by Ken Altabef
Rejected! Discarded! Cast Out!
It suffered no physical pain. Bodiless, a being of pure darkness devoid of light, a need unfulfilled, it felt nothing. It felt nothing at all. In the endless void of space it had no leverage, no way to reshape itself or alter its course. It could only sail on, unable to stop, into the eternity of dark.
But it did suffer. And it did scream.
Until one day it came to know that it was no longer alone. Another being, one with long, steely fingers and a stout heart, had reached out to it from far away, from the abandoned world of its own origin. The fingers reached, the fingers strained, the fingers touched. And the Thing was caught in the web. It wanted to speak, to shout at the fingers, the hand, the arm. It wanted to tell so many things but the distance was too great. It could only whisper from a place without sound, and it could not be heard.
But the fingers stayed true, the web held strong and slowly, slowly the Thing felt its course slow. Panic. To be slowed, to be stopped. This was not what it wanted. Hurtling through the vastness of space there was hope. One day it might reach a destination, however far. One day it might pass among those stars so distant yet so bright. But to be stopped! To be trapped motionless! This it could never endure. It fought against the hold, struggling mightily, but again the void left it powerless. With nothing to push against, it could not hope to break the other’s resolve.
As its motion slowed, time slowed, and its torture became almost unbearable. It screamed and screamed. It couldn’t bear to be stopped. And then suddenly it realized — its course had reversed.
Vithrok tugged at his yoke, flexing an indomitable will, pouring his strength into the web. He had already reversed the course of the Thing That Was Cast Out. It had begun moving closer, returning to the world in order to play its part in his grand scheme. But each time he returned again and again to this task, he found he could accelerate the process, adding speed to its flight. After so many years spent knitting his psychic web, watching the stars slowly align, waiting for this one chance, he had become impatient.
His interaction with the Thing had been painful from the start. The seething hatred of the Thing burned with a gruesome intensity. As his inua reached out across the heavens once again, he braced himself for the agony of contact. When his spirit-man touched the creature, using only the withered tips of his fingers, blackened and burned where they had drawn the sun so many eons ago, there was an instant when their two souls mingled.
Always he felt an extreme, gagging revulsion at its touch, at its sibilant whisper in his mind. Thoughts he couldn’t understand, often in a language he could not comprehend. Was it insane?
It communicated mainly through raw emotion, and only one emotion was crystalized in that churning ball of darkness in the sky. Bitterness. Supreme and utter bitterness.
He knew bitterness himself, bitterness at suffering for someone else’s indiscretions, for someone else’s mistakes. The root cause of all his suffering was the Thing, and the error it had made ages ago in warring with Tsungi, the Long-Ago Shaman. Those two, it seemed, had not been satisfied with paradise. A disagreement arose, a conflict that rocked the Beforetime to its core, that built almost instantly to conflagration, drawing all the others into it, requiring they choose sides in a dispute the nature of which was still unknown to them, that culminated in a battle that shattered paradise, that sent the Thing hurtling away into space and drove the Long-Ago into hiding. This cataclysm had birthed the physical world, had frozen the ever-changing souls of the others into permanent shapes, and had condemned Vithrok to life as a Tunrit.
The Tunrit, the first men of the world, had struggled to survive in a frozen world full of mortal danger and malicious spirits, of unrelenting cold and gnawing hunger and perpetual darkness. Eventually Vithrok had brought the sun into the sky to light their way and warm them, inadvertently causing the advent of time, old age and death. The inevitable extinction of the Tunrit had been a slow one, a course no one had been able to reverse. And prime among their torments was this — not one of them had known, nor had ever come to find out what had caused the ancient battle in the first place.
The bitterness of the Thing was so intense, its sudden impact like a sledgehammer to the soul, Vithrok shuddered at its slightest touch. It had been cast out. It had been rejected. Vithrok knew quite a bit about that himself, having been rejected by his own people, condemned to an eon of captivity within an empty shell, a catchstone prison buried far below the tundra.
