The Wolf in the Whale

by Jordanna Max Brodsky

  Taking a deep breath, I took up my needle once again and asked, “Will you tell me more about the blue people?” I wanted to distract him from his sudden sorrow. I wanted to distract myself even more.

  Brandr hoisted himself onto the sleeping bench and pulled the moose pelt around his shoulders again. “We took a few as thralls. They didn’t look so different from other men once we washed off the paint.”

  “What’s a thrall?” I interrupted.

  “Someone you own.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “A bondman. Someone who has to do what you tell them, obey your orders. Don’t you have them among your people?”

  “Do you mean like a wife?”

  At that he laughed. “No, no. Thralls are men or women. They wear a torque around their necks. A heavy metal ring that proves they’re not freemen. They can’t go anywhere or do anything unless their master orders it.”

  “Who’d agree to such a life?”

  “They don’t agree to it. They’re bought or captured.”

  “Until when?”

  “Until always. Unless their master chooses to free them.”

  I wondered if he was joking again. “Why doesn’t the thrall just kill its master? Or run away?”

  “I thought you wanted to hear about the blue men!” His smile returned. “Choose a story. I need to sleep. Either I can tell you about the Picts or about how thralls came to be.”

  “Tell me about thralls, if you’re so weak that you can’t stay awake to do both.”

  “All right.” He took a deep breath. “Galinn says that once, long ago, Odin All-Father watched each man toiling on his own farm, or his own ship. Men wouldn’t work together because each wanted to better his own family. And so no farm could be bigger than what one man could work, and no ship could be big enough to sail the oceans.”

  “Why wouldn’t they all work together to better all the families?” I interrupted.

  “That’s not in man’s nature.”

  “It’s in an Inuk’s nature.”

  “Well, we Norse are like all the other peoples I’ve met in my travels. Concerned above all for ourselves.” I opened my mouth to retort, but he held up a hand in protest. “I know, I know, you think little of us. But this is just a story, after all, and not one I made up. Don’t blame me.” I grudgingly turned my attention back to the parka.

  “So. Odin came down among the men. First he visited the fine wooden longhouse of a tall blond man and his wife, a woman of great beauty and bearing, with skin as pale as new milk and eyes as bright and blue as the noontime sea. And while the man slept, Odin took his wife to him, and nine months later she bore a son and named him Jarl. And from Jarl descends the race of kings, the firstborn sons of the god, who know his runic secrets and rule over all other men.

  “Then Odin went to another house, this one the sturdy stone hut of a hardworking man, with an apple-cheeked wife with grass-green eyes who wove fine woolen cloth on her loom. And in the night, Odin slept with this wife, and she bore him another son, named Freeman, who in turn fathered Fighter, Farmer, Householder, and Smith.

  “Finally, when Odin had grown tired from his exploits, he visited one last house, a small hovel of turf. The man and his wife were dark and bent and ill-favored, and they served the god coarse black bread and watery broth. And when Odin took the woman to his bed, she bore him a third son, Thrall. A man as ugly as his mother. And from Thrall the race of bondmen was born. They toil on the farms of the Freemen and allow them to prosper, and in turn the Freemen pay tribute to the Jarls.”

  “Are all thralls short and dark?” I asked.

  “No. Some are from Rus or Írland. Some are as red haired as I, or more blond than my own brother.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s just a story.” He yawned. “Don’t worry, it’s not real.”

  “All stories are real.”

  “Of course they’re not.”

  “Maybe not in the details, but they hold truth within them.”

  “How’re you so sure?”

  “I learned my tales from my elders, or from the spirits themselves. They wouldn’t tell a story that didn’t hold truth—what would be the point?”

  “You sound more like Galinn than ever. First you dream my past, now you’re talking to the spirits?”

  I shook my head. “No. They have no words for me any longer.” I needed him to stop his questions. I didn’t want to tell him about my time as an angakkuq—or how I’d lost such powers forever.

  “No words.” He sighed, cushioning his cheek on his arm and closing his eyes. “Sounds good.” He yawned again.

