Secrets

by Ken Altabef

  Makaartunghak danced energetically around Alaana, getting underfoot as she stepped over to Yipyip.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” she said, reaching a hand out to brush the little dog’s flank. Despite her small size Yipyip’s body felt, as ever, even warmer than her counterpart’s. Alaana reached for the strip of walrus leather that ran along the dog’s underside where she carried a medicine pouch. With a quick snap of her wrist, she yanked it loose.

  Makaartunghak had already retreated several paces back the way the dogs had originally come. He yapped encouragingly, his broad tail flapping so furiously it whistled through the air.

  “Not yet,” said Alaana firmly. “Not yet.”

  Atop a flat crease on the rock she unpacked a variety of herbs and fetishes from the sealskin pouch. Alongside these she placed the stolen scrap of flesh that had been the corpse’s tongue.

  Yipyip jumped down and began pacing back and forth behind her master. Alaana ignored her strident whining. She did have the second sight, and always became agitated when magic was in the air.

  “I know,” said Alaana, ruffling the smaller dog’s neck. “I know, but it’s necessary.”

  Makaartunghak strutted purposefully between the two of them. He looked sharply around and sent a few barks in random directions. He had no idea what was happening but put on a good show, not wanting to feel left out.

  Alaana rearranged the items again, picking out whatever she thought she might need. Old Manatook had been adamant about keeping such dark magic from her, but the tongue of the dancing corpse was powerful sorcery in itself. She hoped she could piece the spell together from the scraps that she already knew.

  She would not let her village be razed, not if she had the means with which to fight.

  And then there was the matter of that tortured soul back at the camp.

  Alaana returned to the wrecked Yupikut camp. The lookouts, astounded to see her come back of her own volition, let her enter unmolested. They were perhaps dissuaded from seizing her immediately upon sight of the fearsomely large dog that trotted at her side with its teeth bared and its hackles up.

  Alaana saw no reason to say anything as she made straight for the center of the camp. She acquired up a trail of wary followers as she went. She was obviously unarmed and despite the gigantic dog, could pose little threat to an entire armed camp. Surely the Yupikut thought Verlag would want to see to this himself.

  The headman was there, standing before a tall construct of driftwood and skins. Laid atop the funerary pyre was a formless bundle of linen which Alaana took to be the mangled remains of the trampled corpse.

  As the Yupikut called out to their leader, Verlag turned to face Alaana.

  “You wound me, little shaman,” he said, quite calmly. “You have robbed me of the pleasure of hunting you down like an animal.”

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Verlag snickered. “What possible reason could you have for delivering yourself up to me like this? For coming back here like this?”

  “I’ve come for that dark-skinned man. The one who brought my food.”

  “Oh,” said Verlag. He spit out a short, dry laugh. “I see. Then, you will both die together.” He barked an order to one of the men to go and bring the young man.

  Verlag stepped close to Alaana. He was twice as broad and more than a head taller than the young angatkok. Surprisingly, all anger seemed to have burned out of him. He stood relaxed in his obvious superiority, and gestured at the unlit pyre.

  “There he is. My brother, dead a second time. Crushed to a pulp by the oxen.”

  Alaana said nothing. She patted the back of Makaartunghak’s head, stifling his low growl.

  “Your animal doesn’t frighten me,” said Verlag. “I’ve taken down the brown bear with my bare hands. Now, I want to know. What did you do to my brother? Did you twist his soul into that — that thing? How can he rest now — like that?”

  Alaana didn’t answer.

  Verlag waved an arm at the busy camp. “As you can see we are readying ourselves for the attack on your community. You won’t live to see it, but I will make good on my promise. Your name shall be on their lips when they die.”

  Alaana waited silently, her arms hanging loose at her sides. The tongue blazed hot in her hand but didn’t burn.

  “Before we go,” added Verlag calmly, “Before we go, I’m going to skin you alive. I want to fly you before us like a banner as we ride down your people.”

