by Ken Altabef
Vithrok’s eye was drawn slowly from place to place. All of humanity was writ clear, in every aspect of endeavor, pain, suffering, every dream and aspiration shone in the ice. He saw the Anatatook summer camp, nestled safely along the rocky outline of Big Basin; to the south, a thin, curved line represented the Tanaina caravan of sleds as the band traveled to their summer camp; the M’gipsu, Chukchee and Tsungus camps; he saw the kabloona settlement at Old Bea and the Yupikut raiders as they massed for their attack.
But none of this was what he had come for. He cared little for men. He wanted the Heart to show him the spiritual world of Nunatsiaq. He wanted Tsungi. He had been told that the sculpture reacted to the quality of light, that each different hue revealed to watching eyes a different aspect of creation as the year rolled on. Time and patience were necessary to see certain things, and one must have the proper light. Time was not yet within his control; Time had forever been his nemesis. But light… he had long been called the Light-Bringer.
He raised his staff of Beforetime high above his head. He recalled one of Kidan’s creations, a lens that separated light into different colors and strengths. He recreated such a device, shaping it from the liquid quicksilver at the tip of the staff. By tuning the lens he was able to shine down a terrific blast of light, changing the color through the entire spectrum. The amber shades of morning, the full-throated glory of summer’s midday, the dull orange of sunset, the purple tones of evening, and even silvery starlight. In turn each combination of color washed over the vast sculpture, season by season. Still the Heart didn’t show him anything beyond the strictly material.
A light wind had begun to rise up outside. Certain arcane passages, tiny channels that lay unseen in the ice, allowed the chill gusts to enter the cavern. As they did, a haunting and eerie sound was created, a faint melodic whistling. Although the strange sound sparked feelings of joy and wonder in most who heard its song, Vithrok felt no such emotion. He thought the bizarre sound spoke differently, that it was taunting him, that it was celebrating his failure.
Vithrok remembered something else Raven had said. That the Heart would show angakua, the spiritual light of the turgats and shamans, only if lit by moonlight in daytime. Under such light Tsungi must be revealed. No one possessed more angakua than he.
That was fine, thought Vithrok. He had plenty of moonlight in store, having drunk deeply from the well of Annigan, the Moon Man. Vithrok raised his staff again and the tip showered the huge cavern in a wash of pure moonbeam.
But even the moonlight didn’t show what he wanted. He began to suspect that, in some bizarre way, the sculpture was resisting him.
“Show me the spirit-light!” he shouted. “Show me the shamans, the light that will show me the turgats, that will reveal Tsungi to me.”
Nothing. Useless. Failure.
Vithrok raised his staff again, this time in rage. A moment more and he might have smashed part of the great sculpture, the blow aimed directly at the representation of the Anatatook summer camp. Something held him back, staying his arm at the last moment.
The Heart had flinched. He had sensed movement, the slightest wisp of emotion. He began to suspect the Heart held an inua of its own.
He set the staff down. Leaning forward, he placed his withered hands atop the sculpture’s farthest edge, along the rim of the tundra. His hands, blackened claws that had slain monsters, that had dared grasp the sun, that had stretched to the reaches of the Outer Darkness and caressed the Thing That Was Cast Out, these were the hands which lay their cold, dead flesh against the ancient blue-green ice.
Vithrok worked his mind into the Heart. The ice was cold and empty. He went deeper, pushing farther and father beneath the surface, harder and harder, burrowing down, time irrelevant, failure impossible. And he sensed, more clearly than ever, that he would find what he was searching for. The ice was alive. The Heart was hiding from him, it was resisting. Vithrok would not put up with that. If there was a spirit inside this thing he would find it.
Contact. There was indeed a soul inside the Heart, a soul unlike any this world had ever seen. Finally, the essence of the Heart was revealed to him. But it was strange, it was alien. It did not belong here. It didn’t belong on this world. It had crashed here in a ball of fire and rock. It was a seed, a space seed, coming from the other side of the sky, just like the sun.
