by Ken Altabef
“And leave them?” asked Maatalliq, pointing a shaking finger toward the little ones. “Leave them to fend for themselves? No. I can’t do that.”
“Then tell me at least — who did this?”
Maatalliq’s eyes blazed, his forehead lined with strain, the word so distasteful forming on his lips. “A Tunrit.”
Alaana’s heart sank. She was to blame. This too, was her fault.
She thought she would be happy for any sign of her adversary, but not like this. Not like this. If Vithrok dared show himself in this brazen way, his goal must be near at hand.
“What does he want?” she asked, her voice grown as tremulous as the ghost’s. She reached for the dwarf’s shoulder but her fingers passed right through. Maatalliq frowned, shrinking away from the whisper of the shaman’s touch, and began to walk on.
“What does he want?” asked Alaana again,
Maatalliq turned back once more, to say, “He wants to kill the world.”
The sled and team covered a lot of ground the next day. Alaana had forgotten how peaceful it was here. The sky was so intensely blue, the snow perfectly white, and over everything lay a great wonderful silence making one long, perfect, crystalline day that might stretch forever. The solid shore ice made a perfect travelling surface. The dogs dug in, working hard, carrying sled and master quickly toward their goal.
“An entire village,” said Alaana. “I can’t stop thinking about it. For what purpose?”
“Who can say if he has any purpose?”
“He’s given nothing away. I never found out why he attacked the Anatatook in the first place, why he used Ben against me. How can I know what a Tunrit might be thinking?”
“Perhaps he might be lonely,” said the tupilaq. “Having no one else.”
Alaana shook her head. “I’ve never heard of anyone killed for loneliness. Is it vengeance? Against me? For what? I don’t have anything to do with the Iakkut.”
“Maybe it has nothing to do with you,” said the tupilaq. “It could be something more.”
“Something more?” mused Alaana. But she couldn’t figure it out. She sighed. “How can I protect my people? How can I stop him?”
“Maybe it’s not up to you.”
“No,” she said sharply. “It’s for me to do. If I’ve never known anything else, I know that.”
Alaana thought again about Maatalliq, a defeated shaman left to wander the wastes surrounded by the people he had failed to protect. It was all too easy to see herself in that same role.
And another troublesome question — what had happened to the snowy owl? Over the course of her life as shaman she had delighted in knowing that beautiful spirit. She was a lovely white owl, made of spiritual light, so luminous she dazzled the eye like sunlight on wet snow. Alaana had delivered many dear departed into her care and she, ever the cheerful little sprite, ferried them across the divide to the distant lands. It was not like her to miss such a calling as these desperate people, an entire village of murdered souls. What could have happened to her? What could Vithrok have done?
Yipyip saw the spires first. She sat up on the stanchion, tail wagging furiously. Her joy at the sight was contagious, travelling up along the traces and running through the dog team, feeding their hopes for an end to their labors and a well-deserved meal. The sled flew forward across the ice as if suddenly grown weightless.
“There it is!” said Tikiqaq.
These spires marked the entrance to the lair of the bears of the Ice Mountain. Alaana regarded them carefully as the sled shot between them. They formed a sort of natural gateway — a twinned set of arms stretching skyward toward the embrace of the sun. The massive spires were adorned by intricate and lacy patterns cut deep into the glistening ice. It worried Alaana that the magnificent ice sculptures looked somewhat less pristine than they had before. Wind and storm had treated them with a rough hand, and the bears had let them fall into disrepair. A family of shorebirds nested in a shelf atop one of the spires, the ultimate sign of neglect, leaving thick white guano trickling down. Alaana noted a solitary raven perched in a niche in the other tower. It made no sound, looking down at her with cold, black eyes.
A solitary sled, cutting across the plain. The bears couldn’t have failed to notice its arrival. And yet they had sent no one to meet her.
Alaana hissed an order to the dogs, assuring them they would soon be fed and pushing them to greater speed. The sled swished onward, heading straight for the stronghold of the white bears. To either side the berg rose in crystalline majesty, making a sheer cliff face. As she reached the cave entrance to the main lair she saw them at last. The bears of the Ice Mountain.
