The Shadow of Everything Existing

by Ken Altabef

  And now an old evil had risen from the ever-frost, a Tunrit whose sorcerous power made Kritlaq seem a babe in the amaut. To meet the threat Civiliaq had returned to Nunatsiaq, carried along on the wave of great shamans as they plummeted to the world below. He was cut off from Raven’s power, impotent among them, flightless, despairing so much that he couldn’t be sure if he desired to save the world or watch it burn.

  “It feels good to walk these sands again,” said Kuanak.

  Civiliaq returned from his recollections to find his brother’s inuseq standing beside him. Wolf Head’s spirit-form possessed a distinctly more feral character than his ordinary appearance. His raggedy hair flew long and free, the gray folds of fur that lined the collar of his parka merged inseparably with the lines of his face, making him seem part wolf. His eyes shone with a strange golden tint. In his hand he held a long power staff fashioned from a single narwhal horn, carved with the signs and sigils of his spirit guide Quammaixiqsuq, the master of lightning.

  Kuanak’s good eye roamed the peninsula. Civiliaq had the idea Wolf Head was not remembering happy times of childhood. He was searching the horizon for any omen of ill portent.

  “Are you ready to go?” asked Kuanak.

  “I don’t know,” returned Civiliaq.

  Kuanak’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “He is dangerous, this Vithrok. He makes us doubt ourselves. And that is the most powerful weapon.”

  Civiliaq didn’t answer. He disliked his brother’s resolute tone, which seemed to hold the blanket authority of a teacher. But Kuanak was merely commenting on his behavior, not twisting the knife.

  “Still, he is just a Tunrit,” continued Kuanak. “Just a man. Small before the spirits as we all are. If we keep faith with them we will prevail.”

  Civiliaq turned the back of his shoulder toward Kuanak. The stubs of his shredded wings were still visible. “That’s easier for some than others.”

  “It’s a sad thing to see any shaman stripped of his guardian.” Kuanak’s droopy eye twitched of its own accord. His tone was not condescending, only uncompromising. “You made mistakes. But there may yet be some good for you to do. Let’s go and see.”

  “How?” asked Civiliaq. “I’ve no wings to fly.”

  Now it was Kuanak’s turn to show his back. “Climb on, brother.”

  “I won’t,” said Civiliaq.

  Kuanak turned back around. His golden eye stared straight at Civiliaq, waiting for the lazy one to catch up. “Are you diminished, or defeated?”

  “Powerless,” said Civiliaq.

  “Brought low,” said Kuanak. “For the moment. But I think at last you may have learned something important, the lesson of humility.”

  “Are you saying you did me a favor, leaving me trapped to suffer in the Underworld?”

  “Suffering is one pathway to enlightenment. And solitude breeds introspection.”

  Civiliaq cocked his head. “I learned many things, writhing under the torments of that fever demon. I suppose humility was one among them.”

  Kuanak smiled, and there was a great deal of tenderness writ across the gruff and shaggy features of the Wolf Head. “It’s a good thing. You can build on it.”

  Build on it, thought Civiliaq. Oh, but it was such a long way up from total failure. He really didn’t think he still possessed strength enough to make that climb. “At least I can thank Alaana for releasing me from my prison, after you saw fit to slam the door shut.”

  “I would have done the same, in time. For now, climb on. I will carry you, my brother.”

  “Thanks,” said Civiliaq sarcastically.

  “I always help you,” said Kuanak. “Even if you don’t know it.”

  Kuanak hunched over and Civiliaq draped a leg around his waist. He weighed nothing. He was made of light. But there was still the matter of balance to be reckoned with.

  Both legs up, he straddled Kuanak’s torso. It was an awkward fit. Civiliaq was taller than his brother and threatened to overbalance him. Kuanak invoked the name of his spirit guardian and the tip of his narwhal staff crackled with blue lightning and began to hum.

  Up they went.

  CHAPTER 8

  IN SEARCH OF LIGHTNING

  Kuanak’s manner of flying was different than any other Civiliaq had known. It seemed as if the staff hauled them upward, with Wolf Head holding on for dear life. Civiliaq clung desperately to his brother’s back like a baby hanging on its mother. It was beyond humiliating. He recalled the days of the beautiful raven wings and the joy of flight, memories that cut at him now like knives. There was no joy in this awkward upward climb. No joy at all.

