by Ken Altabef
“If he can’t, he can’t,” said Nunavik. “Let that be the end of it.”
“You bring the food,” said Uuna.
“You can take us there, Daddy,” said Siqi, “the same way you bring the food here.”
“Mmmmmm, you’re right, little one. I suppose I could.”
“Of course,” said Nunavik, “I was just about to say that, and I’ll thank you to stop interrupting, young lady!”
“Such a smart girl,” said Taamnapkunami. “Good girl. It’s time now for my nap.”
“Daddy!”
“All right, all right. But just for a short while. You watch out for them, mister walrus.”
The roar of rushing water filled Nunavik’s ears. The lake began to churn and boil all around. It was as if each drop of water had separated from the next, with the glow of Taamnapkunami’s blue soul-light infusing each drop, then sunlight reflecting off each new rounded surface of every drop, the droplets swirling for just a moment and melting back together, and then the sea.
The sea.
CHAPTER 13
A DANGEROUS NAME
The name of Klah Kritlaq raced across the tundra. Propelled by a desire for its prize, the icy plains and trackless wastes flew beneath its path. Single-minded of purpose, it sought out that southerly band of nomads among whom it had most recently dwelled, the band known as the Tanaina.
The name had belonged to a shaman during each of its three most recent lives and a bit of the angakua, the shaman’s light, clung to it still. It would always name a shaman now. Most recently the name had belonged to a young shaman of the Tanaina people. In that life, Klah Kritlaq had been an inept, poorly-trained shaman. Before that Kritlaq had belonged to an Anatatook shaman of great renown, and before that a Chukchee shaman who died at an early age. Before that a common hunter among the Chukchee, and before that an old man who had seen much and grown very wise.
The inua, or true soul, of each of these people had passed on, crossing into the lands of the ancestors, taking with them all that they were — their memories, associations, feelings, loves and hatreds — everything that had made each person unique. The most recent — the Tanaina Kritlaq — was an exception as his spirit had been consumed by Vithrok. The name, plucked from the young shaman’s body by force, had been released into the world. Now it served the whims of its sorcerous master.
The name, passed on from generation to generation, had taken on a few attributes common to all its past lives. A certain stubbornness, a seriousness of manner, a sharp eye for the killing stroke and a keen sense of retribution for any slight or insult. The name-soul was much less complete than any personal inua, but it represented a long lineage; it had influenced everyone bearing its name going as far back to the beginning of Nunatsiaq. And so it passed to each new life, granting it the characteristics it carried, both good and bad, and living again.
But the name of Klah Kritlaq had become tainted. The recent Anatatook shaman had corrupted the name, becoming a sorcerer. That Kritlaq had been a powerful shaman. He trained two others among the Anatatook — the shamans Civiliaq and Wolf Head. But the sharing of power bothered that man. He wanted to be the foremost among them. This all-consuming ambition was new. The name had never known such a hunger for power and influence before. The younger shamans, who were Kritlaq’s students in the Way, obeyed and made obeisance to their teacher. But when a stranger came among them, the one called Old Manatook, things took a different course.
Manatook’s light was so pure he outshone Klah Kritlaq in many ways. Kritlaq realized that he had become old, his strength of arm grown slow and weak, his memory less reliable than before. The younger shamans were slowly supplanting him, with Manatook taking place of pride among the band. To maintain power he began to force the people to support him. He made the men obey, and the women please him. None of the others held such a power, such keen force of will. Civiliaq and Wolf Head, his sons in the Way, would not raise a hand against him; only Old Manatook was the threat. Kritlaq should never have allowed that one to join the village.
In the end they fought. Kritlaq thought for certain he would win, for he held his greatest weapon in reserve — the power of sorcery. At last they came to it, a fight with knives drawn in full view of the people. Manatook was tall and strong, a skilled fighter. Kritlaq waited for the precise moment to use his sorcerous power to slow Manatook’s strike, to create a fatal opening he could exploit. But it all went wrong. Klah Kritlaq had never suspected that Manatook was a polar bear disguised as a man, so complete had been the disguise. He had not been prepared for that. His was the delay, the momentary disorientation, the fatal weakness. Manatook stabbed his blade home. The inua of the Anatatook sorcerer spun free of his lifeless body, going where sorcerers were bound to go to upon death — the Underworld. The name of Klah Kritlaq was forever tainted, disgraced, and cast aside by the Anatatook.
