by Ken Altabef
Noona pointed out yet another polynya for him to avoid. These were seemingly innocuous cracks in the ice that opened underfoot, then, as if with a mind of their own, greedily enlarged to swallow unwary travelers. Gekko dutifully sidestepped the danger, then quite suddenly fell to his knees. He could go no further. They had eaten nothing all day except a handful of lichen scraped from the rocks.
He looked helplessly down at his legs. They would not move.
“I can’t…” he said. “I can’t go any further.”
“It’s all right,” Noona said. “I’m tired too.”
She made a quick circle of the area, stamping her foot hard against the ground. Gekko would never have dared do such a thing, but his wife was in no danger. She knew when the ground was solid and when it wasn’t.
When she found a certain spot she called back, “This is good snow. Igluksak. It won’t take long.”
Noona fashioned a sort of sharp-edged scoop by flattening the coffee tin. Now she bent to the task, cutting a circular depression in the hard packed snow. Gekko forced himself to crawl to her side. After even such a short rest his legs were already cramping painfully.
Noona carefully lifted foot-long blocks of ice out of the enlarging depression and set them around the hole’s edge. She worked quickly and efficiently and Gekko determined his best use was simply to stay out of her way. True to her word, in only fifteen minutes or so she had stacked the blocks in a tapering spiral and disappeared within a hand-made house of snow.
“Cut an entrance hole, husband, or you’ll sleep outside tonight.”
Gekko worked his pocket knife into the blocks, carving his hole on the leeward side, free from the prevailing wind. He stacked little piles of the hard snow, whatever he could cut with a six-inch blade, as wind breaks on either side. Noona emerged from the entrance and began ministering to the exterior of the tiny dome, packing loose snow into every seam.
The interior was just large enough for both of them to lay down among their furs. Noona instructed him to get out of his clothes and leave them outside so they could dry. This would allow the moisture to freeze so it could be knocked cleanly away in the morning.
They huddled together under the furs and Gekko found their new home warm enough. He wondered with a strange sense of detachment if it was even remotely possible they might survive?
He could have fallen right away into a deep sleep, but Noona had other ideas. Her snuggling quickly became insistent. His wife knew what she wanted, and who was he to refuse? He was exhausted, and hungry and sore all over. After sleep they would face another day’s monotonous march on an empty stomach, a journey that would only bring them imperceptibly closer to home. But in this moment he didn’t give the slightest goddamn about tomorrow. Thoughts of hardship and danger were easily cast aside.
He cradled Noona’s face in both hands, kissing her full on the lips in the western way and then nuzzling her neck with the flat of his nose.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said.
He didn’t know if he was talking about her face, or her strength, or her determination to survive. All of it.
“So beautiful…” he said again.
CHAPTER 30
ERLAVEERSINIOQ THE DISEMBOWELER
A gigantic coral arch hung over Sedna’s palace at the bottom of the sea. It had the form of a cresting wave, frozen in dynamic motion, rising a hundred feet off the sea floor. A sculpture to rival the Heart in beauty, it was composed of tiny polyps in hundreds of different shades and textures, their barbed, venomous tentacles swaying almost imperceptibly in the water. The surface was colored by algae in vibrant hues — pink and yellow, emerald green, blue and purple. The algae were meticulously maintained in a certain pattern, a vast array of tiny dots of color that painted a larger picture.
It was a scene of life before the dawn of time, a rainbow nebula full of lofty spirits at play. Tiny sea animals darted in and out of the countless pores and edifices of the limestone. The reef was a living work of art.
Sedna, the artist, was quite proud of her work. Though she had no fingers, she directed tiny daggerfish to continually move and rearrange the colored crusts to maintain the desired effect.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
Vithrok, visiting in spirit, gazed up at the breathtaking display.
“This is nothing,” he said.
Sedna was quick to anger. She had grown and groomed these colonies over hundreds of years. Her rage set the waters around her face to boiling. “Nothing?”
