Coppermine (14 page)

Angituk and Kingagolik were laughing and cheering on the children hanging from Creed’s body to bring him down. He felt slightly betrayed by this. He had tossed some of them clear, and was getting better at dodging the missiles and scaring them with his fearsome growls, when suddenly he came face to face with an old hunter. One last snowball hit Creed’s cheek as Koeha greeted him:
“Aatituuq.”

“Aatituuq,”
repeated Creed.

Koeha was a tall man by Eskimo standards, dignified, with long grey hair to his shoulders and a wispy beard. He studied Creed’s white face with curiosity and a little suspicion. There were several hunters with him. His short sealskin jacket with a long tail was beautifully embroidered and inlaid with Arctic fox and marten fur, festooned with amulets, claws, and teeth. Kingagolik told Koeha that Angituk, daughter of her once-close friend Kunee, had returned. Koeha turned to her, smiled, and held her hand, giving her arrival his blessing.

Creed had Angituk explain that he was a representative from the white world in the South where thousands of people lived.

“He has come with their greetings for Koeha—who is well known as a great hunter—and his people.”

This pleased the tall man and he invited them to dinner in his home. With this invitation the people became excited, talking and laughing as they escorted Creed and Angituk up to Koeha’s big dance house. Creed watched with concern as the people unpacked the canoe, running their hands over the uniform ribs and gunnels, and carried the bags and wanigans and the canoe itself up with them. Angituk reassured him nothing would be stolen.

“There will be a celebration and dance tonight in our honour.”

“That’s very kind, Angituk, but I do have to get on with the investigation.”

She looked at him impatiently. “The murders were three years ago. Can it not wait a few more hours?”

Jack was taken aback by this impudent questioning of his authority, but if ever he needed her on his side, it was now.

IN THE BIG SNOW DANCE HOUSE,
which was attached to Koeha’s private dwelling, Creed and Angituk were given the seat of honour in the centre of the wide sleeping platform covered in thick muskox hides. Koeha sat beside them, with Kingagolik next to Angituk. Forty-eight men, women, and children crammed into the big igloo, leaving a small space in the centre for dancing. The women cut up and distributed several raw caribou haunches on meat plates made from the skulls of muskoxen and bear. Most of the men and a few of the women had stripped down to their waists because of the body heat. The smell of sweat was overpowering, but Creed soon grew accustomed to it in the atmosphere of warmth and welcome. He handed out chocolate and watched with delight as dubious faces broke into wide grins.

Creed and Angituk dined on raw seal meat, half-roasted fish, and a warm caribou broth in the polished horn of a muskox, which was quite good. So many were asking questions of Angituk that she had little time to put food in her mouth. Most of them knew members of her mother’s people, who lived farther west along the shore of the Coronation Gulf. Who was alive? Who was dead? What babies had been born? What was life like in the South among the Cree and white men? Did they really have igloos built of trees? She did her best to answer the questions.

An old woman by the name of Utugauk, Koeha’s first and oldest wife, took measurements of Creed’s feet with a leather string.

“She will make you sealskin boots tonight that are watertight and much warmer than your boots for walking on snow.”

“That’s very nice of her but not necessary,” Creed protested. The truth was that his rubber boots and three pairs of socks left his toes on the edge of frostbite every day.

Creed watched as three women tended several soapstone oil lamps, long bowls of fat and oil with a row of wicks that gave light and heat to the snow house and slowly cooked the meat. Creed noticed Angi’s face in the golden oil light. She glowed with happiness to be here with her people, speaking in her own language.

“Angituk, I have a question about Kingagolik’s husband. How does a walrus kill a man?”

Angituk consulted the widow, who was happy to tell the story while she translated. “It was several days’ travel west of here, near Paulatuk. He was standing on the ice edge with his spear, looking for walrus. He was an excellent hunter for seal and caribou but not well experienced with walrus, for there were very few around the Coppermine. A big bull walrus saw his shadow from below and smashed up through the ice, knocking him into the water. Then it killed him with its tusks and dragged him down. Two other hunters saw this and it is a famous story. They never found the body.”