The name was taken up by the Tanaina, for they had heard of its prowess and had need of a strong shaman. Upon his initiation the new shaman took the name, but he received more than he had bargained for. Traces of its former owner still remained. The name had changed and instead of being worn around the neck as before, it now sought to control its bearer. It worked its way upon the new Kritlaq, who was inept and stupid. He would never be a great shaman. The name sought revenge against the Anatatook and initiated a feud against Alaana, the spiritual daughter of Manatook. It urged its master to act against her, sending an arrowhead into Alaana’s throat by way of magical intrusion and also sending a tupilaq against her. Alaana shook off these attacks and offered peace. The name wanted no peace; it wanted nothing less than the destruction of the Anatatook.
The name continued to influence its bearer with a whisper in the ear or an urge that came from seemingly nowhere, which the man could not control. The Vithrok came along. The Tunrit sorcerer was not ashamed in his sorcery, he was proud of it, wielding it as none had before. He was stronger than any man, and even more powerful than any Tunrit who had ever lived. His will was resolute, his power immense. He held the young Klah Kritlaq at arm’s length, helpless and in pain, and he stripped the name-soul out. He recognized its worth; he set it free.
And the sorcerous name now served its new master the Truth, the Light-Bringer, the Death-Bringer — Vithrok. With Vithrok it would change the world. When the Beforetime was restored all would be sorcery, force of will would be unleashed to conjure or create or destroy anything and everything, all at once. Everyone would be free. The idea was appealing, and so the name would serve Vithrok in this. And once the Beforetime was restored they would all be rendered equal, and the name would answer to no one.
The name of Kritlaq remembered the ways of the Tanaina, their travel routes and hunting grounds. It was not difficult for the name to locate the band in high summer, at the usual place at the bend of the Forked River. It came upon the villagers as they were all hard at work, the men setting up the tents and meat racks and kennels, and the women sorting their household possessions.
Ten winters had passed since the name had belonged among this band, but nothing really had changed. The headman kept his tent at the center of the village, a huge three-chambered enclosure that proclaimed his importance and accommodated his large family. His closest allies set up house to either side, with the rest flanking out along the river bank.
The name put its feet to the ground to walk among the tents once more. It had the form of a tall, lean, man skinned to the raw red muscle. To those with the spirit-vision it would have appeared as agiuqtuq, a twisted spirit composed of gobs of crusted blood. But at present the Tanaina had no shaman at all, for none had ever replaced the one Vithrok had dispatched. Therefore no one could see the name as it stepped between the tents.
The name found its old house and, being completely insubstantial, passed through the tanned caribou leather wall. Inside the tent Klah Kritlaq’s widow was arranging her cooking things beneath the sleeping platform. The name wondered if she had ever remarried. A quick glance around the tent indicated
possessions that clearly belonged to a hunter. The name did not care. Neither of the children was present. Qilaq would now be a young man seventeen winters old and Aalisa, the girl, eleven winters. Kritlaq had hardly known his daughter. She had been just a yearling when her father had been murdered. The name remembered her only as a little pink bundle with a smiling face.
“Ahjoonik,” said the name, speaking the word on the wind.
The woman looked up from her sorting. She glanced around the tent.
Upon seeing his wife again the name felt a strange thing, a tiny pang of longing. Her face had not changed much in ten winters. Her hair was still long and lustrous, her cheeks broad, her nose dainty and small, with a slight upturn at the tip. A name should not feel love or hate, but this name had been corrupted. It had been made greedy, and it had stolen some feelings from its most recent master.
“Ahjoonik,” said the name. “Stand up.”
