Those Who Dwell Below Read online

  We do not believe. We fear.

  Aua

  This book is dedicated to Alannah, nerd‑lakaujaq and maqi‑ears. Ain.

  Contents

  1. The Storyteller

  2. Tagaaq

  3. Nightmares

  4. Mentor

  5. Messenger

  6. Gathering

  7. Journey

  8. Origin

  9. Nuvuk

  10. Ikuma

  11. Ukpik

  12. Preparation

  13. Ice

  14. The Women Below

  15. Nagliktaujuq

  16. Return

  17. Darkness

  18. Quiet

  19. Nanuq

  20. Home Again

  Glossary

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Each block of snow was cut with excellent precision. With sweat dripping from their brows, the men of the village sliced their sharp knives through the hard snow with patience, with meticulousness, until they had built an iglu. Then another. And two more. All large enough for an average family to live in comfortably. Finally, they began to build a qaggiq, an iglu large enough to encompass all the people of the village. They connected the sturdy blocks of snow together, fastening them to four igluit used as a base.

  Slowly, the snow house was built. The men took turns, some cutting the blocks, some stacking them upon the other blocks. Women came and brought them water and freshly caught fish to eat when they needed a break. Children knew to stay outside, away from the working men, afraid they might distract them—or worse, they might be asked to help.

  As the last of the blocks was being set up, a young man entered the almost‑finished qaggiq, holding an ivory snow knife in hand. He gripped it firmly, as if it were a part of his own body. Across the chest of his caribou‑skin parka was a large necklace with the bones of a fox displayed, the skull as its centrepiece. He wore an easy‑going smile on his lips, but behind his eyes there was an untold story. A story he would tell tonight.

  The men in the qaggiq stopped their work and greeted the young man. “Piturniirngai,” they said. “Hello, Piturniq.”

  “Ai,” he said, not quite used to the sign of respect that greeting implied from men older and more experienced than he.

  They moved out of the way and watched the young man cut out several blocks on his own. He moved them to the centre of the qaggiq and looked up. The top of the qaggiq was much too high for him to reach. The young man scratched his head and looked at the men who surrounded him.

  He smiled, embarrassed. “I need some help.”

  Another man, not much older than him, offered, “You can stand on my back.”

  The young man hesitated. He was wary of this man, Ijiraq, but he soon accepted the offer. As the soon‑to‑be new leader and shaman of the village, he knew he had to put aside his differences. Ijiraq crouched down on all fours, and Piturniq balanced on his back. Piturniq’s brother Natsivaq passed him the blocks of snow, and one by one, the iglu came closer to completion.

  Once he secured the last block and cut out a space for the air and heat to escape, Piturniq jumped from Ijiraq’s back and helped him stand. “Qujannamiik,” he said. “Thank you, Ijiraq.”

  Ijiraq raised his eyebrows to acknowledge Pitu’s thanks and left without another word. As the last of the men began to leave, giving one last admiring look at their hard work, Pitu was left alone with Natsivaq.

  “Well, you were nice to him,” Natsivaq observed.

  “It was hard,” Pitu admitted, “but he’s been nothing but kind since I came back. It would be foolish for me to keep ignoring him.”

  “Let’s go take a nap,” Natsivaq suggested. “You’ll need your energy for tonight, little brother.”

  They left the qaggiq. Natsivaq went to his family and ate some frozen seal liver before he lay down on the polar bear–hide bedding. Piturniq went to his own iglu, only big enough for himself. He lit the lamp by rubbing stone and flint, sparking the seal blubber to life. Removing his parka, Piturniq lay on the softness of the caribou hide he used as bedding. Interspersed upon his bed were the pelts of foxes, which he’d trapped in order to make his connection to his tuurngaq, his spiritual companion, stronger.

  As he shut his eyes, Piturniq did not see the familiar fox shape of Tiri, his ever‑present spirit guide, but only the beauty of the girl he had lost. He knew that all that was separating them was the snow walls of their igluit, and the eyes of the people in the village, and the arms of her husband, Ijiraq.

  He tried to sleep, but found he was not tired.

  The qaggiq was dimly lit. The people of the village all sat against the walls on benches made of snow. The space in the middle was left wide and open, welcoming to anyone who may have a story to share or a game to play. For once, the children were silent, sitting in the laps of their parents, aunts, uncles, siblings, or grandparents. The whole village watched quietly as their shaman walked into the iglu.

  In the centre of the qaggiq stood Piturniq, clutching a large drum in his hands. He’d caught the caribou himself, harvested it without help. He had prepared and stretched the skin, fashioned it upon the drum frame he’d made from the flexible baleen of a bowhead whale. He’d made a katuut, a drum beater, from the bone of the caribou’s leg, wrapping it in a bit of fur to cushion his hand and to make the sound as it struck the drum more pleasant.

