by Jack Dey
“COME!” an older woman’s voice pierced the thick doors out onto the stairwell.
“Pastor Slinger and Pastor... Cutter, madam.”
The old woman waved off Classons and then her eyes bored into Slinger, dancing from Slinger to Cutter and back, from the confines of a massive king-size bed. Once Classons had closed the door, her tirade exploded, demanding an explanation for Slinger’s unseemly arrival on a motorcycle and the admittance of a street gentleman into her bedroom.
Cutter’s face was aglow at the childish outburst and he had to force himself not to laugh.
All at once, a familiar beckoning drew his attention and he blocked out the dowager’s diatribe. He had learned the ability to block out angry feminine castigation from his never-present mother, who’d spent more time in a hotel than at home, leaving his small, but very powerful grandmother to raise him.
Moments passed and the woman became more and more antagonised, frothing at the mouth while Slinger began to melt under her impassioned lecture.
Cutter suddenly cut across her, leaving her speechless from the shock. “Papa God has already told you to fix up your ongoing battle with your daughter and until then, He intends to do nothing about your illness and in fact, you will get worse. So I guess we are wasting your time, Mrs Parks, until you do your bit.”
Cutter’s cheery demeanour turned towards Slinger. “I’ll wait for you down at the... limousine,” then he turned for the door and left the room.
By the time Slinger joined Cutter, the Harley was already choofing and eager to make for the open road. The intense look on Slinger’s face told Cutter that his Holy Spirit revelation hadn’t been received particularly well.
Slinger’s voice was low and tinged with defeat. “Thanks to you, Cutter, we have lost a valuable contributor to the church finances.”
“She’ll be back,” he assured, confident in the still, small voice that had confided to him.
*~*~*~*
The week had passed in an icy tone. Slinger was like a little thundercloud and the painted smile was nowhere to be seen, especially around Cutter. He gathered his notes sprawled over his office desk and checked his Sunday message. Since Cutter had upset Mrs Parks, he needed to fill the expansive gap her donations would create as the monthly balance sheet would have a sickening deficit, causing head office to interfere in his leadership and question his competency. He would just have to hammer the church community about giving, to fill the void.
Slinger’s recollection was crystal clear. He could still see the stern dowager’s face and the impassioned, “How dare you?!” just before ordering Slinger out of her mansion.
He sighed heavily, while listening to the gathering community in the church building next door to his office. Their joyous, unsuspecting greetings and chatter echoed into his room and made him feel even angrier towards his flamboyant associate pastor. He checked his sermon notes once more and mentally prepared himself for the service and the heavy oration he was sure would stab at consciences and loosen tight purse strings.
The all too familiar sound of Cutter’s Fat Boy came thundering down the road, interrupting Slinger’s intense thoughts. The motorbike engine cackled excitedly, roaring into the approaching car park in a shock wave of noise and announcing Cutter’s arrival as he stepped down yet another gear. As the din increased, Slinger could feel his ears prickling and his ire growing towards Cutter at the extra work he now had in balancing the church finances. Things would have to change and programmes would have to be cut; maybe even the associate pastor programme.
His painted smile cracked across his tortured features at the dastardly thought.
Slowly, Slinger’s smile returned for the first time since the unfortunate meeting with Mrs Parks. This was now the perfect scenario to rid him of Cutter’s unwanted bungling into church business. He peered out the window in an automatic response to check Cutter’s arrival, noticing he was mobbed in a rock star type greeting from adoring churchgoers, bringing Slinger a pang of envy. Maybe getting rid of the quirky ex-biker wouldn’t be as easy as he thought.
Cutter was always picking people up for church on his motorcycle, giving them a thrill and an insight into life as a bikie member, even if it was a retired one. Cutter finally extinguished the giddying motorcycle engine and the church car park fell into a maladroit silence. Slinger’s features contorted abruptly and he did a double take as he peered at the animated person riding pillion behind Cutter.