  The fire was dying, he was asleep, and I hadn’t gotten very far on the parka—too much talking and too little working. Images of tall, pale-haired women with eyes like Brandr’s danced in my head. I couldn’t find them beautiful, but clearly Brandr did. I knew I’d dream tonight of jarls’ wives and of thralls who looked like me, the most reviled among the Norse. No wonder Brandr hasn’t realized I have a woman’s body, I thought. Surely no freeman such as he would look at a hideous thrall such as I.

  I looked down at the parka, the stitches as tight and neat as my unskilled hands could make them. The hem carefully flared so it would let in just enough air to dry his sweat. The shoulders wide enough for him to pull his arms inside on the coldest days. All my effort to keep him warm. Was I nothing more than a thrall to him? I’d played the role well enough, feeding and clothing him so he could live a life of ease off my labor. He lacked only a yellow-haired giantess to warm his bed.

  I scowled at the parka and readied to rip it apart. Music stopped me.

  Soft and sweet, rolling over me like the lapping waters of a summer lake.

  Brandr took his lips from the whistle just long enough to give me a tired smile, then kept playing.

  Long into the night, I matched my stitches to the rhythm of his song.

  I awoke alone, with the parka still in my hands and my breath clouded with frost. The fire had died out while I slept. A real woman would never have tended it so poorly.

  I crawled from the qarmaq, still holding the parka. Flurries crowded the sky like a flock of mad snow geese, first floating aimlessly, then darting against my cheeks in the sudden gusts of wind. Brandr had cleared the path to our half-finished sled. He bent over the runners in his blue cloak, the moose fur still draped over his shoulders for extra warmth.

  Sweet One sat nearby, watching him like a young girl gazing at her promised husband. He scraped intently with the steel knife, straightening only when the wolfdog leapt up to greet me.

  He grinned as I approached. “You’ve nearly missed the sunlight today. I’ve been working all day to make up for you.”

  I held up the parka in response.

  Brandr dropped his tool and limped toward me eagerly. “It’s beautiful!”

  It wasn’t really beautiful—any girl child would make one much better. The front and back were caribou, the arms an uneven patchwork of moose and squirrel. But for a cold man, a fur parka is glorious no matter how simply made.

  He reached to grab it, but I pulled it back. “Aii! It’s not done yet!”

  “It looks perfect.”

  “Didn’t you notice something missing?”

  “All I know is it’s warmer than this,” he said, gesturing to his cloak.

  “It doesn’t have a hood yet.”

  “Oh.”

  “I couldn’t make it without sizing your head.” He bent toward me obligingly. I snorted. “Kneel down so I can do it properly. Not all of us are as tall as you.”

  He knelt immediately at my feet, bending first his good leg, then his bad, and looked up at me. The top of his head was nearly level with my chest.

  “Go ahead,” he said. The wolfdogs yipped and skittered around him, thinking he was ready to play. Sweet One nearly bowled him over before I could grab her ruff and tell her to stop. I shooed them off with a gesture. White Paw cocked her head at me as if to ask why Br
andr’s face was so close to parts better left untouched. I ignored her.

  “You may hold it for a moment,” I said, handing Brandr the parka. He placed the caribou fur to his cheek and thrust his hands into the dark folds. The crown of his head brushed against my waist. I took an instinctive step back. “Hold still.”

  He lifted his face and gave me a sly smile. “You like me down here, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “All that talk of thralls and masters. You like having me on my knees.”

  “Just be still.” I placed my hands lightly atop his upturned head. The women in my camp did this—memorized the feel of a man’s head so that his hood might fit snugly around his cheeks. The only man’s face I’d ever touched like this was my grandfather’s. His gray hair had been coarse and dry beneath my hands, his cheeks soft, the skin lying loose upon the bone. Brandr’s hair was smooth and thick beneath my fingertips, the skin above his beard tight and rough. An ugly dog, I reminded myself.

