Beyond the Sea of Ice

by neetha Napew

  A cascade of small stones fell somewhere high above the ledge. Startled, Lonit ducked and scooted back under the protection of the ceiling of the cave. The rockfall was over in a moment, but it was time enough to turn Lonit cold with fear. The brightness went out of the morning. She was certain that she had heard something slipping and grabbing at the treacherous rock face above the cave. With a gasp, she dropped the unfinished bola and made a dash for her dagger. Clutching it in her hand, she stood ready to defend herself as wild, nightmarish images filled her mind.

  But the moment passed. The last of the little avalanche tumbled away onto the scree far below. After a while, there was only the sound of meltwater cascading from the heights as the wind licked gently against the mountain, a wind so warm and sweet with spring that the girl relaxed and told herself that she was a foolish female whose imagination was running away with her common sense. The days’ extended rainfall had loosened the stones and caused them to fall. Nothing alive moved on the vertical crags above her. She was alone on the mountain.

  She went back to the ledge, where she sat and resumed work on her bola. She basked in the sunlight like a lemming on a rock, but she was not fully at ease. She thought of wind spirits and kept her dagger close, just in case it was needed.

  Aar clambered onto the ledge ahead of Umak and Torka. To Lonit’s delight, each man had taken an antelope. Their eyes were bright with satisfaction as they slung their kills from their shoulders and dropped the tawny, delicately boned animals at Lonit’s feet.

  They were impatient to gut and skin their kills. Lonit made her praise dance short and stood aside to watch them as they worked; but there must have been something in her demeanor that alerted them to the fact that she was troubled. She told them that it was nothing. She said that she was a foolish female who had imagined that she heard the sound of footfall on the mountain wall above the ledge when, in fact, all she had heard was the sound of falling stones. She was surprised when they exchanged meaningful looks.

  “Perhaps it was not only a trick of the light,” said Umak as he put down his knives and rose from the crouch he had taken over the body of his antelope.

  Torka was on his feet, wiping his bloody hands on the hairy side of his freshly lifted antelope skin. “Come. Whatever it was, we will find it. Now!”

  “It?” Lonit’s query came before she could call it back.

  “The thing that we thought we saw moving on the mountain wall above the ledge,” informed Torka with a surly snap. “Why did Almost A Woman say nothing about it before she was asked? Why did she sit on the ledge like a rock instead of going after it?”

  Her face flamed. She bowed her head, choking out an admission that shamed her. “Lonit was afraid of wind spirits.”

  Umak turned on his grandson angrily. “Almost A Woman cannot climb safely with only one good arm! And if she had tried, Torka would have said that she was wrong to risk herself. Bah! Umak says that Torka is worse than a woman! He cannot make up his mind. One moment he says this, another he says that! Hrmmph! Lonit must listen to Umak, who is spirit master! And spirit master says that Only Woman In The World was right not to put herself in danger by trying to chase ghosts!”

  “That was no ghost we saw above the cave!” Torka chafed against his grandfather’s open censure. Umak had never spoken harshly to him before they had been forced to travel in the company of the girl. He glared at her. “Listen to Umak, then! Torka will climb the mountain wall. Torka will bring back the ghost spirit. Torka will make a sauce of its innards to flavor the flesh of the antelope that he has killed!”

  With his dagger gripped between his teeth, he ignored the old man’s protests as he set out to fulfill his boast. He had no fear of the shadow thing that he and Umak had seen scooting along the bare face of the mountains. From their distant vantage point, it had seemed to be no more than a shadow, created by light and wind playing on the crenellated, up swept walls of the mountain. Reflecting on it now, he knew that it had been more than that; it had been a dark, lithe, hairy thing, larger than a wolverine but a little smaller than a young bear. The girl had heard it. They had all smelled it on their first night on the ledge. He was certain that it was no wind spirit. For a reason that he could not fathom, he wanted the girl to know that. He wanted to make her see that Umak was not always right. He would bring her the carcass of the old man’s ghost spirit, and she would see that it was only an animal. With the razor-edged bludgeon that he had fashioned from the whale rib and now wore scabbarded at his belt, he would smash its skull and open it from throat to crotch. He would drop it at Lonit’s feet and say: “Here is the wind spirit! Here is the ghost whom Umak fears. Dance now the dance of praise for Torka, who has killed it. Dance now for the hunter who has driven fear of the mists from our cave!”

