by Ken Altabef
The power filled him to bursting with white-hot ecstasy. He was certain that nothing could stop him now.
When it was done, he plunged beneath the waves. He pulled the narwhal horn from Sedna’s back, tossing the bones carelessly aside.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll live,” she said. “Now where is that ship?”
CHAPTER 23
THE SPOILS OF WAR
While the Yupikut danced and sang, Aquppak sat alone in his tent. He wasn’t strictly alone, for his wife Inuiluq was there as well, sitting quietly on the bed, but to his mind she didn’t count for anything at all. She didn’t speak, she didn’t meet his gaze. She cooked only when he commanded her to, she sewed only those skins he threw in her face. She didn’t even eat unless he barked at her. He wondered if she had acted the same way with Guolna before him. Truth be told he wanted to be rid of her. She reminded him too much of Alaana. Of course that had been her main appeal at the beginning. Now she hung like a heavy stone around his neck. She was so pathetic Aquppak couldn’t even bring himself to kill her. Nor could he simply toss her aside to be picked up by one of the other men. She was the headman’s wife. He wouldn’t let anyone else have her.
After the attack on Old Bea the raiders had moved on, knowing the Northwest-Mounted would inevitably arrive to reclaim what was left of the post. The Yupikut took as much of the trade goods as they could carry away with them. That meant all the weapons, canvas sacks of food, two brand new sleds and all the alcohol they could find.
Now returned to their secret base in the cleft of the fjord, the raiders enjoyed a massive celebration. The dried salted pork was a favorite, and most of the men were soon drunk and singing old hunting songs.
Aquppak was apart from them, sitting on a packing crate before a makeshift table. On the table sat a battered bottle of McPearson’s best rum. Aquppak stared at its peeling yellow label. The words printed on the paper were ciphers to him. Did they tell of how his head would swim if he drank it, how he would laugh and sing, how he would forget? Forget his old grandfather Putuguk dying alone in the snow, forget his former place at the head of the Anatatook, forget his two sons still living in Alaana’s camp? He knew it would. He wanted it. He unstoppered the bottle and took a sniff. Yes he wanted it. The pungent aroma of alcohol, and good quality grog at that, laced with the tang of molasses. It called to the deepest innards of his soul as he listened to the other men sing and enjoy themselves.
But he dare not drink it. If he swigged from this bottle he would never stop, and while he lay drunk the men would murder him. He knew Guolna’s brother certainly would. A knife in the dark, a spear through the tent wall, a bullet in the head. He could never take that chance. Inuiluq would watch from the shadows, her eyes come finally alive, but she would not raise an alarm.
So he had to settle for just a cigar. He used a brand new flint, lifted from the pocket of one of the dead sailors at Old Bea, to strike a spark and light it up. He enjoyed tobacco and found this English blend sweetest of all. He had a lot to celebrate. The raid had been completed successfully, he was the headman, everything was going his way. Wasn’t it?
Without a word of warning his tent flap parted and a man stepped inside. Aquppak drew a knife from his boot, a long hunting blade made of honed caribou antler.
The man was Klah Kritlaq. Without his wooden mask the shaman’s face was expressionless and deathly pale, his lower eyelids drooping in their sockets to show red rims.
“You can’t come bursting in here whenever you feel like it,” said Aquppak.
“Can’t I?”
“No!” Aquppak stabbed the knife into the wooden packing crate. The cigar flew from his lips to sizzle on the wet floor.
Kritlaq glanced at Inuiluq, as she sat cowering among the sleeping furs. Dressed in rags she sat stiffly, her face carefully averted, strictly avoiding his gaze. He turned back to Aquppak. “You don’t seem too busy to see me.”
“What do you want?”
Kritlaq smiled, pulling flaccid lips away from yellowed teeth. “What do you want?”
Aquppak had had enough. He slammed the sides of the packing crate with both hands. “Get out! Get out!”
Kritlaq sniffed at the open bottle of rum and snickered. “Why don’t you drink it?”
“It makes men weak. You take it.”
