she said. "And I no longer care."
"Yonder _Nalagssartoq_ (he who waits and listens) bends to hear thy
reply." Ootah pointed to Venus, the brightest of the stars--to the
Eskimos an old man who waits by a blow-hole in the heavenly icefloes
and listens for the breathing of seals. "Thou wilt come to Ootah, who
loves thee? Answer, Annadoah! Ootah listens."
He soothed her little hands. A wondrous light burned in his eyes.
Every fibre of his being yearned for her. But Annadoah's hands were
cold, her eyes were sullenly turned away. In her heart a vague fear of
him, a resentment of his very love, stirred.
"My shadow yearns to the south," she repeated pathetically. "I shall
wait. Perhaps he will come as he said when the spring hunting sings."
In her heart she feared that he would not.
Ootah in utter anguish dropped her hands. Annadoah sadly turned away.
Falling to his knees on the ice, he covered his face with his arms.
The sound of his heartbroken sobbing was drowned in the funereal chant
of the women as, in a long procession, they passed near him on their
way to the shore.
When he raised his head, the rim of the moon, a great quarter-disc of
silver, peeped above the horizon. A mystical melancholy light flooded
the gloriously gleaming desolate white world. The ice floes glistened
as with the dust of diamonds. The ice covered faces of the
promontories glowed with the sheen of burnished metal. The clouds
became tremulous masses of argent phosphorescence. Far away the
women's chants subsided. One by one they joined the men in their
grotesque dances in the distant igloos. Ootah was left alone.
He gazed long upon the pearly lamp of heaven. The subtle sorrow of
this world of magical moonlight filled his soul. Then the hopelessness
and tragedy of all it symbolized were unfolded to him, and, extending
his arms in a vague wild sympathy, in a vague wild despair, he moaned:
"Desolate and lonely moon! Oh, desolate and unhappy moon! . . .
Desolate and unhappy is the heart of Ootah!"
Far away, in her shelter, Annadoah heard the sobbing voice of Ootah.
And nearer, in an igloo where the men beat drums and danced, she heard
the voice of Maisanguaq laughing evilly. Of late Maisanguaq had gibed
her with her desertion; he was bitter toward her. But nothing mattered
to Annadoah. She thought of the blond man in the south, and the
pleading of Ootah. As she heard his weeping, she shook her head sadly.
She beat her breast and muttered over and over again:
"Do the gulls that freeze to death in winter fly in springtime?"
V
"_What they heard was, to them all, the Voice of the Great
Unknown, . . . He who made the world, created the Eternal Maiden
Sukh-eh-nukh, and placed all the stars in the skies . . . Whose voice,
far, far away, itself comes as the faintly remembered music of long
bygone dreams preceding birth . . . And now, out of the blue-black
sky, great globes of swimming liquid fire floated constantly, and
dispersing into feathery flakes of opal light, melted softly . . ._"
Ootah began work on an igloo for Annadoah. None of the tribesmen had
offered to do this for her, and, as only the men develop the
architectural skill required to construct a snow shelter, Annadoah,
until Ootah's return, was forced to continue to live in her seal-skin
tent, where she suffered bitterly from the cold. His back aching,
scarcely pausing to rest, Ootah constructed an icy dome of more than
usual solidity. This completed, he went many miles, through the
darkness, to the south, where, in the shelter of certain rocks, he knew
there was much soft moss. Digging through the frozen blanket of ice he
secured a quantity, and returning, made with it a soft bed for Annadoah
over a tier of stones. This he covered in turn with the soft skin of
caribou. Inside the immaculate house of snow he fashioned an interior
tent of heavy skins to retain the heat of the oil lamps. Of his own
supplies of blubber and walrus meat, which he had secretly buried early
in the hunting season and which had thus escaped the rapacity of the
white men, he gave more than half to Annadoah. He fixed her lamps with
oil, and arranged them solicitously in positions where they would give
most heat. He placed supplies in the house, and buried the rest
outside so that Annadoah might readily reach them. Meanwhile Annadoah
sat alone in her tent, her sad face buried in her hands, "her shadow
yearning toward the south." Many of the tribe, emerging from their
igloos, had paused to taunt Ootah at his labors.
"A-ha--a-ha!" they laughed. "Thinkest thou that Annadoah will let thee
share her igloo when the snow closes in?" They laughed again. Ootah
seriously shook his head.
