I jerked free and rolled to my feet, but I’d lost the long knife. A blur of brown in the corner of my vision became a wall of fur before my eyes. A black shape leapt between me and the bear. Before I could react, I heard the sound of ripping flesh.
Then I was flat on my back again, pinned to the ground by a weight on my legs, the wind knocked from my lungs. I raised myself to my elbows, expecting to find my body half-crushed by the enormous bear. Instead the mound of fur at my knees was black—Sweet One lay across me with blood pouring from a bear-claw wound on her flank.
I fought the urge to tend to her pain; if I didn’t bring down the bear, more of my family would die. Sucking a breath into my burning lungs, I managed to shift her off my legs. I tried not to hurt her, but her quavering whine proved I’d failed.
Staggering to my feet, I fumbled my slate knife free of its sheath. Nothing, not even a cousin of the great Uqsuralik, could hurt my pack and live.
My wolfdogs did my work for me. White Paw clung to the bear’s back, her claws and teeth turning the brown fur black with blood. Floppy Eared leapt forward with a snarl, then just as quickly sprang back to avoid the bear’s swiping claws. Amid the fray, the empty blue cloak, still pinned to the ground, snapped and twisted in the wind like another attacker.
The giant had found his feet. He stood upright between me and the bear, garbed only in white and brown. He didn’t stumble this time, or run. He held the long knife before him with both hands. The sun winked off the blade, casting a needle of light into the bear’s eyes. It blinked, shaking its head.
The giant lunged forward awkwardly, his weaker leg nearly folding beneath him. His long knife slid into the thick meat of the bear’s foreleg. It roared its anger, foam flying from wide jaws, and reared onto its hind legs once more, shaking off White Paw and Floppy Eared like mosquitoes. Before the towering bear, the giant no longer looked so tall.
The bear waddled forward, walking like a man on its hind legs. It swiped at the giant, long claws extended. I rushed forward and thrust my own knife into the taut skin between its foreleg and chest, the bear’s most vulnerable spot. The tip of my blade stuttered against bone—and then slid cleanly between the ribs. The bear crashed to the ground, nearly catching me in its embrace. I snatched back my knife and leapt away, its hot spit splattering my cheek.
It charged me, just as an ice bear would have, bowling the stranger out of the way as it came. I was ready. I ran, knowing the wound in its heart would soon drain its strength. Overconfident, I slowed to look behind me just as the bear came to a skidding halt. Its eyes rolled to white, and it plummeted forward, sending me flying with one glancing blow from its massive shoulder.
For a long moment, I lay with my head pillowed on my arm, my breath raw, willing my heart to slow. I shifted just enough to look into the cloudless blue sky, wondering what Sila must think of the strange constellation of figures sprawled across the mossy rocks. An arm’s length away, the enormous mound of brown fur blocked my wolfdogs from sight. But I could hear Floppy Eared and White Paw snarling at each other as they fought over the bear’s innards. I had to stop them before they ate any: raw bear meat could kill a man or a dog. But I couldn’t yet find the strength to rise. Somewhere beyond the beast lay a strange giant with flames in his hair. His presence was a weight on my chest, stopping the air from my lungs. I clutched my knife more tightly, my fingers chilled by the bear’s quickly cooling blood. The thought of using it again so soon—this time on a person—made me all the colder.
I pushed myself slowly to my feet and walked around the bear. The stranger lay sprawled and unmoving, clearly unconscious.
I grabbed White Paw and Floppy Eared one at a time by their ruffs, dragging them away from the bear carcass. They twisted in my grip, desperate to return to their meal, but I calmed them with the piercing stare Singarti had once used to warn me away from a fresh-killed ptarmigan. I found the leashes I hadn’t used since my wolfdogs were puppies and staked them beside the tent entrance. They watched me with reproachful eyes as I walked to the top of the hill to scan the ocean beyond.
Nothing.
No wooden boat on the sea. What had become of the giant’s wounded friend? Where was his camp? Where was Kiasik? I needed answers.
But first I had a wolfdog to save.
