The Middle of Everywhere (4 page)

“No, we Inuit never used to stay in one place too long,” Charlie continues. From the way he says it, I can tell he thinks moving around like that was a good thing. I remember what my mom said about Dad having a restless soul. No wonder he gets along so well with the Inuit. But when I think about how cold it is outside, I'm glad not to be some nomad spending the night in an igloo. Charlie must be a pretty tough old guy.

“The
Qallunaat
—the white men—made us settle in one town,” Charlie says. For a second, his eyes land on me. I scan the room. I don't know why I didn't realize it before, but I'm the only white person here. It's not a feeling I'm used to.

Part of me wants to call out, “Hey, don't go blaming me for what some white guys did before I was even born.” On the other hand, what Charlie just said is pretty interesting. It helps explain why so many of the buildings in George River—the community center, the houses, the medical clinic and the school—look new. The Inuit were nomads until white men showed up here. And even if I wasn't born when all that happened, there's no denying I am a white man.

Charlie's droning on again. I sure wish he'd hurry up and get the legend over with. “We used to follow the caribou and hunt for seal, setting up camp along the way.”

Charlie closes his eyes and smiles. I figure he's remembering those days. I sure hope he was wearing a warm parka. “Tonight,” he says, “I'm going to tell you the legend of Kajutaijug.”

Kajutaijug? What kind of weird name is that?

There is a low moan from the people sitting at the front. They seem to know the legend. Judging from their reaction, I figure it's a scary story. On the other hand, what do these people know? They don't even have a movie theater in George River. I bet most of them have never even seen the first
Halloween
movie. Still, with any luck, maybe the old guy's story will take my mind off Tarksalik and the rest of my troubles.

Charlie takes a deep breath. “One time, a long, long time ago, our people were preparing to move to a new camp. It was the end of winter so the days were getting longer. We had to pack everything up, and of course, in those days, we traveled everywhere by dogsled. Let me tell you,” Charlie says, looking up at us, “our sled dogs were something. Even in the worst snowstorm, they could find their way better than any gps system ever invented.”

Some people at the front of the room laugh. Even if they don't own cars, they all know about gps systems. Maybe they
have
seen
Halloween
.

“And those dogs were strong too. They were bred for pulling. A team of sled dogs could pull hundreds and hundreds of pounds. They could pull five caribou carcasses or a polar bear.”

This legend is going to take forever—and then some— to tell. I wish I could stretch my legs, but there isn't any room.

Charlie is still yakking away. I think he likes the attention. “But there was so much to bring when they moved that time, even the sled dogs couldn't manage everything in one trip. So the elders had to leave a group of people behind. ‘Don't worry,' the elders told those people. ‘We'll be back soon. We promise. Just wait for us here, okay?'”

Charlie looks up at the audience, and I can tell he wants us to feel like he's one of those elders and we're the people he's leaving behind. It's not working for me. All I can think about is how bored I am. I don't see the point of telling legends.

“Two days went by, then three days, then four.” Charlie's getting tense. I can tell because he's finally speeding up. Thank god for that. Maybe I'll score a couple of those cookies in the next half century.

“The people that were left behind got tired of waiting. They were hungry too. They ate up all the provisions.” That gets me wondering some more about those cookies. Were any of them chocolate? I'll eat chocolate anything. “The seal meat and the caribou. They shot some ptarmigan—”

“Ptarmigan?” Without meaning to, I say the word out loud.

A woman in the front row turns and shushes me.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

Celia leans over her mom to poke my arm. Once she has my attention, Celia bends her elbows and flaps her arms. A ptarmigan must be a bird.

“Thanks,” I whisper to Celia.

“—but a few ptarmigan weren't enough to fill their empty bellies. So on the fifth day, a boy and a girl”—I notice Charlie's eyes land on Lenny and his friends—“kids about your age—well, they started heading for the new camp. On foot.” I can tell from the way Charlie is shaking his head he doesn't think that was a very wise move.

A small girl sitting on the floor groans. “What did their
anaana
and
ataata
say?” she calls out.