  Piturniq had never told a story at a celebration before, and to do so as a shaman during Qaggiq, the most joyous gathering of all, was another responsibility altogether. Qaggiq was more than just the giant iglu they were in; it was the name of the celebration itself, the gathering itself. It was the anticipation of the approaching spring, the end of the dark winter. Pitu took a deep breath. He’d only ever seen one other shaman speak about his own tale prior to this. Nerves spread throughout his body. His stomach ached.

  “I found myself lost on the ice,” he began, quietly, nervously. “My dog team disappeared, and the only tools I had were a harpoon and my beloved snow knife.”

  The crowd chuckled slightly at his loving words about the knife.

  “I knew I was far from home,” he continued, “but I heard the cry of a woman, so I went to her to see if I could help her, or if she could help me.”

  The onlookers were silent.

  “I saw the woman, far away, with two others.” His voice grew stronger the longer he spoke. “And I ran toward them, happy that I did not have to travel too long to find help . . . but these were not women.”

  The women of the crowd gasped, while the men looked confused.

  “As they revealed themselves to me, I saw their scaly skin, their hollow cheeks and sharp teeth,” he said. “Qallupilluit, searching for new children to prey on!”

  Children buried themselves into the embrace of their loved ones.

  “Once they saw me, they attacked!” Pitu continued. “They slashed into my parka with their sharp nails, and we f
ought until I killed the leader. The others fled into the field of ice. I left the body of the qallupilluq to the wilds of the spirit world.”

  The crowd whooped and clapped, but they didn’t know the most terrible part of the story. He neglected to talk about the tiny boy he’d found, blue and frozen in the qallupilluq’s amauti, or the little girl he’d found in there, too, in the midst of transformation from human to creature. He fought back the pain he remembered. He fought the memory of the girl refusing his help.

  “But as I left the qallupilluq behind, I did not know that a monstrous black wolf stalked me,” Pitu continued shakily. “For days, the wolf followed me with its pack, until finally they caught me, and we fought. They were made of darkness and shadows, but I fought them off.

  “I was so tired, and I was suffering from deep scratches left by the wolves. Yet I was no closer to the end of my journey. Only a short while later, another visitor came. A lonesome giant, desperate to find a companion. Her name was Inukpak, and she stole me away to her camp in the mountains of the spirit world, where she had caribou, wolves, and polar bears as pets. She was adding me to her collection.

  “It was only a matter of time before those dark wolves found me again. Inukpak left the camp to search for more food for her animals, and the wolves surrounded the camp and took me away.” Pitu lowered his sealskin boot and lifted the leg of his pants to show an ugly black scar left by the wolf’s jaws.

  “I don’t know how long or how far away they carried me. After one last fight against the wolves, they left me to die. But again, my journey was not yet over. I thought I had died, but I awoke in a tent with an elder named Taktuq, a shaman of great power and little patience. He healed me, and then he taught me the ways of the shamans and spirits. We worked together until there was little else to learn. Then we started the journey home.

  “But still, those wolves stalked me. We could not simply leave the sanctuary of our camp, which was protected from the spirits. Taktuq called upon a guide, the spirits that run across our dark winter skies. The northern lights. We ran across stretches of land so massive it was almost incomprehensible. Still, the wolves caught up to us, and our fight with them was bloody and painful.

  “We were saved by the giant. Inukpak came to our aid, with her polar bears coming to fight the wolves. The northern lights and I kept running, until finally we reached the place where the whole journey had begun. The crack in the ice where I had met the qallupilluit.”

  Pitu coughed, his mouth dry from speaking and the memory of all that had happened. Still he refrained from telling all the details. They did not need to know that the wolf had been Taktuq’s tuurngaq, or that he didn’t know whether Inukpak had survived. He did not tell them about his father’s spirit being among those who run in the sky. He felt these details were his to keep.

  “The qallupilluit had been waiting for my return,” Pitu said. “But I had learned a lot over the time I spent in the spirit world, and I had grown stronger. The qallupilluit fought until the large black wolf caught up. They worked together, and yet again, I thought that I was going to die.

  “But my journey did not end there. No.” Pitu looked down to his feet, remembering what Taktuq had done next to ensure Pitu’s survival. “Taktuq, my great friend, fought the wolf alone. He sacrificed himself so that I could return. He killed the wolf, and in turn, the wolf killed him.”

  As he ended his story, Pitu began his drumming. Steadily he struck the baleen frame of his drum. In a circle, he danced in imitation of a caribou. The crowd watched in silence, mesmerized by his performance. A woman, Pitu’s mother, chanted the words of a song she’d made for him—not one of darkness or turmoil, but a song of light. As she sang, the sun rose a sliver above the horizon for the first time since it had last set at the long‑ago arrival of winter. A hunter burst into the iglu just as the song and drumming ended, calling excitedly, “The sun has returned!”