Old Mrs Parks peeled herself from Cutter’s back, releasing a death grip around his waist and shimmied off the skinny seat. She removed a dog-bowl helmet from her head and shuffled her grey locks, then in turn, shook out her church attire while beaming from ear to ear. Chatting excitedly to Cutter and the myriad of shocked churchgoers standing close by, the old lady had no sign of the dreaded illness that had plagued her only a few short days ago.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 17
Bjarni’s tortured gait gave away his age, limping on gnarly limbs, arthritic and tired from too many years battling the Arctic freeze. He hurried towards the hut and the whimpering howl of the big Siberian husky in urgent need of Bjarni’s presence. Akiak trailed behind him in a disinterested saunter, not at all anxious at the apparent frantic beckoning of the Siberian. The old man’s bearing had a more determined urgency to it and he burst into the hut, wondering what he would find.
The small frame of the woman stood unsteadily at the side of the bed, like a trembling building just before the foundation collapsed and the structure came crashing down. Her frightened, wide black pupils locked onto Bjarni’s as he burst through the door, trying to step away from him and protect herself at the same time.
In that brief moment, Bjarni saw the abject terror imprinted so deeply on her face that it stopped him in his tracks. Before he could speak and reassure the frightened woman, she crumpled, causing Bjarni to lunge and attempt to catch her, breaking her fall before she further damaged her frail disposition. Bjarni lowered her limp body back to the bed and covered her again with the bearskin.
Confused and dubious thoughts cascaded through his mind. These weren’t the actions of a bounty hunter, but the behaviour of a desperately frightened woman trying to escape a very distressing and strange situation. Bjarni began to feel more and more disturbed at the presence of the tiny woman.
Overcoming his concern, he started to dab at the blood flowing down her cheek, as the wounds on her face seeped crimson red again. At least the bump on her neck was diminishing. Her paling face began to worry Bjarni and he could feel her body temperature rising, suspicious of the presence of a worsening fever. Bjarni left her side for a few moments and went to fetch some snow from outside to cool her rising temperature.
When he returned, her cheeks were hot and small beads of sweat hung on her brow. As he ran the cloth filled with water and snow across her brow he whispered, “What are you running from, little lady?” Bjarni’s concern hung like a dark cloud inside the hut as he attended to the woman.
The Siberian nuzzled her hand drooping over the side of the bed, whining and begging her to fight on and not give up on her life. He dropped to a sitting position next to Bjarni, seemingly accepting Bjarni’s presence around his master, understanding Bjarni meant her no harm. As Bjarni turned to face the Siberian, he could see the intense concern and high intelligence reflected in the dark pupils of the big dog. He reached over and gently stroked his soft ears, intent on comforting the worried gaze but instead, provoked a low, jealous growl from Akiak.
*~*~*~*
The steps leading up to the square and expansive two storey building were covered in fresh snow powder. The structure had a boorish feeling of foreboding just from its dank, unimpressive architecture but it fitted well among the other inhospitable constructions surrounding the isolated town.
A lone figure picked his way along the twilit deserted sidewalk. The heels of his highly polished black shoes crunched the snow as he strode along the concrete path into ye
t another unwanted situation. New snow began drifting down on his smart, professional attire designed to keep him warm against the coldness of the day. He stopped directly outside of the stone structure and peered up at the double doors closed tightly against the late autumn environment, while he drew in a long breath then exhaled in a nervous, visible cloud of humidity. He had nothing new to report, a situation that would not be met with enthusiasm from those within the cold stone halls of officialdom. A special meeting had been convened and he guessed that his lack of performance was high on the agenda.
Finally he found the courage to continue and forced his procrastinating limbs up the dozen steps, leaned against the cumbersome double doors and entered the marble lined entry hall. A burst of warm air–heavily scented by official passageways and offices that hadn’t been open to outside breezes for many months, mixing stale air and chair-leather into a pungent cocktail of oppressive authority–assaulted his senses and added to his nervousness.
