Beyond the Sea of Ice

by neetha Napew

“Is it so?”

  “It is so,” Umak affirmed, for what the fathers of his father had spoken in days long beyond remembering was sacred. It was not to be questioned.

  Beneath a cloud of migrating birds, Lonit searched for stones with which to make a bola. Her head ached, and her breasts were tender as she bent to sort through pebbles that lay about a large, lichen-crusted boulder. On the southern face of the stone, where lichen did not grow, the boulder was so smooth that it seemed to have been scoured. Ordinarily, the girl would have noticed this, for the unusual always caught her eye, but she did not feel well and was absorbed in thoughts of her unworthiness.

  “Look at this female! she said to herself, her mouth drawn against her teeth. A few days of butchering, and Lonit is as stiff and sore and grouchy as an old woman! Never has she felt like this before. Lonit dishonors the men who allow her to share their camp. Even the dog is more important than Lonit!

  Her silent self-recriminations went on, intensifying when she could find no pebbles of the right shape or size. How could she make a proper bola without the right stones? She had already prepared the four leather thongs to which the stones would be tied; each thong was made of three strips of sinew, meticulously braided into thirty-inch lengths, which were brought together at one end and secured by yet another thong. When the loose ends of the four braids were weighted with stones—with two condor feathers attached to the united end to stabilize and guide the bola in flight—Lonit would possess the perfect snare weapon with which to catch the land birds and waterfowl that filled the sky. Soon they would be nesting in the thousand pools and lakes that would jewel the tundra after the spring thaw. Even now the more shallow lakes were partially free of ice, and tiny, sparrow like long spurs were landing everywhere to pick at the thinly frosted tundra for bits of new growth and remnants of last year’s grasses. Soon they would be nesting, they and uncounted other winged nomads of the skies. There would be eggs to gather and suck.

  But now as a dull, deep cramp pulled at Lonit’s belly, not even the thought of such long-anticipated delicacies could cheer her. Coupled with her aching head and tender breasts, the cramp was a further sign of her unworthiness. Within her gloves, her work-worn palms were clammy. She felt so strange. She wondered if she would die. The speculation was so engrossing that, when Umak came up behind her, she jumped, startled.

  “Almost A Woman has come far from the camp alone. This is not a good thing. Always there is danger when one walks alone. For what does Lonit search?”

  She stood before him. His rebuke shamed her. She dared not look at him. She knew that he was right. She felt so miserable that she did not doubt for a moment that she was not fit to look at him. She answered lest her silence offend him. “Lonit would make a bola. Lonit has come out from the camp to look for stones.”

  “There is much meat on the drying frames. There is much meat in the cache pits. Lonit has no need to make a bola. Lonit looks tired. Come. Almost A Woman will never be a woman if she does not stop her work and allow herself to rest. If she walks alone far from camp, flesh eaters will stalk her, and her men will have to put themselves at risk to save her.”

  Her shame deepened. She had tried so hard not to allow either Umak or Torka to see her weakness. She had been so proud to do a woman’s work for them, to have the opportunity to show them that she was skilled at making meat and hides and garments and a proper encampment. They had been appreciative, in the tacit way that men showed their approval—with grunts, nods, and by taking what she offered without comment; consent was the highest form of flattery a female might hope for. If a man ate her cooking or donned a garment or ornament that she had made for him, her heart sang with pride. And this Lonit’s heart had done .. . until the weariness had come upon her. Until her head had begun to ache. Until her breasts had suddenly swelled and begun to hurt. She had remembered then. She had known that Umak and Torka were only tolerating her, accepting her efforts on their behalf because they had no other choice. She was the only female left to do a woman’s work.

  When Umak looked at her, he must secretly lament the lost lives of all of the fine females who had shared his bed skins during his long life. Now only a homely, unworthy girl was left to flatter him in his old age. If indeed he believed that a new band would someday be born through her, his manhood must shrivel at the thought of coupling with such a weak and insignificant creature. No doubt he would leave this to Torka. And if Torka had his way, new life would simply come out of Lonit as insects emerged from the skin of the tundra—by magic, spawned of themselves as fish spawned of melting ice carried in the currents of a river.

