We were glad to have them stay. They soon gave up wearing their own clothing of thick cloth and metal plates and put on the soft caribou-skin garments our women made for them. When the cold weather began they even put aside their horned iron caps which made them look like muskox bulls.
The Innuhowik knew many secret things. They could make fire by striking iron on rock and they had small blue stones that could tell them where the sun was even though the sky was black with clouds. But although they had much wisdom, there were many things in our land which were strange to them. We taught each other, and perhaps it was they who had the most to learn.
Their leader’s name was Koonar. He could carry whole carcasses of caribou for many miles. He could split the skull of even the great brown bear when he wielded his long iron blade. His mind was just as strong, and in only a little time he could understand and speak our tongue. From Koonar’s lips my people heard the story of how the Innuhowik came to our River. It was told that they sailed out of the northeast in their long wooden ships until they reached the coast of the sea which lies far to the east of us. Some of them stayed there guarding their ships while others took smaller boats and went inland up the rivers, though what it was they sought we never learned.
Koonar’s boat went far south into unknown lands and travelled upon lakes and rivers running through the forests. But one night there was trouble with the Itkilit, and they fought, and some of the Innuhowik perished, as did many of the Itkilit. Koonar turned back but found his old way now barred by the Itkilit and so the Innuhowik followed new rivers north, hoping to be able to turn east to the shores where the long ships waited. When they were five days’ travel to the south of the first Innuit camps, they came upon two tents of Itkilit and surprised the people in them, killing all except a young boy who escaped and carried word to other Itkilit camps. Then Koonar and his men were pursued into our land as I have already told.
Koonar lived in Kiliktuk’s tent, where also lived Airut who was Kiliktuk’s daughter. She was a fine young woman with full, round cheeks and a laughing voice. She had been married once but her man had been killed when his kayak was holed on a rapid in the River. Kiliktuk hoped Airut would seem good in Koonar’s sight so that Koonar might become a son in that tent. Yet Koonar, alone of his men, seemed not to desire a woman, and so he did not take Airut though she was willing.
One day in the month when the snows come, Koonar went to a cache near the deer crossing place to bring back some meat stored there. He was returning with two whole gutted carcasses on his shoulders when he slipped and fell among the rocks with such force that one of his thigh bones was shattered. He was carried into Kiliktuk’s tent with pieces of bone sticking out of the flesh, and even his own men believed he would die. He was sick for a long time; and it may be that he lived only because Airut refused to let death take him away, and because Kiliktuk who was a great shaman could command the help of the spirits.
Koonar recovered but he never walked freely again nor did he regain his great strength, for it seemed the injury he had suffered had eaten into his heart. Truly he was changed for now it came about that the hopes of Kiliktuk were realized. Koonar took Airut as his wife, even as his men had all taken wives, and after that my people believed the Innuhowik would stay forever in the camps of the Innuit.
The people were wrong. When the snows were thick on the land and the rivers were solidly frozen, the Innuhowik gathered in a big snowhouse the people had built for them and spent many days talking together. What all that talk came to in the end was that the Innuhowik decided to forsake their women and go away from the land of my people. They had made up their minds to travel eastward over the tundra plains, using some of our dogs and sleds.
My people were not willing that the Innuhowik should do this, for they needed their dogs and they were also angry on behalf of the women. It seemed it would come to a fight until Koonar stepped in. He said if my people would assist the Innuhowik to go, he himself would remain and all the gifts he could make would be ours.
Do you wonder why he agreed to stay? My people wondered too. Perhaps he believed his injuries would make him a burden to his fellows; or perhaps it was because the woman, Airut, was with child.
In the worst time of winter, when the blizzards rule the land, the eight Innuhowik left our camps, driving dog sleds eastward in search of the salt sea and their own big ships. No word was ever heard of them again, not even by our cousins, the sea people, who live along the coasts. I think that in the dark depths of the winter nights their magic failed them and they perished.
