by Roy Kesey
There is a sound like far thunder but it is only a shifting of the ice. I wait, and the sound comes again, and I think of the old story, the two sisters who ran from their father’s scolding and made their home in the mountains; when a hard winter came they died and passed into the sky and now cause the thunder itself. There are other stories I like even more—Allarneq the Glutton, The Dwarfs, Qasiassaq the Liar—and through them we passed the nights. The stories can be as long as one needs them to be, and I would talk while my wife combed my son’s hair, would talk until my wife and son fell asleep.
The Qallunaat, in the end, were easy to kill. But that was only in the end. Before the end, in battle, they were hard to kill. We attacked or they attacked. There were also years when no one attacked, but that was before I was alive and I have only heard stories. In the end we understood that waiting would suffice. We are good at waiting.
I take out my wife’s comb, the comb I took from the Qallunaat and gave to her as a gift. I hold it up to what is left of the light. It is made of nassuk, and bears the face of Aningaut, the moon-god, ruler of all animals on land. It is beautiful but to look at it here is weakness and I put it away.
Stand very still. Do not think about the cold or the dark or anything else about which nothing can be done. Do not wish for thicker clothes. Do not think about or wish for anything you do not have. This is the secret, yes.
On my lance I have carved the face of Arnarquagssaq. Until now this has been sufficient, but the natseq has not come, and perhaps Arnarquagssaq is angry, though I do not know what I might have done to offend her. If she is angry, that would be the end. Our angakkoq was very wise—when there was no game he would call to the toornaarsuk, and they would guide him down into the ocean, and he would clean Arnarquagssaq’s hair until she agreed to send the sea animals to us once again—but he was also very old, was among the first to die when the hardest winters began.
I have been told that the Qallunaat were here when we first arrived at this end of the land, but they did not belong: blood-skinned, hair without color, and we could smell them as they neared. We watched them at their work, and from them we learned to make barrels for storing water. Threaded arrowheads, these too were not an idea that we’d had, but we took the arrows from the bodies of our dead, and looked at them carefully, and killed the Qallunaat with arrowheads of their own design.
They watched us as well, but it seems they learned little or nothing of what could have helped them survive. They never learned to make heat from the fat of the natseq, and instead burned their few trees, and when there were no more trees they burned grass and animal droppings, and at last they had nothing to burn. Nor did they ever learn to make clothes as warm as ours. Perhaps their gods had told them that learning from us would be wrong. In this case their gods were ignorant, and the Qallunaat deserved their deaths for not worshipping wiser ones.
The natseq each have several holes in the ice, all mounded with snow. Before, when we were many, each of us would watch a separate hole, and the natseq had no escape. When the natseq comes now, and I have brought it to the surface and killed it and waited in silence, when I have melted snow in my mouth and offered it to the natseq to drink, when I have opened the body with my knife and cut out the liver there will be no one with whom to share.
It is still nearly dark. I stand and watch and listen. My clothes have natsersuaq teeth sewn in, and this will help.
That winter, we thought that we had waited long enough, that all of the Qallunaat were dead, but I found one still alive. It was from his house that I took the comb, and how had he come to own it? If he had made it himself, he would have engraved it with the face of one of his own gods, not with one of ours. Perhaps he killed one of us and took it, or perhaps it was from the time before, a moment when no one was attacking, and he traded something for it. What would he have offered in return? Something useful, I believe. His best knife, perhaps.
I do not understand how he survived so long—he must at one time have been a man of great strength, as strong as Kaassassuk, as strong as Isigaaligaarsik. It had been six very hard winters in a row, and the Qallunaat had already slaughtered their immulivik and sava, had eaten even the hooves. They had killed the strange massive qimmeq they loved and would need for future hunts, had cracked every bone for the marrow. And because their boats were too slow for hunting arfivik on the open sea, because they had never learned to hunt natseq on the ice, they were starving to death and would die unless the natsersuaq arrived in time to save them.
And the natsersuaq did arrive in time: thousands of them massed on the shore in the course of their migration, bigger than natseq and with better skins. The Qallunaat believed they had been saved, and we let them believe this for a time. We lay hidden by ripples of snow on the ridge above their village, watched them arm themselves with the few poor weapons that remained to them, watched as they moved toward the shoreline. Then we emerged and ran down the ridge and stood between the Qallunaat and the natsersuaq. That was all we had to do. None of their men was strong enough to fight. They waited for us to hunt and take our fill and go. We did not hunt. They neared as if to fight but we knew that they could not. They tried to find a way past us, moved north and south, and each time we moved with them. Finally they turned and went home to die.
When they left we began to hunt. It was a very good hunt. It was the last good hunt that I remember. We took so many natsersuaq that it was nine trips back and forth to our homes, our sleds overflowing.
Half of us returned to the ridge above the Qallunaat village to make sure they did not try to scavenge the remains. A single one of us would have been sufficient. We waited and watched until we thought that none of them could still be alive. We entered their village, and in each house someone stayed to gather any objects that might be of use. Many stayed in the house of the Qallunaat gods as there was so much to gather, but I continued, and went into a smaller house, and the man was lying on the floor.
