by Yuri Rytkheu
“Sson! Go to the god and beg for forgiveness!” Pyl’mau screamed hoarsely. “Oh, Sson! Beg him to intercede for the girl, beg him . . . Sson, don’t you want our little Dawn to live? Or do you want her to fade, never having risen to a bright day?”
John was frozen with terror. In the shaky lamplight, the idol made faces at him. It seemed that the merciless wooden eyes were staring right at Tynevirineu-Mary’s cooling body. In two bounds, John leaped to the corner post where the god was hanging, and unexpectedly for himself, began whispering:
“Don’t! Have mercy on the girl! I promise not to touch you again. I’ll feed you well and your face will always be shiny with fat. Just don’t, don’t, don’t . . .”
His whispering turned to loud sobs.
The hungry Yako started to cry underneath the deerskins, and soon the yaranga was filled with weeping and groaning.
Suddenly, Pyl’mau’s heart-rending lament broke off, and she said, in a somehow surprised voice:
“She’s gone beyond the clouds!”
Tynevirineu-Mary’s little head lolled. The fog had already drifted over her widened and frozen blue eyes.
John accepted the cooling body from his wife’s hands in silence, and carefully laid it on a deerskin. He stretched the eyelids, already rigid in death, over the large blue eyes, and pressed them closed.
He heard nothing that went on around him. He thought of nothing, remembered nothing, crushed by the measureless weight of grief that filled all of his being.
He didn’t hear Pyl’mau feeding little Yako, chastened by his encounter with death; he didn’t hear the arrival of old Orvo, who, listening to Pyl’mau’s story, took a long while whispering with the god.
Orvo tried to talk to John, but to no avail.
After twenty-four hours had passed, Orvo pulled a child’s sleigh with walrus-tusk runners up to the yaranga. Pyl’mau wiped clean her daughter’s body, and dressed it in white funerary garments.
Orvo was about to carry the deceased child out, but John barred his way.
“I’ll do it myself.”
Ascending the funerary hill and seeing the bodies of old Mutchin and Eleneut, half-eaten by animals and starving dogs, John shuddered and told Orvo, bewildering him into silence:
“I’ll bury my daughter according to our custom.”
Not in Enmyn, not in the whole of Chukotka, had a person who had gone beyond the clouds ever returned: Yet John brought Tynevirineu-Mary’s body back to the settlement.
Pyl’mau, speechless with fear, could say nothing to her husband, and Orvo said bitterly:
“He’s gone mad with grief, your husband.”
John upended the contents of his sailor’s trunk, placed a square of bearskin over the bottom, and laid his daughter inside. The rigid body had stretched out, and barely fit inside the copper-cornered trunk.
John cut a plate from an old tin can and engraved it with a nail. He nailed it to a wooden cross, and only then, accompanied by the steadfast Orvo, again ascended Funerary Hill.
A metal crowbar and a shovel lay on top of the box together with the cross.
John chose a spot and, strapping the crowbar to his stumps, set to breaking the ground that had been frozen through to rock-hardness.
Orvo crouched further off. From time to time, bits of frozen earth reached him, melting over his wrinkle-furrowed face and running down in muddy little streams. John hacked tirelessly. Orvo was watching him and remembering the rosy-cheeked young man who’d been terrified by his misfortune, meek one moment and wild the next, puppylike. Not much was left of the old Sson. Here was a person who had gone through ordeals and grief, and who was no longer afraid of anything.
The perma-frost was slow to give way. After a few hours of backbreaking labor John was only knee-deep in the little grave.
When the late sun disappeared, John and Orvo lowered the small trunk containing Tynevirineu-Mary’s body into the little grave, erected the cross with its metal plate, and covered the grave with a mound of earth.
Orvo stepped aside, and John sank to his knees before the cross and its plate bearing the words: Tynevirineu-Mary MacLennan. 1912 – 1914.
Orvo took apart the sleigh runners and leaned them against the mound.
It was a long descent from the funerary hill; John and Orvo were silent.
