Skraelings: Clashes in the Old Arctic Read online

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  Text copyright © 2014 by Rachel and Sean Qitsualik-Tinsley

  Illustrations by Andrew Trabbold copyright © 2014 Inhabit Media Inc.

  Editors: Neil Christopher and Louise Flaherty

  Art director: Danny Christopher

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  We acknowledge the support of the Government of Canada through the Department of Canadian Heritage Canada Book Fund program.

  Printed in Canada

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Qitsualik-Tinsley, Rachel, 1953-, author

  Skraelings : clashes in the old Arctic / Rachel and Sean

  Qitsualik-Tinsley.

  ISBN 978-1-927095-54-6 (pbk.)

  1. Inuit--Juvenile fiction. I. Qitsualik-Tinsley, Sean, 1969-, author II. Title.

  PS8633.I88S57 2013 jC813’.6 C2013-908382-0

  1

  Unknown Places

  Here’s the story of a young man who, at the time of his tale, had no clue where his family might be living. If you had been there to ask, the best answer he might have given is:

  “Somewhere behind me.”

  Not that he was lost. No, it was simply that happiness means different things to different people—and it was his great joy to travel across strange lands. He went without human companionship. He had no idea where he was going. There were no enemies in his life. No friends (except maybe his sled dogs). Yet not one of these facts meant that he was lost.

  Unknown places, even uncertainty about where he would next sleep or eat, rarely frightened the young hunter. You, however, whoever you are reading this, would have scared him. Not because you have two heads, or you’re coloured green, or you come from another planet. No, it’s exactly because you come from the same planet as him that you might have scared this person.

  You see, you are from another time. On our earth, the earth that you know, the world is choked with people. We can see them on TV. Sit with them on an airplane. Brush shoulders with them in busy halls or on the street. Unless you’re very lucky, you don’t know what quiet is. Real silence. Not the quiet you get when folks stop yammering. We’re talking about the silence of standing alone in the wide Arctic—on the great Land—where only the wind or an odd raven whispers from time to time, and the loudest sound is your own breath.

  That kind of quiet has a heaviness to it. A life of its own, you might say. And that is the sort of quiet our hunter was used to.

  This is not to say that you couldn’t have been friends with the young man, since he was very much a human being, like yourself. It is simply that, even if, by some magic, you could have spoken a common language with him, your ideas of the world would have been very different. To be honest, the easy part would have been explaining televisions and airplanes to him. Even busy halls and streets. But how would you have gotten across the simple idea of a country? Or a border? In our world, the earth is so crowded. There are so many rules. It’s normal that everyone knows their citizenship. You can barely move without a passport. And you can’t step on a clot of land that hasn’t been measured and assessed for its value. It would be strange to hear of land that isn’t owned. Every inch of dirt, in our time, belongs to somebody. In our world, people even talk about who should own the moon.

  But the young hunter’s land was not just dirt, you see. It was not land with a little “l”: something we can measure and pretend to own. His was the Land. And he called it Nuna. And like everything under the Sky, it had a life of its own.

  Land as property would have made the young man and his relatives laugh. After all, the Nuna was a mystery. No one knew its entire shape or extent. Humanity did not set limits on the Land. The Land set limits on humanity. It was the Land, including the sea that bordered it, that made demands on how all life existed.

  “No one can even control the Land,” Kannujaq might have told you, “so how can one own it?”

  That was the young hunter’s name, by the way: Kannujaq. He was named for a mysterious stuff that came from the Land. In his language, kannujaq described a funny, reddish material. It was rare, but known to a few of his people. You probably would have recognized it, called it “copper,” and tried to tell Kannujaq that it was a metal—but that would have meant very little to him. You see, a tiny bit of copper was the only metal he had ever seen. You might have then tried to explain to this young hunter that he only thought copper was special because he lived in the Arctic, and so long ago.

