by Ken Altabef
“I think they may have been afraid.”
“I’m sure. But it was painful for her. Only Aquppak stood by her. It meant a lot.”
“Aquppak isn’t afraid of anything,” said Putuguk, with a proud, toothless smirk.
“Hmm. That can be a problem out on the hunt, especially where a bear is concerned.”
“A problem for the bear, most likely.” Putuguk chuckled. He perhaps thought too much of his grandson, but Kigiuna wasn’t going to disagree. With Kanak gone, Aquppak was the pride of the hunters. There was no denying it.
“When I go, I leave behind a good hunter for the people,” said the old man.
“That day won’t come for a long while yet, akka.” Though they were not strictly related Kigiuna often referred to the old man as his uncle. He was the closest thing Putuguk had to family. Many years ago Putuguk and Kigiuna’s father had been hunting partners, one of the closest bonds two men could form.
“I’m afraid I’ve become a burden…” said Putuguk.
“No, you haven’t.”
“In the past…” Putuguk’s faded brown eyes closed, the lines of his ashen face relaxed as if he were himself moving back through time. “You helped me, and I am grateful.”
Kigiuna shrugged his shoulders. He had provided for Putuguk for many years, giving gifts and food in deference to the past connection with his father and a fondness for the old man himself. “That is all the past. I don’t ask for anything.”
“It was hard for Aquppak.”
“A rough start isn’t always a bad thing,” said Kigiuna. “The man who is losing the race has the greatest desire to catch up and win. Aquppak made up for everything. In a way, I think it was good for him.”
“It’s no good. No good for anybody. Aquppak says I should go away.”
“What? Why?” Kigiuna searched the old man’s face but found Putuguk’s gaze was far away. “There’s no reason for that. Aquppak takes in plenty. He’s one of the best providers in the village and generous too. Half of what he brings in, he gives away.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” said Putuguk. “Memories become a burden. For the young as well as the old. I have seen too much; I can do too little.”
“That’s nonsense,” said Kigiuna.
“When I go —”
“You won’t go,” insisted Kigiuna.
“When I go I will say hello to your father Ulruk.
Kigiuna did not interrupt him again.
“He was a very generous man, your father,” said Putuguk. “He too gave me more than my fair share. He insisted I take it. I think he did this to be fair to me because he gave up some of our kills to others. You see, he was always the first one to reach the bear. His dogs were fast and his legs were strong. I think he could outrun every man in the village. But just because he was the first to arrive — he just as often would step aside and wait for someone younger, maybe someone who had not yet felled a bear, to make the kill. He liked to bring pleasure to others.”
Kigiuna listened quietly. There were few people who still spoke of his father. Putuguk’s face was transformed when talking of the glory days, his eyes shining like a child’s.
“He shouldn’t have gone out to sea,” said Putuguk. “He wasn’t made for it. He was a man for dogs and sleds. When someone owned more than they could carry he always had room on his sled. And still he went as fast as anyone else. Remember the winter, when we made the double iglu?”
“I remember it well,” said Kigiuna. That winter Ulruk and Putuguk decided to join their households into a single enclosure. This was an expression of affection undertaken by only the closest of friends, for the two families would spend the entire winter confined together in close quarters. Everything was shared in the most intimate way down to the last morsel of food and warmth. Putuguk’s children, Piuvkaq and little Tikiquatta, had been Kigiuna’s dearest playmates and his wife Halona like a second mother. “It was the best winter of my life.”
“You were only a child then. A carefree child.”
Kigiuna nodded.
“And I was a vibrant man, in full flower,” said Putuguk, “and your father as well. All of my children were still alive. My wife… Halona… seems so long ago.”
“It was.”
Putuguk nodded sadly. “It’s good to talk about the old days. It’s good to remember.”
“Yes.”
“And so, as it used to be Ulruk and Putuguk, now it is Alaana and Aquppak. I feel good about that.”
“They’ll be running the camp someday,” remarked Kigiuna. “The shaman and the headman, just you wait and see.”
