by Ken Altabef
Kritlaq bowed his bloody head.
“The Raven, speaking with his smooth trickster’s tongue, said he admired me. He said he felt sorry for the Tunrit and the plight we suffered on this barren, lifeless plain. I told him I didn’t want his pity. And you know what he did? He laughed. He laughed that cackling ‘Cawww cawwww’ of a laugh. One moment he was sympathetic and kind, the next cruel. So it goes with the Raven.
“I couldn’t stand any spirit, however powerful, laughing at me, laughing at my Tunrit. I wanted to strike out at it, to chase that pestering fly away, to crush it to a bloody pulp, but I didn’t. I didn’t. Then he apologized, bowing low on his stilt legs, and jittering his wings. He said he had come there to help, to give me a great gift, the greatest gift any spirit could bestow.
“Already I distrusted this creature. I could tell it was tricky and malicious, and had no use for it. Gift? I didn’t want any. I wondered what its meat would taste like. I wanted to strike out and knock it senseless or dead. Oh, how I wish I had done that.
“I told him to go away, and he laughed again. That was more than I could stand. I tensed, ready to make a killing blow. He fluttered this way and that, feigning helplessness, and squawking ‘Gift! Gift!’ as he went. And suddenly I wanted to see. I wanted to know about this gift he’d promised.
“He settled down again and opened a dark wing. There was a little twig burning there. ‘You have suffered greatly,’ he said, ‘and it’s not my fault, not my fault. I did the best I could. You are strong and smart and able. You shall be the master of this land though the road be difficult. So this gift, I bestow.’ He struck a pensive pose, his head cocked, his wings crossed behind his back.
“Fire. Suddenly I remembered fire from the Before. It was like that. We had forgotten the simplest things and sometimes they would come back to us in a rush and then we knew them again. So I was reminded of fire. And once I held it in my hands it was ours again. To warm us, to keep us safe.
“Having released the burning twig to me Raven took to the air, and amid the rustling of wing I heard he was still laughing. Still laughing.”
Vithrok paused and still the flaccid flesh of his face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes burned with the recollection of the great spirit’s annoying sleight.
“I didn’t know why he laughed. But in time I came to understand. Because you see, fire is a joke also, one he played on the Tunrit, on all of us. This great gift, which kept us warm and safe, is also a mean trick. Fire itself is tricky — it has no real shape, it twists forever in hunger; it will eat everything if you let it. Draw near, but not too close. It will burn you if you try to touch it. And worst of all it made us want more, it made us hungry. Hungry for more warmth, as we shivered in the cold. The presence of fire made its absence that much harder to bear, made the sting of the cold even more intense. Dirty trickster. Curse his gift.”
Vithrok kicked at the hearth with his booted foot. “In the end, it made me reach for the sun. Yes, Raven was the root cause of all my problems. I would never have thought of it otherwise, not without the fire. I would never have perceived the sun on the other side of the sky without Raven whispering in my ear at night telling of its existence. And once I knew of it, I had to have it. I had to have it. And bringing the sun, I brought time. I brought days and seasons and years and old age and death. Yes, Raven played the nastiest trick of all on the Tunrit, the trick of time.
“But he won’t trick me again. I’ll have my way, and I promise you — the tundra shall burn before I’m through! So go ahead. Enough talk. Feed your trinket to the fire.”
Kritlaq dropped the girl’s finger into the flame. Sitting cross-legged before the hearth he said, “Tulukkaruq, dark bird that stalks the wastes, heed my call! Great Raven, lord of the wild and master of men, heed my call!”
“The smell of burning flesh should be especially pleasing to Raven,” said Vithrok, “for he loves to feast on the dead.”
Kritlaq repeated his incantation again and again, as the finger burned away and the fire died down, leaving the charred bone sitting in a pile of ash. But Raven did not come.
“I’m sorry, master,” it said to the sorcerer. “I performed the ritual correctly, I swear.”
Vithrok’s mouth twitched. “I don’t like to deal with Raven,” he said. “So fickle and unpredictable. He lives to upset things, to tip them over and watch them spill.”