  But we almost forgot: you can’t tell Kannujaq anything. It would be over a thousand years before we could write about Kannujaq, much less let you read about him. And no matter how hard Kannujaq dreamed, he could never have imagined people like us.

  In Kannujaq’s time and place, he was usually too busy to dream, anyway. The Land never let his mind wander for long, holding him in an eternal moment. To this day, it has that power, the ability to force the mind into a single point of attention. Visit it sometime. Find a place away from “progress.” Maybe you’ll see why the Land was such a beloved mystery to Kannujaq and his folk. While you’re on the Nuna, stand on a windswept ridge. Raise your arms, open to the grand Sky. And imagine how Kannujaq stood.

  Kannujaq’s eyes were closed, his nostrils pulling in the pure air, and the silence was such that he seemed to detect every stirring in his world. A raven muttered, and he opened his eyes to spot one on a nearby, lichen-encrusted boulder. Another wheeled in the sky above him. He smiled, knowing that the birds resented his presence, and his eyes panned over the rocky ridges that played out before him. The low slopes mixed shades of brown, a bit of purple, some bits of dark green from heather and willows that grew no higher than his knee. In the troughs between the slopes, the low valleys, there was barely enough snow for his dogsled. By now, he was soaked with sweat. Long tongues dangled from the mouths of his exhausted dogs.

  Kannujaq’s smile eventually faded. Though the Land had rarely frightened him, he experienced a shiver of dread.

  Here and there on the most distant ridges, Kannujaq spotted inuksuit—stacks of flat stones, carefully piled so as to resemble people when their silhouettes were viewed against the sky. And Kannujaq knew who had made them. His grandfather had said so. The inuksuit were the works of Tuniit, a shy and bizarre folk who had occupied the Land long before the arrival of Kannujaq’s family. It was said that the strength of the Tuniit was great. Hauling a stone the size of Kannujaq himself was as nothing to one of them. That was just as well, since the Tuniit relied on stones to hunt. Since the inuksuit resembled people standing on the hills, caribou took paths to avoid them. Every year, when the caribou did so, the Tuniit supposedly took advantage of their route, herding the animals into zones where they could be slaughtered. The Tuniit hunted with bows, as Kannujaq’s own people did. Kannujaq’s grandfather had seen one of the Tuniit hunting sites: all bones on top of bones. Some new. Others quite old. It had seemed clear that the Tuniit had hunted in their weird way for generations.

  Kannujaq frowned, recalling his grandfather’s stories, and not even the Land’s glory was able
to pull his thoughts away from the Tuniit. He wondered about the Tuniit hunting style. It meant that they stayed in pretty much the same place. Maybe even year round. That was a strange notion to Kannujaq. His people were always travelling, exploring for exploration’s sake, family members splintering off to found their own little groups along new coasts. For generations, travel, a hunger for the unseen, had been the great drive of his folk. Ringed seals. Lovely whales. Stinky walruses. All the creatures of the coasts—these made up food and tools to fuel a search whose sole purpose was life itself. Life was a joy, and one grand hunt.

  The Tuniit, thought Kannujaq, who could survive their way? He was not cold. But, in thinking about these not-quite-human folk, a chill ran through him. He stood alone in their hunting lands. He had come to regret taking this detour. His winding path among the hills had led him away from the coast, where he was most comfortable, and his dog team was having a rough time among the rocks.

  He sighed and started back down to his sled, when a low howl made its way over the wind. In a moment, it was joined by another. Then several more. Eventually, the howls were like those of a small pack of wolves. Even a large pack would have been nothing to fear—Kannujaq was armed with a bow and a spear, both crafted according to the high standards of his people. And then there were his dogs to defend him. But Kannujaq nevertheless shuddered at the sounds ahead of him: he knew all animal noises, and these cries were not those of true wolves.

  Tuniit, he thought, imitating wolves. Maybe driving caribou.

