by Ken Altabef
“Tell me the rest,” said Vithrok.
Tugto was the only member of the hunting party who could see the great spirit. Of all the Tunrit only four of them possessed the gift of the spirit-vision. Vithrok, Tugto, Tulunigraq, and Oogloon. Only their eyes could pierce the darkness, laying bare the luminous spirits which dwelled within all things. Oogloon was an exception, as he saw only the spirit of the snow. But even so, such a limitation was practically irrelevant as the snow was ever-present all around them.
The rest of the Tunrit stumbled in the endless night. In the complete darkness they were as good as blind. One of the four takpiksuq, which meant Sighted Ones, must accompany any foray. They were the eyes of the people, they were the light. They watched for predators and made the hunt possible.
Tugto described what he had seen. The hunters poised for the kill atop the high ground of the ridge, the caribou milling about in the waters of the Silver Tongue below. Then a gigantic thunderclap. The ground shivered beneath their feet. Tekkeitsertok appeared above them as a giant man with the face and hooves of a caribou. The size of the spirit varied from time to time, but on this occasion it made itself as tall as the entire high ridge. Its proud face and gigantic crested horns held high, its long sloping nose swept back and forth across the scene. The great spirit was naked except for the short fur of the season in a creamy tan color. The hunch of its massive shoulders and the sweep of the horned head revealed immense strength and power.
Vithrok listened carefully. He had no idea why only four had the sight and not the others. “Did it speak?”
“Not this time,” said Tugto. “Except with a spike of lightning and the crash of thunder. We are beneath its notice. It drove the caribou away before we could get them with our spears.”
“One of them has my shaft in its hindquarters,” said Makite, “but it didn’t fall down.”
“And we came away with nothing,” said another.
“We were lucky just to get these,” Makite said, indicating the charred hares.
“We can not blame the turgats, they are just protecting their own.” This came from Tulunigraq, the oddest-looking of all the Tunrit. During the Great Rift, when all things were trapped in solid shapes, he had been caught in transition between forms and retained some features of a bird — a crest of feathers along his brow and a beak-like protuberance where his nose should have been. He had also a high forehead, narrow temples, and a long downy beard whose hairs were splintered and feathery. He wore a cap made of brown owl skin from which protruded a pair of slender, three-branched horns.
“Tekkeitsertok cares only for those under his protection,” continued Tulunigraq. “It’s the same with Sedna and the seal, or the Whale-Man and his charges.”
“And who protects us?” raged Makite. “What great spirit speaks for us?”
To that question there could be no answer except a stony silence. The Tunrit had no guardian spirit. They had only the four takpiksuq, and they were mortal men.
“I’ve been thinking,” offered Tulunigraq, “that perhaps our turgat is Tsungi. He fought for us during the Rift.”
Vithrok found this idea difficult to accept. Tsungi, who had transformed himself into a creature of light in the great battle that brought an end to the Beforetime, was no great spirit. His soul was believed to have been consumed in the battle, for he had never made the jump across the Rift.
“If it is Tsungi,” said Makite, “then why has he forsaken us?”
Vithrok watched the faces of the Tunrit as they shrugged, or grimaced and looked away. No one knew the answers.
“Perhaps our guardian is Raigli,” said Tugto, referring to the one who had been cast out. The Thing they had last seen spinning off into the void of the Outer Darkness. “It’s just as likely.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Vithrok. “We are here, and they are gone. We have been suffered to live in this world of ice-bound seas and trackless wastes, the kingdom of the air rendered an empty void, our orchards turned to deserts of ice and snow. We will provide for ourselves. As we always have.”
“Against such a powerful spirit? What can we do?”
“There must be a way,” mused Vithrok. “These turgats used to be souls just like us. Do you remember?”
Tugto spoke for them all, “It is difficult.”
“I remember Tekkeitsertok,” said Tulunigraq, pointing his beak thoughtfully. “I knew him. It’s the same with all of them. They were just like us in the Before.”