“You strive and strain to represent what came so effortlessly before. But with such pathetic materials at hand, flesh and blood and stone, what can anyone expect? It is wasted labor. My Tunrit used to try the same thing. They used to paint pictures on cave walls with ash and berry juices. I’m not content with pictures. I never was. Not when we can have the real thing returned to us at last.”
He raised his hand, a clawed, blackened thing. Flickers of blue flame erupted from the fingertips. Brilliant colors flared and sparkled — phosphorescent yellow, emerald green, viridian and electric blue. Even this little display put the wall of brilliant coral to shame. They smelled in rapid succession the aromas of hyacinth, daffodils, cuttlefish, mangoes, fava beans and other strange perfumes. Thick brown molasses streamed down from the hand, and Sedna tasted it on the water.
Her head spun with delight. It had been a very long time since she had experienced any of these sensations. She felt memories stir inside her, fanning an urgent desire. Yes, she wanted all that back again.
“I am so close now,” said Vithrok. “I have so much of it. I am the Beforetime, just waiting to be born anew.”
Sedna placed a fingerless hand on his shoulder, remembering all the times they had made love millennia ago. “Take a rest,” she said. “Take some time with me.”
“Time.” He almost laughed aloud. “We have to stop time. After that is done, infinite pleasure.”
He raised himself tall, spread out his arms, his head and shoulders bathed in blue fire. He was a country unto himself.
Her spirit passed into him. She had no real body; nor had she ever had one. She was a spirit-woman, her many pasts all fictitious. Two spirits without bodies could mingle slightly but not in the complete way, not the way it had been Before. For a moment Sedna and Vithrok were like water surging and flowing into each other, crashing one against another, two souls at play. But it was a cautious dance, without real joy or substance. It was not like it had been before.
Vithrok broke off their contact. He didn’t want her to uncover any of his carefully guarded secrets. He didn’t want the Mistress of the Sea to glimpse the full extent of his plan, and its one potential flaw. He didn’t want her to know about Raven’s fickle promise of assistance. No promise at all, for Tulukkaruq had not yet given him an answer.
Sedna didn’t like being pushed away. A razored glint flashed in her sea-green eyes. A proud woman, she was at all times a dangerous spirit.
“Not yet,” he said. “This is only a pale reflection of true joy. That’s not enough for me — for us. But we will have it, I promise. Endless time, time beyond time, when we can truly be together. Nothing will stand in our way.”
As if merely an afterthought, he asked, “The ship?”
“The ship is brought down,” she said. “It lies broken and full of ghosts at the bottom of my sea.”
“Good,” said Vithrok. “One less annoyance.”
“They have other ships. I’ve felt their strange touch sometimes. They taste of oil and sewage.”
“More flies pecking at my hide?”
“None close enough to cause trouble any time soon.”
“And it will all be over soon,” he said. “Soon. The Thing advances. I can taste it.”
“Then stay here a while, where it’s safe,” she said, her cruel face softening seductively, her pointed teeth hidden behind an alluring smile. “Take some rest.”
“Nothing can stop me now,” he said again. “But I won’t r
est till it’s done.”
Indeed he did feel safe here. With the Whale-Man gone, no one could bother him at the bottom of the sea.
Sedna turned and took a step toward her palace of coral. “One thing, perhaps, I think, might cause trouble.”
“What’s that?”
“Tsungi.” She turned back around, her eyes narrowed. A challenge?
That name again. Vithrok shrugged it off. “He hides. He must be afraid. Or badly hurt.”
“Maybe he’s gone away,” she suggested, “like the Thing.”
“No. I’ve smelled him on Alaana, the Anatatook shaman.”
“That little one? I’ve met her. Found her strange. Not a real shaman at all.”
“She’s connected to Tsungi in some way.”
“So that was it. She left the taste of Tsungi on my tongue. So long ago, I’d forgotten. I wonder why you allow her to live. Perhaps you plan to use her to draw him out?”
Vithrok waved a hand dismissively. “Perhaps. But I have no need to draw Tsungi out. I only want him to stay out of my way.”