It had fallen here by chance, not by purpose. It was lost and lonely and it was alone and it wanted to learn where it was, and as it learned, as its consciousness spread, it crafted itself into the ice of the world. The white bears found it, they marveled at it, preserved it. They knew it was something of incredible beauty and importance. They didn’t understand what it was, but the chosen of Tornarssuk cared for it and kept it sharp. It fed off of their kindness and good wishes and it came to know them and through them the people of Nunatsiaq and this was where it was, this was its existence. It could not get back home.
But the ice was also a keen mirror. It saw the soul that gazed at it so intensely. It knew Vithrok for what he was. The Heart could see everything and it knew that he was a destroyer, that he would destroy everything on this world for whatever reason and it resisted. It would not cooperate. It wasn’t going to show him what he wanted to see.
Vithrok did not bother to explain his motives.
I want to find Tsungi, he thought, and I will!
The Tunrit’s anger burned white-hot. The Heart was cold as the permafrost.
Choose confrontation, if you like, thought Vithrok. I know I will win. Come then, let’s see which one of us is the stronger.
Vithrok grappled with the Heart. Its soul was not easy for him to understand, impossible to control. Its thoughts were alien, chaotic. It did not fear him. It was not aggressive or malicious. It didn’t want to fight him; it only wanted to resist him. It only wanted to retreat, putting up wall upon wall of solid ice. The Heart buried itself deep, and Vithrok strained after it.
The sorcerer could not control this alien inua, and he could not smash through its formidable defenses. The Heart didn’t slash at him, did not thrust at him. It built up a barrier between itself and his dagger-like spiritual attack. It had no way of hurting him, but he had no way to penetrate its shield.
In an upper chamber that looked down upon the stronghold of the Heart, the twin bear shamans watched the battle unfold.
“It struggles,” said Orfik. “It resists.”
“We should strike back,” said Oktolik. “Now is the moment. Now is our chance, while the sorcerer is distracted.”
“Wait!”
“Wait for what?”
“The Heart is strong, brother. Stronger than anyone can know. You see what it does? It’s just as I said. It doesn’t seek to destroy him. It only wants to keep him out. The Heart is protecting its secrets. It’s protecting us!”
Oktolik grunted. “I don’t know what to do, brother. My heart tells me we should fight.”
“If we go down there, we’ve lost all,” said Orfik. “It’s our light he wants, our souls. This is right. Let the Heart defend us. Vithrok doesn’t know we are here. He doesn’t even know to look. Just wait. The Heart will protect us, the sorcerer will be denied.”
Vithrok groaned under the strain. He had fashioned his will into a thin spike. It was a familiar weapon, and one with which he had practiced many times before. It was the same spike he had once driven through the soul of Tulunigraq, one of his fellow Tunrit shamans in the dark times after the Great Rift. Tulunigraq had refused to aid him in his attempt to bring the sun from the other side of the sky and Vithrok had battled his brother. They had clashed, will upon will, soul against soul. In the end Vithrok had stabbed the spike, piercing Tulunigraq’s soul and shattering his spirit. And so he sought to do the same to the Heart.
His adversary continued to retreat in upon itself, throwing up endless layers of ice, hard as diamond, as it fled deeper and deeper. Vithrok ground down but could not penetrate. The cold was more intense the deeper he followed, seeping
into his very soul. Such intense cold played tricks with his senses, making time slow to a maddening crawl, making it difficult to think or move. The deeper he followed, the slower he became, and the weaker. And still the Heart retreated. It seemed hopeless, but Vithrok was never without hope. He was the consummate shaman. In everything he did, he knew he must succeed.
He realized he need not smash the Heart; he need not break it open. He had only to crack its defense. A tiny crack in the ice was all he needed. And where a sharp point would not do, where a bludgeon could not succeed, dull force would win the day. Vithrok summoned forth the strength of the Moon Man, whose terrific mass had been powerful enough to lift the tides. This tremendous pressure he leveled at the Heart of Nunatsiaq, seeking not to pry open but to crush.
The Heart strained back, reeling under this new attack. It felt itself surrounded, under pressure from all sides. It could no longer retreat. It must push back.