"I would that Annadoah be protected from the storm," he said simply.
"A-ha--ha! No man buildeth a house wherein he may not have shelter; no
man layeth a bed of soft moss whereon he doth not expect to lie. Idiot
Ootah, as well mayest thou expect the willows to sprout in the long
night--Annadoah thinketh naught of thee. Why seekest thou not a
sensible maiden?"
"He hath given Annadoah half of his meat and fuel," the women murmured
complainingly among themselves.
"He hath given her his skins; he hath thieved upon himself."
"Why hath he not taken another to wife? Verily men are few; women are
many. And all gaze favorably upon Ootah."
"Yea, his arm is strong."
"There is courage in his heart."
"He feareth not the night."
"He should press his face upon the face of one who is fair; his wife
should bear children."
When Annadoah passed from her tent into her new home the women scolded
her bitterly. The men goodnaturedly jeered Ootah. Annadoah huddled
near Ootah and gazed gratefully into his eyes. In the thought that he
was there to protect her the heart of Ootah pulsed with joy.
Annadoah's heart was cold. Annadoah sat inside the new little house of
snow, the oil lights flickering fitfully. In the dancing shadows
Annadoah saw the semblance of the form of the blond chief. Joylessly
Ootah built his own home.
And in their houses, in celebration of the fall of night, the natives
continued their grotesque dances. Beating membrane drums, and singing
jerky chants, they danced frenziedly, forcing a false hilarity. They
felt the overwhelming approach of the dread spectre of famine. In
their dances some sobbed, others passed into uncontrollable hysteria.
Ootah alone did not indulge in the fierce ceremonies. His own igloo
built, day after day, night after night, he sat alone. His heart ached
with the unrequited and eternal desire of all the loveless and lonely
things of the world. Outside, the moon increased in fulness and soared
in a low circle about the sky. The dogs crouched low on the ground,
howling dismally.
During the first days of the long night the natives held a series of
dog fights inside the snow and stone houses. Ordinarily Ootah would
have attended these, for a dog fight is of keenest interest to a
tribesman, and the Eskimos' most exciting form of sport.
To a hunter with healthy blood in his veins the dog encounter affords
the same thrills as other men, in more southern lands, find in bull
fights, horse racing, card playing and other games of chance. Two
lovers, both desirous of a maiden, may hold a fight between their king
dogs, each hoping that success may determine the girl's favor. Pieces
of blubber, animal skins, ivory carvings and less valuable objects are
often bet by the contestants and the onlookers.
By all logical assumptions, one might naturally suppose that the
Eskimos--whose night is many months long--through many dark and
rigorous ages, would have developed into a taciturn and moody people,
just as the denizens of sunny climes are joyful, effervescent and
pleasure loving. However, this is not so. Troublous as is their
existence, they preserve until old age that playful joy of life, that
carefree ignoring of danger, which we find in our children--which,
alas, we lose too soon. Each day brings to them its novel delights; in
their monotonous foods they find a constant variety of pleasure; in
their simple games of muscle-tapping, throwing of carved ivories, and
fighting of dogs they experience the exultant and exuberant fun of our
schoolboys. Constant experience with jeopardous tasks has eliminated
the human fear of danger, and even death, in its most tragic shapes, by
long association has lost its terrors. When the long night falls, and
an ominous depression makes heavy the heart of the lover or fills with
anxiety the heart of the father, they turn, with a delightful
spontaneity, to play.
Now great interest was aroused by the news that Papik was to fight his
king dog with the magnificent brute owned by Attalaq. Both Papik and
Attalaq were paying evident attentions to Ahningnetty, the chubby and
ever smiling maiden, who, while she showed a certain leaning toward
Papik, had misgivings as to his eligibility as a husband because of his
long fingers.
Born of noted fighters, a dog attains the position of "king" or chief
dog of a team by whipping all the dogs in the team of his particular
master. When he has asserted his supremacy over the dogs of his own
team, he is successively set before the rulers of other teams. And by
a process of elimination of those which lose, the two final victors in
a village are finally aligned against one another.
In the series of fights held between the king dogs of the various
teams, both Papik's and Attalaq's had come off with final honors. The
immediate contest between the two most distinguished canines in the
village was an event of exciting importance, and to the women there was
a romantic zest in it, for all believed that victory would determine
Ahningnetty's favor.