“Perhaps he demands sacrifice from you?” suggested Kritlaq.
“Me? I’ve already lost everything I’ve ever held dear. I’m only trying to get it back.”
He kicked snow over the pyre and watched the slender tendrils of steam curl upward.
“I know what to do,” he said.
CHAPTER 14
THE KNOCK OF AUTHORITY
Niak wiped the wet scrap of calfskin across Aquppak’s forehead. He’d taken no food in two days, only water — two days spent lying on the bench, gasping for breath, suffering the horrors and the shakes. He slept most of the time deep in fever, his face glazed with sweat. The worst of it was the nightmares. Aquppak cried out in his sleep in a crazed voice, fighting off attackers who didn’t even exist.
Niak had been taught that nightmares were caused by demons, but had since learned from the white men that they came also from lack of strong drink. It was good, Niak thought, because when the demons of the drink were set free from Aquppak’s body he would be much the better for it. Maybe then he would be fit for travel.
He poured some cool water into Aquppak’s mouth and his eyes opened, but they were not clear. Aquppak grunted and pushed away the cup.
“Leave me alone, old man,” he raged. “Let me alone.”
Even awake, the nightmares plagued him.
“Putuguk!” spat Aquppak, “Putuguk.” He groaned and turned away.
A heavy hand thumped against the door with a sharp and regular beat. It was not an Inuit knock. It was the knock of authority.
It had been bound to happen. Niak lived in a house only a day’s walk from the trading post. He had found the abandoned two-room house last summer. When its owner returned in winter, he had not put Niak out. The two lived together for a season, until the other man went away on one of the kabloona’s boats and never came back. The place was big enough for a large family, having two walls of packed stone which stood up against the north and west winds, and two others made of driftwood panels. Like most permanent structures it was recessed into the ground to protect from wind. A heavy snow made the house hard to find, but in spring time and summer it crept up out of the ground, peeking its stony head up like a fresh-born ground squirrel. Niak had kept far away from the trading post in recent days, but there were a few people who knew he had taken Aquppak in. Yes, the heavy knock on his door was bound to happen sooner or later.
Niak didn’t answer. He stood up, leaving Aquppak abed in the far room and went to the front of the house. The door, which was nothing but a loose panel of rotted driftwood, began to slide to the side. Two men stood outside.
“There you are!” said McPearson. “Why the devil don’t you answer the door?”
The red-bearded trading post manager was a familiar sight. Standing next to him was a stranger dressed in the uniform of the Northwest Mounted Police. Over McPearson’s shoulder Niak could see a sled and a team of dogs, with two more men standing beside it, smoking cigarettes.
“This is M. Fallaize,” said McPearson in English, jerking a thumb at the officer. “We’re looking for that fellow Aquppak. I understand he’s your friend?”
“Go away,” returned Niak. “No talk now.”
He reached for the wood panel, but his attempt to pull it back into place was blocked by the officer’s black boot. “Is he here?”
“You don’t understand much of people’s minds,” said Niak. “Go away.”
“Now see here,” said Fallaize. “There’s a man dead, a trapper named Kullabak, murdered out on the flats. We can’t have that around here. This man Aquppak is well known for violence when he ha
s his turns. I need to ask him about it.”
“He can’t answer,” said Niak. “He’s sick.”
“Oh, so he is here,” said Fallaize.
“No.”
“Yes,” said Fallaize. “Get out of my way!”
“This house is closed to you,” said Niak. He had begun to lose the wrestling match over the door.
“I don’t think so,” said Fallaize.
“All right,” said McPearson. His hands were also on the door panel, obfuscating the struggle. Niak couldn’t tell if he had yet decided to push or pull. “Hear me out, Niak. You’re basically a good fellow, never causing any trouble. You don’t want to suffer on account of Aquppak. That’s not smart, now is it?”
He received no answer. Fallaize had pushed Niak aside.
McPearson turned to the officer. “Now you see here, you can’t just–”
Fallaize cut him off. “I didn’t slog all the way here from Halifax to have a door slammed in my face. If he has this man in here, then I aim to see him.”