He was still breathing, but very slowly and with pain. I walked to him and was alone with him and watched him. Only his eyelids moved. I came closer and touched him on the face. His eyelids moved again and perhaps he wished to look at me and know me but could not turn his head. I thought of killing him and did not bother and watched him until he was dead.
I hear a rasp of breath, but at another hole. I watch the other hole, thinking that the natseq might push up through the mound of snow, might show itself, and I will move toward it and strike, but they never show themselves in winter, and I think of the world as the natseq knows it now. They look up at the ice just as we look down at it, and the lines where the ice has cracked and again frozen are cracks in their sky. Their mountains of ice reach downward, and to climb them one must descend, and one must scratch holes in the sky to breathe.
I hope that my hands are still sufficiently strong. It has grown colder, I believe, and it is completely dark but the night is clear. The stars shine on the ice and snow, and there is a slit of moon, Aningaut, and it may be that he is the one who is angry. That would also be the end. I look for the brightest star, Naalaassartoq, He Who Stands and Listens, but of course it cannot be seen, will not appear until the great darkness is over, and even then will not climb far into the sky.
I think of Aningaut, and it is as if my throat were full of ice, my breath will not come and my chest hardens with the cold. I bring the comb out again and turn it in my hand. Yes, this is why I have failed, why the natseq has not come: I have brought Aningaut’s likeness out here onto the ice to hunt the animals of the sea—animals that belong not to him but to Arnarquagssaq—and she is angry with me and will not let the natseq come.
There is no one now who can dive down and clean her hair, speak with her, convince her, but perhaps it would be sufficient if I rid myself of the comb. I could throw it far across the ice, or I could walk to another of the natseq’s holes and drop it down into the water. Yes, this would be best, to drop it and let the water carry it to her, and though she cannot comb her o
wn hair perhaps she will understand that my angakkoq is dead, that I would comb her hair clean if I could, that I did not mean to offend her.
I look at the comb one last time. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps Arnarquagssaq does not know of it, and the natseq simply has not yet chosen this hole. My wife was so happy to receive the comb, to have and hold it. She combed her hair, and the hair of my son, and the lamplight glowed in the comb and streamed white through their black hair. I never told them the story of Naalaassartoq, of his anger at the children who had scared the natseq away, of how he spoke to the ravine and the ravine did as he asked, drew itself closed, and the children were not seen again.
The Qallunaat man, I sat and watched him, and he moved only once before dying—he moved his hand, but it was not a threat, and I was afraid but not of him. After that winter there was an easy winter, and a very hard winter, and a hard winter, and four more very hard winters.
The wind, now, and someone singing, and then the singing is gone. Perhaps it was my wife singing to tell me of her hunger. I had hoped that she would no longer be hungry, and that tonight there would be no wind so that the arsarnerit might appear, the spirit-lights dancing white and green and pink. So many very hard winters and my clothes have grown too loose and I have no one to sew them tighter. If I were to try to do the work myself, I would perhaps destroy them.
When I have pulled the natseq onto the ice and eaten of its liver and sewn its wounds closed, I will drag it home, and place the harpoon tip near the lamp to keep the natseq’s spirit warm. I will skin the natseq and rend its fat into oil so that the lamp will not go out. I will …. There is something else. I know that there is something else but I do not remember. If the angakkoq were here, if my wife, but do not think about the wind and remember the secret, yes.
That day in the Qallunaat village, I walked to the man and touched him and watched him die. There was also the body of a woman not far away. I am sure she was his wife, and the comb for which he had traded or killed was on the floor beside her. She had been dead for several days, and this was his one movement before dying: he turned his hand as if hoping to touch her. But she was too far away to touch. I wondered why he had not buried her—the Qallunaat used much of their time and riches in their burials, and this is another reason why they all are dead. Then I realized that when she died he must already have been very weak, and the ground was already frozen.
The comb, yes. The wind has strengthened. There is nothing to be done about the wind. So many very hard winters and no food in many days but the natseq must come at some point to this hole. It is not so easy to remain standing, but if I allow myself to sit, when the natseq comes I will not be prepared, will not be able to strike with sufficient force, and the natseq will escape, and that will be the end.
I lift my harpoon, and my hands can no longer close tightly around it, and to be certain I must take the comb to another hole, must break through the mound of snow and drop the comb into the black water. Not now, but in a moment, when I am stronger. And then the natseq will come. The natseq always comes. The natseq must come and will come.
The Qallunaat were ignorant, but they were also very brave, and not only in battle. Their bravery and ignorance were the two parts of their hearts. Aaveq are hard to kill, and even near death are strong enough to overturn one’s boat, but the Qallunaat went north each summer to hunt them—and having killed one, they took only the skull and hide, leaving the meat behind as if it could not be eaten. One must be even braver to hunt nanoq, and surely many Qallunaat were lost to its claws and teeth. Its furs are warm and beautiful, but it stands as tall as two men and to be caught by one is to die, and yet the Qallunaat followed its tracks not only to kill it but also at times to capture it and carry it home still alive! I have heard this from many who saw it and still it is not easy to believe. The nanoq, its teeth and claws, its strength, I have seen one catch a man and swing and the man’s head left his body, but the Qallunaat captured them alive and took them back to the village and died to do so, and is this something else their gods required? I cannot think of any more ignorant way to die than attempting to capture a nanoq.
