He handed a piece of dripping organ meat to me. The blood was warm on my bare hands, a reminder of the life that pulsed beneath the ice in our frozen world. Ataata placed his hand under mine, as if to heft the weight of it. “Your hand is small for a hunter’s, Omat.” Before I could protest, he continued. “But you wield the harpoon with skill.” He turned to look out over the ocean, following the flight of a puffin that skimmed low across the waves. “My eyes grow dim. I should be fishing. In another camp, I’d be useless. Soon I would take myself out onto the ice.”
I couldn’t stop myself from interrupting. “Then we must be thankful that we are not in another camp. We could not do without your wisdom.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He paused again, his hand still on mine. The blood cooled, the wet trickles now chilling my hand rather than warming it. “Very soon, you must meet your helping spirit. Then, when I’m gone, you must speak to the spirits for our people. Promise me, Omat.”
I met his eyes in silent assent. He guided my hand over the water, and I released the entrails. They drifted down into the dark, leaving spirals of blood rising in their wake.
“Calm water,” I murmured, my voice breaking. “Calm water.”
We paddled back to our hunting camp under a still-light sky, our kayaks low in the water with their heavy bounty loaded on top. As we pulled up to the edge of the landfast ice, the women left the igluit to meet us.
“Omat’s first walrus!” Kiasik announced, holding up the flipper from my kill. Puja beamed. As the woman of my family, she sliced the dark-red meat and distributed it to the other women present, so that every family could benefit from my good luck. Custom dictated I be the only one not to taste my own walrus. My generosity in sharing would bring me goodwill from the other families, more valuable by far than mere meat. Puja kept only the animal’s penis bone for me. All men envy the bull walrus his mighty penis, so much longer and stiffer than an Inuk’s. I pitied the poor walrus cow who found herself pierced by such a staff.
I severed the tip of the bone and gave it to Ataata, who would carve it into a tiny walrus totem for my amulet bag. The summer before, when Kiasik had killed his first large bearded seal, he had earned a seal carving. Many times, he had taken it from his bag so I might admire it. We would talk of the day when I could join him, and together we would become the next generation of hunters to provide for our camp. All boys dreamed of such a future, but few as intensely as I. The walrus totem was more than proof of my hunting skills. It made me, finally, a man in the eyes of my people. And no one—not even crotchety Ququk—could take that away from me.
We held a great feast inside Ataata’s iglu. We slurped the raw blubber until the oil ran down our chins. For two full days, we did not sleep, but the Sun kept us company, never dipping far beneath the horizon, and we scorned exhaustion. When our bellies swelled with meat and we could eat no more, Ataata took out the drum. The circle quieted around him, preparing for a tale.
“To thank Sanna for this bounty, tonight we sing her story,” he began. I shifted uncomfortably. This story always filled me with a sense of foreboding.
“In the time before time, Sanna was a young girl from a camp far to the west, where our people first entered this world. When they came, they found only summer animals to eat—fish and birds and caribou—so our people went hungry every winter. Sanna’s father could not provide for his daughter, and so he was eager to marry her off. Many times, hunters offered to marry the girl, but Sanna refused every one.” Ataata kept the rhythm of his song on the drum, a careful, even beat. There was nothing frenzied in his telling, no wild pacing or violent flourishes such as so often accompanied my own songs. Yet his voice resonated with a power beyond his aged body, and his words carved the images into our minds. We’d all heard the story many times; that didn’t make it any less dramatic.
“One day, a new man came to their winter camp. He stood so tall he could barely crawl through the entrance tunnel. Sanna’s father knew right away that he was no ordinary Inuk, and he begged her to be careful of the stranger. But the girl ignored her elder’s advice. She saw only a handsome man who would bring her pleasure. The girl’s mother wailed and her father begged on his knees, but still she would not listen. And so Sanna, who had refused all other suitors, left with the stranger. He took her far into the north, where nothing grows even in summer. The Sun shines only on a land of ice and water, nothing more, so bright that Sanna had to wear eyeshields every time she stepped outside.