Several of the bears had just emerged from the cave. Alaana stepped off her sledge. A pair of young cubs charged at her. They leapt forward then paused to circle slowly then leap again, in the way young uncertain hunters size up their prey. Alaana tried to reassure them, speaking directly to their souls in the secret language. She told them that she meant no harm, but they didn’t listen. They didn’t know her. It had been too long since her last visit. In the end the overeager cubs had to be restrained by the adult males, who nuzzled them back and nudged them away.
Alaana approached Baataeq, a giant old bear, tall and gaunt with a big sagging belly. Thick neck muscles made his head appear too small, and lent an air of tremendous power to his huge frame. His luxurious coat shone pure white, fringed with creamy yellow around the collar and underbelly. His soul, as outlined in Alaana’s spirit-vision, was a marvel of shimmering blues and icy gray.
“Baataeq!” said Alaana in the secret language, a tongue that every soul could understand.
The huge bear didn’t reply, but wagged his head excitedly from side to side in what seemed a winsome gesture for such a fierce animal. Of course, thought Alaana, in the way of the bears a proper greeting was needed first. With a cautious glance at the still-overactive cubs, she moved nearer to Baataeq. She leaned forward until her nose gently brushed the bear’s snout. At such close range Alaana noticed the curious patches of blue dye streaked across the fur under his eyes, a mark that distinguished the chosen of Tornarssuk.
Alaana caressed the white bear’s shaggy neck.
“It’s good to see you again,” she said. Baataeq lowered his muzzle in respect. The other bears stood gravely still under the half moon and stars above. Alaana was troubled by the lack of happy commotion her visits usually engendered.
“You’ve come just in time,” said Baataeq, voicing his thoughts by way of his soul.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Orfik and Oktolik. They’re going to kill each other.”
CHAPTER 18
TULUKKARUQ
Kritlaq piled the bodies high, dragging the last one, a decapitated torso, atop the great mound of the dead. The maguruq had left few corpses intact and the pile of bloody, mismatched parts had already begun to stink. His stiffened limbs did the work, barely held together by force of will. His body spent, he stepped up on the pile himself. He exited the smoldering corpse, leaving the remains to fall among the others, making the feast complete. The name-soul hovered above the pile, a writhing ball of blood-red ooze.
Black dots criss-crossed against the pale sky. The ravens had already begun to arrive. One after another they dove to peck and pick at the bodies. Vithrok watched absently as the scavengers went about their grim work.
“Are you going to call to him?” asked Kritlaq.
“No need. He will be here.”
The activity of the ravens grew more frantic, their calls more shrill. Vithrok stood, his hands clasped behind his back, watching as a great mass of the black birds lifted up into the sky. They coalesced to form a gigantic black raven, much larger than a man, which touched down to earth before the heap of corpses. The great bird glanced at Vithrok with its cold eye then bent over the pile. It cawed contentedly as it plucked some juicy bit from one of the corpses.
“Tulukkaruq,” said Vithrok. “I would speak with you.”
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The Raven turned to the sorcerer, a slimy crimson tendril of flesh trailing its ebon beak. It cocked its head to the side, then jerked its mouth open, snapping up the tail end of the meat. Its wings stretched and elongated, becoming arms whose hands lifted the beak and pushed it back, as a man pushing back a hood, to reveal a human face.
A tall, thin man now stood before Vithrok, having shrunk himself to more normal proportions. This man had coal-black skin, his eyes black, his hair short and black. Only his teeth and the whites of his eyes distinguished any features in that sooty visage. He was dressed in an ebon parka made of some feathery material, its nature difficult to discern as the whole figure stood partially obscured by a thin, dark fog which surrounded him.
Raven smiled, the white teeth broadening.
“Why not?” he said. “You’ve set such a wonderful table.” He turned to the ravens with a flourish of his dark hand, saying, “Feast, my darlings! Feast!”
He turned back to Vithrok. “So the Truth, wants to have words. But what is the truth? One man’s truth is another man’s lie. Are you the Truth or the Lie?”
