Coppermine (17 page)

In these first days, the prisoners were very quiet. Even Angituk could get little out of them. They seemed resigned to their fate. Yet Creed continued his vigilance. He had been over the scene of the murders many times in his mind. It was not just his own life at stake but Angituk’s too, if he let down his guard. If they so chose, the hunters could kill them as quickly as they had the priests, return home with impressive weapons and gear, and not expect to answer for either crime for at least a year. Creed kept his pistol close, and when Angituk could spell him with the pistol he took short, deep sleeps two or three times a day.

On the last night before they left the picturesque, barren valley of the Coppermine, Creed sat up on the ridge in the last precious moments of sunset. Angituk said her goodbyes to the land and left him to go prepare dinner before darkness fell. He noted again that the Eskimos did not make extended goodbyes. The white custom was considered crass, Angi had told him, demonstrating self-importance and unnecessary elaboration.

A few minutes after she left he was joined by Uluksuk in his shackles, who sat with him to enjoy the swift interplay of fiery colours that swept the sky in the last moments of sunset. The Eskimo murmured his appreciation as they watched, and it came as a surprise to Creed that not only could his prisoner savour a thing as simple as beauty but they could share it intimately. They were from such vastly different worlds, existing on such different planes, communicating not a word to each other, and yet they both understood perfectly the aesthetic message of the setting sun.

They smiled at each other in appreciation of both the beauty and the sharing as the last bit of solar gold disappeared behind the curved horizon.

WINTER HAD CLOSED IN
completely by the time they got to the turbulent, unfrozen confluence of the Kendall River and headed west. His feet were warm in the mukluks, but Creed’s woollen trousers, even with two sets of long underwear, had him shivering. He remembered Hornby’s observation that a sheep wouldn’t last a day in the Arctic winter. The ice on the river above the initial sets of rapids was two feet thick and the smooth surface made for easy travelling, but they would soon have to find a place to winter.

The countenance and demeanour of the Dismal Lakes was not improved by a thick cloak of snow. The travellers were four tiny figures in an enormous flat landscape without trees. Creed considered how the lack of foliage seemed to remove any sense of perspective or progress. Were they tiny figures in an enormous land? Or were they great giants hulking across the flat, featureless terrain, crushing tiny trees under the snow? The looming figure of an
inukshuk
on their path, a stone man with old moss for hair, banished Creed’s maudlin thoughts. For the first time he realized how important these figures were to relieve the traveller of his loneliness. The stone man represented perspective and history and humanity. It was not simply a stylized pile of stones but the sum of the hopes and fears of the artist who had created it. His character and spirit lingered in the wind-worn chunks of granite, offering comfort and reassurance and company.

Angituk had been rationing their food now for several days, and their dwindling supplies had Creed worried. They had not seen one living creature since they entered the Dismal Lakes, and it was his responsibility to feed four people. They were still ten days from the meat cache Angituk had made at the headwaters of the Dease, and the Arctic hares and ground squirrels were now deep in hibernation. The last three nights Angituk had laid careful snares, even baiting them, and come up empty. They had few tools to break through the ice, and no nets to fish with if they did. They had enough food for only another day or two, and everyone in the party knew it. But there were always the dogs.

That night, as they divided the meagre servings of fish and caribou meat, Uluksuk spoke to Angituk in low tones, and Angituk turned to Creed.

“He says we are out of food. Even tonight we are still hungry. He would like to talk to the animal spirits on our behalf and explain our need.”

Creed tried to hide his skepticism as much as possible. “Okay. How does he do that?”

“It is simple. He burns grasses. He says prayers.”

“All right.”

“But he needs to have the handcuffs off.”

Creed’s first impulse was to say no. This sounded like the trick he’d been waiting for. Uluksuk spoke again.

“He promises he will not try to escape. Sinnisiak will assist him.”

Creed looked at Angituk and the two prisoners. If nothing else, he realized it would make them feel better if he allowed it.

“All right. He can go ahead. But Sinnisiak’s cuffs stay on.”

Angituk translated and Sinnisiak nodded. Creed reached into his pocket for the key and made brief contact with the loaded pistol.