  As they rose higher and higher above the Tongue, the Anatatook summer camp and indeed all of Nunatsiaq dwindled to obscurity in the endless white vista beneath them. Civiliaq thought Kuanak was right when he’d said men were small in the eyes of the great spirits. They all seemed so insignificant from here. The people of the frozen wastes lived a tenuous existence at best, struggling to find food and shelter in a world of deadly weather and uncompromising spirits. And from what Civiliaq had been able to witness, their champion Alaana was barely able to keep them alive. One lone shaman among the Anatatook, with the help of a few nearly powerless ghosts from the past — what chance did they have against Vithrok, that tower of strength clothed in glittering armor of the Beforetime?

  Their course across the sky became wobbly and unsure.

  “Doubts, doubts,” rumbled Kuanak as he struggled to right their path. “Sit still, brother. Are you here to help us or to see us fail?”

  Civiliaq struggled to clear his mind. A shaman can do nothing without confidence, he reminded himself. He felt like an initiate again, learning the basic truths for the first time. It was such an uncomfortable feeling. He imagined himself pushing off from Kuanak’s back, tumbling helplessly down. Why not complete the fall he had already started? Why not?

  But Civiliaq did not let go.

  At last they breached the layer of clouds that separated Upperworld from the world below. To Civiliaq, the clouds always tasted like mouthfuls of sweet tallow. As the clouds parted before them, the shamans watched the Upperworld come into view. They viewed the scene through the eyes of their spirit-vision.

  The spirit of the air lay crystallized across the entire sky as a shimmering lattice of airy blue light, a framework through which all the denizens of the Upperworld floated and flew, bobbed and weaved. It was a great spiritual aviary, alive with the soul-lights of a great many spirits — warlike owls, busy starlings and meek sparrows. The great winds blew this way and that, visible to the shamans as clouds of soft light in various colors.

  Most of the bird spirits ducked meekly away as the two shamans passed. Only one, a sleek gray gull spirit, engaged them in conversation.

  “What?” said the gull, flitting this way and that. “What is this? It’s a monster. I think it must be. Help! Help!”

  Kuanak, using the narwhal staff to steer their flight, was forced to swerve out of the path of the frenzied gull maiden.

  “What is this?” cried the gull. “What? What? A creature with four arms and four legs. See the odd way it flies? Alarm! It has two heads!”

  “Settle down, Glorfindel,” said Wolf Head gruffly. “You know us. We are shamans of Nunatsiaq.”

  The gull flitted closer, dipping her head near enough to peck Kuanak’s eyes out. “Wolf Head! It’s Wolf head,” she announced.

  Several more of the Gull People appeared, to fly alongside the pair of shamans.

  “What news Glorfindel?” asked Civiliaq.

  The gull peeked her head between the two shamans. “It’s Civiliaq! Civiliaq of the Raven! Do you see?

  The other gulls joined in, chatting noisily. It had been a long time since either of these brave souls had flown among them.

  “Civiliaq! Civiliaq!” continued Glorfindel. “Do you see? Do you see?”

  “They see,” said Kuanak gruffly. “Now tell us what news you have? What of the Morning Dawn?”

>   “She mourns for Annigan. They were forced to live apart, but the Moon is still her husband in her heart. She doesn’t come out. Not ever. Except to rage at the sky.”

  “Yes,” said Kuanak, “That happened a hundred years ago. We know all that already.”

  “She can’t help us,” said Civiliaq. “She’s no great spirit. She’s just a lonely ghost who died for love. She’s no use to us.”

  These statements disturbed the gulls greatly. The denizens of the Upperworld adored the Dawn.

  “What of the owls?” asked Kuanak, but the gulls were making too much noise, filling the air with buzz and chatter. “What of the owls?” he shouted again.

  “The owls have lost their guardian,” said Glorfindel. “No fire, no fight.”

  “I see,” said Kuanak. “And what do you hear from the winds?”