He found that question somewhat funny, his laugh an extended rippling ‘cawww’ sound.
Vithrok bristled. “I wonder,” he said, “what it is you really want. Is it mischief? Is it death?”
The laugh cut short, Raven twitched an arm as if it were a wing. “I don’t know,” he said casually, “A few moldering corpses and I’m fine. Really.”
“Not really,” said Vithrok. “You spend all your time coaxing and cajoling, spirits and men, all subject to your pranks. You do so love to stick your finger in an eye. Such enthusiasm for mischief speaks truth to me. Such a troubled and troublesome existence makes me wonder.”
“Don’t strain yourself,” said Raven with a quick bird-like flick of his head.
“I wonder,” said Vithrok. “Do you remember the Before-time?”
“Of course. I remember everything.”
“You were there, I recall, in the Before. Always standing a little apart from the rest of us. You were the most creative of us all. Didn’t you have a castle made of dancing smoke, a volcano at its center, spouting… what was it?... jellybeans?”
The Raven’s eyes shifted.
Now it was Vithrok’s turn to laugh. “No, I think you’re not quite satisfied with a moldering corpse, or making a fool of the Moon. And neither am I.”
“You? What are you?” spat the Raven angrily. “The last vestige of a dead race. You should just throw yourself on this pile. You’ve been dead for centuries.”
The Raven laughed again. Cawwwww, cawwww.
“You laugh,” remarked Vithrok. “But I remember seeing you there — in the Before. Funny thing is, you didn’t appear as a wild spirit, as a shifting mass of souls exchanging bits and pieces with the rest of us, communing with us. No, you were always the Raven. Watching. I saw you there and I didn’t understand. But now I know. You walk the pathways of time. Tell me, how often do you go back to the Before? And why?”
“Cawwww!” said the Raven. He whipped his head to the side. “I fly where I may. I answer to no one. Now leave me be before I peck out your eyes!”
Vithrok would not relent. “You walk the pathways of time, but Time is not your friend. Time is an enemy to everything. It kills us, it withers us, dries us up. It is a prison from which you can never escape. You may visit there, but you can never truly go back to the Before. You can only watch.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have brought Time here,” squawked the Raven.
“That was a trick you played on me,” Vithrok reminded him, “and like so many of your schemes it twisted back on itself, leaving you the fool!”
He had pushed the Raven too far. A flock of the dark birds suddenly descended on Vithrok. Slamming into him, they threatened to peck him apart. The toothy mail of his war shirt could only protect him so far; he waved his burned, clawed hands before his face for a moment, until he remembered who and what he was. Then, using force of will, he exploded the attacking ravens one by one.
“You dare!” said Raven. “You’re finished!”
“No, I’m just getting started. Hear me out first, then tear my heart from my chest if you want. Is it a bargain?”
Raven laughed again. “Cawww! Cawww! A sweet bargain indeed. I like you, Truth. I always did. ”
Vithrok considered what to say. It was dangerous to tell Raven too much, dangerous to tell him anything, for he so loved to screw things up, especially the schemes of men or Tunrit. But he needed Raven’s assistance for his plan to work.
Raven sensed his indecision, saying, “Take your chance, roll your bones. Talk, or lose your eyes this instant.”
Vithrok laughed, knowing Raven probably saw right through his forced bravado. The bird had a sharp eye indeed.
“I am called Light-Bringer,” said Vithrok, “and Death-Bringer. But what say we bring back the dark, and send death away? I have the means to destroy the sun. And when it’s gone, time will be stilled for good.”
“Putting things back…” mused the Raven. “I don’t know — that’s not a very good joke, seems to me.”
“I’ve been collecting all the bits and pieces of Beforetime that remain,” said Vithrok, “Soon, I will have them all.”
Raven was clearly intrigued. “Now what would you be doing with that?”
“I’m going to use it to reshape the world again.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I know,” said Vithrok, “but you can. You’re different than all the others. You move freely in time. You were there, at the Great Rift. When the two others had their great fight, when the heavens were rocked and paradise destroyed, you were there. It was you at the Rift, you who decided the shapes of things.”
