The Shadow of Everything Existing

by Ken Altabef

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  Kritlaq smiled, a slow parting of his thin lips across crooked teeth. “And if I were to pull my support away?”

  Aquppak scowled back. “Then I guess I’d have to slit you open a second time.”

  “Careful. That was Khahoutek you killed, not me. I think you’d find me much harder to kill.”

  “Harder maybe, but more enjoyable for certain. Come now, Kritlaq. Is this what you’ve come here for? To make ridiculous threats?”

  Kritlaq let the moment drag on, if only to infuriate Aquppak even further. The headman continued to scowl for a moment more, then turned to walk away.

  “I have a message from our master,” said Kritlaq at last. He spoke just loud enough so that the others might have heard, but not quite.

  Aquppak came back, in answer to the tug at his strings. “Out with it!”

  “He wants you to attack the trading post at Old Bea. He wants you to kill everyone there.”

  “That’s easy,” remarked Aquppak. “I know the place very well. There are usually only two kabloonas there.”

  “Vithrok says there will be more. A lot more. And a sailing ship.”

  “All right. I’ll have to scout it carefully then. But first we’ll go against the Tungus.”

  “Vithrok wants this thing done immediately.”

  Aquppak considered letting Ginak lead the raid against the Tungus while he went to Old Bea. It was the logical thing to do, except for the fact that he didn’t want Ginak leading anything without him.

  “And why, I wonder, do we attack the white men now?”

  Kritlaq laughed maliciously. “You don’t need to know.”

  Aquppak was filled with a savage fury. He didn’t like being treated like a dog. He was the headman here, not some shaman. Always it was the shamans ruining his plans, first Alaana and now Klah Kritlaq.

  “The men want wives.”

  “The Tungus women can wait,” said Kritlaq. “You had better do as Vithrok says. He put you back together. He can just as easily take you apart.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll do it,” snapped Aquppak.

  “Good dog.” Kritlaq showed teeth again.

  “I’ll do it,” said Aquppak, “but to tell you the truth I’m surprised at you Kritlaq. I used to hear stories about you when I lived among the Anatatook. Everyone was frightened of you. It was said you had a gaze in your eyes that could stop a man dead. That you could force people to do things, anything at all. That you were a famous sorcerer yourself. And yet now you follow along like a reindeer in the yolk.”

  Aquppak gazed boldly into the shaman’s yellowed eyes. Kritlaq’s gaze was indeed frightening, but Aquppak knew that reputations could be deceiving. They were most often built on legs of sand.

  “These tales frightened me,” continued Aquppak, “when I was a little boy. But old women do exaggerate, don’t they?”

  It wasn’t easy to rouse Kritlaq to anger. Most often, his fires burned coldly. He was like a snake, striking from cover of darkness, sudden and deadly. But Aquppak held no fear of him. If he was bound to obey Vithrok, so must Kritlaq, and that must include protecting the headman of the Yupikut.

  “You know so little of things that happened before you were born. I was the greatest shaman of the Anatatook. None could match me, before or after.”

  “Until you were killed by Old Manatook.”

  Kritlaq smirked. “I went about things the wrong way. I tried to force them. I wanted power over them, I wanted to rule them. The same things you want. It was foolishness. Now I see a much bigger destiny.”

  “What? Licking Vithrok’s boots?”

  “Oh, no. No. I serve Vithrok but he also serves me. You only pull the sled, little dog. You don’t understand the plan.”

  “What plan is this?” asked Aquppak, probing in a carefully offhand manner. “I don’t see any plan where you do anything but crawl beneath Vithrok’s boot, cowering in the muck.”

  “You’re a fool. I’ll get what I want out of Vithrok. Everything I want. Let him wrestle the Moon, let him fight off the other shamans. When he wins, I win. We all win. Even those fools who oppose us will benefit when we defeat them.”

  Aquppak laughed and made to turn away. “It’s just like the old Anatatook women used to say. You’re completely crazy.”

  Kritlaq snatched a handful of Aquppak’s summer parka, yanking his arm. “When all is said and done, I will be the equal of Vithrok. When he restores the Beforetime I will answer to no one. I’ll be awash in paradise, swimming in the great sea of endless possibility.”

  Kritlaq’s anger suddenly cooled. He released Aquppak’s sleeve and turned away.