“Does this happen often?”

“I have heard of other times. Walruses get angry and hunt men.”

Two girls and a boy sat beside them on the sleeping platform, playing with two puppies. Angituk told him they were Koeha’s grandchildren. Creed roughed up the puppies and they tried to bite him with their little milk teeth. He grabbed their throats, growling softly in mock attack, and they racked his forearm with their back paws. The children laughed. Angituk gave him a smile.

“You know, it’s my people’s belief that human beings are the product”—she hesitated self-consciously—“the product of a woman spirit mating with a dog. Long ago, all animals were good friends to human beings—the caribou, seal and wolf, fish and raven—all living and hunting together. They were smarter than us and guided us in our lives. We all spoke the same language. But we fell from grace with the animals. We did not honour them as we should have and so we are no longer friends. Now, speaking to them is difficult. The only animal friend left for us is the dog. They have been faithful because they are where we came from.”

Two of the grandchildren rolled off the platform and began to fight. One hit the other in the eye with a closed fist and the screaming began. The combat escalated and Creed looked around to see if any adults would put an end to it, but the wild, scratching, screaming children were ignored. Finally, Creed bent down and pulled the two ruffians apart and gave them both a good shake.

“Stop that. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

For a moment the house fell silent. Everyone stared at Creed in shock. He let go of the boys and looked to Angituk. She spoke a few words of conciliation to the assembly and the two boys began playing again, peacefully.

“Have I offended somehow?” he asked Angituk.

Angituk asked two questions of Utugauk and then explained. “The two boys, Tuugak and Tavlo, Koeha’s grandsons, have been given the
attiaq
of Koeha’s father and uncle.”

“What is an
attiaq?”

“A spirit from a family member who has died, or someone in the community who was very wise, or very loved, or a good hunter.”

“Is that like your spirit guide? Like the bear?”

“No. That’s an animal helper. An
attiaq
is your soul. Who you were. Who you are. Pay attention.” She chided him gently and smiled. “After children are born, they are examined for signs—shape of ears or nose, a type of behaviour—to see who they were in an earlier life, usually a dead grandparent or great-grandparent, uncle or so on. The mother chooses the Spirit of the Dead, summons it, and presents the child. The child becomes that person again.”

“So all souls have been used before.”

“Oh, yes. The good ones many times. This belief is strong.”

“How about you?”

“I was assigned my great-grandmother’s spirit and became her. She was very clever and beautiful, of course.” She slipped in another smile.

“Of course.”

“My mother used to call me Grandmother and I would call her Granddaughter, because I became my mother’s grandmother. You understand?”

“I think so. So you are your own great-grandmother.”

“Exactly.” She beamed at his understanding.

The boys were quiet now, playing a stick game together on the muskox hide.

“And the boys are their great-grandfather and grand-uncle. When you grabbed them and scolded them, you were interfering with two very wise and esteemed men. It was disrespectful,” she reproved gently.

“Maybe they should spank me?”

Angituk laughed. “No one spanks anyone.”

“So the kids are never punished for bad behaviour?”

“Oh, no! Good behaviour comes naturally. It would be like shouting at a bald man to make his hair grow.”

Creed smiled at this analogy, but he was sure this convention wasn’t going to be adopted in white society any time soon.

A communal bowl of
akutuq-akutaq
was served for dessert, consisting of caribou fat mixed with berries and small chunks of meat. Creed found it even more appealing than the broth. He noted that in the cold climate his body craved fat, and a dish that would have turned his stomach only weeks ago became a much-desired treat.

The leader, Koeha, stood to sing a song of welcome. He was accompanied by two young women who did a rhythmical, in-and-out vocal breathing from the throat unlike anything Creed had ever heard. In a high singing voice, with Angituk translating, the leader welcomed the white man from the South, who was handsome and strong, and hoped he would be good to the Copper people (which translated as “real human beings”). Koeha apologized for the poor food and cold accommodation and Creed made much of shaking his head to protest this assessment. There was a chorus and everyone joined in.

“Ai, yai, ya, ya… Ai, ya, ya, ya!”