  The thought gave him immeasurable pleasure. He could not say why. It should not matter to him what the girl thought. It should not, but it did.

  As he climbed, his only worry was that he might come upon his quarry when he least expected it. He visualized himself groping upward for a handhold, only to have the shadow creature’s claws and fangs rip into his flesh before he could make a grab for his bludgeon. He saw himself thrown off-balance, hurtling to his death while the shadowy thing cowered on a ledge. Umak and Lonit would watch him fall, and the old man would say: It is as Spirit Master has foretold-men do not hunt spirits. To those whose flesh is of air and wind wise men make praise songs.

  Hmmph, thought Torka as he climbed. We will see who is made of air and wind and to whom Lonit will sing her next praise song.

  He carried his dagger in his teeth, using it to slash defensively across each hold before he committed his bare hand to it. The rock was cold, and it crumbled beneath his grasping fingers. Rotten in some places, and hard and slick in others, it made for treacherous climbing. Nevertheless, long, vertical fissures in the stone allowed him good leverage. Soon he found himself upon a broad, shouldering slope. He paused and caught his breath, flexed his hands to relax them, then walked through filmy mists, telling himself that they were only that and not wind spirits.

  Above him, clouds were forming over the summit ice pack. He heard occasional groans and cracking sounds emanating from the glacial mass; a less pragmatic man would have imagined that he heard ghost voices, but Torka heard the living power of earth and ice and knew that, as long as he walked wisely and warily, it bore him no threat. Still, he was a hunter of the tundra, of the broad, rolling steppe. He was out of his element and knew it. The mountain made him feel small and vulnerable to forces that he did not understand. Instinctively, he walked quietly, his dagger at the ready.

  Now and again he felt the eyes of something observing his progress as he continued up across the slope. Watch well. Torka is coming. Torka says you die, he warned in silence.

  The surface of the slope granted little traction. He walked as though across hard-packed sand. Composed of a blanket of scree and till that lay hundreds of feet thick over the solid rock underpinnings of the mountain’s east wall, the slope stopped abruptly at the base of a soaring precipice that ended where a downward extension of the summit ice pack began. It was a huge lobe of glacial mass. Studded with stones and boulders bigger than mammoths, it overhung the precipice and extruded downward over its sides, showing underlayers that were black and brown with the refuse of the mountain. Meltwater bled from beneath it, sheening the sheer surface of the rock with uncountable raucous, milky waterfalls.

  The feeling that he was being watched persisted. Torka picked up the stink of musteline and followed his nose to the series of caves that he had viewed days before from the tundra. They pocked the lower wall of the precipice. Unlike the broad, sheltering expanse of cavelike ledge upon which he and the others had made their encampment, most of these caves were little more than mere depressions in the rock; only one was large and deep enough for a good-sized musteline to live in with room to spare.

  Torka did not venture too close. His fingers tightened around the bone haft of
his dagger. The entire area reeked of the creature’s habitation. Looking for tracks, he drew his bludgeon from its scabbard of caribou hide and advanced, holding the deadly weapon poised in case the animal charged him. But whatever resided within that foul den was not there, nor had it left any telltale paw prints that would have revealed its identity to the experienced tracker. With utmost caution, Torka peered into the cave.

  The creature had made a small, filthy nest for itself of grasses and twigs, which it must have carried up from the tundra far below. Lined with an assortment of bird feathers and down, it was littered with bits of chewed bone and fragments of gnawed tendons. There were no feces fouling the nest, but the musk like stench of glandular secretions forced Torka to fight the need to retch. He backed away and drew in lungfuls of the rapidly cooling mountain air. What sort of creature could dwell in such a foul nest? It was a cold, hostile place for any kind of animal to chose as a home, although, Torka noted, it did catch the light of the rising sun and afforded a spectacular overview of the tundra while still being out of the direct path of the wind.