The cold winds of Nunatsiaq began to blow, coursing through the secret passages of the Ice Mountain. The mysterious whistle became a horrific shriek, tearing through the stronghold. The twin bears, watching from above, clapped their paws to their screaming ears.
That’s right, thought Vithrok with rising confidence, Sing my song. Sing my song!
The Heart began to falter. It realized it was in danger. It was not invulnerable here. It wanted so very much to protect those whom it must protect. But there was no one to protect it from Vithrok. The sorcerer was too strong.
You will show me, insisted Vithrok. You will show me what I want to see. Where is Tsungi hiding? How can I get to him? Tell!
A tiny crack formed, deep in the ice of the Heart.
You will do what I want, said Vithrok with glee. You will!
Suddenly the Heart reversed its course. Where it had been struggling to counter, to push against the sorcerer in a futile resistance, it now embraced the tidal force Vithrok was setting against it. The only way left for it to resist was not to resist.
With a deafening roar the immense sculpture shattered. Bits and pieces exploded from its fantastic representation of Nunatsiaq, showering the sorcerer with powdery fragments that scoured the rind of dead skin that sat upon his face.
Vithrok stared down at it, a thing of great beauty smashed to pieces. The heart was dead, and completely useless to him. The sight of it, of all the senselessly broken shards and fragments, triggered a horrific memory. He saw before him the shattered Beforetime, all the great glories of paradise, ripped asunder by some petty argument between Tsungi and the Thing. They had taken everything from him, left him wallowing in the mud.
Vithrok screamed.
The Heart was destroyed and he still didn’t have what he came for. He was denied, frustrated and angry. He wanted to bring the whole damn mountain down in rage, but his fire quickly faded. It’s just an ice mountain, he told himself, just like any of the others. Just a bunch of bears, after all.
After the long, furious battle at the gate and this titanic struggle of wills with the Heart, he felt very tired. His determination to succeed was unshakable but his reserves were not unlimited. The Beforetime that clad his Tunrit body as armor had shriveled to the consistency of old paper. He needed to rest. He was grimly aware that he stood naked within an enemy stronghold. He could not even fly home. He had to return the body to the citadel along the ground, step after step.
Vithrok turned his back on the cavern of the Heart, and walked away.
“What have we done?” shrieked Oktolik.
“It’s gone…” said Orfik. “It’s dead. He’s destroyed our heart… our life…”
Orfik, sobbing, sagged helplessly against his brother’s chest.
Oktolik clamped down his jaw, tensed every muscle in his body. “Let’s go. Let’s go get him. His back is turned. He won’t expect us. He doesn’t know about us. Didn’t see us. The Heart didn’t show him.”
“It’s just as I said,” whined Orfik softly. “It was protecting us. And now it’s gone. Gone!”
“We can still attack him. The two of us against him. We won’t be fooled, we won’t attack his body. It’s his spirit we must fight.”
“We can’t… we can’t…”
“Well I can’t do it by myself. It has to be both of us to stand any chance!”
“We don’t stand any chance!” said Orfik. “You fool. Don’t you listen? Don’t you see? The Heart is destroyed. There’s no helping that now. But he didn’t get what he came here for. He didn’t get us.”
“He’s vulnerable. He’s going back across the ice, walking alone. We know where he is. If we could only get a message to the others.”
“Vulnerable?” said Orfik. “No. They’ll just be killed, like all the rest.” He waved a clawed paw at the killing fields below where so many of their friends and family lay dead. “I won’t send anyone else to their death.”
Oktolik grunted. He was so filled with rage, he considered launching an attack on the sorcerer himself. Even if he were to be killed, such a thing would be better than slinking away in total defeat. But there were others to think about, the females and children hiding in the caves and the rest of the white bears out on the plain. They needed their shamans, though what good they might do them after this he didn’t know.
“We have to tell Alaana.”
“Are you sure?” asked Orfik. “How did he know it was here?”
“What?”
“The sorcerer. How did he know? How could he have found out about us? Alaana is the only human who ever knew of this place. Did she tell?”
