by Sandra Clark
While he was rummaging through the jackets the white man came over. 'Put this on the account, will you?' He showed Mac some lines he'd picked out. No 'please' or anything like that, thought Belinda. Apparently he had the same high-handed attitude to everyone, the boss of the trading post included. He was unshaven and a dark stubble covered his chin. 'That's a mighty pretty fur,' he drawled in a mock-Canadian accent, with a strange, ironic glint in his eye as he levelled his glance at Belinda. She lifted her chin and didn't answer. The man made no move to leave. Mac had nodded his assent already to the man's request, and there was a slight pause. Belinda fumed inwardly. How could she choose a decent jacket with this arrogant man eyeing her in that suggestive manner? Or was it just imagination? Was he simply pretending, playing some sort of game with her, as if that was the approach he thought she wanted?
She raised her eyes coldly to meet his glance. 'I'm not frantically interested in pretty furs, actually,' she said, and even to her own ears her voice sounded prim and prissy. She went on: 'I'm much more interested in getting something practical and plain.' There was a wealth of meaning in the word plain, as if to say, rough and dirty and workaday too. She added, with a smile: 'Something like your own working clothes, perhaps.' Her mouth curved sweetly when she turned away. 'What do you say, Mac? Something plain and practical? I'm not too- concerned with my appearance at the moment.'
Not put out at all, the man made an ironic mock bow, and as Mac went behind a pile of sled equipment, he said out of the corner of his mouth in a perfect English accent:
'I'm sure the lady will look fetching in anything—or nothing at all.' He smiled, clicked his heels, and turned to go. Belinda was speechless with rage. The man's attitude was beyond all limits! He was a perfect stranger. How dared he? They had both been partially obscured by the equipment hanging from the ceiling and Mac had not overheard anything. It's not worth making a fuss, thought Belinda. They did warn me against him last night. By now he was at the store room door. She watched as the door closed behind him, then one of the Eskimos came over to them. He said something to Mac. Mac looked briefly concerned, then turned to Belinda with an apologetic shrug.
'News about the Nasaq,' he told her, unable to keep the note of apology out of his voice. 'It could just be they've gone on a seal-hunt up north.'
He paused, and Belinda got the feeling that he was unsure how to break a particular piece of news to her. He stroked his grizzled beard for a moment.
'Be gone for some months if so. Might not even come down hereabouts at all this year.' He shot her a cautious sideways look as if to gauge how she was taking this bit of bad news.
Belinda sighed. She turned away, digging her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket. For a moment there was nothing she could say. When she turned back to the two men her eyes were bright with the steely glint of determination. 'How sure is this information?' she asked.
'Rumour. Only rumour,' replied Mac quickly. 'Bear it in mind so you don't build up your hopes too high. But wait on till ship-day. There'll be something definite then—one way or the other.' He turned to the man who had come up to them and put an arm on his shoulder. 'Here's your guide, anyway—Taqaq. Speaks English.'
As if to prove it, the young Eskimo said: 'Hello.' Belinda gave him a warm smile. This was one of the men she had met the previous day in the clubhouse. She hadn't realised he spoke English.
'What do you think, Taqaq? Do you think the Nasaq are going to appear?'
Taqaq gave a brilliant show of teeth as he smiled, but nevertheless his prediction was gloomy. He spread his hands helplessly. 'We shall wait and see. It would be no picnic to track them into the far north.' His eyes fleetingly took in the slim body of the girl in front of him. 'Very tough country. My people work lines only a hundred miles from here, but that's far enough north for me.'
'Don't like the cold, do you, Taqaq?' Mac laughed, and Taqaq joined in.
'That's why I'm here,' he laughed. 'Nice and warm, no?'
Belinda raised her eyes in mock horror. 'If this is warm…!'
'You've seen nothing yet,' rejoined Mac. 'Come on, let's have another look for something that'll keep you snug when the freeze finally does come.'
Taqaq wandered off to his duties at the other end of the store with an assurance to Belinda that news wouldn't be long in coming through, and she and Mac delved into the pile of furs once again for something suitable.
