Julie of the Wolves

by Jean Craighead George

  Miyax suddenly wanted to talk. Speaking rapidly in Upick, she told her guests about the river, the game, the fuel, and the stars—but not about the wolves or her past. They listened and smiled.

  When dinner was over Atik talked slowly and softly, and Miyax learned that Kangik was an Eskimo village with an airport and a mission school. A generator had been built, and electricity lighted the houses in winter. A few men even owned snowmobiles there. Atik was proud of his town.

  Before going to bed he went out to feed the dogs. Then Uma talked. She said they were headed for the mountains to hunt caribou. When Atik returned, Miyax told him he did not need to go to the mountains—that a large herd was yarded not far up the river. She drew a map on the floor and showed him where the wintering grounds of the caribou lay. He was happy to learn this, he said, for the Brooks Range was treacherous in winter; whole mountainsides avalanched, and storms brewed up in mere minutes.

  Uma nursed the baby, tucked him into their furs, and softly sang him to sleep as the fire began to die down. Presently her head nodded, and she slipped into bed, where Atik joined her.

  Miyax alone was awake, visions of Kangik filling her head. She would go there and be useful. Perhaps she would teach children how to snare rabbits, make parkas, and carve; or she might live with some family that needed her help. She might even work in the store. In Kangik she would live as her ancestors had, in rhythm with the animals and the climate. She would stay far away from San Francisco where men were taught to kill without reason. She did not fall asleep for hours.

  Tornait awoke first and called softly. Miyax dressed, cut off a piece of meat, and held it out to him. He snatched the food and swallowed it noisily. That awoke the baby and the baby awoke Uma, who reached out, took him to her breast, and rocked him as she lay in the furry warmth of her skins. It was almost zero in the house and she did not hurry to get up.

  Atik awoke, yawned, and roared, “I’m hungry.” Uma laughed and Miyax put the pot on the fire. Atik dressed, went out to his sled, and brought back bacon, bread, beans, and butter. Miyax had forgotten there were such good things and her mouth fairly watered as she smelled them cooking. At first she refused the food when Uma offered it, but seeing how disappointed she was she accepted the bacon and sucked on it quietly, remembering with pain the tastes of Barrow.

  After breakfast Atik went out to harness the dogs, Miyax cleaned up, and Uma played with her baby. As she tossed him she chatted happily about her love for Atik and how excited she had been when he decided to take her on the hunt. Most Eskimo wives were left home these days; with the advent of gussak frozen foods, cooks were no longer needed for the hunt. And the women never tanned hides anymore; all skins for the tourist trade must go to Seattle to be tanned correctly for the temperate climates where most were shipped.

  Uma rambled on. Atik had been raised in Anchorage and knew very little about hunting, for his father had been a mechanic. But he had died, and Atik was sent to live with his grandfather in Kangik. He had become enamored of hunting and fishing and became so skilled that when his grandfather died he was adopted by the greatest of all living Eskimo hunters.

  “Kapugen taught Atik where the seals live and how to smell a caribou trail.”

  Miyax stopped cleaning her pot. Her blood raced hot, then cold. Turning slowly around she stared at Uma.

  “Where was this Kapugen born?” she asked in Eskimo.

  “He has never said. He paddled up the river one day, beached his kayak, and built a house where he landed. All I know is that he came out of the Bering Sea. But he was wealthy in the Eskimo sense—intelligent, fearless, full of love—and he soon became a leader of Kangik.”

  Miyax did not take her eyes off Uma’s lips as they formed soft words of Kapugen. “U i ya Kangik?” she asked.

  “Yes, but not in the center of town where the rich men live. Although Kapugen is also rich, he lives in a simple green house on the river bank. It is upstream, beside the wilderness, where the people he loves feel free to visit.”

