by Ken Altabef
Alaana was resolute. “I do belong. I caused it by releasing Vithrok, and I will end it.”
“Oh, Alaana,” said Civiliaq, shaking his head. “I wish I could believe that.”
“I still have a connection to my guardian spirit.”
“Sila? Perhaps the fickle wind can keep itself safe for a time but--”
“Not Sila.”
Civiliaq narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
Alaana wouldn’t say. She waved Civiliaq’s ghost to silence and turned again toward the cairn meant to honor the spirit of Old Manatook.
Civiliaq felt sorry for Alaana, recalling the way she’d been dragged into this. He remembered the girl she had been, as playful and joyful as the rest of them, and just a little bit rebellious as well. He remembered the day, very long ago, when Alaana’s sister Avalaaqiaq had fallen ill and she came running to Civiliaq for help. Alaana had been suspicious of his methods and insulted Civiliaq in front of everyone.
Then later Civiliaq’s own foolish death had left the Anatatook with only Old Manatook for a shaman. Alaana had been called to replace him. And so Civiliaq felt a tiny spark of guilt. In a way, it was his fault Alaana had been called to service.
As Civiliaq watched, a dark smudge formed in the air behind Alaana’s back. Its blurred form appeared somewhat like a black feather for a moment until it resolved itself into the obsidian dagger. It hovered, still and resolute, just above the killing spot in the middle of her back.
Civiliaq nearly laughed. Raven, still at his old tricks. Civiliaq’s shoulder blades burned with a maddening itch where his black-feathered wings used to be. Too late. He had already made up his mind on the matter. Once he had tried to steal Alaana’s power. Even more than once. But he had repented those transgressions and Alaana had forgiven him. She had seen that Civiliaq’s heart was true. It was only Civiliaq who had not realized his own redemption. Until just now. His recent experiences had changed him. His desire to fight alongside his brother shamans, no matter the cost. The horrific sight of the rampaging spirits above, their callous disregard for human life, their own uncertainties. He found he didn’t have a taste for destruction, as the Raven had thought. He wanted to rest, not fly. He had no need of wings.
Alaana had never wanted this life, or this fight, and yet she was going to fight. Go ahead, Civiliaq thought. With my blessing. She was a good woman, a great shaman.
“I am tired, Alaana,” he said. “I can’t go on. And I can’t kill you.”
“Kill me?”
Civiliaq looked down. He smoothed the front of his bare chest as if swatting at a speck of dust. “It was the Raven. He made me an offer of power. If I should kill you with a feather, I should have back my wings to fly. I considered it Alaana. I thought about it. Forgive me.”
Alaana smiled. “You weren’t ever going to do that,” she said. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
“I thought about it,” insisted Civiliaq.
“You should know yourself better. That’s all.”
He knew himself now. He couldn’t buy a second chance with Alaana’s blood. Instead, they must defeat the evil of the sorcerer, or lose everything. Civiliaq’s eyes grew suddenly bright. “There is something else. Something you should know. The Raven revealed to me something important. Vithrok’s plan.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He’s weaving a web in the sky, just as you did once before. He’s bringing the Thing back. He intends to blot out the sun.”
Alaana remembered a divination of prophesy her friend Qo’tirgin had made a few moons ago. ‘No light in the sky. ‘No Moon, no sun.’
Even though this information came from the supremely unreliable source of the Raven, she had no doubt that it was true. “A web! That would explain why he stole Balikqi from the sky. He was the only one, besides me, who knew the secret of the web.”
She trained her spirit-vision at the dull gray sky. She thought she might find some trace of the web, knowing now what to look for, but she could see nothing unusual. “It’s hidden. I can’t see it. I guess only Vithrok can. But it must involve the Moon.”
Alaana was frustrated again. No shaman could visit the Moon now. Without aid from the Moon Man such a flight was impossible, and the Moon Man was dead. But the web must have its root somewhere in Nunatsiaq, somewhere within easy reach of Vithrok. If only they knew where he was hiding. They must find him and disrupt the web at its source. They must not let the Thing come back.