So now the tale of the Innuhowik becomes the tale of Koonar, of Airut, and of the children she bore. First was the boy Hekwaw, whose name I bear, born in the spring. A year later Airut had a girl child who was called Oniktok, but afterwards she had no more children. Koonar seemed content with his life, even though he was so crippled he could hardly leave his tent or his snowhouse. The other men of the camp hunted the meat that fed Koonar and his family, but they were glad to do this because Koonar was well liked. He did not laugh as much as he had done when his own men were still with us, and he spent many hours playing Innuhowik games. He taught these to his son and one of them was still played in my own grandfather’s time. Many small squares were marked out on the snow or on a piece of deer hide, and each man had a number of stones… but now that game is forgotten.
Kiliktuk was the man closest to Koonar, since both were shamans who knew many magical things and understood each other’s minds. Koonar would often talk of things he had seen in distant places. Sometimes he told of great battles on land and sea fought with such weapons that men’s blood flowed like spring freshets. It was remembered that, when he spoke of such things, his face would become terrible and most people were afraid to remain in his presence even though such talk of great killings of men could not easily be believed.
Things went well in the many camps along the River until the child, Hekwaw, was in his eighth year and had become a very promising boy and a source of much pride to his father. After the snows began that autumn, Kiliktuk decided that a journey must be made south to cut trees for new sleds, kayak frames, tent poles and other wooden things that were needed. In earlier times this had been considered a dangerous venture, one to be made only when a large number of Innuit from many camps could band together for protection in case the Itkilit attacked the wood gatherers. But since the Itkilit had suffered so heavily at the gorge and the Killing Falls, it was thought they would not now be anxious to fight.
Because of his crippled leg, Koonar could not leave the camps in order to teach Hekwaw, his son, the ways of men on the land, so Kiliktuk had become the boy’s teacher. Now he asked that Hekwaw accompany the wood-gathering party in order that he might learn the nature of the southern country. Koonar loved his son and wished him to become a foremost man, so he did not oppose this. The boy took his place on Kiliktuk’s long sled, and a big party of men, some women and other boys set off to the south. They passed through the country of little sticks to the end of a big lake stretching far into the forests. Here they made camp.
Each morning thereafter the men drove south on the ice of the lake to where good timber grew on its shores. Before dark they would return to the travel camp where the women would greet them with trays of hot soup and boiled meat. At first some men stayed at the camp during the day to guard it, but when no signs of Itkilit were seen these men went also to help with the cutting.
On the sixth day, while the Innuit men were far down the lake, a band of Itkilit came running on snowshoes out of the small woods near the camp. When the Innuit men returned again in the evening, they found three women and three boys, Hekwaw among them, dead in the snow.
Kiliktuk and his companions did not pursue the Itkilit into the thick cover of the forests, knowing they would be helpless against the long bows, spitting their arrows from hiding. They were afraid that the slaughter of their women and children was planned to draw the
m into an ambush. So they wrapped the remains of the dead ones in caribou skins, loaded the sleds, and started north.
The sounds of their lamentings were heard in the river camps even before the dog teams were seen. It is remembered that when Kiliktuk entered Koonar’s igloo he took an iron knife Koonar had given him and thrust it partway into his own chest, inviting Koonar to drive it home into his heart.
The fury of Koonar at the loss of his son was of a kind unknown to my people. It was of a kind unknown in our land. Koonar did not lament his dead, as my people did; he burned and roared in the grip of madness, and so terrifying was he that none dared come near him for the space of many days and nights. Then he grew silent… silent and cold, with a chill more dreadful than his fury. At last he ordered the people to bring him muskox horns, the best and hardest dry wood, plaited caribou sinews, and some other things.
He worked in his snowhouse for three days and when he was done he held in his hand the father of this bow which I have made—although what I have done is but the crude work of a child compared to what Koonar wrought.
