The Wolf in the Whale

by Jordanna Max Brodsky

  I squeezed my eyes shut and willed him to stay in the trance state as long as he had to. But the trance went on so long that soon I began to worry that he’d never find his way back to us. What if my father was gone forever? Transformed from the strong, unflappable hunter I knew into a raving, shaking man, possessed by the Ice Bear? But finally, when the willow fire had crumbled to embers and my bones ached from sitting still, he ceased his trembling.

  Puja began to sing, and we all joined in, welcoming him back to this world.

  As the other men hurried to untie him, Ataata sat up. I held my breath as his eyes fluttered open. Although they shone once more with his familiar spirit, his fist remained knotted around the bear claw. As he told of his journey, he pried his fingers open with his other hand. No one else seemed bothered by this paralysis, but I worried my father had grown too old for such a dangerous journey.

  “The arch of sky and the mightiness of storms moved the spirit within me,” he began, his voice hoarse. “I was carried away, trembling with joy. I flew out of this camp, high up, so you all looked like lemmings in the grass.” Kiasik snorted a laugh—the thought of huge Uncle Ipaq as such a tiny creature was funny indeed—but one glance from Puja silenced him. “And among the stars, I met with the Ice Bear, who took my hand in his jaws and brought me back to the earth, far from here, up the river. We flew in moments, but it is far—a walk of nearly five days. There, in a deep valley, a herd of caribou awaits.”

  The adults and older children grinned and laughed, all tension drained. Ataata swept me into his arms and pressed his nose to my cheek. Despite our empty bellies, we would sleep well that night, confident that fresh meat lay in our future.

  I didn’t ask him why he’d let us go hungry for so long before summoning his helping spirit. We all knew that the spirits of the animals and ancestors were fickle and easily antagonized. Even as a child, I understood that an angakkuq risked their wrath if he sought them too often. There would come a time when I’d be forced to ignore that lesson. When, again and again, I would cry out for the great spirits above to save me. And again and again, they would ignore my pleas.

  For now, I shed no tears Ataata couldn’t dry, suffered no wound Puja couldn’t heal, faced no monster Kiasik couldn’t scare away. They were the great spirits of my life, and I believed they’d never abandon me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  We walked inland for days, our goods bundled upon our own backs and those of our dogs, our kayaks carried on the men’s heads, until hunger once again slowed our steps. The puppies grew too weak to walk. All but Black Mask, whom I kept alive on mushrooms and insects and other foods even a starving Inuk disdains. Finally, just as Kiasik had foreseen, we started killing her siblings one by one, parceling out the tiny scraps of their flesh among the children and old women. My favorite puppy would be next, and I would not stand in Ataata’s way when he brought his knife to her throat. For all I loved her, I loved my family more.

  The Ice Bear kept his promise just in time to save me from such a choice. I must’ve seen the great herds before in my childhood, but this is the first one I remember. With their backs mottled white and brown from their summer molt, the caribou stretched across the valley like patches of dirty snow scattered to the horizon. More caribou than stars in the winter sky, more caribou than snowflakes in a twilit storm.

  “We will survive.” I whispered the words against Black Mask’s hollow cheek before staking her leash beside our tents.

  Our tiny band couldn’t hunt the caribou by itself—Ataata said we must build stone men to help us. He led us away from the herd to a deep, fast-running stream. The children’s job was to scour the bank for stones of the proper size: long, flat rocks for the shoulders, great square boulders for the legs and head. When we found a good stone, the women harnessed the dogs and dragged it to the men.

  Ataata, Ipaq, and Ququk lifted the rocks into place, working carefully to keep their creations upright. Though hunger weakened us all—we’d eaten little but boiled sorrel greens and raw crowberries on our journey—the thought of fresh caribou meat kept us going.

  Soon, three inuksuit rose around us. With only old men and one boy to hunt, these faceless giants of stone were all that stood between us and starvation.

  When all was ready, Ataata gathered us together. “Tapsi, are you ready for your first hunt as a man?” he asked my cousin.

  Even I could tell that the boy, usually as jovial as his adoptive father, was nervous.

