“She went there with me and Paula,” Glenn said.
“How long ago was that?”
“Fifteen minutes maybe.”
Valerie didn’t waste a second.
“C’mon, let’s check on her.”
“Can I go, too?” Faye and Glenn asked simultaneously.
Valerie thought for a moment. Faye had to stay with the group, but Glenn was strong and might be useful. Then she changed her mind. She didn’t want to risk having an American citizen get himself into trouble. “No, please stay here for now.”
She took Carol by the arm. As they turned to walk away from the group, she reminded her, “In this climate, we can never leave anybody alone outside. We always go out in pairs, OK?”
Carol nodded, looking a little embarrassed.
“I didn’t really think . . . even to the bathroom?”
“Always,” Valerie said firmly as they stepped onto the snow.
The outhouses were scattered around the area, but Trish wasn’t in any of them. They discovered footsteps, too many to differentiate. Carol called her sister’s name over and over, hesitantly at first, then louder and louder. They circled the area in the snow and broke through some underbrush, Valerie in front, Carol close behind.
Suddenly, they heard a weak voice from a hollow, about two hundred yards away. They fought their way toward the voice.
Once they reached the hollow, they spotted a blue-green spot in the white. Trish. She staggered toward them and began to cry even before Carol took her in her arms.
“I . . . I couldn’t find my way back,” Trish sobbed. Her head was uncovered, and her hair was damp and pressed against her face. Valerie noticed she wasn’t wearing gloves either. She wrapped her own scarf around Trish’s head.
“But the outhouses are so close to the lean-to,” Carol said, every inch the older sister.
“I don’t go in toilets like those,” Trish stammered. “They’re . . . disgusting.”
“But why’d you go so far away?”
Valerie cut off the interrogation.
“We’ll get you warm as quickly as possible,” she said.
The small crowd was waiting for them with inquisitive faces and steaming cups of coffee. The hot liquid soothed Trish. She gave Valerie back her scarf and explained to the group that she’d gone into the bushes so she wouldn’t have to use the outhouse. Then, she said, she’d followed some tracks back, thinking they were hers, but that turned out to be a mistake. She suddenly didn’t recognize her surroundings. And then she heard a noise: someone tramping through the snow.
“Every time I stopped, the noise stopped, too,” Trish said. “It was creepy.” Her otherwise rather pale face was now aglow. “And when I walked ahead, I heard it again, every time. I was really scared.”
“Maybe you heard our footsteps,” Carol offered, putting an arm around her sister.
Trish shook her head.
“No, I heard you two later. It felt like an eternity.” She shuddered.
Valerie also put a comforting arm around Trish’s shoulder. You can never predict how people are going to react in unfamiliar surroundings.
Trish pulled something out of her inside jacket pocket.
“I found this in the snow,” she said.
They all stared at the longish object in her hand. It looked like a miniature ukulele with a narrow neck and a curved body, but with a carved head at the wider end. Tiny things resembling wooden toothpicks were stuck into the sides, with stylized fish and seashells attached to them.
Valerie’s heart began to palpitate. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
Anika was the first to regain her speech.
“What is it?”
“An instrument?” Jordan asked while reaching for his camera.
Valerie snatched the object out of Trish’s hand.
“Where did you find this, exactly?”
“Hmm . . . not far . . . just a few steps from the second outhouse. Just before the brush starts.”
She still seemed out of it.
“What’s that?” Paula asked, so close to Valerie that she could smell the Baileys in her coffee. She felt that all eyes were glued to her.
“A shaman’s rattle,” was her hasty answer. “Inuit shamans use it to summon spirits.”
“A souvenir somebody lost?” Glenn reached out to touch the rattle, but Valerie took it away.
“It looks authentic, but an expert will need to see it to be sure,” she said, wrapping her scarf around the rattle. Then she forced a smile.
“Enjoy your coffee, everybody, while Faye and I take the leftovers back to the bus.”
Glenn called out after them: “Don’t forget to go to the outhouse in pairs!”
Valerie gave him a thumbs-up in affirmation.
