by Ken Altabef
“Putuguk?” asked Alaana.
“He is here.”
“Grandfather,” Alaana returned, “I need your help. I’m looking for one of the Anatatook. I think his soul has wandered here, though he’s not dead. His name is Tugtutsiak.”
“Tugtutsiak?”
“Yes. He is the headman of our band.”
“Yes, I remember him, the second son of Igunaksiaq. An arrogant little pup. I tried to teach him the harpoon, but he was more interested in teaching me. The headman, you say? Well, I suppose I could see that.”
“Yes, but have you seen him? He’s a solid man with a full, serious face—”
“I recall what he looks like,” said the elder. “But I haven’t seen him here.”
“He must be here,” said Alaana forcefully.
Ulruk shook his head. “I would have seen him. But perhaps. Perhaps…” He paused reflectively and cast a long look toward the rocky shore. “Maybe he is here after all. There are some tortured souls trapped inside that berg. We’ve heard their screams for three nights, but they are beyond our reach. We have no way to enter the ice.”
“We’ll go,” said Alaana. She stood from the bench. “I can help them. I am certain of it.”
“It’s good you’ve come, then,” said the elder.
Ipalook put down the whetting stone and started to get up, but Alaana pressed a hand firmly to his shoulder, pushing him back down. “You don’t need to go any further,” she said. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be. Farewell, Ipalook.”
Ipalook pursed his lips and sat. “Look after Ivalu. That’s all I ask.”
“You don’t have to ask.”
“I know,” said Ipalook, giving the whetting stone a squeeze. “Otherwise I would never have left her.”
CHAPTER 34
DEMON’S OUT
The face of the berg was exactly as her grandfather had described. An impenetrable expanse of clear blue ice rising up into the sky, perfectly sheer and unnaturally smooth. There was no possible means of entrance.
“You think they are inside there?” asked Gregori.
“I’m certain of it.”
Alaana placed both her hands flat on the surface of the berg.
“You want I should push also?” asked Gregori.
“No,” laughed Alaana. “I’m not pushing. It’s just the opposite.”
Gregori circled Alaana, peering at her from all sides.
“You’re pushing against it?” he asked incredulously.
“No.”
“I must ask, my friend. What then are you doing?”
“I’m asking the spirit of the glacier for help.”
“Nonsense. And I imagine next you’ll be telling me he has a wife and children too.”
Alaana flicked her shoulder toward a pair of small hills nearby.
“Tssk.” Gregori shook his head. “I say again! Rocks and mountains and icebergs do not have spirits.”
“You mustn’t say that,” said Alaana. “Now you’ve offended him.”
“Fignja! This will never be decided between us.”
Alaana stood back from the ice. She looked to the missionary with a playful half-smile. “We’re lucky. The spirit of the berg is a friendly one. He’s agreed to let us inside, but on only one condition.”
“Yes?” said Gregori as if expecting a lightning strike.
“If you will apologize for disbelieving.”
Gregori’s thin lips arranged themselves in a narrow line. “That’s a tall order, young lady. I will not blaspheme.”
“Why break through a wall with your forehead, when a few kind words will do the trick?”
The missionary pondered this sentiment for a few moments. He dragged his fingers down the length of his dark beard, bringing it to a ragged point at the chin. “Then again, any fish is good if it’s on the hook,” he mused. “And as my mother often said, an onion treats many ailments…”
“For the Archbishop!” whispered Alaana.
Gregori placed his hands before his eyes and took a deep breath. “Matthew said, ‘If you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you will say to your mountain, “Move!” and it will move. And nothing will be impossible for you.’ ”
The missionary peeked from between his clenched fingers. The wall of ice hadn’t moved. Alaana shook her head and silently mouthed the words, “Not good enough.”
“And Jesus replied, ‘Truly, whoever says to this mountain, “Be taken up and thrown into the sea,” and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that what he says will come to pass, it will be done for him. Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.’ ”
Gregori peeked again, and Alaana signaled for him to continue. “I think it’s working. He has little idea what you’re saying, but there’s no mistaking your intentions. As I said, he’s a goodhearted soul.”