At the time of the event all who could do so crowded into Attalaq's
stone house. In the centre of a tense group of onlookers the two dogs
were placed before each other. They were handsome animals, with long
keen noses, denoting an aristocracy of canine birth, and long shaggy
coats, mottled brown and white, as soft as silk. A long line of
victories lay to the credit of each.
A sharp howl announced the fight--the two lithe bodies leaped
together--the air within the little circle became electric. The dogs
snapped, tumbled over each other. Their sharp teeth sank into each
other's shanks. The natives cheered whenever a favorite secured an
advantage. Bets were made. Papik's eyes gleamed as he alternately
watched his dog and the face of Ahningnetty as she peered interestedly
over the onlookers' shoulders. Attalaq's countenance was grim--not a
muscle moved.
Finally Attalaq's dog, with a chagrined growl, unexpectedly rushed from
the enclosure and crouched in a corner of the igloo.
The natives effusively gathered about Papik, who bent over his dog with
proud affection. In the excitement Ahningnetty quickly left the igloo,
and standing outside gazed meditatively at the stars. They hung in the
sky above like great pendulous jewels, palpitant with interior
name--there were purple stars, and blue stars, and orange-colored
stars; some resembled monstrous amethysts, some emeralds fierily green,
some rubies spitting sparks vindictively red; others globular sheeny
pearls, creamy of lustre but shot with faint gleams of rose; and
fugitively sprinkling the firmament here and there were orbs that
glistened like diamonds, wonderfully and purely white. Saturn,
distinct among all the heavenly bodies, throbbed with a van-colored
changing glow like a bulbous opal, and about it, with a strange
shimmer, visibly swirled its iridescent rings.
"Thou standest alone--thou wouldst leave me?" Papik, eager,
triumphant, questioning, emerged from the stone entrance to the house
and approached the girl. The other natives, homeward bent, followed.
The girl was silent.
"Methought thou wouldst be glad----"
"Thy dog is strong," the girl replied.
"Dost thou love that dotard Attalaq?"
"No," the maid replied. "He is clumsy as the musk ox."
They turned, walking toward the igloo occupied by Ahningnetty and her
aged father.
"Wilt thou not be Papik's wife?" Papik pleaded. "My shelter is
cold--little meat have I. The white men robbed the tribe. But
perchance the bears come--then I shall kill them; valiant is my dog."
He patted the animal's shaggy head.
"But thy fingers, Papik--Papik! No--no!"
"But Papik loves thee," he protested; "his skin flushes with the
thought of thee."
"That thou didst also say to Annadoah, whom thou didst seek before me."
Papik was silent; it was true that Ahningnetty was only a second choice.
At that moment an ominous noise was heard on the sea. The tide, in
moving, caused the massive floe-ice to grate against that adhering to
the shore. To the simple natives, the noise indicated something more
sinister.
"Hearest that?" Ahningnetty asked.
"Yea," replied Papik, "_Qulutaligssuaq_, the monster who lives in the
sea, cometh with his hammers."
"He cometh to steal the children. In winter he is very hungry."
"They say he frightens people to death when a baby which is fatherless
screams."
"And after he heats his ladles, the babies often die."
Again the grating noise shuddered along the shore, and Ahningnetty,
frightened, fled to her house. Papik, pursuing his way, accosted Ootah.
As they were speaking they saw Otaq and his wife emerge from their
house. Between them they carried a small stark body. The woman was
weeping piteously. It was their child, which a brief while before had
died. The sea monster had again claimed its human toll.
Papik and Ootah disappeared--Papik to his shelter, Ootah to Annadoah's
igloo. The parents, left alone, dug up stones and ice and buried the
child. Then beneath the stars they stood in silent grief. Other
natives, emerging from their houses and seeing them, understood and
disappeared, for while relatives weep over their dead none dare disturb
their mourning. For five days, in commemoration of the death, the
parents would visit the grave of their child, During this time no
native dare cross the path leading from their igloo to the silent
resting place, and while they stood beneath the stars all alien to
their sorrow must remain within their houses. Only the Great Spirit,
who lives beyond the golden veils of the boreal lights, may hear the
sobbing of a stricken human creature over the thing of which it has
been bereft.