Finding a coat rack attached to the wall, he removed his coat and scarf and hung them on the closest hook. Meanwhile, the entry door closed automatically behind him, with a clank that echoed with finality against the walls of the empty corridors. He stood a moment, contemplating his immediate future and then turned to face the labyrinth of dimly lit passageways and staircases leading in all directions.
The Great Hall of Debate was a familiar arena in the voluminous structure and he strode towards his fate, his shoes echoing click-clack on the polished marble floor as he walked. Finally standing before the access leading into the great hall, he drew in a breath and knocked loudly.
The heavy wooden door burst open and echoed down the passageway. The image at the entryway played with his memory until recognition settled his question.
“Good evening, sir.”
The owner of the dour face just nodded, not wanting to waste energy talking to an unworthy subordinate and beckoned him inside. The big door closed with a foreboding, baritone bang reverberating off the walls and sealing out prying eyes.
The Great Hall of Debate was a coliseum and had a central circular floor surrounded by tiers of seats on its circumference, while aisles between seats led up a gentle gradient to the chairs at the very back near the two storey ceiling, giving those committed to the back rows a bird’s eye view of the business going on far below. The hall could accommodate four thousand people tightly packed in but tonight, there were only a handful of stiff faced luminaries present.
He stood at a podium in the centre of the hall, the eyes of the dignitaries boring into his soul with their brittle stares from nearby seats. Unexpectedly, a bright spotlight blinked on, shining directly onto him from the back wall and momentarily blinding him. He waited nervously, squinting into the light and trying to focus on the faces whom he knew had a good view of him.
“Agent Parlo...?!” a threatening voice echoed in the icy atmosphere. “It appears that both objects of your assignment have eluded you and your department... while we are not any closer to finding what we seek!”
The voice stopped abruptly and the word seek echoed around the spacious great hall.
Parlo paused before he spoke, hoping to delay any form of retribution levelled at him, holding up his hand to block the spotlight while trying to recognise the owner of the disgruntled voice. Once recognition broke through into his understanding, his mouth went dry and he could hear the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.
“Your Excellency, it is true. Neither I, nor my department, are any closer to the objectives of the council’s concern. It is not through lack of effort on my part, but the task I have been set will take much longer to complete than at first thought...” Parlo tapered off as he was interrupted.
“I am not interested in your excuses, Agent Parlo! The very existence of our great nation teeters precariously in your hands and anything but success of your mission objectives is unsatisfactory to this council. If you lack the competence to complete your assignment posthaste, there is a position for you as weather observer for Oymyakon...! Living in a tent! Am I understood?!”
Parlo bowed his head in obedience to the supreme leader while two heavy set men escorted him out into the deserted corridor. The door boomed shut, closing off any chance to redeem himself any further. He sighed audibly and then began to click clack down the corridor towards the exit and retrieve his scarf and coat. The threat of living in a tent at minus fifty degrees Celsius didn’t bring him much comfort.
Standing on the outside of the square stone building, it was snowing heavily. Parlo glanced back at the structure, pondering his not too distant future. He felt a crisp chill grasp at his spine and wondered whether it was the icy fresh snow or his dark future that caused the shiver. He pulled his collar up against the cold and quickly disappeared into the night.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 18
The first of the autumn storms caught Bjarni by surprise. His attention had been consumed by nursing the raging fever of the tiny figure, now peacefully sleeping in his bed. The whiteout had descended onto his small hut with such tenacity and stealth it had even taken the dogs by surprise and astonishingly, they had offered no warning.
Akiak lay sprawled out close by Bjarni’s side, following his every move and keeping a watchful eye on the intruding Siberian that appeared to have designs on her master’s special notice. Bjarni rubbed her thick fur, like winding a spring loaded toy and watched her come to life. He knew she was struggling with the presence of another dog in her territory and she gently nuzzled his hand at the sudden attention, licking her property with an exuberant tongue, making sure the Siberian clearly understood her claim. Bjarni tenderly rubbed her soft ears and lifted her face to stare into her preoccupied eyes.