The missionary‘s timbre increased a few notches. “And surely the kingdom of God is within you, oh vast mountain of ice, as it is within all things.”
He withdrew his hands and bowed his head forcefully, indicating he had said his peace and was done.
“Good enough,” said Alaana. Once again she placed her hands on the sheer, cool barrier and offered a few conciliatory words of her own. With a creak as of old bones stretching, followed by a great crack of thunder, the ice began to move. The way opened before them, marking a smooth circular tunnel through the ice of the glacier.
Alaana threw the missionary a challenging look. “The glacier is generous.”
Gregori’s eyes cast about in search of an explanation. When they alighted once again upon Alaana’s grinning face, having found no other answer, he bowed his head slightly. “With God all things are possible.”
As they advanced along the channel the walls changed from clear ice to dark, mottled stone. Gregori wrinkled his nose and remarked, “Sulfur and brimstone.”
Alaana didn’t smell anything. “Be careful,” she said, “We’ve left the dreamlands far behind. This tunnel takes us to a very different place. This is the land of the dead. A very dangerous place.”
“Do you think?” smirked Gregori.
As they proceeded deeper into the lair Alaana felt the danger growing. Unlike the friendly glacier, she had received no pledge of assistance from the ancient rock of this place. The very walls could crush them on a whim at any moment.
Suddenly the moaning of tortured souls filled the air.
***
“There is trouble,” said Kigiuna. “Alaana’s in danger.” He couldn’t explain how he came to know this, but there was no way to deny the sinister feeling.
Higilak cocked her ear as if listening carefully.
Kigiuna heard nothing except for the women chanting their song of sleep and Tugtutsiak’s low moans. The worsening state of the headman was alarming. Tugtutsiak took deep labored breaths as if he were drowning and his eyes searched violently about the tent, unseeing. Kigiuna felt certain the headman was dying. Was it all for nothing? Worse yet, could he stand to lose Alaana over this?
“I’m going to bring her back,” he decided. He launched into the drum song of the dreaming, reciting the melody forward as he had been instructed. The notes came easily, his voice strong and clear. He must rescue Alaana. But after a few minutes he saw that it was no use. “It’s not working.”
“Perhaps Alaana is no longer in the dreamlands,” offered Higilak. She looked concerned but still fairly calm. Kigiuna felt embarrassed at his own rising panic in the face of the old woman’s cool reserve.
“Then where?” He glanced down at his daughter’s lifeless body. Alaana appeared peaceful, almost as if in a deep slumber. If not for her shallow breathing she sat completely motionless. More than anything else Kigiuna wanted to shake her awake and end this worry, but she had instructed him never to do that.
“It’s my guess she’s gone to the land of the dead,” said Higilak.
“Land of the dead?” repeated Kigiuna somew
hat frantically. “Land of the dead. I don’t know any songs for that. How can we bring her back? What can we do?”
“There’s only one thing we can do to help her now. Same as always. Have faith.”
***
“This is very strange,” said Alaana. “This isn’t part of the Land of Day. It’s a pocket of the Underworld, hidden here where it doesn’t belong.”
The tunnel had opened into a high-ceilinged chamber. The cavern’s walls twisted and turned like the elaborate whorls inside a huge conch shell. Columns of pocked, ruddy stone stretched from floor to ceiling and a smoky haze skirled about the place. To each post was bound a human soul. The figures were partially embedded within the rock so that only their faces and chests protruded like carvings on the craggy stone.
“Bozhe moi! The Archbishop!” shouted Gregori. He touched his fingertips to his forehead, heart and each shoulder before rushing at one of the columns.
The Archbishop grunted softly as he struggled with some deep-rooted pain. His spirit had the appearance of a squat bull of a man with a heavily jowled face. His eyes smoldered with determination. A tall white hat with a blue cross running down the front rested on his head, though it was now soot-stained and hanging slightly askew. He wore loose, flowing robes with the same white and blue color pattern.
