She thanked him for his good advice, then said, "I've broken a runner before and fixed it myself."
"Do you want me to come with you to Anami?"
Anami was the next village to the south, four sleeps away.
Maja thanked the hunter again but said she didn't want to interrupt his life. She had an idea he had no wife or children. There weren't too many single men in the Arctic. They always needed female companionship—women to cook, make their clothing, and have their children.
He said, "Be careful of whirlpools when you cross the river inlets."
Leftovers of the summer torrents, whirlpools were frozen but the ice was often dangerously weak. It was almost impossible to know where they were, and Nattiq, out ahead of the sledge, had probably never led a team across a frozen river. Dogs and driver could plunge into the brackish water beneath the ice hole in an instant and die.
"And watch out for the wind," he said.
She knew about the wind simply from growing up in Nunatak, having been blown off her feet in past winters. "I will," she said.
"Nanuk."
She nodded.
"Frostbite!"
Maja's cheeks and nose had been frostbitten when she was in her teens, but the injury to her skin had been minor.
She nodded again. "Thank you."
He said, "Good luck," and faded back into the shadows.
Maja slept soundly, and in the early morning twilight, she thanked the family for housing her, awakened the dogs, and made certain their pulling traces were in good shape and clear of tangles. She mounted the sledge and yelled, "Huk! Huk! Huk!" in response to the dogs' loud howls—and was off to Anami.
Just as there had been no trail from Nunatak to Salluk, only animal-tracked snow and ice, there was no trail to Anami. She hoped that there'd be inuksuk, piles of guiding rocks sometimes resembling humans. These were usually built to mark routes along the coast. She hoped there would be no cloud cover to hide the sun, and no gales to blow and force her to stop during the next twenty hours.
Halfway to Anami, Maja fed the dogs, and herself, with seal meat from home, then rested them. The dogs burrowed down in the snow, and Maja lay down on the sledge. It was past midnight. The sky was clear, and a three-quarter moon was out. The run so far had again been without event. It had been so easy that her hidden doubts and fears had almost vanished. She was awake for a while, thinking of the boys, then of Kussu.
Over the past tortured months, she'd made herself imagine Alika as a fully grown experienced hunter, not the squealing red seal that had come from between her legs, not the always hungry atertok she'd nursed for two years, but a man now almost as capable as Kussu. She'd pictured him moving around on the floe doing everything that an adult hunter should do, as well as taking care of Sulu.
Looking at the moon in the windless silence so deep that it seemed a falling snowflake would make a noise, she thought of her husband, thought again of the bitter words they'd had just before she'd departed, wounding words they'd never before said to each other. She realized again she was destroying his pride as a man, a hunter. No matter what happened on her search, however long it took before she returned to Nunatak, she knew that their marriage might never recover. She had done the worst thing that could be done to any man, and Kussu was, above all, a piosuriyok, a brave man in every muscle of his body. She loved him dearly. With their two boys in hand, she'd beg for forgiveness when they met again.
Maja also knew he might divorce her during her year's absence from their bed. The ceremony was traditional. She would lie on her back in the sleeping space of a good friend, her knees drawn up, a cord around her head. Kisanqua, a close neighbor, would stand over her, holding the cord in her hands, uttering a chant, frequently changing the tone and measure, at intervals pulling the cord and raising Maja's head. The ritual, which Kussu could not attend, would continue for two hours, blaming Maja. Then she would be divorced but could hope to remarry Kussu at a later date.
She willed herself to sleep.
It was nearing dawn when she awakened, and the calm weather hadn't changed. She relieved herself, ate some snow, and woke up Nattiq and the dogs from their burrowed warmth. Less than one sleep to Anami—another easy run.
The Arctic coast is actually warmer than many places
to the south during winter. The record low is sixty-three
degrees below zero. Although the windblown snowdrifts
can he twenty feet deep, the usual ground cover is only
a few inches. Wind is the deciding factor.