Her eyes brightened. “Maybe he will. Maybe he wants the same thing we do?”
No, thought Vithrok. Not likely. If that were true, then why Quixaaragon’s sting? Tsungi had struck at him once, and had hurt him. “I doubt it. He may act against us, or he may be unable to do so. It doesn’t really matter. I am so close now, you’ll see. I have so much of the light, so much power.”
This remark infuriated the Sea Mother. She grabbed his inuseq by the elbow, fumbling fingerlessly at his soul. “I or we?”
Vithrok nodded reassuringly. “We go forward together.”
Sedna’s grip relaxed.
“So many turgats are aligned with us now,” said Vithrok. “We need only wait. If Tsungi shows himself against us we will defeat him. I am certain of it.”
“Tornarssuk will never come to our side,” she said flatly.
“That I already know. And so we may amuse ourselves with The Great Bear in the meantime, as we wait or the Thing to arrive.”
“Don’t underestimate Tornarssuk. He will be trouble.”
“It’s not so difficult as you think.”
Where does one find Erlaveersinioq? A spirit that loves fear and murder above all else. The turgat of chaos, of mindless destruction and of death.
Where do you find chaos?
Vithrok stood aloof as the ice wall came tumbling down. Huge blocks fell from the top of the berg, fifty feet high. The avalanche had been sparked by ages of slow erosion which had caused the lonely spirit of the berg to grow weak at the knees. Or perhaps it was caused by the turgat of destruction himself. Who knows?
Deep blue cracks began to track through the berg’s chiseled features, unnoticed by the people in the valley below. Directly beneath the ice front, a hapless band of travelers: two families, four men, three women, six children. What they were doing out on the plain, Vithrok didn’t know. Perhaps they were trying to draw fish from the little river that curled beneath the glacier, perhaps the parents needed to stuff some food into the crying mouths of their babies. He didn’t much care. All that mattered to him was that this was the place, beneath the towering mass as it trembled on the brink of destruction, this was the place one could find Erlaveersinioq.
An ominous rumble finally caused the people below to take notice. They glanced up at their doom, helpless, hapless, pathetic. The adults tried to shield their children as if such a thing were possible, then ran screaming in one direction or another as the uproar grew louder and louder, building to a ferocious growl. Sea birds scattered in maddened flight. But none of the people could escape. The snow and ice first collapsed into itself, then burst out upon the valley and down, a tumbling mass of chaos and destruction, a river of angry white.
The great spirit Erlaveersinioq stood watching the pealing mass of snow and rock. It was in its guise as The Skeleton Who Walks, ten feet tall, a figure of ancient bones long since turned to stone. The joints of its neck creaked as it bent to observe the deaths of the people. A somewhat less than satisfying view to be sure as the bodies simply disappeared within the tumult of falling ice, their screams muffled, their blood obscured from sight. But Erlaveersinioq could see far beyond the material. Its spirit-eyes caught the lights of the victims’ souls as they rose, horrified, from the wreckage of their lives.
The skull face was incapable of smiling or showing any emotion at all.
A long bony arm shot out, deft skeletal fingers extended and Erlaveersinioq caught each of the fleeing souls one by one. Its empty eye sockets stared lifelessly at them as it took the dead souls, peeling them slowly, each in turn. The souls screamed in blind panic and agony, the children loudest of all. The turgat peeled a long strand of soul-stuff from each of its terrified victims and held them up by these strands like puppets on a string. And then it made them dance, screaming before him, the lot of them dangling from the fingers of one bony hand.
The Skeleton’s face showed no emotion, but a chill wind passed from its clacking jaws, a dry, scabrous sound of pleasure.
Vithrok had seen enough. He revealed himself in the shape of the broad-shouldered, handsome Tunrit he had once been, clad in a gown of ancient furs. He showed no hint of the Beforetime armor he had worn previously with the exception of a crown of the stuff which sat adorning his ponderous brow.