“I burn, Gregori. For what transgression I do not know.” The Archbishop forced the words out through his pain. “Have I passed in my sleep? Is this my final judgment?”
“No, your holiness. By the will of God, this is not meant for you.”
“I could never resign myself to this fate,” said the Archbishop, “not without knowing the cause.”
“Fight it, your holiness. Fight!”
The Archbishop grunted softly. “Fight it I shall.”
“I’ve come here to release you and I will see you free, I swear it,” said Gregori. He flattened his palms together along the line of his nose. “Our Lord God, whose nature is ever merciful and forgiving, accept our prayer that this, your servant, bound by the fetters of sin, may be pardoned by your loving kindness...”
Alaana caught sight of Tugtutsiak, who was bound to a nearby pillar.
He was emaciated and covered in soot, appearing much like the pathetic lumentin Alaana had once seen in the Lowerworld. Unlike the Archbishop, who had seemed indomitable — a bear beset by wolves, surrounded and under attack, but not willing to go down without a fight — Tugtutsiak appeared on the verge of total surrender. He had not strength enough to struggle much longer. But the sight of Alaana sparked his crushed spirit and brought a faltering light to his eyes.
“Alaana!” he whispered. “I knew you would come for me.” His eyes met hers, begging forgiveness. “Do you hear me, Alaana? I knew you would come. There was never any doubt.”
Even Tugtutsiak’s apologies had such great strength in them, thought Alaana.
“I will set things right,” she said, although she didn’t have the faintest idea how to proceed.
“How can we free them?” asked Gregori.
Alaana didn’t answer. The souls were intimately bound to the pillars, and the pillars deeply set into the cavern. She’d never seen anything like this before. If there was a way to help, she would find it. But wait, there was something attached to Tugtutsiak’s neck, just beneath the strong line of the jaw. A slender tentacle, dull red in color, stretched upwards and away behind the column of stone. The bizarre umbilicus twitched. Tugtutsiak groaned. His lips tightened, a pink spume jetting out as he struggled against the pain. The others suffered under a similar fate.
Alaana drew her ceremonial blade. She slashed across the tendril where it joined Tugtutsiak’s neck. The knife passed right through the blood-red cord as though made of air, leaving the tentacle unharmed.
“What are you doing?” asked Gregori.
“There’s something here, but I can’t cut it. I can’t even touch it.”
“What? Where?” asked Gregori. “I can’t even see it.”
A sudden tension erupted inside the cavern as if a dark energy in the air had come crackling to life. Something was shifting, changing. Waking up. The moaning of the poor unfortunates intensified; the coils wriggled and slithered, tightening around their necks. Alaana traced the tendril’s path upward with her eyes.
A ghastly abomination squatted on the ceiling, a blood-red mass wreathed in black smoke.
“There’s a cave demon here.”
“I don’t see anything,” said Gregori.
The thing shifted, uncoiling. Its movements were fluid and powerful as it turned its pointed snout menacingly down toward Alaana. Its rounded mouth opened and the demon spoke in a hideous, guttural tongue. The words were unintelligible to the young shaman but seemed to convey a dreadful challenge.
“I’m telling you, it’s there,” said Alaana.
“I don’t doubt you, my friend. Even blind, I sense great evil here.”
Alaana wasted no more time on words. She hurled the handful of small knives that were strung along her belt but, just like the ceremonial blade, they passed right through the demon. She had no further weapons. She stepped back, pulling Gregori behind the pillar along with her.
“No luck with those knives, I suppose,” said the missionary.
“No. I’m afraid I haven’t come very well prepared for this kind of fight.”
The demon’s exhortations became louder.
Gregori stepped forward, placing himself in front of her. “I’m thinking this may not be your fight at all. But perhaps you may serve as eyes to the blind. Can you tell me what it looks like?”