Reaching the foot, Orvo glanced at the icy seascape, gave John a shove and said, alarmed:
“Someone coming through the ice . . .”
John and Orvo halted. Two figures appeared from the ice hummocks, figures vaguely resembling humans. They were heading for the shore.
“Tery’ky!” Orvo whispered, terrified and with the full intention of running for it.
“Wait a minute!” John caught his sleeve. “Even if they are tery’ky, now is just the time to meet them up close.”
“Sometimes they eat people,” Orvo said, his voice shaky.
“I doubt we’d tempt them,” John said with a nervy smirk, and shouted across to the strange creatures, who had meanwhile come in range of human voice.
“Who are you? Where are you coming from?”
The figures stopped, and Orvo and John heard the reply:
“I’m Captain Bartlett, a member of Stefansson’s 40 expedition. With me is the Eskimo Kataktovik.
23
The travelers had two lakhtak carcasses on their sled. Pyl’mau speedily dragged them inside the chottagin, thawed them out and butchered them. Having fed the guests, she laid out some bedding for them next to the grease lamp, where it was warmest. The conversation between the visitors and her husband was conducted entirely in English. Pyl’mau couldn’t make out a single word, but she was guessing that the travelers were neither hunters nor traders. The footwear they had taken off, and their clothes, bore witness to a long and arduous journey through the ice hummocks. There was barely anything left from their lakhtak shoesoles, and Pyl’mau had to take out the last of her stores in order to fix up the unexpected guests’ shoes and clothes.
The one John addressed as “keptein,” was white, and the other man, who had almost no part in the conversation, resembled a Chukcha but was more likely an inhabitant of the other side of the bay.
Bustling about, Pyl’mau would forget herself, moving without thinking, yet once in a while she would halt as though struck against an invisible obstacle, and tears streamed from her eyes of their own volition. At those moments, John would give his wife a look of reproach, and his voice would grow louder.
The guests had brought a small reserve of tea and coffee. Pyl’mau warmed the aromatic brew over the grease lamp and poured it into age-blackened cups.
Captain Bartlett, nearly melting from warmth and food, was acquainting John with the work and the aims of Vilhjalmur Stefansson’s ambitiously scoped expedition.
In brief, the driving idea of Stefansson’s expedition was to prove to the civilized world the possibility of living and existing in the Arctic vastnesses independenly of outside aid. To break the deeply rooted belief that the Arctic was a pitiless wasteland, incapable of providing subsistence . . .
John listened quietly as he drew a mental picture of the colossal resources that had been required to equip the expedition, the number of people uprooted, to prove that the icy Arctic expanse harbored life.
“Sir,” John interrupted the captain, “I don’t quite understand why all this is necessary. All right, you’ve proved that this relatively inaccessible pole is home to living creatures, but what for? Surely the very fact of the existence of the different peoples of these Arctic regions prove the possibility of man’s existence here?”
“But it’s one thing for an Eskimo or a Chukcha, inured to the weather, and quite another for a white man,” the captain objected.
“Frost is equally damaging to the one as to the other,” John said sharply. “Look at the Arctic inhabitant’s dwelling, at his clothes – everything is geared toward protection against the cold. I don’t deny that a certain hardiness has developed in him over the ag
es, but to speak about the evolution of a particular type of human being is nonsense.”
“Mr. MacLennan,” Bartlett began, after giving John a polite hearing, “I repeat, the goal of our expedition is to take information back to civilized society, and not to resolve the question of how close the Arctic dweller is to the rest of humanity. I don’t deny the importance of this problem, and more than that, I have the highest opinion of the physical and spiritual attributes of the Northerner. The work of our expedition is to open up the Arctic to the whole of humanity, to prove that man can exist in this region without help from the outside world.”
“What for?” John had waited for the captain to finish speaking with impatience.
“In order to explain it to you, I would be obliged to repeat once again everything I’ve just told you,” was Captain Bartlett’s courteous reply.
