Kensington, London
[OCTOBER 1881]
Irniq’s reply arrived in the fall, and he wrote of his connection to the Ouligbacks.
To John,
Thank you for your letter. William Ouligback is my cousin. His father is dead for a long time. I wish to meet with you in Orkney and show you my appreciation for saving my mother’s life. Maybe next year.
Irniq
“I suppose he’s thinking about travelling to Orkney on a Hudson’s Bay Company ship, Katie. Perhaps I could suggest that we meet for a short time next summer, and arrange for his passage. What do you think? If I invite him to join me and he decides to come, would you come with me?”
“We’ll see about that, dear. Emily has been talking about going to Canada for a holiday to visit some old friends from her years in Hamilton. She has asked me to go with her. I don’t know if I will join her, but I do think you should go and see Irniq. It will do your heart good to meet with him.”
“Although I try not to think about it, sometimes I miss the friends and travelling companions I had over there. Does that surprise you?”
“Not in the least. You’ve spent a good part of your life living and working in the Arctic. It seems quite natural that you would miss the people from time to time.”
Stromness
[JULY 1883]
I knew straightaway which man was Irniq when he disembarked from the Prince of Wales II at the port of Stromness. He was diminutive in stature, stocky of frame, and his face was round, with a pleasant expression. His thick, black hair fell close to his shoulders. He wore a reddish-brown deerskin jacket with trousers and moccasins to match. A deerskin bag was slung across his back.
We stared awkwardly at one another for a moment, and then touched hands in greeting. I welcomed my visitor with the Esquimaux Inuktitut language greeting: “Tunnasugit.”
“Naqurmiik,” he replied. “Thank you.”
I had almost forgotten the characteristically wide smile of the Esquimaux. There was sincerity in this young man’s greeting.
“You are a tall man, just as they told me,” he said.
“Well, I was even taller when I was younger, of course.” We both laughed.
“You were a legend among my people. It is still true.”
The twenty-five-day journey from York Factory to Scotland had been difficult for Irniq. He was accustomed to sealing and fishing in the choppy waters of the Polar Sea, but he said the massive North Atlantic swells had brought him to his knees with nausea and dizziness. I complimented him for his courage in travelling aboard the massive barque for such a long voyage.
We took a ferry to the northern isle of Westray and walked to a croft I had rented near the Bay of Skaill on the west coast. Irniq was intrigued by the sight of grazing sheep dotting the islands; he had never seen that kind of animal before. He was further amused by the sound of them calling to one another.
He followed me around the rocks and over stones, the topography of this place so far from his home. I noticed that he was sure-footed and had a good stride. Westray, “Queen o’ the Isles,” and her smaller sibling — named, oddly enough, Papa Westray — were two of my favourite islands, their ancient red sandstone cliffs at once desolate and beautiful, with rocky beaches created by the rhythms of the sea. There was mostly silence between us as we walked several miles to the croft, because I was uncertain about how to open a casual conversation with my visitor, and no doubt he felt the same way about me.
A faint outline of the stone croft appeared in the distance, and then grew more distinct as we neared the place where we would sleep, eat and spend time together. The thatched roof had been repaired many times over, but the owner reassured me that the structure was sound. The building’s small size offered little space for any kind of privacy, but with a good peat fire in the hearth of a stone fireplace, we could keep it warm enough for the cool Orcadian nights. The island was unable to support tree life, so there were no buffers against the punishing winds. In some ways it reminded me of the Arctic, only warmer.
“Here you are, Irniq.” I gestured towards a wooden plank with a goose-down mattress and pillow in a corner of the croft. He set down his bag and sat beside it, showing signs of fatigue for the first time.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
I roasted a plump goose over the fire, and we consumed our fare with biscuits and gravy in near silence. After our meal, I handed him a mug of hot tea. As he sipped the tea, his eyelids began to grow heavy.
“And now to sleep, young man,” I said.