  He turned, scanning the heights and the slope below. He was still being watched, but from exactly where, he could not say. He wanted to investigate, but the wall was too steep, the glacial lobe too treacherous, to invite further exploration. And, to his surprise, his shadow was growing long. Soon the day would be over. The prospect of descending the mountain in darkness was sobering.

  Annoyed, he squelched a rising surge of frustration. Umak’s “ghost” would live out this day. But not another if Torka had his way. It did not take him long to position a loop snare around the entrance to the cave. As he worked, he was glad that he had begun his climb with such rash impetuosity—he still had his snare nets and sinews with him. After he and Umak had each brought down an antelope, neither man had seen much sense in taking the time to set snares for smaller, less desirable prey. Torka set them now, placing them at likely places along the slope and at the very lip of the east wall as he began the difficult descent to the cave where Umak and Lonit awaited his return.

  His mouth was set as he climbed down. He had set his snares with infinite care. One of them was bound to work. Tomorrow, Umak would look upon his “ghost,” and Lonit would see who was more of a spirit master—the man who sang praise songs to the unknown, or the man who dared to seek out his fears and slay them. Torka was in a black mood when he entered the cave. Aar, dozing on the ledge, awoke when it saw him, took one look, growled, and moved well out of his way. If the animal had not moved, Torka would have kicked it. He was tired and hungry and not at all glad to see that, in his absence, Lonit had butchered both of the antelope. His mouth turned down. Egatsop never would have been able to prepare a kill so quickly, nor would she have readied it for eating or laid out the portions to be dried with such neatness. The gathering shadows of the approaching night reflected his mood as he observed the perfection of the small, nearly smokeless cooking fire that the girl had made. Egatsop had never been able to make so fine a fire. Never, thought Torka, and once again found cause to despise Lonit for having caused him to think unfavorably of his beautiful beloved.

  He paused. The girl had already prepared a meal for Umak. She never failed to show deference to the old man. Again Egatsop compared badly. Again Torka found reason to loathe Lonit. He knew that she worked diligently to discredit Egatsop in his eyes. What a despicable girl she was! How could Umak abide her scheming? Torka’s eyes rested upon his grandfather. He sat beside the fire, sound asleep, snoring blissfully with his head on his knees and a half-consumed haunch of antelope still in his hand at his side.

  Now the girl was approaching the returning hunter. He glared at her as, with downcast eyes, she offered a roasted haunch from his own kill. Torka snatched it from her hands without a word and walked past her to hunker down by the fire. He ate in sullen silence, not wanting to look at her as she knelt across the fire pit from him, patiently awaiting his command for water or more meat.

  He cast her a surreptitious glance. He knew that she must be thinking that he had failed. He had not done what he had set out to do. Defensively, he boasted through a mouthful: “Torka has found a place of the ‘spirit’s’ dwelling. Tomorrow Almost A Woman will see that it is flesh, not mist. Torka has set snares. Tomorrow Almost A Woman will singe its stinking hide in this fire pit. Tomorrow Umak will drink its blood and know that Torka was right!”

  She made no reply. None was expected. She could sense the anger in him and wondered what she had done to cause it. She was puzzled as to why he was speaking to her at all. She picked up a water skin and held it out to him. Perhaps he was thirsty? A man should not have to ask for water. His woman should anticipate his need.

  Their eyes met. Held. For a moment, Torka was so startled that he stopped chewing. Lighted by the ruddy glow of the little fire, Lonit’s face was as smooth and tawny and delicately beautiful as that of the young doe whose flesh he was consuming.

  His hunger vanished. A new and long-dormant appetite flared, then was cooled by incredulity. Lonit beautiful? Umak was right! There were spirits on this mountain! They must have seeped into Torka’s head when he had walked upward through the mists. Even now they were feeding off his sanity. To look with desire at a homely, wretched girl like Lonit was to shame the memory of his beloved Egatsop. Suddenly furious, he reached out and backhanded the water skin out of her hands.

  “Get away! Tend to your skins and your woman’s work! Stay away from me!” He snarled his rage and hatred at her, sorry that he had not hit her. “Torka cannot stand the sight of you!”