“One thing still isn’t clear to me,” she said. “What does he intend to do with all the angakua he took from the shamans and turgats?”
“That I don’t know,” replied Civiliaq.
“And another question. Did Raven really want you to kill me, after all? Are you sure? Or did he know, as I did, that you wouldn’t do it? In telling me of Vithrok’s plan, are you betraying Raven or doing what he really wanted all along?”
Civiliaq laughed. “Who can say?”
“Of course Raven could just as easily have revealed the plan to me directly.”
“Who can say?” repeated Civiliaq. “I've given up seeking truth in the ways of the Raven, or any of the spirits. I’m going to leave you now, and I’m not coming back.”
“You might still be able to help,” suggested Alaana.
“No. On that point you are certainly wrong. I am a ghost, nothing more. I can help no one. I am going to the land of the ancestors.”
Alaana glanced at the marker she had made for her friend and father Old Manatook. She nodded gravely at Civiliaq. She could not ask anything more of him.
The Yupikut camp had been reduced to a smoldering ruin. The snow still sizzled from white fire, sending up curtains of fresh steam. Aquppak lay face down in the hot slush, blood running from his broken nose to paint the snow a bright pink. At least a third of his fighting force had been killed, crushed beneath unseen feet, trampled by malevolent forces and powers. Their equipment lay in wreckage, tents in tatters, dogs crippled and bleeding, sleds smashed to bits. And Aquppak, headman of the Yupikut, had no idea what had happened.
He only wished Kritlaq had been killed in the blast. The shaman’s body, Khahoutek’s body, still sat cross-legged and unmoving on its prayer mat in the center of the camp. The wooden mask had been knocked from his face, but that was all. Aquppak watched the shaman stand, brush loose snow from his knees and look around. The swirling mists parted before him.
Aquppak felt a sudden wave of nausea. Gagging on blood that had trickled down the back of his throat, he vomited across the snow. When he looked up, Kritlaq was standing over him.
“Get up,” said the shaman.
“What happened here?” demanded Aquppak. “What did you do?”
“What happened? I just killed an old friend of yours. Old Manatook. Remember him?”
Aquppak did. Old Manatook was one of the seminal figures of his youth. As a boy, Aquppak had admired all the Anatatook shamans. Civiliaq was an impressive bare-chested figure who performed magical tricks to delight the children. Kuanak was a fabled hunter, second only to Kanak among the Anatatook. Young Aquppak respected the hunters most of all. Old Manatook was the most distant of the three, having little time for children. But his tall form smoldered with power and his piercing gaze and serious manner bespoke of a powerful shaman who concerned himself only with keeping the people safe.
Then Civiliaq and Kuanak died and Old Manatook disappeared as well, leaving Alaana behind as his replacement. Aquppak had great aspirations in those bygone days. He was going to be headman of the Anatatook and Alaana its spiritual defender. After that everything went wrong, but he had always thought kindly of Old Manatook.
Aquppak indicated the wreckage strewn all around them. “And what about all this?”
“That’s why I told you to get up,” said Kritlaq. “You’ve a lot of work to do. You can start by cleaning up the mess.”
Aquppak got to his feet, feeling dizzy again. “We should move the camp immediately. Just as soon as we get the sleds repaired. It’s n
o use rebuilding here, if our enemies know about this place.” He peered through the mist. The damage to the camp was worse than he had imagined. The men would be furious, and he doubted they would dare take their anger out on the shaman. But an uprising against the headman was a distinct possibility. “It’s not going to be easy getting the men back in line.”
“Then be quick about it,” snapped Kritlaq. “We’re going to launch an attack as soon as the sleds are repaired.”
“An attack? Like this? Against who?”
“Against the Anatatook. An easy mark. A successful raid will help you rally the men.”
“Who ordered this?”
“This comes from our master, Vithrok.” Kritlaq had an uncertain twitch in his eye when he said this and Aquppak thought it might be a lie.