And Fallaize was inside the house, stepping with a swagger worthy of his scarlet uniform, white gloves and jack boots. A pistol in a holster dangled at his side.
“He’s sick,” said Niak, as the men walked past. They found Aquppak in the next room, swaddled beneath a heavy pelt of brown bear fur.
“Looks like he’s got the shakes pretty bad,” said Fallaize. He turned to Niak. “He’d do well to come with us. We’ll dry him out down at the jail. He’ll have food and medicine if he needs it.”
Niak didn’t say anything. He’d heard conditions at the jail weren’t all that bad, but he didn’t trust this stranger’s word.
“Can he walk?” asked Fallaize, reaching for the bear pelt. As he pulled it away, Aquppak jumped up. With a quick movement as if he’d been burned, the officer stepped back under a gurgling scream, blood streaming from his neck.
Aquppak tried to get up, a bloodied knife clenched in his fist, but stumbled and fell off the side of the sleeping platform.
“Sweet Jesus!” said McPearson.
“Grab him!” said Aquppak in a raspy voice. “Don’t let him get out!”
Niak was in a bind. He’d gone along with Aquppak so far, but McPearson was a man he knew well and respected. The trade post manager had always treated him fairly and was the source of all the good things Niak had earned in trade.
McPearson, for his part, wasn’t exactly trying to run away. He was a big man and relatively fearless, not frightened of a sick man even if he was wielding a sharp knife. He paid Niak no attention at all, stepped forward and bent down to deal Aquppak an open-handed blow across the face. He grabbed Aquppak’s wrist in order to pry the knife free.
Aquppak bit him on the hand, refusing to let the knife go.
“Oh you little savage!” roared McPearson. He pulled back a balled fist for a knock-out blow, but his elbow bumped into Niak’s belly. He turned and saw the barrel of Fallaize’s pistol.
A dark emotion crossed McPearson’s face, a mix of fear and surprise. He hadn’t, in his wildest dreams, supposed that Niak would take up arms against him. Niak had always been a reasonable man. McPearson kept his hold on Aquppak’s wrist, saying to Niak, “You don’t want to be doing that. There’s two more men outside. Besides, a bullet isn’t going to stop me. Been shot before.”
“Kiikkaa!” said Aquppak. Do it!
“Piyumieaitchufa,” returned Niak, with a shake of his head. He lowered the gun.
“That’s right!” said McPearson. He smashed down on Aquppak’s hand and the knife fell away. He glanced at Fallaize, who had crawled slowly across the room, trailing a lot of blood, and now lay face down on the floor.
McPearson bent over Aquppak, grabbing hold with both hands. “Oh, you’re gonna hang for this!”
Niak pulled the trigger.
McPearson may have been shot before, but never like that. A single shot to the back of the head. His brains and the top of his skull flew in an arc across the sleeping platform. Niak was repulsed at the sight of it, feeling as if he had just killed a good friend. Kullabak was one thing, a vicious bully that everyone hated, but this man had been good to him.
Aquppak grunted. “The men outside!”
He stepped past the stunned Niak, taking the pistol from him as he went. They could see, through the front door, one of the officers advancing cautiously on the house. He had a pistol drawn.
“Get me the rifle,” Aquppak said.
The officer had stopped half way to the house. Clearly he expected some sign from within but hearing nothing from Fallaize, he turned to confer with the other man at the sled.
Aquppak heard him say, “I don’t know.” Then he turned and took another step toward the house.
The entrance was framed by an arch of stones recessed partway into the ground. Aquppak crouched in a protected position, deep in the pit.
“Fallaize!” called the approaching officer, “Fallaize!”
Aquppak launched himself through the opening. Firing as soon as his gun cleared ground level he snapped off two quick shots at the man. The officer spun and went down.
Aquppak tried to level the pistol at the last man but his hand was shaking again, and he thought the man too far away in any case. The officer snapped off a pair of shots himself but Aquppak was a difficult target, lying on the ground, mostly hidden in snow.
The officer retreated to the sled and took up the reins.