  “The winds are many,” said one of the gulls. “They blow one way and another.”

  “They taste sour,” said another.

  “From the south,” said Glorfindel, “they bring the taste of men. A sailing ship, smoke from burning coal, the smell of gunpowder fouling the air. And the seas churn with discontent. Sedna and the Whale-man are at odds again.”

  “Any news of the Tunrit?”

  “No help! No news,” squawked a gull, who immediately flew away.

  “Tunrit! Tunrit!” yelped another and then they were all squawking and ranting and circling about. Several sailed directly into Kuanak as the shamans continued to rise. And then the gulls were gone, even Glorfindel.

  Civiliaq chuckled. “Silly things. They’re never of much use, are they?”

  “They are what they are,” said Kuanak.

  Their climb had brought them to the lofty reaches of Upperworld, where the lattice of blue light gave way to the realm of the cloud-caves. Kuanak knew the landmarks of this landscape as well any trail on the world below. The cloud caves were made of sterner stuff than their airy counterparts below. The surface was firm but rubbery beneath their feet. These clouds were old souls, which mostly spent their time asleep just like the stones and mountains of Nunatsiaq. Kuanak set down atop a ledge that stretched upward into towers of white mist, pock-marked with balconies and openings that led inside. Only a few lonely souls roosted here, the far-reaching peregrine and solitary eagle spirits.

  Kuanak said, “This is the place where Quammaixiqsuq makes his home. It’s strange. In the past he always met me outside…”

  “Maybe I’m not the only one abandoned,” said Civiliaq.

  “No,” snapped Kuanak. “My guardian has not abandoned me. I still feel him with me. He brought us up here.”

  Kuanak held his staff high, its tip still glowing with blue fire. “Master?” he cried. “Lord of the Lightning and heavenly fire! If it please you, I would speak.”

  Kuanak had not expected this. What if Quammaixiqsuq refused to give him an audience? That had never happened before.

  “Have we come all this way for nothing?” asked Civiliaq.

  Kuanak thought about it for a while then said, “Our mission is too important for us to turn away. I’ll venture inside just a little way. It’s probably best if you wait outside.”

  “Of course,” said Civiliaq. It was dangerous enough for a shaman to enter the lair of his guardian spirit unasked, but an unfamiliar shaman faced immediate dissolution for such arrogance. Civiliaq stepped from the entrance and turned away, resting his back against the cool, cloud surface. “Go ahead.”

  Kuanak snorted softly, wondering if his brother was enjoying his disappointment. But he had spoken the truth. He couldn’t afford to turn back now, whatever might happen.

  Wolf Head stepped slowly into the cloud cave. The entrance tunnel was tremendous in scale, as tall as twenty men. He felt very small, one man alone, striding that lofty hall of the gods. What good would he do the cause if the Lightning vaporized him for his insolence? As this inkling of doubt crossed his mind, the floor of the cavern trembled beneath his feet, threatening to become insubstantial and send him plummeting to his death. But the floor did not fade; it buoyed him up. And Kuanak knew that it was by the grace of Quammaixiqsuq that he did not perish despite his own foolishness. His faithful guardian, as ever, kept the way open before him.

  As he passed further along the corridor its dimensions narrowed considerably. The cloudstuff, which usually provided brilliant illumination by its very nature, grew progressively dimmer and dimmer. These changes were ominous. In a few moments it seemed to Kuanak that he walked through a dingy hall within a desolate mountain of dull gray stone.

  He smelled fresh seal meat cooking in the pot. He heard the hushed voices of people talking softly, the laughter of children. The top of the entrance tunnel now rose only a short distance above his head. It had become so dark he could barely make out the dim glow of a cooking fire ahead. As he pressed on, vague figures became visible in the gloom. A woman stirring the stew, a child at her knee, another rolling playfully on the ground. The woman was dressed in a light summer parka, roughly patched at both shoulders. Her hair was worn up in an elaborate bun directly on top of her head. The woman noticed his approach and made a small, sharp sound. “Husband!”

  The figure of a man came out of the gloom. “Halt!” he commanded.