“The man built an iglu and told Sanna to go inside. He warned her not to leave it while he was away hunting, for her woman’s spirit might disturb the animals. And then he left for many days. Before too long, Sanna decided she could stay inside no longer. She yearned for the wind upon her face. Hearing no one around, she crept outside. ‘Aii, I am safe! There is no one here but a great black petrel circling in the sky!’ And so she stood up and looked around. Just then, the bird dove into the ocean and surfaced with a large, shiny fish clutched in its beak. With a flap of its black wings, it landed on the ice far from Sanna. The petrel was much larger than any bird should be, nearly as tall as a bear. And when it turned its dark head to the summer Sun, its eye glinted red.
“Sanna had started to run back inside the iglu to hide from the evil bird when she saw an astonishing thing. The creature’s silhouette stretched and grew until it transformed into the figure of a man. Sanna screamed in alarm. The giant petrel was her husband!”
I didn’t notice when Ataata began to speed up his drumming—only that now the drum blurred before him as he spun it back and forth against his mallet. I realized I was holding my breath. Next to me, Puja moaned and rocked. Even Kiasik, my bold milk-brother, sat transfixed.
“The bird-man looked up when Sanna screamed, his eyes still glowing red. She could feel their heat boring into her even across so much ice. And so Sanna ran, calling for her father to rescue her from her bird-husband.
“She ran and ran for days, her husband never far behind, but Sila gave strength to her legs and filled her lungs with Its wind. Finally she approached her old home and saw her family in its umiaq. She leapt into the water and swam to the boat. When she reached it, she grasped on to the side with her cold fingers, crying, ‘Save me from the bird-man, or I shall be killed!’ She was sure that since she had reached her family, she would finally be safe.
“But the bird-man was right behind her, standing on the shore. He called out to Sanna’s father, ‘If you take back your daughter, I will kill you and all your family! Make her let go of your boat!’
“The father could not look his daughter in the eye. ‘You must let go, Daughter! Go back to your husband before he kills us all!’ But still, Sanna clung. On the far shore, her husband crouched down and raised his arms above his head. Sanna looked over her shoulder just as her husband rose off the ice, his nose a hooked beak, his arms wings.
“‘Pull me into your boat and take me home!’ she begged, but her father refused. With every beat of the giant petrel’s wings, storm winds swirled, faster and faster. Water poured over the sides of the rocking umiaq. At any moment, the whole family would drown.
“Sanna’s father pulled out his long hunting knife and raised it above his head. Sanna thought he would fight off the bird.
“‘Daughter, you must let go!’ he cried once more. And with that, he brought down his knife upon her hands, slicing off the tips of her fingers to the first knuckle. The fingertips fell into the ocean and drifted toward the bottom. But still Sanna clung. The father struck again, slicing through her second knuckles. The middles of her fingers dropped into the waves. But still Sanna clung. ‘Go back, Daughter!’ he cried one last time as he cut off her last knuckles. The roots of her fingers fell into the ocean. Sanna fell from the side of the boat, leaving trails of blood on her father’s umiaq, marks that would never come off.”
The drumbeats slowed again. Tears shone in Puja’s eyes. Even Ipaq looked downcast. But the story was not over.
“Sa
nna did not try to swim, for she had no hands. She drifted down through the water, down into the darkness where the sunlight never reaches. As she sank, the blood streamed up in curls from her mangled hands. The lines of blood split and twisted, branched and stretched, until they became seaweed. The pieces of her fingers floated before her eyes, and her pale fingernails broadened into ice bears. Her tiny fingertips grew flippers and whiskers and became seals. Her middle finger-bones swelled into long-tusked walruses. Her strong finger roots floated to the surface and became whales, blowing their hot breath skyward. Sanna finally came to rest on the ocean floor, no longer pursued by the bird-man, finally safe from all danger. She lives there still, guarding the sea creatures. And when she pleases, she gives them to Inuit to hunt, so that her people will not starve.” The drum stopped. “Here ends this tale.”
A communal sigh of relief broke the silence. This had been a good story.
