Sitting in the sun outside the skin-house, old Eetah will tell you of
the time they lost a Spring on the Little Moon.
As in most other places, they only have one Spring a year there. But it
comes so late, and is so short, they love it even more than other folk.
When the sun comes back from the south, bringing the wildfowl with it;
when the ice melts a little on the long, long, gravel beaches; when the
moss turns green, and the saxifrage and stone-crop bud, then it is
Spring on the Little Moon, and everybody is glad.
But one winter, Ka-leet lent a harpoon to the angekok.
It was a lovely harpoon. The haft was walrus-ivory, cunningly fitted and
carved with hunting stories. The blade was hammered hoop iron from a
whale ship. “I’ll lend you this,” said Ka-leet, “till the Spring. Then
you must give it back to me. But you may use it till the Spring comes.”
The angekok went back to his snow house, and thought. He wanted to keep
that harpoon. So he went out and travelled south till he met the Spring.
He caught it and put it in a skin bag, and carried it home with him, and
hung it up in a dark corner of his snow house. The Spring went to sleep
in the bag, and no one on the Little Moon saw a sign of it; the birds
did not come back, nor the seal, nor the salmon. It was winter all the
time, and the people stayed in their snow houses and were sick for lack
of the sun.
“We will go south,” they said, “and find new places to hunt in, before
we die of hunger.” But the wicked angekok went out and called the Winter
down from the North. Out of the North came the Winter; it came in the
shape of a great bear, made of ice, cold, blue-green, glittering ice all
through. Only within its body a great, still heart, a heart that never
beat, shone like a frozen star. The Bear sat down between the Little
Moon and the south, and no one could pass that way.
All the men of the tribe gathered together, the strong hunters and the
wise old men; and they stood in a half-circle in front of the Bear, and
threw darts and harpoons, and great stones at him. But the weapons could
not pierce him, nor the stones hurt him.
Then the women came, and they gathered drift-wood, and precious sticks,
and spear-handles from this house and that; and they brought the biggest
soapstone cooking-lamps, and lighted them and lighted fires, to see if
they might melt the Bear. But the great Bear, that was the Winter, bent
his nose to the snow, and breathed once. All the flames went out, and
the ashes were covered with ice, and everyone ran away. They were
frightened. Even the angekok began to be frightened, for he could not
get rid of the Bear he had called. The people went back to their houses
and stayed there, very quiet, waiting to die. They were afraid, as they
had never been before. If a man crawled to the entrance of his igloo and
looked out, he saw only the Bear sitting in front of the village,
resting his nose on the snow. The starlight and the aurora shone on his
icy pelt, so that sometimes he was blue, sometimes rosy, and sometimes
golden as fire. But he was always there, so that presently no one even
bothered to go and look.
The only one who still went to look was Mit-kah, the little daughter of
Ka-leet.
Mit-kah was the littlest, brownest, merriest thing that ever lived
within thirty degrees of the Pole. She was not afraid of anything, and
she had many thoughts. Gentle thoughts flowered in her heart as thick as
stone-crop flowers in the sun. She used to crawl out of Ka-leet’s house
and look at the Bear; and then she would go and listen outside the magic
house, the angekok’s house, because she always heard music there. It was
the Spring, singing in its sleep in the skin bag, but no one else heard
it, not even the angekok. Then she would go away by herself, and think.
She thought a great deal about two things. She wondered why, if they
were all dying for want of the Spring, it was not possible to go and
borrow some Spring from someone else, as they had borrowed oil once from
the Big Moon people when their own stores failed. And she was sorry for
the Bear.
She thought he looked very cold and unhappy, sitting there with his nose
in the snow, so far away from his home. And one night, when she saw him,
all gray in the bitter starlight, she pulled her best hood out of the
bag she kept her clothes in, and crept out and went and put it on the
Bear to keep his ears warm.
It was a lovely hood, made of finest sealskin, with a long tail behind,
and worked in patterns of red and white feathers. It was quite a little
hood, but, somehow, it fitted the Bear; it must have stretched. Mit-kah
reached up and pulled it well over his stony, icy ears, and tied it
under his chin, all bearded with icicles. It froze on immediately, and
Mit-kah was a little sorry to think she’d never be able to get it off
again. But she thought the great Bear looked at her gratefully out of
his ice-eyes, and his still, glittering heart beat once.
“Well, his head is warmer,” said little Mit-kah, “but his poor feet must
be very cold.”
Day and night, the great Bear, that was the Winter, sat in front of the
village in the snow. And, at last, the thought of his cold toes worried
Mit-kah so, that she took a set of new dog-shoes her father had just
made, and crept out, and fitted them on the Bear.