Sweet One’s tail thumped weakly at my approach. I couldn’t see the gash itself, only weakly pulsing blood and matted fur. When I reached to touch her flank, her lips trembled in the semblance of a snarl. In our moons together, my pack had shown an uncanny understanding of my wishes, rarely growling or snapping at me the way normal dogs would have. But an injured animal was a dangerous one, and Sweet One’s long teeth would tear my flesh as easily as they had the bear’s.
“I’ll come back,” I assured her, unable to keep my voice from cracking.
Black Mask had been in better shape when I slit her throat without hesitation. My world has little room for the weak.
I’ve already broken most of the other rules of my upbringing, I reasoned as I hurried toward my tent. What’s one more?
From the corner of my eye, I saw the giant twitch awake. His eyes were open but glazed—whether from exhaustion, pain, or starvation I didn’t know. Belatedly his gaze focused on me. His long knife lay loose in his grasp; he moved to raise it and made a half-hearted effort to stand, but his leg wouldn’t hold him. He was one threat, at least, I could afford to ignore for the moment.
“Don’t bother with your knife,” I said, conspicuously placing my own blade back in its sheath. “I have more important animals to worry about than you.” I gestured back toward Sweet One’s limp form. He looked at me blankly, oblivious to the insult. Perhaps he was stupid as well as injured.
I went inside the tent to gather my waterskin and a handful of dried moss. When I emerged moments later, the giant had disappeared. Then I heard his voice, strangely gentle despite the mad gibberish on his tongue. I walked around the bear carcass and found him sitting next to Sweet One.
“Leave her alone,” I barked, imagining him slicing her apart as he’d once done to Patik.
He backed away, dragging himself over the ground with his hands. His long knife lay nearby, but he didn’t reach for it.
Careful to stay clear of Sweet One’s bared teeth, I washed the blood from her wound so I could see how deep it went. I could feel the giant’s eyes on me as I worked, but he didn’t move or speak. His was not like an Inuk’s silence, patient and watchful. It was like that of a trapped fox, waiting to bite as soon as the hunter reaches into the cairn.
Sweet One’s gash was worse than I’d thought. Too wide to simply bind closed with a strip of bear hide as I’d planned. I would have to sew it shut. I had made a hooked needle from the spines of the strange urchin-creature I’d killed that first day with my wolfdogs; it would sew living flesh much more easily than the straight bone needle I’d taken from Uimaitok’s kit. But I still had no sinew thread. The bear’s leg tendons would be too fresh, a strip of hide too thick, and I’d long ago torn most of the seams from my tent to repair my own clothes. My shelter was half the size it had been at the start of my journey.
With the point of the needle, I tried to pull the seam from the side of my parka—I loosed a scant finger’s length before the thin sinew snapped. I tried again but got only another useless fragment for my efforts. Sweet One whined, the cry as plaintive and weak as a new-fledged chick’s. Blood painted the stones beneath her.
I slipped my bow from my shoulder in desperation.
Gravel clattered as the stranger started in alarm—probably afraid I would turn the weapon on him. But Sweet One didn’t snarl. She just rolled her eyes toward me, narrowed in pain. She trusted me. Trusted me to end her misery.
She knew me well.
I lifted my knife instead of an arrow and placed my blade against the bowstring. I knew where I could find a length of sinew.
A shout from the giant stopped me.
He gazed at me steadily, his eyes as sharp and cold a
s ice. In his palm he held a length of white string, one end floating and curling in the soft breeze, the other attached to the cuff of his sleeve.
I stared at him for a long moment before I slowly lowered my bow.
One slow step at a time, I moved toward him. His shoulders rose at my approach; his bearded jaw clenched. But he still didn’t reach for his blade. Instead his long-fingered hands kept moving, unraveling more string from his sleeve even as his eyes stayed fixed on mine.
He raised the cuff to his teeth, bit the string free, and lifted it toward me. I darted forward to snatch the offering, as cautious as a raven plucking meat from between a wolf’s paws.
The string was light and soft in my hand, more like the long hair of a musk ox than the strong tendon of a caribou’s leg, but I had no time to marvel at its strangeness. I could see Sweet One’s injury clearly now, a long, straight gash, so deep that the white bone of her ribs glistened among the red flesh. Thankfully, the wound had missed her lungs. There was still hope. It took me three tries to pass the string through the eye of my spine needle, but I finally managed it.