Their eyes met. “Oh, so you could stab me in the back while I sleep?” asked Kritlaq.
“I just might,” said Aquppak.
Kritlaq’s mouth twitched again. “Why wait? Here’s your chance.”
He jerked his head toward the weapon, still standing point-deep in the table.
“Go ahead, pick it up.”
Aquppak did so.
“You want to kill me?” asked Kritlaq. “Go ahead.”
The shaman turned his back. Waiting patiently, he sighed.
Aquppak didn’t hesitate. With one smooth motion he circled around the crate, driving the knife straight between the other man’s shoulder blades. But Klah Kritlaq was just as quick, commanding the spirit within the caribou antler to change its shape. The ivory melted away and ran harmlessly down Aquppak’s hand. He noticed it was not even warm.
Kritlaq turned around, laughing. “Not fast enough. You can never be fast enough, remember that.”
Aquppak tensed for a fight. He didn’t need a blade to kill Kritlaq. But suddenly his legs locked in place. He couldn’t move them. He swung for Kritlaq’s head but his arm stopped mid-stroke. His mouth suddenly went dry.
The sorcerer laughed. “You’re just a dog to me, you know. And you’re nothing to him.”
Aquppak wanted to point out that Kritlaq, for all his powers, was simply a dog to Vithrok as well, but his throat would not form any rational word. Instead he felt it tighten against his will, and a little moan came out.
“A dog,” said Kritlaq. He nodded his head stiffly.
Aquppak’s knees buckled. His elbows hit the graveled floor of the tent. His head bent down, then up, then down again.
“That’s right,” said Kritlaq. “Just so you remember.”
Aquppak struggled relentlessly, but his will was no match for the shaman, who had a firm grasp on his very soul. Kritlaq made him skulk across the floor of his own house, rubbed his nose in the filthy gravel. Though there was no point in resisting, Aquppak kept up the fight, straining to the utmost until he felt he would vomit with the effort. Kritlaq didn’t allow even that small mercy and made Aquppak choke on the hot sting of bile in his mouth.
“You want that liquor, little dog?” asked Kritlaq.
Aquppak’s tongue was momentarily set free. “I don’t… want it,” he said.
“Beg for it.”
Aquppak’s head bent once again to the cold floor. Though he fought as best he could, a small whine escaped his lips. Just like a dog.
Kritlaq took the open bottle from the table. “Good dog. You’ve earned your little drink.”
He tilted the bottle up and let the rum splatter the back of Aquppak’s head and neck. He poured slowly until the entire bottle was gone, keeping the headman’s head pressed low.
“You should be grateful,” said Kritlaq, “Because next time I just might have you perform for me in front of the men.”
Aquppak’s head jerked up. Kritlaq stepped out of the tent and the headman crumpled to the floor. He shivered uncontrollably with the release, breathing fitfully as if he’d just been strangled. He looked up from the floor, alcohol stinging his eyes. He saw Inuiluq looking straight at him, her eyes glinting.
“Don’t fidget!” said Maguan. “Sit still.”
Manik did as he was instructed.
“It’s just like the seal hunt,” reminded the Anatatook headman patiently. “Sit quietly. Just wait for the volley. And keep your head low until they fire.”
Manik peered around the sheltering stone, keeping his head low.
As opposed to the traditional caribou hunt which always took place with the herd crossing a river at a predetermined pl
ace arranged by the shaman and the spirits, now the Anatatook had to take the caribou wherever they found them. On this day it was on a flat plain, as the caribou milled about the summer slush, looking for fresh shoots of sedge grass among the rocks.
The Anatatook had already learned a hard lesson about crossfire and kept all their rifles to one side of the killing field, waiting for Iggy to signal the volley. As soon as the first shot went out the caribou would all fly into a panic. In contrast to the river hunts where the animals had limited mobility, out on the open plain they were free to run. It would all be over in an instant.
“Pull your head in,” ordered Maguan. “You don’t need to look. You just have to listen for the shots. See to your bow.”
