by Ken Altabef
“Wake up!” shouted the man.
When this had no effect, the man raised his arms, both of which were clawed and blackened. He gestured toward the willow tree bower. His brow knitted with an intense concentration for just a moment and the leg of the throne burst into bright blue flame. The wooden limb burned down quickly until the throne half-toppled to the side.
Tekkeitsertok opened its rheumy eyes. It glanced sleepily about, its massive head swiveling slowly back and forth. The turgat had the body of a giant man with tawny fur instead of human skin and the face and hooves of a caribou. Its nostrils flared at the end of its long sloping face, its gracefully pointed ears pricking up. A triangular white patch marked the caribou’s forehead, matching the long white mane which, protruding from the lower jaw, gave the spirit the look of a creature old beyond reckoning.
Its great head quested about, antlers slicing through the air as it inspected the broken seat, unaware that the man had caused the problem.
“Wake up!” said the man again.
“Shoo fly!” said Tekkeitsertok.
“It’s good to see you again too, old friend,” said the man.
Tekkeitsertok, still seated atop his lop-sided throne, squinted down at the figure below.
“Go away,” it said. “No hunt today, little shaman. I’m tired.”
“Tired,” said the man. “And old, and grown feeble.”
Rage sparked within Tekkeitsertok’s huge liquid brown eyes. “You dare?”
“I stood before you once before. Don’t you remember me? Long ago.”
“Tunrit?”
“Truth,” said Vithrok. “My name is Truth.”
Loudly clacking its hooves together, Tekkeitsertok leaned forward, lifting its great horned head. “I remember.” Its voice carried an odd and heavy timbre, as issued from the mouth of an enormous caribou-head. “You appear no different, for all the years.”
“I had a long rest,” snarled Vithrok. “A very long rest. But time has changed you. All the great spirits are weakened now, a shadow of their former selves, so long removed from the heady magic of the Beforetime. They are old and tired, worn down with the years.”
Tekkeitsertok blew out an exasperated sigh. The force of the exhalation toppled Vithrok backward. “Be gone.”
Vithrok stood up. “We made a bargain, you and I.”
“I remember,” said Tekkeitsertok. “That bargain has cost me much over the long centuries, so many of my tuktu, sent down to feed the men of Nunatsiaq. For a long time I didn’t want to keep it any longer, but a bargain is a bargain, I know.”
“I’ve come to release you from it.”
“Ehhh?”
“You heard correctly.”
“Thank you,” said Tekkeitsertok. “That’s a great weight lifted from my shoulders today. Thank you.”
“To tell the truth,” said Vithrok smiling at the pun he had made of his name, “I’ve come to release you from everything. From all your burdens.”
“All?” Tekkeitsertok shook its great horned head. “My tuktu, they need me. I may be old but I am still able to defend and protect them.”
“Too old,” spat Vithrok. “Too weak.”
“Go away,” growled the turgat, its voice a rumble of thunder, its great head shaking with rage.
Vithrok pressed on. “I remember the days when your hooved feet thundered the plains. Now your charges are fewer in number than ever before, domesticated in the southlands, kept like pets and slaughtered without your consent by the guns of the white men.”
“I grow weary of this! Now! What do you want?”
“I propose a New Agreement to replace the old.”
“New agreement?”
“Provide for me,” said Vithrok. “As you used to lend souls to the hunters, do so for me.”
“No,” said Tekkeitsertok.
“Come now,” said Vithrok. “This bargain is not so onerous as the last. I have need only of one soul. Yours.”
“No!”
“Surrender your spirit to me. You will sleep in an ocean of pure Beforetime. Return from whence you came, sweet bliss, and renewal. Pure joy.”
For a moment the great turgat seemed to consider the offer. Its head drooped slightly under the weight of the twin racks of huge antlers. Its long, sloping face teetered atop the graceful neck then rose with a hunch of its massive shoulders. “What would become of my charges? What will happen to them?”
“You needn’t concern yourself,” replied Vithrok.