“Thank you for the food, Doctor Rae. It was good. Good night.”
“Good night, Irniq. Oh, one more thing…”
“Yes, Doctor?”
“You do not need to call me doctor. My name is John.”
“Unaukkut, John.” Good night.
“Unaukkut, Irniq.”
He rolled over then, facing the stone wall, taking the blankets with him for warmth. The cabin smelled of roasted meat. For a little while, I watched the growing expansion and contraction of my companion’s solid frame under the blankets as sleep overtook him. I reclined by the fire trying to read a book, but it was no use; my mind was full of questions about him, his community, his mother, his life. After a while my own eyes grew heavy, so I extinguished the reading lamp and lay awake for a while on my own mattress, exploring my memories of the Arctic. Eventually I fell into a light sleep.
When I later opened my eyes, I was reluctant to disturb Irniq but he awoke soon enough with the light, as was his custom. I set about preparing boiled oats and tea. He lifted his head, rubbed his eyes, and propped himself up on one elbow, looking puzzled, as if he wasn’t sure where he was.
“Ulaakut, Irniq. Good morning. Did you rest well?”
He shook the sleep from his head. “Ulaakut. Yes, I think so.”
After breakfast, I picked up two shotguns leaning against the wall beside the entrance to the cabin. I checked the safety latches, and handed Irniq a leather pouch containing ammunition. I pulled fishing nets from a hook on the wall, along with pouches containing clippers, fish hooks and leather threads. To this, I added two woven baskets for our catch, along with packets of bread and cheese. The day was cool, fine and not too gusty, excellent for walking, shooting and catching a few fish.
I was counting on that day’s excursion to reveal some of Irniq’s character and a more clear understanding of his decision to travel all the way from Repulse Bay to the Orkneys. The day’s activities began with a walk to the shore, arriving at Noup Head on the northwest headland. The white-splattered sandstone cliffs stood tall — their nooks home to the nests of thousands of seabirds — and abundant with fresh eggs during the breeding season. There had been a time when I thought nothing of dangling over the summit of a cliff and bagging a bird or two with a long-handled net. Those days were over for me, but I was curious to see what Irniq could do in the same situation. The constant cries of circling seabirds drowned out any attempts at conversation.
I made a few gestures with the net, and Irniq understood what to do. He divested himself of most of his kit and, with net in hand, he stretched out flat on his stomach and hung over the edge of the cliff. For a man whose survival depended on a limitless supply of patience while hunting for seals and other such prey, I was not surprised to see him remain motionless for a long while.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Irniq reached out with the net and trapped an unsuspecting guillemot as it hovered nearby, trying to defend its nest. He held the bird with one strong hand, twisted its neck with the other, then carefully collected two eggs from the nest, placing them in the net with the bird. The triumphant young Esquimaux inched his body back from the edge without cracking an egg and showed me his catch. I was pleased beyond measure to observe the young man’s skill, fearlessness, confidence and patience. He reminded me of myself at the same age.
With the bird and eggs wrapped in cloth and stowed inside Irniq’s basket, we walked to the loch of Burness, in which an abun
dance of fine trout could be found. He required no guidance from me in setting his fishing lines. Before long, two good-sized sea trout were snagged on the hooks. He deftly removed the hooks and pressed the struggling fish together on a rock. I reached for my hunting knife, but he boldly placed his free hand on my arm, indicating that he wanted to finish off and fillet the fish. I was pleased to stay out of the process and watch.
He felt for a leather sheath fastened to his belt and withdrew something which caused me to gasp. It was the very knife I had seen in the hand of my interpreter William Ouligback Junior during our journey across the Boothia Peninsula in the spring of 1854. I had given it to his father in 1849 to express my appreciation for his guidance and help as a translator.
“Where did you acquire the knife?”
“Mar-ko, as you called him, asked me to show it to you. To prove that he knows and respects me. That he respects you. He told me the story of when you gave it to his father before he died.”