But this also: to have a live nanoq so close! There must be nothing braver than to sit beside that power and that death and to watch it and have it as one’s own.
Do not think about the cold or the dark or how long it will take or about anything else about which nothing can be done. When the man died I began to gather his things. There was a knife, and the handle was whole and filled my fist but the blade was worn down to the size of an infant’s finger. It was still sharp but this was their desperation: they could not discard even a knife so worn. Also there were clothes so thin as to be useless even in summer. There was one good barrel that is now empty in my home. There was little else, except the comb. It is time, but a moment longer, a moment longer.
Kannassuaq and Kiliteeraq, Qujaavaarsuk, The Inland-Dwellers of Ita—these are good stories, but I do not remember how they are meant to end.
It has grown still colder. A sound, breathing, my natseq at his most distant hole, and the sound changes, becomes thunder, not the shifting of ice but the two sisters and for a moment I see them. It is too cold for hunting but if I return to my home I will fall asleep, and if I fall asleep I will not wake. It is also possible that as I wait here, a nanoq will come. They too survive the winters by hunting natseq, by choosing a hole and waiting for the sound of breath. If one were to come my harpoon would mean nothing and my lance would mean little and that also would be the end. There are so many ways.
When I was done gathering, I went to join the others at the house of the Qallunaat gods, and the outside walls were lined with the tusks of aaveq. High on the inner walls there were windows, and the windows were something like our swaths of colored light but unmoving. There was also cloth that was soft and beautiful and useless. There were carved bowls that we kept, and statues that we made into sleds.
My sled rests behind my house. It still works well, or would, but I too have killed and eaten my qimmeq. There are stories of this, and other stories, men who have known the lower world and its abundance or the upper world and its misery, and who have then returned. They are only stories but perhaps it is possible to return. And would I wish to? There are many fine things in this world but my wife is waiting, and my son.
In the house of the Qallunaat gods there were also pots made of something like stone but lighter in weight, and beads that seemed to be of ice but were not as cold to the touch. And the bells, yes, beautiful, and this is another reason why the Qallunaat died: they could have used the metal for tools and weapons and armor and in that way could have been better-fed and better-armed when we came, could have fought us off and caught enough natsersuaq to survive. Instead they died and their bells became ours, and we had never had anything like them, had possessed nothing that produced such sounds, and for a time we understood why someone would choose to die instead of losing that beauty, but the very hard winters came again and we made the bells into harpoon-tips and lance-heads.
And the nanoq, I remember now, the Qallunaat captured them alive and brought them back to the village, yes, but they put them into cages, and loaded the cages onto their large slow boats, and where could the boats have been going? I was told that at one time many boats came and went, and perhaps elsewhere there are Qallunaat who chose never to come here, and so survived, but never saw what might be seen in this land, never knew what might be known.
Now there are lights not in the sky but below the ice. There is nothing that this could be and they are beautiful—white, red, green. Perhaps it would be all right for me to sit down on the ice for a moment but do not think about the dark and do not fall asleep or the cold will kill you and I hear the bells again. They are so beautiful and we should never have destroyed them, my wife stood and closed her eyes and listened and said that they should not be destroyed and I laughed at her but she was right and I believe I would choose to return. My wife, yes, and my son, and I would go to th
em and feed them and hold them and if it were possible I would then return to the sound of these bells and to the light of these stars shining on this ice and to the weight of this lance in my hand and so many fine things.
We knew so much and the Qallunaat knew so little and it is wrong that we should end up the same. There are stories too of those who sought their wives and children and did not find them, and stories of the many who tried but could not return and I must not be afraid, must never be afraid. This comb, and my wife used it to make herself beautiful for me, and his wife did the same for him, and perhaps all stories are only stories but they are all I have and I am so sorry my dear wife.
There is another hole not too far away. I try to lift my harpoon but it slips from my hand, my fingers will no longer close but perhaps as I walk they will warm up just enough, and the natseq may hear me as I move but there is no choice. The starlight. I walk and the cold and there is whispering, the soft soles of my boots along the ice, along the colored lights. The wind rises but there is no singing. Five more steps, and three, and one. I kick away the snow, lose my balance and fall. I stand again, and the small round hole, and the water, black, and I am the last of my house but not the last of my people, and he was the last of his house but perhaps not the last of his people—perhaps there are more, and they are building more boats, and marveling at the nanoq in its cage, at its size and at its strength.
The wind weakens. I bring out the comb and hold it to my chest, whisper to my wife, hold it out and let it fall. There is no sound. It falls and is gone. I stand for a moment and stare and now there are sounds behind me, the sound of roiling water, the sound of breath.
Stump