“No. No, I could not. It is my duty to protect them. This is what I am. No. They need me more than ever. I can make no new bargain.”
Vithrok laughed. “Things have changed. Bargain or not, now I take what I want!”
Clacking the hooves of its forelegs in the air with an ear-rending clatter that drove the Tunrit to his knees, the turgat rose from his seat, a living mountain of tawny fur, to stand on two legs like a man. “I will stomp you,” it said plainly.
“You may try,” said Vithrok. He laughed again, his spirit-form suddenly growing in height and volume until it matched the immensity of the turgat.
Vithrok didn’t flinch from death as the barbed antlers swooped toward him. Instead he spread his arms wide and grappled the elegant horned racks, stopping the turgat’s powerful charge. The two struggled wildly, Tekkeitsertok pushing forward, Vithrok pushing back.
The titanic battle knocked the willow bower down, pounding it to sticks. Vithrok was driven back against one of the ancient trees. Pinned by the caribou’s horns, he grunted with the strain but slowly forced the turgat’s head down, down. With a sudden movement he released his hold and pounded both fists into the beast’s head, atop the brow, just at the whitened triangle. Tekkeitsertok grunted in pain, such a sound as had never been heard in the Wild Wood. Watching, the ieufuluuraq’s heart broke. It nearly swooned from the tree.
The haughty bower blew apart; the stately trees, as wide at the trunk as mountains, toppled and fell as the two titans engaged, man against caribou.
Locking his grip around the horns, Vithrok held sway. He forced back the hooves, wrestled the mighty head slowly down. Slowly down, and down.
“Give up,” said Vithrok. “Rest now, old one. You will wake again when the world is reborn. I promise it.”
Tekkeitsertok fought on, hooves stomping and mouth champing. Still the head was driven lower and lower, its neck tensed to the limit.
A tremendous crack shook the Lowerworld as Tekkeitsertok’s mighty neck snapped.
CHAPTER 31
A DIRE PROPHESY
Vithrok stood for a moment, a giant amid the shattered bower, the turgat’s head hanging limp in his hands as it swung from the broken neck.
A fantastic release of energy bathed the clearing in white-hot light. Even watching the squirrel-man’s memory only, Alaana felt herself shaken to the core of her being. Vithrok basked in it, his blackened lips slightly parted, his head thrown back in an ecstasy of power.
The vision, so shocking, ended there.
Alaana stepped back, shaky on her spirit-legs. She looked down at the little ieufuluuraq. “I thank you, my friend,” she said, “for sharing that terrible memory with us.”
The shamans opened their eyes. Their spirits had returned to the karigi, to the bodies still sitting cross-legged on the prayer mat. Alaana felt an intense nausea in the aftermath of the vision. She threw her face to the side and vomited across the floor of the tent.
Qo’tirgin indicated to his demon wife that she may leave.
Alaana was embarrassed. “Sorry,” she said.
Qo’tirgin dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. “I almost did the same myself.”
The two sat quietly for a moment, unable to find words adequate to the task at hand.
Eventually Qo’tirgin said, “I didn’t know they could die. They’ve always been here…”
“Not always,” said Alaana. “There was a time Before.”
Qo’tirgin considered the legendary Beforetime. �
��Yes. I suppose. I always thought those were just stories old women tell.”
“There was a time Before,” said Tikiqaq. “And in that day the Long-ago Shaman battled the Thing That Was Cast Out.”
Alaana shot her tupilaq a warning glance lest he reveal the secret of his patron.
“The distant past does not concern us so much,” she said. “This trouble is here and now. Everything is changed. Everything we know is threatened. We’ve always depended on the bargain for food. Without Tekkeitsertok’s aid, without the Old Agreement, what will we do now?”
Qo’tirgin, as always, remained utterly pragmatic and strong. “We shall have to hunt for ourselves, work harder, spend more time out on the flats tracking the herds. We’ll do what we have to. We’ll find a way.”
Having witnessed the murder of such a great spirit must have shaken her friend greatly, but the M’gipsu shaman would never show it. Alaana expected nothing less from Qo’tirgin. Of course, he didn’t bear responsibility for Vithrok’s release from his icy prison. That mistake rested solely on Alaana’s brow.