“What’s this?” said Ahjoonik. She sniffed the stale air in the tent but found nothing unusual. She stood up.
The name watched her closely, reading the emotions on her face. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Kritlaq expanded itself until its spirit filled the entire tent. It remained intent upon the woman, enveloping her. It pressed against her from all sides, probing gently until it came to the soul deep within. Their spirits touched.
The woman’s eyes flew wide with recognition and wonder. Seeing nothing within the tent, she smiled a sad little smile.
Don’t do that, thought the name. Don’t smile.
“Kritlaq?” she said. “Kritlaq?”
The name recoiled in horror. The sound of her voice, quavering as it called out its name was almost too much. It clamped down on her spirit, held it tight.
“Don’t speak that name,” said Kritlaq. “Don’t speak at all.”
The woman gasped, fully recognizing the voice that spoke to her, her lost love. Her soul swelled with hope. Sometimes shamans returned, she knew, even from death.
The name clamped down, taking her spirit fully in hand. “There is no hope,” it said.
Suddenly terrified, Ahjoonik wanted to run, to bolt from the tent and call out for help. Her current husband was not far away, just at the shore, mending his kayak. But the name would not let her. The name had taken full control in order to do what it must.
“Where is the girl?” asked Kritlaq.
Ahjoonik didn’t answer. She couldn’t speak. The name had seized her so completely and forgotten to release her throat, her voice. But he knew what was in her heart. Their daughter was not far away.
The name directed her footsteps to the tent flap. Still dressed in her calfskin nightshirt, Ahjoonik walked outside. She didn’t understand what was happening. The pleasant memory of Kritlaq now forgotten, she felt only terror at the idea that she couldn’t control her own body. She urged her legs to stop, to turn back and go inside, but she’d been rendered a mere passenger in a cage of flesh. The dissociation was maddening.
The name ignored her confusion. It didn’t matter. She could not fight. It would work her legs for her. It would make her breathe. Step to the edge of the tent flap.
The name walked the woman out into the encampment. When she came within sight of the group of children playing near the bank, it halted her progress. Ahjoonik wanted to warnthe others, but couldn’t speak. She was helpless to resist.
Then she did call out, drawing her daughter Aalisa’s attention. Her hand rose up and signaled for the young girl to return to the tent. A second shout was necessary — impudent child — and then Aalisa stood up and came running. The name suffered a pang of regret noticing the way she moved, the particular crooked way she ran. The last time it had seen this child she had just taken her first few steps. But this was not the name’s child — that weakness belonged to mortal men only. The name turned the woman around and walked her back inside her tent.
Aalisa was a girl of eleven winters. Her raven hair running loose in the wind, the day’s chill still blushing her cheeks, her nose runny, her eyes alive with curiosity. She wondered why her mother had called her in so early.
The name suffered a moment of doubt. Perhaps it could not do this thing. It should be able to do it. And it must. It would be a bad day if it returned to Vithrok empty-handed. It would have been easier if it could control both mother and daughter at once, but such a thing wasn’t possible.
Perhaps the mother had an inkling of what the name intended, for she let out a small sob, a sharp note, perhaps meant as warning. Kritlaq must not let its control slip. It clamped down on the woman. She would not get loose.
Ahjoonik, a helpless puppet, reached out and grabbed her daughter roughly by the arm.
Kritlaq ignored the flash of anger and betrayal on the young girl’s face.
“Mother, what are you doing?” the girl asked frightfully.
Kritlaq made the woman clamp her hand across the child’s mouth. It could not bear to hear her pleas. This entire task was more difficult than it had imagined. There were too many feelings left over from its most recent existence. Part of Klah Kritlaq, the inept Tanaina shaman, still clung to the name, rattling its core with feelings of guilt and pain. And the name thought for an instant that it should stop and let them go.
It would have liked to do that, but the entire world was at stake. The entire world.
It redoubled its efforts of control. Best to get it over and done quickly and then it could fly away. Away and never come back.
