FROZEN IN
On the morning after their capture of the narwhal, the boys came on deck
to find the weather completely changed. Above stretched a dull gray sky,
great flakes of snow were drifting down, the land was already hidden
under a thin coat of white and, at the first touch of the biting wind,
the two dodged back to their cabin to reappear clad from head to foot in
their Eskimo garments.
Mr. Kemp laughed heartily as he saw them. “All ready for the winter, eh?”
he cried. “What you goin’ to wear when it’s really cold?”
“You can’t say anything,” retorted Tom, “you’ve got on a sweater and a
reefer and oilskins yourself.”
“’Tis a bit sharp, I’ll admit,” replied the second officer. “Looks like
summer’s about over. Them Eskimos know it. If this keeps up, they’ll be
a-setting up their igloos to-morrow.”
“Why, the water’s freezing!” exclaimed Jim who had peered over the
schooner’s side. “Hurrah, we’ll be able to walk ashore now!”
“Walk ashore!” exclaimed Mr. Kemp. “Why, bless you, if the weather keeps
on as it oughta, you could run a train acrost the bay inside a week.”
Already thin ice had formed on the surface of the water and, although
each swell coming into the Welcome broke the newly formed ice with a
curious crackling sound, fresh ice formed almost as rapidly as it was
destroyed, and the upended little cakes were congealing in a jagged,
hummocky surface that bade fair to imprison the waves very soon and lock
them fast for many months.
The rigging was white with snow and a couple of inches of the soft
feathery blanket lay on the decks. The crew, clad in oilskins and
sweaters, with caps pulled over ears and mittens on hands, were busy
hammering and pounding as they put the finishing touches to the long,
shedlike structure that they had erected extending from the poop to the
foremast. Ashore, the Eskimos were dragging their kayaks far from the
water’s edge and were placing them upside down on racks of whale’s ribs.
The women were piling stones upon the edges of their skin dwellings and
the boys were yelling shrilly and cracking their long whips as they
gathered the dogs together.
Hourly the cold increased. The snowflakes became finer and fell faster
and faster; the wind came in fitful gusts and whirled the snow into
drifts. When the pale light faded soon after noon and the boys knew that
the sun had set, land, sea, and ship were covered deep with snow.
Day after day the storm continued. The Eskimos’ tents were buried halfway
to their peaked tops in the drifts; the rough plank house upon the
schooner was like a huge snowbank, and even the tough and hardened old
whalemen had donned suits of skins and furs. Then one day came a muffled
hail through the blinding snow, and looking over the _Narwhal’s_ side,
the surprised boys saw two of the Eskimos standing upon the snow-covered
ice beneath them.
“Hurrah, they can walk on it!” cried Tom and, followed by Jim, he
clambered over the schooner’s rails and leaped on to the ice.
“Gee, we’re frozen in!” yelled Jim. “It’s really winter. Come on, let’s
go and see what the Eskimos are doing.”
“Look out, ye young scallawags,” roared Cap’n Pem. “Ye’ll git lost.”
“No danger,” called back Tom. “We’ll get one of the Eskimos to go with
us.”
Turning, he spoke to the fur-clad men in their own tongue and
accompanied by one of them, the two boys pushed their way through the
snow towards shore.
“Oh, they’re building igloos!” exclaimed Jim as they came in sight of the
Eskimos. “And on the ice too.”
Interestedly the two boys watched the natives as they labored at their
winter homes. With long-bladed snow knives carved from walrus tusks the
men cut the blocks of frozen snow and piled them in a circle, tier on
tier, each a little smaller than the one preceding. Rapidly the low-domed
huts grew and took on form and soon the first one was completed. With
yells of delight Tom and Jim crawled into the tunnel-like entrance and
found themselves within the igloo.
“Say, isn’t this jolly!” cried Tom. “Come on, Jim, let’s make one for
ourselves. It’ll be great sport having an igloo with the Eskimos.”
Enthusiastically the two set to work, borrowing snow knives from their
Eskimo friends, but they soon found that building an igloo was an art
and they joined heartily in the Eskimos’ merriment when the wall tumbled
in and all their work came to nothing. They were not discouraged, and
presently one of the Eskimo boys came to their aid. With his help the
boys soon got the knack of the work and before it was time to return to
the schooner for dinner their igloo was completed.
The night was almost as bright as day with the Northern Lights reflected
from the vast stretch of spotless white. By midnight the storm was over;
stars twinkled brilliantly in the deep purple sky, the little group of
igloos rose above the flat, white plain of ice-like, snow-covered bee
hives. The wind was so bitingly, intensely cold that the boys were glad
indeed to seek shelter in the deck house with its cheery red-hot stove.