“As I understand it, the whole idea of this expensive expedition is undertaken to prove to the people inhabiting more southerly latitudes the possibility of their living in the Arctic?”
“That’s exactly right,” Captain Bartlett concurred.
“So that they could head for the Arctic without fear?” John went on.
“Yes,” the captain replied.
“Well, who asked them to come here? Why would they be so inconsiderate as to encroach upon the very place that, by supreme right, belongs to these people who have forsaken lands more suitable for human habitation? Why would you appropriate discoveries made by these people for yourselves, with hardly a mention of those who have made these discoveries long before the polar expeditions? More than that, you even change the place-names of these parts and introduce them to humanity as newly discovered lands . . . You’ve got Kataktovik with you. He’s not only your eyes and ears; he’s also your nursemaid, sled driver and provider of meals. But I am certain – when you report your expedition’s findings, let’s say in Toronto University’s School of Geography – you’ll credit Kataktovik with merely an assistant’s role . . .”
“Mr. MacLennan,” answered Captain Bartlett, holding himself in check, “I gave you no grounds to be voicing such suppositions about me.”
“Forgive me.” John hung his head. “I buried my daughter today. She died of starvation and a nameless disease. She is buried on top of the hill from which we sighted you . . . Forgive me.”
“We are deeply and sincerely sorry for your loss . . .” There was a note of real compassion in Captain Bartlett’s voice. “Our appearance, when you are in a grieving state, can only be mitigated by the extraordinary circumstances in which we find ourselves . . .”
“Once again, I ask your pardon,” John lifted his head and looked the captain in the eye. “I must have offended you, but again, I ask that you pay no mind to that. The problem at hand is much more important. We are talking about preserving peoples, and the way of life that they have chosen for themselves . . . I remember when I first arrived here, I asked old Orvo how to explain his love for this land, which from a so-called civilized person’s point of view, neither offers any comforts nor shines with particular natural beauty. His answer, back then, was that no one else besides his people wanted this land . . . But now, it’s become wanted by others, and I fear for the future of the people who live here.”
Captain Bartlett weathered John’s stare.
“I understand, and more than that, I share your concerns. But I am hoping that there are enough reasonable people in the world to stand against the forces that could destroy the Arctic peoples. Our expedition’s mandate includes a comprehensive study of local languages, ethnography of the peoples inhabiting the relatively inaccessible pole’s environs.”
“In the name of what, this study?”
“Primarily in the name of science,” Captain Bartlett answered after momentary reflection. “It’s possible that the summation of our research will be a recomendation to our government.”
“But have you asked these people whether they need intervention by a government of which they have the haziest conception, and which they did not elect? Maybe the best thing is to just leave these peoples alone, and to sail a hundreds-of-miles-wide berth around the regions they’ve tamed and called home?”
“Mr. MacLennan,” Captain Bartlett’s voice was stern and stately, “the peoples inhabiting Canada’s northern territories are a part of the Canadian people, and they cannot remain outside of progress, which will inevitably reach even those parts. The issue now is how to make sure that the journey these tribes are faced with will not be tortuous and tragic ...”
“Wait a moment,” John interrupted yet again, “is this progress necessarily a desirable thing for them?”
“To be honest, Mr. MacLennan, politics are of little interest to me. Perhaps it is you who are right in this, and perhaps it is the Canadian government. As for myself – I’m an American, hired as staff by Vilhjalmur Stefansson, the captain of the lost ship Karluk. Let’s end this debate, so aimless and futile for us both . . . I am very glad that we met, and if it’s no secret, would love to know how you got to this place and what it is that holds you here.”
Without going into too many details, John told his story. Even in his dry and spare recounting, it made an impact on Captain Bartlett.
“I understand now,” he said thoughtfully. “But your loved ones left behind in Port Hope, haven’t they a right to know that you’re alive? Your mother, your family?”
“I don’t know,” John said quietly. “Perhaps they have gotten used to the thought that I’m no longer among the living. I’m dead to them, and it really is so. Because I will never be able to go back to the past . . .”