SINNISIAK ROOTED AROUND
under the snow for the long grasses that the caribou fed on. He returned with a small sheaf of them. Uluksuk sat outside the tent, cross-legged before Creed’s stove, the flame high. Angituk and Creed crouched in the snow a few yards away. Uluksuk stripped to the waist. Creed was impressed that the old man’s bare skin could stand such cold for more than a second. Uluksuk put the sheaf of grasses to the flame of the stove. The damp grass smouldered and the shaman, sitting downwind, guided the billowing smoke to blow across his body. He began to chant.

Angituk explained in a whisper, “He is purifying himself, body and mind. No bad thoughts.”

When his upper body was fully engulfed in the acrid green smoke and the grass had almost burned down to his hand, Uluksuk extinguished the flame in the snow. Sinnisiak brought out a small, shallow hand drum and began to keep a slow, solemn rhythm. When the beat was well established, Uluksuk spread his arms wide, closed his eyes, and began to speak loudly to the night.

“He is talking to the animal spirits,” Angituk whispered, translating carefully. “He greets them with respect. He tells them he has come purified and with true thoughts. He reminds them of the time humans and animals were close friends. He tells them we have need. We are hungry. He asks them to send help. He says, ‘Please come to us. We have need.’ He will repeat it all two more times.”

Uluksuk did as Angituk said he would, repeating his request to the spirits and thanking them for their generosity.

After a moment of calm, Uluksuk suddenly awoke with a dramatic gasp and a flailing of arms. For the first time Creed saw him shiver. Sinnisiak helped him put on his layered shirts again. The performance had exhausted him.

Uluksuk told them, “It is good. The animals have agreed to be killed.”

Creed chuckled quietly at this, then fell silent at Angituk’s censoring glare. Creed went to him, cautiously but respectfully. “Okay. That was very entertaining, Uluksuk, but let’s get these back on you.”

Creed put the handcuffs firmly on his wrists. The old man did not resist.

They all crowded back into the shelter, bringing with them the little oil stove. Koeha’s oil was almost gone. Angituk had stretched it out as long as she could, leaving their meat almost completely raw, but they were still a long way from the treeline and fuel. Creed would extinguish the flame in a moment, after the old man was warm; the last thing he needed was a prisoner with pneumonia. Uluksuk’s eyes closed and soon his shallow, regular breathing indicated he was fast asleep. Sinnisiak too was asleep in minutes. Creed mused again that if he had committed their crimes, his conscience would never let him go to sleep so quickly. As it was, sleep periodically eluded him.

Creed supposed Uluksuk’s performance couldn’t hurt. In an Eskimo camp it would have raised the spirits of a starving people. They would actually believe the animal spirits had been contacted, giving them hope again that the uncontrollable was controllable. But he had to be more pragmatic. They would be in a bit of trouble if they didn’t get practical and actually find food. He could send Angituk west over the watershed to the meat cache, but that would take days. Better to stay together.

A sleepy Angituk turned and smiled at him and rubbed her belly. “We’ll be fine now. There’ll be food.”

“Oh, you think so? Any minute a big fat ground squirrel will come and jump into our pot?”

Angituk looked at him, now awake and irritated. “You don’t believe. The animals will sense you don’t believe and not come,” she admonished.

“And then I suppose it’ll all be my fault when we starve. Look, what other options do we have? This is your land. What can we eat? Are there nuts or frozen berries we could find? Or roots? Is there any way to get at the fish? Animals hibernating under the snow? Must be something.”

“You should believe.”

“You can believe anything you want, but tomorrow, if there’s nothing else, we’ll be eating one of the dogs.”

“It is dishonourable to eat a dog!”

Just before Creed blew out the lamp, he saw the hostile look she gave him. In the complete darkness her look stayed with him. He couldn’t get it out of his mind. He knew the dwindling food was his own fault. He had cached too much caribou and given too much canned food to Koeha. He had made mistakes, but tomorrow he would make sure they had meat.

BY DAWN,
storm clouds had rolled in. Snow had not yet begun to fall. Creed was the first up and exited the shelter to relieve himself. He took the rifle with him. Outside, ravens circled in the sky. He hadn’t seen a raven in days. In a small clump of dwarf willows he noticed a scrawny white fox eyeing him.

