The Shadow of Everything Existing

by Ken Altabef

  The other tactic he had devised was to stare out along the empty tundra. He fixated his spirit-gaze along the empty trackways at the top of the world. The citadel stood at the very north, directly below the Never Moves, surrounded by nothing but ice as far as the eye could see. He sat in the circular chamber on high, before an open embrasure that faced the sea of frozen water below, a vast sheet that stretched in every direction to the horizon. Unbroken ice was all he could see. It was manifest, it was plain, constant, unchanging. By concentrating on that empty, colorless vista he was better able to quell the raging distraction of the Beforetime.

  “What a fool… you’ve become,” said an unwelcome voice.

  “Desperate and alone…” said another. “You’ll die here alone…”

  Another distraction. The voices of Tugto and Oogloon, his brothers among the Sighted Ones, the Tunrit shamans of eons ago. Their ancient voices drifted down from their resting places as distant stars in the sky.

  “You’ve gone… too far,” said Tugto.

  “How can you hope to stop it? How do you think you are going to keep this world from tearing itself apart?”

  “I can do it,” said Vithrok. “I only need hold on until the Thing arrives.”

  Once the Thing extinguished the sun and stopped time, the explosion wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t burn everything up because time would be standing still. All he had to do was hold on.

  “You fool!” raged Oogloon. “You’ve done it again. You think to set things right but you go too far, just as you did before. We had the Old Agreement with the turgats. We had food. We had some measure of a life, a community, a brotherhood, but you had to bring the sun here. You had to kill us all.”

  “Enough!” said Vithrok. “Leave me alone. That was so very long ago. You’re dead and gone.”

  “Nothing’s changed,” said Oogloon. “Past is present again.”

  “This mad scheme…” said Tugto, “won’t work. You’re going to… destroy everything. It’s already too late.”

  “Too late,” said Oogloon. “There’s no way to stop it now. You won’t be able to hold on. And everything will be destroyed. You’ve played with fire once too often. Remember that? Fire. Remember the first time someone put their hand into it and got burned? That’s you, right now. You never learn from the past. You make the same mistakes again and again.”

  “Leave me alone,” he groaned. “Leave me alone. I can hold on. I won’t stop. I won’t quit no matter what you say.”

  Vithrok ignored their voices the same way he shut out everything else, the swirling madness, the colors, the smells. He centered himself in the shell of his body which was real, and the ever-unchanging tundra that waited patiently before him.

  He stared at it.

  He stared at it and time lost all meaning in the staring. The only way to judge its passing was with a stolen glance skyward at the Black Spot.

  Vithrok no longer stretched himself upward to pull on it. He dare not take his concentration that far away from the burgeoning swell of the Beforetime. Such effort wasn’t necessary, in any case. The Thing was well on its way now, its dark circle growing larger and larger by degrees. He returned his gaze to the empty tundra.

  And then he saw it. Something impossible. A man, walking across the tundra at the base of the citadel. It was impossible. A man walking the wastes this far to the north, unbothered by this bitter cold. Alive? No one could draw breath from this icy air and live, not for very long. But this man strode confidently along, looking quizzically up at the citadel. He was admiring it.

  And then Vithrok caught a glimpse of the man’s soul. So cold. So blue. No, not a man. Something else.

  Vithrok commanded his Tunrit body to stand. Its limbs were stiff as wood. He had no idea how long he had sat on the stone seat gazing through the open embrasure. Forcing dead limbs to move, he descended the long stair, down the empty corridors of volcanic stone, and out the front gate.

  “You there,” he called. “You!”

  The man turned to look at him. “A Tunrit,” he said flatly. “Well met. Well met, indeed. I am called Toonookyah of the Anatatook people.”

  “That’s not what you are. You wear the shell of Toonookyah much the same way I wear the shell of this dead Tunrit body. You are not a man of the Anatatook. You are something different entirely.”