“This will be over soon, Sweet One. Just hold on. I know what to do.” I was unsure whether I feigned such confidence for the sake of my dog, myself, or the young stranger sitting nearby. The needle went in easily, but sewing living skin was not like sewing seal hide. The wound was too wide to pinch shut with one hand, and the thin string sliced through the delicate flesh as I tried to pull it closed. Sweet One twitched with pain. I was making it worse.
The giant still watched me. I looked down at the white string. A gift. A gesture, perhaps, of goodwill. Issuk had brought gifts, too. Meat and men and hope. Then he had taken it all away again.
Still, I had always made use of my surroundings. I could make use of the giant as well.
“I can’t do this with only two hands.”
His mouth opened, but only a quick sigh escaped. After a long while, he made more of his unintelligible sounds.
“Come here,” I said, motioning to him as I might to a dog.
When he didn’t move, I raised my arms so my sleeves fell back, showing that I held only the needle. He finally crawled toward me, dragging his leg behind. I looked away from his halting progress.
Let him suffer for a while, I thought. No matter what useful gift he offered, this stranger who had killed Patik and stolen Kiasik had no claim to my sympathy.
“I need you to hold the wound together,” I said to him, demonstrating with my hands. “But keep her still.” I pressed my body against the wolfdog’s to show him. He did as I asked, bracketing her head with his knees. His fingers were long, exceptionally dirty, and surprisingly steady as he pinched the gash closed. Halfway through my stitching, I gestured to the stranger to release the wound. He complied immediately and placed his hands along Sweet One’s neck, stroking gently. I’d never seen a grown man treat a dog with such compassion. Most hunters whipped and beat their dogs; there was no other way to control an unruly team. My pack had never needed such discipline—but how did this stranger know that?
As I worked on the wound, I finally noticed the shape of the gash. Long and straight, too deep for a bear’s claws.
I paused in my sewing, my cheeks flushing with anger.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the man shoot me a concerned glance, but I wouldn’t look at him. I had no time for accusations while Sweet One bled beneath my hands.
I finished the stitches and packed dried moss around the wound. I wished for the egg-like mushrooms that could stop her flesh from sickening or for dried willow to ease her pain. But I would use what I had. I sliced a narrow strip of skin from the bear carcass, peeling it free of the thick fat. I wrapped it around Sweet One’s ribs—when it dried, it would shrink and help bind the wound together. Then I trudged back to my tent and grabbed a sleeping fur. A small hole in one side, a rope looped through it, and I had a sled. I pushed Sweet One’s body onto it, trying not to hurt her further.
The giant tried to help.
“Don’t,” I snapped. “You’ve probably killed her with your long knife. Swinging it around like a fool. Don’t come near her again.” My voice was low and deadly. There could be no mistaking my tone, even if he couldn’t understand my words. I cast a disdainful glance at his wounded leg. “Clearly you’re no match for a bear. You had to hurt a puppy instead.” I passed by him without another word, dragging my dog behind me.
I pulled Sweet One onto the piled furs inside the tent, safe from scavengers. She lapped greedily at the spout of my waterskin.
Her thirst was a good sign; she hadn’t given up. Before long, she fell asleep, legs twitching weakly. I wanted to curl up along her back and join her, but I had work yet to do.
With my knife in hand, I returned to the bear. Floppy Eared pulled at his leash and snarled, desperate to start his feast. White Paw yipped her own complaint.
“Enough,” I shouted. The two quieted instantly at my command, then settled complacently to watch my work. I needed to butcher the carcass quickly before it spoiled in the summer sun. A bloody, hot task. I started to pull off my outer parka—brushing blood from caribou hide was tedious, especially now that Puja wasn’t around to do it for me—and then caught the stranger’s eye. I’d kept my hair short; my forehead and chin remained free of tattoos. I walked with a man’s gait, carried a man’s weapons, and lived alone. How could he think me a woman? But if I disrobed, he’d know I had a woman’s body. He might be unlike any Inuk, but his hairy cheeks and coiled muscles were clearly male.