They were scarcely out of earshot when she said, “I’ve seen this rattle before, I’m sure of it.”
“Wow! And where?”
“Sedna brought it home last summer. She showed it to me on the way back from Inuvik but didn’t tell me where she got it. You can’t normally get your hands on one of these.”
Valerie’s words were tumbling out.
“This rattle is probably very old. You can’t simply go and buy one.”
Faye opened the hatch of the Chevy and stowed away a box of groceries. Then she pulled her hat down lower on her forehead.
“And you laughed at me when I said I could smell Sedna around here somewhere,” she boasted.
Valerie nodded absentmindedly.
“C’mon,” she said, “let’s make a quick search of the place. Maybe we’ll find something else.”
CHAPTER 19
Meteor bounced along like a rubber ball beside the snowmobile Clem was driving down to the frozen Mackenzie. He’d had it with staying in the house like a prisoner within his own four walls. The ice-cold air in his lungs and brain felt like a liberation. The sun beamed as if it had to compensate for the rotten winter weather, enticing the residents of Inuvik out of their homes.
On the ice, the preparations for the Muskrat Jamboree were moving at full speed. Men were rapidly hammering boards to the platform for the spring festival’s muskrat-skinning competition. Clem had entered it several times, but like many of his sex he’d failed miserably against the skilled Inuvialuit women. His forte was snowmobile racing, but not this year because of his concussion. He hoped the doctors and hospital personnel wouldn’t catch him driving his snowmobile onto the frozen river today.
The mighty Mackenzie. Canada’s longest river, powerful and wide as a large lake in summer, and occasionally torrential and dangerous on its way to the Arctic Ocean. In winter it was transformed into a white, unending plain—frozen immobility, a metamorphosis Clem found captivating even after seven years in Inuvik.
Opposite the platform stood a tent with poles made from thin, unpeeled tree trunks; a smoking stovepipe jutted up from it. Clem parked there just as an Inuvialuit woman emerged wearing a Mother Hubbard–style parka—with fur inside and colorful fabric and trimming outside—and a wool hat over her black hair. She had a shiny pink placard in her hand. Marjorie Tama. Clem didn’t often see her in traditional dress. The mayor halted.
“Clem! What a surprise! Did you escape from the hospital?”
“But of course, Marj, somebody’s got to catch the criminal who clobbered me.”
“Maybe he got the wrong man,” Marjorie speculated. “Nobody here has anything against you, Clem. It’s beyond me.”
“Dunno, Marj, a little too much bad stuff in too short a time, don’t you think?”
Clem knew that Marjorie was worried about the recent violent incidents in her community. If conflicts threatened, she knew how to calm things down and mediate. She believed in professional negotiations at the bargaining table, of course, but also in the healing power and wisdom of her people’s ancient myths that she passed down to children and adults. When she spoke about these, Clem felt reminded of the fairy tales his parents had told him as a child. But instead o
f evil witches or man-eating giants, it was qallupilluk, the Kidnapper, that stimulated his imagination: a monster with slimy fish scales and webbed fingers that would hide near ice cracks during spring breakup and drag down children who dared to walk out on the floes. He was especially fascinated by mahaha, the Tickler, who terrified people with his manic giggling and eagle’s talons; he would ambush unlucky people caught in a blizzard then tickle his victims to death.
There were no monster legends pertinent to Gisèle Chaume’s death. Something intangible, menacing, was in the air that Marjorie and Clem couldn’t identify. But it wasn’t in the Inuvialuit’s nature to be consumed with fear. There was hardly anything that they couldn’t counteract with humor, courage, or equanimity.
Marjorie broke into a broad grin.
“Why do I always bump into you where there’s food to be had?”
“People gotta survive, Marj. What’s on the menu?”
She handed him the placard.
The offerings looked familiar—no different from the previous year. Roast muskrat with potato salad. Flour soup with balowak, rabbit; maktak, whale blubber; uqsuq, seal blubber; plus soup with goose meat, chili con carne, and rolls. And pancakes and muffins with coffee.