  “That’s good enough for the shamans, for those who have angakua. But what about the people?”

  Kritlaq offered a dismissive wave. “All the dogs will be there too.”

  “Will Aquppak be there? Aquppak the man? Or will I be just a nameless droplet in your great sea?”

  “Just do what he says,” said Kritlaq as he walked away.

  Aquppak found this conversation particularly interesting. Restore the Beforetime? Sea of endless possibility? Perhaps Kritlaq had said too much, or maybe it was all nonsense. Either way, he was determined to find out.

  In the meantime, he must do as Vithrok said. He was nobody’s dog, nobody’s slave. And yet he remembered how he had felt, face down in the snow after the Yupikut had tortured and broken him and brought him to the edge of death. Vithrok had given him a second chance with his foul sorcery and he expected results in return. Aquppak couldn’t deny it; the sorcerer possessed immense, otherworldly power. He had no choice but to obey.

  All his life he’d wanted to be headman, headman of his familial band the Anatatook. He had considered it his destiny. Destiny thrown to the winds by Alaana and her meddling. Now he had raised himself up once again, become headman of the Yupikut, but still he was not free. Still he was a slave, a beggar boy. He must go before the men and explain that the plans had changed, that Kritlaq held sway and that he was going away on a scouting mission. He would take Ginak with him, so that he couldn’t stir up trouble or take control of the men in his absence. Let that fat, stupid Ivaiarak lead them for a while; he was no threat.

  Aquppak shoved aside the tent flap. He didn’t like the men to see him this way, so angry, so out of control.

  Inuiluq startled at his sudden appearance. She pulled the kayak-cover up to her neck, as if it were a child’s blanket. She didn’t meet his angry gaze. She never did. Though a few years older, her resemblance to Alaana was uncanny. She had the same strong line of jaw, full lips and wide mouth, and flat cheekbones. Not beautiful, but neither was Alaana.

  Inuiluq had become something he despised, a hated reminder of the past. What he admired most about Alaana was her strength of spirit. It had not quite been love, but it might have been, if only she would have given him a chance. Aquppak hadn’t loved anyone in his entire life. His parents left him an orphan early on, in the care of his grandfather Putuguk. The old man had been so helpless and useless, Aquppak could not love him. He had felt sympathy for his sister Tikiquatta but she had been so downtrodden and meek, and destroyed herself in the end. But Alaana was different. In her Aquppak had seen a kindred spirit.

  No one dominated Alaana. When Aquppak tried to take her, she’d slashed his hand. She was glorious.

  But aside from the superficial resemblance Inuiluq was not anything like Alaana. She went around with her eyes always lowered, saying nothing at all. She had been held captive for many years, abused, broken. Broken — her spirit was shattered. She did whatever she was told, eyes lowered, silent. Aquppak had his way with her as did Guolna before him but he didn’t enjoy it. Laying with Inuiluq had become repulsive to him. She wore Alaana’s face but she was not Alaana. Why couldn’t she act like Alaana? Why didn’t she show some spirit? But she couldn’t. She was broken.

  Inuiluq busied herself once again with the kayak-skin. She said nothing.

  Aquppak sa
t on their sleeping platform and brushed the furs onto the floor. On the ledge lay a small dagger. He picked it up, his eyes never leaving Inuiluq.

  He left a carving knife on the ledge day and night, out in the open where she could easily get at it. While he lay half-awake during the night, fearing the men would muster an ambush against him, he waited for Inuiluq to take up that knife. But she didn’t. She never would. Where he feared an attack from the men, he would have welcomed a strike from her. It didn’t come.

  He tossed the knife at Inuiluq. It stuck itself into the hem of the kayak-skin with a dull thunk, nearly missing her foot beneath. If he had wanted the blade to find that foot, it would have.

  Inuiluq’s eyes slowly roamed from her needlework to the hilt of the knife. She said nothing.

  “Pick it up,” he said.

  She looked away again, unsure.

  “Pick it up!” he raged.

  Inuiluq pulled the dagger from the ground. She stared down at it, saying nothing.

  Aquppak was at her side in an instant. He stretched out his arm, putting the back of his hand under her chin.

  “Cut me,” he said.

  Inuiluq didn’t move.