Unlike the Thing, who had been dissatisfied with paradise and caused trouble, Vithrok had been dissatisfied with Hell, with the cold barren plane that had been forced upon his kind. He had sought only to help his people by bringing the sun.
Yes, he knew well the bitterness of being cast out. And the bitter regret at having made a terrible mistake. He wondered if the Thing was aware of the existence of the sun. Surely, looking over its shoulder at the world it had lost, it must have seen the burning light in the sky, if it had presence of mind to notice anything at all. The seething blackness of the Thing, its absolute absence of light or warmth would extinguish the sun’s burning ember on contact. Would it even care?
He didn’t know if it would be consumed by the sun, if the two opposites would cancel each other out completely, or if the Thing would keep on coming. That was fine with Vithrok. He would welcome the Thing back into the fold. It represented not angakua, not the light of the Beforetime, but its darkness. But still it was a part of the whole. He wasn’t looking to improve on paradise, for surely that would be impossible, he only wanted to restore it. Both light and dark, hot and cold, fire and ice, ecstasy and agony, fluidity, creation, wonder — all of it.
But today Vithrok felt a different emotion during his brief contact with the Thing. As he tugged at it, met its roiling confusion with the burning light of his soul, the bitterness was gone. What was the Thing saying? He still couldn’t tell. But the timbre of its mad urgings was different. The emotion was different.
As Vithrok’s spirit struggled and strained, working the web, his body waited in his citadel at the top of the world, a lifeless husk sitting cross-legged and unfeeling on cold, hard stone. Tears streamed from its vacant, dead eyes.
The Thing, Vithrok realized at last, was no longer wracked with anger and bitterness. He recognized, if not its words, then at least the emotion its voice carried. The Thing was weeping from joy.
Vithrok pulled away, disconnecting from the web before he was sucked out, spinning madly, lost in the Thing’s insane emotions forever.
His spirit settled back into his body. He took a deep, cold breath to fortify himself. His body didn’t need to breathe. It was dead and frozen long ago. Vithrok propelled its movements as he worked any other object, with the power of his will. He was alive in spirit only, but the body had its uses, not the least of which was a convenient resting place for his soul when driven to extreme fatigue. If not centered in the body, his spirit tended to drift apart and faced dissolution. Now he sank back into the folds of dead skin, weary to the bone. He would rest a while and then pull again.
He was safe here in his Tunrit citadel. The circular chamber at the top of the building was open to the night air. As such it was cold enough to freeze a man’s breath solid in his lungs, but Vithrok’s mortal body didn’t feel the bite of extreme cold; it felt nothing at all. Above, a coruscating shield of liquid Beforetime blotted out the sky, glittering in a million shades of color, rippling with infinite possibility and unfathomable noise. With his shield in place, no spirit could find his citadel. He could rest.
But wait. Something kept him from sleep, a flutter of air, an errant whisper. He was not alone in the room.
Vithrok’s eyes snapped open. He whipped his head around.
Klah Kritlaq stood behind him. The name-soul, which Vithrok had liberated from a Tanaina shaman years ago, had the form of a man who had been flayed of all skin and stripped to the red, oozing muscle. Kritlaq’s eyes, as of old, had a yellowish cast, and an intens
ity which had been said to freeze mortal men in their tracks.
“I didn’t call for you,” raged Vithrok. He hated to think the agiuqtuq, the twisted name-soul, had witnessed him in his weakness. Kritlaq was useful, but insolence could never be tolerated. “What are you doing here?”
Startled, Kritlaq’s yellow eyes bulged. “I don’t know.” It searched madly around the turret for answers. “I was on the plains with my Yupikut. I was asleep.”
A distressed look crossed the raw, bloody muscles of its face. “I am dreaming.”
“No you’re not.” Vithrok reached out with the power of his mind, a clawed spirit-hand, to strangle Kritlaq by the throat.
“No, wait!” pleaded Kritlaq.
“I have allowed you entrance to my citadel before, but you go too far. No one may trespass here. That was a mistake.”
“Wait!”
