When the sensation subsides, I say it again, quietly, ‘Katvar.’ At once, the blueberries in reindeer milk hit my tongue, my palate, and my mind with such force that my vision begins to swim. Gasping for air, I press my arm over my face.
Fingers wrap around my wrist and gently pull my arm away. Katvar looks puzzled. ‘What did I do?’ he signs.
‘You taste of blueberries and milk.’ I wipe a stray tear off my cheek.
He frowns and feels my forehead. ‘No fever. You want to talk about it?’ his hands ask.
‘I don’t know how,’ I whisper.
He stands and walks to the pot with boiling water, tosses a handful of lichen into it.
I close my eyes and pull the furs over my head to make my own small cave. I whisper, ‘Katvar,’ and the result is the same. Milk and blueberries. Lots and lots of them.
Softly, I say, ‘Runner,’ but nothing happens. ‘Basheer,’ and still nothing. The void opens. It’s as if I’ve lost him all over again.
I weep into my hands, glad Katvar doesn’t ask what it is that makes me cry. I remain in my darkness, shutting off the outside world, trying to deal with memories. I don’t dare speak Rajah’s name for fear it might taste of scorched flesh.
When I move the furs aside, the cabin is empty. I must have fallen asleep. A cup with cold lichen tea stands on a block of wood next to my makeshift bed. I reach up and drink it all. I feel better. It’s time for me to get a move on. I’ve been idle long enough.
The first thing on the list is to wash. I stink and the feeling of sickness covering my skin is disgusting. I shovel snow into a large pot, hang it over the embers and throw more wood in the fireplace.
Flames lick the black cast iron. My head swims with exhaustion, but I stomp outside, greet the dogs that greet me back as if we hadn’t seen each other in years, and pick a handful of pine needles. They go into the warm water to add fresh scent.
I sniff at my clothes and find them too stinky, so fresh clothes it is today and the yucky ones will be washed. I’m sure Katvar’s need a good wash, too.
I begin to scrub myself and stop halfway through when I hear the dogs stir outside. The door opens and snaps shut a second later.
‘I’ll be done in a minute,’ I call. He can’t be particularly shocked. He saw me naked two winters ago. But then, it might be hard to get used to seeing the scars.
I rub myself dry with my dirty shirt, then put on my clean clothes and open the door to find Katvar sitting among his dogs, receiving nose-kisses and giving out ear-rubs. He’s happy. It warms my heart. ‘Hey, Mister, I’ll warm up another pot of water. Wash your dirty body and give me your clothes, so I can give them a good rinse.’
He stands and looks at me in a way I can’t really place. He seems taller, somehow.
While the snow melts in the pot, he feeds the dogs and checks their paws. I turn my back while he washes.
Later, when he cooks a stew of reindeer ribs — the meat is for us together with the bread and cheese he brought, the stew is for the dogs — I wash our stuff, tie a line across the room and hang the wet clothes near the fire.
We eat in silence, watching the steam rise from our shirts, pants, and underwear.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say when we finally roll up in our furs — me exhausted from doing nothing, and Katvar tired from two long days and nights of trying hard to help me get better.
‘For what?’ he signs.
‘I cried and made you sad.’
‘You were sad.’
‘Yes and no. I was happy. You made me happy.’ I rub my face. This is complicated. ‘For as long as I can remember, words had flavours. When I spoke or thought in words and not in images, or when someone else spoke, aromas accompanied all words. Words that were used frequently or that had a meaning only in combination with other words, such as “it” and “and” added only the faintest hint of flavour, if at all, to a whole sentence or story. Other words were stronger. The names of my friends had the strongest and most complex flavours.’
I roll onto my side and look him in the eyes. There’s curiosity. He doesn’t seem to think I’m crazy.
‘When I walked away from Runner and stepped into the helicopter that took me away from Taiwan and away from him, all words seemed to turn to ash in my mouth. There were no flavours anymore, just the constant feeling of a parched tongue. That’s when I realised that my memory seemed to be linked to my word flavours. Somehow, I remembered things better by connecting them to the array of aromas attached to them. With this sense of word taste lost, my mind has grown…scattered. It’s been harder to connect dots and to sort through my short term memory. But the worst, the thing that’s been hurting the most is that I can’t remember the taste of Runner’s name. Or the tastes of any of my friends’ names. I can’t even remember the taste of his kisses, his skin. When all the word flavours disappeared, I felt…dead.’