“I had a reputation once, you know. Death of a reputation, that doesn’t bother me. Not anymore. At first when I couldn’t go out any more, when I had to watch the young men go, I felt a sadness deep inside. But now I watch my beloved son Aquppak go, knowing he will come back with many skins and a sled full of meat. He shines for me, and I am happy again. A crowd of friends gather about him, a strong wind behind him. His eye is good, his throwing arm is sure. I consider myself in luck.”
“Good, then,” remarked Kigiuna. “Let’s talk no more of sorrow and loss. We’ll just sit and watch these two fools finish massaging the kayak.”
“Despite it all I don’t feel tired,” said Putuguk. “I don’t sleep much. I stay awake with memories. But in time memories become a burden. Dead wife and children — I’ve suffered the knife thrust of their loss so many times. The knife never dulls…”
Kigiuna, thinking of his dear lost daughter Avalaaqiaq said, “I know.”
Putuguk sighed heavily. “Life can become heavier than death. Comes time for a man to cross into the distant land. Remember the party Krimitsiark gave when he decided to die? Such a feast was a joy for the entire settlement. All good things were being eaten, and everyone felt happy, even Krimitsiark himself. Now that was a party!
“And at the height of the feast, he bade his favorite daughter — what was her name? Was it Hinirjuq? I can’t recall — anyway she was his oldest and his favorite, and so she was the one who drove the killing blade.”
“Don’t talk like this,” said Kigiuna.
“Giving such a party would be, I think, the fullest pleasure a man could enjoy. There will be no such farewell feast for me. No, not for me. Can’t afford it. People are tired of me. I’ll go quietly.”
“Stop it,” said Kigiuna.
“No deadman’s feast for me. Krimitsiark had his dear daughter stab him in the heart with a dagger at the height of the feast. If I asked someone to do it, it would be Aquppak but this I won’t ask.”
Kigiuna didn’t know what else to say. Putuguk had worked himself up into such a pitiful display, his voice sounding dry and cracked as if he were already in the grave.
“I don’t need to ask, because this has already been done,” he said. “Aquppak’s words have stabbed me through the heart. He has already killed me.”
The old man’s face withered with extreme sorrow. A thin cord of spittle ran down from his mouth. Kigiuna could see Putuguk’s past glory in that face and maybe a shadow of his own future. But his children would never turn on him, not Alaana and Maguan and Itoriksak.
“Then don’t listen to him,” said Kigiuna. “What does he know about anything?”
“He’s a good boy. He’s made me proud. And Inaloo and Millik. I have such joy at the children, having their smiling faces before me. Such joy. Such joy. I can still see great beauty in our life — the happiest people on the world, the most beautiful land.”
“Then stop talking foolishness. You always have a place at my table. I’ll take you into my tent. You belong there.”
“You mean well, Kigiuna. But I can’t go on like this. You see, Aquppak is right. He is right!”
“No he’s not. Come with me. I want to see your face among us for a little while longer. It’s a good face.”
Putuguk put forth a toothless grin to prove it.
“The face has seen better days,” he said, “but my na
me is good and someone should have it. That’s what I’ve come here to ask. Putuguk, Putuguk. It was always lucky for me. See that it goes on.”
With that, the old man rose shakily to his feet.
Alaana drew the seal skin from the water but didn’t wring it out. With the dripping skin held at arm’s length she carefully negotiated a cluster of jagged rocks to rejoin the clutch of women at work beside the stream. She set the skin over her thigh. The icy water seeped immediately through her trouser leg. It was a good thick skin, perfectly suited for a pair of waterproof summer boots. The hair had already been scraped from the outside and she set to work on the reverse with a sharp ulu blade.