  Striking quickly, Vithrok reached out with the power of his mind and grabbed hold of the soul inhabiting the body of Toonookyah. This inua was a small fragment of something far larger than itself, the soul of Brother Snow, the greatest, most powerful spirit in the world, which lay across all the land as a protective blanket. The spirit of the snow was almost always sleeping and inert, but for some reason Brother Snow had placed a portion of his soul into this body. Vithrok seized it with his mind and held it firm, enveloped it in his own sorcerous will.

  Toonookyah cried out angrily. “What is this?”

  Cold realization dawned upon Toonookyah. He soon realized the depths of his dilemma. He had been trapped by the will of this sorcerer, cut off from the rest of the vast and powerful spirit of Brother Snow.

  Vithrok saw a rare opportunity. It was impossible to force the soul of Brother Snow to do anything, but Vithrok worked his worst upon this small piece. He exerted all the pressure of the Moon, the irresistible force of the whales, the slashing claws of Tornarssuk.

  Toonookyah began to know fear. “What are you doing to me?”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Vithrok. “That is the question.”

  “You’re mad,” cried Toonookyah.

  “And you are afraid.”

  Toonookyah had never felt fear before. Ever since Alaana had set him on this path in her failed attempt to console a grieving widow, he had never really felt much of anything. He had walked and walked, examining this world through human eyes, witnessing all its marvels with a cold, dispassionate stare. Eventually he had found his way here.

  “Let me go.” He didn’t like being cut off from the rest. He didn’t like being alone, held in the power of this foul creature. “Let me go.”

  “I will release you,” said Vithrok, “but first I ask you to do something for me. It’s a small thing, easily accomplished. I want you to create a shell of ice around my citadel, as thick as the great bergs out in the sea. I want you to seal me up so that none may disturb me. Can you do that?”

  “As you say, it is easily accomplished.”

  Vithrok eased his hold on Toonookyah, though he still maintained control as he retreated back into his lonely tower.

  Toonookyah did as he was told. The snow and ice answered his commands immediately and without question. Brother Snow could be found in every drop and flake of frozen water. Toonookyah raised the snow in a broad circle around the citadel and made it to spin, higher and higher, until the black rock of the citadel’s tallest spire was lost beneath a blur of shifting white. The ice packed on, enveloping the structure in layer after layer, until it had grown harder than forged steel.

  “Now, sorcerer, take your claws from my throat. Let me go.”

  Vithrok had never promised to let Toonookyah go, only to release him. To release him from this existence. His mental fist twitched, crushing the body of Toonookyah to a pulp, his spirit consigned to the Underworld.

  Toonookyah was gone, but the impenetrable shell of ice remained.

  Vithrok returned his attentions to subduing the simmering volcano of Beforetime. He would work the rest of his scheme from within this shell, safe from all intruders.

  Let them come, he thought. Let them come. Let them send all their ships, all their missiles. Let them try whatever they want. Nothing can disturb me now. Nothing can stop me. When I emerge from this cocoon it will be done. I will emerge transformed into paradise.

  I just have to hold on a little while longer.

  CHAPTER 42

  THINGS FOUND

  The children giggled.

  Tikiqaq flopped rapidly back and forth, its flippers paddling in the slush.
It chased one child and then another, tagging them with the antler stick, then rolling over and clowning in celebration. The exertion left the tupilaq panting like a dog but it didn’t stop until it touched the last one and dropped the stick into the snow. The children gathered around it, still giggling.

  The tupilaq’s thoughts played a different game while the children caught their breath. Tiki thought the existence of the shadow world presented a new perspective on the concept of destiny. It was Alaana’s belief the shadow world offered an indication of what might have happened, or what was supposed to have happened in the everyday world, if she had never become shaman. She suggested that her path had been altered when Tsungi had stepped in, making her a shaman and drastically changing her destiny.

  Tiki’s mind was racing. The tupilaq found the concept of destiny fascinating. This spoke to the essential nature of the spirit world. The differences between mortal creatures and the great turgats had at last been defined. As far as Tiki had come to determine, all mortal creatures were subject to destiny. Only the great spirits possessed the ability to alter destiny.