“Who catches the muskrats?” Clem inquired.
She was looking past him. He followed her eyes. Pihuk Bart was hanging around a shed built just for the festival. He also wore a knitted wool hat, with strands of hair on it resembling a horse’s mane. Leather fringes were sewn all over his jacket; embroidered flowers decorated his chest. He’d tied a black-and-white bandana over the lower half of his face like a train robber in the Old West.
“Cowboy rags,” Clem declared.
Marjorie shot him a withering look.
“Don’t tell him that. He’s a shaman.”
“Will the RCMP leave him alone now, do you think?”
“He’s said to have a solid alibi.”
“And what else do people say about this shaman of ours?”
“He has his followers. Maybe he made a big impression on Gisèle. Laz Uvvayuaq is most certainly not a fan of his. As far as the people in Tuktoyaktuk are concerned, Danny’s the next great shaman. Coffee?”
Clem followed her into the tent. She filled a paper cup from the thermos as she spoke.
“Danny can’t take the pressure anymore. He’s had enough. Not just because he’s young. No music, no dancing, no friends, no parties. Rumor has it that he sometimes sneaks out of the house at night. And people in Tuktoyaktuk think Pihuk’s to blame because they need a scapegoat.”
Clem took the steaming cup. He felt its warmth even through his glove. He wanted to change the subject because Lazarusie was a friend.
“What do you think happened back then in Inuliktuuq? Why did everybody run out into the cold, to certain death? And why leave the tiniest baby behind?”
The helpless infant, the sole survivor, Pihuk Bart.
Marjorie swayed her head back and forth.
“Maybe they were scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“The child.”
“Why—”
Clem was cut off by a commotion in front of the tent. He knew immediately what had happened.
He stormed out, yelling, “Meteor!” But it was too late. Men were running from every direction at a wild pack of wailing, growling, slobbering dogs entangled in their dogsled harnesses.
“Meteor!” Clem screamed again when he saw a man swinging a stick at the roiling pile of dogs; loud howling and whimpering followed. Meteor broke out of the bunch and ran like crazy around the place until his master’s commands steered him to his proper spot. Blood shimmered below the dog’s ear. Clem gave him a scolding, but he was just as mad at himself for letting Meteor out of his sight. The sled driver used the stick to disentangle the harnesses of the agitated dogs. Clem recognized him: Nuyaviaq Marten, a hunter from Tuktoyaktuk. He fastened a leash to Meteor’s collar and walked back toward the tent.
Marjorie intuitively sized up the situation.
“Nuyaviaq is bringing us maktak,” she said. “Here, give him a cup of coffee. That’ll calm him down.”
“I’m such an idiot,” Clem confessed as he passed Nuyaviaq his coffee. “I shoulda paid more attention to Meteor.”
The Inuvialuit hunter’s face showed no sign of resentment. Rather, mischief was in his eyes.
“I’ve heard that you’re not right in the head since somebody bashed it in.”
Both men laughed.
“And I’ve heard you’re supplying the blubber for us.”
Nuyaviaq grinned.
“Only for Inuvialuit, not for tanngit, eh?”
Clem held his smile.
“I didn’t know you were out whaling, Nuyaviaq.”
A shadow crossed the hunter’s face.
“Somebody’s killing whales with explosives, but it’s not us.”
“Who . . . what do you mean?”
Nuyaviaq took his time before answering, yelling at his fidgety dogs.
“That explosion . . . nobody wants to kill whales that way.”
He wiped his nose with his glove.
“Who says somebody’s killing whales with explosives?”
Nuyaviaq looked at his boots, then at the dogs.
“I only saw it from a distance. Ilaryuaq and his brother went out there the day after. They saw a giant hole in the ice—huge. Why a big hole like that? Somebody’s after our whales.”
“I’ve heard the military’s sent a plane to find out what’s going on.”
“Why a plane? They’d have to send a sub.”
“Did you go out on the ice, to the hole?”
Nuyaviaq shook his head.