  Even then, Lonit was certain that she would not be valuable. When she was old, the children that she had borne would be ashamed to call her mother. She would wander off into the winter dark, leaving them to live their lives, hoping that they would soon forget her.

  But in the meantime, she was alive, and when she had gone off in quest of the stones, she had been thinking of her responsibilities to her men. She had been thinking of the future and of the past. She had been remembering the way it had been for the band during those last nights of the starving moon. Yes. The men had brought much meat into this new camp. And Lonit had prepared it and cached it against lean times to come. But could there ever be enough meat in any encampment? If starving times came again, would not even the pink, fatty meat of the great geese and swans that flew ahead of the rising spring sun and, disappeared into its dying light at summer’s end be welcome? It was “woman meat,” but cured by long smoking over fires of dried caribou dung and tundral sod, it would serve to keep her men alive when the last of the caribou “man meat” was gone.

  These were Lonit’s thoughts as she followed Umak back to the encampment. He had told her to rest, and rest she would; but her belly cramps would not allow her to sleep.

  The night would not be fully black again for months. Yet it was dark as Umak and Torka sat before a little fire of bones and dung. They spoke quietly together, savoring the feel of a wind that, for the first time in what seemed too long to remember, bore no sting of winter.

  There was no moon. Against a leaden sky, an owl soared, a pale discoloration against the night, for its white winter plumage had still not fully turned to summer brown. Torka looked up. He followed the pale blur of its flight until it disappeared. All around, the night was filled with the awakening sounds of spring, of water running in a thousand streams, dripping beneath melting snow fields into air pockets that insulated the yielding earth beneath. Across the fire from him, Umak chewed on a long strip of caribou meat—holding it in one hand, while he sawed it off, close to his mouth, with a sharp blade of flint that he held in the other. As Torka watched him, Umak’s stone dagger cut through the meat as easily as it sliced warm fat. Umak grunted with contentment. Through the mouthful of meat, he said that Lonit had prepared the meat well. Torka nodded begrudgingly. The girl had cut the strips against the grain, and very thin; they had dried quickly in the wind and were as tender as though she had pounded them with stones. She was proving to be a better camp maker than Egatsop had ever been. She was a hard worker and meticulous at every task to which she set her skilled hands. Although she had made no complaint, Torka had seen the strained look of fatigue on her face when Umak had earlier brought her back to camp and had insisted that she rest. He had sensed the weariness growing within her over the last few days. He brooded over it now, thinking that even though he disliked the girl, perhaps he and Umak were going to have to rethink certain traditions of the band. There was man’s work and woman’s work; but now, in all the world, there were only two men, and only one woman. No. Not even that. Almost A Woman might be nearly as tall as Umak and surprisingly strong for one of her years, but she was still only a girl. She could not be allowed to do too much. Umak watched Torka as he ate. As so often happened, he knew what his grandson was thinking. The old man spoke thoughtfully. “In a new life, men must seek new ways.” He took a mouthful of meat, sliced it off, then vigorously spat it o
ut. It landed unannounced on the nose of the dog that dozed in the firelight. Roused instantly, Aar snapped it up and gulped it down whole.

  Umak chuckled. “New times make new kinships. If this old man can become brother to a dog, then Torka may also assist a woman with her work.”

  “Lonit is no woman. She is a child. She does not need to work so much. We are two. She labors as though she had an entire band to feed. She works too hard. She cooks too much. She shames the memory of the women of the band on purpose, I think. It is not a good thing.”

  Umak eyed Torka thoughtfully. He had seen himself reborn in his grandson. They were alike in so many ways. Yet, from the first, there was a quality within Torka that even his wise, watchful eyes had been unable to define. When at last Torka had come to his manhood, that quality was still there . deep, subtle, a power growing in the spirit of the man . unseen, unfathomed, like a current flowing in a great river, hidden by winter ice but there all the same. Someday it would ripple the surface of the water. Someday it would shatter the ice that held it captive. Someday it would break forth to reshape the land. Someday, but not now. Now the scars of a wounded life were too thick upon his spirit. They blinded him to everything but the past. He could not even see the merit of one young girl who tried so hard to please him.