“I don’t believe that,” said Oktolik. “Not Alaana.” He glanced back at the shattered remains of the Heart. “What have we done? It’s destroyed. Completely destroyed as we cowered helplessly here.”
“We couldn’t have done anything… we couldn’t have stopped it. You saw what happened. You saw…”
“We could have tried,” said Oktolik bitterly. “We should have.”
“It’s no use.” Orfik wailed again. “I can’t go on… maybe it’s better… we should have…” Orfik’s entire body was wracked with an intense shiver. “We should be dead.”
“You’re not making sense,” said Oktolik. “You’re just afraid.”
“Yes. Yes, I am afraid. I am afraid.”
“Steady, brother,” said Oktolik. He wrapped Orfik in his arms. “I’ll take care of you.”
CHAPTER 14
A BROKEN HEART
Gekko frowned, running a pencil through the last figure he’d just written. He neatly restacked the pile of bills of lading, squared their edges, and then pounded his fist on top. Sir Walter Gekko was many things — a loyal servant and full Knight of the Crown, a First Lieutenant in King Edward’s Regular Army, a secret agent for the Ministry of War, a lover and a fighter. But he most definitely was not an accountant.
His ledger was a nightmare, smeared with frustration and crosshatched with corrections. The credits would not equal the debits and certainly never outnumber them under any circumstance. He had only maneuvered himself into the post as general manager of the BEA trading post in order to remain close to his new wife, Noona. He had no idea how to run a mercantile business. The assistant manager, Henry Jackson, should have taken over but he didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground when it came to dealing with restless Siberian natives and possible incursions from the neighboring Russians. British East Asia thought it better to have a steady hand at the helm. Gekko had no idea how well Jackson could handle figures, but from now on, he decided, Jackson would be accountant-in-chief.
Enough papers and books, thought Gekko. Like an enamored schoolboy he wanted to spend every minute of the day with Noona. He could think of little else. Noona. Her sweet face bundled in her furs, her shy smile, the light in her oddly gray eyes, her warm embrace. When the bulky furs had been done away with, he had discovered the Eskimo girl did not possess the lank and curvaceous figure of the native women he had known in the Caribbean or West Hebrides. How could he possibly have expecte
d that? Perhaps her hands, so delicate and fine, had given that impression. Rather she had the somewhat stocky figure of all the rest of these Eskimo women, a broad chest with wide, flat breasts. Not at all what he’d imagined for such a young woman and yet that discovery had not changed his feelings for her, not one whit. If anything, he found himself wanting her all the more. She moved with a confidence and grace that made him feel drunk just thinking about her. All right, old man, he told himself, let’s not get yourself all worked up before lunch.
There was a tentative knock on the door. It was neither Jackson nor Noona from the sound of it.
“Open it!” Gekko called out.
The door creaked open. One of the trappers stood in the doorway. A short and sharp-eyed man, unshaven and greasy-haired. This Eskimo, named Katok, was a trustee of the post, though not strictly on the payroll. One of three whom Gekko had tasked with watching the bay around the clock for any sign of a ship. They sat out at all hours, even shivering in the extreme cold, watching. It was amazing what some of these men would do for a little extra portion of tobacco or a pint of rum.
The man would not enter. The rules were clear. This was the ‘white man’s room’ where the weapons and good drinking stuff were secured. No natives allowed. The trapper waited for Gekko to speak.
“What is it, Katok?”
“There’s a ship. A ship coming.” His English was stilted, barely understandable.
“Oh. You don’t say?” said Gekko. He pushed the pile of papers absently away, toppling the neat stack. There was only one ship due to make port at the post any time soon. The icebreaker. “How far?”
“Half a day,” said the man.
“I see. Good news.”
“But there’s trouble. There’s trouble.”
“Yes, yes. What’s the trouble?”
“The ship is on fire.”
Gekko laughed softly. “It’s not on fire. That’s steam, my boy. Steam.” Gekko stood up, snapping his blue service jacket down to his waist. “Half a day for a sailing ship maybe but it won’t be an hour or two till the Vengeance weighs anchor, I’ll wager. Come on. Let’s go out to meet her.”