Sacred Stone

9

JUAN CABRILLO BREEZED through customs at the tiny terminal at Kulusuk then stared at a map on the wall near the door leading out. In the brief months of summer, Kulusuk Island was ringed by water. As soon as fall arrived and the temperatures dropped, the seawater froze into thick sheets of ice. And while the ice never reached a thickness that could support the weight of a locomotive, for example, cars, trucks or snow vehicles had no trouble venturing across to the mainland.

In winter, Kulusuk was an island no more. It was attached to Greenland by ice.

From where Cabrillo stood, it was slightly over sixty miles north to the latitude that marked the actual Arctic Circle, and from there it was a dozen or so more to Mount Forel. Winter solstice, December 22, was only a few days past. That day, at the exact location of the Arctic Circle, was the only single day of total darkness each year.

North of the circle, depending on how far one went, the blackness was constant. The farther north, the longer that condition remained. At the exact spot of the Arctic Circle and to the south of it, December 22 marked a turning point. As winter progressed toward spring, the daylight grew longer by minutes each day. By the time summer came, the midnight sun would rise and in the area north of the Circle, the sun would not set for some time.

It was a cycle that had repeated itself for countless eons.

Outside, a howling wind raked hard pellets of frozen snow against the windows in the terminal. The weather looked as appealing as the interior of a meat locker. Cabrillo stared and felt a shiver. Though still indoors, he tugged at the zipper to his parka.

Since Kulusuk was just south of the Arctic Circle, there would be a few minutes of light today. By contrast, Mount Forel was still in total darkness. The next few days and weeks would see the top of the mountain begin to catch the first rays of light. Then, as the months passed, the sunlight would begin to drip down the sides of the mountain like yellow paint poured atop a pyramid.

But looking outside one would never guess the sun had been, or was, anywhere near.

Right now, however, Cabrillo was less concerned with the darkness than he was with transportation. Walking off to the side of the terminal, he removed a satellite telephone and hit the speed dial.

“WHAT HAVE YOU found out?” he asked when Hanley answered.

Because of Overholt’s urgency, Cabrillo had left the Oregon without a clear plan on how he was to travel to Mount Forel. Hanley had assured him that by the time he was on the ground there would be a plan in place.

“There are some dogsled teams available for charter,” Hanley noted, “but you’d need a guide as a musher—and I didn’t figure you wanted a witness, so I ruled that out. The helicopters that service Kulusuk have regularly scheduled routes, from Tasiilaq and back, but they don’t hire out and the current weather has them grounded.”

“Not walking weather,” Cabrillo said, staring outside.

“Or skiing,” Hanley added, “though I know you pride yourself on your skiing ability.”

“So what is it?”

“I had the computer pull vehicle registrations from the area—it didn’t take long, as there are only four hundred or so people in Kulusuk. I discounted snowmobiles because you’d be exposed to the snow and cold, plus their tendency to break down. That leaves us with snowcats. They are slow and burn a lot of fuel, but they have heaters and plenty of room for storage of supplies. I think that’s our best bet.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Cabrillo said. “Where’s the rental place located?”

“There isn’t one,” Hanley said, “but I pulled up the names and addresses of private owners from the Greenland registry and made a few calls. None of the people that own them have home telephone numbers, but I reached the pastor of the local church. He said there is one man that might agree to a rental—the rest are in use.”

“What’s the address?” Cabrillo asked, removing a pencil and small pad of paper from his parka for notes.

“The address is the sixth house past the church, red walls with yellow trim.”

“No street addresses this far north, huh?”

“Everybody knows everyone else, I guess,” Hanley said.

“Sounds like the natives are friendly.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” Hanley told him. “The pastor mentioned the owner drinks quite a bit during the winter. He also said almost everyone in town carries firearms to ward off bears.”

Cabrillo nodded. “So basically, I just need to convince an armed drunken native to rent me his snowcat and I’m on my way,” Cabrillo said, patting the packets of one-hundred-dollar bills in his parka pocket. “Sounds simple enough.”

“Well, there’s one more thing—he’s not a native. He grew up in Arvada, Colorado, and was drafted into the army during the Vietnam War. From what I’ve been able to piece together from the databases, once he returned he spent a few years in and out of VA hospitals. Then he left the country with the idea of getting as far away from the U.S. as possible.”

Cabrillo stared out the window again. “It looks like he reached his goal.”

“I’m sorry, Juan,” Hanley said. “In two more days, when the summit wraps up, we could reposition the Oregon and Adams could fly you up in the helicopter. Right now, however, this is all we’ve got.”

“No sweat,” Cabrillo said, staring at his notes. “Sixth house from the church.”

“Red walls,” Hanley said, “and yellow-painted trim.”

“Well then, let me go meet a madman.”

He disconnected and walked through the door leading outside.

CABRILLO LEFT HIS boxes of supplies at the airport and approached a snowmobile taxi with an Inuit teenager standing alongside. The boy raised his eyebrows when Cabrillo gave the address but he said nothing. He seemed more concerned with the fee, which he quoted in Danish currency.

“How much in U.S. dollars?” Cabrillo asked.

“Twenty,” the boy said without hesitation.

“Done,” Cabrillo said, handing the boy a bill.

The boy climbed onto the snowmobile and reached for the starter button. “You know Garth Brooks?” the boy asked, assuming everyone in the United States must know everyone else, just like in his village.

“No,” Cabrillo said, “but I played golf with Willie Nelson once.”

“Cool. Is he any good?”

“Wicked slice,” Cabrillo said as the boy hit the starter and the engine roared to life.

“Get on,” the boy shouted.

Once Cabrillo was seated, the boy raced away from the airport. The snowmobile’s headlight barely cut through the darkness and blowing snow. Kulusuk was little more than a cluster of homes a mile or so from the airport. The sides of the houses were partially covered by snowdrifts. Trails of smoke and steam came from inside. Teams of dogs were clustered near houses, along with many snowmobiles; skis were propped up into the snow, tips aloft; snowshoes hung on nails near the doors.

Life in Kulusuk looked hard and grim.

North of town, the expanse of ice leading across to the mainland was barely visible as a dim outline. The surface of ice was black and slick as wind blew the snow and piled it into small drifts that ceaselessly formed and reformed. The hills across the frozen ice were only visible as an outline, a different color gray against a backdrop of nothingness. The scene looked about as inviting as a tour of a crematorium. Cabrillo felt the snowmobile slow then stop.

He climbed from the back and stood on the semi-packed snow.

“Later,” the teenager said with a quick wave of his hand.

Then the boy turned the yoke hard to the left, spun around on the snow-packed street and raced away. Cabrillo was left alone in the cold and darkness. He stared at the half-buried house for a second. Then he started walking through the drifts toward the front door. He paused on the stoop before knocking.