by Ken Altabef
Kigiuna sat beside Alaana. She’d spent the morning teaching him the song of the dreaming. He had mastered many drum songs over the past year, surprising Alaana with his ability to keep proper rhythm and intonation. Skeptic no more, he sat cross-legged next to Tugtutsiak, eager to get started. Alaana heard him mumbling the first part of the refrain under his breath.
“I forgot to mention,” she said to her father with a half-smile, “the Dreamworld is a backward place. Singing the song will call me home. In order for me to begin the journey you’ll have to sing the song backwards.”
Kigiuna frowned. “I don’t know…”
“You can. I’m sure of it,” she said. “No shaman ever had a better assistant.”
Kigiuna scoffed. “I’m still your father.”
“I know. That’s why I can feel safe wherever I go.”
“Just be careful.”
Tugtutsiak groaned again. He was in worse shape than ever. Froth dripped from the corners of his mouth. His eyes stared straight ahead, seeing nothing.
Kigiuna winced at the sight. “If you don’t save him today—”
“Don’t say it!” she warned. “We will succeed.”
She held up a small dogskin pouch. The pouch contained a shriveled piece of the umbilical cord that had dropped from Tugtutsiak’s belly when he had first been born.
“With this we can’t fail,” she said. “This will lead me right to him.”
Kigiuna took up the drum song, stumbling over the backward verse.
Alaana closed her eyes. This was simple. For a journey to the dreamlands, all one had to do was fall asleep. She folded into herself, embarking on a journey within, to disappear down a hole in the center of her own soul. She reached out a spirit-hand for Ipalook. A moment later she felt herself falling as if she had tumbled from the rim of an umiak and into the deep blue sea.
Alaana opened her eyes. The taste of sleep was in her mouth.
Ipalook’s ghost, standing beside her, yelped with alarm.
They stood on a vast empty plain of light brown sand which stretched as far as the eye could see. Above, the sun burned and hissed with a frightening vehemence. The heat washed down on them.
“I feel like a seal in the stewpot,” said Ipalook’s ghost. “What is this place?”
“A dream,” said Alaana calmly. “It’s not so different from Nunatsiaq, but there is sand instead of snow, heat instead of cold.”
“But what are we to do?” Ipalook’s voice bordered on panic. He’d never dreamed a place like this.
“Just stay—” A tremendous cracking sound echoed down from above. Looking up she saw a vast shadow falling toward them. It was a mountain. The mass landed with an ear-splitting crash only a few paces from the shaman and the ghost.
Ipalook groaned. “A dream,” he said, “It’s just a dream.”
Alaana knew better, but didn’t take the time to correct her friend. It was enough to steer Ipalook clear as other items began to fall from the sky as well. A lake, several gigantic boulders, another mountain and a river. All came crashing down.
Worse yet, Alaana felt a trembling beneath her feet. She reached down and placed her hand flat on the sand. Something was moving below them.
The lake and the river burst into flame.
“Alaana!” said Ipalook’s ghost. “Why did you bring me here?”
Alaana was as puzzled by this new development as Ipalook. She had no idea what they should do next but this didn’t trouble her. She was certain she would find the way. She remembered that in the Beforetime, it was said, water was often made to burn.
She blinked, and suddenly everything was frozen. The mountains had become crystalline bergs, the sand was pack snow and the lake and river were bound with fresh ice.
The change was momentous, but again Alaana failed to see its meaning. Day had turned into night, the sun had become a full Moon. Beside the Moon, Alaana clearly saw a constellation she recognized. A great star shone across the river, low in the sky. This star only showed itself when daylight began to return after the great darkness of winter. It was Nalaussartoq, He Who Stands And Waits.
“It’s a sign of Tugtutsiak,” she said. “Quick. We have to cross the river.”
They made for the ice, sliding down the slippery bank on their backsides. Ipalook stopped, stooping to test the footing. “No time for that,” said Alaana, “Hurry.”
The ice, born of fire, was smooth and difficult to cross. It seemed they walked in slow motion, slipping backward with every step they took. Alaana remembered the Dreamland was a mirror image land where everything was backward.
