Ice: The Climate Fiction Saga

by Wendeberg, A.

  He blinks and signs, ‘What?’

  Maybe the concept of half-siblings doesn’t exist in the Lume culture.

  ‘You father and your mother, did they have the same father?’

  He shrugs. ‘Probably not.’

  I lean closer to him and sign, ‘I will make you a promise, my friend: I will find a way to analyse your genome, so you will be able to believe me.’

  ‘Believe what?’

  ‘You are healthy. Your children will be healthy, too.’

  He pales. There’s hope flashing across his features — just for a moment. And then his expression closes. He’s wiped it clean, and shakes his head no. Just one short twitch.

  ‘You are afraid,’ I say softly.

  He takes it as a challenge, leans forward, his signing hands almost touching my nose. ‘Okay. Sex. In the hut. Now.’

  Now it’s my hackles rising. My index finger wants to feel the pressure of a trigger.

  ‘You are afraid,’ he signs and leans back.

  A punch in the face couldn’t have had more effect.

  We’re deep in Nenets territory. This morning, we crossed the broadest river I’ve ever seen. I forget its name. It was frozen over so thick we didn’t hear the faintest gurgle of water beneath. Only the meandering, flat surface told of its presence.

  We came across a large harbour of some sort with hundreds of ships, lying on their sides, gaping holes in their bellies, partly destroyed by explosives or disassembled by scavengers. The wind has blown ice crystals over the wrecks and piled up snow against rust and metal. Not a single crow is cawing, no fox has trailed its paws through this yard of empty steel husks. An eerie place. We didn’t waste time investigating. Lifeless as it was, it offered nothing of value to us.

  We passed the tree line yesterday and there are only a few shrubs and small bushes decorating the white landscape. Not that one can see much of them or anything else. The snow covers all. We are looking upon a white and bumpy expanse that stretches into a white sky. For the life of me I can’t tell where the horizon is.

  If we don’t run into the Nenets soon to confirm our location, we might never find Yuznhy Island. I ache to check a SatPad, but any attempt at connecting us to the satellite network would lead Erik’s tracking software to us. Besides, I don’t have a SatPad to begin with. Our map is, by now, a tattered thing. The compass is fine. But it’s our only one. Should we lose it, we’ll be screwed.

  An odd thing happened last night and I’m still chewing on it. I woke up to Katvar’s hand in my hair. But that wasn’t what shocked me. I knew he’d been doing this for a while now, without waking me up. What shocked me was my complete lack of fight reflex. Despite the dreams, despite the terror that still lingers in my mouth, I did not jerk away. I did not move a muscle. I just listened to his calm breathing, watched the glint of his eyes in the darkness, as his fingertips traced circles over my scalp. I felt the need to curl up and scoot closer, to bury my face in the crook of his neck and breathe in his calmness. But I did none of that. We both have our limits.

  Now, watching his back through a haze of snow, aromas of the forest begin to mingle with his taste of blueberries and reindeer milk as I whisper his name. It’s because of his eyes — they add to Katvar’s flavours. When the sun hits his irises at the right angle, they shine the colour of pine bark — a light, warm brown with flecks of grey.

  Snow flies up left and right of his skids. We are fast today. The dogs race to their heart’s content, the snow is compacted and flat. We should be happy. But I’m anxious. The tundra is a terrible place to cross. We’ve not seen a single animal and have no clue what we will eat. Or what the Nenets might eat, for that matter. Only half a reindeer left on my sled, a bit of bear meat on Katvar’s. Twenty-four hours max before we all go hungry. Katvar is not worried. He’ll trap a beaver tomorrow, he said. I don’t know about that.

  A memory makes me smile: Birket stealing Katvar’s shaving knife. I don’t think he’s ever grown a beard before. He’s been scratching his chin ever since losing his tool for taking the scruff off. He hasn’t bartered for a new shaving knife, though. There isn’t much hair, anyway. His cheeks are smooth; only his chin and upper lip are covered with silky black hair that he keeps cropped short with a pair of scissors. It makes his mouth look even more severe.

  Katvar stops his dogs and squints at the horizon. I come to a halt alongside him.

  I lift my rifle and gaze at the small, dark dot amid the white. ‘Someone is approaching,’ I say. ‘A man or woman on a sled. Pulled by…reindeer?’ I flick my gaze at Katvar to check if he has any suggestions.

