The Shadow of Everything Existing

by Ken Altabef

“Trust me,” whispered Aquppak. “If you make it in time, you’ll be quite the hero.”

  He watched Manik make his way toward the mouth of the fjord, lest one of his men cause him trouble. The boy knew better than to run while inside the camp, and kept whatever was left of the tents between his tail and the scattered pockets of men. Had there been sentries, Aquppak thought, Manik just might have been able to avoid them.

  After his son had gone, Aquppak entered his tent. Inuiluq had sorted their gear and sat silently in the low corner of what was left of the room.

  “I’m hungry,” he said. “Make me some food and then I want you to help the other women with the skins.”

  His wife didn’t move fast enough for his tastes and Aquppak drew back his hand to slap her face. He wondered if she had overheard any of his whispered conversation with Manik.

  “How many times do I have to--” he began, but pulled up short.

  He lowered his fist.

  “Just get me some food.”

  CHAPTER 35

  RAVEN AT RISK

  Vithrok had become impatient.

  Impatient, of all things. Impatient! After countless eons of imprisonment within the soulless catchstone, plotting and planning, holding on, holding on, what could a few more days mean? It was nothing. And yet…

  And yet…

  He was impatient for it to be over, for his great dream to be realized at last. To taste a sweet peach, plucked fresh off the vine of his own creation. Impatient for the Thing to arrive. It moved ever closer now, ever closer, but not fast enough. Impatient for Raven’s answer! Would Tulukkaruq help him in the end? Would he un-name everything he had named? Of course he would. Of course, of course.

  Vithrok was impatient to put his plan finally into action. He wanted to be rid of the sun, riding so high in the sky of summer, that fiery eye that blazed down at him, always staring reproachfully, a nagging reminder of his folly. The Thing would take care of that, soon, soon, but not soon enough. All the raw Beforetime Vithrok had amassed was more than enough to spark the fire of change and give Raven his chance for the un-naming, but it was too much power for anyone to contain.

  Too much, too much.

  Tekkeitsertok and the lesser turgats, the light of the shamans, the Moon, the power of the Whale-Man and mighty Tornarssuk on top of it all. His cistern was overflowing, the citadel perched precariously on top of it, a reserve of Beforetime so unstable it felt as if it would soon cause the entire planet to wobble on its axis. The magnetic field at the pole was already shifting, the world was shuddering, off-balance, ready to burst like a ripened pustule. The Beforetime was impossible to control, though Vithrok devoted his entire will to the task. But it was too much. Too much. It was too easy to get lost in that ecstasy, too easy to see things that weren’t there, things that might be, endless possibilities, alternatives, blowing hot and then cold, shifting, transforming, rising and falling in a perpetual, dizzying flux. In an attempt to restrain them Vithrok had expanded his consciousness to encompass the entire citadel, but it was not enough.

  If he could not contain this raging wildfire, if the world should burst into flame before the Thing was able to stop time, he would achieve nothing. All would be destroyed, the world left a dead, smoldering cinder where it had been before a frigid wasteland. And what would be the use of that? He sought to destroy, but only so that he could restore the wonders of paradise. He must contain. He must hold on. He must see this through. He was so close. So close to victory he could taste it.

  And victory tasted like strawberries. Strawberries and lemons and honey. And rust, and mud, and old blood, and vanilla pudding, seasoned oak, garlic, ozone, rotting leaves, cinnamon cloves, purple sky, tomatoes on the vine, wolf piss, seawater, back-alley fear, a bulldog in heat, rotten eggs, copper, molten basalt, bananas, begonias, roasted cashews, birch pollen, oiled leather, cucumbers, gangrenous flesh, wet fur, melted tallow, rancid cream, an over-ripe melon, vomit, blueberries, red wine, cacao, giraffes…

  Vithrok screamed.

  Enough. Enough.

  He had been rendered blind by a multitude of sights that included every color of the spectrum, deaf by the cacophony of sounds roaring, singing, tinkling, buzzing, screeching in his ears. He was lost.