“Turn around,” she said. “Walk backward.” As soon as they turned about they found they had sufficient weight, the surface rough and easy to traverse. It was a good thing too, because the ice had begun making a crackling noise, the sound of something creeping below. The noise followed them as they ran along.
They reached the far bank just in time. The ice shattered and fell away beneath their feet at the last step. The scene shifted again. They had just crossed the Big River upon whose banks the Anatatook often made their summer camp. The water glistened in the moonlight as it ran downstream. Of the threatening creature that had lurked beneath the ice there was no sign.
Ahead of them lay the Anatatook camp.
“We’re home,” cried Ipalook happily.
“Things are not always what they seem,” cautioned Alaana. “Still, if this is a dream of our camp Tugtutsiak might be there. Let’s find his tent.”
Nothing was right. The camp looked strange and deserted, all the tents worn and half-rotten. Alaana couldn’t tell them apart. In one tent they found her brother Itoriksak, asleep on the bed. He appeared as an old man, wrinkled and frail with white hair and beard. Behind his closed lids the eyes moved swiftly as if he might himself be dreaming. Ipalook called out to the sleeping man.
“Tsst!” said Alaana. “We dare not disturb him.”
In the next tent they found a pair of young lovers nestled in the coverlets. As this was clearly not Tugtutsiak’s tent, Alaana made quickly to leave.
“Look!” remarked Ipalook, “It’s you!”
“What?” Alaana turned to get a closer look at the couple. And indeed it was she and Ben tussling on the platform. He was laughing contentedly. She could never mistake that laugh.
Alaana felt embarrassed that Ipalook should see this and, taking her friend by the elbow, began to pull him away.
“I think we must have come across one of your dreams,” whispered Ipalook’s ghost coyly.
“I might agree,” she said, “except in my dreams, I still have both ears. Here I see only one.”
“Could it be Ben’s dream?” asked Ipalook.
His dream. Suddenly Alaana felt a great weight lifted from her soul. It was his dream. Good to know. As with everything else, once doubt was removed it would happen. It would happen.
She let out an embarrassed little laugh. “Let’s go.”
The two hurried on their way. They found Tugtutsiak in the net tent, still suffering on the pallet.
“There he is!” Ipalook rushed to his side, then shrank back in horror.
The women were still gathered around, but they had all become withered hags, their flesh dry and tough as leather, their beautiful hair greasy and coarse, their eyes blackened by despair. They had given up on the chanting and busied themselves instead with plaiting sinews for thread. The sinews were strands pulled from Tugtutsiak’s flesh. They didn’t seem aware of Alaana at all.
Tugtutsiak moaned in desperate agony but it was plain to see his body was still empty of spirit. How long had he suffered this way?
“His soul isn’t here,” said Alaana. “We’re no better off than we were before. Let’s go back outside.”
She scanned the distant horizon for any other sign. In one hand she held Ipalook’s wrist, lending strength to the faltering ghost. In the other she kept Tugtutsiak’s birth talisman. A far off mountain crest struck her eye. Three thin peaks j
utted up from the wide foot of rock. “That way,” said Alaana.
“How do you know?”
“Don’t you see?” Alaana replied, indicating the stony ridge. “The three fingers. It’s Tugtutsiak’s left hand.”
They struck out for the ridge. The way was difficult, across a valley knee-deep in fresh fallen snow that had not had time to harden. After a journey that seemed to take ages, they came upon yet another strange sight.
CHAPTER 32
CONUNDRUM
A man stood in the snow. He was tall and thin, dressed in a dark suit made of coarse cloth with a black ribbon tied in a bow around his neck. Wild strands of dark hair wavered below a fur-lined cap that matched his full, black beard. He spoke in a deep, booming voice and his words seemed to hold his strange audience in rapt attention.
Arranged before him were a crude semicircle of spotted seal. Their sleek, streamlined bodies glistened black and brown in the wet snow. Round heads rose up from the ground, their large soulful eyes bearing expressions of intense reverence. A few were propped up on their front flippers, their pointed snouts raised to the sky.