  ‘Nenets,’ he signs.

  I watch the stranger through my scope until he stops about six hundred metres from us. It’s a man, judging from the sparse hair on his broad face.

  He brings his hands to his mouth and cries, ‘Friend.’

  I lower my rifle a few centimetres. It’s only for show. I’m just as ready to engage a target.

  ‘Friend! Friend!’ he keeps calling until he reaches us. His three reindeer are wary of our overexcited dogs. The man babbles something in what seems to be Russian, but repeats “Friend” over and over again, points to himself and then to us.

  He removes his thick fur hood and tugs at his short black hair. Then he points to me. A flood of words flies from his mouth, more tugging on his hair, then more of the “friend” reminder.

  ‘Take off your hood,’ Katvar signs.

  The man who spotted the flicking and waving of Katvar’s fingers seems even more excited. Had I counted his “friend” promises, I’d probably have reached one hundred by now.

  I rake off my hood with my left hand and keep my right on my rifle.

  ‘Micka,’ the stranger says, points at me, and grins so widely I can see past his incisors. He indicates himself. ‘Nabtiko.’

  I nod and say, ‘Hi, Nabtiko. I’m…Micka and this is Katvar.’

  He almost nods off his head, says, ‘Friend,’ yet again and then waves to where he came from.

  ‘Okay, Katvar. Let’s do this. I’ll keep my rifle at the ready. You keep your bow close at hand.’ While I speak, I don’t take my eyes off Nabtiko. He still smiles at us and nods. He also waves. And he says, ‘Friend.’

  Katvar nods his consent and signals to his dogs to move. The reindeer startle at that, but Nabtiko only cackles and leads them in a large semi-circle so as not to tip his sled. We follow. I keep my finger above the trigger guard.

  It’s odd to meet this stranger after weeks of only Katvar and me and the vast snowy wilderness. It will be hard to get used to a crowd or even a small group of people. This emptiness is peaceful and suits me well. All the man’s chattering has been too much for me already. I’m on edge.

  I should pull myself together.

  We travel for about an hour, maybe less, until we reach a small settlement of tall yurts. Smoke curls up through an opening in the centre of each yurt, or tent, or whatever they’re called.

  Reindeer — about twenty of them, are tied to poles, a few black-and-white dogs begin to bark and ours answer excitedly. Nabtiko jumps off his sled and shouts at the dogs and they scuttle away. He ties the reindeer to a pole next to what I assume is his home, and beckons us to come with him.

  We push the snow anchors in, check on the dogs, and enter the yurt.

  The colours and floral patterns are almost like a punch in the gut after all this time in the snow. White, grey, black, and maybe a bit of blue sky is all we’ve seen these past weeks. The weather-bleached rugs in Oleg’s underground home were nothing compared to the colours of Nabtiko’s home.

  In the far corner, the flowery patterns move, making me jump. For a short moment, my fingers compact around my rifle. Katvar places his hand on my shoulder. Some of my tension peels off.

  The moving patterns turn out to be a woman, dressed in colourful clothes. She turns her face to us and smiles, asks something, and, seeing we don’t understand her, she addresses Nabtiko. It sounds as if she’s telling him
off for not teaching us the Nenets’ language. Nabtiko tells her off, too, then leaves the yurt.

  ‘Natalia,’ she says and places her hand to her chest.

  ‘Micka,’ I say and point to myself, then at Katvar to say his name. She waves at him and chatters away. He places two fingers of his right hand to his throat and shakes his head.

  She nods as if she already knows. Then she tugs at her hair and points at mine, which has not been covered since we entered her home. ‘Yeah, it’s orange,’ I mutter, annoyed.

  Nabtiko soon returns and brings a man with him, who shines with pride when he sees us. ‘I’m Yadne, your messenger. It is good you came this way. The best people here. The best.’ He nods and I’m almost disappointed that he doesn’t mention the word “friend.”

  ‘I come from the south, from the Komi. Cassandra from the Udmurt sent me and she was sent by the Moksha. Many, many people know about you. Your story travels.’ He touches his chest above the heart and then his forehead. I’m rendered speechless and Katvar is, anyway.