  Umak sighed. He mulled over the many miles that he had walked with the girl. His lids came down, and he stared into the fire, allowing memories to spark along with the light that danced into his eyes, through his lashes—multicolored, as though viewed through a crystal.

  “Hmmph,” said the old man, not feeling old at all but young and warm with his belly full of meat and his body fully rested for the first time in months. “Almost A Woman is just that. She is strong. She is brave. She is not a child. She has no wish to shame the memory of the women of the band. She tries hard to please us, because she is ashamed that she is not more like them.” Torka exhaled an Umak-like harrumph and told his grandfather that he was not seeing clearly.

  The old man measured his grandson across the flames. “Umak has lived long. Umak has seen many things. And Umak will tell you this about Almost A Woman: Even the plainest bud, long dormant beneath the ice of the winter dark, is soon a flower, swelling and open and eager to accept the gift of life beneath the warmth and light of the summer sun.”

  His meaning was clear. The idea was one that Torka did not even want to consider. “Lonit is not a woman!” he insisted.

  Umak sighed almost dreamily, flung the last of the meat to the dog, then pulled his bison-skin robe higher about his shoulders. “Now Lonit is a girl,” he conceded. His voice was low, thoughtful, weighted by an inner sadness. “Soon she will be a woman .. . the only woman....” He laced his arms about his bent knees and rested his head upon them. He was suddenly sleepy. He yawned. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind and the sound of the earth opening itself to spring. “Soon .. he said again, drifting into sleep. Dreams came instantly, of far lands, of bounteous hunts, of women who had loved him and walked beside him beneath the savage Arctic skies of his youth. The girl was not a part of the dreams, for they were of the past. Lonit was an unopened flower, awaiting the rising of a future sun as she dreamed her own dreams in the last days of the winter dark.

  Torka sat alone by the fire. Wolves howled in the distance. His thoughts turned inward—to his lost woman, his infant, the beloved little son whom he would never see again. He closed his eyes. In the dying light of the fire, only the wild dog saw his tears.

  It was the growling of the dog that woke him. From the moment that Torka opened his eyes until the moment of the attack, only seconds passed. It seemed a lifetime.

  A fierce alertness coursed in his veins. He was awake instantly. He was aware of being watched, like some captive thing awakening within a trap, with hunters gathered all around, ready to tear him to pieces.

  Umak slept on, still sitting wrapped within his bison-skin robe. Not recognizing him as prey, one of the dire wolves leaped right over him, heading straight for Torka. Too late, Torka realized that he was too far from the pit hut to make a grab for his spears. He would have cursed himself for being a careless fool, but there was not even time for that.

  The huge wolf was a blur against the night as the dog leaped to intercept its spring. Torka was on his feet, ready to block the beast’s attack with his upraised arms, but to his amazement, the wolf was knocked to the ground at his feet. The dog was on top of it. Disbelieving, Torka saw their bodies seem to blend into a shadowed mass of fur and legs as their combined snarls ended with a garbled yap of pain as the dog’s ripping teeth and burrowing snout tore out the throat of the dire wolf.

  The pack was closing now—heavy jawed, heads down and slavering. There were four of them, with a big male in the lead. Torka dove for his weapons. His spears stood upright with Umak’s against the pit hut. Torka grabbed two of them, and the rest collapsed with a clatter as he whirled to face the wolves alone.

  “Umak!” He cried the old man’s name, but his grandfather slept on, oblivious to danger. There was no time for Torka to rouse him. “Come!” he shouted at the wolves, knowing from experience that a show of bravado was usually sufficient to drive their kind away.

  The clouded sky gave off a soft gray light of its own. Torka could see the wolves clearly as they advanced, one halting step at a time. Why did the wolves risk themselves? Had they not also feasted off the passing caribou? They showed no signs of starvation. Their coats were thick, their sides sleek. Their eyes glowed, staring directly into Torka’s eyes, and suddenly he understood. They savored the taste of man. They preferred it to less hostile prey. They had eaten their fill of it miles away, westward in the abandoned encampment where Torka’s people lay looking at the sky, defenseless against their ravening predations. The thought filled Torka with rage. He hurled one of his spears. It missed its target by inches. He threw the other, just as the smallest member of the pack leaped for him. Surprised in midair, the wolf impaled itself and fell, twitching and screaming in agony.