“A round mouth like a suckerfish, full of pointed teeth. Six eyes set in pairs down the front of its face. A pair of curled horns like a beast. Cloven hooves. The wings of a bat.”
“Enough,” said Gregori. “This is one of the fallen host well known to those who read the word of God. Heshtaroth is its name.”
The foul thing recoiled at the name, sending gouts of black smoke spilling from the ceiling. Gregori coughed on the bitter tang as the smoke began to fill the room, although Alaana could smell nothing.
A tentacle shot out of the smoke to grapple her neck. Alaana felt her strength ebbing away, to be replaced by raw pain. The demon was drinking the life from her soul.
Gregori again touched his empty hand to his forehead, chest and shoulders. “I exorcise you, Most Unclean Spirit! All Spirits! Every one of you! In the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ: Be uprooted and expelled from this Creature of God…”
The grip of the demon relaxed, its tentacle curling away from Alaana’s spirit-form as if it had been burned.
“It’s working,” she said.
“Heshtaroth! Depart then, impious one, depart, accursed one, depart with all your deceits, for God has willed that man should be His temple, and you shall not defile these good men.”
A score of bloody tendrils shot toward him but the missionary remained oblivious to their attack. In his outstretched hand he held forth a relic. Waving it before him like a blind man with a totem, he was smiling. “The bone of the small finger of Nikolai Mirkiyski Chudvorets himself! Nikolai the Wonder-worker, most merciful of the saints.” He rolled one eye towards Alaana saying, “Hmm?”
“It’s working,” she said. She was amazed to see this strange man triumph where she had failed.
Hissing, the demon retreated once again to the ceiling, moving in a jerky motion as if in great pain.
Gregori took hold of Alaana’s shoulder. “It’s lucky I was doing an exorcism when I fell asleep. I have everything we need. Help me, Alaana! Guide me.”
He drew a small flask from the pocket of his long black coat.
“The Holy Ghost, the spirit of Almighty God himself, is within this water,” he announced, speaking with great passion.
“I don’t see it,” remarked Alaana. While she could perceive a tiny glimmer of inua within the fluid, it seemed to her no different than the faint soul-light of any ordinary water.
“That doesn’t
matter,” replied Gregori. “This water was blessed by the Archbishop himself. The demon has made a mistake in choosing his eminence as a target. A successful exorcism is entirely dependent upon the victim’s faith. And let me tell you for certain, the Archbishop possesses a will that can never be broken!”
The Archbishop, still bound to his pillar, said nothing. His eyes tightly shut, the part of his face protruding from the stone column trembled with great effort.
“Where Alaana? Where?”
Alaana’s gaze followed the demon’s course as it crawled across the top of the cavern.
“There!”
Gregori raised the flask, held in both hands, high above his head. “Go away, Seducer! Be humiliated and cast down. For even though you have deceived men, you cannot make a mockery of God. He has prepared Hell for you and your angels.”
To Alaana, he whispered, “Again. Direct me!”
“There!”
Gregori cast the water in a wide arc, spraying the water directly in the demon’s path. It cut through the inky smoke and splashed across the demon. With a pathetic hiss, the demon began to bubble and splatter. It dripped down from the ceiling in blood-red gore, and although Alaana thought they would be drenched with it, the foul ichor vanished before it touched them.
Alaana’s mind cleared. All around the cavern the trapped souls had been released. The Archbishop was standing strong, just beside the missionary.
“Well done,” said the Archbishop. “I confess I wouldn’t have believed such a thing if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes. I came to the abbey to chastise you, but now… Now I see you in a somewhat different light, Father Mikhailovich.”
“It is the light of the Lord, nonetheless,” returned Gregori, with a half bow at the waist.
An intense look of pride passed over the Archbishop’s cherubic face, “Yes, of course.”
Alaana rushed to where Tugtutsiak had fallen. His soul was bleached white, shriveled and nearly gone. The glimmer of life had become barely perceptible. “I must hurry,” she said, taking the headman’s spirit into her arms.