  Nabtiko and Natalia speak to Yadne, who translates for us. ‘They invite you into their home and ask you to perform a cleansing ceremony.’

  I nod, hoping this cleansing thing doesn’t involve bloodshed.

  Natalia opens the small metal stove that stands in the centre of the yurt, shoves a few embers into a bowl and takes it outside in the snow. She shows us how to wave the smoke in our faces, over our hands and that we need to wiggle our feet in it. Then she leads us to their three reindeer and motions for us to stroke their cheeks, ears, and neck. A tug at the rope and that seems to be the entire procedure.

  ‘The other families will invite you into their homes, too,’ Yadne explains. ‘The hostesses will ask you to perform the cleansing and the reindeer greeting before you enter. This time was a bit backward, but you didn’t know. Nabtiko was…hasty. Nabtiko means “stinks much,” by the way.’

  Katvar chuckles. I’d noticed it, too: Nabtiko smells of dead beaver. I wonder how his wife can stand it.

  We sit at the table with Natalia at the farthest end. She arranges plates with strips of frozen fish and meat on a short-legged and violently colourful table. There’s so much, I wonder who else will come. Droplets of condensation dust the food.

  She nods encouragingly as I pick up a slice of fish. It melts in my mouth and tastes deliciously different from raw meat. We eat and the others talk and I eat more yet. I’m really hungry and I like fish, because it’s not moose or bear or reindeer or any other land animal and it’s not red and bloody. And oh, does it taste different!

  I lick my fingers, wipe them on my pants and grab another slice, peering at Natalia to make sure I don’t appear greedy. She nods and smiles.

  ‘She asked me to let you know that guests must not leave before finishing all the food the hostess puts on the table. Once you started eating, that is,’ Yadne says. ‘Else, you would be sapped of your strength.’

  Katvar makes round eyes at the sheer amount of food. He signs, ‘What if we have to puke?’

  I decide to refrain from translating. Instead, I bravely stick more fish between my teeth.

  ‘Yadne, can you tell me why Nabtiko has rope around his neck?’ I’ve been wondering about that since we first saw him.

  ‘All Nenets men wear their ropes. It’s to catch a reindeer. The Nenets are reindeer herders. Or the reindeer are Nenets herders. No one really knows.’ He laughs, claps his thigh, then pinches a piece of meat between his teeth and cuts off a piece with his eating knife.

  Katvar taps my shoulder and signs, ‘Translate please: I thank Natalia for her hospitality and I promise I will finish all the food she so kindly offers. But our dogs need tending to now. They ran a long way and they must be hungry.’

  I translate to Yadne who translates to Natalia and Nabtiko. The Nenets couple dives into a heated discussion and a moment later, Yadne says, ‘You may check on them, but Nabtiko’s son must have already fed them.’

  That sounds much shorter than what was exchanged between the two. Katvar places his fingertips to his lips and moves his hand to Nabtiko.

  ‘He says thank you.’ I shove another piece of fish into my mouth.

  Katvar stands, leaves to see his dogs are doing fine, and returns a short moment later.

  ‘He says thank you again,’ I say.

  Natalia makes an attempt at sign language and Katvar shows her the “thank you” gesture once more. Everyone gives it a try until chortling fills the yurt. The Nenets seem to laugh about almost everything. Maybe living with reindeer makes people happy.

  ———

  I stare up at the ceiling of my snow hut. Natalia invited us to sleep in their home, but I politely declined. As polite as I can be anyway. Too many people. Too many odours. Not to speak of Nabtiko “Stinks Much.” The man needs a good scrub. Maybe he hates the snow on his skin.

  I’m so full my stomach hurts. My eyelids are heavy, as if someone has attached a weight to them. Katvar snores softly. Wonderfully toasty and sated, I doze off.

  I wake up to a blood-curdling scream and a death wish so strong that I need to hide from myself. I roll up in a ball and press my knees to my forehead until it hurts.

  ‘Shhh,’ Katvar says as his hand settles softly on my head. The small gesture breaks me.

  Like a bullet, I shoot from my furs, punch at the compacted snow that blocks the entrance of our snow hut, and lunge outside.

  It’s cold. That’s good. The sky is clear and green lights flicker across it. On the night my daughter was murdered, the sky was just as clear, the northern lights just as pretty.