In no time at all they had come up with something in the right size, and Belinda donned it with curiosity. She certainly had had no intention of striving for effect, but somehow the light-coloured furs brought out the blonde of her hair and gave her skin a creamy, delicate look. She felt a little silence fall on the men as she came forward to look at herself in the full-length pier glass, and Mac nodded in appreciation. 'If I was twenty years younger,' he quipped. 'I'd show these young 'uns a thing or two!' He turned to his men, then looked back at Belinda. 'You'd better not come down here very often. I'll never get a scrap of work out of them. Come on, lads,' he shouted jovially, 'you'll have your wives after you!'
The men grinned and carried on reluctantly with what they were doing, and Belinda glanced in the mirror again. She felt like a million dollars. The natural sheen of the fur seemed to set off the glowing translucency of her complexion, and she caught Mac giving her another appraising look.
'Come on,' he said, 'get yourself off to show Mrs Mac before I go making a fool of myself.' He put an arm protectively round her shoulder and ushered her towards the door.
The rain had all but stopped by now and at last the relentless drumming on the wooden roof was beginning to slow down, making conversation easier. Together they sloshed back across the compound to the house.
Some time later, after being duly admired by Mrs Mac, Belinda was looking out of the window wondering whether the rain which had now stopped altogether was going to hold off long enough for her to take an exploratory walk down by the lake. As everyone seemed to be busy she eventually went along to her room to get her pink jacket. It was far too warm, comparatively speaking, to go out clad from top to toe in furs, and despite the criticism her jacket had brought from Mac she was truly pleased she had brought it with her. In a few moments she was walking briskly in the direction of the water.
The foreshore seemed at first to be completely deserted. It was only when she approached the water's edge and turned back to look at the land that she noticed a figure working on an upturned canoe on the beach at the far end of the inlet. As her footsteps were already leading her in that direction she continued to walk slowly along the edge of the lake, glad at last for a breath of fresh air and the peace and quiet afforded by the lakeside scene. It was a harsh landscape, however, and there was a threat in the ominous grey sky which, though brighter, was still unbroken by any gap in the clouds. The lake itself seemed dark and forbidding as she sauntered along its edge, and when she got a little farther along the beach towards the solitary figure working there she resolved to stop and exchange a word of greeting. She was only a few hundred yards from the settlement, but already she could feel the desolation of those barren miles stretching without a single inhabitant to the Arctic Circle.
Belinda quickened her pace, a call of greeting rising to her lips, but it froze suddenly without being uttered. The man had raised his head and now turned towards her. It wasn't an Eskimo after all. It was the white man again— the tall, tough, sardonic trapper who regarded blondes as commodities and whose presence in the store shed earlier that morning had seemed to cause such a stir. She hesitated. She would look silly now if she turned back. The man would think he had some sort of power over her. On the other hand, she didn't want him to think she was making overtures, as if she was a woman desperate for the company of a man, any man, no matter how arrogant and insulting, or—she quivered—or how dangerous.
A flicker of apprehension rose up as she remembered Mac's warning. It was a lonely spot. She hesitated, unsure what to do. Then the decision was abruptly taken from her by the m
an suddenly coming towards her. In a few long strides he was across the shingle and standing, tall and erect, in front of her. She refused to back away, although every instinct told her to turn tail and run. She felt dwarfed and threatened by his proximity. He was certainly a tough-looking customer in his deerskins and with his dark hair coming almost down to his collar. Now that she could see his face clearly she noticed the deep mahogany tan of his skin. It was relatively unlined, making him younger than she had at first supposed, but there were deep lines in the corners of his eyes as if he had spent much time looking into the sun, or across the white dazzle of the barren snows. His eyes, of a frighteningly cold blue, swept her body arrogantly, and she felt her skin flush beneath the furs as if he had stripped her naked.
Her lips were set in a tight line. He needn't think he was going to get anywhere with her! Just because he was the only white man for miles around. He had another think coming if he thought she was the type to start running after every man in sight! She half turned as if to go. As yet he hadn't spoken; his eyes had been too busy looking her over. Belinda's blood boiled. She half turned back, some tart phrase springing to her lips, but before she could speak his lips had formed the hint of a smile and he said sneeringly: 'So what have we here? A lady sociologist?' He gave a short laugh.