Then followed days filled with constant novelty, interest, and delight
for the two boys. They went with the Eskimos on hunts for seal, and
learned to find the blow holes in the ice through which the creatures
came up to breathe. With their snow knives they cut great rectangular
slabs of frozen snow and placed them upright near the holes as
windbreaks, and with rifles grasped in their fur-gloved hands, and warm
as toast in their eider skin undergarments and sealskin costumes, they
lay upon the surface of the frozen bay and watched the holes while the
wind swept downward from the North Pole, and the thermometer dropped to
many degrees below zero. Often their vigil would gain them nothing. But
many times a big hooded seal, a sheeny silversides, or a magnificent
harp seal would fall a victim to their rifles. Much of their time too
they spent in their igloo which they had fitted up exactly like those
of their Eskimo neighbors, with skins and furs covering the bench of
ice around the sides, a soapstone lamp filled with whale oil, with a
moss wick to give light and heat, and with their weapons and trophies
scattered about. From one of the natives they had purchased a team of
dogs. Unavik had made them a sledge, and after many trials, unending
merriment, countless upsets, and getting hopelessly tangled, the two
boys had learned to drive their huskies fairly well. There was nothing
they loved better than to go sledding over the frozen snow, yelling at
their dogs, cracking their long whips, and now and then leaping on to the
vehicle and traveling like the wind through the frosty stinging air lit
by the pale winter sun or the gorgeous Aurora.
Much time also they spent in the Eskimos’ igloos and, their first
squeamishness at the dirt and filth of the people being overcome, they
found them very pleasant and good company. Sometimes, as a blizzard
howled outside, and the dogs cowered whimpering at the mouth of the
entrance tunnel, the Eskimos would while away the hours telling stories.
Some of these were very quaint, others were humorous and still others
were almost poems with their vivid descriptive phrases and beautiful
sentiments.
But the boys’ favorites were the folklore tales about the birds and
animals they knew so well. Usually some chance remark or question of the
boys would start the story and all would listen attentively while the
gray-haired, wrinkled, old _ananating_ (grandmother) would tell in story
form why certain things were so. Once, for example, Jim was examining a
reindeer skin and called Tom’s attention to the white rump and the stubby
little tail. Amaluk, who was making a snow knife, glanced up. “Perhaps,”
he said in the dialect the boys now understood perfectly, “Nepaluka will
tell you how the reindeer lost their tails.”
“Do,” begged Tom, “tell us the story, _Ananating_.”
The old woman was busily mending a skin shirt, her near-sighted eyes
close to her work, her clawlike fingers moving deftly as she plied the
bone needle—for she alone of all the women still preferred the Eskimo
needles to those of the white men.
“Ai ai!” she exclaimed. “The clothes are mended and my eyes are weary and
perchance it may be well to tell of Amook and the reindeer.”
Laying aside the carefully mended shirt she leaned back among the thick
bearskins and began.
“Many ages ago,” she said in her droning voice, “before the Eskimos first
came to the land, all the reindeer were brown from head to foot and all
wore bushy tails like the foxes. In those times lived a great _anticoot_
(magician) named Amook and to him belonged all the animals and birds. And
all the creatures roamed at will except the reindeer, for these Amook
kept hidden in a great hole in the earth.
“Every day Amook would come from the hole and, after pulling a big stone
over the entrance to his home, he would travel far and wide caring for
his creatures. In those days the birds and animals were all one color,
and when winter came and snow fell upon the land their brown bodies were
plain to be seen and the creatures saw one another afar, so it was easy
indeed for the owls and hawks to see the ptarmigan and kill them, and
for the foxes and wolves to see the hares and devour them. At last so
many were killed that Amook grew afraid that his live things would all
be destroyed, and he would be left without food to eat or furs to make
his clothes. So, being a magician, he made many spells, until at last, by
touching the fur of an animal or the feathers of a bird, he could change
the brown to white. Then, when the winter came, Amook would go forth and
call the birds and the beasts together, and as they came at his call,
he would stroke them with his hands, and they would go forth white and
spotless. But soon Amook was again troubled, for when spring came and
the snow melted and the rocks and moss were bare, the white creatures
were like spots of snow upon the brown land and fell easy prey to their
enemies. Then from far and near the birds and beasts flocked to their
master and begged him to make them brown once more. So Amook made another
spell in his hole under the earth, and when he came forth and touched the
birds and the beasts, behold! they were changed from white to brown as
before.
“So, as each winter came, Amook would change the brown creatures to white
and when the winter had passed and the geese came to the northland, he
would again change the white to brown.