  No, he wasn’t lost. He was in his citadel, in the top room, the circular chamber that opened to the sky, where he had fashioned his web. He reached out for it with his mind. It must be there among the white noise of the Beforetime, just there, just there, and he felt its cool, electric blue touch. And if he followed along the line, out across sky and space, groping as a blind man must grope, not so far away now as before, just there at the end of its tether, he felt it. The Thing That Was Cast Out.

  He joined with its seething anger, its constant rage, as if it were a signpost in the darkness, a landmark slicing the horizon. Seething hatred. The Thing wanted nothing so much as to strike out at everything it had once loved, so lost in the feeling it knew nothing else. Just pure, elemental hatred. But it wasn’t hatred. It was loneliness born of an endless tumble through endless space. Panic. Desperation.

  Then, as now, Vithrok’s touch found the Thing, soothed its fears, calmed the raging tides within the great ball of darkness as he gently, forcibly, surely drew it back.

  Vithrok tugged hard. The Thing was already moving toward the earth with a heady momentum of its own but he felt a pressing need to speed its journey. He pulled and pulled, struggled and strained. He was desperate to speed its journey; he must hasten its arrival while he still maintained some semblance of control, before the wonders of the Beforetime tore his soul apart.

  The closer the Thing came toward him the more intense their interaction. Vithrok found new understanding of the creature that had been cast out. The Thing felt happiness now, oozing between the cracks of its anger. It was coming home. After such a long, lonely journey, thousands of years of mindless, empty spinning, it was coming back. It could not have been happier. But what of Tsungi? What of the other? Their fight had been so brutal, so senseless and futile. Had Tsungi changed? What would be his reaction to the Thing’s return? Would he renew the fight?

  The Thing became nervous and unsure. Suddenly it was afraid to come back. It wished it could halt its advance. It tried to shake off the grip of the sorcerer, the long black fingers that pulled and pulled. Vithrok would not relent. The Thing’s ire blazed like a fireball. It struggled and strained, but it had no leverage drifting through space, no way to control its flight. It was coming home. The Thing seethed with anger once again. Anger at him!

  Enough!

  Vithrok broke off contact. He fell back into the center of the room, exhausted by his exertions. Enough. He only wanted to use the Thing, not live inside its mind and suffer all its petty insecurities. He wanted it to destroy the sun. After that it was inconsequential. It too would be consumed when he ignited the Beforetime. Vithrok need not concern himself with its cares or desires, and endless ruminations about grievances of the ancient past.

  The struggle with the Thing had grounded his consciousness, returned sanity and clarity for a moment at least, though he must still grapple with the raging tumult of the Beforetime. For him there would be no rest.

  He blinked his eyes, seeing once more the confines of the circular room, its haughty Tunrit architecture and delicate filigree. And there, before him — Raven!

  At first he thought this, too, might be an hallucination. The sooty form of Raven as man, beaked hood thrown back from his midnight face.

  “Am I here?” asked Raven. “Or are you just seeing possibilities and daydreams?”

  Vithrok did not appreciate that jest; it struck far too close to home.

  “How could I be here?” asked Raven, indicating the Tunrit tower, “in the heart of your stronghold?”

  Vithrok recalled a former occasion when Raven had invaded his sanctum, battered his way through the protective screen of Beforetime, and played dead to torment him. He could do it again.

  “I’ll find out,”
said Vithrok. “It’s a simple thing to test.”

  Vithrok reached out with the power of his spirit. He grabbed hold of the other, taking it by its slim, feathered neck. He squeezed.

  “Am I clutching at spirit or empty air?” he asked.

  Now it was Raven’s turn to squirm painfully. “Spirit! Spirit!”

  “Oh,” gloated Vithrok, “so now I have your attention. Let me show you something.”

  He released his hold on the Raven and directed one of his shriveled fingers to the circle of open sky visible at the top of the dome.

  “Look!” he said. “There it is. The Black Spot. You can see it from here now. See it? Just there. The Thing That Was Cast Out. It’s coming. You see?”

  Raven squinted up at the sky. Vithrok thought this an act meant to be funny since the bird had eyes certainly sharp enough to detect the black spot at this distance.

  “It’s coming,” said Vithrok. “Now I want to know. Are you going to help me? I need to know.”