Katvar doesn’t move. I can tell he wants to place a comforting hand on my shoulder or cheek, but he doesn’t dare do it. ‘What happened today?’ he asks.
‘Your name tasted of blueberries and milk. It still does.’ I smile at him and whisper, ‘Katvar.’
Involuntarily, my fingers find my lips when his flavours spread in my mouth. ‘It’s lovely. Thank you.’
His eyebrows draw together as he curls his arms around his chest. He’s holding on to himself.
I reach out and brush a strand of hair from his face.
He seems to observe me. After a long moment, he signs, ‘Healing sometimes hurts.’
I can’t help but laugh. It’s a good laugh, one that’s infectious and that loosens up a too-tight chest. He grins and the darkness in his eyes lightens. Katvar is happy when I am happy. That’s how simple it is.
I decide to make an effort to smile more often, to see the good things in life first, and the problems second. I’m a problem solver, I can’t just turn a blind eye to those. But seeing Katvar smile, the flicker of joy in his brown eyes, will be a higher priority. The very first, though, is to reach Svalbard and cause the most massive mayhem the BSA has ever seen.
‘May I try something?’ he signs.
‘Okay.’
He rises and rummages in the package he brought today, then comes back to sit cross-legged on his bed, the petroleum lamp providing warm light. His fingers hold up a dried plum.
‘No pressure, huh?’ I mutter and grin at him.
His hand moves closer, letting the fruit rest against my lips.
My tongue darts out. Sweet. I huff. My eyes burn. ‘Plum,’ I whisper and the word rolls around in my mouth, violet and purple, sweet with a bit of tartness, soft and supple against my teeth.
I choke. A tear rolls down my cheek and he catches it. The calluses on his fingertips rasp across my skin.
He blinks down at his knees, then up at me. With his hand, he shuts my eyes. A moment later, a round small thing touches my lips. I open my mouth and he places it on my tongue. A cranberry. I think of forests and ancient trees. Memories of Runner constrict my throat. I turn my head away.
He holds out another fruit and waits. I look at his strong hand and the small, wrinkled blueberry. It lays wedged between cracks and calluses, threatened to be crushed any moment now. I pick it up and look at it, close my eyes and hold it to my lips. The scent is sweet. I inhale and pop the fruit into my mouth. Katvar. Flavours of warm milk accompany the blueberry. They fill my mouth and trickle down my throat.
I look up at him, lay my fingertips to my lips, then move them in his direction.
Since my hand is so close to his cheek already, I let it rest there, wondering how odd, and at the same time, how beautiful the world can be, and why on earth a mute man has the power to give me back my words.
Darkness and snow are falling quickly. The dogs chew on their portions of frozen meat. I watch every one of them for signs of fatigue. Gull has been limping today. We took her off the line and let her curl up on the sled. Now she chews quietly and contentedly, eyes half closed, puffing small clouds
of her warm dog breath.
The white expanse, the solitude, quietude. I could lead this life for as long as I live. Well, I guess that’s what I’m doing here, anyway. I try not to think of Svalbard too much, of the Vault and what awaits me there. What might await me there. And what has been.
There are too many memories I want to forget. They keep coming, going around and around in my skull. I need them all, this horrible knowledge to finish what I’ve begun.
I wonder how people back then prepared for battle; if they found it more important to win and come out alive, or if bringing down their enemies, knowing their loved ones at home remained safe was what made them go out in the first place.
I don’t have any loved ones at home. I don’t even have a home. I don’t miss those things and never did. But should anyone ever ask me why I’m going to war against the BSA, my answer would be simple: revenge.
I cannot forgive.
Balto pricks his ears and his head snaps up. The other dogs follow his example. Food is forgotten. Hackles rise.