“But some of the creatures were wary and would not come to their master’s
bidding and Amook had hard work to capture them. It was thus with the
great bear for he loved his white coat that helped him to hide on the
bergs and floes, and try as Amook might, he never caught him to change
his coat to brown, and so the bear to this day is always white and
changes not to brown in the spring. So too, the white owl in his white
coat could perch motionless on a rock and all creatures would take him
for a harmless bit of ice and would approach so near that he could pounce
upon them easily. Time and again Amook crept close to catch the owl,
but never did he grasp him, although the tips of his fingers touched
the owl’s feathers as he flew off and to this day you may see the round
brown finger marks left by Amook on the feathers of the owl. The weasel
too, timid and suspicious, but too cowardly to disobey his master, crept
sneaking from the rocks and crouched snarling to the earth as Amook
passed his hand over his back, and the tip of his tail, which was hidden
in the rocks, is always black and his belly that was pressed upon the
earth remains ever white. Many other things—the geese and ducks, the
snipes and hawks—flew southward before Amook came forth to change their
colors and so, throughout the year, their coats remain the same. But the
hare and the fox[2] and the ptarmigan came always at Amook’s call and
grew cunning and hid safely from their enemies.
“Through all this time the reindeer, deep in their hole, remained brown,
for under the earth there was neither winter nor summer. One day as Amook
came back to his hole the raven, flying by, saw him step out of sight.
Always curious, the raven wondered what Amook had hidden in the earth
and pondering on the matter he flew to his friend the fox. ‘Ai, ai!’
he exclaimed. ‘Tell me, O brother, what your master keeps in his home
beneath the earth. You whom he fondles and strokes to white or brown must
know.’
“But the fox knew not and said so to the raven. This made the black bird
more curious yet and he asked, ‘Why have you never found out? Have you
never wondered, O brother, where this Amook gets his power to turn brown
to white and white to brown? Think you how fine it would be to know the
secret of his power. With it in thy paws thou couldst change color at
will and like the owl pose as a bit of ice in summer or like a bare rock
in winter. Truly, O little friend, you would find hunting easy.’
“Now the fox was a born thief and most cunning, and the words of the
raven set him thinking. At last he spoke. ‘With thy help, black brother,
I may find out. We will hide close to the hole of Amook and when he comes
forth thou wilt fly high in the air and croak loudly, and when Amook
looks up I will place a bit of rock beneath the cover of the hole so it
will not close tightly. Then, when Amook has passed, we will enter his
dwelling and steal the charm.’
“So it came about that when Amook again went forth, the cunning fox
lurked near, and, in the air above, the raven croaked hoarsely. Just
as the two had planned, Amook looked up at the sound and the fox slyly
slipped a bit of stone under the edge of the door to Amook’s house, and
when he shoved the door in place a small opening was left which he did
not see.
“Then, when Amook had gone, the raven flew down, and with his friend the
fox entered Amook’s home. After a long time they came to a great valley
and there, feeding on rich green moss, was a great herd of reindeer all
brown and with bushy tails. The fox and the raven were filled with wonder
at this sight of the strange creatures with the branching horns, and
the deer, who had never seen another living thing save Amook, were also
filled with wonder, and with fear as well, at sight of the fox and his
friend.
“But the raven with his flattery and the fox with his cunning soon
overcame the reindeer’s fears and talked with them. The deer knew nothing
of Amook’s spell, for they had never been changed to white; and the fox
and raven, finding the deer dull and stupid, began to tell them of the
wonders of the outside world. At last the simple deer were interested,
and longed to go forth and gladly followed the raven and the fox to the
opening in the rocks.
“One after the other they squeezed through and just as the last one had
come forth Amook came home. When he saw that the deer had escaped, he
rushed forward and with outstretched hands tried to push the deer back
into the hole. But the deer, pleased at the outside world, struck at him
with their feet and where Amook’s hands had touched their foreheads broad
white marks appeared, for Amook had been forth to turn all creatures
white for the coming winter and the charm was still upon his hands.
“Then Amook, running about, seized the deer by their tails and strove to
pull them into the hole. The deer struggled and tugged and all at once
their tails broke off in Amook’s hands and the magician, tumbling head
over heels, rolled into the opening beneath the stone.
“Then the deer pushed the bit of rock from beneath the stone door which
fell into place and shut Amook up forever. But as the deer’s leader
closed the rock door, one of the prongs of his antlers was caught between
the stones and in drawing it free it was bent and twisted in front of the
deer’s face.
“And so, to this day, every reindeer has a twisted part to his horns
before his face and a stubby tail, and where Amook grasped their tails
and touched their rumps and pushed on their foreheads, the white patches
still remain.”
“Bully!” cried Tom, quite forgetting the old woman did not understand
English, and then thanking her in her own tongue and telling her what a
fine story it was, the boys started to leave.
At that instant a tousled black head appeared in the entrance tunnel, a
broad face grinned up, and Unavik crawled into the igloo.
“H’lo!” he exclaimed in his invariable greeting. “Me feller see plenty
reindeer. Sure Mike, much plenty! Mebbe you like for shootum?”
“Would we!” yelled the two boys in unison. “Come on, Unavik. You bet we’d
like to shootum.”