  Trembling with eagerness, Miyax asked Uma to tell her more about Kapugen, and Uma, spilling over with enthusiasm, told how the town and its people had grown poor and hungry several years ago. The walrus had all but vanished from the coast; the gray whales were rare, and the seals were few and far between. The Bureau of Indian Affairs put most everyone on pensions, and so they drank and forgot all they knew. Then Kapugen arrived. He was full of pride and held his head high. He went out into the wilderness and came back with musk-oxen. These he bred and raised. The men helped him; the women made the fur into thread and then into mittens and beautiful sweaters and scarves. These were sold to the gussaks who paid high prices for them, and within a few years the people of Kangik became independent and prosperous.

  “But there is still a need for caribou and wolverine furs for clothing and trim,” she said, “so Kapugen and Atik go hunting every winter to supply the town.”

  “Kapugen did not come this year,” she went on. “He let me come instead.” She smiled, slipped her baby into her kuspuck, tightened her belt, and stood up. “Kapugen is wise and strong.”

  Miyax turned her back to Uma. She must not see the quivering of her body at every mention of her father’s name. He had been dead to her, for so long that she was almost frightened by the knowledge that he lived. Yet she loved each cold chill that told her it was true.

  Outside the dogs began fighting over their rations, and Atik’s whip cracked like a gunshot. Miyax shivered at the sound. She thought of Amaroq and tears welled in her eyes but did not fall, for she was also thinking about Kapugen. She must find him. He would save the wolves just as he had saved the people of Kangik.

  “Amaroq, Amaroq,” she sang as she fluffed up her furs. Uma turned to her in surprise.

  “You are happy after all,” she said in Eskimo. “I thought perhaps this was the beginning of your periods and that your family had sent you to a hut to be alone. The old grandmother who raised me did that, and I was miserable and so unhappy, because no one does that anymore.”

  Miyax shook her head. “I am not yet a woman.”

  Uma did not inquire further, but hugged her. Then she put her baby in her kuspuck and crept out the door to join Atik in the starlit darkness. It was day and the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere were shining overhead. The dogs were biting their harnesses and fighting each other, and Atik was trying to make them hold still. Suddenly they lunged in all directions and the sled was moving. Atik picked up Uma and the baby, put them on the sled and, calling his grateful thanks to Miyax, took off.

  She waved until they were lost in the darkness, then rushed into her house, rolled up her sleeping skins, and loaded her sled. She hoisted her pack to her back and picked up Tornait. Carefully she slipped the feather coat around his breast and, leaving his wings free, tied the little coat on his back. He looked silly. She laughed, rubbed her nose against his beak, and tucked him into the hood of her parka.

  “Amna a-ya, a-ya-amna,” she sang as she slid to the river, put on her snowshoes, and strode down the snapping ice bed.

  She had gone about a mile when she heard Kapu bark. She knew it was he. His voice was unmistakable. Terrified, she turned around.

  “Stay! Stay!” she screamed. The wind picked up her words and blew them down the river. Kapu ran up to her, followed by Nails and the pups. All were yipping authoritatively as they told her to join them.

  “I cannot,” she cried. “My own Amaroq lives. I must go to him!”

  She walked forward a few steps, and turned and glared as the wolf leader had done. For a moment they hesitated, as if not believing her message. Then they dashed away and ran up the river. They called from the bank, and then they were gone.

  Miyax had spoken her last words to her wolves.

  She thought of Kapugen and hurried on. What would she say to him? Would they rub noses when they met? Surely he would hug his favorite child and let her enter his house, tan his hides, sew his clothes, cook his food. There was so m
uch she could do for this great hunter now; prepare caribou, catch rabbits, pluck birds, and even make tools with water and the freezing air. She would be very useful to him and they would live as they were meant to live—with the cold and the birds and the beasts.

  She tried to recall Kapugen’s face—his dark eyes and the brows that drooped kindly. Would his cheeks still be strong and creased by laughter? Would he still have long hair and stand tall?

  A green fountain of magnetic light shot up into the sky, its edges rimmed with sparks. The air crackled, the river groaned, and Miyax pointed her boots toward Kapugen.