Alaana felt vindicated on one point at least, saying, “You saw the Tunrit yourself, Qo’tirgin.”
“I did.” He sighed contemplatively. “A sorcerer just as you said. To be able to best one of the great spirits that way…” He shook his head.
“His power has grown,” said Alaana. “He’s been killing the shamans, taking their lights. How much more strength did he get from Tekkeitsertok? I fear he may be unstoppable.”
“He has a weakness,” said Tiki. “He hides because he is afraid. That means he can be stopped.”
“Your creature speaks true,” said Qo’tirgin. “We must believe it. There must be a weakness, even if we don’t know what it is yet.”
“He’s afraid of Alaana,” said Tiki.
Alaana grumbled. “Afraid of me? I am nothing to him. Of all people, he can’t be afraid of me.”
“He knows all about you,” said Tiki. “You’ve hurt him. And yet he doesn’t come for you. He knows where you are. And yet he is the one who hides.”
“It’s not because of me.”
“Perhaps it’s your patron he fears,” said Qo’tirgin. “Sila stands for justice.”
“Maybe,” said Alaana unconvincingly.
“Or maybe there’s something you’re not telling me,” suggested Qo’tirgin. “I think there’s more to it.”
“My patron is not one of the turgats,” said Alaana. “Let’s leave it at that.”
“You keep too many secrets, Alaana.”
“I’m sorry, my friend. Trying to keep you safe.”
Qo’tirgin chuckled softly. “You needn’t look out for me.”
“Yes I do. And that reminds me. I have a gift for you. A way you can hide from the sorcerer.”
“Perhaps you should seek to conceal yourself.”
“There’s no point in that. Tiki is right. Vithrok already knows where to find me, and all about me. I worry for you. Let me show you the method.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There are certain sigils. We can make an amulet. With the marks I will give you, you can keep your soul safe in the amulet. The sorcerer won’t be able to find you. No spirit will.”
Qo’tirgin was intrigued. “And how did you come by this knowledge, this hiding trick?”
“I learned them from the golden walrus.”
“Ah, the walrus. My old friend Nunavik. How is he?”
“Old, and getting older and crankier by the day. He’s off somewhere, probably taking a long nap. Maybe when he finally wakes up I can put him back to work.”
“He’s a good soul.”
“Yes.”
Before Alaana left the M’gipsu, Qo’tirgin proposed to do a divination of prophesy. Aside from his inhuman strength, the M’gipsu shaman had the ability to call forth images of the future by a gathering of signs and portents floating free on the air. As he could only exercise this ability in moments of intense pain, he did not use this power often. The current situation alarmed him so much that he thought he must try.
Qo’tirigin sat in the karigi, his hands tied tightly behind him with fishing line. His baculum staff rose from his crossed legs, his chin resting on its tip. His face hardened with supreme concentration as he readied himself.
With a flash of his eyes, he gave Alaana the sign. She hesitated only slightly before taking the blade of her hunting knife to Qo’tirgin’s bare chest. She carved a straight line down from collarbone to the top of Qo’tirgin’s nipple, separating flesh down to the muscle. The slice produced only a dull ache. Qo’tirgin’s skin was half numb already, having been exposed to the chill air inside the tent. Blood trickled down but there was not enough pain for the casting.
Qo’tirgin did not so much as grunt. He nodded his head and Alaana took up a handful of the powder they had prepared — a mixture of salted herbs beaten into a thick black paste. She parted the cut layer of skin and applied some of the paste. The salty mixture sent Qo’tirgin’s muscle into a paroxysm of intense agony. Sweat came out on his brow. His face went as tight as a whaler’s knot; he chanted his runes at breakneck speed in a private language. Blinded with pain, he could no longer see his friend at all.
Alaana was startled by the chant. Although she’d been assured beforehand that this was part of the process, Qo’tirgin’s violent discourse sounded like the ranting of a man possessed of an evil spirit. She scanned her friend with the spirit-vision but could detect no intrusion as might come in moments of weakness. She should not have doubted. For Qo’tirgin there were no moments of weakness.