“Why were they favored with such power?” demanded Makite. He turned toward Vithrok, and the firelight ran red across a series of scars the claws of some predator had carved into his cheek. “Why are we cursed?”
Vithrok didn’t like the disgruntled murmurs Makite’s impassioned words stirred up among the Tunrit. It was for this reason he was constantly telling them not to think of the Beforetime, not to dwell on all they had lost. He raised his voice. “We are small before them, but we are not helpless.”
The tone of the murmurs lightened from despair to grim acceptance and that was perhaps the best Vithrok could hope for. Someone said, “The Truth,” and a few others took up the note in unison. “The Truth!”
Tulunigraq finished his portion of the hare. “Rest now, Tugto. I will take some men out. Perhaps we’ll have better luck hunting for musk ox.”
“You’ll have to travel below the rim of the basin,” Tugto said wearily.
Tulunigraq returned a questioning look.
“There were cats on the eastern side,” explained Tugto, “They have lairs in those hills now.”
“Agggh,” exclaimed Makite, “Then we should hunt them in their dens and warrens. Let us kill their young and eat them!”
Although Vithrok agreed with the sentiment, he knew too well that reality would not allow it. Of all the savage beasts out on the tundra, the dagger-toothed cats were more than a match for the Tunrit. Sleek and powerful, they weighed twice as much as a Tunrit, but were light on their feet and swift as the wind.
Some threats were best avoided, such as the huge but slow-moving mamut, while others could be brought down if caught alone, even horned, thick-hided beasts. The Tunrit had honed themselves into successful hunters, masters of the ambush, intimidated neither by the bulk of their prey, nor flashing teeth, nor gore-splattered horns as long as a man’s arm. These things, they found, mattered less if they caught one who was old and weak. But the dagger-toothed cats were the ultimate predators. Their yellowed eyes could see in the dark fully as well as the Sighted Ones. They struck swiftly, they moved silently, and they held no fear of the Tunrit. Many Tunrit had fallen prey to the claws and teeth of the cats, some maimed, others killed and eaten. An attack on the caverns of the cats, though a heroic idea, was not possible.
Worse yet, the cats had their own turgat to guard them. Vithrok had encountered Savikkigut only once and hoped never to do so again. It was as deadly as its charges and infinitely more powerful, a wild force of nature that lived only to slash and rend.
“We’ll go around,” said Talunigraq.
The twigs and grasses spent, the fire died down. Soon they would be left to the cold and dark again.
Vithrok cracked a leg bone between his teeth and sucked out a thin strip of bitter marrow. He stood up, casting aside the bone. He wanted to see Uivvaq’s painting while there still was firelight. The colors were impossible to see with the spirit-vision alone.
Uivvaq was applying some final touches to a spectacular bird of many colors. The wings blazed with reds and oranges as if aflame, the body feathered with a multitude of blues. Vithrok thought Uivvaq very clever to create so many paints from the pigments of the few stray plants he scraped off the rocks. Where there is a need, he thought, we find a way. Always.
As he watched, the light grew too dim for Uivvaq to continue. “Did you see it?” asked the painter. He turned to Vithrok, his eyes aglow with silver light. He ran the tips of his fingers tenderly along the bird’s wing. “The firelight makes them dance and come al
ive.”
Vithrok wanted to remark on how wonderful and beautiful the painting was, for indeed it made his heart sing.
“Why do you make these pictures?” he asked instead. “These things don’t exist anymore. This doesn’t help.”
“To remember,” said Uivvaq. “In the Before, such a creature would have flown through the sky, wings ablaze, if only one of us had wished it were so.”
“Forget it,” Vithrok said. “False hope is the cruelest of lies.” This advice was nearly as difficult to utter as to take, but Vithrok had long made up his mind on the subject. It seemed the only way to help them, to shepherd his people through this monstrous heartbreak, was to ask them to forget.
His criticism didn’t sway Uivvaq. “Not lies. They do exist. In my heart. And now here.” He touched the painting again, but the light had already gone out. “They exist here for all to see.”