He knew so little about the Tunrit sorcerer. Their master didn’t deign to speak to him directly. He’d had no contact with Vithrok since that day he lay dying in the snow. Vithrok had lifted him up, stitched his body back together by force of will. Aquppak shuddered just remembering the awful agony of it. He had never felt such pain, as every strand of muscle, every shard of bone in his battered body was rewritten by the coldhearted hands of the sorcerer.
Afterward he had never seen Vithrok again. He didn’t want to ever see him again. Kritlaq served as the intermediary between them. Aquppak got the impression he was well below the sorcerer’s notice. But he suspected this order didn’t come from the sorcerer.
“Why would he want to attack the Anatatook? They are nothing.”
“Vithrok’s plans are not for you to know. Just do what he commands, dog.”
“It’s not as easy--”
Aquppak’s legs collapsed beneath him and he went crashing to the snow. Suddenly, as if there were a hand at the back of his head, his face was pushed down to the ground, directly into the pile of vomit.
“How many times do I have to make you eat dirt before you follow my orders without question?” snarled Kritlaq.
Aquppak’s mouth snapped open. The stink in his nose almost made him choke again. As if pulled by a pair of unseen fingers, his tongue stretched forth.
His point made, Kritlaq let him go.
“Do I have to make you chop off your own genitals?”
“No.”
Kritlaq snickered. “Good. Now clean up this mess and organize the men. There is no better medicine for poor spirits than battle. An easy victory will go down well.”
“We are only at half strength at best.”
Kritlaq shot the headman another warning glance. Aquppak felt his face flush hot, and wondered if he flushed with his own shame or if this was the shaman’s doing. It was clear that Kritlaq would not hesitate to burn him down where he stood if he questioned one more order.
“We’ve enough men to win out over the Anatatook, surely,” said Kritlaq. “Our men will have better morale when they have fresh new wives for the winter. See to it.”
Kritlaq walked away.
Aquppak glanced up at the broad, gray sky. The spirits had practically destroyed the entire Yupikut camp, with no concern for the lives of his raiders. Vithrok must have had a hand in that, he was sure. The sorcerer cared nothing for him or his men. They were all dogs to him. What was worse, he thought, to be a beggar boy or a dog?
Aquppak spat out the scorching taste of bile and straightened himself up. He strode purposefully across the camp. A challenge from one of the men was inevitable unless he kept a stern hand on the situation. He came across a pair of men hovering over one of the corpses.
“Ilaituk!” he called. “Naigo!”
The men glanced up at him.
Aquppak sneered at them. “You two are in charge of getting all these corpses out of our way. Drag them to the base of the eastern ridge. Strip them of their gear and anything else they have that we could use.”
“It’s Ginak,” said Naigo. Aquppak saw that the corpse was indeed Ginak, brother of the previous headman Guolna, and his chief rival. A splintered strut of wood had been driven through the man’s eye by the blast, killing him instantly. Aquppak chuckled conspicuously. At least some good came of all this, he thought.
“Yes. Him too,” he said sharply. “Just add him to the pile. And be quick about it.”
Aquppak walked on. He marshaled another pair of men, ordering them to take charge of the sleds and round up the dogs. “I want those sleds in working order before you lay down to sleep again. We don’t sleep unless we’re ready to move, on my order. Understand?”
Aquppak walked on. There was one more urgent matter to attend to. If a challenge was to be made against him, it would most likely come from an expected source. It was not difficult to pick out the figure of Ivaiarak. The big man was twice the size of any of the others. His back was turned; he was talking to a few of the other men.
“Heya, idiot!” Aquppak called. He checked to make sure the meteor blade was still secure at his hip but he didn’t draw the weapon. Not yet.
Ivaiarak turned around. His beady little eyes bulged slightly. He’s frightened, Aquppak realized. Still frightened. He was surprised. Somehow he’d thought the blind rage of the spirits would bother an imbecile less than the others. He was wrong.
“What are you standing around for? There’s a lot of work to do,” he said. Giving Ivaiarak something to do would calm his nerves. Big dumb ox.