The M’gipsu shaman flung his consciousness far and wide, casting about on the four winds. He felt his way along, in every direction at once, drawing in all the disparate bits and pieces of the future that had already leaked into the present. Darkness, darkness, darkness. A hole in the sky. The bitter taste of ashes, but no fire. No fire. A wild dog howling at the absence of the Moon. He must assemble these varied signs and portents into a picture, but he couldn’t do this by any analytical means; it was a process of feeling, of accepting the fragments of the puzzle, focusing on the pain to clear his mind so that the pieces might fall where they may and arrange themselves into the picture. He had only to grunt and bear the pain and they would come. Or not.
His eyes snapped open and he spit out the rotten taste from his mouth.
Alaana wiped at the wound with a mixture of water and urine, drawing out as much of the noxious paste as she could. Then she went to replace it with a soothing balm she had prepared but Qo’tirgin shook off her ministrations.
“You saw?” Alaana asked.
Qo’tirgin nodded his head. “I saw something.”
Alaana asked nothing more, allowing her friend a moment to settle his thoughts before the vision flew away.
“I saw darkness,” said Qo’tirgin. “No light in the sky.”
“No light?” asked Alaana. “Was it night time? Winter?”
“At night, yes, but no Moon in the heavens. And also it was day, but there was no sun, no day at all. No Moon, no sun.”
Alaana thought for a moment. “In the distant past, in the time of the Tunrit, there was no sun. The Moon was a dead rock, or so he told me, without light to shine.”
Qo’tirgin sniffed, chasing after the scent of the vision which had already faded away. “I’ve had visions of the distant past before. They smell of animal musk and the pungent mud of a world newly formed. But this vision didn’t smell like the past. It smelled of the here and now, of burning flesh.” He shook his head. “The Moon was gone, the sun was gone. I can’t explain it.”
The two sat in silence as Alaana dressed Qo’tirgin’s wound.
“A very bad omen, I think,” said Qo’tirgin.
“There are no good omens anymore,” said Alaana.
CHAPTER 32
DEAD BUT NOT DEAD
The Yupikut raiders returned to their work about the camp, giving their captive no further thought. Aquppak was le
ft on the ground, face down in the slush. He gagged, both from the extreme pain in his left shoulder and the crushing knowledge that he would never walk again. He knew what they had done. When the tendons of the knees were cut in such a way they pulled back like severed bowstrings. That type of wound does not ever heal. He would never walk again.
Aquppak couldn’t move his legs except at the hip, his left arm rendered useless at the shoulder. He dragged himself a little way using his good right arm, but soon became exhausted. After all, where could he go? He had gambled everything and lost all.
He watched the men move about their camp. They fed their dogs, sat talking in front of their tents, sharpened their weapons and mended broken sleds. None of them gave him so much as a casual glance. A few children ran between the tents, giggling. He saw no women.
His gut churned, his eyes brimmed with tears. This was his end? Crippled and left to die in the snow. His grandfather Putuguk had gone the same way. An old man, Putuguk had marched willingly out into the tundra to die alone. But such an end for Aquppak, for him, this was impossible to believe. How could this have happened?
Unlike his grandfather, Aquppak was not alone. The camp buzzed with activity, for there was always work to do. Someone sang a whaling song as he sorted his dogsled traces. Two of the men got into an argument only a few paces from where Aquppak lay helpless in the snow. They punched heads to resolve the matter, exchanging blows until one of them fell senseless to the ground. But after a little while the man stood back up, laughed, and walked away.
Aquppak said nothing. It was as if they had cut out his tongue as well as his legs. He wanted to threaten them but what was the use? He wanted to hurl curses at Guolna and the others, but they would not even hear. They just ignored him, leaving him to crawl in the snow. They would not stoop to torment him; they wouldn’t even bother to piss on him. He was a cast-off, a slug with one arm, crawling through the night, no place to go.
