Ice Island (6 page)

“Welcome! Welcome!” He ushered her into a room so cluttered there was barely space to turn around. The windows were coated with smoke from the wood-burning stove. Bows, old and new, hung on nails by bearskin pants and sealskin mukluks. It was too warm, stuffy. “And bring your dog!”

Bandit pushed in, trotting over to a cat. They sniffed each other, tails waving.

“Sit! Sit!” The man’s wrinkles danced in the smoky yellow light. “Warm yourself!”

Tatum shrugged out of her backpack. “Is Cole home from school?” she said.

“He went to the airport to sell crabs to a group of photographers flying in for the day,” he said with a bunched-up
smile. “Visitors are always disappointed to learn we no longer live in
nenglus
.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dugouts made of ice and snow. You call them igloos,” he said. “They even ask to see penguins!”

Tatum laughed; she’d heard the same thing. Penguins didn’t even live in the Northern Hemisphere. “I brought something for Cole’s dogs,” she said, opening her pack.

Cole’s grandfather eased her into a chair that looked like it had been upholstered a hundred years ago. He put on a pair of reading glasses and set a scrapbook in her lap. He smiled at her over the glasses’ rims, tapping old photos of men in seal-gut parkas. Faded images of hunters standing beside walrus-skin boats, harpoons in hand.

“That is me,” he said. “Before the noisy voices on TV and loud engines of snowmobiles.”

He brushed newspapers off a table and picked up a walrus tusk. “One day this will be a miniature sled. The traditional kind with graceful rails and a sturdy basket. Or maybe a drum handle?”

Tatum loved old-style drums and their handles carved from fossilized whale bone. “Are you a carver?”

He nodded, smiling. “This would also make a fine doll, in fur clothing with beaded trim. The more energy that goes into a carving, the greater its power,” he said, turning the tusk over in his hand. “I have many totems in a museum called Smith-somebody. Have you heard of it? It is in the capital of Washington, DC.”

“The Smithsonian,” she said. “I’ve been there.”

“Then maybe you know why certain things are more
valuable inside a glass case than they are alive and being used? I do not understand how a totem can protect a hunter if he does not wear it.” He made what sounded like a short speech in Yupik, grunted, and then switched back to English. “We must live in two worlds today.”

Cole came in and stopped, looking surprised to see Tatum. “Guess you can walk on those feet,” he said, closing the door with a bang.

Tatum felt her face burn. “I brought a treat for your dogs.”

Cole brushed by her, stuffing a wad of bills into a jar on the TV. “That should cover this month’s electric bill,” he said. Then, without another word, he turned abruptly and disappeared down the hall.

“Heating oil! Propane!” his grandfather barked. “I did not even know what money was until I was ten years old!”

Tatum told Cole’s grandfather good-bye, then called to Bandit, who was still sniffing the cat. She left the bag of honeyballs on the cluttered table.

Tatum moped around the lodge the rest of the day, helping out. She rolled up rugs, swept floors, hung laundry outside. After it froze, she shook out the ice. That was how locals dried wet clothes this time of year.

She felt bad for the guy who’d flown in earlier. He’d planned to surprise Maryanne. He looked sadder than a sick puppy to find out she was on vacation. He didn’t waste any time booking a seat on the next day’s flight out.

Tatum’s mom went on a bread-baking binge, humming while she measured and kneaded. “There’s a small sled in the storage shed,” she said, patting the dough into a fat ball. “It’s perfect for a one-dog team.”

Tatum shrugged. “Maybe.”

Her mom draped a cloth over the bowl and held Tatum by her shoulders. “You’re too young to give up on your dreams,” she said, staring into her eyes. “We … Your dad
and I …” She paused, thinking. “We just want you to use the brains you were born with.”

“I know, Mom. I messed up. Big-time.”

“Everyone messes up, honey,” her mom said. “It’s part of life.”

Tatum listened.

“The point is to recognize mistakes for what they are—and learn from them.”

Tatum nodded. “I’ll try.”

While the dough rose, they pulled cans from the shelves. Tatum dusted them off, checking expiration dates. She stared at the date on a can of peaches. It was the same month as her birthday. She’d be fourteen in August.

Mom’s right. I’m too old to keep making stupid mistakes
. She chucked an ancient can of sauerkraut.