  One of the children threw the stick again. Tiki barked enthusiastically, mimicking one of the huskies that pulled the sleds. It lurched aimlessly around in a circle as if unsure what to do next, making silly noises from both the seal mouth and the raven’s beak.

  Before the children could tire of this nonsense, Tiki shuffled through the slush in the general direction of the antler stick. The tupilaq seized the stick in the seal’s jaws and then, with a lot of cheers from the children, flipped it into the air and caught it in the raven’s beak.

  Tiki turned its mind back to certain other concepts it wanted to examine. What about Vithrok the sorcerer? Now, he wasn’t one of the great turgats. True, he was a Tunrit and by all accounts superior to human beings in terms of physical strength, fortitude and even intelligence, but he was not a force of nature. So Tiki was interested to know whether it was possible by some means for a mortal spirit to somehow elevate itself to such high position that it might become able to influence the destinies of others rather than merely playing out a predetermined role.

  Tiki made a mental note to discuss this with that interesting Russian missionary that often visited the Anatatook. It was a fascinating question but most likely never to be answered. Much like the question as to whether a scorpion has purple spots on its underbelly. One was not likely to ever find out. One might conjecture about Vithrok endlessly but one really didn’t want to flip the scorpion over to take a look.

  This train of thought was again interrupted as the tupilaq ran after the giggling children to touch them again with the stick, panting like a dog. This game was exhausting. If the children were a little older it would never have been able to catch them. Tiki was stretched to the limit as it was, keeping up with their little legs pumping merrily along while its tail and flippers were mired in slush. Eventually it touched the last of them with the antler and then, with a snap of its head, tossed the stick into their midst. They scrambled around, tussling over it as if it were some sort of wonderful mystical totem until somebody got the bright idea to throw it again.

  Tikiqaq smelled something unusual. Something impossible. It was a blast of wet sea salt, right in the middle of the completely landlocked camp. The tupilaq raised its head to look up. A whirling cyclone of air, ice and debris was rapidly descending on their exact position.

  “Children!” Tiki shouted. “Move! Move!”

  The children paid the tupilaq no mind until it started pushing them over with its rounded snout. Yes, a faceful of snow got their attention rather quickly.

  “Move! Over to the side! It’s not safe here!”

  The tupilaq herded the children to safety just in time. The whirlwind of air descended with a great whoosh. When the swirl of ground blow drifted away, Tiki found two people, covered in icy rime, huddled on the ground.

  Startled parents rushed to the scene and scooped up their little ones. None dared approach the new arrivals.

  “Bloody hell!”

  Sir Walter Gekko stood on shaky legs. The wind had knocked the sun visor from his face. He squinted at the gathering crowd as if he were completely blind.

  “Noona?” said Alaana.

  The shaman rushed forward to embrace her daughter.

  “Something important,” Noona said immediately. She was panting furiously. She couldn’t say anything more until she’d caught her breath. “I know where he is. I know where Vithrok is hiding. A Tunrit citadel. It lies to the north, directly below the Never Moves.”

  Alaana gave her daughter another firm squeeze. “That’s very well, dear,” she said. “But there’s something I have to do first.”

  Without wasting any time the shaman plopped down cross-legged in the snow. An instant later she had fallen asleep.

  But she was not asleep. Unseen by the crowd assembled, her inuseq shot out of her body. Alaana raced up into the sky.

  “Great Sila! Master of the wild wind…”

  The Walker On The Wind had appeared to her before in several different guises. Most notably it had used the visage of a wizened old soul, smoking a long ivory pipe. This time Sila presented himself in a more abstract way, as a shimmering spirit of misty blue light, wafting about in a wide circle, constantly in motion.

  “Be gone from me,” he warned. “I’ve no patience for you today.”

  Alaana flinched. This spirit did not care about her. It never had. It still irked her that she had lived for ten years as a shaman, thinking this spirit was her guardian. That false belief had brought nothing but disappointment.

  “Why did you help them?” she demanded to know.

  “I have my reasons.” The wind began to blow away.

  “Why? Why did you rescue my daughter? You knew she had that message for me, didn’t you? You wanted me to know. Why?”