For a moment, I couldn’t think of anything to say. I stared at the knife and watched as he quickly dispatched the fish, using the knife with great precision. He gutted them both in a matter of seconds, tossed the entrails into the loch, rinsed off the fish and wrapped them in a cloth I had packed in his pouch, cleaned his knife and returned it to its sheath.
Irniq broke the silence. “Mar-ko,” he said again. “William Ouligback Junior. He journeyed with you on the Boothia Peninsula. He was with you when you found part of the link that joins with the Northwest Passage. He was there when you turned back so your two young men would not die. He helped you bring the relics of the Franklin Expedition to Repulse Bay. He was the interpreter for your interviews with our people about the British sailors and their ships. He told us how the men starved and tried to stay alive by eating the flesh of their dead. William Ouligback Junior is the cousin of my mother, Atuqtuaq.”
There was quiet between us, while I digested all he had just said. “Irniq, you wrote that I saved your mother’s life…”
“If you had not saved her, I would never have been born.”
“Tell me more.”
“She told me that you were a miracle man of Kabloonan medicine, and that you made people get better when they were sick. She said you saved many lives when you lived among our people, and that sometimes you walked great, long distances to heal people when they were too sick to be brought to you. She said you were a famous hunter, that you shared your food with us, and that you always showed respect to our people and the animals.” He smiled. “She said you were terrible at speaking our language!”
We both laughed. “Aye, I can’t deny that, young man.”
His face grew solemn. “She told me that you saved her life when she lost my sister, before I was born. That is why I wanted to meet you and say thank you, man to man.”
“What happened, Irniq?”
“She gave birth to a girl while her family was following migrating caribou across the tundra. The child was no longer alive when it was born. My mother began to lose much blood. Her life was flowing out of her body. The shaman came. He chanted over her body for a long time, casting healing spells on her, but her life was still draining away. She hardly remembered it all because she was so weak, but my uncles said messages were sent to you. You left your travelling party and walked for a long time to reach their snow hut. You brought Kabloonan medicine with you. You knew what to do to save her. You brought her back to her family when she was leaving them.” Tears welled up in his eyes.
I had treated hundreds of young women — in Scotland, England, the Arctic — who came close to perishing during or after childbirth. Their faces were blurred in my memory. As a physician, my obligation was to keep my mind focused on the tasks of evaluating and fixing problems during life-threatening situations, however impersonal that may have appeared to some observers. I could not allow natural sympathy to get in the way of clinical decision-making. For that reason and because many of my patients did not survive, I intentionally removed their faces from my memory.
“My mother was famous for her singing, especially for her gifts as a throat-singer. She was a famous Inuk storyteller. She was a messenger for the spirit world, too. When she sang, everyone stopped what they were doing and listened to her.” Irniq’s lips began to tremble and I instinctively reached for his arm.
“How did she die, Irniq?”
“When I was changing from a boy into a man, she became very sick. Her skin was burning like fire and she spoke in many tongues.”
“Ogguarpunga.” I am sorry.
“Now, she lives among the stars, where the hunting is always good and no one starves or gets sick. I visit her almost every night, and I ask her to tell me stories. When I am asleep, she tells me everything about our ancestors and the lives of our people.”
How tragic it was for a boy to lose his mother, I thought. How unfair. It happened all the time, especially in places where harsh conditions often dictated the difference between life and death.
“Who took care of you after she died?”
“I became a man when her spirit moved to the stars. My uncles and brothers took me everywhere with them, hunting, sealing, fishing.”
“Where was your father?”
Irniq vigorously rubbed his hands together in the water to remove the blood stains. “My father’s name was Amaquaq. He drowned off the ice when he was sealing, just after I was born.” He slowly wiped his hands dry with a cloth.
“How did you learn to speak such good English?”