“You really have a screw loose, man. Nobody’s going to go out there after that damn explosion. I’ve got six kids; I don’t want to get blown to bits.”
“Who’s gotten blown to bits?” a voice inquired.
Clem didn’t have to turn around; he knew who it was.
Meteor heard the voice too. He joyfully jumped up on Waldo Bronk, a reporter for the national Canadian Broadcasting Corporation in Inuvik. Waldo could make friends with any old dog; with people, not so easily. Barely twenty-six, he’d grown up in the warm Pacific Coast climate, but he wasn’t about to be put off by the rigors of the Arctic. When he’d landed the job three years earlier, people in Inuvik had given him one winter at most before he’d fly back to his Hugo Boss shops and golf courses.
Waldo disabused them of that thought. Clem had conceived a theory that Waldo would rather be a big fish in a little pond than a little fish in a big pond. At least for a few years.
“I’ve got nothing to say,” Clem stated without waiting for the question.
The reporter, looking tall and lean despite his down jacket and beaver hat, gave a good-natured laugh.
“I’ve got news from the coroner’s report,” he bragged—in French so that Nuyaviaq couldn’t understand.
Clem reacted quickly to his impoliteness. He turned toward Nuyaviaq.
“He’s trying to foist a woman from Montreal on me again, this slyboots,” he said, winking at Nuyaviaq, who simply shook his head.
“Watch out, that can be dangerous. We don’t need more problems up here with women from Quebec.”
“You’re right,” Clem said. “Meteor, come! We’d better hit the road.”
He walked toward the back of the shed, knowing full well that the reporter would follow. Away from curious eyes and ears, Waldo made him an offer.
“I’ll make you a deal, Clem. I’ll tell you what the coroner found out, and you tell me what you know about the explosion. You must have kept a direct line to someone in Ottawa.”
He took Clem’s silence as a yes.
“There was no sign of violence. Just a bit of hash in her blood, but too little for a high. Cause of death was hypothermia.”
Clem looked at him without a word. He entertained the thought that one day Waldo would go far, because that face, framed by his b
eaver hat, radiated nothing but amiable goodwill. Though he clearly had something up his sleeve.
The reporter kept at it. “But that doesn’t answer two questions,” he said. “Why was Helvin’s truck there, and who took Gisèle there and left her to freeze to death?”
Clem remained silent. But Waldo was unfazed.
“Now then, the explosion. What can you tell me about that?”
Clem decided to give him an appetizer without saying there was no dinner to follow.
“In the Arctic, it’s all about oil and gas and gold and diamonds and God knows what else. And about fish. Don’t underestimate the last one, my friend. In a pinch people could live without money, but not without fish.”
Waldo watched him intently.
Clem went on. “There’s an important conference in a couple of weeks. To protect much of the international waters in the central Arctic from commercial fishing. Canada, the US, Russia, Denmark, and Norway have already signed a treaty. A masterpiece of quiet diplomacy, Waldo. Virtually ignored by the media but totally amazing nonetheless. Now they’re trying to get other countries on board, like Japan, China, South Korea, and the European Union, too. My gut tells me that Canada does not want to risk a diplomatic incident involving another country before the expanded treaty is in the bag.”
“So the whole thing will be declared a nonevent?”
“Unless you go out there, my good man, and investigate the hole in the ice yourself. You’re probably too late, anyway. Just like the Aurora flying in from Yellowknife.”
Waldo’s boot groped around in the snow.
“Russia or China?”
“I know as much as you do, believe me.”
Waldo suddenly seemed galvanized.
“Give me another clue, Clem. Just a tidbit.”
Clem raised his eyebrows.
“Typical reporter. Give them an inch . . .”
He turned around, but Waldo didn’t let go so quickly.
“You know that Helvin’s turned up in Dawson?”
Clem was hooked.
“Who told you that?” he asked, spinning around.
“I’ll tell you if you tell me why Helvin’s meeting with some gold-mine owners. And they are rather sleazy characters at that. Decent people won’t have anything to do with them.”
The Stranger on the Ice Page 12