  So, even now, the Tuniit were hunting in this place. He decided not to bother them—or chance being bothered by them—slipping and sliding his way back down the slope, to where his dogs awaited. Luckily, his team was only making low, anxious whining noises at the wolf sounds of the Tuniit. But if Kannujaq did not get his dogs out of here, it would be only a matter of time before one or more would howl in return.

  Soon, the sled was again making its slow way back toward the coast, rushing ahead on the occasional patch of snow: sticking, rushing ahead, sticking again. Kannujaq was young, as strong as any other youth he had ever known, but this part of the Land was wearing him down.

  Much time passed, and, despite the tongues waggling from their heads with overexertion, Kannujaq noticed that his dogs were growing excited, ears standing high on their heads. He was more attuned to their body language than to what lay under his own fingernails. It took him a moment to realize that the dogs were smelling a camp ahead—maybe a source of food and rest. Kannujaq was fond of the idea, since a storm was moving in and the light snowfall interfered with his distance vision. Fortunately, the days were growing long, so there was still enough light for Kannujaq to spot twisting lines of smoke in the distance, where the ground levelled out.

  Kannujaq grinned, pleased to see several figures approaching from out of the snowfall. Camp folk. He began to urge his dogs forward, but paused.

  Something bothered him about this place.

  Dogs, he thought to himself. I don’t see any.

  Kannujaq was familiar with the kind of camps he had grown up in, all temporary, as established by his ever-roaming family. He had even seen a few camps set up by distant relations, usually using interconnected rib bones, from the skeletons of whales scattered along the shores, as shelter. Normally, any camp would be full of dogs, which were used for hauling pack-loads in the summer and sledding in the other seasons. The sight of a place without any dog teams made Kannujaq uneasy. It was like coming across a community without people. Then he spotted one loose dog out of the corner of his eye, and felt a bit better.

  That dog, he thought, where’s it off to? As he watched, squinting, the animal disappeared into the haze of thickening snowfall.

  Kannujaq was startled by an odd noise. A thin cry. He turned back toward the approaching figures, the camp dwellers he had first spotted. He grinned, getting ready to raise his arms in greeting.

  His grin quickly faded as he realized that they had not stopped to greet him.

  They were running at him.

  And they looked nothing like Kannujaq’s folk.

  2

  Place of Murder

  In a single moment, all of the strange facts of this place came together—and the word “Tuniit” flashed through Kannujaq’s mind.

  There was no time to reach his bow. He could only think to fumble about for his spear. Kannujaq had never before seen one of the Tuniit—a single Tuniq. Despite the fact that his elders had described them as “almost people,” his imagination had pictured them with fangs and claws. As if they were as much wolf as human. Instead, as their faces came into sight, Kannujaq was shocked to see how human they looked. Their features were round, dark with the soot they were said to burn instead of seal oil (for which they were also called Sooty Ones). But their faces were human. It seemed that Kannujaq was looking at a mixed group of Tuniit men, women, and children, dark faces twisted up in fear. Some were carrying babies, awkwardly, in their arms. The men and women among them were marked by odd hair styles. Both had great lengths of hair twisted up tightly, but the men wore theirs in a peculiar ball on top of their heads. The women wore their hair in clusters over each temple. All they shared in common were their shabby, sooty tops. Their bear-fur pants. Their short, squat frames.

  No wonder, Kannujaq thought to himself, there are so few dogs here. Maybe it was that he’d been so tired, worried about making it back to the coast, finding someplace to rest—but one way or another, he had stumbled into a Tuniit camp. He, like his dogs, had assumed that this was a human encampment. Instead of avoiding the Tuniit, he had walked straight into them. Such a mistake! Now he would probably end up ripped apart by Tuniit. With the thoughts that came to him in his panic, he imagined his own corpse. Lying in pieces. Pulled at by these creatures who were half-human, half-animal. The Tuniit could haul boulders as if they were pebbles.

  What would Kannujaq look like after they had grabbed him?