He stepped forward and, inhaling sharply as he did so, drew one of the tortured souls into his own spirit. And another and another. In a moment he had consumed them all, plucking them directly from the Skeleton’s grasp.
Erlaveersinioq looked wildly about. Who had dared to steal its playthings?
It reacted instantly to Vithrok’s presence. With the wave of its bony hand it brought the other half of the mountain down. But the snow and ice passed harmlessly through Vithrok’s naked spirit.
Erlaveersinioq immediately changed form. The Skeleton became the Disemboweler, a gigantic figure of death. Beneath its mane of wild hair was a hideous blue-skinned face with eyes dead in their sockets, each as large around as a small lake. Two pairs of yellowed tusks framed a bloody rent of a mouth, filled with more teeth than anyone could count. Screams of long-dead women and children emanated from that evil, grinning mouth and blood dribbled down in a heaving torrent. In place of ears the snapping, snarling snouts of ferocious horned dogs sprouted from each side of the turgat’s head, their fangs dripping red blood.
Six slender arms, stained the color of midnight blue, clawed pointlessly at the air. A long, powerful tail whipped the air with deadly spikes. The great spirit’s legs ended in wide, stomping feet. Its every footfall shook the earth. All in all it stood sixty feet tall, as horrible and awesome a sight as Vithrok had ever seen.
They always seek to intimidate with size, thought Vithrok. They always think bigger is better. So predictable. Vithrok chose to remain small, only an ordinary Tunrit standing below the immense form of the Disemboweler. He didn’t want to go toe-to-toe with this monster.
Erlaveersinioq grunted, a sound that was lost amid the ferocious yapping of the two dog-head ears.
“Stupid brute!” said Vithrok. His insult was completely drowned out by all the ruckus, but he thought remaining small sent a message as well, a message that he was unafraid. This sentiment was probably lost on Erlaveersinioq, who was always a stranger to subtlety.
Erlaveersinioq took a swipe at Vithrok using all three arms on his left side in rapid succession. At his reduced size, Vithrok was able to avoid them.
Vithrok didn’t like that. Running away was not his intent. But he recognized an intense danger here. This entire escapade was a tremendous gamble. But all his plans had been gambles from the start, including his bid for the aid of the Raven. He had always been willing to take risks, even from the first when he had bluffed the turgats into forging the Old Agreement. He’d taken deadly risks again and again and he’d always won. And he would win this one as well. He would always win, because he was right.
Erlaveersinioq grew impatient
when Vithrok dodged his attack. The great turgat wielded the power of chaos, and it sent this weapon at the Tunrit in a destructive, inescapable wave.
Vithrok saw it coming, a blast of razor blades, a stream of deadly static, an acid bath that would eat through his very soul.
Vithrok never let it touch him. He called upon the great reserve of Beforetime at his disposal. What was Beforetime if not the power of creation itself? He used this power to transform, to organize, to defang the cobra. Waves of disorder, pure primal destructive chaos came at him, and he fashioned them into Being.
He turned the maddening static into a swarm of mosquitoes that flew hurriedly away. He transformed the deadly blades into a cornucopia of aromatic fruits that fell at Erlaveersinioq’s feet. The turgat stared down at them in amazement, but it didn’t stop. If anything it increased its attack, sending wave after wave of naked destruction at the Tunrit.
Vithrok turned this attack into music. Waltzes, minuets, a symphony of concordant melodies and sounds that would have gladdened the heart of even the most malicious of monsters. Erlaveersinioq glanced quizzically at its foe, but it did not stop. It once again redoubled its attack.
Vithrok transformed chaos into sparkling lights in magnificent colors that flashed and burned, increasing his counter attack, but he was feeling the strain. The battle was deadlocked, creation versus destruction. Erlaveersinioq doggedly continued. It knew nothing else. But Vithrok was growing tired. His defense was mostly bluster. He could not last. In time Erlaveersinioq would destroy him. Vithrok could never defeat this being in a contest of raw power but fool him, yes, that was possible.