“The rifle!” shouted Aquppak. He struggled to push himself to his feet. The sled was pulling away, the officer not looking back. At last Niak came out of the house and Aquppak snatched the rifle. He thought the distance already getting too far and started running after the sled, rifle raised to eye level. No good. A few steps and he was out of breath already. He lined up the departing sled along the rifle’s trembling barrel, aiming directly between the shoulders of the figure who stood hunched over the stanchion, madly whipping the dogs. He took his shot. The report of the gun echoed back from the white plain, clear and true, carrying with it the officer’s cry of pain. The man toppled from the stanchion, the sled still going on. Aquppak ran on a few steps, hoping to catch up with it but stumbled. He felt weak and dizzy, and collapsed to the ground.
Wet snow went up his nose.
In a few moments Niak was standing above him. “We’ve no choice now,” he said. “We’ll have to hurry. Others will come.”
“See if I you can catch those dogs,” said Aquppak. “And make sure he’s dead.”
“Just get up and get ready to go,” said Niak. He walked, drawing closer and closer to the sled and the dead body in the snow. He felt nervous and afraid, and also strangely excited. Was he walking closer to his doom or his destiny? Life at the trading post had not been so bad except for the fact that he had to live in servitude to the kabloonas. If he did what they wanted, worked his traps and brought in the skins, he was rewarded. If he misbehaved, he was beaten. But that life was over now, all of a sudden, and he was glad for it. Too much like a dog pulling a sled.
His best life had been in the village with his people, family and friends. But all that had been destroyed by the Yupikut. And could never be reclaimed. Killed and stomped into the snow, those people dear to him weren’t ever coming back and neither was the quiet peaceful life. Destroyed. That’s what they did. The Yupikut were the opposite of dogs. They were wolves. They take what they want, anything they want.
Niak bent over the slain officer. He hadn’t known this man. It didn’t matter. He didn’t enjoy killing people, but maybe that was what was needed now. A new chapter of his life. He would be the destroyer. He would take what he wanted.
One of the officer’s hands was still moving, clutching spasmodically at the crusted snow. Well, we can’t have that, thought Niak. The man had no weapon on him. Maybe he dropped his gun, or maybe they didn’t all have them. Niak didn’t know. It didn’t matter. A heavy rock would do the job.
CHAPTER 15
VITHROK STRIKES
The Iakkut
had fallen on hard times. Recent years had greatly reduced their number, leaving only four principal families left, marking only twenty-five living souls. The caribou migrated less frequently to their regular northerly reaches and yet their headman steadfastly refused to follow the herds south. He insisted on sticking to the lands he knew, living off of lichen scraped from the rocks rather than chasing the herds. He feared one of the southerly bands might attack in force, possibly the gruesome Yupikut raiders, and kill all those he held dear. He had two wives and four strong sons. He preferred to teach them to weather the lean years, how to persevere against hunger and chill rather than yield to adversity and go travelling as defenseless supplicants. Thus they lived in isolation, their numbers slowly dwindling away. For all his paranoia, the Iakkut leader felt secure within the reaches of his ancestral lands and rarely posted sentries. And so the Iakkut did not ever see their doom approaching, until it came upon them.
Vithrok bade the wind to go before him. When it resisted, he forced his will upon it. The guardian spirit of the wind, Sila, did not care to offer opposition, so it was an easy thing to move the air around. Vithrok used it to whip up the snow that came before him, concealing his approach in a blustery snowstorm.
He rode the back of one of a pair of monstrous pet beasts. These creatures had been called maguruq by the Tunrit back in the dark times before the first dawn. Vithrok had unearthed the bones of these creatures when he had forced the weather spirit Narssuk to gouge up his own body from the permafrost beneath the Ring of Stones. Even though turned to stone, the bones retained a remnant of their original souls. Vithrok had coaxed the souls from the bones, clothing them with meat and sinew in a likeness of their former shape. The prehistoric beasts had huge natural proportions. Each of them stood ten feet high as they shambled about on all fours. They sported thick scaly hides frilled by patches of thorny fur, long snouts full of vicious teeth, and a pair of yellowed tusks to match their sharp, short horns. Their primitive, brutish minds were sluggish and easy for Vithrok to control.
