, bundling the whalebone runners in the sealskin cover and tucking them all safely under a small ledge in the icy cliff face. Makaartunghak sniffed at the area, then paused to mark the spot with a spray of his urine.

  “Go,” Old Manatook said to the dogs. “Go back to camp. Wait for me.”

  Makaartunghak, reluctant to comply, continued trotting back and forth at the base of the cliff.

  Old Manatook launched a booted foot at the gigantic huskie. “Go, I said! Go.”

  Yipyip circled the big dog, nipping at his hindquarters. Makaartunghak, sufficiently annoyed, lurched after the little black dog as she led him back along the icy shoreline.

  “Will you watch over her?” asked Old Manatook.

  “I’ll be here.”

  “So little time,” he said again. “I’ve wasted too much time here already. You don’t know how badly this skin itches after a while.”

  Old Manatook whispered a brief appeal to Tornarssuk to fill him with strength and for speed on his journey. “Great Bear, help me on my way.”

  “Perhaps Alaana could help you and your people in their Great Work,” suggested Quixaaragon.

  “No. The bears of the mountain take care of our own troubles. Alaana stays here. She has no part in it.”

  Quixaaragon squawked slightly. “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Have you anything else to say on that matter? Or only more hints and vague insinuations?”

  Quixaaragon twisted its head gamely to the side, saying nothing more, and then faded from sight.

  Old Manatook sneered at the place the dragon had been, and then turned north. He sniffed again. A strong wind sweeping down from the polar pack carried a fleeting message for his nose, a narrow whisper of fast-moving air. He smelled trouble.

  Old Manatook circled the cliff of ice, heading around to the north. A series of rocky bergs lay spread out ahead, gray-blue in the dim wintry light. He paced along, following first his nose and then a series of tracks in the snow. The thick pads of the polar bear had evidently passed this way, and not long ago. He came to a place where the tracks were cut through by the passage of a pair of sleds.

  Old Manatook quickened his pace, now hearing the calls of the Chukchee hunters. They said, “Takkotakko! Takkotakko!” and “Nanook!” which identified their prey as a white bear.

  Peering around a massive chunk of ice Old Manatook came upon the scene of the hunt. The bear, a sizeable male, was already cornered, harried by the darting attacks of the sled dogs. Cut off from escape to water, it was backed up against a towering rock face. The dogs worried the bear as it tried to climb the rock. Set off-balance by their furious attacks and a constant need to spin around to protect its rear, the bear couldn’t escape up the rocks.

  Even through the icy mist, Old Manatook’s keen eyes counted eight dogs and three men. The bear barked back at the dogs and swatted at them, held at bay as the men readied spear and bow. These hunters were not Anatatook, whom Old Manatook had forbidden to hunt the white bear. They didn’t know him. These strangers wouldn’t listen to an old man calling off their hunt even if he was a shaman of the Anatatook. So there was nothing else to do but reveal himself.

  And enter the fray.

  The old shaman dropped his cloak of human skin. For the first time he noticed the small puncture Kigiuna’s knife had made in the front. Free of his disguise of being a man, he stood tall. Rearing on his hind legs he stretched furry paws to the star-studded sky with a satisfied growl.

  He stepped forward, a gigantic figure cutting through the mist.

  The nearest Chukchee hunter cried out in terror as Old Manatook loomed suddenly beside him, coming as if from nowhere, a tower of white emerging from a flurry of snow.

  Old Manatook let loose a deep bone-rattling challenge. At full height he stood head and shoulders above the human hunter. His unexpected and ferocious roar had a chilling effect on the men.

  To the hunters any bear close at hand was a dangerous bear. But now the game had changed. One bear cornered was prey. Two on the loose were white death.

  One of the dogs leapt at Old Manatook. With a swing of a massive paw, he struck the huskie behind the shoulder, heard a snap as its spine broke in two. It went hurling toward one of the hunters, a missile of dead meat that collided with its master and toppled him into the snow.

  The hunter nearest Old Manatook screamed again but, standing his ground, launched a panic attack with his spear. Old Manatook knocked the shaft to the side and took a swipe at the man. His huge raking claws left the front of the hunter’s parka shredded crosswise, a row of shallow cuts etched across his chest. That was enough. The man broke and ran for the sleds.

  Routed, the others followed after him, calling off their dogs.

  Someone fired a parting shot and an arrow hit Old Manatook in the thigh. The long spruce shaft bounced away but the tip, a barbed arrowhead of caribou antler, made its mark. The wound was nothing more than a nuisance. The barb had only skinned his thigh and drawn a small stream of thick, red blood.

  The rescued bear arched his muzzle toward his savior. Old Manatook recognized him easily by a crescent-shaped scar above his right eye and the tawny color of the fur at the sides of his long neck. His name was Bakklah.

  Still, a formal greeting was in order. The two bears circled each other in a slow spiral, ears laid back. After a few eager sniffs their heads drew together until the tips of their black noses nearly touched. Old Manatook gave his friend a sociable slap on the shoulder that knocked him back a step.

  “Bakklah,” said Old Manatook, speaking now in the secret language of the shamans, a method of speech formed by mind rather than lips and tongue. “I’m glad to see you again. It’s very lucky I came along when I did.”

  The other bear bowed his head deeply, settling almost to the snowy ground. It was the only proper way to show respect for his shaman.

  Bakklah tilted his head at Old Manatook’s wound, coming closer for a look and a sniff.

  “I’ll live,” said Old Manatook. Bakklah nodded, then swiveled his head back in the direction from which Old Manatook had come. The huge bear whimpered slightly.


  “Yes, I have been gone a long time,” said Old Manatook. “I had something important to do.”

  Bakklah turned his head back again, pointing his muzzle in the direction of the north, to the stronghold of the bears of the ice mountain.

  “No, not more important that the Great Work,” said Old Manatook. “Just more urgent.”

  The other bear became agitated. He swung his massive body around and around, growling softly. With great effort, he was able to form one single word in a language forbidden to him. “Come.”

  “Hmmf,” replied Old Manatook. “I know, I know. I’ve done what I had to do. Now I can leave them for a while, and not have to worry. Not too much, anyway. Let’s go.”

  With rapid loping strides the two melted into the tundra, white disappearing into white.

  Alaana crinkled her nose at the pipe Aquppak brandished in front of her face. The bitter scent of tobacco intruded on the crisp air of the spring morning.

  “It was a gift from Putuguk,” Aquppak said. “Given with a promise — when the freeze-up comes again I’ll go out on the ice. This winter I’ll be a man.”

  The pipe was a slender taper of walrus tusk, expertly crafted. Alaana recognized the delicately carved piece as the handiwork of her father.

  “Let’s try it,” suggested Aquppak.

  Chuckling at her friend’s wide-eyed enthusiasm, Alaana touched her finger to the dried brown leaf inside the bowl and politely asked it to spark to life.

  Aquppak took a long puff on the pipe stem, and burst into a fit of coughing that nearly toppled him from his seat. Still choking out puffs of smoke, he righted himself and held the pipe out for her.

  “Alaana! Alaana!”

  A pair of men came rushing toward them. Maguan was in front, his friend Avilik close behind.

  “Is Old Manatook here?” asked Maguan, gasping for breath.

  “No,” replied Alaana, “He’s gone on a journey to the north.”

  “Ugh,” said Maguan. “Then you’d better come.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s my wife Tahkeena,” said Avilik. “She’s giving birth. And there’s trouble. We need the shaman.”