Ataata did not look at me when he finished. Nothing in his manner revealed that he had meant it for my ears. I was not disobeying my elders by living as a hunter and refusing to take a husband; Ataata had agreed it was the proper course for me. Still, I thanked Taqqiq that with my initiation into manhood finally secure, I was one step closer to never succumbing to Sanna’s fate. Yet I took the story as a warning.
Desperate families did desperate things.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A winter had passed since my first walrus hunt. Once again, Sun and wind had opened the sea, carving the remaining ice into fantastic bergs. Though snow still covered most of the ground, the first flowers of spring dotted the steeper slopes, and I was finally ready to become a full angakkuq.
It was the Moon When Animals Give Birth, a perfect time to begin my new life. I knew what I needed to do. Ataata had given clear instructions: find an isolated spot where I’d be invisible to all but the spirits, perform the necessary rituals, and wait for my guide to appear.
“No weapons, Little Son,” Ataata said, taking the bow from my hand.
“How will I hunt?”
“Your spirit journey is a time for thinking, not hunting. If you need food, you’ll find it. If you need tools, you will make them. An Inuk can always make something from nothing. And Puja,” he added, turning to my milk-mother. “You may not give Omat any food to take.” She scowled at her father and tried unsuccessfully to hide the sack of dried fish she had prepared for me.
“Give it to me,” he said. Puja handed him the bag, which he proceeded to dump onto the ground. She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it and busied herself instead with gathering the fish into the apron of her parka.
Ataata handed me the empty sack. “This is all you may take with you. Something to hold whatever you may find.”
I slung the bag over my shoulder.
“Find your guide.” My grandfather’s face, usually so gentle, was stern. For his own initiation, he had waited for Uqsuralik in a cave of piled ice on the frozen sea. I, however, sought Singarti, the Wolf Spirit, who’d guarded my infant grave; I would go inland.
Behind our camp loomed the mountain shaped like a whale, its black flanks bared by the wind. In the summer we would leave the Land of the Great Whale, journeying through the narrow pass between the mountain’s ribs and tail to the low valley beyond, where caribou came to eat lichen and wolves came to hunt the caribou. This early in the season, I’d find neither caribou nor wolves in the valley, but I hoped the Wolf might still favor the place with his presence.
“Go now, Omat. We’ll await your return.”
I turned to the distant mountains.
“Older Brother!” Puja’s voice stopped me in my tracks. “Return to us safe!” Her voice, usually so steady, held a hint of fear. After all, I’d never been on such a journey by myself—few Inuit had. Always we traveled as a family or with a hunting partner.
I turned back to where she crouched on the ground amid the fish. Hunching down beside her, I gave her a quick hug and pressed my nose upon her cheek, breathing in her familiar scent. When I pulled away, I could see the tears pooled in her lower lashes. We didn’t need words, my milk-mother and I. I knew she feared not only that I might fail—return without my spirit guide or, worse, never return at all—but also that I might succeed. When I was a full angakkuq, she’d lose her little boy for good. I offered her a confident smile; her own lips twitched upward in return.
When I finally began my journey, I didn’t turn around again. But I knew Puja would be sitting there still, watching me go.
I hadn’t gone far when Kiasik appeared on the horizon, a small ringed seal thrown across his shoulder. He caught up with me quickly and fell into an easy lope by my side.
“So, you’re off for lands unknown.” He grinned down at me. “Spirit journeys and angakkuq secrets?”
I kept my expression solemn. “You can’t come, Kiasik. I must do this alone.”
“Come? Me? Why would I?” he asked a little too sharply. “I’m doing just fine without any angakkuq magic to guide my steps.” He patted the head of the dead seal.
“It’s a fine catch,” I conceded.
He smacked his lips. “I can’t wait to eat it. Too bad you’ll miss the feast.”
“You know I won’t be eating much of anything for a long time. Are you trying to torment me?”
Kiasik only laughed. “That’s the sacrifice you make for magic,” he teased.
“It’s worth it,” I insisted.
“I hope so, Little Brother.”
“It is, Sister’s Son.”
“Then when I see you again, and you’re even skinnier than you are now, I won’t worry.”
“Since when have you ever worried about me?”