For a long time after that he ordered the lives of the people in the camp as if they were no more than dogs. He drove each hunter to make a crossbow. If a man did not make it well enough, Koonar struck him and forced him to do it again. It is unthinkable for one of us to strike another, for to do so is to show that you are truly a madman; yet the people endured Koonar’s madness, for their awe of him was the awe one has of a devil.
When each man had a crossbow and a supply of bolts, Koonar dragged himself out of the snowhouse and made them set up targets and practise shooting, day after day. Although it is not in my people’s nature to give themselves in this way to such a task, they were afraid to resist.
With the coming of the long night which is the heart of winter, Kiliktuk, obeying Koonar’s will, chose the ten best marksmen and ordered them to prepare dogs and gear for a long journey. Six teams were hitched to six sleds and the chosen men left the camps, heading south along the frozen river. Kiliktuk was in the lead, and on his sled lay Koonar, well wrapped in muskox robes against the brittle cold.
It is told how these men boldly drove into the forests, Koonar having banished both fear and caution from their hearts. For seven days they drove southward among the trees, and in the evening of the seventh day they came in sight of the smoking tents of a big band of Itkilit upon a lake shore.
The Innuit would have preferred to draw back and wait for dawn before attacking, but Koonar would allow no delay. The sleds spread out and were driven at full speed across the intervening ice straight into the heart of the Itkilit camp. They came so swiftly, the Itkilit dogs hardly had time to howl an alarm before the sleds halted in a line and the Innuit men jumped off, bows in hand.
Many of the Itkilit came spilling out of their tents without even stopping to seize their own weapons, for they could not believe they would be attacked so boldly. They were met by the whine and whirr and thud of the bolts.
Many Itkilit died that night. The Innuit would not have harmed the women and children but Koonar demanded that everyone who could be caught be killed. When the slaughter was over, Koonar ordered the tents of the Itkilit burned down so that those who had escaped into the forests would die of starvation and frost.
While the flames were still leaping, the Innuit turned their teams northward. They drove with hardly a pause until the trees began to thin and the plains stretched ahead.
Only then did they make camp. Koonar was so exhausted that he could not move from his sled where he lay with eyes closed, singing strange songs in a voice that had lost most of its strength. When Kiliktuk tried to give him a drink of meat soup he thrust it aside, spilling it on the snow. It is remembered that there was no joy in that camp. Too much blood had been shed and there was darkness in the hearts of the men of my people.
At dawn, the sleds drove north again, but when they were almost in sight of the home camps Kiliktuk’s sled turned aside from the trail. He motioned the others forward, bidding them to carry the news of the battle.
Late that night a man stepped out of his snowhouse at the home camp to relieve himself and saw something that made him shout until everyone in the camp came outside. To the north a tongue of fire thrust upward as if to join the flickering green flames of the spirit lights. The long roll of snow-covered hills by the Killing Falls emerged briefly from the darkness. The people were still watching in astonishment when a sled came swiftly into camp from northward. On it rode Kiliktuk… and he was alone.
He was asked many questions, but neither then nor later did he tell the people how the last of the Innuhowik departed. Only to his grandson, the son of Koonar’s daughter, did he tell that tale. That child also was called Hekwaw and he was the father of my father’s fathers, and it was through them that I heard how Kiliktuk drove Koonar down the River to the place where the Innuhowik’s old boat was still cached among the rocks. It was from them I heard how Kiliktuk tenderly placed Koonar in that boat and piled bundles of dry willow scrub around him. Then Kiliktuk put the flint and steel in Koonar’s hands and parted from the stranger who had become his son.
kiliktuk drove away as he had been ordered to do, and when he looked back, flames were already lifting above the boat. So the last of the Innuhowik went from our lands to that place of warriors where, he had told us, his people go at the end of their time.
There followed many years and many generations during which my people prospered because of the gift of this bow. We no longer feared the Itkilit and in our pride and strength went against them. We drove them south into the forests for such a distance that, after a time, they were hardly even remembered. Our camps spread over the whole width and breadth of the plains.
