Terminal Freeze

36

The old shaman gestured to a pile of caribou skins on the far side of the fire. “Sit,” he said.

Marshall, painfully aware that time was of the essence, also understood this encounter-whatever it might produce-could not be hurried. He sat down.

“How did you know I was coming?” he asked.

“In the same manner I knew you were angering the ancient ones. My spirit guide told me.”

The shaman picked up the scatter of items before him, placed them in a small leather pouch, drew the drawstring tight.

“The others-where did they go?”

Usuguk stretched his palm northward. “To our brothers along the sea.”

“Another Tunit camp?” Marshall asked.

Usuguk shook his head. “Inuit. We are the last of our kind.”

“There are no other Tunits?”

“None.”

Marshall looked over the fire at the old shaman. So it’s true, then. “When will they return?”

“Perhaps never. Life is much easier beside the sea. It has been difficult to keep them here since their mothers and fathers died.”

Marshall sat for a moment, collecting his thoughts. It was hard to believe that this sad little encampment was the last vestige of an entire Native American tribe. It was galling to think that his own arrival at the glacier might be partly responsible for scattering it, even temporarily.

“Those markings you made, outside the base,” he said at last. “What were they for?”

“A warding of protection. To compel the kurrshuq to spare you.” The shaman returned Marshall ’s gaze. “Your presence here means the warding was unsuccessful.”

Marshall hesitated again. He had come all this way, yet he did not know exactly how to begin-or even what to ask. He took a deep breath. “Listen, Usuguk. I know we have already caused you anxiety and difficulty, and I am very sorry for that. It was never our intent.”

The Tunit said nothing.

“Now we are in trouble. Serious, serious trouble. And I have come here in hopes that you can help.”

Still, Usuguk did not reply. His expression was stolid, almost taciturn.

“The mountain,” Marshall continued. “The one you told us was evil. We found something there, as we were doing our experiments. A creature bigger than a polar bear, encased in ice. We…we cut it from the ice. Now it’s missing.”

As Marshall said this, the shaman’s expression changed. A look of something close to shock blossomed over the weathered features.

“We don’t know exactly what it is. I can only tell you that it has caused injury. It has caused death.”

The look of shock subsided, replaced by the same mix of fear and sorrow Marshall recalled from their first meeting. “Why do you come to me?” the Tunit asked.

“There was a scientific expedition at the base, fifty years ago. It met with tragedy. Most of the scientists died. But we recovered one of their journals. It contained the following words: ‘The Tunits have the answer.’”

Usuguk sat motionless, staring into the fire. Marshall waited, uncertain whether to speak or keep silent. After about a minute, the shaman reached over, rummaged slowly through an assortment of ritual objects, and grasped the bone handle of what appeared to be some kind of drum: a narrow hoop about a foot in diameter, leather stretched tightly across it. Slowly he began tapping it against the palm of his other hand, flipping the instrument with each beat, back and forth, back and forth. He accompanied the rhythm with a chant, quiet at first, then louder, the sound filling the snowhouse like the smoke of the fire. At last, after several minutes, the chant subsided. The shaman’s face was once more at peace. Putting the drum aside, he unstrung the leather pouch, dipped in his hand, and took out two greasy pellets of a soft material, one blue, the other red. He carefully dropped them into the fire, one after the other. Bi-colored smoke roiled upward, blending to violet at its edges.

“Tashayat kompok,” he murmured, examining the smoke. “As you will it.” Marshall did not think the shaman was speaking to him.

Marshall repressed the urge to glance at his watch. “Do you know what the scientist meant?” he asked. “About the Tunits having the answer?”

Usuguk said nothing. His eyes remained on the fire.

“I know you’ve seen something of the world,” Marshall went on. “Your command of English says as much. If you can help, if you know anything about this, please tell me.”

“It is not my place. You have brought this darkness upon yourself. I’ve already done what I could. I made a long journey-a sun, a moon, and a sun-to warn you. You paid no heed.”

“If that is true, I apologize. But I think violent death is too high a price to pay for our ignorance.”

Usuguk closed his eyes. “The circle you have begun is yours to complete. Even the Circle of Death can be beautiful.”

“There was no beauty in Josh Peters’s death. If you know something, no matter how insignificant or unrelated it may seem-you owe it to us as fellow human beings to aid us.”

“You are of the world,” Usuguk replied slowly. “I am of the spirit. I left that life behind long ago. I cannot go back.”

Marshall sat, wondering what else there was left for him to say. At last he cleared his throat. “Let me tell you something. I once left a life behind, too. My best friend’s life.”

Slowly, Usuguk opened his eyes.

“It was twelve years ago. I was an Army Ranger, stationed in Somalia. My unit had been under fire for three days from rebel skirmishers. It was house to house, room by room. My friend was establishing a forward post. The orders were garbled; he got ahead of the detail. I saw him moving across a square. It was dark. I thought it was an enemy sniper. I shot him.” Marshall shrugged. “After that, I swore I’d never pick up a gun again.”

Usuguk nodded slowly. Another silence settled over the snow-house, broken only by the crackling of the fire, the mournful cry of the blizzard outside.

“It was not a frag,” the shaman said, opening his eyes.

Marshall looked at him in surprise. “Were you in the service?”

Usuguk ignored the question. “It was a mistake.”

“My unit had never lost a soldier to friendly fire. I was ordered to lie, to cover it up. When I refused, my commanding officer arranged for me to get a dishonorable discharge. I-I had to break the news of my friend’s death to his wife.”

Usuguk grunted quietly. Reaching into his medicine pouch, he pulled out several small artifacts. Smoothing the skins before him, he tossed the items onto them and scrutinized the way they fell. “You said you swore not to pick up a gun again. Such an oath is not to be taken lightly. And now? What will you do now?”

Marshall took a deep breath. “If there’s something out there-something bent on killing all of us-I’ll do my very best to kill it first.”

Usuguk looked into the fire. Then he turned his seamed and inscrutable face toward Marshall. “I will go with you,” he said. “But the only lives I take now are those necessary to sustain my own. My hunting days are over.”

Marshall nodded. “Then I’ll hunt for both of us.”