17
Midweek in early March, with days and nights of equal length, Alika was unhappily watching a seal hole on the west edge of the floe, hundreds of feet from the snowhouse. Sulu and Jamka were perched beside him. The day before, the sun had stayed out until three o'clock, bringing good spirits. One huge, scary berg had come so close that it made a dark shadow on the floe, but it did not hit them.
Two days before, there had been another high wind, keeping them inside, sweeping the snow off the ice, leaving a glassy surface. And the previous night had been terrifying. They'd again listened to the cracking, splitting, and groaning noises of the ice and the hollow sounds of rolling chunks of it beneath the floe. Alika had tried to calm Sulu, but he, too, had been anxious. Alika believed it was only a matter of a week or two until their floe would break up into pieces of free-floating ice.
Although the sun was now dimly out most of the day, the cold was penetrating, and Sulu said, "I'm going back to the house."
Standing up he lost his balance, flailing his arms and sliding down the ice into the water, letting out a panic-laden scream, hitting the back of his head against the hard crust.
Jamka dove in behind him, grabbing him by the parka hood, keeping him from floating away. He treaded water as Sulu yelled, "Help us, Alika!"
It was all Alika could do to keep from also sliding in on his knees as he grasped Jamka's harness. The dog helped with his front paws, hooking them over the ice.
Sulu was rasping from shock, water seeping through the narrow space between his throat and the parka collar. His mouth was wide open as he tried to catch his breath.
"We'll get you out!" Alika shouted.
Straining to tug both his brother and Jamka up over the rim, Alika shouted, "Help us, Sulu!"
But Sulu's brown face was already turning white, and his eyes had enlarged like those of a caribou about to be attacked by wolves. Paralyzed, the Little One couldn't help.
It took the strength of both Alika and Jamka to pull him out of the water and up onto the floe surface. Alika's heart was hammering, and Jamka shook himself, letting the droplets fly.
They dragged the dripping Sulu to the house, leaving a water streak in the snow behind them, finally pulling him through the entry tunnel. He was breathing heavily and shivering, murmuring, "Oh, oh, oh."
Alika quickly stripped him naked and piled the caribou sleeping-robes on top of him, then started a fire in the qulliq. He had Sulu sip some warm water.
"We'll get you dry and warm, Little One."
Alika remembered how his mama had dried and warmed him after he'd fallen through lake ice and had been rescued by Jamka. She'd used a Reliance towel, then tucked him into his sleeping bag. She'd rubbed Jamka dry, too, and put his warm body against Alika's.
He would do the same for Sulu. Then he'd rub Jamka dry with a polar-bear square and insert him into Sulu's sleeping bag. After that was accomplished, he'd begin to dry Sulu's clothes over the qulliq flame. But it would not be as easy in the snowhouse as it had been in the timber-and-sod house in Nunatak. Almost all the hunters had fallen into sea or lake water at one time or another. None knew how to swim or had any desire to learn. Water was as hostile as a nanuk. The hunters knew what to do when they took a plunge, but some died.
Teeth chattering, Sulu shivered for more than an hour nestled against Jamka. The dog, seeming to know what his role was—arctic dogs had furnished body heat over many centuries—mostly slept. But Sulu'
s drawn face still hadn't returned to its brown color.
Alika had quickly made a wooden drying rack out of odd sledge pieces for Sulu's clothing. It would take several days before his brother could dress again, though. The low flame from the cotton-grass wick was steady but not all that hot.
There was enough oil in the walrus bladders to last perhaps a week if they used it sparingly. But Alika knew he'd have to kill a seal within several days, and that meant leaving Sulu alone. Jamka would be needed to find a promising hole quickly.
Sitting on the sleeping ledge beside Sulu, Alika said, "Little One, I have to hunt tomorrow."
"And leave me alone?" Sulu's face showed alarm.
"We won't be that far away."
"Leave Jamka with me."
"No, I need Jamka to do his job."
"Then wait until my clothes are dry."
"I can't, Little One. We need oil and meat every day. You know that."
Sulu didn't answer, turning his head toward the snow-block wall.