Vithrok commanded his dead arm to strike out despite stiffness and cold. He smacked Kritlaq across the face. The bloody name-soul staggered backward, to fall down on its hands and knees. Bloody spittle flew from its mouth.
“What were you dreaming about?” demanded Vithrok. “What?”
Kritlaq gagged, looking as if it had feasted on rotting meat. “The Raven,” it said.
Kritlaq, its head held low in a twisted mockery of deference, coughed loudly and a torrent of crimson goo streamed from the bloody lips.
It retched again and another gout of blood came forth, releasing something from deep within the name-soul. A small black bird shook the blood from its feathers, standing petulantly on one stilted leg.
“Tulukkaruq,” said Vithrok. “The Raven.”
The Raven flittered upward to rest atop Klah Kritlaq’s head, since there was no other place to roost in the bare room.
Vithrok, already exhausted from his efforts with the Thing, steadied himself. “What do you want here? Why do you use my shaman as a pack animal?”
“I bear important messages,” said the bird. Its beak did not move, only its head tilted slightly, speaking in the secret language of the shamans. “And your animal is so much more convenient than forcing my way through your shield of Beforetime.” The jutting beak indicated the coruscating roof.
“The only message I want from you,” said Vithrok, “is your assurance that you will help me. That you will un-make that which you have made, when the time comes.”
“For that answer,” replied the Raven, “you must wait a bit longer. Perhaps until the very last moment. Have you any idea what will happen in that moment? When you have blotted out the sun and Time has come to a halt? When you have unleashed your store of Beforetime, you will wait for my response, bathed in fire, in a burning agony. If I don’t help you, the pain will last forever. You’ll burn in that frozen moment for all eternity.” The Raven cawed raucously. “At that time you will surely know my answer one way or another. Why spoil the surprise?”
Vithrok was enraged, but he was far too tired for bluster. In the end the Raven would help him. He must believe that. But the fate Raven described had not occurred to him before. In the moment when he stopped time he would be at his most vulnerable. He would be hanging there, torn half apart, perhaps indefinitely, unless Tulukkaruq played his part. And the Raven was well known for his tricks and lies. He might let Vithrok linger there for half an eternity before he decided to help. And how long was half an eternity? There was nothing Vithrok could do about it. Half an eternity of hell to be followed by the restoration of paradise. He would willingly suffer even that.
“What have you come to tell me, then?”
“Dire warnings!” squawked the bird, flapping its wings. The little bird circled in comical panic atop Kritlaq’s naked, bloody head. “Dire warnings!”
“Warnings or lies?” asked Vithrok wearily. “Or tricks?”
The Raven cocked its head as if insulted. It tucked its wings tight against its little chest. Vithrok wanted to swat the damn thing, but its vulnerable appearance was deceiving.
Vithrok had wrestled Tekkeitsertok to a broken neck, he had bested the Moon. He might have become powerful enough to battle this spirit head-on, and might well be able to destroy him, but he didn’t dare do any such thing. He needed this little devil alive. Raven had an important role to play.
Still, its insolence was driving him crazy. Vithrok shot out a hand to slap the bird.
And an amazing thing happened. Vithrok’s charred hand passed uselessly over Kritlaq’s head, eliciting a spasm of fear from the agiuqtuq, but the bird had disappeared. An instant later the Raven reappeared. This spirit, Vithrok was reminded, walked the pathways of time itself. Tulukkaruq had simply skipped ahead a moment and avoided the swipe.
“Enough games!” raged Vithrok. “Tell! Or leave me to my rest.”
The Raven kicked off from Kritlaq’s head. As it flew across the room it changed shape, expanding into its man-form. He had coal-black skin, his eyes deep black, his hair short and black. Only his perfect white teeth distinguished any features in its sooty face. He was dressed in an ebon parka made of some feathery material, its exact nature difficult to discern as the whole figure stood obscured by a dark fog which surrounded him.
Raven smiled, the white teeth broadening.
“Why not?” he said. “It’s what I’ve come for. And anyway this will make a wonderful lullaby for your weary soul. Hope what I have to tell doesn’t cause too many nightmares.”