Koeha danced a short jig back and forth on his feet to the rhythm and everyone clapped and moaned their appreciation at his spritely expressions. He then recommended the best foods to make Creed get fat and suggested that if there was a woman he wanted to help keep him warm, that could be arranged. A plump woman with facial tattoos and beautiful teeth who had stripped to the waist touched his arm.

“She is highly prized as a lover,” Angituk informed him, smiling.

Creed experienced a moment of panic. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said, and Angituk laughed out loud.

Then another woman, elderly but spry, in a beautifully embroidered dress, stood and the people were respectfully quiet. She had a wide, thin hoop in her hand with skin pulled tightly across it and she hammered the drum and danced with her thick legs, each step a drama, all the while pounding in an essential rhythm that increased and quickened as she chanted the story of her life.

As Creed watched the singing and drumming and dancing, he felt as if he were travelling back in time. Eskimo celebrations like this had taken place five thousand years ago. Before the British Empire and Mozart and Shakespeare and Columbus. Before Zarathustra and Aristotle and the pyramids. He was awed.

The old woman ended with a triumphant flourish of drumming and the audience shouted their approval. She almost collapsed on him and Creed took her arm to help steady her. Then Angituk faced him, a smile on her lips.

“Your turn.”

Creed hesitated. He had come not to dance but to investigate a murder, and he should get on with it. However, under the encouraging gaze of Angituk and the others, he supposed it would be rude not to accept the invitation. Then the questioning could begin.

Reluctantly, Creed tried out a simple beat on the drum placed before him. Then he essayed a shuffling jig and the people grunted with hearty approval. Warming to the task, Creed offered a few jig-type moves. His tired legs responded well and his audience cheered his efforts. Next he crafted several cakewalk kicks, tossed in a Chaplin shuffle, and as a finale negotiated a graceful pirouette, almost falling into the enthusiastic and welcoming arms of the plump, tattooed lover. Angituk laughed, as pleasantly surprised by his impressive efforts as his hosts. Led by Koeha, they clapped and cheered the
Kabloona.

Creed was enjoying himself so much, he had almost forgotten his duty. The murderers could be in the camp. It suddenly occurred to him they could be here in this snow house, armed. It was time to ask questions. Creed turned to Koeha, who seemed slightly alarmed and disappointed at Creed’s serious turn of mood.

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” Angituk asked before translating anything.

“Yes. I think now is the perfect time ... Koeha, you are a fine host and your food is excellent …” Creed began, with Angituk translating. “But I do have some questions to ask.”

As Angituk spoke, all drumming, dancing, and singing stopped. Everyone listened attentively.

“You and your people and this land are all part of a bigger country called Canada. We have laws for the country that must be obeyed by everyone, including your people.”

Koeha thought about this and his expression darkened. “No. You have a country in the South that you come from and we have this land, which is ours. They cannot be the same thing.”

Creed decided to sidestep this larger discussion and take a more direct approach. “Two white priests—white shamans—were murdered at Bloody Falls three winters ago. Do you know anything about this?”

When the question was translated, people’s eyes grew wide in fear and there was complete silence. Koeha stared at him as if he had been slapped. Kingagolik and the tattooed lover covered their faces. Some were visibly trembling. Two began to weep.

Creed turned to Angituk. “So they knew the priests?”

Angituk asked Koeha and he explained.

“They have heard John Hornby’s story. If an Eskimo kills a white man, more white men will come and kill them all. They want to know if you plan to kill them.”

The weeping of the women grew in volume.

“Tell them they will not be harmed. I only want the man or men that killed the priests.”

The women slowly stopped crying but stared at Creed anxiously.

Creed showed Koeha the two photographs of Rouvière. The hunter was amazed at the compact image. He recognized the white man immediately.

“So the white priests were here?”

“Yes. This is the one we called Kuleavik.”

Angituk then translated Koeha’s longer response, which was encouraged and added to by the others, men and women alike.

“Yes, two years ago, the two white men lived with us at this camp. We called the friendly one Kuleavik and the tall one Ilogoak.”