Alika knew how quiet, lonely, and shadow-dark the cold snowhouse could be. Once, long ago on a hunt with his papa, he'd gotten sick and had to stay alone in their tiny iglu for two days. He'd watched the flickering blue light of the qulliq for hours, between sleeps. He remembered his fear of being without a rifle or even a harpoon. What if nanuk had smelled him inside there and broken through the blocks?
Weeping softly, and without turning around, Sulu asked the same question he'd asked for months, "Brother, when will this be over?"
Alika had only one answer: "Soon, I hope."
"You keep saying that."
One thing was certain: Before long, their ship of ice would crumble into thousands of pieces, and Alika would need to find one large enough to carry Sulu, Jamka, and himself. If Nuliajuk was indeed looking up from the bottom of the sea, the floe would shatter in the daylight, not at night. Alika had never seen a floe come apart but could imagine the ice splitting in large pieces, one after another, then the large pieces shattering into smaller ones; frightening noises; and then, at last, the shock of being dumped into the water. Alika planned to make a paddle from sledge parts and try to reach shore when that happened. He'd long ago given up thoughts of rescue.
Free-floating pack ice can be wide expanses of flat chunks
or terrifying towers, tumbled blocks, pushed about by
winds or currents. During high winds, the pieces can
make explosive noises crashing against one another.
18
The gale from the west, driving snow ahead of it, struck Maja when she was near Anami. She got on the lee side of the sledge, huddling with the dogs. Her face was freezing beneath her mask. She was exhausted from trying to control the team. Fights had broken out, and she came near using the rifle on the biggest husky, which had challenged Nattiq for leadership.
The going had been slow in the gale, and Maja, at one point when the dogs were almost totally out of control, flailed them with the whip, weeping shamelessly. Maybe Kussu had been right. She was not strong enough to make this trip alone, though she would never admit that to anyone. Her legs and back ached.
The early March wind roared, and the snow curled over the side of the sledge. Maja's mittened hands pulled the parka hood tighter against her throat; her body was lodged between two dogs, one of them the husky she'd wanted to shoot. She'd felt lonely before while solo trapping on the tundra but never this lonely, this defeated. She finally fell asleep in her caribou bag.
When Maja awakened, she was warm; the curling snow had covered her and the dogs completely. The sun was up and the morning was brilliant. Rested, she felt better, and if the dogs would cooperate, she might make Anami by darkness.
She fed them, and while they ate, she wondered, as she did each day, where the boys were. Just how far south had they drifted down the strait? She steadfastly believed they were still alive.
They are my boys. No man could understand the strength of bond between a mother and her children. She'd given life to Alika and Sulu in a separate shelter, an iynivik, and she'd cut their umbilical cords with a piece of flint. She'd named both of them after recently deceased uncles, both hunters. She'd placed the cords in a pouch in her parka. Then she had settled in an iglu, built by Kussu, for three weeks, a time during which women were considered impure and dangerous because of giving birth. The custom was ages old.
Alika and Sulu were her boys, and Maja willed them to live, absolutely willed them to live on their floe. They must defy death.
Soon she hooked up the dog traces and got under way for Anami. The running was smooth for the next hour, but suddenly there was a muffled sound and the sledge careened on its side, throwing Maja off, causing the dogs to tangle. She knew immediately what had happened. She'd hit an unseen rock. Getting to her feet, she saw that the left runner was torn away from the sledge.
There was a coil of seal rope that Kussu had attached to the frame, but the frozen runner had broken into a half dozen lengths on impact and there was no way to tie them together. She'd have to wait until she got to Anami and see if a villager there would give her a piece of wood or whalebone for a replacement.
Maja would have more difficulty controlling the dogs now that they couldn't run. Fights would break out more easily. The sledge would drag slowly at an angle, and keeping the dogs in fan position would be difficult. She'd walk behind the broken sledge. She'd use the whip and take a piece of ear out of any dog that misbehaved. She had to challenge the dogs, each of them stronger than she was.