Vithrok waited, saying nothing. Any more talk would only fuel the fire of this annoying devil. “Speak.”
Raven grinned. “The funny thing is, you’ve ignored my warnings, and now it may be too late. So this is a warning about failure to heed a warning.
“The white men are about to cause you no little bit of trouble. You think you are safe here at the top of the world. Your Beforetime cloaks you in white noise, you think yourself invulnerable. No spirit can see through that shield, it’s true, but the kabloonas are different. They have instruments and reason, they measure forces they need not see with their eyes. They know something is afoul here at what they refer to as ‘the North Pole.’
“And so they propose to come here on a ship, a vessel that can sail through the ice, smashing its way, and they will find this citadel before your plan comes to fruition. All your sorcerous power will be useless against them. Their ship is made of metal, which has no soul for you to bend. They have weapons, also made of metal, weapons that can destroy this place and disrupt your web. They call them ‘bombs’. I love that word, ‘bombs’. Bombs, bombs. They make them explode… ” Raven flapped his arms as if they were wings. “And then you’ll lose everything. There, I’ve said it, although it seems to me I’ve said as much before.”
“And I heard you the first time,” remarked Vithrok. “I have my own spies, dear Raven, and an army as well.” He turned toward Kritlaq and very calmly added, “Go now. Muster my Yupikut raiders. Attack immediately. Destroy the ship.”
The name-soul of Klah Kritlaq staggered to its feet, nodded deferentially toward its master, and was gone.
“Are we finished?” Vithrok asked the Raven.
Raven laughed, a bird-like squawk framed by perfect white teeth. “I promised you a nightmare,” he said, “not just moldy old news.”
Vithrok stepped backward to sit on the stone seat carved into the wall. He was too tired for any more of these games.
“You’ve an even bigger problem than the white men,” said Raven. “In a word — Tsungi.”
“Where is he?” demanded the sorcerer. “Do you know?”
“I don’t know,” said Raven.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m always lying, even when I tell the truth.”
Vithrok was not amused. “Do you think he’ll try to stop me?”
Raven’s human face sprouted a beak and he flourished it indignantly. “Most likely.”
A luxurious pair of blackfeathered wings burst from Raven’s back and he spread them across the turret room. “It’s the one real flaw in your plan. Tsungi.
I didn’t make him. I can’t unmake him.”
The Raven took wing, heading upward toward the shielding dome of white noise.
“Then I will unmake him myself!” said Vithrok.
CHAPTER 3
OLD FRIENDS REUNITED
Alaana and Old Manatook exited the walrus tusk together. They emerged into the shaman’s karigi, a large ceremonial tent in the center of the Anatatook summer settlement.
As always, the tusk was tucked away in the front pocket of Alaana’s parka. As her spirit returned to her physical body, which she had left kneeling on a prayer mat, she instinctually patted the pocket. The slender finger of ivory was still just where she had left it.
“Are you sure that’s the best place?” asked Old Manatook, who still appeared in the spirit-form of a radiant white bear. Standing on all four legs, his long, flat head hovered at the level of her chest.
Alaana smiled. “The best place to hide anything, it seems to me, is right out in plain sight. The tusk is safest in the place where it has always been. Vithrok knows exactly where I am, and yet he doesn’t attack me.”
“Hmmff,” said the bear. This expression had no translation in the secret language of the shamans, but hearing this familiar refrain from her old teacher once more made Alaana feel like a young girl again. Old Manatook had been a sort of surrogate father, instructing her in the Way of the shaman, with all of its mystical marvels and nightmarish terrors. To the young Alaana, it had seemed a world where everything was new, so terribly exciting, and good was bound to win out over evil. She hadn’t felt that way in a long while. At thirty-nine, she was a girl no longer. Time had changed her into a careworn middle-aged woman, but Old Manatook hadn’t changed at all. The old bear was as gruff and uncommunicative as ever. Hmmff, indeed.
“The reason he doesn’t attack,” said Old Manatook, “I think has something to do with the secret of your patron.”