“Or perhaps, Kupah, there will be squid,” Kippinguk replies. He glances at me and grins slyly.
I smile as I dig my ivory knife deep into the hard-packed drift. I know it is caribou and seals they are talking about. But to confuse the animals we sometimes refer to them by other names.
Our igloo is nearly finished. Kupah stands inside, stacking snow blocks in circular rows. I watch as they spiral upward, each one locking perfectly into the next. The last thing Kupah does is cut a large block of clear ice. He slots this into the ceiling for a window. Then he digs his way out, making a long, twisting tunnel that will serve as a doorway. Our doorways are never very high, and we have to get on our hands and knees to crawl into the igloo.
My job is to pack dry snow into the chinks between the blocks. I am becoming an expert at this. Our endless search for food forces us to keep moving, and often we have to make new igloos. This one will be abandoned soon, and many more will be built before spring.
As soon as we finish our new house, Kootookatook fashions platforms out of the snow for the family to sleep on. The platforms will keep us off the floor where the cold air is trapped. I watch as she carefully covers each platform with a caribou skin, placing the fur side down against the snow. Then she puts the other skins fur side up. Kootookatook also carves a kitchen table out of the snow. Here she will put the stone lamp, making it sit flat with three antlers stuck around the sides. Next she takes a piece of frozen blubber from the blubber bag and pounds it. Then she hands the blubber to Kupah, who throws it on the lamp. The lamp’s flames flicker and dance wildly on the walls of our new house.
After I cut shapes of seals, polar bears, and other animals from pieces of skin, I hold them against the walls of the snow house until they freeze in place. Not only is this fun, but it makes the walls look nice.
Supper is thin strips of seal meat, which we eat raw. I could eat a whole seal. But knowing that food is scarce, I say nothing. The others, too, eat in silence.
After the meal, I take my mitts from the drying rack over the koodik, our stove, and go outside to feed the dogs. Our dogs are valuable, and we always give them something to eat no matter how scarce food is.
Having fed the dogs, I visit my friend Makpa. We chase each other around the igloos and roll in the snow. Makpa is not very big, but he is strong and a fast runner. Whenever we get together, we toss each other about roughly. Sometimes we make animal figures out of snow and practise target-shooting at them. I always have a lot of fun with Makpa. We play until it is time to go to bed.
In the night a fierce wind blows in from the frozen sea. Fat snowflakes swirl to the ground, drifting in front of the igloos. But I am snug and warm, wrapped in soft caribou skins, and the snow platform is comfortable beneath me. Outside, the dogs sleep beneath the snow, their warm coats protecting them from the harsh winter wind.
Lying awake, I listen to the wind howl across the roof of the igloo. Always, before I fall asleep, I remember my father, the great chief Kaiouchovax, who was killed four winters ago. He taught me how to manage dogs, how to steer a komatik, a sled. The year he died he made me a whip from the hide of a walrus and taught me how to wield it. It is nearly thirty feet long and has become my prized possession. When I am not busy hunting or fishing, I practise wielding my whip. I have practised for so long that I can flick a very tiny pebble with the end.
I also have fond memories of my mother. She left our village after my father died, and I do not know what became of her. When I was very young and still in her hood, I rode naked on her back, warmed by the heat from her body. Sometimes when I think of my beautiful mother with her smiling face, my heart hurts.
Kippinguk says I have a new life now and I should not look back. But though Kupah and Kootookatook are kind to me, I am still an orphan. I yearn for a family, for a place to belong.
Before I drift off I think again of the white men who came in the summer. I think of the White City where no one goes hungry. Will the white men return for us as they promised? Once more I feel that strange uneasiness, as if something terrible is about to happen.
The blizzard has stopped all hunting. Now we have time to play, dance, sing, and tell stories. I listen eagerly as Kupah spins tales of birds, fish, and animals that talk and act like people. He tells us of worlds beneath the sea where only gifted shamans have the power to journey in dreams. The stories I like best are about poor orphans who have done good things. Kupah has heard the stories from his father. Someday Kippinguk and I will tell them to our children, and in this way our poetry, songs, and stories will never be forgotten.
My favourite is the tale of Akakapangan, an orphan who lived with his grandmother. I have heard the story many times, but I love to hear Kupah tell it again and again. Akakapangan was very brave, and he killed a nanorwk, a creature that swallows humans whole. People were so scared of the beast, they would not go hunting. I long to be as brave as Akakapangan. If I am brave, or if I am a good hunter, people might not care that I am an orphan.
While the rest of us are idle, Kootookatook sews parkas and trousers from the hides of caribou and seals. She makes our undergarments from the skins of birds. She even sews little shoes for the dogs to protect their feet from ice splinters. Carefully she inspects boots for any needed repairs. She chews the skins, making them soft and flexible for sewing. Again and again the half-moon-shaped blade of her ula, her knife, cuts the thread. Kupah often boasts to other men about Kootookatook’s sewing ability. Our sealskin boots are so finely sewn that the sinew stitch cannot be seen.
Today, though, she is sewing something different. It is an amaut, a pouch for carrying babies.
“Why do you make an amaut, Kootookatook?” I ask.
She gently touches her tummy, her black eyes shining, her face breaking into a wide grin. “I am going to have a nutaralak, a baby, Pomiuk.”
3 Surviving Winter
The blizzard ends, and we begin a journey to a new camp. I help Kupah load the komatik. There is a lot of wild barking as we harness the dogs. Kupah pours hot water over the runners of the komatik to make them glide more easily. Everything is fresh and white, with no tracks of humans or animals. Kupah hands me a pair of goggles made from driftwood. I put them on, knowing they will protect my eyes from the blinding whiteness.
“Go!” Kupah shouts, and the dogs dash forward, their tails curling over their backs as they pull the heavy load. Their breath rises like steam in the cold winter air.
All day we travel over vast fields of snow. Kupah scans the hills, but there are no caribou, birds, or other animals. “The blizzard has driven the animals away,” he says. “Tomorrow we will travel to the frozen sea.”
We build another snow house. This one is small, for we know we will be moving on. For supper Kootookatook gives me a small piece of walrus meat. She smiles, showing teeth that have been worn down from chewing animal skins. “Eat well,” she says. “There is no more food.”
I chew slowly, not knowing when I will be able to eat again. Sometimes after a blizzard, months can pass before the animals return. Our only hope now is for fish or seals to be speared through the ice. So we set out in search of aglu, the breathing holes made by seals in the sea ice.
When we reach the frozen sea, I kneel motionless, elbows on my knees, my double-pronged spear ready. Hunting parties are all over the ice. Men, women and children bend over holes with spears, hooks, and lines. Silently, patiently, we wait at the breathing holes.
Конец