“Round up all the weapons. I don’t care who they belong to. I will distribute them as I see fit.”
Ivaiarak nodded slowly.
“If anyone gives you trouble,” added Aquppak, “punch them in the head.”
Aquppak walked on, making his way back to his own tent. Repairing the tents was the women’s work. He considered putting Inuiluq in charge, but to his mind she wasn’t fit to be in charge of anything. None of the women were. But she was the headman’s wife and it was about time she started acting like it.
He was surprised to see that she was already raising up the tent, struggling to lift one of the poles with the heavy tent skin still attached. She wasn’t strong enough. She should have taken the skin off first. Another idiot. In any case he stepped up beside her, grabbed the pole and drove it down into the ground.
“Well, that’s half of the tent up anyway,” he said. He would need to get another pole but it would do for now. The skins weren’t torn too badly and would give enough shelter for the night as long as it didn’t snow.
He was just about to ask Inuiluq about their gear when he heard a whispered voice behind him.
“Father?”
He turned around to see Manik, his twelve-year-old son.
“Father, what happened?” the boy asked.
Aquppak ignored the question. “What are you doing here? How did you find us?”
The boy arched his back proudly. “I can travel on my own. I’m twelve now. I’m a man. I haven’t brought down a buck yet, but that’s not my fault!”
“How did you find us?” he asked again. He was most concerned about this point. Aquppak scanned the crevasses and rocky outcroppings surrounding them with a sharp eye. Were their enemies breathing down their necks already? This attack had just happened. No one could know.
“You spoke about this place to me one time,” said Manik. “You were drunk.”
Inuiluq crawled inside their half-tent.
Manik asked, “Were you attacked? Did you fight a battle?”
“It was a storm,” said Aquppak dismissively.
“I’ve just crossed the tundra. Three sleeps. I didn’t even have a tent.”
“Traveling without a tent is stupid. Stupid.”
“There wasn’t any storm,” said Manik.
“A storm of the spirits. Don’t ask me any more questions. You’re lucky to be still alive. Many brown bear make their dens in the crags of these bergs. And our sentries would’ve killed you, if they hadn’t been distracted by all this.”
“I know how to get past sentries,” said Manik.
“You have to leave here right away.”
&
nbsp; “Leave? I don’t want to leave.”
“You can’t stay.”
“But why not?” There was a pleading whine in the child’s voice that Aquppak could not stand.
“It’s not safe for you here.”
“You don’t want me here.”
“That’s right. I don’t. Go back to the Anatatook where you belong.”
Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes. Aquppak ignored them.
“Get going,” he said.
“I thought--”
“I don’t care what you thought. Get out.”
Manik’s face hardened as the first tear fell. “This place is a lousy dump. Choobuk was right. You’re nothing but a bunch of scavengers, beggars that take from the other bands.”
Those words, coming from his own son, might have stung Aquppak’s heart on any other day. But on this day, they rang of the truth. Instead of slapping the boy’s face, Aquppak grabbed a fistful of his parka and drew him close.
“Listen to me,” he whispered. “You have to go back to give the Anatatook a message. To warn them.”
Speaking with his low tone, Aquppak had Manik’s full attention. The boy was eager to believe there was more to the situation than met the eye, and that he had a role to play.
“Get my message to Alaana and her brother. And tell them, warn them. The Yupikut are planning an attack.”
“Warn them? Against you?”
“Just do it. Don’t ask any questions.”
“But if you don’t want the attack, why don’t you just call it off? You’re the headman.”
No I’m not, thought Aquppak. Whatever position he nominally held, Klah Kritlaq was in charge of this band. That was no longer in question.
“Just tell them to be ready. How fast can you get back?”
“Two days,” said Manik, “If I run most of the day.”
Aquppak remembered the days when he could have run for an entire day. Those days were long gone. Given the state of the Yupikut camp, he might be able to delay their attack for at least that long.
“It’s not much time,” he said. “Hurry!”
The boy paused, his face still uncertain.