  “Because injustice has been committed. The Moon Man was my friend.”

  “And mine too. Many lonely nights we spent together on his porch, gazing down at the world below.”

  The wind eased and softened, its fierce blue light growing mellow.

  “I need to know,” Alaana said. “Will you help me to avenge him?”

  The Walker On The Wind replied, “I am just air. I am as nothing. Much greater turgats have already fallen. Too many.”

  “And their deaths are still unavenged,” insisted Alaana. “If I have need of you, will you aid me?”

  There was a long pause, the wind rustling only softly.

  “If I can.”

  CHAPTER 43

  THE FINAL COUNCIL

  The big white room inside Nunavik’s tusk seemed empty now. Alaana, with the golden walrus beside her, sat facing the spirit-men of Qo’tirgin and Kaokortok. They were not even enough to form a circle.

  “Well then,” asked Nunavik, “what can we do? This is all that’s left of us? Just four?”

  Alaana thought immediately of Old Manatook, her teacher and friend, so cruelly murdered.

  Kaiutinuaq, the legendary Chukchee shaman, was also with them. His impressive spirit-man, with its mane of long white hair and many ivory earrings, had grown so dim he could no longer be seen. His voice had faded to an echo of a whisper, leaving no words, only a general awareness that he was still there. Nalliitik, who had seemed so frail and wraith-like before, had faded away completely. Most of the others, rendered powerless by the demise of their spirit guardians, had gone to join Civiliaq across the divide. Kuanak hadn’t yet returned from the Underworld. Orfik and Oktolik, shamans no longer, could not project spirit-forms into the tusk.

  “Our ranks have certainly been diminished,” said Alaana. “But I haven’t given up. How are things in the south, Qo’tirgin?”

  The inuseq of the M’gipsu shaman was as vital and bright as ever. His spirit-man still wore an ornate ceremonial spirit-parka, heavily laced with owl feathers and bird claws. “I hide,” he said. “I hide, Alaana, using the gift you provided.”

  Kaokortok cut in shar
ply, “Those were my sigils, you know. That’s a good Chukchee spell. I did that!”

  “We know,” moaned Nunavik, “we know.”

  “I don’t like hiding,” added Qo’tirgin. “It serves no good purpose. We can’t hide from this, Alaana.”

  “I know.” Alaana looked kindly upon Qo’tirgin. The M’gipsu shaman was such a strong, faithful man. He had lost his guardian, Okpik, Lord of the Owls, but not his courage or faith.

  “I see the Black Spot in the sky,” he added.

  “I’ve seen it too,” said Nunavik. “The Thing That Was Cast Out.”

  Alaana grunted softly. “It’s just as Civiliaq said. Vithrok is bringing it back.”

  Qo’tirgin’s face grew hard. “Now we know where he is, we can take the fight to him. I say we attack him, right away. The four of us.”

  “Well I don’t know what you expect me to do,” said Nunavik. “I can expect no help from Sedna. She’s turned against us.”

  Alaana added, “And you Qo’tirgin are without your own guardian.”

  Kaokortok’s eyes brightened and he smiled his gap-toothed smile. “I still have the vole. So far he’s managed to elude Vithrok. The Great Vole! He burrows deep. The master of the tunnel and the Dark Nest. He’s still with me!”

  “Wonderful,” said Nunavik.

  “Nevertheless,” said Alaana. “Qo’tirgin has no one, Sedna has joined the sorcerer, and I have… I don’t know what I have.”

  “That doesn’t sound very encouraging, does it?” said the walrus.

  Qo’tirgin shook his big fist. “Well, I’m not going to just sit and wait. I’ll go there myself if I have to.”

  “Don’t do that,” said Alaana. “That’s not going to work.”

  “Yes it will!”

  Alaana found Qo’tirgin’s confidence inspiring but also potentially deadly. “He will crush you without half a thought.”

  “Then let him crush me if that’s what must happen, but I will not go untested. I have to do something.”

  “I have a better plan,” said Alaana.