  Kuanak stood still. The man approached rapidly, keeping directly between the intruder and his family, as any protector might. The man was similarly dressed in a ragged parka, lacking any fur trim whatsoever. His hair was unruly and long, bound behind his neck with a thong. He was an elderly fellow, his hair and mustache completely gray, his cheeks lined with wrinkles. “What do you want here?”

  “I beg your… your forgiveness,” said Kuanak. “I was looking for someone else.” He bowed his head deferentially and shuffled back a step.

  The man stepped closer. Kuanak was amazed, for the man before him wore the face of his great guardian, the Lord of the Lightning.

  “Quammaixiqsuq?” said Kuanak.

  “I am he,” said the Lightning. He had the form of an old man, no taller than Kuanak. His face was worried, his cheeks half-sunken.

  This appearance was in stark contrast to the way Kuanak had seen him before. Ever since the day of his initiation, Kuanak had seen the Lightning as a towering figure, crackling with great power, immense, frightful. Quammaixiqsuq usually possessed huge wings made of static electricity, had streaks of blue lightning crackling along his veins, and eyes afire with blue light. He wore terrifying gauntlets with talons tipped by blue fire, and boots that ended in giant hawk-like feet. The man who stood before Kuanak now had eyes of brown. The only indications of his former self were the little crackles of blue lightning sizzling around his hair line.

  “I asked you,” said Quammaixiqsuq, “what do you want here?”

  Kuanak bowed deeply again. When he looked up he saw another figure had joined the Lightning. This was a woman, similarly dressed. In contrast to the wife, who had her hair neatly done up, this lady sported a wild mane jutting out at every angle. She had a hard face, every bit as wrinkled as the Lightning’s. It was his thunder sister, Kallularuq.

  From her mouth came an unintelligible rumble, like the echo of distant thunder in the hills.

  Kuanak bowed again. “I’ve come to beg for aid, great spirit.”

  Another rumble of thunder.

  “I know, sister,” said Quammaixiqsuq. “But he is one of mine. Let me hear his plea.” The Lightning reached forth and lifted Kuanak’s head by the chin. The shaman felt a little shock of electricity at the touch.

  “Speak your piece,” said Quammaixiqsuq. “Quickly.”

  “Something is happening on the physical plane. Something terrible. A Tunrit sorcerer has risen up--”

  “I know,” said Quammaixiqsuq. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I come seeking your aid, great Lightning, in the coming battle.”

  Thunder rumbled.

  “Go away, Kuanak,” said the Lightning. “Leave this place and do not return.”

  Kuanak should
have turned and left then, he knew. But instead he said, “You won’t help?”

  “Do you think we didn’t see when this Tunrit killed the Moon in the sky?” asked Quammaixiqsuq angrily. “I have stabbed down at the world below for hundreds of years, over and over, and what great damage have I caused? A few rocks scattered or burned, that’s all.” A slightly awkward look crossed the Lightning’s face just then. “What are we compared to the Moon?”

  Kuanak pressed on. “You won’t fight alone. Our plan is to band the spirits together. United against him, we can defeat the Tunrit. Surely.”

  “I admire your confidence, shaman,” said the Lightning. “But it’s not as simple as you think.”

  Kallularuq rumbled again.

  “I know, sister,” said the Lightning, “but he was always one of my favorites. A word of explanation, though unnecessary, will be my gift to him. Kuanak, I tell you such a plan will never succeed. The turgats don’t work together. Tornarssuk is a solitary spirit; Erlaveersinioq the Disemboweler, The Skeleton That Walks, cares only for chaos and destruction; the Raven can’t be trusted; Sedna is cold and independent, embracing no one else; perhaps the Whale-Man would cooperate, for he usually takes a broader view of things than the others, but lighting and water don’t mix. Sila, the Wild Wind, blows his own way, and answers to no one. You see how impossible it is, don’t you?”

  “Begging your indulgence, great spirit,” said Kuanak, “I don’t see that at all.”

  The Lightning smiled sadly, as a father would to his worthy son. “I wish it were otherwise. But no one can defeat the Truth.”

  “A false truth,” insisted Kuanak.