A warm shiver crawls up my neck as I squint into the dark forest. I prick my ears but don’t detect anything that hints at danger. My first thought is Katvar who went out to hunt an hour or two ago. As the first growls roll up the dogs’s chests, I jump to my sled and fetch my rifle. I lift the scope to my eye and see a green-and-grey silhouette staggering toward us. After long, painful moments of scanning the perimeter for approaching danger, I sling the weapon over my shoulder and run.
‘Katvar!’
Crackling of frozen twigs. Crunching of boots in snow. I almost bump into him. Something glints in the moonlight. His face is wet, his side, too. I touch him there and my fingers come away sticky.
‘What happened?’
He trembles. The dogs are going berserk, trying to get to him, unsure if he’s friend or foe. Whatever odours he’s giving off, the dogs sense danger.
I grab his elbow and lead him to our camp, bark at the dogs to shut up as I remove bow and quiver from his back and sit him down on the sled. I light the oil lamp and move it closer to us, scanning him from head to toe. So much blood. His coat is ripped at the left shoulder, down along his left arm. Blood covers his face and chest.
‘Katvar, talk to me!’
He lifts his right hand in an attempt to sign. His fingers are trembling so badly, he can’t get a word out. Gingerly, I take his face in my hands and make him look at me. ‘Show me where you’re hurt.’
He blinks in confusion, then moves his flickering gaze over his body. He shrugs and gulps a large breath. A sigh and a huff later, he croaks, ‘Bear,’ and nods in the direction he came from.
I snatch my rifle from my back and stand. ‘Wait here.’
He grabs my wrist and shakes his head. ‘Dead,’ he signs.
‘The bear is dead?’
He nods.
‘Are you sure?’
He nods again.
‘A bear at this time of the year… How far away?’
A frown and a long moment later he signs, ‘Twenty, thirty minutes.’
I exhale. ‘Okay.’ I’m not sure he’s assessed the distance correctly. But the dogs have calmed down, so I guess there’s no immediate danger. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’
I help him stand and get into the snow hut. We take off his coat and I’m relieved to see that most of the blood isn’t his. There’s a gash on his upper arm that I clean and dress quickly while his shock is wearing off. His breathing gradually goes from staccato to shallow to calm.
‘Better?’ I ask and touch his cheek.
He gives me a single nod and signs, ‘There’s a big chunk of meat waiting for us.’
I burst out laughing, lean into him and curl my arm around his shoulders. ‘Don’t do that again, okay?’
‘Accident,’ he croaks in his ruined voice and I place my hand over his throat to tell him he shouldn’t speak and hurt himself even more.
‘I’ll go see what I can do with the carcass,’ I say. ‘You okay?’
He nods and signs, ‘I help.’
‘No way! You take it easy tonight.’
‘You can’t move it. It’s too heavy.’
‘I’ll roll it onto the sled. No problem.’ I move back, ready to leave the hut.
He blocks me. ‘The dogs will go crazy. It’s a bear, they’ll try to kill it all over again if you can’t control them. I’ll come with you.’ He shrugs his tattered coat back on and slips outside. His knees are still wobbly.
With my night-eye, I keep checking the perimeter for an angry, injured bear set to maul whatever crosses its path. But there’s nothing.
Katvar leads the dogs through the woods and they grow more and more agitated. When I spot a faint infrared signature ahead of us, the dogs are ready to snap their lines.
Slowly, we get closer. My rifle is pointed at the bear. It doesn’t twitch a muscle, not even with the dogs barking their heads off and snapping their teeth. I suck in air; there’s an axe sticking out of the large animal’s skull.
‘Holy shit, man.’ I look back at Katvar. ‘How did that happen?
‘Attacked me. I had an axe.’ He shrugs.
‘Don’t you give me that I-don’t-know-what-you-mean-because-I-kill-a-bear-every-day shrug!’
He shrugs again and I have to pull myself together so as not to punch his injured shoulder.
I step closer to the bear and poke it with my rifle. No reaction. I wiggle the axe handle and jump when its hind legs give a mighty twitch.
Katvar barks a laugh, sneaks past me, and jerks the axe out of the bear’s broad skull. The animal kicks at the snow once and falls still again.
