“Your house is my house,” she said, as the little bone-shod sleigh squeaked and bumped behind them in the awful Arctic night.
“My house is your house,” said Kotuko, “but I think that we shall both go to Sedna together.”
Now Sedna is the Mistress of the Underworld, and the Innuit believe that every one who dies must spend a year in her horrible country before going to Quadliparmiut, the Happy Place, where it never freezes and fat reindeer trot up when you call.
Through the village people were shouting: “The tornait have spoken to Kotuko. They will show him open ice. He will bring us the seal again.” Their voices were soon swallowed up by the cold empty dark, and Kotuko and the girl shouldered close together as they strained on the pulling-rope or humoured the sleigh through the ice, in the direction of the Polar Sea. Kotuko insisted that the tornaq of the stone had told him to go north, and so north they went under Tuktuqdjung the Reindeer—those stars that we call the Great Bear.
No European could have made five miles a day over the ice-rubbish and the sharp-edged drifts. But those two knew exactly the turn of the wrist that coaxes a sleigh round a hummock, the jerk that neatly lifts it out of an ice-crack, and the exact strength that goes to the few quiet strokes of the spear-head that make a path possible when everything looks hopeless.
The girl said nothing, but bowed her head, and the long wolverine-fur fringe of her ermine hood blew across her broad, dark face. The sky above them was an intense velvety black, changing to bands of Indian red on the horizon, where the great stars burned like street-lamps. From time to time a greenish wave of the Northern Lights would roll across the hollow of the high heavens, flick like a flag and disappear, or a meteor would crackle from darkness to darkness trailing a shower of sparks behind. Then they could see the ridged and furrowed surface of the floe all tipped and laced with strange colours—red, copper, and bluish—but in the ordinary starlight everything turned to one frost-bitten grey. The floe, as you will remember, had been battered and tormented by the autumn gales till it was one frozen earthquake. There were gullies and ravines; and holes like gravel-pits cut in ice, lumps and scattered pieces frozen down to the original floor of the floe; blotches of old black ice that had been thrust under the floe in some gale, and heaved up again; roundish boulders of ice; sawlike edges of ice carved by the snow that flies before the wind and sunk pits where thirty or forty acres lay five or six feet below the level of the rest of the field. From a little distance you might have taken the lumps for seal, or walrus, overturned sleighs, or men on a hunting expedition, or even the great Ten-legged White Spirit-Bear himself, but in spite of these fantastic shapes, all on the very edge of starting into life, there was neither sound nor the least faint echo of sound. And through this silence and through this waste where the sudden lights flapped and went out again, the sleigh and the two that pulled it crawled like things in a nightmare—a nightmare of the end of the world at the end of the world.
When they were tired Kotuko would make what the hunters call a “half-house,” a very small snow hut, into which they would huddle with the travelling lamp, and try to thaw out the frozen seal-meat. When they had slept, the march began again—thirty miles a day to get five miles northward. The girl was always very silent, but Kotuko muttered to himself and broke out into songs he had learned in the Singing-House—summer songs, and reindeer and salmon songs—all horribly out of place at that season. He would declare that he heard the tornaq growling to him, and would run wildly up a hummock tossing his arms and speaking in loud threatening tones. To tell the truth, Kotuko was very nearly crazy for the time being, but the girl was sure that he was being guided by his guardian spirit, and that everything would come right. She was not surprised, therefore, when at the end of the fourth march, Kotuko, whose eyes were burning like fireballs in his head, told her that his tornaq was following them across the snow in the shape of a two-headed dog. The girl looked where Kotuko pointed, and some Thing seemed to slip into a ravine. It was certainly not human, but everybody knew that the tornaq preferred to appear in the shape of bear and seal and such like.