  Raven shrugged coyly. His eyes wandered aimlessly about the room. “Ask me again,” he clucked, “once you have stopped Time.”

  Vithrok found this lack of an answer frustrating, maddening, unacceptable.

  He seized Raven, encircling him, enveloping him. What would have been a monumental effort to him before, working sorcery upon one of the great turgats themselves, was a simple matter to him now with all the additional power at his command. It felt good to use it. It felt good to focus it through the lens of his mind and apply it in force. To bend the great spirit of Tulukkaruq to his will required an intense concentration. Raven was not the most physically powerful of the turgats, far from it, but his will was strong and slippery, wildly evasive. To ensorcel this one was no little feat.

  Raven’s spirit dodged and weaved, attempting to shake Vithrok’s hold.

  “You can’t make me do anything!” he squawked, but his arrogance was gone. His words sounded more like a desperate plea. But it was also true.

  Vithrok harkened back to something that had happened long ago. He had taken hold of one of the other Sighted Ones, the Tunrit shamans, and had tried to force the bird-like Tulunigraq to help him bring the sun. Tulunigraq struggled, and although Vithrok eventually dominated his spirit, the other shaman was badly damaged. And indeed the same could well happen with Raven. And if Raven were broken, he might be left unable to do the un-naming. Vithrok couldn’t take that chance. He couldn’t force Raven’s cooperation, but he could still try and convince him in other ways.

  “What if I pluck your feathers, Raven, one by one?”

  The turgat continued to struggle. He offered no witty retort.

  A burst of flame enveloped the Raven, but that was not good enough to move him. Fire was too pedantic for the Raven. So Vithrok pierced his soul with sharp objects, crushed him beneath tons of ice and rock, pulled him apart, blasted him with intense cold, roasted him in a furnace of atomic heat.

  Raven squirmed and twisted in agony, but still resisted. “This is what waits for you, Vithrok, if I don’t help you. If you ignite the Beforetime and I fail to un-name what I have named, you will burn forever!”

  “I know,” said Vithrok. “All the world will burn and all the people with it too. And you will be with me, Raven. I will make sure of that. You will roast on a spit of eternal fire right beside me.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You’re not strong enough to oppose me.”

  “You don’t dare kill me,” said Raven. “You need me.”

  “You’re no use to me if you won’t help me,” returned Vithrok. “I might as well kill you.”

  Raven fell silent.

  “Or perhaps something worse than death…” suggested Vithrok.

  He changed tactic. He took away the blades and the pressure and the cold, and instead treated his captive to the intense emptiness of deep space. The loneliness, the absolute quiet, the helplessness.

  The effect was striking.

  “Ahhh,” gloated Vithrok. “Now here is something you must really hate. You’re so skilled at thinking and tricking and planning, but this… the touch of oblivion… a torture of nothingness… Tell, me how does it taste to you?”

  Raven squirmed.

  Vithrok went on, “This is what it was like for me, imprisoned in an empty stone since the dawn of time. I bore it for millennia, but can you? Can you suffer it even for a minute?”

  Raven screamed.

  “How about an eon?”

  “Stop!” pleaded the Raven. “Please stop!”

  Vithrok didn’t relent. “The Black Spot is fast approaching. Paradise is fast approaching. I want to know now. Are you going to help me?”

  “Of course,” said the Raven. “Of course.”

  Vithrok let him go.

  Raven pulled his beaked hood over his human face and sprouted his ebon wings. He fluttered up toward the sky above.

  “I will call you when I need you,” said Vithrok. “Until then, I don’t want to see you again.”

  Vithrok felt sharply invigorated. He was incapable of feeling tired now. The attack upon Raven had steadied his mood. It felt good to wield the power he held at his command.

  With his adversary gone, he drifted back into the struggle to maintain control over the bubbling cistern. The Beforetime rippled and seethed, burgeoning again with its unrestrained promises of possibility. Vithrok resumed his task. He must hold on.

  He had forced a reluctant pledge of allegiance from Raven. But of course it was meaningless. Raven was well-known for lying.