“My cousin gave me lessons every day. He took me with him when he went hunting. I was with him when he translated for English speakers on fishing and hunting journeys south to the big rivers. He spoke to me in English, so I could have an honourable trade, like him.” He smiled, as if he was recalling something. “Some of the Hudson’s Bay Company men are still teaching me to read and write in their language, but it is difficult!”
I thought of how hard it would be for a hunter and guide like Irniq, who had little access to the Esquimaux’ own burgeoning writing system, to grasp the meanings of Roman symbols on paper. “And now are you a professional guide for English and American explorers?”
“Yes, Sir. They hire me because of my hunting and tracking skills, and because I speak English.” He paused. “My people told me you also saved William Ouligback Senior’s life.”
I remembered that event well. We were near the North Pole River in 1847, searching for the missing Franklin party. The weather conditions were terrible. “Aye, the poor man fell on his dagger and suffered a severe injury to his arm. He refused to let me treat it at first…”
He nodded. “They told me that when the shaman came, Ouligback believed that salves, chanting and healing rituals would heal the wound, but despite the shaman’s good work, it refused to get better because an angry spirit got in the way. The shaman tried to banish the spirit, but it was too strong.”
“That’s right. Mr. Ouligback’s arm was unfortunately infected, which put his life and work at risk. At the very least, he could have lost his arm. He was a brave man. He finally gave me permission to tend to the wound.”
“Your medicine makes miracles. My mother and many others told me this.”
“Well, it’s not really my medicine, you know. I learned it from teachers in my native land, Scotland. But shamans make important contributions to healing as well, Irniq. They can cross the kinds of boundaries I can never hope to breach. I’m afraid I have no power to work with the spirit world, although I’d like to think that God, the spirit guide of my homeland, sometimes listens to my prayers.” One of the many things I admired about the Esquimaux was their relationship with nature and the spirit world.
Irniq looked at his hands. “Why did you never return to Repulse Bay or the Arctic, John?”
“This may surprise you, but I once made a plan to return to the Arctic.”
“Why didn’t you come?”
“There was an accident. The ship which was constructed for the jo
urney sank in a storm. The crew perished, and my heart was broken. Later I met my wife Kate, and my life went in another direction.”
He rubbed at his eyes. “Do you have children?”
“No, we do not. Do you?”
“Yes, two boys. Anu is five years old. He was born when there was fresh snow on the ground. Taktuq is three. He was born when there was a great fog, during the migration of the caribou. When we have a girl, we will name her Atuqtuaq, after my mother.”
He looked thoughtful, as if he were trying to decide whether or not to ask a more personal question. “It’s all right,” I said, sensing what was on his mind.
“Did you ever wish to have children?”
I cleared my throat. “Yes, we did.”
4 Addison Gardens
Kensington, London
[AUGUST 1883]
I stroked the nape of Kate’s neck as we lay in each other’s arms. “Tell me about your visit, John dear,” she said.
“Irniq told me that long ago I saved his mother’s life when she had just lost a newly born child. I do not recall the event, because there were far too many just like it.” Kate shivered, distressed for the women who had suffered that way, and I knew that her own losses were never far from her mind. I held her more tightly.
“He wanted to meet the man who made it possible for him to be born, and to thank me in person. He said he loved and respected his mother very much, that she visits him at night when he is asleep, that she tells him stories.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “Oh my goodness. He dreams of her as if she is really there, but then he awakens…”
“Aye, Katie. He awakens, but he never feels that his mother is far away.”
She smiled, and it struck me that hearing this gave her a sense of relief about her own losses. “They are not unlike us then?” she asked.
“That’s right, with one interesting difference. They believe that their deceased are always busy visiting one another in what they call qilak, the heavens, above the rocks, the ice and snow. The people take great pleasure in watching them shoot across the dark skies in the form of meteors, to spend time with each other. They believe that the spirits dance in the aurora borealis. It’s quite a beautiful way to look at death, don’t you think?”
Finding John Rae Page 23