  But the Tuniit did not attack. All at once, the whole group seemed to catch sight of Kannujaq. All, males and females alike, ground to a halt. It was as though they’d been startled by the sight of him. Then, as though they shared one mind, the Tuniit turned and ran in a different direction.

  Fleeing, Kannujaq realized. From me. Then, his heart still pounding in his chest, his eyes watching the figures disappear back into the haze, he thought some more.

  But they were already running before I got here, he thought. What would make Tuniit run?

  Then Kannujaq realized that he had made a mistake: Not all of the Tuniit had fled. They had left behind one small, hooded person. It was impossible to see if it was a boy or girl. If the lone figure had been human, like Kannujaq’s folk, he or she would have been tall enough to be a child on the edge of young adulthood. Not quite old enough to take on adult duties.

  Then the wind blew at the child’s hood, and Kannujaq became sure that he was seeing a boy. So human in looks! Far from being afraid, the boy was smiling, and seemed riveted to the sight of Kannujaq’s dog team.

  Kannujaq decided to take a risk. He stepped forward, raising his arms to show that he meant no harm. Maybe a human greeting would be understandable even to a Tuniq.

  Kannujaq half expected the boy to run, though the youth surprised him by actually moving closer. He began to babble excitedly, but Kannujaq had some difficulty understanding the words. It was almost normal language, but different—a kind of Tuniit talk. Strangest of all, the boy kept grinning from the depths of his vast hood, which concealed much of his sooty face.

  The boy kept pointing at Kannujaq. In a few moments, Kannujaq seemed to grasp what he was saying: The lad was actually glad that Kannujaq had come. Also, he was late? The boy had expected him? They were here. Them. Those Ones had also arrived. There were other words, as well, words Kannujaq couldn’t quite make out. And there was one word that the boy kept repeating, but it was no use—Kannujaq simply couldn’t understand all of what the boy was saying.

  Kannujaq did, however, rea
lize that the boy was not pointing at him. The lad was rambling about the necklace around Kannujaq’s neck. On it were strung claws from Kannujaq’s first bear, along with a special bit of stuff that his grandmother had given him. In fact, Kannujaq was named for that very stuff. On his necklace was a reddish-brown loop of kannujaq. It was all that remained of a needle passed down by Kannujaq’s ancestors. And it was said to have been used by his great-great-grandmother, who had lived in lands without name, back in the times before Kannujaq’s family did so much exploring.

  It was also said that, in the old days, people sometimes took the kannujaq from rocks, grinding it to sharpness with other stones. It didn’t hold a fine edge like some materials—such as jade or flint or ivory—but it lasted a long time, and some people liked the fact that it could be easily re-sharpened. On top of it all, the kannujaq was pretty to look at. Kannujaq himself liked the look of it, and he often rubbed his own thin loop between thumb and forefinger, until its shine reminded him of the sun setting on the water.

  The boy, for whatever reason, seemed obsessed with the kannujaq.

  With gentle touches at his arm, the boy began to lead Kannujaq into the Tuniit camp. There was something desperate about the lad. Something that made Kannujaq want to indulge him. As they went, the boy’s grin faded, and his pronunciations became impossible to understand. Increasingly, his tone became emotional, even a bit crazy, until his babbling trickled off like an ice-choked stream. Stiffly, Kannujaq forced one foot in front of the other, somehow feeling more child-like than the one he followed.

  It’s a dream, he thought for a moment. Has to be. I’m dreaming I’m with Tuniit. And I’m asleep.

  But Kannujaq had never before dreamed the touch of cold wind on his cheeks. He had never dreamed of detail. Curling snowfall. Stones underfoot. The sound of his own breath. The weather alone would not let him remain convinced that this was fantasy. It was getting worse. Quick, sharp gusts were whipping crystal snow particles about like sand. Whenever the wind eased off for a moment, Kannujaq could see a squat figure or two: Tuniit, like before, running as though for their very lives.