'I'm surprised you know the word,' she retorted sharply, 'and anyway, you're wrong. I'm a linguist.' She glared at him. But. instead of being abashed by her reaction he started to chuckle.
'Even better,' he said. He was now openly laughing. 'I suppose you don't even speak a word of the lingo and have to do all your talking to the natives through an interpreter?' His eyes sparkled with malice.
Belinda clenched her fists. 'A linguist doesn't necessarily have to speak every language they research,' she told him cuttingly with as much dignity as she could muster. 'We make comparative studies of different language groups. If you knew the slightest thing about it you'd know that.' Her eyes blazed.
He shrugged his broad muscular shoulders as if it was all the same to him. 'You must be crazy, a woman alone, coming out here.'
A shiver ran up and down Belinda's spine, but she raised her chin. 'Actually, I quite like it. Everyone's so wonderfully kind. There are exceptions, of course.' She gave him a dark look, but it made no impression on him.
He ignored her tone in such an infuriating manner that Belinda's blood was seething again. He went on talking as if her reaction was simply of no consequence whatever.
He would bat away the irritations of a mosquito with exactly the same level of indifference, she thought irritably. She was too angry to catch all that he was telling her. It was something about a professor from a college down south. Yes, she probably knew who it was.
'A self-styled expert on the Eskimo,' he was saying. 'Read a lot of books about them, and that was all. Then he came out here as a linguist—going around with his little notebook. No one ever heard him speak a word of the language the whole time he was here. Some of the natives had a high old time, as you can imagine!' He focussed his startling blue eyes on her, daring her to join in the joke. Belinda averted her glance.
'Yes, I suppose you would think that was funny,' she said disdainfully. 'Wasting people's time and money.'
'Time and money? That's serious!' He mocked her with his eyes.
'Yes, it is!' she interrupted, her voice beginning to rise. 'Don't you realise, if it wasn't for people like him the Eskimo language would die out? It would be gone for ever. No one would ever know it had even existed. It's like—it's like—' she searched her mind for some example that would make him understand—'it's like the caribou—if they died out, no one would ever know about caribou.'
'And you think that's important?' he asked with amusement.
'Of course it's important!' she exploded. 'It's our duty to conserve everything precious and beautiful and unique.'
'And you think the Eskimo language is all those things?' he asked.
'Don't you?' she riposted angrily.
'Not really,' he said. 'It's not all that beautiful as languages go. It depends on what you're used to. I'm not interested in that sort of thing. Beauty leaves me cold.' His glance roved her body insolently, then his face became serious. 'What is important is how functional something is. Does it do its job? That's what concerns me.' He paused. 'If fewer and fewer people see the need to speak a certain language,' he went on patronisingly, 'that language gradually falls into disuse, so what?' He shrugged. 'If a thing is no longer useful, discard it. Junk it. Throw it away.' He paused again. 'So-called civilised man keeps too much. Cities are becoming nothing but living museums. You city folk exist in the past, among dead things, among useless memories. Cities are nothing but graveyards of old ideas.'
'But it's history, it's civilisation.' she expostulated. 'It's what we are. It's our heritage. The past shapes us.'
'We are what we are at this moment. Not what we were ten, twenty years ago.' His face grew suddenly tight and a shuttered look came over his eyes.
'What do you know about civilisation anyway?' said Belinda scathingly. 'Living here, with only the bare elements for a decent standard of living? It's not as if you're even attached to the trading post with a proper job—' she stopped.
'So they've been talking about me, have they?' His eyes looked cold and the sneer came back into his voice. 'The civilised white folk clustered together in their little cabins as the wolves howl outside in the night—' He stopped abruptly. 'Mac's a good man within his limits. He's fulfilling a useful function. It's civilisation that's gone soft— civilisation, with its urge to collect and collate every living, breathing thing. You academics are nothing but carrion. If something is on the verge of death, there you are flocking round the corpse with your little notebooks, and your column inches of copy.'