Manik did as he was told. At twelve winters, he was the youngest of the archers concealed among the large rocks to the south. When startled, the caribou would almost certainly run this way, back along the game trail. Then the bowmen would get their chance as the frightened animals charged past. The most accurate bowmen were assembled here. To his left sat Maguan and Kigiuna. On the other side were two of Tugtutsiak’s sons, Katmatsiaq and Oaniuk, both middle-aged men with extensive experience with the bow.
A volley of rifle shots rang out across the valley, though not completely in unison.
“Up! Up! Get ready.”
Though Maguan’s remarks were addressed to Manik, all the bowmen reacted together, spinning around, notching their arrows.
The caribou were running wildly, in their zig-zagging, clip-clopping fashion. They scattered widely, filling the plain with the peculiar clacking sound their hooves made even when running along snowy ground. Only a few headed for the game trail, heading straight toward the archers.
“Choose your target!” hissed Maguan.
Manik pulled his bowstring back. The caribou were moving fast, changing direction without warning. He aimed for the kill area just to the left of the breastbone on one of the approaching caribou. The animal was almost upon them.
Manik saw his chance. He let fly.
The arrow went low, missing the beast entirely as it skidded into the snow.
Manik tried to notch another arrow. To either side he heard the Anatatook men spit out curses of dismay. They’ve all missed too, he thought. Experienced hunters all.
Manik fumbled with the arrow. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“They’re too far away,” said Maguan. “No sense putting one into the backside of a fleeing buck and wasting an arrow.”
Disappointment washed over Manik. “I’ll never get my first kill like this,” he moaned. “Why don’t you let me use the rifle?”
“Because,” Maguan said patiently, “you need to learn the bow first.”
“The gun is so much easier,” said Manik. “I’m sure I would’ve hit that buck just then.”
Maguan was not so sure. Most of his men, even the experienced hunters had so far proven to be poor marksmen. And the way the gunshots startled the caribou the Anatatook were lucky to kill even a few at each hunt.
Manik flared angrily. “I’ll never be a man like this. Because you won’t let me. And I know why. It’s because of my father.”
Maguan sighed. “You must make your kill with the bow. We can’t depend on the rifles. What if the white men were to take them away? Or what if we run out of ammunition? We must then hunt with the bow again. Every man here knows how to do that. Without that skill, Manik, you can’t be considered a man.”
With that, the headman began his walk across the plain to survey the results of their hunt.
Manik’s older brother Choobuk, ran excitedly up to him. “I got one!” he said. “Did you see?”
“I didn’t see anything. It all happened so fast.”
“Right between the eyes. Kapow!” Choobuk’s face beamed.
“It’s easy enough with the rifle,” said Manik. “It’s impossible to make a kill shot with the bow when the caribou are already frightened and running full speed.”
“It’s not impossible. Our father could have done it easily. He was the best hunter the Anatatook ever had. He could take a buck at a hundred paces.”
“Well maybe if he was here to teach me instead of you…” muttered Manik.
“But he isn’t here,” said Choobuk angrily. His enthusiasm for their father began and ended with his renowned hunting skills.
“Do you think it’s true?” asked Manik. “That he’s really headman of the Yupikut?”
“It’s true,” said Choobuk. “But who cares? The Yupikut are nothing but a bunch of cowardly cut throats and thieves. Our father fits perfectly well among them.”
“But the headman!” said Manik. “You’d have to be a hard man. You’d have to be a very strong man.”
Choobuk just smirked back at him.
“What if we went to join them?” suggested Manik. “Stole away from here and found them?”
“The Yupikut don’t take volunteers. They kill them.”
“But we wouldn’t be strangers. Our father is the headman. I’ll bet they wouldn’t kill us.”
“These are our people,” said Choobuk. “This is our band.”
“Sure. Sons of the outcast, talked about behind the back of the hand. Do you think you’ll get a wife here? Not likely.”
“Yes, I will,” said Choobuk. “Our place is here, not chasing off after our useless father.”
CHAPTER 24
A BLACK FEATHER
She shouldn’t have come.