  With my thumbs, I traced the line of his jaw, stretching my forefingers to his ears to gauge the width of the hood opening, then pivoting my fingertips to his forehead to gauge its length. I could feel his eyelashes fluttering against my fingers. His lips, dry and cold, brushed the calloused skin between my thumb and palm.

  “Good,” I said finally, backing away and taking the parka from his hands.

  As I left, he called to Sweet One. I knew if I turned back I’d see her presenting her strong back for him to lean upon as he rose.

  I sat beside the fire and cut apart the sleeping fur that had kept me warm for so many moons: Black Mask’s thick pelt. I wished I had wolverine to trim the edge, so the fur wouldn’t ice over from Brandr’s breath. But at least it was a hood.

  I knew, even before I let him try it on, that it fit perfectly—tight along the cheeks, but loose enough around the back of his head to create a cushion of warmth.

  I knew because I could still feel the shape of his face on my fingertips.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Ow!”

  The string snapped against Brandr’s wrist again. I was always too fast for him.

  “Now you know to stay clear of the ice bear’s jaws.” I spread my thumbs, moving the mouth of my string figure.

  “It doesn’t really look like a bear.”

  “What do you mean?” I wiggled my pinkie fingers and the ears moved. Brandr laughed, and I warmed to see him happy.

  Our sled was nearly complete, and I’d even fashioned harnesses and traces for the wolfdogs. At my direction, Brandr had whittled toggles and a fan hitch. Sweet One and White Paw had taken to pulling easily enough, far faster than any normal dogs would, though Floppy Eared had just sat on his haunches with his tongue lolling. Much nipping from his sisters finally got him moving. For now, they lay in the entrance tunnel, but when it came time to leave, my team would be ready.

  But I no longer knew when that time would be. One storm had barely ended before another began.

  Pushing aside the hanging bear pelt, Brandr stretched his long frame from one side of the sleeping bench to the other, as if desperate to break free of the qarmaq’s walls. His head lay beside my hip. I unwound the string from my hands and shifted away, pretending I needed a drink from the pail of melted snow hanging above our fire.

  “How long do you think we’ve been trapped in here?” he asked, his smile quickly fading back into a frown. The longer we spent inside, the quieter he became. I worried that he might crack into raving. Such things happened sometimes in winter.

  “I don’t know.” I wiped the water from my lips and furrowed my brow in exaggerated contemplation. “Two hundred and fifty-seven days?”

  That got him laughing again. He rolled onto his stomach and reached out to ruffle my hair. “I should never have taught you to count.”

  My people have no words beyond twenty, nor need for them. Anything more than the sum of our fingers and toes is just many. I had learned Brandr’s Norse numbers more to pass the time than anything else.

  “Six days, then,” I offered, resisting the urge to smooth my short hair back behind my ears.

  He sighed and sat up. “At least seven, kid.” He dug around the sleeping furs for the new eyeshields I’d taught him to make, then started gouging the slits wider with the small knife.

  “If you make them too big, they won’t be much use against the sunlight once we’re on the sled,” I warned.

  “Sunlight?” He snorted. “Feels like we’ll never see that again.”

  As usual, I found waiting easier than he did. For all my desperation to reach Kiasik, I knew what I could control and what I could not. Brandr was like a restless child in constant need of distraction. But I could hardly blame him; the storm had lasted longer than most, as if Sila, usually so uninterested in the affairs of men, had trapped us together on purpose.

  “She may be hard to see through the storm, but the Sun definitely rose today,” I assured him. “Otherwise I never would’ve shown you the bear game. Once the Moon of Great Darkness arrives, it’s dangerous to play with string figures, lest the Sun get tangled in the sinew and fail to return.”

  Brandr had that familiar look that meant he didn’t quite believe me.

  I gestured to the faint trickle of gray light above the smoke hole. “She’s setting now, but she stayed in the sky for longer than she should today. Malina must be stronger in the south. She doesn’t hide from her brother as quickly.”

  “Malina?”

  “You don’t know the story of Sister Sun and Brother Moon?”

  “I know the Norse tales of how Sol and Mani came to be. The Christians have another version. What’s yours?” He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, closing the distance between us.