It tightened its grip on the woman, and she tightened her grip on the struggling child. It pulled them both down to the floor. The task was too difficult — the woman couldn’t silence the child, hold her down and still wield the blade. Her hand must release the girl’s mouth and take up the knife.
The girl’s scream cut through Kritlaq as the knife itself, but the name would not lose its resolve. It yanked the woman upright like a rag doll, and the knife came down. The child screamed again, and Kritlaq felt its spirit crumble. It snatched up the severed finger and flew away.
Kritlaq held the young girl’s finger in its blood-red hand. A little bit of her soul was still present deep within the bone. Seeing its naked beauty, its spark of optimism and innocence, the name felt a string of unwanted sensations. Tenderness, pity, sadness. But it did not fight them now, for now they served a purpose. In order to raise the Raven, one must burn the thing it loves the most.
“Get on with it,” said Vithrok. The Tunrit stood with his hands clasped behind his back, regarding the name as it kindled the fire. Clothed in his body of dead meat, animated by force of will alone, Vithrok’s features never expressed any unintentional emotion. His face was a dead mask, such as any shaman might wear at a spirit-calling ceremony.
Kritlaq held the finger above a ring of black feathers and red crowberries arranged on a flat, gray stone. It had made this altar especially to please the Raven, at a day’s journey from the Tunrit citadel. That place must be kept hidden even from Raven, if such a thing were possible. Kritlaq doubted that even Vithrok’s obscuring dome of pure Beforetime could veil the stronghold from Raven’s sharp eye. It was said the trickster could see through the mists of time itself, and that chaos was his best friend.
Kritlaq fed the fire with tender shoots of wormwood. This plant was particularly dear to Raven. The bitter vapors it put out, if breathed by men, were known to cause wild visions and impossible sights, releasing dream-like flights of fancy and inner demons alike. Of course the fragrance had no effect on either a bare name-soul or a sorcerer wearing a dead body like a shroud. Vithrok did not need to draw breath and wasted no time keeping up appearances. His body was just a resting place for his soul, an instrument to wreak his will on the physical world.
“Now that,” said Vithrok, indicating the burning fire. “That is a thing of beauty.”
Kritlaq said nothing.
Vithrok nodded thoughtfully. “Look at it! Dancing and twisting, playing always to the unexpected shape and color. Fire is always hung
ry, so hungry, and it changes everything it touches. It’s the closest thing to the Beforetime that mortal men can perceive on this mud-ball world. That is why they cling to it. They stare at it like children. And what do you see in the flames, Kritlaq?”
“A tool. Useful if controlled. A mystery.”
“It’s no mystery,” said Vithrok. “It was Raven gave fire to this world. Oh yes, I remember the first time I ever set eyes on him. My Tunrit, newly born, were huddled together in a cave. There was no warmth, only relentless, numbing cold. We were all very close to death. I went outside. I don’t recall what drove me to do that, perhaps a whisper on the wind, maybe a shaman’s intuition.
“I went outside dressed in animal furs that gave no warmth. All was darkness then, the sky flat black, the snow black, nothing to see except the dull glow of the spirit of the snow, vast and asleep, stretching away to the far horizon. And I had a moment of indecision. I had rallied my Tunrit, convinced them to rise up out of the mud and persevere. But on this occasion, I looked out upon desolation and desolation and more desolation. And I wondered — what was the point of going on?
“And the Raven came to me. It was my first sight of him, a little black bird no larger than my fist. His feathers and wings were indistinguishable in the night, but his sharp eyes glinted there in the dark. He spoke in soothing tones. He said he remembered me, that I was a great hero and a foul traitor. Hah! I took offence at his words. I did not know he was speaking of both past and future. That’s the thing about the Raven. Of all the spirits, he can walk through time. It’s like a road to him, a trail he can follow forward and back. I think that’s the reason he is insane. Time has driven him crazy.”
“Time is the bane of all that lives,” offered Kritlaq.
Vithrok, annoyed at the way the name-soul had so blithely encapsulated his own problem, took struck the name, sending it roughly down to the snow.
“Be still,” snapped Vithrok. “I’m telling you a story.”