  He indicated a line across the back of his hand. It was the same place Alaana had slashed him years ago, though the scar had been erased when Vithrok had rebuilt his body.

  “Cut my hand.”

  His wife stared down at the knife. Her head remained absolutely still. Her eyes moved slowly from the knife to Aquppak’s hand and then back again. The dagger trembled wildly.

  “Do it!” he raged.

  The dagger fell from her grip. She wouldn’t do it.

  Aquppak drew back a balled fist.

  CHAPTER 7

  CIVILIAQ

  The ghost of the shaman Civiliaq looked out upon the frozen spit of land the Anatatook called the Tongue. A wide expanse of flat volcanic rock surrounded on three sides by the melting sea. In years past the Anatatook had enjoyed launching whale hunts from this windswept strut of the cape, catching the bowhead as they migrated to summer feeding grounds.

  As spirit only, he could not taste the salty air nor feel its chill caress on his cheek, but the jumble of the broken ice, the sunlight catching the tops of the waves, and the familiar outline of the rocky coast brought back many memories.

  He felt like a young boy again, frolicking along the beach of black gravel and cracked shell. There were so many children in those days and so few cares. He and Kuanak were the only two boys who possessed angakua, the spirit light of the shamans. At such an early age the shamans were no different from other boys except that they could see souls where others did not, and they could hear the whispered voices of ghosts. Civiliaq and Kuanak were as brothers then, competing for attention as all children do in summer. The other children didn’t fear them, perhaps because they were two and competed mostly with each other. Civiliaq was the faster runner and Kuanak had the better eye for spear throwing and archery.

  Both boys were tutored in the Way by the Anatatook shaman named Klah Kritlaq. Kritlaq had been an imposing presence and a powerful shaman, and the good fortunes of the Anatatook in those days were directly attributable to his strength at breaking storms and his ability to keep malicious spirits at bay. With Kritlaq a good hunt seemed always assured, be it caribou, musk ox or bowhead. He instructed the two boys at communication over distance, barter with the game spirits, and how to generate tumo, the mystical heat. He was an adequate, if impatient, teacher. The boys were good, if impatient, students. They both reached the age of twelve in the same year and embarked on their initiation side by side on the ice.

  Kuanak made contact with Quammaixiqsuq, the master of lightning, and assured his patronage. He spent three days on the ice, begging aid from the great spirit, and received the gift of lightning.

  As for Civiliaq — naked, half-starved and shivering out on the tundra — a very different spirit answered his call. This spirit was Tulukkaruq, the Raven, an inveterate trickster. The Raven offered his support to young Civiliaq then snatched it away, leaving him for dead, only to flutter alongside and offer hope yet again, only to snatch it away. In turn the great spirit froze Civiliaq to death, starved and drove him mad with thirst, and teased the boy until he would gladly have slit his own throat. In the end Tulukkaruq accepted the role of spirit guardian for Civiliaq. And therein lay the difference between the two.

  Quammaixiqsuq was a distant but dependable spirit guide, encouraging self-reliance and skill in the hunt and offering unshakable aid when it was needed most. Kuanak grew into his powers with skill and confidence. The Raven, on the other hand, was a fickle and undependable aide, offering support only to withdraw it at the last moment and leave Civiliaq floundering mid-air or abandoned on some spiritual plane. Although Kuanak came dutifully to his lost brother’s rescue and thought nothing of it, no one could appreciate the depths of Civiliaq’s humiliation.

  Civiliaq was clean-shaven and handsome, tall and muscular, with a mane of straight black hair that trailed to his shoulders. Kuanak was thick and squat, with thorny eyebrows and beard, one droopy eye looking sideways out of his creased face. Kuanak often wore a parka bristling with frills of gray wolf hair, and for this reason he was called Wolf Head.

  Soon the competition between them fanned to rivalry, at least in Civiliaq’s eyes. He was every bit as adept as his brother Kuanak, this he knew, though saddled with an unreliable power source. He dove into in any activity or contest that might prove he was better at anything than Kuanak, a rivalry that bode ill for both shamans, and ultimately brought disaster.

  A fourth shaman came among them when Old Manatook and his wife Higilak joined the band. At first Old Manatook didn’t impress them overmuch with his raggedy clothes and unkempt hair and beard. He made no presumptions to power and was careful not to demonstrate his abilities very often.