  Despite the chill, I sweated beneath his steady blue gaze—a gaze that felt warmer and bluer the longer the storm lasted.

  I sought my own distraction in the story. It was a good tale, the first I’d ever performed as an angakkuq’s apprentice, but I felt naked telling it without a drum in my hands.

  I clasped my hands in my lap and began the story much as I always did: “This is a tale of the time before time.”

  White Paw crawled in from the tunnel and settled herself next to the fire as if she, too, were eager for a story.

  “Taqqiq and Malina were brother and sister, both very beautiful, with full round faces and great shining eyes. Taqqiq joined the men of their camp in a special qaggiq to feast and tell tales.” I added a little extra for Brandr’s benefit. “The women and Malina did whatever it is that women do, probably mend clothes and gossip.” My friend, who’d clumsily attempted to mend a tear in his shirt earlier, laughed. It seemed mockery of women amused men from any world.

  I kept going, stretching out the story to fill the long night. But as I spoke of Malina waking in the dark, her lamp out, her iglu cold, I began to regret having chosen this tale to tell. With every word, I heard the whispered echo of my own humiliation. Never before had I spoken of that night when Issuk stole my body. Now the words tumbled out, Malina’s story interwoven with my own.

  “A stranger came into the girl’s iglu. In the dark, Malina couldn’t see his face, but she felt his hand—cold against her stomach as he fumbled with his trousers, and then… and then he was splitting her apart.”

  Without realizing it, I began to beat my clasped hands upon my leg as if it were an angakkuq’s drum. Only with the dull, thudding rhythm could I bear to continue. “He pushed into her, ripping her flesh until she bled. She’d never known such pain. It did not end. It did not get easier. With every thrust he tore her anew, inside and out, for what felt like the whole of the long winter night.”

  My voice grew strained as the memory overtook me. I wanted to stop. But an angakkuq never refuses a tale.

  “Finally, when she thought she might not survive until the dawn, he finished. He fell upon her like a stone. She lay there, suffocating beneath his weight. The pulse in his
neck drummed against her cheek, and she wanted to turn her head and rip out that pulse with her teeth. Then, as suddenly as he’d appeared—he vanished.”

  “Did her brother avenge her?” Brandr asked softly.

  “Taqqiq was still inside the qaggiq, and it’s forbidden for a woman to enter the men’s sacred space. So the girl went to sleep again the next night with her womb still sore, and again the strange man appeared in the dark, and again he took her. This time, he grabbed at her breasts with fingers like knives and bit them with his sharp teeth, pulling at her nipples until they bled. When he disappeared again, blood stained her from chest to thigh.” I forced myself to lower my voice, to breathe, to keep the rhythm steady as I described how Malina had smeared her attacker’s forehead with soot on the third night. “After he left, she lay in her pool of blood and sweat and tears. Her body burned with pain, and yet she smiled, for she knew she would finally have her revenge.”

  Of course, there had been no revenge for Malina. I told of how Taqqiq had been revealed as her attacker, and the siblings now continued their eternal chase as Sun and Moon. I, on the other hand, had taken my revenge—I watched Issuk bleed to death before my eyes. So why did I still feel so powerless? Maybe, like Malina, I’d always feel hunted.

  “It is hard to run all the time,” I went on, avoiding Brandr’s eyes. “And Taqqiq never stops chasing Malina, for men do not give up easily. Sometimes she must rest. And so she hides from her brother each winter. And sometimes, it is said, the Moon catches the Sun in the sky, and she turns black and disappears. He rapes her once again.”

  I added an ending I hoped was true. “But even then, even after that, she always returns. Red with her blood, yes, but still strong enough to outlast him for another day. She never disappears forever. She will be back.”

  I unclasped my hands and took a deep breath. “Here ends this tale.”

  I’d never seen my friend look so uneasy. He rose from the sleeping bench and busied himself with tending the small fire, breaking the wood into smaller and smaller shreds of kindling. When he finally spoke, he wouldn’t meet my eyes.