It might have been the Ten-legged White Spirit-Bear himself, or it might have been anything, for Kotuko and the girl were so starved that their eyes were untrustworthy. They had trapped nothing and seen no trace of game since they had left the village; their food would not hold out for another week, and there was a gale coming. A polar storm will blow for ten days without a break, and all that while it is certain death to be abroad. Kotuko laid up a snow-house large enough to take in the hand-sleigh (it is never wise to be separated from your meat), and while he was shaping the last irregular block of ice that makes the keystone of the roof he saw a Thing looking at him from a little cliff of ice half a mile away. The air was hazy, and the Thing seemed to be forty feet long and ten feet high, with twenty feet of tail and a shape that quivered all along the outlines. The girl saw it too, but instead of crying aloud with terror, said quietly: “That is Quiquern. What comes after?”
“He will speak to me,” said Kotuko, but the snow-knife trembled in his hand as he spoke, because however much a man may believe that he is a friend of strange and ugly spirits he seldom likes to be taken quite at his word. Quiquern, too, is the phantom of a gigantic toothless dog without any hair, who is supposed to live in the far north, and to wander about the country just before things are going to happen. They may be pleasant or unpleasant things, but not even the sorcerers care to speak about Quiquern. He makes the dogs go mad. Like the Spirit-Bear he has several extra pairs of legs—six or eight—and this Thing jumping up and down in the haze had more legs than any real dog needed.
Kotuko and the girl huddled into their but quickly. Of course if Quiquern had wanted them he could have torn it to pieces above their heads, but the sense of a foot-thick snow-wall between themselves and the wicked dark was great comfort. The gale broke with a shriek of wind like the shriek of a train, and for three days and three nights it held, never varying one point and never lulling even for a minute. They fed the stone-lamp between their knees and nibbled at the half-warm seal-meat, and watched the black soot gather on the roof for seventy-two long hours. The girl counted up the food in the sleigh; there was not more than two days’ supply, and Kotuko looked over the iron heads and the deer-sinew fastenings of his harpoon and his seal-lance and his bird-dart. There was nothing else to do.
“We shall go to Sedna soon—very soon,” the girl whispered. “In three days we shall lie down and go. Will your tornaq do nothing? Sing her an angekok’s song to make her come here.”
He began to sing in the high-pitched howl of the magic songs, and the gale went down slowly. In the middle of his song the girl started, laid her mittened hand and then her head to the ice floor of the hut. Kotuko followed her example, and the two kneeled staring into each other’s eyes, and listening with every nerve. He ripped a thin sliver of whale-bone from the rim of a bird-snare that lay on the sleigh, and after straightening set it up upright in a little hole in the ice, firming it down with his mitten. It was almost as delicately adjusted as a compass-needle, and now, instead of listening, they watched. The thin rod quivered a little—the least little jar in the world—then vibrated steadily for a few seconds, came to rest, and vibrated again, this time nodding to another point of the compass.
“Too soon!” said Kotuko. “Some big floe has broken far away outside.”
The girl pointed at the rod and shook her head. “It is the big breaking,” she said. “Listen to the ground-ice. It knocks.”
When they kneeled this time they heard the most curious muffled grunts and knockings apparently under their feet. Sometimes it sounded as though a blind puppy were squeaking above the lamp; then as if a stone were being ground on hard ice; and again, like muffled blows on a drum; but all dragged out and made small, as though they had travelled through a little horn a weary distance away.
“We shall not go to Sedna lying down,” said Kotuko. “It is the breaking. The tornaq has chea
ted us. We shall die.”
All this may sound absurd enough, but the two were face to face with a very real danger. The three days’ gale had driven the deep water of Baffin Bay southerly, and piled it on to the edge of the far-reaching land-ice that stretches from Bylot Island to the west. Also, the strong current which sets east out of Lancaster Sound carried with it mile upon mile of what they call pack-ice—rough ice that has not frozen into fields. And this pack was bombarding the floe at the same time that the swell and heave of the storm-worked sea was weakening and undermining it. What Kotuko and the girl had been listening to were the faint echoes of that fight thirty or forty miles away, and the tell-tale little rod quivered to the shock of it.
Now, as the Innuit say, when the ice once wakes after its long winter sleep there is no knowing what may happen, for solid floe-ice changes shape almost as quickly as a cloud. The gale was evidently a spring gale sent out of time and anything was possible.