  Ipaq put a hand on his son’s shoulder and handed him a spear. Although far shorter than a harpoon or lance, the weapon still towered over the boy. Tapsi gripped the shaft with his small fist and looked anxiously up at Ipaq, who tried valiantly to keep a smile on his round face. The boy was young to begin hunting large game—only last summer I’d noticed the first hairs sprouting at the base of his penis—and his head barely reached Ataata’s shoulder. But if our family was to survive, we needed young hunters to assist the old, and Tapsi, as the eldest boy in the camp, was our best hope.

  Beside me, Kiasik lifted his chin. I knew he longed to hold his own spear. I, on the other hand, held no such ambitions. Not yet, anyway. I was short for my age; I knew I’d get trampled by even the smallest caribou. Even as a child, I was more cautious than my brother.

  When Ataata said that the smaller children must stay far away from the hunt, I thought Kiasik might cry from disappointment. I put a hand on his sleeve, but he shook it off and stalked toward the distant ridge. If Kiasik ever wept, I never saw it.

  Tapsi’s sister, Millik, a few winters older than I, ignored Kiasik’s ill temper. Glad to be excused from the hunt, she wandered toward the ridge at her own pace, searching for berries among the low scrub. I knew only a little about the plants beneath my feet—gathering them was women’s work. I took one look at Millik, her two long braids swinging close to the earth as she hunched over the ground, painstakingly putting each tiny berry in her sack, and made my choice. Slipping my child-size bow over one shoulder and looping my sling around the other, I scrambled up the ridge after Kiasik.

  From our perch, the whole hunting ground spread beneath us. On one side of the hill, the stone inuksuit bordered the path to the river. Ququk, hampered by his aching joints, lowered himself slowly into his slim kayak. Ipaq squeezed his girth into the opening of his own boat. He had built it as a younger man, before his once-broad chest had settled as fat around his waist; we had no driftwood to build him a new one.

  Ataata and Tapsi pushed the boats into the water. Fighting the strong current, the kayakers jammed their paddles between large rocks to steady themselves until the hunt began. Then Ataata and my young cousin returned to the gathered women and led the small band around the base of the ridge. The women wouldn’t hunt, of course—they were strictly forbidden to even hold a man’s weapon—but we’d never bring down the herd without their help.

  I scuttled closer to Kiasik. He ignored me, concentrating instead on inspecting his arrows. They were far smaller than those used by a real hunter, intended for play or shooting lemmings.

  “What are we going to do with these?” I pulled out one of my own arrows.

  “I don’t know what you’re going to do,” he replied. “But I’m going to kill a caribou.”

  I glanced back at the herd. The bulls, with their huge antlers dragging down their narrow heads, would prove difficult targets for even the strongest hunter. Even the calves had hooves as sharp as harpoon points; I’d seen the wounds they could inflict on a hungry wolf. Nonetheless, Kiasik was my elder. I would follow him anywhere. With an indrawn breath, I readied my own bow.

  Ataata’s band moved silently across the mossy ground, spreading out to surround a small portion of the herd. The females looked up at these new two-legged beasts and nudged their brown, spindly calves away from the strangers, but they seemed relatively unconcerned. They’d probably never seen an Inuk before—they didn’t know to be afraid. The caribou, my father always said, are a proud race, overconfident in their abil
ity to outrun the swiftest wolf. But wolves couldn’t build stone men to help, nor could they fashion kayaks and spears.

  With a silent signal from Ataata, Tapsi and the women began to run at the caribou, flapping their arms and shouting. The resting beasts leapt to their feet, and those already upright reared on their hind legs and plunged around the ridge, straight toward the waiting inuksuit and the kayakers.

  Kiasik and I dashed to the opposite side of the ridge to watch the caribou approach the stream. The lead bulls tried to swerve away from the water, but the inuksuit stood in their way, towering creatures more threatening than any human hunter. Bugling their distress, the caribou veered back toward the water and the waiting kayakers. Ataata and Tapsi, weapons raised, ran to take their positions on large rocks at the shoreline. My father held a bow, my cousin a spear.