In the course of ten sleeps--as days are called--the first moon of the
long night sank below the horizon and the colorful stars fierily
glittered over a world of black silence. The cold increased to an
intolerable bitterness. Ootah, venturing from his igloo to dig up
walrus meat, found the earth frozen so solid that it split his steel
axe.
It was not long before many white mounds appeared beneath the liquid
stars. The old and the very young, unable to endure the rigorous cold
and dearth of food, passed into the mysterious unknown of which the
long dark of earth is only the portal. After the passing of the first
moon the storms came; the sky blackened; the winds voiced the desolate
woe of millions of aerial creatures. Terrific snow storms kept the
tribe within their shelters for days. Often the winds tore away the
membrane windows of their snow houses, and blasts of frigid cold
dissipated the precious warmth within. In the lee of circular walls of
ice, right at the immediate entrance of the houses, the natives kept
their dogs. Inside they had only room for the mother dogs, which at
this period brought into being litters of beautiful little puppies with
which the Eskimo children played. Outside, scores of splendid animals,
which could not be sheltered, were frozen to death in great drifts.
These, during the following days, were dug out and used as food both
for men and the living animals.
During a quiet period between storms, Ootah, venturing from his
shelter, heard a shuffling noise near his igloo. In the northern sky a
creamy light palpitated, and in one of the quick flares he saw a bear
nosing about the village. He called his dogs and they soon surrounded
the animal. Fortunately the incandescent light of the aurora
increased--now and then a ribbon of light, palpitant with every color
of the rainbow, was flung across the sky. Ootah lifted his harpoon
lance--the sky was momentarily flooded with light--he struck. In the
next flare he saw the bear lying on the ice--his lance had pierced the
brute's heart. Attracted by the barking of Ootah's dogs, several
tribesmen soon joined him in dressing the animal. During their task,
one suddenly beckoned silence, and whispered softly:
"The Voice . . . the Voice . . ." And they paused.
A weird whistling sound sang eerily through the skies. The air,
electrified, seemed to snap and crackle. It was the voice that comes
with the aurora.
The knives fell from the natives' hands. The howling of the hungry
dogs was stilled. In hushed awe, in reverence, with vague wondering,
they listened. Ootah was on his knees. An inspired light transfigured
his face. His pulses thrilled. For what they heard was, to them all,
the Voice of the Great Unknown, He whose power is greater than that of
_Perdlugssuaq_, He who made the world, created the Eternal Maiden
_Sukh-eh-nukh_, and placed all the stars in the skies, who, never
coming Himself earthward, instead sends in the aurora His spirits with
messages of hope and encouragement to men, and Whose Voice sometimes,
far, far away, itself comes as the faintly remembered music of long
by-gone dreams preceding birth . . . Yea, it was the Voice . . . the
Voice . . .
And now, out of the black-blue sky, as if released from invisible
hands, great globes of swimming liquid fire floated constantly, and
dispersing into millions of feathery flakes of opal light, melted
softly . . . Along the lower heavens there was a fugitive flickering
of a rich creamy light, as of the reflection of celestial fires far
beyond the horizon.
Speechless, Ootah viewed the flameous wonder, and, although he knew no
prayer, he felt in his soul an instinctive love, a profound awe . . .
In the silent sanctity of that auroral-shot and frigidly glorious
region he seemed to feel the pulsing of an Unseen Presence--a presence
of which he was a part, of which, with a glow, he felt the soul of her
he loved was a part, to which all nature, everything that lives and
breathes, was vitally linked . . . He felt the drawing urge, the
thrilling tingling impetus, as it were, of the terrific currents of
vital spirit force that sweep vastly through the universe, keeping the
earth and all the planets in their orbits . . . He felt, what possibly
the primitive and pure of heart feel most keenly . . . the presence of
the Great Unknown, He who is the fountain source of love, and whose
hands on the sable parchment of the northern skies perchance write, in
irid traceries of fire, mystic messages of hope which none, of all
humanity, during all the centuries, has ever learned entirely to
understand.
Not until the wonder lights were fading did the tribesmen take up the
precious bear meat, and according to Ootah's instructions divide
portions among the community. His arm full of meat, Ootah joyously
entered Annadoah's igloo.
Annadoah, sad and lonely, sat by her lamp. Her igloo was like that of
all the others. Inside, so as to retain the heat and carry off the
water which dripped from the melting dome of snow, there was an
interior tent of seal skin. In a great pan of soapstone was a line of
moss, which absorbed the walrus fat, and served as a wick for the lamp.