  She could see the village of Kangik long before she got to it. Its lights twinkled in the winter night on the first bench of the river near the sea. When she could make out windows and the dark outlines of houses, she pulled her sled to the second bench above the river and stopped. She needed to think before meeting Kapugen.

  She pitched her tent and spread out her sleeping skins. Lying on her stomach, she peered down on the town. It consisted of about fifty wooden houses. A few were large, but all had the same rectangular design with peaked roof. Kangik was so snowy she could not see if there was trash in the streets, but even if there had been she would not have cared. Kapugen’s home had to be beautiful.

  The village had one crossroad, where the church and mission stood. On either side of them were the stores, which Miyax recognized by the many people who wandered in and out. She listened. Dog teams barked from both ends of town, and although she knew there were snowmobiles, the village was essentially a sled-dog town—an old-fashioned Eskimo settlement. That pleased her.

  Her eyes roamed the street. A few children were out romping in the snow and she guessed that it was about ten o’clock in the morning— the time Eskimo children were sent out to play. By that hour their mothers had completed their morning chores, and had time to dress the little ones and send them outside, cold as it was.

  Below the town, she could see the musk-oxen Uma had spoken about. They were circled together near the gate of their enclosure, heads facing out to protect themselves from wolves and bears. Her heart thrilled to see these wondrous oxen of the north. She could help Kapugen take care of the herd.

  Two children burst out of a house, put a board across a barrel like a seesaw, and took their positions standing on either end of the board. They began jumping, sending each other higher and higher, and coming down on the board with incredible accuracy. Miyax had seen this game in Barrow, and she watched the flying figures with fascination. Then she slowly lifted her eyes and concentrated on the houses.

  There were two green houses near the wilderness. She was debating which one was Kapugen’s when the door opened in the smaller one and three children tumbled out. She decided he must live in the other one—with the windows, the annex, and two wooden boats in the yard.

  A woman came out of Kapugen’s house and hurried across the snow.

  “Of course,” Miyax thought. “He has married. He has someone to sew and cook for him. But I can still help him with the oxen.”

  The woman passed the church and stopped at the mission door. She was engulfed in light for an instant, then the door closed behind her. Miyax arose. It was time to seek out her father. He would be alone.

  Her feet skimmed the snow as she ran down the hill and across the road, where the children were hitching a dog to a sled. They giggled, and Tornait answered their high bird-like voices from inside her hood.

  As Miyax neared the green house she took Tornait in her hand and ran right up to the door. She knocked.

  Footsteps sounded from a far corner of the house. The door opened and there stood Kapugen. He was just as she remembered him—rugged, but with dark gentle eyes. Not a word came to her mind. Not even his name or a greeting. She was too moved by the sight of him to speak. Then Tornait peeped. She held him out.

  “I have a present for you,” she said at last in Eskimo. The feather coat rustled and Tornait’s amber head pulled into the covering like a turtle.

  “What is it?” Kapugen’s voice was resonant and warm and seemed to come from the seashore at Nunivak where the birds sang and the sea was framed with the fur of his parka. “Come in. I’ve never seen such a bird.” He spoke English and she smiled and shook her head. He repeated his invitation in Upick. Miyax stepped across the threshold and into his home.

  The big room was warm and smelled of skins and fat. Harpoons hung on the wall, and under the window was a long couch of furs. The kayak hung from the ceiling, and a little stove glowed in the center of the room. Kapugen’s house in Kangik looked just like Kapugen’s house in seal camp. She was home!

  Tornait hopped to the floor, his feather coat blooming behind him like a courting ptarmigan. He ran under a fur.

  “He wears a coat!” Kapugen laughed and got down on his knees to peer at the bird.

  “Yes,” Miyax said. “He is the spirit of the birds. He is a golden plover.”

  “A golden plover, the spirit of the birds? Where did you hear that?” Kapugen arose and pushed back her parka hood.

  “Who are you?”