  The caribou crashed into the stream, high-stepping with their sharp hooves until forced to swim, their escape made slow by the rushing water. Now Ququk and Ipaq pushed their kayaks into the current, maneuvering among the thrashing animals. I held my breath, worried that a hoof or antler would tear through the thin hide of the boats and the men would be pulled under by the water’s strength. But, though their arms may have lacked the strength of younger men’s, the two old hunters wielded their paddles as deftly as a whale uses its flukes. Ququk moved beside a young female; in one fluid motion, he secured his paddle and hefted his spear in its stead. With a swift jab through the throat, the caribou tumbled into the foaming water. Ququk’s wife and daughter waded waist deep into the stream and dragged the carcass back to shore with a long driftwood pole. Soon, for every cluster of caribou that made it across, one animal floated downstream in the swiftly reddening water.

  From his post on the rocks, Ataata shot arrow after arrow at the swimming animals, his body moving with the grace and speed of a hawk in flight. Puja and the other women hurried after the kills before they could drift out of reach.

  Tapsi, however, stood as still as an inuksuk on his own small rock. Even from the distant ridge, I could see his spear shaking. Its haft was still clean, unblessed with blood. I turned to tell Kiasik.

  He was gone.

  I jumped to my feet, scanning the valley, the riverbank, the ridge, but saw no sign of him. Scurrying down the steep hill, I cried out to Millik, who sat halfway down the slope, more interested in her sack of berries than in the hunt in the valley before her.

  “Have you seen Kiasik?” I demanded.

  “No.” She made no move to help me. “Omat!” she cried as I ran past. “They said not to leave the ridge!”

  Just as I came within earshot of Puja and Ataata, I finally spotted my brother. He stood in the shadow of the tallest inuksuk, his narrow back pressed against the giant’s stone leg. Not four arm’s lengths away, a massive bull caribou faced him with antlers lowered.

  Kiasik’s bow was drawn, his small arrow nocked and ready. His face was calm.

  “Brother!” I rushed toward him over the spongy ground. The caribou swung toward me; seeing his chance, Kiasik loosed his arrow. It hit the beast on its flank but bounced harmlessly off its thick fur.

  Annoyed, the caribou turned back toward the boy. I could see its sides heaving, hear its labored breath. It pawed the ground with one large hoof and lowered its head for a killing charge.

  Knowing my own toy arrows would be just as useless as Kiasik’s, I unwound my sling. I snatched a round stone from the ground as I ran and slipped it into the sling’s cup. Still running, I called out to the bull.

  “Look at me! Look at me, caribou!”

  Its huge head swung back toward me. I whirled my sling around my head and then flung it forward, putting all my weight behind the throw. The stone struck the caribou right between the eyes.

  It merely waved its big antlers as if shaking a mosquito from its nose.

  Then it charged me.

  Dimly, I could hear Puja’s screams through the roaring of blood in my ears. I don’t know if I held my ground or turned to flee or merely fell to my knees in fear—I like to believe I stayed brave in the face of death, but after all, I was only a child.

  I remember only Ataata standing before me, his broad shoulders blocking the bull from my sight.

  With his hands outstretched before him, he spoke in the angakkuq’s tongue, flinging his words at the bull as I had flung my pebble. The caribou stopped in midcharge, reared onto its hind legs, and bugled at my father. Then it crashed back to the ground and stood quietly, listening as Ataata spoke. Finally the animal turned and trotted blithely away, chin aloft and antlers bouncing as it loped back to its herd.

  Then Ataata was holding me in his arms, and Puja was running toward us, her face a twisted mask of rage and relief. Despite her sodden trousers and bloody hands, she wrenched me from my father’s grasp, her fingers like talons on my shoulders. “Why did you leave the ridge?”

  I remained silent, but Ataata cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Kiasik, who’d retreated into the long shadow of the inuksuk.

  “Come here!” she ordered her son. Ever proud, Kiasik walked toward us with his head held high. But I saw his bow trembling in his grasp. “Did you bring Omat down here?” Puja demanded.

  “No.” I answered for him. “Kiasik left me safe on the ridge.”

  He shot me a grateful glance. But Puja’s anger only sharpened. “You know Omat always follows you!” she shouted at him. “You risked his life as well as your own.”