“I saved what I could.”
“Yes, Raven the savior. You wouldn’t see it all end. There you were, rushing this way and that, trying to preserve whatever you could. Raven the conscientious one?”
“A joke.”
“I’m not so sure. It doesn’t matter. You were there and you were the one who chose the names for everything that would pass on beyond the Great Rift. You chose the shapes. Really, who but Raven could have conceived some of these creatures. Look at this…” He jerked a thumb at the maguruq. “And the giant sloths, and the mosquitoes, the lice, spiders, walrus, octopus…” Vithrok beamed with admiration. “Of course so many of them are jokes. You always play your jokes. I remember the cruel trick you played on my friend Tulunigraq, making him half Tunrit, half bird.”
“I’ve heard enough. This is pointless. I think I’ll peck out your heart now. Just spread your arms wide.”
Vithrok did no such thing. “It’s not pointless! Because once I stop time, you can un-make them all. Using what’s left of the Beforetime, those bits and pieces I have collected and have in my keeping, Raven the Great Maker can unmake everything. You gave things their names and you can take them back. And then we’ll have it all back again, just as it was long ago! Time will be meaningless; everything will exist as spirit only. The Beforetime restored. Don’t tell me you don’t miss it. I remember seeing you there, on some of your journeys back to watch. But this will be different. You will, as all of us, be returned to paradise. Once you un-name what you have named… endless possibilities, no constraints, creation at a whim. Don’t tell me you don’t want that.”
Raven jerked his head again. “I don’t know. Maybe I like being a raven.”
“You can keep that form if you like. Why not? Who will force you otherwise? Or you might indulge in any of the other possibilities, the endless choices you’ll have once again. Oh, how you’ll play.”
“This plan is mildly intriguing,” remarked Raven, “if not only for the total destruction it causes. You know, I have walked the future as I have walked the past. You want to know how this world ends? I’ve seen it.” The Raven laughed. “Cawwww, cawwww! It ends in fire. Nuclear fire. Remember that? They burn this world to a cinder. Oh, the dead are
stacked high! The feast incredible. I was really looking forward to it.”
Vithrok didn’t know if Raven was telling the truth. “Feast,” he spat derisively. “The Beforetime is the feast, you idiot.”
Raven bristled. He couldn’t be spoken to this way. He pulled the hood over his head, bringing the beak and the yellowed bird eyes back.
“Go ahead!” said Vithrok, pulling up the tooth-mail shirt. “Have it!”
Raven snapped his beak. Then he paused. “You can really do it? Blot out the sun?”
“Oh, yes. It’s as good as done. Can I trust that you will help me, when the time comes?”
“I’ll think about it,” said the Raven. “One thing troubles me above all else. The fire I saw, that is many, many years yet to come. Still so much time to play. But if we do this thing, all the people will die at once. Now.”
“So what? They are useless and weak. Who would care?”
“I would,” said Raven. “I’d miss them terribly. I created them, you know.”
Vithrok didn’t know.
“Sit awhile,” said Raven, “I want to tell you about it.”
Vithrok remained standing. Raven, transforming himself into a small bird like when Vithrok had first met him, perched atop a smoldering corpse. He pecked out an eye and popped it down.
“After the Tunrit were all gone, and I had feasted on the last stinking carcass, I felt a terrible loneliness. My belly was full. I wasn’t hungry. But I had other appetites, other itches that needed scratching so to say, and for those types of diversion the beasts of the field just wouldn’t do. What amusement is there in playing tricks on a walrus? Or meddling in the affairs of the sparrows? How can one provoke a musk ox to do anything except snort and stamp its cloven hooves?
“No, I needed someone to play with, someone who could feel and think. I strutted the lifeless beaches, contemplating this problem. The ice mountains lay silent, the sea brainlessly sloshing, the sky on fire with the sun you, Vithrok, had placed there. But my beloved Tunrit were gone. I was alone. Such an intense melancholy took hold of me I did something I have never done before or since. I cried out to the vast, empty sky. A tear fell from my eye, one tear from each eye, and where they splashed down on the beach a pure white pearl formed.