“True. I don’t.” He flashed me a bright smile to cover the lie, rumpled my hair despite my protests, and strode off toward the camp. As always, both love and envy swam within him like a pair of horned narwhals. I never knew which one would surface first.
But I couldn’t worry about my milk-brother today.
I walked the whole of the morning. The spring rains had melted and frozen the snow in turn; my feet either slipped on ice patches or broke through into soft drifts. Sweat pooled beneath my parka. The Sun slid lower in the sky; my shadow stretched out behind me like a long cloak, weighing me down. I stopped, bending double to rest my hands on my kneecaps. I longed for a walking stick to steady my steps, a stream to quench my thirst. A gentle wind brushed my cheek, and I heard Ataata’s words on Sila’s breath: An Inuk can always make something from nothing.
I stuffed a few hard-packed handfuls of snow into my sack and wedged it beneath my bare armpit. As I walked, the snow melted into a few mouthfuls of water that would sustain me until I reached a stream.
When darkness fell, I had no shelter on the open tundra. I had neither knife nor enough hard snow to fashion an iglu, so I stomped on the slushy drifts until they were solid enough to form into a rough wind block. Before I slept, I drew the sinew cord from my boot top and fashioned a small snare. Then I pulled my arms inside my parka and spun my hood around to cover my face. With one mitten beneath my shoulder and one beneath my hip so the parts of me pressed against the cold ground might not freeze, I slipped into unconsciousness.
By dogsled, the journey to the valley would’ve taken one day, or two at most—on foot it took me nearly four. In that time, I caught only two mewling lemmings in my snare—pitifully small meals, more bones than fat.
By the time I arrived, exhaustion and lack of food had left me dizzy.
Now the hardest part of my journey began.
I found the perfect place—a deep cave on the western side of the whale mountain, its entrance facing the valley. Small, dry pebbles covered the floor. A far corner of the cave held signs of an old wolf habitation—swaths of fur and the scattered bones of caribou and hare. The pack might return to this place later in the spring or summer, but for now, I had it to myself.
I drank the last of my water; I wouldn’t drink again until I’d fulfilled my quest. Sear
ching the rocky ground, I chose two stones, one small and white, the other larger and orange-red, both as close to perfect spheres as I could find. With the setting Sun before me and the Moon rising behind, I used my left hand to rub the white stone in a circle atop the red, mirroring the endless orbit of brother and sister in the sky. Three times I completed the circles, and for three days I would await their response. Sun and Moon would send me a helping spirit, and I’d emerge from the cave an angakkuq. Or they would not—and I’d return a failure.
I did not leave the cave for those three days. I did not eat or drink; I did not relieve myself. I sat with legs outstretched, my back to the cave, scanning the long valley before me. The cave protected me from the worst of the wind but also hid me from the Sun’s warmth. I sat on my water sack to protect my backside from the ground. I pulled my arms inside my parka, slipping a bare hand up through the neck hole to warm my cheeks and nose. It would be a sad thing indeed if I returned to camp a full angakkuq—with half a face.
I drifted into dreams and visions for much of those three days, and soon I could not tell reality from imagination. Perhaps, I reasoned, in the end they are one and the same.
In the wind, I heard the voices of the dead—Saartok’s beloved, Puja’s husband, my own father. I couldn’t understand the words, only their despair.
Above my head, the ravens circled, their harsh cries like the screams of women learning of their menfolk’s deaths. In the shadows on the face of the faint Moon, I saw Taqqiq’s grim visage, and as the Sun sprinted across the sky, I stared straight at her, blinking as visions of Malina flitted across my closed eyelids—a round-faced woman with yellow flowers in her braids and blood where her breasts had been. Even Sila revealed Itself to me—I could see the eddies of the wind, the swirls of cold air and warm forming the hazy outline of a human figure dancing across the snow-covered valley.
Other visions came, ones far beyond my understanding. A one-eyed man with a raven on each shoulder. Another cloaked in lightning bolts, who strode across the surface of the frozen sea, each step drumming like thunder. A third who wavered and shifted like windblown snow, his face always hidden from view. Yet somehow I knew—his eyes swirled with rainbows.
The Wolf in the Whale Page 7