'That's journalists. Column inches—we don't have to write in column inches,' she broke in sarcastically. 'It seems you've chosen the appropriate habitat for yourself, miles from anywhere, no chance of meeting up with any of the people you seem to despise so much. I suppose you can feel safely superior to the natives. While they're forced to scrape a bare subsistence from the land you can come along and play at Eskimos. You're like some Victorian white hunter, pretending to go native. You know you can always go back to civilisation.'
'Can I?' he cut in sharply.
Belinda stopped, in confusion, but her anger with him rose up again, placing the words in her mouth. 'I suppose you can only see yourself as a Mr Big when you're among pygmies.'
She turned away with a toss of her head.
'Pygmies live in Equatorial Africa,' he remarked drily to her retreating back. 'Perhaps you need geography as well as language lessons.'
The words stung her, but she refused to turn back and she didn't slow her pace till she had marched all the way up the beach to the track leading back to the settlement.
Even then her face was flushed, her heart was pounding and her thoughts were hammering angrily in her head. Of all the confounded arrogance! The sheer unadulterated cheek of the man! Just because he hadn't approved of one researcher there was no need to damn the lot of them! She was furious. Graveyards of ideas? Carrion? But it was his lazy scrutiny of her body that had really rattled her. It wouldn't surprise me if he already had a couple of native wives, she told herself. These men usually finish up like that. Coming out here for heaven knows what reason. Fugitives from justice, Mac had said. Then going native, but keeping just so much distance between them so that they could play the big white chief and take what they wanted with impunity. How on earth could he expect her to swallow all that stuff about civilisation? she asked herself. He must think she was some naive young girl straight out of college. Couldn't he tell she had worked for a full year since graduating? She was no ingénue when it came to life. She couldn't be bamboozled by such poppycock. She knew what was valuable about civilisation and what wasn't. She had standards. He was nothing but a dropout!
She stamped about furiously outside the kitchen door befor
e going inside as if she was shaking the last of the rain from her boots. When she opened the door she was still flushed and Mrs Mac looked up from her baking in surprise. 'That was quick,' she remarked. 'Had a good walk?'
'Fine,' replied Belinda shortly.
'Mac tells me you've had no luck so far.'
'What?' Belinda looked at Mrs Mac for a moment. 'Oh, no,' she replied, collecting herself. That man had momentarily put all thoughts of the Nasaq right out of her mind. 'I'll expect we'll hear something soon, though.' Mrs Mac prinked the edge of her pie expertly and started to dust the top of the pastry with flour. 'You can always ask Barron. As Mac said, if the worst comes to the worst, you can but ask his advice. He spends most of his time up there in that region. He's almost one of them. I hear he's still around the camp.' She shot a glance in Belinda's direction. 'I'm surprised you haven't bumped into him yet.'
Belinda was taking her boots off by the door. She scarcely raised her head, her thoughts were still in angry turmoil. 'Who's Barron?' she asked without interest. 'That doesn't sound like an Eskimo name—' her words trailed off. She looked open-mouthed at Mrs Mac, but now she had her back to Belinda and was busily adjusting the shelf inside the oven. She turned briskly back.
'That's right,' she said as she carefully placed the pie on its rack. 'It's not Eskimo because he's not Eskimo. I thought Chuck told you about him yesterday?'
'You all warned me about someone,' replied Belinda, stressing the word with a grimace.
'You know why Chuck was so concerned,' said Mrs Mac. 'I don't think there's any mystery about that.' She laughed. 'Chuck's a nice boy, but faced with a maverick like Barron, sparks are bound to fly. Chuck does a tough job, flying that aircraft in all weathers. He needs to settle down with some nice girl. He's certainly not short of female companions,' she continued, giving a sideways look at Belinda, 'but he hasn't met that special someone yet.'
A little frown began to furrow Belinda's brow. She came over to the kitchen table, perfectly at ease in the assured hospitality of Mrs Mac, and began to munch one of the apple cores left over from the baking. The frown did not leave her face, but it wasn't the daredevil Chuck she was thinking about. She munched thoughtfully for a few minutes. At last she said, 'This Barron or whatever he's called—' she paused; she knew she was clutching at straws, but it had to be asked, 'apart from you and Mac is he the only other white on the station?' She waited expectantly for Mrs Mac's reply.