I kept my parka on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
While I butchered the bear, the blood ran in thick rivulets over my wrists and under the sleeves of my parka. I could feel the giant’s eyes on me still. I glanced over occasionally. Wounded and underfed, he no longer seemed threatening—but I couldn’t forget that he’d nearly killed Sweet One. Nor could I forget the violence of his long blade.
The weapon lay across his lap now, but his grip on it was slack. His eyes crept shut, then sprang open as he fought to stay conscious. I let myself become absorbed in my bloody task, trying to ignore him. By the time I’d cut the bear meat into large strips, hung them to cook above a seaweed fire, buried the poisonous liver beneath a cairn of stones, and staked the remaining pelt out to dry, the stranger had fallen asleep on the hard ground.
I paced quietly toward him and slowly lifted the long knife from his lap. He didn’t stir. I needed both hands to wield the blade, and even then I could do little but swing it in a clumsy, aimless arc. It was far too long to butcher a carcass and too heavy to throw like a harpoon. What kind of hunting could one do with it?
I wrapped the blade in a scrap of bear fur and buried it far from my camp.
Finally, in the pink light of sunset, I washed the blood from my face at the shallow creek that ran beside my tent. A silver fish swam just beyond my cupped hands. I’d chosen the campsite for this very reason, hoping to stock up on fish. I never knew when I’d find any more on my journey through this barren land. But I didn’t have the strength to snatch any more prey today. The long line of split fish I’d hung on my driftwood drying rack that morning would have to be enough for now. Besides, with all the bear meat, I would have plenty to eat while I waited for the fish to fully dry. For so long, I’d lived only on small prey. My wolfdogs helped me hunt, but they ate nearly as much as they caught. And even they couldn’t procure a caribou or a seal when there were simply none to catch. Now, finally, I wouldn’t go hungry.
I sat back on the mossy bank, wondering at the unfamiliar feeling warming my gut. Hope.
My travels might be over. The other strangers must be nearby. Kiasik would be with them.
I would rescue him, and together we could make our way back home. Sweet One wouldn’t be able to carry anything on her back for a while, but with the bear meat to build their strength, Floppy Eared and White Paw would easily carry the full load of dried fish. Kiasik and I could start our journey north without fear of starvati
on. Puja, Ququk, and Tapsi would’ve found a way to provide for the others in our absence. My family would survive long enough for us to return. I had to believe that.
I walked to the crest of the hill, scanning the water again for sight of the giants’ enormous wooden boat. Still nothing.
I headed back to the tent, passing the sizzling strips of bear flesh. White Paw and Floppy Eared lay nearby, muzzles on paws but eyes fixed on the meat. I unfastened their leashes. “Make sure no foxes get it. And don’t even think about stealing it yourself while it’s still raw,” I added with a growl when they pranced forward. “Ataata always said bear is the one animal we have to cook.” Floppy Eared cocked his head at me, dubious. I’d watched him eat everything from a maggot-covered hare to an entire nest of owlets—feathers and all—without suffering any ill effects. “Fine. Maybe you won’t get sick, but you still can’t eat the bear. You’ll get so fat I’ll have to build an umiaq and row you home.”
Teetering slightly from exhaustion, I passed by the prone shape of the stranger. Pain creased his brow even in sleep. He pillowed his head upon his arm as an Inuk would. His trick with the string had somehow shortened his sleeve, revealing a thick tattoo spiraling around his wrist in a series of knots and braids more intricate than those in a woman’s hair.
The sprawl of his length upon the ground still made him seem a giant to me, but perhaps he was human after all.
White Paw whimpered softly and padded over to him.
“I told you to watch the meat,” I said sternly.
Usually so fast to comply, my gray friend simply sat next to the body of the man and stared at me, her tongue flopping in a foolish wolf smile.
“If you want to sleep with him tonight, go ahead,” I said, continuing on my way. “After what he did to Sweet One, I’m surprised you haven’t tried to eat him.”
At the mention of food, Floppy Eared pricked his ears toward me. “Don’t get any ideas,” I warned him. “I have to get some answers first. Then we can take our revenge on him for all he’s done.”
The Wolf in the Whale Page 22