  In any case Vithrok felt satisfied. In the end, he thought, I will win. All I have to do is deal with Tsungi when he comes.

  CHAPTER 36

  SURVIVAL

  A council was held in Maguan’s tent. The men passed around a platter of brown bear meat fresh from a kill made the day before, but none of them were particularly hungry. Even Igguaniaq, the Big Mountain, only picked at the offering.

  “An attack?” asked Maguan.

  “Manik is telling the truth,” said Alaana. “We’re very lucky to have the warning.”

  “But we don’t have anything they could want,” said Iggy. “We’ve hardly any fish in our stores. No meat...”

  “They might be after the guns,” said Kigiuna, “or trying to get some of the women.” The idea was frightening. The thought of a Yupikut raid chilled the blood of any peace-loving person. The raiders were ruthless and seldom left anyone alive who opposed them. Children were cast aside to fend for themselves, which in most cases meant a slow death alone on the flats. And women — the thought of any of their wives or daughters in the hands of those fiends was terrifying.

  “They don’t need a reason to come here,” offered Kamatsiaq. He was the eldest surviving son of their former headman Tugtutsiak and as grim-faced as his father.

  “Aquppak’s the reason!” said Maguan. “He was dangerous enough roaming the tundra by himself, but now that he has the whole of the Yupikut behind him, he’s looking for vengeance.”

  “Vengeance for what?” asked Kigiuna. “He tried to take Alaana by force, to murder her husband. Everyone knows we can’t keep someone like that among us. So we cast him out.”

  “We should have finished him when we had the chance,” said Maguan. That last was aimed squarely at his sister Alaana. “But you wouldn’t let me.”

  “I couldn’t,” she said. “When we were children he was my friend. Even when the others turned away, he stood by me.” She shook her head and took a sip of lukewarm, bitter tea. “One time, when we were up on Dog Ear Ridge he saved my life. So later when I had the chance, I couldn’t kill him.”

  “Can you now?” demanded Maguan.

  “If need be.”

  “Good enough,” said Kigiuna. “There’s no point arguing over what might have been. The shaman is not an ordinary woman, as we all know. The quality of her mercy is inspiring.” He gave Alaana a little smile. “The past is behind us. The thing to do is make some kind of plan for what to do now.”
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  “We could do like they do — post sentries around the camp.” This suggestion came from Alaana’s husband Ben. After ten years of captivity among the Yupikut he was intimately familiar with the ways of the raiders.

  “That’s no good,” said Maguan. “We’ve too few men to spread out like that. Besides we already know they’re coming. What good are sentries? We don’t need sentries, just sharp eyes and ears inside the camp.”

  “How many men do we have all together?” asked Iggy.

  “Well,” said Maguan, “six in our family, Anaktuvik has three, and Tugtutsiak’s clan numbers also six strong men. Five in Kuanak’s family and then there is Guarina, Civiliaq’s son. Counting you as two, Iggy, that makes twenty-three. I haven’t included Kinak in that. Can he fight, Alaana?”

  “His mind is clear and he’s a good shot with the rifle. He can help.” Alaana shuddered at the thought of her son, who had until recently been considered crazy and little more than useless, fighting against seasoned warriors like the Yupikut.

  “Most of us are better with the bow than the rifle,” observed Kigiuna.

  “Arrows against bullets…” mused Maguan, shaking his head. “You can bet the Yupikut know how to use their guns very well.”

  “We haven’t enough rifles for all the men anyway,” said Ben. “We should keep them with the best shots. Those are Itoriksak, myself, Atanauraq and Pupupik. What about Choobuk?”

  “Will he fight? His own father?”

  “He won’t raise his hand against his father,” said Maguan. “Neither of Aquppak’s sons will do that.”

  “We can’t use them,” noted Kigiuna, “and we can’t afford to ignore them either. They might turn against us.”

  “We need Choobuk. He’s the best shot among us with a rifle.”

  “Alaana,” said Kigiuna, “you know their hearts…”

  “Their souls are laid bare to me. They will fight the raiders,” said Alaana. “They are Anatatook.”

  “Fine,” said Maguan. “But someone will have to keep a close eye on them.”