They finished cleaning out the cupboards, then started in on the freezer. “Thought I’d wear my bone earrings tonight,” her mom said, smiling. “You know, sort of dress up.”

•  •  •

Tatum put on her mukluks with the musk ox trim, a present from her dad’s last trip to the North Shore. She decided to leave Bandit at home. “Sorry, girl,” she whispered before leaving. Outside she turned and saw Bandit watching them from the front window, nose pressed to glass.

Halfway down the road, Tatum wiped snowflakes from her face, feeling strangely warm. An ATV sped by, pulling a toboggan crammed with kids. They giggled with fur-wreathed faces.

A bear guarded the front door of the community center. It looked large as life, only carved from a block of ice. A group of huskies huddled near an old-fashioned sled. They were old, with cloudy eyes and ragged ears.

The biggest one licked a sore paw. He didn’t make any sound at all, like it was too much trouble to breathe. He’d probably had a hard life—like the dogs in the book Tatum was reading. She knelt in the snow to pet him. He looked grateful for the attention.

“We welcome you!” An elder stepped out of the shadows. He wore fur pants and an antler hat.

“
Quyana
.” Her mom tried the Native word for “thank you.” It sounded like she was sucking on a Popsicle.

His face lit up. “Excellent!”

He ushered them inside and hung up their parkas. There wasn’t really a stage, just a space in the middle of the room ringed by chairs. Punch bowls and dessert platters sat on pool tables. It seemed like half the village was there.

Dixie Dee wound through the crowd, waving at them. “You made it!”

Tatum waved back.

“I’ve been stranded in blizzards and wounded by harpoons,” Dixie Dee said, mostly to Tatum. Then she rolled up her sleeve, showing an ugly scar. “That was one bucking chain saw. We all have our stories. Now you have one too!”

Tatum’s mom sighed. “Let’s hope it’s her first
and
last one.”

“That would mean the end of life!” Dixie Dee said.

Her mom didn’t look convinced.

Dixie Dee led them to a pair of folding chairs. She
introduced her family. “This is my sister Chiklak—Chickie for short. And her husband, Tomagunuk—Tommy.”

“Eat!” Chickie held out a plate with strips of smoked salmon. “You’re too skinny!”

“Thanks,” Tatum said, taking a piece. She chewed the tough fish, listening to the musical jumble of Yupik syllables. One niece had a round belly and was knitting a small sweater, pulling each stitch tight to keep out the cold. Another of Dee’s sisters filed bone jewelry.

They jabbered in a weird mix of Yupik and English. Dixie Dee would catch herself. “This winter the ice is too thin,” she said, translating. “There’s an old Eskimo proverb, ‘If you’re going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance.’ ”

Tatum’s mom actually smiled.

Tatum was happy to see her relax a little.

The lights dimmed and the hall grew still. Cole’s grandfather came out in a long hooded outercoat—fur and beads decorated the front—and moved into the spotlight.

“He’s the keeper of our knowledge, just like a library,” Dixie Dee said in a hush. “Everyone calls him Grandfather.”

“
Quyanaghhalek tagilusi
,” he said in a powerful voice. “Welcome. Thank you for coming.”

He talked about traditions and values and the type of behavior he expected in the village. “When I was growing up snow fell by the end of August. By September we knew it was time to send our children back to school. Now it is different … some years it does not snow until December.”

The room was quiet as a church.

“Ice is a barrier, but it also protects us from deadly swells. Today, severe storms come in quickly and without warning.”
He slipped into Yupik, his voice calm, but when he spoke English, he sounded agitated. “Soon we will rope ourselves together and walk out onto the frozen sea to chop breathing holes for seals. Maybe they will come. Maybe not.”

Soft murmurs rose.

“Last season our village struck the quota of bowheads allowed by the IWC.”

Dixie Dee whispered, “The International Whaling Commission limits the number we can hunt.”

“Even though the number of bowheads is increasing,” Chickie added.

Grandfather shook his head sadly. “Only half of the whales struck were landed on shore. I blame TV and video games for killing our ancient ways.”

Murmurs peaked, then fell.

“In our language the same word means
listen
and
obey
. When we listen to the elders, we obey them.” His voice changed when he looked around the room. “We must teach our children the traditions. Only then will they be ready to face whatever the outside world brings.”