Charlie shrugs. “You know how young folks are. Those two kids wouldn't listen to anybody, least of all their
anaana
and
ataata
. The two of them just headed out into the snow, following the tracks the dogsleds had made five days before. After they'd been walking for two or three hours, the snow came. At first, it was just light flakes, but then the sky grew purplish black and a storm—a fierce one—blew in. The tracks got covered in no time.” Charlie pauses, and when he starts to speak again, his voice is so low it isn't much louder than a whisper. “And then, they heard a terrible sound.”

One of the grownups actually whimpers. Sheesh, I think, what's wrong with you? It's just a story.

“The sound those kids heard,” Charlie continues, “was louder than a scream, deeper than a moan and higher pitched than a dog's bark. It was the worst sound they ever heard, so they covered their ears.” Charlie covers his ears now too, then bends over a little as if that might also help protect him from the sound he's describing. “But the sound went right through their mittens and their
nassak
s.”

This time Rhoda translates. She taps the black and red wool cap on her lap.

Nassak
. I nod and mouth the word so the woman in the front row won't give me the evil eye again.

Charlie picks up even more speed now that he's finally come to the climax of his story. I hope the old guy won't have a heart attack. This is probably the most excitement he's had in, like, 150 years.

“The boy saw Kajutaijug first. He wanted to warn the girl, but he was too frightened to speak, so he just pointed.” Charlie lifts one hand and points a wrinkly finger at the audience. “There—right in front of them, not more than a couple of feet away—was Kajutaijug.”

There's another moan from the audience. Louder this time. I remember Dad telling me about something called “the willing suspension of disbelief.” Basically, that means people who listen to stories or read them or watch them on tv or in a movie, have to buy in; they have to believe the story could be true. Well, Charlie's audience is suspending their disbelief all right.

But not me. I don't believe in spirits, especially ones with hard-to-pronounce names.

“Kajutaijug had no body.” This story is getting weirder by the second. “She was just an enormous head on top of two feet. And those feet were big, as big as tree stumps. And her face, oh Lord, what an ugly face she had! The ugliest face those two kids ever saw. And Kajutaijug had a breast growing from each cheek.” That part of Charlie's description makes some people in the audience—even me—laugh.

“I guess Kajutaijug couldn't get a job for the Playboy channel,” I hear Lenny whisper to his friends.

Charlie doesn't seem to mind the interruptions, or that Lenny just mentioned the Playboy channel. I'll bet Charlie doesn't even know what the Playboy channel is. Still, he slaps his thigh. “You're right about that, Lenny,” he says, grinning. “Breasts are nice”—that makes us laugh again—“but not when they grow where cheeks should be.”

“Gross! That'd be s-so gross,” one of Lenny's pals calls out. The way he slurs his words makes me wonder if he's been drinking. It's illegal to buy or sell alcohol in George River. The law is supposed to eliminate alcoholism, but Dad told me how people get around it by buying bootleg liquor or ordering it up from the south.

Charlie clears his throat. I can tell he wants to get back to his story. “And when Kajutaijug walked, dragging one foot-stump after the other, she made those terrible noises again. Only louder. The whole tundra shook from the sound of her. Even the river and the sky shook.”

It's so dark outside now that we can't see the point where the river meets the sky. The only light is coming from a few houses near the shore and from the smattering of stars in the sky.

“Did Kajutaijug eat them up?” the little girl calls out.

Charlie wags his finger. “Hold on,” he says, “I'm not at that part yet.”

Rhoda leans forward onto the edge of her chair. I can't believe she is suspending her disbelief too.

But I guess for a made-up story, this one isn't all bad. It's got suspense, at least, and I'm starting to like the sound of Charlie's voice.

“The children tried running away from Kajutaijug, but she was too fast for them, even on those stumpy legs of hers. Besides, by then the kids were tired and hungry and afraid. Charlie looks up at the audience. “Fear can tire a person out worse than anything else.”