  The sound filled the night. Umak awoke with a start. He blinked as the scene before him slowly came into focus. One dire wolf was dead upon the ground. Another twitched in its death throes at Torka’s feet. And two more were snarling, advancing on Brother Dog. He blinked again. Was he dreaming? It took him several seconds to understand what he was seeing, and several more for his mind to tell his body what it must do. By then, Lonit had come out of the pit hut.

  Clad only in her under tunic with her fleshing dagger in one hand, she did not hesitate. She let out a cry that rivaled that of the dying wolf as she ran boldly toward the interlopers, menacing them as fiercely as they menaced her men. Torka reached for the spear that had fallen short and, lifting it, echoed Lonit’s strident cry.

  The smaller of the two wolves cringed. It knew that it had lost all hope of any advantage. It wheeled and fled, and its companion followed. But the leader of the pack, the big male, did the unexpected. It, too, wheeled—not to flee, but to lunge for the audacious, knife-wielding girl.

  Caught off-balance, Lonit went down with the wolf atop her, its teeth deep in her forearm. The blade flew from her hand.

  Now Umak was on his feet, spear in hand as Torka threw his weapon aside and leaped to tackle the wolf. He fell upon the beast, grappling at its neck, feeling its power tense and twist beneath his own. Then the wolf went limp. Umak had thrust his spear downward with all of his weight behind it. It pierced the wolf’s skin, passed between its ribs, and drove straight into its heart, killing it instantly. “Aiyee-eh!” exhaled the old man, withdrawing the spear point with a vengeance. Blood spurted from the wound. It was black in the darkness, almost as black as Umak’s mood. His reaction time in the face of danger had been slow, too slow, and he knew it. His youthful spirit had screamed at him to hurry, but his body had betrayed him; it had moved as though made of stone. Because of his failure to leap to the attack, the girl had fallen beneath the wolf. Torka had simply been too far away to do more than he had. Umak fe
lt sick with shame. His cry had not been a shout of victory; it had been an exclamation of self-disgust.

  Impatiently, Torka pushed himself off the wolf and rolled its limp body aside. He felt himself go cold with dread as he saw the equally limp, bloodied body of the girl lying beneath it. One arm was folded across her face. The leather of her sleeve was punctured in a dozen places, shredded, saturated with blood. Torka knelt beside her, afraid to touch her, afraid to breathe. Blood was all over her. Hers, or the blood of the wolf? He could not tell. He wondered if she was dead. Confused emotions swarmed in his head like stinging insects upon the summer tundra. His heart was like ice as he realized how much he would miss her. Not because she was a hard worker, not because she labored unceasingly at the countless skills that were a portion of woman wisdom. Not even because she was the only female in the world. But simply because she was Lonit. The realization was shattering. Yes, she was homely, with her great, round, antelope eyes and her unsightly dimples that formed in the hollows beneath her cheekbones whenever she smiled. Yes, she was too tall for a girl, and too slender, but she was as brave as the proudest hunter and as uncomplaining as any woman of the band had ever hoped to be. Until this moment, Torka had not realized how much he had come to care for her. And he did not want to care. He would not let himself care. His memories of Egatsop would not allow it.

  “Lonit?” It was Umak who spoke the girl’s name softly, tentatively, half-afraid that her life spirit had left her body. Within his belly, the sickness of shame congealed into nausea. If the wolf had taken Lonit’s life, her death would be Umak’s fault.

  But the girl was not dead. She was merely stunned and hurt—and frightened. Slowly, her. injured arm moved. Her eyelids flickered. She looked up at Torka through bloodstained lashes and, without willing herself to do so, flung her arms about his neck and buried her face in the warm hollow of his neck as she sat upright. He was alive! She had been certain that the wolves had eaten him! She clung to him, then remembered that the wolves had also menaced Umak. She peeked over Torka’s shoulder to see the old man standing close, with the dog at his side. Relief flooded her. She smiled wanly. “The wolves are gone? And we are still together ... all of us ... Umak and Torka, Brother Dog and Lonit ... we are still one band?”