This emitted a line of thin, reddish blue flame. Over the light, and
supported by a framework, was a large soapstone pot in which bits of
walrus meat were simmering. By the side of the pot a large piece of
walrus blubber hung over a rod. In the heat of the lamp this slowly
exuded a thick oil which, falling into the pan below and saturating the
moss wick, gave a constant and steady supply of fuel.
Like the other women, Annadoah sat by her lamp day after day. When she
could endure hunger no longer she would eat ravenously of the meagre
food in the pot. Regular meals are unknown in the arctic--a native
abstains from food as long as he can in days of famine, but when he
eats he eats unstintedly.
As Ootah entered the low enclosure Annadoah's eyes lighted.
Ootah told her of the bear encounter, and, with the joy of children,
they placed bits of the meat in the pot and sat by, delightedly
inhaling the odor as it cooked.
Several days later, while they were eating the last remainder of the
meat, both heard an uproar outside. They crept from the igloo and
discovered most of the village assembled without.
"Attalaq hath carried off Ahningnetty," one told them.
"He broke into her father's house and seized her with violence!"
Not far away they heard Ahningnetty's screams.
"Attalaq is strong," said one.
"Yea, as a boy did he not kill his brother?" All remembered the brutal
encounter of the two brothers years before, when, throwing him to the
ground, Attalaq jumped on his brother's body and striking his head with
stones beat him to death. Attalaq was a type of the older warriors;
unlike his more gentle tribesmen he possessed the atavistic savagery of
his forebears of centuries ago when it was customary to abduct brides.
An excited crowd gathered outside of Attalaq's house. Soon Attalaq
himself appeared. He was exultant.
"Ha! Ha!" he laughed. "Methinks that is the way to treat a woman!"
Then with swollen-up gusto he told them all about it. Tiring of being
alone he determined to carry off Ahningnetty. "A woman's mind is as
the wind--it constantly changeth," he said. "Women should be driven as
the dogs." Ahningnetty, still weeping, still protesting, came to the
door. Attalaq turned fiercely upon her and struck her in the face.
Then he laughed again. The girl screamed.
"Well," he said, turning to her. "I carried thee here--if thou wouldst
return thou canst walk back. Eh?" The girl cowered away, but on her
face there was the semblance of a pleased expression. The other women
regarded her with a tinge of envy.
"'Tis not often in these days a lover careth sufficiently to carry a
maid away," said an aged crone.
"In the days of old there were men like Attalaq," said a younger woman,
admiringly.
"Where is Papik?" one asked. He was not to be seen.
"Dost thou not wish to return to thy father?" Annadoah asked
Ahningnetty, approaching her.
The girl shook her head. Much as she had protested, she was
unquestionably pleased by the forcible abduction.
One of the gossips, desiring to impart the unpleasant news to Papik,
had gone to his house.
"Papik sits alone," she called, on her return. "And when I told him
Ahningnetty hath been carried away by Attalaq, he replied, ''Tis well!
'Tis well!' And then he showed me his hands--they were frozen--frozen!
Verily, he would now be a sorry husband to provide for a wife."
"Papik's fingers frozen!" took up the others. "Unhappy Papik."
"He sobs and weeps--he sobs and weeps," said the old woman. "He saith
the dreaded misfortune hath come, and the days of his skill on the hunt
are over!"
"Long fingers, short hunt; long nose--short life," remarked Maisanguaq,
sententiously.
Attalaq, happy in his conquest, was broad enough to be generous. He
declared that Papik should never want as long as he could shoot the
arrow. Generous-hearted, many of the others joined in and bits of
blubber were soon offered the lonely Papik, as he sat, nursing his
frozen members, in his house. The mishap was tragic, for, his hands
injured, he had lost not only his skill in the hunt but his ability to
protect himself in case of accidents. And from the experience of ages
all knew that, sooner or later, he was doomed to a comparatively early
death.
During the first period of the night, and after Ootah's first capture,
several prowling bears were shot. The howl of occasional wolves was
heard in the mountains; then all the bears disappeared, the hunger of
the wolves was stilled.
When the third moon rose not a thing stirred outside the igloos. A
glacial silence gripped the northern world. In their shelters the
natives clustered together, warming one another with their breathing
and the heat of their bodies. They lacked the courage even to speak.