“Kajutaijug opened her mouth—it looked like a cave inside there—and licked her lips. She used her long tongue to scoop those two kids up from the snow. Then, just as she was about to gobble them up, she heard something. At first, the sound was low, like a rumble, but it got louder. And it frightened Kajutaijug.”

The little girl laughs and then covers her mouth. She likes the idea of something frightening Kajutaijug. Other people start laughing too.

“It was the sled dogs. They came back for the Inuit who were left behind. Just in time too. Those dogs bit the fat ankles on Kajutaijug's stumps. Kajutaijug cried out in pain, and when she did, the children fell out of her mouth and back onto the snow. When they turned around, Kajutaijug was gone. Vanished into the frozen night.”

Charlie bows his head. Suddenly, he looks very old again.

“It's a good story,” someone calls out. Someone else claps, and then others start clapping too. Lenny and his friends put their fingers in their mouths and whistle.

I clap too. Not just to be polite, but also because I'm looking at Charlie's lined skin and black hair and thinking about what a tough life he's had, how he's lived on the land and hunted for his food. And I'm looking at all the other people in the room lining up to thank Charlie and clap him on the shoulder. You'd think he'd just given them a present, which I guess, in a way, he did. If you don't mind stories for presents.

Through the window, the stars seem to have grown brighter. As Rhoda, Celia and I get up from our chairs, there is a loud boom outside. So loud it makes the windows rattle.

“It's just thunder,” a woman says.

The little girl doesn't believe her. “It's not thunder,” she says, planting her thumb in her mouth. “It's Kajutaijug.”

I think of telling the girl there's no such thing as Kajutaijug. But then the lady from downstairs appears with her tray of cookies. I think I smell chocolate.

FIVE

W
hen I get back, Dad is asleep in his armchair. The tv is off, but he's still clutching the remote in one hand. There's a pile of compositions and a red pen on the floor next to him.

Tarksalik is lying on her bed of blankets and green garbage bags. Her head is extended between her forelegs. The light from a streetlamp makes the pale spot on her forehead glow. Though she seems to be asleep, she makes a groaning sound when I come in. Even from where I'm standing in the hallway, I notice how the fur around her belly and hind legs looks matted. Must be from all the dried blood. Guess it'll be a while before she can have a proper bath.

Poor girl. And for what must be the hundredth time today, I replay the morning in my head—only now I try changing the order of things.

“How 'bout I take the dog out with me on my run?” I ask
Dad, who is opening the curtains and going on about the beauty
of the landscape.

Only this time, Dad says no. “I'll take her myself, Son. I can
use the fresh air. Go enjoy your run. Just be careful. I was just
checking the weather online and you'll never believe…”

Of course, that wasn't how things went.

I tiptoe down the hallway to the bathroom. The only noise in the house is the steady hum of Dad's freezer. Dad has an unnatural attachment to his freezer, which he paid a lot of money to have shipped up from Montreal last summer. The first thing he did when I arrived was show me all the stuff he's got stocked in there: chicken breasts and steaks and frozen mini pizzas and
tourtières
.

“And two dozen containers of my homemade spaghetti sauce,” he said proudly. You'd think he was a pirate showing off his treasure chest and that those frozen dinners were gold bars. “I try to cook ahead on weekends. I've got enough food in here to last all winter. Or nearly.”

Thinking back on that conversation reminds me of the legend of Kajutaijug. It must've been scary for the people who were left behind to realize they were out of food. In all my life, I've never once had to worry about going hungry. All I ever had to do in Montreal was open the fridge. If there wasn't anything I felt like eating, I'd write down what I wanted, and Mom would pick it up for me the next time she was at the grocery store, which was just about every single day.

I reach for the dental floss. Mom made me promise to floss every night. I watch my reflection in the mirror as I slide the floss between my front teeth. Something about my eyes makes me look older than fifteen. Then again, it's been an awful day, and I need sleep. But I have a feeling I won't be getting much of that tonight. Not if those pictures of the accident keep looping around in my head, like the road in town that goes from the gas station to the dump and back again.