  The dark-skinned young man was brought forth. When he saw Alaana his face hardened, his lips pursing tightly. He had obviously hoped she’d gotten away and seemed puzzled that they had recaptured her without having sent out a hunting party.

  Alaana wondered what she must look like — beaten and bruised, her white parka shredded and torn, covered in blood. She raised a hand to the side of her head where crusted blood marked the place her right ear had been cut away.

  She held out her other hand. On its palm lay the blackened, shriveled thing that had been the corpse’s tongue.

  She whispered a single word.

  “Ikiruq.”

  The tongue burst into flame in her hand. At the same moment the funerary bower holding the remnants of the dead man ignited. A tremendous whoosh of scorched air and orange flame shot upward into the darkening sky. The Yupikut men let out a chorus of startled yells.

  Verlag recovered first, snapping his head back to face Alaana. He was on the point of spitting out some nasty curse but the words never passed his parted lips. His face suddenly flushed crimson; his hands went to his head. He moaned in agony.

  A similar response came from several other men in the crowd, all of whom Alaana suspected were close blood relatives of the man whose tongue lay burning in her hand.

  The others stepped away from those afflicted, horrified at sight of them. The sufferers crumpled to the ground wailing in pain, clutching their hands to their faces and pulling at their hair. Verlag had been reduced to a quivering mass. He crawled on the ground toward Alaana, lost in a fit of hideous screaming.

  As the flame burning on her hand whiffed out, Alaana watched Verlag and his relatives drop stone dead. She said nothing as the rest of the Yupikut scrambled about in a disordered panic. She read the fear in her enemies’ eyes as they each in turn settled upon her. They were helpless. They had no shaman with which to answer her attack.

  Alaana motioned for the young man to follow her.

  To the Yupikut she said only, “Leave my people alone.” Of course Makaartunghak couldn’t help but throw in a few belligerent barks of his own.

  With that, Alaana turned and began the walk back toward the fjord. No spearhead found her open back. Behind her there was only a stunned silence.

  Alaana cupped the youth’s hand in her own and he answered with a sharp squeeze. The gesture might have been merely an expression of gratitude, or a welcome release of tension. Or something more. It might have signaled many things. Alaana meant to discover them all.

  The dogs would lead them back to the winter settlement where the Anatatook would be safe from harm. On top of that, a herd of musk oxen had been left wandering somewhere nearby. With Tekkeitsertok’s blessing there would be food enough to satisfy her people throughout the rest of the winter. Tugtutsiak might be pleased at last.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE LONG WALK HOME

  “Makaartunghak! Quiet!” Alaana fumbled with the unfamiliar knots on the traces of the Yupikut sled. The overeager dog’s skittish movements made her task nearly impossible with cold-numbed fingers.

  “Hold still!” Exasperated, Alaana looked down at her handiwork. A tangled web of sinew to be sure, but it held the big dog roughly in the center of the brace. A sled team of one, the gigantic huskie would still be able to haul the sled and its lone passenger.

  “You can get on,” Alaana said. She gestured at the flat of the sled, where Yipyip sat contentedly waiting.

  The young man, who had said nothing at all since their flight from the enemy
camp, shot a quick glance at the sled then shook his head.

  “It’s a long way to my camp,” she said. “We’ll be lucky to see home before daylight.”

  Looking straight ahead and not at her, he said, “I can walk.”

  Alaana didn’t understand. “It’s a long way,” she said again.

  “I have strong legs.”

  Then Alaana realized his problem. If he sat on her sled for the return to the village everyone would assume they were married. Alaana felt an embarrassed heat rush into her face. That wasn’t what she had meant at all.

  With a disgruntled sigh, she cut away the ungainly traces, leaving the sled behind. She saw no need to burden her dog with the weight of this man’s stubbornness and misplaced pride.

  “Let’s go!” she said to the dogs. Makaartunghak surged joyfully ahead. Yipyip stood her ground on the sled, whining pathetically. Sloshing through the deep snow was hard work for such a small dog. She’d been expecting to ride. Alaana picked her up, hugging her warmth close.