The shoes were little, and the Bear was huge, but somehow they went on;
and he held up one foot after another, like a puppy, and little Mit-kah
tied the thongs about his frosty legs. This time, he turned his
terrible, gleaming head, and looked at her, and his frozen heart beat
twice, flaming like a star. And Mit-kah went away and sat behind the
angekok’s house, listening to the music; it was sweeter than ever, for
the Spring in the skin bag was dreaming in its sleep.
Then she thought that the Bear must be hungry, sitting there for no
reason at all, and never going away to catch fish; so she took her own
dinner of dried salmon and fish-oil, and put it in a bowl and offered it
to the Bear.
He ate it, every scrap, and Mit-kah watched him. She forgot her own
hunger, it was so wonderfully interesting to see the bits of fish going
down inside the Bear, who was, of course, transparent. When he had
finished it, his great heart beat three times, and he got up and shook
himself. Then he looked thoughtfully at Mit-kah, who was standing, just
a little speck, between his front dog-shoes.
“No one has ever done anything kind to me before,” said the great Bear,
who was the Winter, and his voice was like the clanging of
sledge-runners on ice, “nor even said anything kind. Why were you kind,
little Mit-kah?”
“I don’t know,” said Mit-kah, with her thumb in her mouth. It is wrong
to speak with your thumb in your mouth but she did not know any better.
“That’s the best sort of kindness,” said the Bear, very gently, “and the
least I can do in return, is to go away. But is there anything I can do
for you first?”
“You might tell me where the Spring is,” answered Mit-kah.
“Hanging up in a bag in your angekok’s house,” said the Bear. “Didn’t
you know?”
“No,” said Mit-kah, “I didn’t, and thank you very much for telling me.
I’ll just go straight away and let it out.” For she was not afraid of
anything.
“I’m afraid that won’t do,” replied the Bear, apologetically. “You see,
it’s so cold from my being about here so long, that if you let the
Spring out of the bag, it’ll just die.”
“Then couldn’t I go and borrow some elsewhere?”
“N—n—no, I’m afraid that won’t do, either.” The Bear shook his head,
regretfully. “You see, there’s never more than enough to go round, as it
is.”
“Then what am I to do?” asked Mit-kah, sadly.
“I don’t know, unless you could find something even warmer than the
Spring, to warm the bag before it wakes up. Look here, I don’t know much
about such things, but if you came home with me, the Old Woman could
tell you.”
“What Old Woman?”
The Bear looked surprised. “Why, the Old Sky Woman. She housekeeps for
the lot of us, you know—all the Weathers and the Seasons. If there’s
anything warmer than the Spring, she could tell you of it. Wonderful
things she has at home! But perhaps you would be afraid to come with
me?”
“Why should I be afraid?” said Mit-kah.
The Bear stretched his terrible head, and snuffed the air towards the
North Star. “Many fear me, but not all,” he said. “Come if you will,
little Mit-kah.”
Then he made himself all flat in the snow, and she climbed upon his
neck, and held on by the long tail of the hood. And the Bear got up, and
went swiftly away, northwards; very swiftly he ran, glisading over the
glittering snow, and wherever he went, there it became cold as death.
But little Mit-kah was quite warm.
When Ka-leet looked for her and could not find her, he went away from
the lamp, and lay in a corner, weeping. For he thought she had wandered
away and died. Nothing comforted him, not even when they told him that
the Bear was gone. And as yet the Spring did not come.
Meanwhile, Mit-kah and the Bear went north and north, so far that they
could go no farther, till they came to the place where the Bear lived,
and the igloo of the Old Sky Woman. Never had Mit-kah seen such a house;
it cricked her neck to look at the top of the entrance-tunnel, and as
for the living-place behind, it had neither top nor bottom, nor
beginning nor end. It was like a cloud. Here the Old Sky Woman sat over
a great cooking-pot and a clear fire; and about her the Stars and the
Weathers, the Winds and the Seasons, went in and out; but she sat still
and cooked.
The Bear, that was the Winter, went in to the fire, and lay down beside
it in his place. Then, for the first time, Mit-kah was frightened, and
looked, and did not know what she saw; and listened, and did not know
what she heard, only she knew that a hand came down sometimes and
stirred the stuff in the pot; and that across the fire a caribou buck
lifted his head and looked at her, and his eyes were softer than sleep,
and there were stars in his antlers. “That is the South-west Wind,” said
the Bear to her, softly. “He is the only one at home. He is kind. Don’t
be afraid.” But Mit-kah crouched low on the Bear’s neck and hid her
face.
Then the Old Sky Woman stooped her head from the cloudy roof of her
igloo, and asked what Mit-kah wanted. “Mother,” said the Bear, very
respectfully, “she wants to know if there is anything warmer than the
Spring. The Little Moon angekok has caught their Spring and hung it up
in a skin bag in his house, and there it sleeps. If it woke without
warmth, it will die in the cold. Is there anything warmer than the
Spring? I am Winter. I know nothing about such things.”