Outside the igloo, Unavik’s sledge stood waiting. Stopping only to get
their guns the two boys piled on to the sledge, Unavik cracked his whip,
shouted to the shaggy dogs and they were off. Over the snow-clad land,
through the still, intensely cold air they sped, swinging along frozen
water courses, toiling up steep hills, dashing with dizzying speed down
the slopes for mile after mile. Then, with a low command, Unavik halted
his team, and signaling to the boys for caution, he unhitched his dogs
and led the way up a low knoll. Crouching on the snow beside the Eskimo,
Tom and Jim peered over the ridge. Below was a small swale or valley and
there, quietly feeding on the gray moss scraped free from snow with their
broad hoofs, was a herd of fully fifty big reindeer.
But they were far out of range; there was no cover by which the boys
could stalk them, and it seemed as if their trip would be fruitless. As
the boys, disappointed, drew back, Unavik was rapidly freeing his dogs
from their rawhide harness, and with a low word of command he led them to
the hill top and turned them loose.
With low growls the animals leaped forward and tore down the slope
towards the deer, yelping and barking, teeth bared and hair bristling.
Instantly, at sight of the dogs, the reindeer gathered together in
a close packed bunch, tails in center and threatening antlers in a
defensive ring. For a moment the dogs hesitated, and circled about,
uttering short savage snarls, but knowing well the deadly peril that
lurked in those sharp, lowered prongs and knife-edged hoofs. Then one big
husky, more courageous than his fellows, sprang forward with a yelp, and
the next second was tossed howling and bleeding for a dozen feet in the
air.
Unavik touched the boys’ arms and beckoned for them to follow. Down
the hill he led them, across the end of the little valley and up a
frozen mound of drifted snow. Intent on the dogs, the deer gave no heed
to the fur clad figures sneaking across the snow, if indeed they saw
them, and in a few moments the three were within a few hundred feet of
the herd. Taking careful aim at the two largest deer, the boys fired.
As the reports rang out across the frozen land, the reindeer threw up
their heads and, forgetting the dogs in their new terror, raced down
the valley leaving two of their number dead upon the trampled snow. Now
was the dogs’ chance, and yelping, snapping, barking, they raced after
the deer, nipping at their heels, biting savagely at their flanks like
the half-wolves they were. Now and then a deer would turn and strike
viciously with his big hoofs at his tormentors and presently the herd
again formed in a circle with lowered heads and menacing hoofs. Already
they had forgotten the gun shots in the face of this greater peril of the
wolfish dogs, and the boys once more raised their rifles to shoot.
“We don’t need more than one more,” whispered Jim. “You kill him, Tom.
Your gun’s better at that range.”
Once more, as the report roared out, a deer fell and the herd, now
thoroughly terrified, fled at top speed towards the east with the savage
dogs at their heels. The dogs followed only a short distance. There in
the valley were the fallen deer and the scent of blood and, snarling
and baying, they came tearing back and dashed ravenously upon the body
of the last deer killed. Before they could tear the skin or bury their
sharp white teeth in the carcass, Unavik was among them, lashing out with
his cruel whip, shouting shrill orders and striking cutting blows right
and left. Growling sullenly, the dogs drew back, crouching, whimpering,
cringing with tails between legs and ears laid back. Paying no heed to
the threatening bared teeth and updrawn lips, the Eskimo stepped among
them, rapidly secured the thongs about their necks together and then,
with a word to the boys, drove his huskies over the knoll before him.
In a few moments he was back with the sledge, and with the boys’ help the
deer’s body was lifted upon it and lashed securely in place. But one deer
was all the sled could carry, and Unavik told the boys they would have to
carry the first deer to the village and return with the sledge and more
dogs for the others.
“But won’t something eat them while we’re gone?” asked Tom.
“Sure Mike, mebbe,” replied the Eskimo who, proud of his fragmentary
English, never spoke to the boys in his own tongue if he could avoid it.
“Me say plenty wolf, plenty bear, mebbe eatum.”
“Hurrah!” cried Jim as a sudden idea came to him. “Say, Tom, we’ll stay
here and watch while Unavik goes to the village. Then if wolves or bears
come we can shoot them.”
“That’s a bully scheme,” agreed Tom. “Go ahead, Unavik, we’ll wait here.”
For a moment the Eskimo hesitated. He knew the boys had no idea as to
where they were and he was responsible for their safety. But the sky was
clear, there was no danger of a blizzard and as long as they remained
within sight of the dead deer there seemed no danger.
“A’right,” he agreed presently. “No try walk. You feller make get los’
die plenty quick, me say; sure Mike!”
“We’ll stay right here,” declared Tom. “No fear of our wandering off.”
Satisfied that the boys were all right, Unavik shouted to his dogs,
cracked his whip, shoved on the handles of his sled to start it, and the
next minute was speeding away towards the village.