The other women were as she had left them, still arguing over the knots. Krittak, the front of her parka cluttered with a huge variety of bone needles and various other implements of her trade as the most renowned seamstresses among the Anatatook, was stating her case fiercely. She had offered to show Alaana the best way to sew watertight seams for the boots, but Aolajut had chosen to question her authority on the nature of inverted seams and a heated discussion had begun. This was a bold stance for a young daughter-by-marriage to take, and a new round of arguing about showing proper respect to elders had then erupted. Even Higilak, who had been quietly minding her own business, put aside her work to join in.
Alaana smiled as she listened; she wanted to be like them, concerned only with mundane matters and accepting of whatever came their way, carefree and joyful in their work. That was all she had ever wanted. Sadly, she didn’t think that desire would ever change, just as she knew it could never be fulfilled.
She took a few more strokes with the knife against the last vestiges of blubber stubbornly mated to the wet skin. The raised voices of the women assailed her from one side, the babbling of the stream on the other. Just when it seemed nothing could end their dispute, Krittak shouted out, “Heya!” and stood stabbing her needle toward the water.
“Here’s our handsome Young Aquppak!”
She had sharp eyes for an old woman. A slender figure was indeed splashing along the near bank of the river, but it was several moments more before Alaana could make out the young man’s face. Aquppak waved as he emerged from the rough tumult of stones along the bank and approached the sewing circle.
“Aquppak, come and sit,” said Nakasuk, “Tell us, how’s the fishing on the west side?”
“Fishing’s good, saki,” he returned with a polite smile. Aquppak always addressed Nakasuk reverently as mother-by-marriage. At birth he had been promised to her first girl child, but she had not yet produced his intended. He had been waiting for sixteen winters and as time wore on, the aging Nakasuk seemed little likely to ever deliver on that promise.
Aquppak’s eyes immediately sought out Alaana. “We’ve high hopes for the caribou hunt.”
“Did you spot any yesterday?” asked Aolajut.
“Only two. Aganuak got one, I took down the other.” He mimed a difficult shot with the bow, squinting heroically as he took aim. “You should’ve seen the antlers on that one.”
The women let out a collective babble of excitement.
“You should’ve tasted the sweet marrow,” he added.
Again the women cooed and laughed as Aquppak acted out a swoon of delight at the taste of the delicacy.
“Sit, Aquppak,” said Krittak. “Give us more news. What of your camp fellows?”
“Not that much to tell,” he said, still standing. “Irinniq, Nuralak’s wife, bore a girl-child which she named Itaraq, which follows after her own grandmother. My camp-fellows all do well. I mostly wanted to talk to Alaana.”
He turned toward her. “Can you walk with me a little way?”
Alaana, suddenly embarrassed by his attention, stretched the oily sealskin panel out along a flat stone as if it were ready to be dried, which it clearly was not.
“What news have you?” Aquppak asked quietly as they walked, making their way upstream along the rocky bank.
“None.” She couldn’t tell him what had happened with Manatook’s ghost, or Ben, or any of it.
Aquppak looked at her as if expecting something more. In the pause, Alaana could still hear the women talking.
“They make a nice couple,” said Krittak.
“I don’t think so,” said Nakasuk. “Our Aquppak’s too handsome for her. He should marry a real beauty.”
“They’re not a couple,” protested Higilak flatly.
“My foot!” exclaimed Krittak, “He’s come here to propose. Look at his face!”
“Aiyah! It’s true.”
Alaana, embarrassed beyond measure, stepped a little farther away.
Aquppak turned to face her, sweeping the long stray hair away from his face. His eyes were bright.
Alaana wanted to return his eager smile, for he was young and good looking and brave, but instead she looked away.
“Do you like them?”
Aquppak held two choice pelts of white fox fur toward Alaana. With his fingers concealed beneath the furs he moved the pelts so that a strip of bright pink ribbon wriggled up between them. The ribbon was the most beautiful thing Alaana had ever seen. So shiny and smooth, it put ordinary sinew to shame.
“Where did you get it?” she asked. She touched the ribbon with her index finger. She couldn’t imagine what it was made from.