  My brother looked stricken.

  “You’re lucky Omat has more sense than you do,” she went on, tucking me firmly against her hip.

  Her words struck at his already bruised pride. “I was going to kill a caribou.” His eyes narrowed in my direction, his gaze burning with something new. Something that sent a chill across my skin. Jealousy. “I almost had him when Omat distracted him.”

  “The caribou almost had you,” said a small voice from behind me. Millik stood clutching her berry sack, her eyes downcast but her voice firm.

  Ataata placed a warm hand on my head. “You were very brave, Omat, to try to help Kiasik.”

  “And you were very foolish!” Puja growled at her son.

  “If Tapsi can’t be a hunter, someone has to!” he shot back.

  Poor Tapsi still stood on his rock amid the water, the caribou gone and his spear still clean. His head jerked toward us at the sound of his name; then he looked quickly away with burning cheeks.

  “It won’t be you!” Puja fumed at Kiasik. “No hunter would be so reckless.”

  He stood for a moment, his hurt gaze flicking from Ataata to his mother to me. Then he fled back toward the ridge. I moved to follow, but Ataata held me back.

  “Let him go, Omat. He’ll come back when he smells the feast, no?”

  I found a smile for Ataata. Finally we’d fill our bellies and those of our dogs. Even Puja relaxed her scowl. She knew her son well; his hunger would overwhelm his pride.

  Despite the steaming mounds of dark caribou flesh, the feast that night was solemn. Tapsi sat with red eyes, avoiding the pitying glances of his mother and sister. Ipaq didn’t even look toward his son, drowning his disappointment in ever-larger chunks of meat. Somber Ququk spoke quietly with Ataata, his concern clear. With Tapsi useless, the future of our band looked bleak.

  Kiasik had returned, his mood little better than Tapsi’s. Puja’s eyes followed him like a dark cloud, her wide, feathery brows drawn low. He wouldn’t look at her—or at any of us. I knew his coldness sprang more from shame than from anger. He should not have put me in danger. Should not have disobeyed his elders or blamed me for his failings. I longed to sit with him and tell him all would be well. He would be forgiven. I wanted to tell him of my fear facing the caribou, just so he could tease me for my weakness, then insist that he had felt no fear at all. I would know it was a lie—but it would make us both feel better. Instead, the memory of his jealous glare stood between us, draining all my joy away.

  Only my father seemed truly happy. After Black M
ask and I had both gulped down our portions of glistening meat, I settled myself beside him. He beamed down at me.

  “Yes, Little Son?”

  “Ataata, will you teach me to be an angakkuq like you? So I can speak with the caribou?” Before he could reply, I added, “Then I could protect Kiasik better. And the next time you go journeying with the Ice Bear, I could go, too. So you wouldn’t be alone.”

  He regarded me for a moment, a faint smile raising the edges of his mustache. “Omat, Little Son, you’re already a greater angakkuq than I.”

  I could only giggle at such nonsense. Ataata clenched a long strip of flesh between his teeth, pulled it taut, and slashed off a hunk with his knife. As he chewed, he pulled me onto his lap. The tang of meat upon his lips made me feel warm and safe. I’d never starve with Ataata to keep me fed. I tucked my head beneath his chin, resting my cheek against the soft caribou hide of his summer parka. When he spoke, it was in a whisper only I could hear.

  “Do you remember what you said to the caribou before you shot him with that pebble?”

  “I called his name, I think,” I replied hesitantly.

  “Yes. But you didn’t call him caribou—you called him by his true name. His name in the angakkuq tongue.”

  “I don’t know how to speak like an angakkuq!” I protested, craning my head back to look at him.

  “I’ve never taught you, and yet you know.”

  “How?”

  “How does the char know to swim upstream? Or the snow goose to return in the summer?” He shrugged. “Some things you aren’t taught, you just know. Perhaps the Wolf Spirit teaches you in your dreams. Perhaps the caribou himself whispered his name to you as you faced him. But I think, most likely, that my son’s soul guides you.”

  “Am I not your son?” I asked, wide-eyed.

  “My son and my grandson, too!” he said with a laugh.