Below the dazzling bird, Uivvaq had painted a more mundane scene. The figure of a Tunrit on the hunt, crouching before an onrushing beast. The hunter was small, but he was not alone. His brothers were beside him, hidden behind the rocks, waiting for their ambush.
And Vithrok saw the truth.
“He can’t protect them all.”
“What?” asked Uivvaq, his voice a whisper in the dark.
“The answer,” said Vithrok. “From now on we hunt only caribou.”
“Do you see them?” asked Kidan. “Do you see anything?”
“There’s nothing to see,” said Vithrok. “Just listen. You can hear as well as I can.”
Kidan bowed his head to listen. Across the expansive plain he could see nothing in the ever-present darkness. He heard very little. The sigh of a gentle wind, a distant crack from one of the ice mountains echoing down the pass.
And then the rumble of thunder. “Thunder without a storm,” he said. “That’s it then?”
“Quiet!” hissed Vithrok. He stared out along the frozen tundra.
The relentless campaign the Tunrit had waged against the caribou had resulted in a few successes so far, but this would be their greatest victory yet. Vithrok, Makite and the others had arranged a series of attacks against the herds, separated by distance but simultaneous in execution. Where the Tunrit had previously divided their time among several types of prey, they were now fixated solely on the caribou. The great spirit Tekkeitsertok had been hard pressed to keep pace with the increased ferocity of the hunting. Even with the turgat’s best efforts to protect its charges, a number of the Tunrit ambushes and traps had paid off. Tekkeitsertok could not be everywhere at once. Many of the animals had fallen.
The thunder rolled down again, tumbling from higher ground in a slow cadence that was almost a growl. This was followed by a shrill whistle in an undulating pattern.
“There it is,” said Vithrok. “That is Makite’s signal. They’re coming.” He clapped Kidan on the shoulder, saying, “Follow as best you can.”
Vithrok began his descent, moving rapidly along the rocks of the pass. He must let the others know; he must light the way and give them direction during the ambush. Makite and some of the others were harassing a herd out on the open tundra, their actions sure to draw Tekkeitsertok’s attention. And precisely as expected, the great turgat had arrived to draw his herd away from the attack.
But just as surely as a frightened caribou will head instinctively into the center of the pack, a frightened herd will always tend to move south. Such a path would lead them this way, across the little stream the Tunrit had named Echo River toward what the caribou would presume to be safety between the rocks of Echo Pass. Vithrok hurried along, using the spirit-lights within the old stones to guide his steps. Behind him, at the mouth of Echo Pass he could hear the clatter of the herd on the march, a peculiar clicking sound their hooves made even when treading soft snow.
Vithrok sent his hunters descending upon the herd. The brilliance of the plan was that it expected Tekkeitsertok’s interference, indeed it depended on it. Their guardian was now driving the caribou into the very ambush that would destroy them.
Vithrok reached the killing field just slightly in advance of the charging animals. With loud whoops he distracted the caribou and kept them from straying away from the pass. The two waves of Tunrit set upon the flanks of the herd. It was a large grouping, perhaps twenty males and twice as many does and fawns.
The killing began. Only the Sighted Ones could observe the spectacle, and it was a marvel to watch. Vithrok admired his people, who hunted the animals blind. Survival was a desolate road in this place, requiring a fortitude and devotion to the common good such as none of them had ever known. But they had risen to it. Yes, he was intensely proud of them all.
A handful were able to throw their spears by instinct and a few of these connected, but most had to hunt by feel, judging the positions of their prey by the sounds alone. A dangerous prospect as they were forced to move among the stampeding, frenzied animals, dodging their lethal charges while thrusting with a spear whenever close enough to make a killing stroke. The hunters communicated with one another using short barking calls that signaled when an animal had passed and in what direction it was moving. To Vithrok’s ears there was great beauty in the sounds of the Tunrit working together to overcome their difficulties.
Soon half of the bucks were down and none of the Tunrit injured, a remarkable display of swift reflexes and unshakable resolve. Thunder bellowed and lightning crackled above as Tekkeitsertok attempted to warn its charges away again but the flashes of light only served to illuminate new targets.