Creed chose the bigger dog, a mixed husky/coyote bitch who laid back her ears when he approached. Her name was Ubluruaq, he recalled, or, in English, Star, and her eyes were a disquieting turquoise. He had patted her a few times in the past, her disposition friendly. Unfortunately for her, she would provide the best fillets. He grabbed the rawhide leash around her neck and took her some distance from the shelter. She whimpered a little and looked at the gun as if she knew what was coming. He stood on the leash and levered a round into the chamber of the .38-55. A head shot was best and quickest if she didn’t move. It occurred to him that the blunt, heavy bullet was meant for something much bigger, and at this close range a substantial part of her head would be gone. But it had to be done.

With his foot on the leash, he tossed a snowball so she would look toward it for a moment and give him a clean shot. But Star ignored the snowball. Her turquoise eyes were fixed on something behind Creed, and she gave a quiet, excited woof. No, this was the wrong angle, he realized, exasperated. With the long barrel of the .38-55 he needed a side shot. As unfortunate as killing the dog was, it’d be worse if he messed it up and left her wounded and howling. He could go back for the pistol, but he might wake the others, and he didn’t want to review his decision.

Creed took his foot off the rawhide leash, knelt down, and placed a heavy rock on it to hold her. Then he took a couple of steps back and raised the rifle again. Much better. If the damn dog would just stop staring at him and move around for a side shot. Star ignored a second snowball and woofed again. He could get a clean head shot now. But something made him stop. He released his finger from the trigger, lifted his face from the rifle stock, and turned his head. Just behind him stretched a herd of caribou.

There were at least a hundred of the damn things, a winter herd, all nuzzling under the snow for the tender grass beside the lake. A big doe was standing nearby, separate from the others, so close he could hit her with a rock. He swung the rifle up to his shoulder, half emptied his lungs, lined the sights across her heart, and pulled the trigger. She was dead before she hit the ground.

His companions came out of the shelter, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, as the shot echoed across the lake. They laughed and smiled excitedly. Angituk took particular pleasure in the sight. “Better than a ground squirrel in your pot!”

Uluksuk went over to inspect the doe and said a few words to Angituk and Sinnisiak. Angituk smiled at Creed.

“He says this is good. This was the one chosen for us to have. Too old for breeding but the meat still tender.”

“It was the closest one.”

“Exactly.” Angituk smiled at him.

“It was just good
isuma,”
Creed told her.

“No,” Angituk countered. “This was Uluksuk.”

Creed decided to concede the point. However it had come to them, they had meat.

With Angituk’s encouragement, Creed shot three more caribou. They needed the pelts, she told him, and could cache the meat. Uluksuk helped him choose the best animals for their needs, surveying the herd, the long-distance shots delighting him. So much farther than a bow. Creed always had a good eye. He had scored nine kills as a sniper at Ypres. Until his heart would not allow it anymore and he quit. It haunted him still, even more than what happened later. Creed killed each caribou with a respectful single shot and the shaman was satisfied.

Angituk gave Sinnisiak a knife and the hunter dropped to his knees by the first big doe and cut a careful crescent-shaped incision above the stomach. Two quick circular strokes and he held half the steaming liver in his hand. He cut it into four pieces and Uluksuk and Angituk took and ate theirs without hesitation. Creed looked at the crescent-shaped cut and at the knife in Sinnisiak’s hand and refused the offer. Angituk saw Creed’s face and understood why. She took Creed’s portion from Sinnisiak’s hand.

“For the spirits.”

She tossed it toward the shore of the lake where in a few months the spring grasses would grow.

WORKING TOGETHER,
Angituk and Sinnisiak cut up the first caribou, reducing the meat and leg bones to a tidy package for the sled in a matter of minutes. The sinew and intestine they kept for thread and braiding rope. They cut down the belly and around the legs, carefully pulling off the hide, then chopped through the neck at the base of the skull and cut out the entrails. Avoiding the bowels, they liberated the succulent organs. Sinnisiak had a particular interest in the stomach contents, which looked like a fine coleslaw, the hard winter grasses within softened for him by the digestive acids. They would eat well that night, and for many beyond.