Alaana was now completely unnecessary to the hunt, and more than likely to just get in the way. She sat along the cliff base, a woman alone, equally distant from the gunmen on the plain and the bowmen among the rocks. Just watching.
Now that Tekkeitsertok was gone she had no part in it. In the past it had all been arranged ahead of time. If Tekkeitsertok saw fit to bless the Anatatook, the great spirit provided the location of the herd and a number of caribou souls willing to sacrifice for the survival of the humans, provided their spirits were afforded proper respect. As long as the taboos were kept, all went to plan.
But the old rules no longer applied. Alaana knew what was going to happen when they killed the caribou. She really shouldn’t be here, but where else should she be, except with her people on the hunt? I’m not going to hide, she thought. I’m not going to stay away.
Across the plain, a large herd of summer caribou grazed lazily. Alaana counted sixteen hand. All of the Anatatook gunmen lay concealed behind a low ridge in the distance except for Igguaniaq. The Big Mountain was hidden beneath a special fur his wife had designed, a bulky tent of polar bear fur. White against the tundra, Iggy couldn’t clearly be seen by the caribou. To Alaana he was obvious, his soul blazed an optimistic yellow-orange.
Iggy shuffled forward, concealed beneath his polar bear skins. Alaana thought it ironic that although Iggy was the largest man among them he was also the hardest for the caribou to see. They just didn’t expect that big round shape to be a man. They hardly reacted, raising their heads quizzically and moving away. They didn’t panic; they simply shifted away from the smell. In that way he was able to maneuver them for the best shot from the ridge.
Iggy held one hand behind his back and that hand didn’t have a white sleeve. That hand was dark, stained with black soot, easily seen against the white background as he suddenly lifted it and gave the signal to fire.
The riflemen stood up. Alaana’s family was well-represented among them and she saw Ben and her nephews Tertaq and Pupupik raise their rifles.
At a second signal from Iggy the men fired their weapons. Kuanak’s grandson felled a sizable buck. Choobuk also got one and Alaana was glad to see her own son Kinak making a kill shot as well. Freed from the nightmares and disruptive visions that had plagued him for so long, Kinak had finally developed a steady hand and a keen eye.
Panic scattered the caribou. A few more shots were fired but to no effect. All chances now lay with the bowmen concealed behind the large stones near the game trail. In a moment it was over
, the caribou fleeing away to the south. It would take a long time for the herd to reassemble and there was no guarantee the Anatatook would be able to locate them again anytime soon.
The hunters had claimed only three kills. The souls of the slain caribou rose up from their bodies, screaming angrily. They resembled fist-sized balls of rippling light, mostly red and brown in color. As she knew they would, the tormented souls made straight for her. The light of the shaman’s soul was a beacon to the newly departed. The caribou souls confronted her in a confused wave of fear and desperation. Alaana knew how dangerous such souls could be. If she handled this incorrectly, they would set her own spirit on fire. But she had no doubts.
“Be still,” she said in the secret language of the shamans. “Be calm.”
This language was one that every soul could understand, but her words had little effect on the rampaging ghosts. Alaana centered herself, remaining perfectly calm. She radiated a calming sense of peace and well-being, far beyond words, that soothed the angry spirits.
“Be calm. This life is over. All cares and worries are gone. Let me guide you to the world beyond.”
The spirits of the slain caribou circled her head, still frightened and angry.
Alaana raised a hand to the sky in a southeasterly direction. “Run straight and true. You will find fields of tall grasses, relief from biting mosquitoes, and does to mate with, all plentiful on the other side.”
The caribou souls sped away, seeking their final reward.
“Well done, Alaana,” said Civiliaq.
“Yes, but who’s shaman am I?” asked Alaana. “The people or the caribou?”
Civiliaq smiled. “There is no difference. You do what you must. You’re a good woman.”
Alaana cocked her head toward the sky. “I hope they make it all right. The snowy owl would’ve seen them all the way home, but she’s lost to us now and I can’t spare the time.”