“You are really off your game at the moment, Akiak; this storm took us all by surprise.”
Akiak seemed to understand the old man’s words and turned a disdainful glare towards the Siberian, lying on the floor with his head resting on his front paws and staring, unmoving, at the sleeping woman.
As the wind howled outside, the cold was driven in through the cracks around the old fireplace, causing the chimney to whistle in an eerie, ghostlike manner. Bjarni hadn’t had time to fix the hut’s problems while he played nursemaid to the tiny woman, who now seemed to have fought off the worst of her fever. The old man sauntered over to the small stove that was trying desperately to counter the increasing cold inside the hut. He dropped open the grate that covered the fire’s heart and fed in another big slice of whale blubber stored close by, sizzling and catching fire instantly in the confines of the hot stove while filling the hut with a pungent, oily smell.
Bjarni peered outside through the cracked window into the wintery day, checking to see that the remaining dogs had found shelter in the kennels from the storm. A thick covering of snow lay around the vicinity and a thin, fractured layer of ice lay across the unusually turbulent waters of the Sund. It was only 2pm but the twilight was already closing in, adding a colder dimension into the miserable autumn day.
Bjarni sighed at the scene in front of him; the Arctic night was fast approaching and there was still much to do. He turned to face the woman and the Siberian, wondering what her plans and intentions were. If she wasn’t strong enough to travel soon, the winter would trap her here with the old man and he hadn’t counted on extra mouths to feed throughout the long, cold Arctic night. Besides, it still wasn’t clear why she had found her way deep into the Greenlandic wilderness alone.
To add to his woes, it wouldn’t be long before Nanuq would find his way back into the fjord, hungry and looking to appease his massive bulk with any morsel that was unfortunate enough to cross his path. The few weeks after the first nanuq were seen were the most dangerous. The hungry bears would have travelled nearly a thousand kilometres from their summer refuge and hunting grounds–the frozen polar cap–consuming the stored body fat from the long journey and desperate to refill their hulking, empty stomachs. The harrowing, hollow groan of s
tarvation was no respecter of man or beast in the wilderness and anything was fair game, including him.
His mind drifted back to the gigantic paw prints he had seen only a week ago and wondered what the sighting meant. Ataneq Nanuq hadn’t bothered him for decades and over a long absence, Bjarni had questioned his own memory as to whether the creature had simply been a figment of a fearful imagination, brought on and emphasised by the harrowing trauma of his first encounter. But after recently seeing the evidence of a paw print perfectly preserved in the mud of melting snow, he had no doubts about his experience–and recollection–of the massive creature. Any uncertainty of the legendary bear’s existence was now permanently settled in Bjarni’s mind.
Trouble is, why is the massive creature prowling again after such a long absence and so close to my home, too?
*~*~*~*
Glancing back, Katu felt a little guilty watching Carl Bruun bounce around on the wooden sled atop the supplies as they made the final journey from Ittoqqortoormiit to the outpost, towing much needed winter stocks. Bruun had been a God-send, cutting Katu’s workload in half, speedily turning the irksome yearly chore into an easy jaunt and giving Katu much needed company on the twelve trips into and out of Ittoqqortoormiit. The snowmobile had worked hard with the extra weight but had endured the torturous trips with ease, making Katu glad he had purchased the expensive motorised machine.
Katu and Bruun had both seen the heavy encroaching cloud drifting invasively down over the mountain rim and felt the icy wind blasts that preceded the storm’s arrival. Most people in the village had disappeared into their homes, preparing for the approaching blizzard and sheltering, leaving Katu and Bruun alone, hastily loading the remaining contents of the sea container onto the sled. Katu knew if he didn’t move quickly and make a run for the outpost, he would be trapped by the storm and possibly spend many days snowed into the tiny village without the comforts and safety of his own home.