“Mothers never believe that their children are dead, if they should happen to disappear far from home,” Bartlett remarked. “Give me your parents’ address. I will only tell them that you’re alive, that you have found your happiness here and have no wish to return. I think it will be easier for them that way.”
John raised his head, looking over his dwelling – the deer-hide walls, Pyl’mau and Yako lying in the corner hardly daring to breathe – and uttered:
“There’s no need. Let everything stay as it is.”
He moved away from Captain Bartlett, wished him goodnight and went to lie beside Pyl’mau.
“He wanted you to go with him?” Pyl’mau asked.
“Go to sleep.”
“I understand everything. He was calling you, reminding you about your mother . . . I’ve noticed, when you’re talking with a white person, you become like a stranger, as though a different Sson has taken your place . . . What did you answer him?”
John let out a heavy sigh:
“You know very well the only answer I could give him . . .”
Pyl’mau caught his sigh:
“Maybe it’s true, you should go back to your homeland? What’s left for you here? Tynevirineu-Mary’s cold grave and nothing else . . .”
“What about you, what about little Yako?”
“What are we?” Pyl’mau sniffled. “We’re from here, this is our land, strewn with the bones of our ancestors. Go back home, Sson, where it’s warm, where there’s always plenty of food, where your family is. When you leave, you will still be in my heart; I will never forget you. In the dark evenings, when it’s too dark to see who you’re talking with, I’ll talk to you and I’ll be glad that you are happy. Go back, Sson!”
“Hush.” John laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I couldn’t leave this place. It’s as impossible as if I were to decide to become a different person. Sleep untroubled.”
Waking in the middle of the night, John could feel Pyl’mau’s body shaking stiffly under his palm; she was crying.
The yaranga’s occupants were awakened by heavy footsteps in the chottagin.
It was Orvo and Armol’.
“Sson!” Armol’ informed him excitedly, “The ducks have flown. We were so hungry that we didn’t even notice spring arriving! If your guests have shotguns, we’re saved! The sky is black with duck swarms.”
&nb
sp; Tuning his ear, John could hear the rustling of thousands of wings. He dressed in a hurry. Captain Bartlett and Kataktovik followed suit. They took out their shotguns, and Enmyn’s starved silence shattered with the thunder of volleys.
The ducks were flying in such dense flocks that you could shoot blindfolded. With dull thumps, the birds fell and fell onto the snow. The lifeless settlement rang with the loud barking of the dogs, who had appeared out of nowhere, and the shouting of the people, who were diving into the midst of the squabbling dog packs to wrest the birds away from them. The dogs tore at their clothes and bit them, but the people paid no attention to that, returning the blows, prying the still-warm ducks from canine jaws and taking them back to the yarangas.
John ran around with everyone else, screamed at the dogs, growled. His hands became covered with teethmarks and scratches, and his clothes hung in tatters.
When the shooting came to an end and the late twilight descended over the earth, fires were set to blazing inside the chottagins, and the scent of boiled meat, the smell of food and of life, long forgotten by the starving people, floated from yaranga to yaranga.
So great was their impatience that the women didn’t pluck the ducks, but skinned them. Cauldrons bubbled over great fires.
“Your arrival has turned out to be our salvation,” John told Captain Bartlett. “Duck meat will give strength to those who were on the brink of starving, and the men will be able to go out hunting again. A great thanks to you.”
“Not at all,” the captain replied, wiping the gun down with a cleaning rod and inspecting the barrel in the firelight. “I am glad to have been of help to you, and that our guns finally had some use. During the sinking of the Karluk in the Arctic Ocean, our supply of rifle cartridges was lost. All we had left were the shotguns. That’s what we hunted polar bear with, and seal.”
With a nonchalant air, Kataktovik was scalping the duck heads of their multicolor feathers. Back home, they made fancy clothes and headdresses out of the feathers, ones that fetched a good price from the white people.