Yet the two were happier in their minds than before. If the floe broke up there would be no more waiting and suffering. Spirits, goblins, and witch-people were moving about on the racking ice, and they might find themselves stepping into Sedna’s country side by side with all sorts of wild Things, the flush of excitement still on them. When they left the hut after the gale, the noise on the horizon was steadily growing, and the tough ice moaned and buzzed all round them.
“It is still waiting,” said Kotuko.
On the top of a hummock sat or crouched the eight-legged Thing that they had seen three days before—and it howled horribly.
“Let us follow,” said the girl. “It may know some way that does not lead to Sedna.” But she reeled from weakness as she took the pulling-rope. The Thing moved off slowly and clumsily across the ridges, heading always towards the westward and the land, and they followed while the growling thunder at the edge of the floe rolled nearer and nearer. The floe’s lip was split and cracked in every direction for three or four miles inland, and great pans of ten-foot-thick ice, from a few yards to twenty acres square, were jolting and ducking and surging into one another and into the yet unbroken floe as the heavy swell took and shook and spouted between them. This battering-ram ice was, so to speak, the first army that the sea was flinging against the floe. The incessant crash and jar of these cakes almost drowned the ripping sound of sheets of pack-ice driven bodily under the floe as cards are hastily pushed under a tablecloth. Where the water was shallow these sheets would be piled one atop of the other till the bottommost touched mud fifty feet down and the discoloured sea banked behind the muddy ice till the increasing pressure drove all forward again. In addition to the floe and the pack-ice, the gale and the currents were bringing down true bergs, sailing mountains of ice, snapped off from the Greenland side of things or the north shore of Melville Bay. They pounded in solemnly, the waves breaking white round them, and advanced on the floe like an old-time fleet under full sail. But a berg that seemed ready to carry the world before it would ground helplessly, reel over, and wallow in a lather of foam and mud, and flying frozen spray, while a much smaller and lower one would rip and ride into the flat floe, flinging tons of rubbish on either side, and cutting a track a mile long before it was stopped. Some fell like swords, shearing a raw-edged canal, and others splintered into a shower of blocks, weighing scores of tons apiece, that whirled and skirled among the hummocks. Others, again, rose up bodily out of the water when they shoaled, twisted as though in pain, and fell solidly on their sides, while the sea threshed over their shoulders. This trampling and crowding and bending and buckling and arching of the ice into every possible shape was going on as far as the eye could reach all along the north line of the floe. From where Kotuko and the girl were, the confusion looked no more than an uneasy rippling crawling movement under the horizon, but it came towards them each moment, and they could hear far away to landward a heavy booming, as it might have been the boom of artillery through a fog. That showed that the floe was being jammed home against the iron cliffs of Bylot Island, the land to the southward, behind them.
“This has never been before,” said Kotuko, staring stupidly. “This is not the time. How can the floe break now?”
“Follow that!” the girl cried, pointing to the Thing half limping, half running distractedly before them. They followed, tugging the hand-sleigh, while nearer and nearer came the roaring march of the ice. At last the fields round them cracked and starred in every direction, and the cracks opened and snapped like the teeth of wolves. But where the Thing rested, on a mound of old and scattered ice-blocks some fifty feet high, there was no motion. Kotuko leaped forward wildly, dragged the girl after him, and crawled to the bottom of the mound. The talking of the ice grew louder and louder round them, but the mound stayed fast, and as the girl looked at him he threw his right elbow upwards and outwards, making the Innuit sign for land in the shape of an island. And land it was that the eight-legged limping Thing had led them to—some granite-tipped, sand-beached islet off the coast, shod and sheathed and masked with ice so that no man could have told it from the floe, but at the bottom solid earth, and no shifting ice. The smashing and rebound of the floes as they grounded and splintered marked the borders of it, and a friendly shoal ran out to the northward, turning aside the rush of the heaviest ice exactly as a plough-share turns over loam. There was a danger, of course, that some heavily squeezed ice-field might shoot up the beach and plane off the top of the islet bodily, but that did not trouble Kotuko and the girl, when they made their snow-house and began to eat, and heard the ice hammer and skid along the beach. The Thing had disappeared, and Kotuko was talking excitedly about his power over spirits as he crouched round the lamp. In the middle of his wild sayings the girl began to laugh and rock herself backwards and forwards.