But in the time of my grandfather’s grandfather, the strangers returned.
This time they came not to our country but to the forested lands in the south, and there they made friends with the Itkilit. They did not wear iron on their breasts or on their heads, and they were not called Innuhowik. They were your people, who are called Kablunait. The Kablunait brought gifts to the Itkilit, and foremost of these was the gun.
Then the Itkilit considered what we had done to them in times they had never forgotten.
They came north out of the forests again, first in small bands and then in hundreds, and Koonar’s gift failed us. They killed us from great distances with their guns and they roamed so widely over our lands that my people had to flee north almost to the coasts of the frozen seas.
It seemed as if the guns brought by the Kablunait would mean an end to my people, and so it might have happened. But one summer the Itkilit failed to appear on the plains; and as summer followed summer and they still failed to return, my people began to move slowly south and recover their land.
The Itkilit stopped coming against us because they were dead in their thousands; dead from a fire that burned in their bodies, rotting the flesh so they stank like old corpses while life still lingered within them. This we know, for that fire, which was another gift from the Kablunait, afterwards swept out over the plains and my people also died in their thousands.
Now the Itkilit are no more than a handful scattered through the dark shadows of the forests; and the wide country where my people once dwelt is nearly empty of men.
So it ends… But this bow I hold in my hand is where it began.
darkness had fallen and the fire was nearly out. Hekwaw stirred the coals until the fire was reborn under the touch of the night wind. His face was turned from me as he dropped the crossbow onto the flames and I could barely hear his words:
“Take back your gift, Koonar. Take it back to the lands of the Innuhowik and the Kablunait… its work here is done.”
Two Who Were One
_______
After death carried the noose to Angutna and Kipmik, their memory lived on with the people of the Great Plains. But death was not satisfied and, one b
y one, he took the lives of the people until none was left to remember. Before the last of them died, the story was told to a stranger and so it is that Angutna and Kipmik may cheat oblivion a little while longer.
It begins on a summer day when Angutna was only a boy. He had taken his father’s kayak and paddled over the still depths of the lake called Big Hungry until he entered a narrow strait called Muskox Thing. Here he grounded the kayak beneath a wall of looming cliffs and climbed cautiously upward under a cloud-shadowed sky. He was hunting for Tuktu, the caribou, which was the source of being for those who lived in the heart of the tundra. Those people knew of the sea only as a legend. For them seals, walrus and whales were mythical beasts. For them the broad-antlered caribou was the giver of life.
Angutna was lucky. Peering over a ledge he saw three caribou bucks resting their rumbling bellies on a broad step in the cliffs. They were not sleeping, and one or other of them kept raising his head to shake off the black hordes of flies that clung to nostrils and ears, so Angutna was forced to crawl forward an inch or two at a time. It took him an hour to move twenty yards, but he moved with such infinite caution that the bucks remained unaware of his presence. He had only a few more yards to crawl before he could drive an arrow from his short bow with enough power to kill.
Sunlight burst suddenly down through the yielding grey scud and struck hot on the crouched back of the boy and the thick coats of the deer. The warmth roused the bucks and one by one they got to their feet. Now they were restless, alert, and ready to move. In an agony of uncertainty Angutna lay still as a rock. This was the first time he had tried to stalk Tuktu all by himself, and if he failed in his first hunt he believed it would bode ill for his luck in the years ahead.
But the burst of sunlight had touched more than the deer and the boy. It had beamed into a cleft in the cliffs overhanging the ledge where it had wakened two sleeping fox pups. Now their catlike grey faces peered shortsightedly over the brilliant roll of the lake and the land. Cloudy black eyes took in the tableau of the deer and the boy; but in their desire to see more, the pups forgot the first precept of all wild things—to see and hear but not to be seen or heard. They skittered to the edge of the cleft, shrilling a mockery of the dog fox’s challenge at the strange beasts below.
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