  Kritlaq, however, steadily grew to resent the others. He would not grow old and feeble without a fight. While still foremost among the four shamans, he desired complete mastery over all the Anatatook. He had not taught his charges everything. And new abilities presented themselves. He embraced the ways of sorcery, learning to force the souls of people to act, to use them as puppets in order to get his way. He controlled the headman, and directed the movements of the band. He controlled the wives of others and used them for his own mad pleasures. He was eventually driven insane by dark forces — his thoughts twisted to the point where he saw demons at every turn, accusing the people of unwarranted corruption and exacting cruel punishments against the innocent. He had become tainted beyond reason or redemption.

  Though the ancient shaman endangered them all, Civiliaq and Kuanak could not raise their hands against him. Kritlaq had weaved some influence over his students, making them blind to the evil he was doing. Civiliaq and Kuanak stood idly by while Manatook did what needed to be done. Proving somehow resistant to Kritlaq’s sorcery, the polar bear shaman gutted the old man in full view of the people.

  With Kritlaq gone, the rivalry between Civiliaq and Kuanak intensified. Old Manatook remained aloof, going away often on secret journeys to the north. Now it was Civiliaq who wanted to be foremost among the shamans. He showed off, going about bare-chested and barefoot to demonstrate his ability to warm himself by use of the tumo. He covered his arms and chest with mystical tattoos of snakes that seemed to writhe and move all on their own. These ornaments didn’t increase his power but they did impress and intimidate the people.

  Civiliaq lectured the children, illustrating his points with a raven feather, and performed tricks for them, gaining their support for the future. At times when his spirit guardian was feeling generous, he sprouted beautiful black raven wings from his shoulder blades and was able to fly his physical body across Nunatsiaq. None of the other shamans could work such a feat, though it was rumored Old Manatook could transform himself into a semblance of a white bear on occasion.

  More than anything, Civiliaq reveled in the exhilarating gift of flight. Of c
ourse any shaman could take a soul-flight outside their body but he was the only one who could fly his physical form, feel the cool breeze against his bare chest and the unbridled joy of weightlessness as he whirled and spun in the air. Unfortunately Raven’s gift proved as fickle as the great spirit himself, and Civiliaq must fly unobserved, so the others wouldn’t see him suddenly lose the power and tumble awkwardly in the air, groping for support where there was none, or come crashing down into the snow.

  Civiliaq challenged his brother time and again in spiritual contests to prove he was the greater. On one occasion he blew his inuseq up to the size of a mountain ridge, and dared Kuanak to wrestle. The resultant battle shook the entire peninsula and offended every rock and mountain in Nunatsiaq. Another time they burrowed under the glacier to see who could get the farthest through, but the glacier grew angry and tried to swallow them up. They argued constantly. Distrust between shamans is an ugly thing, and certain to anger the spirits. In time their disharmony drew a deadly fever spirit to the village, endangering every man woman and child among the Anatatook.

  Ultimately the three shamans undertook a journey to the Underworld to battle the demon but even in this, Civiliaq felt the need to prove his worth. Instead of fighting beside the others he raced ahead to face the demon alone. In the end, self-doubt led to his downfall. He was consigned to a torture chamber deep below ground, to suffer at the evil whims of the demon for all eternity. The link to his spirit guardian was severed, his raven wings torn out of their sockets.

  What happened next was perhaps Civiliaq’s greatest disgrace. He reached out from his Underworld prison, and tried to trick power from the young shaman Alaana. His brother Kuanak caught him in the act, rescuing the girl and casting Civiliaq back into his pit of torture. Madness finally crept over the disgraced shaman. His physical torments were as nothing compared to the guilt and recriminations he heaped upon himself. He was consumed by fire, skin flayed from bone, crushed to a speck of dust, adrift in a maddening sea of emptiness and pain. At his lowest point, in a twisted version of a shaman’s initiation, Alaana came to him. Civiliaq laid himself bare to the girl, begging her forgiveness. Alaana released him from torment and he ascended to the sky to join the other dead shamans. In a way, since the Raven had abandoned him, Alaana had become his guardian spirit. And Civiliaq passed time among the star-shamans, shamed, cut off from his own power, the least among them when he might have been the greatest.