“People I know, travelers, traders. I give them furs and they give me things. You could wear it in your hair…”
Alaana realized she was smiling broadly. She pushed the smile away, along with the furs and the ribbon.
“What’s wrong?” asked Aquppak.
“This is too good for a poor woman to use,” she said.
“Perhaps you might give it to Higilak, then,” he suggested, offering an encouraging smile and a nod of the head which caused strands of long black hair to flop in front of his eyes. He brushed the stray locks away.
“I couldn’t.”
Aquppak’s smiling eyes narrowed. “I don’t see. Why can’t you?”
Alaana could think of no good answer. This summer Aquppak had made frequent visits from the hunters’ camp at the western rim of the basin, suffering a half-day’s journey each way and a full day lost from the hunt. And each time he came she sensed him growing more and more impatient with her lack of response. Sometimes they talked for only a few moments and then he went off in a huff, suffering half a day’s journey back.
Aquppak fidgeted with the fox pelts. “There will be a feast at the western camp tonight,” he said. “The hunt goes well.”
Alaana wished the same could be said for her side of the basin, given her difficulty in locating the herd.
“Of course,” added Aquppak. “I’ve already brought in more than last year, you know. Wait until you taste all the good things we’ll have to eat at the feast.” He flicked his shoulders indifferently. “You can get your things and come back with me. You could wear the ribbon in your hair.”
So it was a proposal of marriage after all. Alaana felt herself go pale. She had to marry sometime. And why not Aquppak? She liked Aquppak. They had been friends all their lives, but this new attention seemed awkward to her. She should be attracted to him, but still she felt very little. If only she thought she could trust him, things might have been different. Was his sudden interest in her genuine? She didn’t really think so. Did it matter? How many choices did she have, especially now that she had ruined everything with Ben?
She felt the burning urgency in his gaze and looked away. It was summer, the snow melting, the snipes once again dotting the sky. If ever there was a time to marry, this was the time. But as they stood on the warming beach the world still seemed cold and dreary to her.
“Alaana?” he said, softly. He seemed to be having some trouble interpreting the look of terror on her face.
“I don’t know what to say,” she returned.
“Say you’ll come.” Aquppak had stopped smiling.
“No,” she said flatly.
Aquppak’s face grew su
ddenly hard. “Are you married with Ben?”
“No,” she said, the single word torn roughly from her throat. After the way she had humiliated him today at the river, she was certain he’d never speak to her again.
“Then why do you stay with him?” demanded Aquppak.
“I stay with Higilak.”
“Higilak,” he muttered. He kicked absently at a stone on the snow-frosted beach.
After an uncomfortably quiet moment he smiled again. He pointed at his toe. “See there? Look. What a misery. I have holes again in my kamiks. My sister will mend them but only after she’s taken care of my father’s things. A successful hunter needs a great deal of clothes, you know. If only I had someone who could do the sewing.”
Alaana decided she’d had enough. “Perhaps there is one such woman among the traders—”
“The traders don’t have any women.”
“Maybe you can find one on your journeys to the villages in the south,” she suggested darkly.
Aquppak scowled at what he must have thought a particularly obnoxious refusal. “There are other women, you know. I can take Ipalook’s widow.”
“I know.”
“Good!”
“Good.”
He took a deep breath and smoothed the hair from his brow, but he couldn’t bring himself to smile. “I don’t want Ivalu. I want you.”
“Do you?”
“Yes! The two of us together. Nothing could stop us. We’d run this whole village, just as we always planned.”
So that was it, she thought. She had to give him credit. Aquppak wasn’t afraid of anything, not even taking a one-eared witch-woman to wife.
“Besides,” he added, “who else are you going to marry?”
“No one else,” she said.
“Then you’ll come?”
“No.”
Aquppak looked at her as if he thought she was crazy. Maybe she was crazy, she thought, turning down the most desirable young man in the camp.
He threw the fox pelts to the ground and turned away. “I need to go look after my dogs.”
The pink ribbon fluttered in the snow. Alaana did not pick it up.