The dogs spotted the nanuk before Maja saw it, and they jerked the tracer line out of her hands, dragging the tumbling sledge with the rifle still attached to it. Maja could only stand and watch as the roaring pack attacked the bear, the pull tracers entangling it.
She saw the bear's paw strike Nattiq as he led the attack, knocking the dog aside in a flurry of blood. It was the wildest dog-bear fight she'd ever seen. The eight dogs sank their teeth into the enraged bear's back and belly. She ran forward and wrested the rifle off the sledge frame, moving toward the melee to get a clean shot at the nanuk.
She got close to the bear, which was still upright, with the dogs tearing at his flesh, and took aim at his head. She fired at an ear and the bear toppled over. Maja collapsed in the bloodred snow, weak-kneed from fright. On her back, panting in terror, she watched as the dogs, muttering and growling, ripped through the bear's thick coat to get at his hot meat. Her heart pounded.
They ate as savagely as they had fought, and Maja made no attempt to stop them. When they'd had their fill, she took her ulu and cut a chunk of meat for herself, her face getting bloody from the goodness of the bear. Then she untangled the traces and dragged the carcass to the sledge, strapping it to the frame for the villagers of Anami.
After the delay, she was under way again, hoping to reach the village without further trouble.
As the moon shone down, Maja arrived safely in Anami just before midnight. The village dogs set up a din and awakened everyone. Anami was smaller than Salluk, only forty families living there. Most came out because visitors were few and far between at any time of day. The villagers welcomed the woman who brought the gift of a bear carcass.
What men were there and not out hunting took care of the dogs, and Maja soon went to sleep in the house of Kuukittsaq.
In the morning, after she told them of her search, the oldest and most traveled hunter, Aku, shook his head and said, "Woman, do you want to die and never see your children again?"
Maja answered steadily, "I am capable of going south." There was defiance in her voice. She was tired of men trying to tell her what to do.
His laugh was harsh. "Even I wouldn't try it. There are no settlements below here for hundreds of sleeps. I've traveled south for days, and there is nothing but foxes and wolves and bears and snow and bad ice. No people."
Maja said, "I must go on."
Aku, whose face was tattooed like a woman's, thin black lines around his cheeks and chin, said, "There
are inlets and rivers that are frozen now, but soon the ice will begin to melt and you will risk your life trying to cross them. And shortly after that, the river water will be rushing out to sea. Woman, there is no safe traveling between here and the end of Ellesmere. The inlets are like nanuk teeth."
Maja said, "I must go on," but her voice was wavering and weakening.
"Woman, if your sons are still alive, they will get off the floe and get ashore without your help. Go back to Nunatak. I will fix your sledge. Go home, foolish woman, still alive."
For two days, Maja thought about what Aku had said, knowing that he spoke the truth. For two sleepless nights, she rolled back and forth in her caribou bag. During the day, she talked to Kuukittsaq, who had two children. For every hour that she was defiant of the elements, she spent another hour thinking. They talked about what could happen during the hundreds of sleeps to the end of Ellesmere; then the crossing to what the kabloonas called Devon; and below that the place called Baffin Island, where Miak had been rescued. Kuukittsaq said, "Don't go."
Finally, Maja gave up and decided to return home. The men of the village had already fixed her sledge. At least she had tried, and if she ever saw Alika and Sulu again, she could tell them about her short journey and why she had turned back. She hoped they'd understand, but she remained angry at herself—and at the bearded hunter at Salluk and this man with the tattooed face, both of whom had robbed her with their warning words, played on her unspoken fear.
She arrived back at Nunatak in four sleeps, barely stopping to eat, pushing Nattiq and his team like they'd never been driven before. Defeat rode with her every mile.
She fell into Kussu's arms and said, "I failed; I'm sorry..." They wept together, and an exhausted Maja soon went to sleep. She'd wait until the next day to tell him what had happened.
There could te thousands of small ice floes in the strait,
bobbing up and down, rubbing against one another