Dixie Dee leaned over. “Young people listen out of respect, but most of them don’t believe the old ways will lead to a happy life.”

Tatum wondered what Cole believed.

“The Bering Sea is our garden.…” Then Grandfather shouted something in Yupik and called to a group of boys in fur capes with black-tipped feathers. They stepped forward, holding up wooden masks with toothy grins.

Even with the mask, Tatum spotted Cole. He stood taller than the others, and was one of the few boys not fidgeting
with his cape. He looked like he belonged up there, proud in his Native costume.

Girls in fur headdresses came out next, taking their places.

Elders stood together, each holding a flat drum with a painted design. The drum handles were carved from tusks. Slowly, they began beating them with their palms. Their eyes stared straight ahead, as if looking back in time.

“The drum skin comes from the stomach of a whale,” Dixie Dee whispered. “Sometimes from the bladder.”

At least they use every part of the animals they hunt
, Tatum thought.

She and her mom had gone on a special outing to see an exhibit at a museum in Anchorage. Displays showed bones used in housing material and how vertebrae were fashioned into furniture. Baleen, a type of built-in strainer that whales use to filter food, made good insulation for boots. Nothing was wasted.

Dixie Dee explained that the boys shuffling their feet and swinging their heads from side to side were dancing stories of life on the island: paddling boats and hurling harpoons. They landed imaginary whales and butchered them in a way that was more than storytelling. Kids from the audience ran up to help. The girls bent over, gathering invisible berries, a beautiful dance that turned into a song.

The drumbeats grew louder and the dancers twirled with strange movements. They pushed toward the floor with their hands, palms down, then pushed toward the ceiling, palms up.

“Dance of the basketball,” Chickie said, and laughed. “We have dances and songs for everything!”

When the performance was over, people clapped and moved into the circle. A woman began singing; others swayed and danced. Soon the whole room was alive with music and laughter.

Tatum stood up, feeling warm in a new way. Her mom was right. She couldn’t give up her dreams.

Cole’s grandfather walked toward them, carrying a large ceramic pot. Cole was behind him, holding bowls and spoons.

“Eskimo ice cream,” Grandfather said. “It is traditional.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” Tatum said, and took a bowl and spoon.

He nodded, smiling.

Tatum knew it wasn’t the same as the Eskimo Pies she used to eat in Portland. This type had shredded salmon and berries whipped in seal oil. She took a polite bite and tried not to make a face.

“The dogs liked the honeyballs,” Cole said, almost sounding friendly. “Wolf inhaled his.”

“Beryl showed me how to make them,” she said. “Last summer on Mendenhall Glacier.” Then she told him all the things she had done up there, including taking the dogs out on her own.

Cole didn’t say anything. But he no longer looked at her like a know-nothing
kass’aq
from the Lower Forty-eight.

Bandit whined, pacing by the door.

Tatum threw off her covers. “Again?”

She didn’t bother getting dressed, just shuffled in her long underwear down the hall. She opened the door and stared into the dark morning. Darkness stared back. She flipped on the porch light. It gave the snow an eerie glow. “Don’t go far, okay?” Sometimes she sounded exactly like her mom.

Bandit trotted down the steps.

A few minutes later, Tatum let her back in. “You could live outside, huh, girl?” She brushed snow off Bandit’s back. “That’s what you do during the Iditarod. Live in the wilderness twenty-four-seven.”

Her mom was in the kitchen on the phone to Wager Airport. With her free hand, she poured buckwheat batter onto a hot griddle. The circles bubbled up and she flipped them.

“I confirmed our flight to Nome—we leave in three days,” she said, hanging up. “The weather’s supposed to hold, if you can trust the Weather Channel.”

“If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes,” they blurted at the same time, and laughed. People in Alaska said it all the time. It was a good description of the ever-changing conditions up here.

“Didn’t people from the Bureau of Indian Affairs have reservations?” Tatum said.

“They should’ve arrived yesterday.” Her mom set a steaming platter of pancakes on the table. “Maybe they’ll come in today.”

Tatum uncapped a jar of chokeberry syrup. Chokeberries. Bearberries. Salmonberries. Alaska had fifty different types of wild berries. “When’s spring going to get here?”