“Arise, O Lord! Punish the wicked, O God! Do not ignore the helpless!”
The man gestured wildly, holding up a book with a black leather cover. His audience followed closely along, whiskers twitching.
“The Lord is king forever and ever! The godless nations will vanish from the land. Lord, you know the hopes of the helpless. Surely you will hear their cries and comfort them. You will bring justice to the orphans and the oppressed, so wicked people can no longer terrify them.”
Another seal came crashing down from the sky above. It plopped onto the wet snow, shuffled into an empty place, and came to attention.
“The wicked arrogantly hunt down the poor. Let them be caught in the evil they plan for others. For they brag about their evil desires; they praise the greedy and curse the Lord. Their mouths are full of blasphemy and bitterness. Trouble and evil are on the tips of their tongues.”
A handful of the seals barked, slapping their flippers into the snow. Plop! Another seal fell from the sky.
“They lurk in ambush in the villages, waiting to murder innocent people. They are always searching for helpless victims. Like lions crouched in hiding, they wait to pounce on the helpless. Like hunters they capture the helpless and drag them away in their nets.”
The missionary received a tremendous response to this line, particularly the part about the nets. Driven to an exaggerated fervor, he went on:
“The Lord examines both the righteous and the wicked. He hates those who love violence. He will rain down blazing coals and burning sulfur on the wicked, punishing them with scorching winds. For the righteous Lord loves justice and only the virtuous will see his face.”
At last he spotted Alaana’s approach.
“Ah, Alaana my friend,” he said. “I am glad to see your face.”
Alaana didn’t recognize him and was surprised to hear the stranger call her by name. “I don’t know you.”
“Of course you do.” The man doffed his fur-lined cap, grinning. Strands of his long black hair, aloft on the chill breeze, stood straight out from his head. He took a deep bow in Ipalook’s direction. The hair had other plans, going full across his face. “Gregori Mikhailovich Valentin, of the Third Church of the Resurrection, St. Petersberg.”
“I don’t understand,” said Ipalook’s ghost.
“What? My Inupiat is passable. A little rusty, I’m sure.”
“We understand your words,” explained Alaana, “but not your meaning. I’ve never set eyes on you before. If I had, I think I’d remember.”
“Now I’m the one who doesn’t understand,” said Gregori, replacing his cap. “We know each other. We’ve been friends for years. Now wait! What’s this?” The tall man leaned forward to examine one side of Alaana’s face and then the other. “The ear is missing on the opposite side, if you’ll forgive me. And you seem younger, much younger…”
“Things are often backward in the dream world,” said Alaana cautiously. Although this man seemed friendly, she was still unsure.
“Dream? Oh, well that explains this.” Exasperated, Gregori held up his bible. “All the words are backwards. It reads right to left, like Judaica.”
To Alaana it all looked the same. She didn’t understand written language.
The missionary kissed his book and stowed it inside the front pocket of his jacket. “A dream you say? Now that makes sense.” He looked askance at his audience. “That goes a long way toward explaining this odd congregation. Good Lord above, but this is the strangest dream I’ve ever had. And you say we haven’t met yet! Oh, but this is an awkward dream. And I was hoping you could help me.”
“Perhaps I still can,” said Alaana. “It’s likely we meet for a good reason.”
“Tolk. I will tell you what happened. A ghastly misfortune involving the blessed Archbishop himself. Aleksey Velichkovsky, the Lord bless him and keep him, of the First Russian Orthodox Church of Moscow, no less. Visiting my poor abbey, he suffered a terrible mishap in the night.
“He was susceptible. You see he was always one for pilgrimage and devotion to sacred places and objects. He is quite the dreamer. It was a failing with him, not that I would ever mention it. That and spicy meat pies.” Rolling his eyes, Gregori waved a hand in front of his nose. “Bless his name.”
Ipalook’s ghost laughed.
“The Archbishop?” prompted Alaana, having some difficulty with the strange word.