  “Now I’m carrying the dogs,” she muttered as they set out.

  Still the young man hesitated.

  “Where else are you going to go?” she asked. He glanced back at the fjord as if choosing between two evils.

  “Come with me,” she said, “It’s okay.

  He stepped forward, keeping his attention to the trail, glancing at Alaana only rarely and from the corner of a suspicious eye. The short winter day had already burned itself away but the Moon, at half-light, lit up the surface of glistening snow with pools of silvery light. Perhaps it was best they walked as they were hardly dressed for a ride on the sled. Alaana’s parka was tattered and the young man had only his torn dogskin coat. Working against the deep crust every step of the way would help them stay warm at least.

  “Won’t you at least tell me your name?” she asked.

  “Shamans can use names,” he said.

  “I just wanted something to call you.”

  “No Name is fine.”

  “No Name is ridiculous,” she said.

  “Why did you come back?” he asked. His eyes searched hers. “Was it revenge?”

  “I came back for you,” she said. She could see he didn’t believe it. “And to make sure they left my people alone.”

  Alaana tried to engage him in further conversation but he would say very little. So she told him about her band of Anatatook, sketching out the various characters of her village for him in short, nervous sentences. “My father’s name is Kigiuna. He’s a successful hunter and a good provider, who loves his family above everything else. When he isn’t out fishing or hunting he passes the time carving any stray piece of antler or ivory he can find, making fish hooks or pipe stems or little toys for the children.” Alaana described her mother and sisters-by-marriage who filled the family tent with their perpetual backdrop of low-voiced gossip, giggling and cheerful conversation. She mentioned Tugtutsiak, the grim headman, who led the band unerringly across the game trails and Higilak the old woman who served as storyteller and kept all the children alive in spirit, especially during the long iglu months of winter.

  “You’re the shaman?” he asked suddenly, still avoiding her gaze.

  “Yes,” she answered, somewhat defensively. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

  He didn’t reply. From the way his gaze kept sweeping back and forth across the trail she got the sense he was considering his chances of going it alone. But such a thing was impossible. “Is there any food?” he asked.

  “There will be when we get back.”

  “I see.” He pursed his lips and let out a small, forlorn sigh. “My name is Ben.”

  Alaana’s first sight of the Anatatook village chilled her to the bone. The place had been left in total disarray after the Yupikut assault. Dawn had just broken over the horizon and the people were already scrambling to make good use of the light. They scurried about the smashed iglus, reclaiming scattered property and loose dogs. These things she had expected; it was the noise which gave her pause.

  The sounds were eerily familiar from tragedies of the past. The wailing of widows, the angry shouts of men. Tortured souls mourning their terrible loss. The Anatatook village had been devastated, but her people had survived. Survived because of her.

  Alaana headed straight for the karigi, the large ceremonial house in the center of the village. Ben trailed along, seeking whatever comfort anonymity could afford for the moment. The swirl of men at the karigi called out to Alaana.

  “They kept the heads of households in the karigi,” explained Iggy. “The raiders left a few men here to guard them, but then something happened.”

  Iggy grabbed Alaana’s shoulder and pointed to a charred mass of skins on the ground. “This one suddenly burst into flame!” The men glanced down at the grisly pile but clearly no one dared touch the body. “The other Yupikut guard saw what happened. He ran away in fear, but the women caught up to him.”

  Her attention was drawn to a bloody corpse laying on the ground several paces away. “The women! Can you believe it?” Iggy began to laugh but Alaana was distracted by the appearance of her father.

  “Father!” she called out.

  Kigiuna hugged his daughter hard at the shoulders. “It was you, wasn’t it?” he asked, a smile of grim satisfaction curling the edges of his mouth.

  Alaana nodded.

  “You saved us all.” Her father’s smile wilted as he noticed the clotted blood and her missing ear. “Does it hurt?” he asked, but Alaana didn’t get the chance to answer.