  “Julie Edwards Miyax Kapugen.”

  The great frost-blackened hands ran softly over her face.

  “Ee-lie,” he whispered. “Yes, you are she. You are beautiful like your mother.” He opened his arms. She ran into them and for a long time he held her tightly.

  “When they sent you to school,” he said softly, “Nunivak was too much to bear. I left and began a new life. Last year when at last I was rich I went back to get you. You were gone.” His fingers touched her hair and he hugged her once more.

  The door opened and the woman came in. “Who have we here?” she asked in English.

  Miyax saw that her face was pale and her hair was reddish gold. A chill spread over her. What had Kapugen done? What had happened to him that he would marry a gussak? What was his new life?

  Kapugen and his woman talked—she loudly, Kapugen quietly. Miyax’s eyes went around the room again. This time she saw not just the furs and the kayak, but electric lamps, a radio-phonograph, cotton curtains and, through the door to the annex, the edge of an electric stove, a coffee pot, and china dishes.

  There were bookshelves and a framed picture on the wall of some American country garden. Then she saw a helmet and goggles on a chair. Miyax stared at them until Kapugen noticed her.

  “Aw, that,” he said. “I now own an airplane, Miyax. It’s the only way to hunt today. The seals are scarce and the whales are almost gone; but sportsmen can still hunt from planes.”

  Miyax heard no more. It could not be, it could not be. She would not let it be. She instantly buried what she was thinking in the shadows of her mind.

  “Miyax,” the wife said in bad Upick, “I teach in the school here. We shall enroll you tomorrow. You can learn to read and write English. It’s very difficult to live even in this Eskimo town without knowing English.”

  Miyax looked at Kapugen. “I am on my way to San Francisco,” she said softly in Upick. “The gussaks in Wainwright have arranged transportation for me. I shall go tomorrow.”

  A telephone rang. Kapugen answered it and jotted down a note.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said to Miyax. “I’ll be right back. Then we’ll talk.” He hugged her. Miyax stiffened and looked at the helmet.

  “Ellen, fix her some food,” he called as he put on his coat, a long American-made Arctic field jacket. He zipped it with a flourish and went out the door. Ellen went into the kitchen and Miyax was alone.

  Slowly she picked up Tornait, put on her sealskin parka, and placed the little bird in her hood. Then she snapped on the radio, and as it crackled, whined, and picked up music, she opened the door and softly closed it behind her. Kapugen, after all, was dead to her.

  On the second bench of the river above town she found her tent and pack, threw them onto her sled and, bending forward, hauled on it. She walked on up the river toward her house. She was an Eskimo, and as an Eskimo she must live. The hour of the
lemming was upon the land, cycling slowly toward the hour of Miyax. She would build snowhouses in winter, a sod house in summer. She would carve and sew and trap. And someday there would be a boy like herself. They would raise children, who would live with the rhythm of the beasts and the land.

  “The seals are scarce and the whales are almost gone,” she heard Kapugen say. “When are you coming to live with us in San Francisco?” called Amy.

  Miyax walked backward, watching the river valley. When the last light of Kangik disappeared, the stars lit the snow and the cold deepened far below zero. The ice thundered and boomed, roaring like drumbeats across the Arctic.

  Tornait peeped. Miyax turned her head, touched him with her chin, and felt his limpness. She stopped walking and lifted him into the cold.

  “Tornait. What is wrong with you? Are you sick?” Swiftly opening her pack, she took out some meat, chewed it to thaw it, and gave it to the bird. He refused to eat. She put him inside her parka and pitched her tent out of the wind. When she had banked it with snow, she lit a small fire. The tent glowed, then warmed. Tornait lay in her hands, his head on her fingers; he peeped softly and closed his eyes.

  Many hours later she buried him in the snow. The totem of Amaroq was in her pocket. Her fingers ran over it but she did not take it out. She sang to the spirit of Amaroq in her best English:

  The seals are scarce and the whales are almost gone.