“Yes,” said the Old Sky Woman, “there is one thing warmer than Spring.
It is the fire under my cooking-pot. It is called Love, and you’ll find
it anywhere, but it’s hard to put your hand on sometimes.”
“I am Winter,” said the Bear, again, “I know nothing about Love. I have
only one gift, and that is Sleep. But will you give her some of your
fire, Mother?”
“Yes,” answered the Old Sky Woman, “she shall have some of my fire. But
she must carry it in her hands, and go away from here quickly, or it
will go out, and I can’t have it wasted.”
“Hold out your hands, Mit-kah,” said the Bear, softly, “you shall have
some of the fire that is warmer than Spring, and with it, you shall wake
the Spring. Hold out your hands, and do not fear, it will not burn you.”
Then Mit-kah held out her little brown hands, joined together, and the
Old Sky Woman took the great spoon with which she stirred in her pot,
and lifted in it a tiny ember from the fire, and laid it in Mit-kah’s
hands. It did not burn her. It shone in a clear flame between her curved
hands, and it was warm as sunlight, and sweet as willow-buds. Mit-kah
laughed with happiness, and was not afraid.
“Carry it like that,” said the Old Sky Woman, “or you will lose it. And
take it away quickly.”
Then the great Buck, who was the South-west Wind, rose and came round
the fire, and the stars in his antlers were like fish in a net. “You are
swift, Brother,” he said to the Bear, “but you are not so swift as I. I
will take Mit-kah home.” His voice was soft as running water when the
rivers break free, and Mit-kah looked into his eyes, and the flame of
Love that she carried in her hands was reflected in his eyes like two
more stars.
“Go with the Wind, little Mit-kah,” said the Bear, drowsily. “He is
swifter than I, but he does not love you so well. Do not forget me,
little Mit-kah.”
“I will not forget you,” said Mit-kah. She slid from the Bear’s neck,
and stood in front of him, gazing into his eyes. It was like gazing into
one of the blue pools that form in the ice on warm days; but far down in
them, the flame she carried was reflected. Then the Bear shut his eyes
lazily, and went to sleep by the fire. And the Old Sky Woman lifted
Mit-kah and set her on the back of the Caribou Buck, and he bore her out
of the igloo and southward over the snow.
Mit-kah, carrying the flame, had nothing to hold on by, but she did not
need anything. The Bear had been smooth and swift, but the great Buck
fled like a cloud, and his antlers caught new stars from the sky as a
net catches fish. With him, went the sound of rain and the melting of
waters and the rushing wings of birds. And so they came to the Little
Moon.
The Buck knelt down and made himself all small, and Mit-kah slid from
his neck and stood before him, and thanked him prettily, but he did not
pay much attention to her, though his eyes were so soft and kind. Before
she had finished, he had risen and snuffed the air and stamped the earth
with his forefoot; then he fled away, moving like a cloud under the
stars, and which went with him and which stayed in the sky, Mit-kah
could not tell. She went soberly down to her village, carrying the fire.
She stood in the midst of the dark snow-houses and called aloud to her
people. One by one they answered her, and came crawling out. Ka-leet was
the first, and he ran to Mit-kah, and would have taken her in his arms,
but he saw the fire in her little brown hands, and was afraid. “Are you
Mit-kah?” he said, “or are you a ghost?” “Are you dead, or have you come
back to die with us?”
“I am not dead,” said Mit-kah, “I have come back to wake the Spring for
you.”
Then, the flame as still as a flower in her hands, she went to the house
of the angekok, all the people following her. She crawled into the
house, the people following her, Ka-leet the first. When the angekok saw
her come in, carrying the small, bright flame, he fell on his face. But
Mit-kah paid no attention to him. For out of the bag on the wall came a
single clear, sweet note, like the mating call of a bird.
“That is the Spring waking!” cried Mit-kah.
She stood under the skin bag, where the angekok had kept the Spring, and
raised the flame towards it. And the flame left her hands and floated
upwards, and enclosed the skin bag in a tender light, a warmth and a
shining. Then the bag opened, and out of it came the waking Spring.
What was it like? I don’t know. Light, and swiftness, and joy, leaves,
wings, and little stars—the memory of all these, and the hope of all
that are to come, Mit-kah let loose from the bag. Outside, the sun came
back from the south like a swan; the ice melted, the salmon leaped in
the rivers, the moss greened, and a thousand tiny flowers opened under
the rocks. The people all ran out to look, but Ka-leet stayed behind in
the angekok’s house, holding his little daughter in his arms.
In all hearts, also, the winter was past. And the angekok got up and put
a good face on it and returned the harpoon.