Behind her shoulder, crawling into the hut crawl by crawl, there were two heads, one yellow and one black, that belonged to two of the most sorrowful and ashamed dogs that ever you saw. Kotuko, the dog, was one and the black leader was the other. Both were now fat, well-looking, and quite restored to their proper minds, but coupled to each other in an extraordinary fashion. When the black leader ran off, you remember, his harness was still on him. He must have met Kotuko, the dog, and played or fought with him, for his shoulder-loop had caught in the plaited copper wire of Kotuko’s collar, and had drawn tight, so that neither dog could get at the trace to gnaw it apart, but each was fastened sidelong to his neighbour’s neck. That, with the freedom of hunting on their own account, must have helped to cure their madness. They were very sober.
The girl pushed the two shame-faced creatures towards Kotuko, and, sobbing with laughter, cried: “That is Quiquern, who led us to safe ground. Look at his eight legs and double head!”
Kotuko cut them free, and they fell into his arms, yellow and black together, trying to explain how they had got their senses back again. Kotuko ran a hand down their ribs, which were round and well clothed. “They have found food,” he said, with a grin. “I do not think we shall go to Sedna so soon. My tornaq sent these. The sickness has left them.”
As soon as they had greeted Kotuko these two, who had been forced to sleep and eat and hunt together for the past few weeks, flew at each other’s throats, and there was a beautiful battle in the snow-house. “Empty dogs do not fight,” Kotuko said. “They have found the seal. Let us sleep. We shall find food.”
When they waked there was open water on the north beach of the island, and all the loosened ice had been driven landward. The first sound of the surf is one of the most delightful that the Innuit can hear, for it means that spring is on the road. Kotuko and the girl took hold of hands and smiled. The clear full roar of the surge among the ice reminded them of salmon and reindeer time and the smell of blossoming ground-willows. Even as they looked the sea began to skim over between the floating cakes of ice, so intense was the cold, but on the horizon there was a vast red glare, and that was the light of the sunken sun. It was more like hearing him yawn in his sleep than seeing him rise, a
nd the glare lasted for only a few minutes, but it marked the turn of the year. Nothing, they felt, could alter that.
Kotuko found the dogs fighting outside over a fresh-killed seal who was following the fish that a gale always disturbs. He was the first of some twenty or thirty seal that landed on the island in the course of the day, and, till the sea froze hard, there were hundreds of keen black heads rejoicing in the shallow free water and floating about with the floating ice.
It was good to eat seal-liver again; to fill the lamps recklessly with blubber and watch the flame blaze three feet in the air; but as soon as the new sea-ice bore, Kotuko and the girl loaded the hand-sleigh and made the two dogs pull as they had never pulled in their lives, for they feared what might have happened in their village. The weather was as pitiless as ever, but it is easier to draw a sleigh loaded with good food than to hunt starving. They left five-and-twenty seal carcasses buried in the ice of the beach all ready for use and hurried back to their people. The dogs showed them the way as soon as Kotuko told them what was expected, and though there was no sign of a landmark, in two days they were giving tongue outside Kadlu’s village. Only three dogs answered them; the others had been eaten, and the houses were nearly dark. But when Kotuko shouted, “Ojo!” [boiled meat] weak voices answered, and when he called the roll-call of the village name by name, very distinctly, there were no gaps in it.
An hour later the lamps blazed in Kadlu’s house, snow-water was heating, the pots were beginning to simmer, and the snow was dripping from the roof as Amoraq made ready a meal for all the village, and the boy-baby chewed at a strip of rich nutty blubber, and the hunters slowly and methodically filled themselves to the very brim with seal-meat. Kotuko and the girl told their tale. The two dogs sat between them, and whenever their names came in they cocked an ear apiece and looked most thoroughly ashamed of themselves. A dog who has once gone mad and recovered, the Innuit say, is safe against all further attacks.