  She did as she was told. Numbed by his display of wrath and revulsion, she cowered well away from him, huddling in the darkness at the very back of the cave where he could barely see her. Tears stung beneath her lids. She blinked them back, but they fell anyway, and she was grateful for the shadows.

  He did not look her way. He did not want to think of her. He turned his full attention to the haunch, eating with a vengeance until he had stripped it of all but the thickest portions of the thigh meat. Slowly, he became aware of the stink of musteline and knew that he had brought the stench of the creature back with him. It permeated his clothes. He gave the back of his hand a tentative sniff, then cursed. It was on his skin, too, and in the long, unbound lengths of his hair. Disgusted, he threw the haunch into the fire pit and got to his feet, peeling off his clothes and tossing them back into the shadows. Lonit would know what to do with them once she caught a whiff of their essence. Meanwhile, he bent and scooped ashes from the edges of the fire pit and scoured his skin with them. He rubbed himself until he was gray from head to foot and the warm, absorbent coating of ashes drew in the stink of the musteline and masked it with its own acrid, smoky scent.

  Lonit did not smell or see the reeking garments that lay scattered before her. She saw only the man who stood naked in the firelight. The flames smoked. The haunch that he had thrown into them had disturbed them; they fed on its fat and tissue, giving off a hot, dusky light that cast strange dancing images onto the walls of the cave.

  And in this light she saw the maleness of him, and the scars of many hunts. She saw the breadth of his back and shoulders, the leanness of his hips and waist, the power of his thighs and upper arms. Unable to look away, she could barely breathe as she watched him go to the far wall where she had placed the water skins near the entrance of the cave. He took two of the skins and went to the outer edge of the cornice. There, in the cold wind of evening, he emptied them over himself. She heard him gasp, and something deep within her loins caught fire. Dim, dark recollections suddenly flared within her mind. She saw her father, felt him riding her, pounding her, cursing her because she could not “catch fire.” She had not understood what he had wanted of her. Now, having looked at Torka in the tremulous light of the flames, she understood, and knew for the first time that a woman could burn as hotly as a man—but not for just any man.

  Silhouetted against the dying embers of the day, Torka cleansed his body and sh
ook out his hair. He reentered the cave, took up one of his sleeping skins, and returned to the fire. He seated himself. Within the encircling folds of the dark, hairy bison skin, he began to shiver himself warm. He was tired, unaware of the girl watching him, unaware that she was shivering, too, but not with cold. The moments passed. Torka dozed, then slept. Lonit could hear the deep, even pull of his breathing. She heard the snores of the old man. In the shadows near the entrance to the cave, Aar gnawed on a bone. She listened to the rasp of the dog’s teeth and to the sound of the last of the haunch fat dripping and spitting in the fire pit. The flames were cooler now. The time for “catching fire” had passed.

  Now, for the first time, she became aware of the smell of Torka’s tainted garments. She understood that he wanted her to cleanse and air them. As quietly as she could, she dragged them—at arm’s length—to the fire. She took up ashes and rubbed them into every inch and seam of the clothing. When this was done, she took them out into the rapidly gathering night. She spread them out upon the ledge, and weighted them with stones. The wind and sun would cleanse them. In time the stink of musteline would lessen, but it would never fully disappear. In the near darkness, she ran a palm over the silky fox tails that trimmed the tunic that she had made for Torka. How many hours had gone into its construction? How long would it take her to accumulate so many prime fox skins again ? She sighed. Torka would need a new set of clothes. Although she was tired, the thought inspired her. He had told her to tend to her skins. She would do just that! Perhaps he would stop being so angry with her if she could quickly replace his garments with even better ones. Her injured arm was healing rapidly. She no longer used the sling, and she could use her hand again without pain, although the sutured skin often itched.

  She sighed again. Torka would never smile at her looks, but he might yet show pleasure at her workmanship. Ignoring her fatigue, she set herself to the task at hand. The real work would begin tomorrow. Now the skins must have their final curing. Tonight she would sleep naked with them wrapped tightly around her. They would absorb oils from her skin and take on a soft resiliency that they had not possessed since the animals that had lived within them had been slain.