  Tugtutsiak the headman stepped between them. “Five of our men are dead.” He practically shouted at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said helplessly.

  “You should be more than sorry. A good shaman is our only defense against sneak attacks. Perhaps you know where we can find one?”

  Alaana shrank back from Tugtutsiak’s cutting remark as if she’d just been slapped in the face. It didn’t seem fair that after all she’d been through she was left with this, but Tugtutsiak allowed for no failure. He held himself to the same standard.

  “There is a stray herd of musk oxen half a day’s walk to the south,” she said in an even tone. “Six or seven hands. If you can get the men together right away, we’ll soon have our bellies and caches full.”

  Tugtutsiak raised his eyebrows. He gave Alaana an uncertain look as if completely surprised at this unexpected good news. Then he spoke loudly to the men, urging them to get their hunting things together and to ready all the sleds.

  Amauraq embraced of Alaana, her small black eyes thrown wide as she noticed the horrid state of her daughter’s clothes. She ran her hands lovingly along the lines of her bloodied face, crying out when she came to the missing ear. “Oh, it’s too much,” she said, “It’s all too much.”

  Alaana assured her mother that she was not badly hurt.

  “You must see to your brother,” Amauraq said. “Maguan is dying.” She led Alaana away, leaving Ben alone in the center of the devastated village.

  Left alone, the icy grip of panic seized him. An entire host of new fears came to the fore. What would happen to him here? He didn’t know what these people were like. After his horrible treatment at the Yupikut camp, he was certain of one thing. He would never allow anyone to do that to him ever again.

  But as he witnessed the activity swirling about him, he realized these people were no different than any other. They wanted only to survive in a land so harsh and unforgiving that survival was each day called into question. They wanted to protect and love their children as parents anywhere might do. This was not a violent people. Any violence that had been wrought here came from a motive of self-preservation. He thought he could live here, at least for a little while.

  He walked quietly over to the dead body that had been left in the bloody snow. The man had been beaten to death. His face was frozen in a final mask of submission. Ben recognized the man as one of Verlag’s personal guards, a merciless fighting man who had beaten
him with great delight back at the Yupikut camp. Ben spit down at the body, landing a gob of saliva on the bridge of its broken nose.

  “What are you doing there?”

  Some of the men were headed his way.

  A range of answers came to mind. He could explain to the gathering circle that Alaana had brought him here, that he had been a prisoner of the Yupikut, that he was lost and alone. Instead, he said nothing.

  “He’s one of them, I bet.”

  “Speak up! What are you doing here?”

  “He’s crying over the body. It’s probably one of his friends,” said one woman in a wildly accusatory tone that bordered on irrational. She looked a nightmare of pain and sorrow, still wearing an anorak soaked in her husband’s blood. “He’s come slinking in here, looking after him. They killed my husband, you know. My poor dear Ipalook!”

  “I’m called Ben Thompson,” he said calmly. “I’m from… Louisiana.” He shrugged, knowing they couldn’t possibly recognize the name. “In the southlands.”

  He knew his words must sound a little strange to them, as the Anatatook dialect differed slightly from the one he had learned from the Yupikut.

  “Is he one of them?” asked one of the women. It was the voice of fear and panic.

  “I am not,” insisted Ben. “Now leave me alone.”

  “Ahhhhhh!” screamed Ipalook’s wife. She lunged at Ben.

  He had neither the heart nor the desire to strike this poor bereaved woman. Instead he stepped to the side and gently pushed her away.

  He was surrounded by a group of six angry faces, men and women, perhaps the same group who had killed the Yupikut warrior the day before. He might face the same fate, but he wasn’t going to go quietly. With only one arm, he was no match for any of these men in a fight. Flashes of recent memory forced themselves upon him. It was one thing to be beaten to death, but he wouldn’t let them bind his hands; he mustn’t let them humiliate him. He met their advance with firm resolve, watching them through tortured eyes. Not again.