  I hate it. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be.

  I sink to my knees and weep into the snow.

  Katvar sits down next to me, his shoulder barely touching mine. He’s giving me space.

  I cry until my face and hands are soaked. I cry until my teeth chatter and my body is stiff with cold. I cry until a warm arm curls around me. ‘Come,’ he croaks and I follow him inside, my own will non-existent, all fear and courage drained from me.

  I let him pull me to his chest and cover me with furs. He kisses my forehead and caresses my face. He does not ask why I cry. He simply waits for me to be ready to talk, to share the pain, to let go.

  I don’t think I will ever be ready.

  ———

  ‘Nenets means “man,”’ Yadne says, as we walk through the snow. ‘This group of families lives as reindeer herders and hunters. It’s the traditional way. Their wise man is Irikei. It means “grandfather.”’

  He calls something in Nenets language when we reach a yurt. The reindeer skin covering the entrance is flung aside. A man with white whiskers and a warm smile greets us. He nods to his reindeer and we stroke all six of them, then cleanse ourselves in the smoke Irikei’s wife, Laptsui, offers.

  We sit down to another full table. Laptsui sits at the far end and nods at us. I pick up a piece of fish, hoping my stomach will somehow accommodate all this food.

  ‘We must leave the day after tomorrow,’ Irikei says and Yadne translates. ‘Spring is about to arrive and the reindeer will give birth. We need to return to our herds. The males,’ he nods to where the reindeer are tied to a pole outside his yurt, ‘are hungry. They find very little to eat here.’

  ‘We are glad we met you,’ Katvar signs and I translate for him. ‘And we greatly appreciate that you came here to help us. How far did you travel?’

  ‘Four days. The reason I need to speak to you is this: I must warn you. We all heard your story, and your messenger told us about your plans. But crossing the ice is not possible.’

  ‘Story?’

  Irikei is taken aback by my question. He cocks his head and looks at Yadne and then at his wife to ascertain if he understands me correctly. They exchange a few words before she answers, ‘The Bringer of Good Tidings said the Woman with Hair the Colour of Flames will come and destroy the Black Army.’

  ‘Who is the Bringer of Good Tidings?’ I ask.


  ‘The Prophet, the Wise Man. Yagodava.’

  This is the first time I’ve heard his name. Yagodava. It tastes of overripe peach, the furry skin, and the mushy and sweet flesh of the fruit. It doesn’t taste of Erik at all. But that’s just coincidence. ‘Have you met him?’

  Laptsui laughs. ‘No, he’s dead. As his name says.’ She waves at Yadne to explain.

  And so he does: ‘Yagodava means something like “the missing one” or “our missing one.” It refers to a deceased person.’

  Frustrated, I huff. ‘So you never met him? Neither of you?’

  They all shake their head no.

  ‘Who told you the story?’

  Yadne lowers his voice and bends close to me. ‘You are being impolite. You question their credibility.’

  I take a deep breath and ask Yadne to apologise to Laptsui for me. She’s satisfied and pokes her husband in his side.

  He continues, ‘We came here hoping to be of more help. We sent five of our most able hunters to the coast to find and kill beluga or seal for you. They returned this morning. You will not have noticed them, because they were secretive. They are ashamed they returned empty-handed.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Nenets means “man,”’ the old man says and I nod. ‘We are a proud people. The peoples of the Arctic lost much of their pride when the Great White Bear disappeared. The walrus, the seal, and the beluga did not return. The ice left. The snow left. The sea came and took away our rich pastures. What she didn’t take, she turned into salt marshes. No reindeer graze there.’

  Irikei falls silent and rubs his face. After a long moment of consideration, he continues, ‘Our land is everything to us. Reindeer are our home. Our ancestors led their mighty herds across these plains. Tens of thousands of reindeer feeding on rich pastures that stretched from horizon to horizon. Our ancestors hunted seal and whale. I thank you, Micka with Hair the Colour of Flame and Katvar with the Silent Language. Because of you two, I’ve seen my ancestors’ land before it is my time to walk with them. It is a great honour to be here, to see where they roamed. I have never before seen the sea ice. Nor have any of the others.’ He bows three times and mutters a prayer. Then his expression darkens. ‘You can’t cross the ice.’