‘It looks emaciated. The shoulder blades and ribs are visible. Maybe that’s why it woke up so early?’ I push at the carcass to assess its weight. ‘It’s a female.’ I point at the engorged nipples. ‘Should we try to find her cubs?’
‘The wolves will find them,’ he signs.
‘Hm.’ I nod.
He leads the dogs to the bear so they can sniff her and be sure that she’s dead and harmless. They push their noses aggressively through her fur, tug at it with their teeth, whine and yap, lick at the wound and, finally, they calm down and wag their tails.
The way they look up at Katvar, one must think they totally adore him. Look, chief killed a bear. Isn’t he the damn coolest dude?
It takes a lot of huffing and grunting to cut her open, bleed and gut her, and then roll the heavy animal onto the sled. We transport her to our cave and skin her. There’s very little fat on her. She must have been starving and ventured out to feed herself so her milk wouldn’t run dry. Her cubs will die in a day or two.
While Katvar cuts up the carcass, I scrape the skin clean, carefully removing the thin layers of fat. It’s dirty and hard work. When the sky begins to pale, I strap the skin inside out onto the sled so it can dry in the crisp air. Such thick fur. It feels wonderfully warm and will come in useful now that the nights are growing even colder.
Back at our camp, Katvar makes a fire. I feed the dogs their share of meat, and finally, we sit and rest while my first-ever bear meat sizzles and pops, spitting droplets of blood and fat into the embers. I taste it and find it tough and a little musky, but delicious.
‘We’ll stay here today. I need to fix your coat and we need to sleep. Shouldn’t we have run into the Nenets by now? We are what, three, four hundred kilometres from the coast?’
He frowns. ‘I thought so, too. Maybe the messengers didn’t travel as fast as we did?’
‘We don’t need them. We’ll load the sleds with meat and…’ I stop when I catch him shaking his head.
‘Why do you always believe you don’t need anyone?’
I open my mouth and close it when my teeth ache from the cold wind. ‘Because I learned to deal with my own shit, solve my own problems. So far, it has worked just fine.’
He tips his head. Amusement dances around the corners of his mouth. ‘Two thousand kilometres across an ice desert. How much meat will twent
y-four dogs need? Tell me.’
‘A reindeer every three days. I’ll shoot a few before we cross to Svalbard.’
‘How many reindeer?’
I huff and say, ‘We race the dogs across for, um, ten days. That’s three to four reindeer.’
He nods at the sleds. There’s space for four reindeer if you cut them up. ‘Three hundred kilograms of meat per sled. For the dogs only. What will we eat? Will you carry all our equipment and provisions on your back? What if we can’t race the dogs all the way? What if a sled breaks?’
I don’t like where this is going. ‘Why did you come, Katvar?’
His eyebrows shoot up.
‘You volunteered. You know your dogs. You know about the sea ice and how far it is. So why did you come if you already know how very hard it is to get there?’
He scowls. ‘The ancestors of the Nenets knew how to cross the ice. The Nenets tell stories about how it was done. They will help. Crossing the ice is hard, but it’s not impossible.’
Judging from his forbidding expression, I seem to have hit a nerve, so I keep digging. ‘That doesn’t explain why you volunteered for this mission.’
‘I’m a good dog handler. The best.’
‘But you can’t cross the sea ice without help.’
That gives him a pause.
‘Why did you come, Katvar?’ I ask softly.
His warm brown eyes rest on mine and there’s a lot flickering past his irises. I neither speak nor move. I want him to be honest, so for once, I try to listen with ears and eyes wide open.
His right hand lifts tentatively. ‘I…’ he begins, then absentmindedly scratches his chest where the Taker marks him. I can feel what he wants to say. The words almost form on my tongue.
‘I am half a man. I can forget about the missing half when I’m far away from my people.’
There it is. I can taste his pain now, it makes my tongue feel brittle. The darkness shining in his eyes, the abyss his father has punched into his soul. ‘You are not your past,’ I whisper. Before my lips have stopped moving, I realise that I’m saying this to myself as much as to him. ‘And you are not your genes,’ I add. ‘Were your parents siblings or half-siblings?’
Ice: The Climate Fiction Saga Page 14