Vithrok joined the hunt, launching a heavy spear into the neck of one of the rampaging males, an impressive buck with a full rack who was only a few steps away from running down Makite. Makite leapt to the side as the onrushing beast bellowed in pain and rage. He didn’t miss a beat, driving his point into the exposed flank as it passed.
Attention was turned to the does. Vithrok struck out to one side, hobbling two of them. Kidan moved in to make one of the kills while Vithrok finished the other. He planted a foot atop the doe’s sloping back and drove his point into the neck. Warm blood jutted upwards, covering his arms and splashing his chest. When the Tunrit hunted like this they went bare-chested despite the bracing cold. They could not afford to be slowed down by bulky furs or have a stray fold of clothing catch on horn or hoof. In short order Vithrok was covered to the waist in sticky blood.
The slaughter of the does brought a further rush of anger from their guardian. The ground shook beneath Vithrok’s feet. Lightning flashed down from the sky, sizzling the snow to steam, but no one had yet been injured. Tekkeitsertok’s voice rang out like thunder as its wrath stabbed down, but these displays were meant to frighten off timid people, and the Tunrit had never been timid. They were hardened to their task.
Vithrok lost himself in the moment, delivering a killing stroke, his chest warmed with hot red blood. The pungent smell of death soaked the frosty air.
The doe frothed bloody spume as her head flailed from side to side in helpless fury. Steam blew from her nostrils in desperate gasps as the bloody spear did its work again and again.
Suddenly Vithrok was spun around by a hand on his shoulder.
“Enough!” cried Tulunigraq.
For a moment the bird-like countenance startled Vithrok, but he held his spear away.
“This is too much!” insisted Tulunigraq. “We’ve killed more than we can eat. We should let the does live, as we always have before.”
“No longer,” replied Vithrok. “In this we must be merciless.”
“This is madness. Wasting food.” Tulunigraq pushed Vithrok away. He raised his feathered arms. “Stop!” he called out to the men, “It’s time to stop.”
“Kill them all!” ordered Vithrok. “Don’t let the fawns escape. Kill them all!”
“This is madness. It’s cruel to kill more than we need, and foolishness as well. If we kill the young there will soon be none left to feed us. Your plan will not work!”
“It w
ill work!” shouted Vithrok.
Tulunigraq huffed, seeing that the men, clearly more interested in what Vithrok had to say, had disregarded his commands. One and all, they were running down the bleating fawns.
Vithrok had one on the ground, his booted foot on the yearling’s neck. As he raised his spear, Tulunigraq intervened again.
The far-off cries of Tekkeitsertok’s displeasure had come full upon them. The air was ripped asunder with rumbles of thunder and rage.
“Tekkeitsertok is displeased,” said Tulunigraq.
“Then I am pleased,” answered Vithrok.
“We anger the great spirits at our own peril. Nothing good can come of this. We should be paying obeisance to those above us–”
“No.” Vithrok shook him off. “We shall raise ourselves above those who would lord over us.”
“Tekkeitsertok will kill you. It will kill all of us!”
Vithrok stepped down on the yearling’s neck. “No.”
“We won’t continue with this foolishness,” warned Tulunigraq. “I’ll see to that. After it kills you, we won’t continue.”
“Yes, you will,” snarled Vithrok. “Do you hear me? You must! We’re close. Else you’ll ruin everything.” He stabbed his spear down, putting an end to the fawn.
Vithrok turned and swung his balled fist at Tulunigraq. The other easily sidestepped the blow.
Their fight was fast and furious. Whereas in the Before they would have altered shape, creating weaponry from their own bodies, now they pounded away with the blunt instruments of hands and feet. Locked into these forms, they had grown accustomed to their limitations and mastered them. Vithrok struck out with both hands, targeting Tulunigraq’s neck and loins. His opponent’s reflexes were sharp, his sense of balance perfect, and the attacks were parried without difficulty. Tulunigraq returned force in kind but neither could lay hand on the other without being swatted away or blocked.