“I was saying,” continued Gregori, “This morning he didn’t arise when the bell tolled. He would not awake. And the pageboy of the watch sensed his soul had gone away, though he convulses on the bed like one of the damned. The power of the supernatural is not unknown to me. I am, in fact, known for my exorcisms on three continents.
“Yea, I have seen apparitions, possession, even the walking-dead. Demons, spirits, miracles and magic, all these exist within the purview of the Lord. It’s a little bit ironic, I think, for the Archbishop had come to our abbey to scold me for my involvement with such matters. But in his current state he couldn’t take me to task, and I was called upon for aid — to make an exorcism no less. So, having worked over his body all day and all night until the candles are long burned away, I fear I must have fallen asleep at the task.”
He looked around.
“Now this.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Dreaming of an old friend, though she is young and doesn’t know me yet. Well met, my old friend. Or, I should say, my young-old friend.” The missionary chuckled softly. “It’s enough to cause a headache. I imagine when I wake up you’ll be gone and I shall have quite a pain between the eyes.”
Alaana nodded enthusiastically. “There is a purpose to our meeting. I’m certain of it. We’re on the same quest. I seek one of my village who has also suffered the soul loss.”
“Tolk,” said the Russian. He returned his attention to the ring of spotted seal, glancing at them in obvious discomfort. They were sitting patiently, still awaiting word from their leader.
“I feel a little uncomfortable,” Gregori confided. “They were the best audience I’ve ever had, but the words of the gospel are not for them. These animals have no souls.”
“Certainly they do,” said Alaana. “The most gentle and generous souls I’ve ever met. But they can’t help us find our lost friends. They’ve seen neither Tugtutsiak nor your Archbishop.”
“Bless his name,” said Gregori.
Raising his hands before him, he addressed the seals, “Go in peace. The Lord be with you.” The seals had no place to go. Landlocked, they milled about in confusion.
“And this is a problem,” he said. “And I feel responsible.”
“You needn’t worry,” said Alaana. “The problem will take care of itself. After a time, they’ll wake up and find themselves out on the ice again.”
“And be much the better for it, I hope,” said Gregori, with a wink. “But we still have our own problem. Wha
t do you suggest we do?”
“We’re headed for that ridge,” explained Alaana. The three-fingered mountain now appeared much closer than before and she took that for a good sign. Gregori indicated she should lead them forward and the three set out across the dream tundra. Every so often Alaana stooped to place her hand on one of the large rocks among the scree that led up toward the mountain.
“What are you doing?” asked Gregori.
“Asking the spirit of the stone if he’s seen my friend.”
“Blasphemy,” remarked Gregori. “Stones do not have spirits.”
“Certainly they do,” said Alaana. “I can see them with my own eyes.”
The missionary shook his head. “And what does it look like to you?”
“It’s an old spirit, as are all of the stones. A faint gray shadow, just a glimmer. It’s asleep within the rock.”
“Chush! It’s nonsense!” Gregori shook his head. “You pose quite a conundrum my friend. Usually it’s my business to convince people to believe what they cannot see, not disbelieve what they do see.”
The missionary chuckled softly. “Ah, but we have had this discussion many times already, or I imagine we will have them when you are a bit older. You insist everything has a spirit, the snow, the clouds, the moon above. Every blade of grass and stick and stone. It’s no use. You’ll never see the light of reason. There is no spirit but the Lord God.”
“God?”
“The One. Some tribes call Him the Great Spirit.”
“Great Spirit?” said Ipalook. “No. There are only four great powers — sun, Moon, thunder and water.”
“That’s not what I mean,” answered Gregori. “I speak of the Creator. The one who made all of this.” His long, thin arm swept the view of the vast dream tundra.
Now it was Alaana’s turn to disagree. “Why, no one could create all this. It always was. It always will be. It exists. That’s all.”
“Konchay bazar! You try to hang noodle soup on my ears!”
Alaana exchanged an amused look with Ipalook’s ghost. The missionary, somewhat irritated, asked, “What? What did I say?”