  The villagers left the qaggiq in haste, wanting to catch a glimpse of the sun. It barely peeked over the edge of the horizon, but it was there, filling them with hope. Pitu gazed at the light, feeling it burn a line across his sight. He felt a hand playfully swipe across his arm in passing, and he blinked toward the person who’d touched him. It was Saima, a sheepish grin across her face that didn’t melt away the hint of sadness within her eyes. He only knew because his own eyes reflected the same sadness. He smiled back at her and turned his gaze back to the sun.

  It was the first sunrise in months, and with it came the hope for a plentiful season of health and happiness.

  Pitu entered his mentor’s iglu, finding the elder sitting with his legs stretched out before him. The elder was alone, his wife gone to fetch water or visit her grandchildren. Tagaaq carved a shape into soapstone with a shard of bone. He looked up as Pitu entered and gave him a toothy grin.

  It was hard to believe how much Tagaaq had aged in the time since Pitu was found and returned from the spirit world. His hair had begun to fall out, and the strands that remained were whiter than the snow. The wrinkles on his face had deepened, and the elder never seemed able to catch his breath anymore.

  “Ullaakkut,” Tagaaq said. “Good morning, Piturniq. Come, sit down.”

  “Ullaakkut,” Pitu replied. He took his seat next to Tagaaq on the bedding. Remembering the carving Tagaaq had made for him months ago—a stone hunter just big enough to fit in the palm of his hand—he asked, “What are you making?”

  “Something for my wife to remember me by,” Tagaaq answered, his regular humour leaving his voice, replaced with serious reflection. “I fear I don’t have much longer on this earth. My mother’s spirit has faded, and her strength no longer flows through me.”

  Pitu felt the heaviness of Tagaaq’s words. The spirit of Tagaaq’s mother had watched over the camp for decades, but as Pitu grew stronger as a shaman, she was no longer needed. A part of him couldn’t help but feel somewhat guilty, though he knew that her spirit wouldn’t have been able to look after them forever. Pitu did not reply to Tagaaq.

  Pitu’s silence was no worry to the elder. He resumed his carving and continued to talk, returning to his normal self. “You were quite good last night, you know?” Tagaaq said. “With your story, jumping at the children to be scary. And your drumming is quite amazing.”

  “Thank you,” Pitu said.

  “You really remind me of Taktuq when I first met him,” Tagaaq added. “He was nervous, too, when he was younger, but his people loved him.”

  “Hopefully I don’t follow Taktuq’s path.”

  “Yes, yes,” Tagaaq said, blowing hard to remove carving dust from the figure. He held it up for Pitu to see. “What do you think? Does it look like me?”

  The carving was oval‑shaped and depicted a man’s face. A straight line made the mouth of the figure, and two more lines made the eyes. Two indented holes made the nostrils, and framing the whole face were lines to make up the texture of a fur‑lined hood. Despite the simplicity of the design, it was a remarkable likeness of the old man.

  “It does,” Pitu said.

  “I would suggest a walk to the lake close by for a lesson, but I am feeling weak today,” Tagaaq said. The elder stretched his arms and back. Pitu could hear his joints cracking. “How are you feeling today, Piturniq?”

  Pitu shrugged. Every lesson started off with this question, and Pitu had great trouble trying to answer it accurately. He still mourned for Taktuq, even thou
gh he knew that his reluctant friend was in a happier place, running in the sky. Pitu was still upset about losing Saima to another man. Then there were the other things to think of—his mother’s health, his sister’s maturity that would soon lead to marriage, and, most perplexing of all, his little brother’s drastic change from a rowdy child to a boy wanting to take on more responsibility. Finally, Pitu answered, “I’m feeling tired.”

  “You have a lot on your mind, young shaman,” Tagaaq said. “Your absence changed things in our community.”

  “Was I gone for so long?” Pitu asked. “It felt like ages when I was on the other side, but time moves differently in the spirit world. I didn’t think I’d lose so many things . . . so many people . . . while I was gone.”

  It wasn’t just the loss of Taktuq and Saima. His little brother, Atiq, had lost his childhood, having had to take on more responsibility in anticipation of losing Pitu again. His little sister, Arnaapik, was getting closer and closer to marriage and caring for a family of her own. Among his friends, Pitu felt alone, his youth lost. Now he held great power and status in the village. No one wanted to interact with him, afraid to become the audience of the spirits, to experience the supernatural world.

  Pitu could remember the fear of the spirits he had felt before he became a shaman. It was nothing compared to the constant fear he had now, but it had seemed all‑encompassing before. Throughout his childhood, Pitu’s parents and older siblings often told him of all the respect he needed to have for the spirits, to avoid angering them. This was ingrained into each child as they grew.

  Day‑to‑day life in the harsh reality of the world was a precarious thing, subject to the whims of those who cannot be seen. If one failed to pay respect to the spirits, there would be backlash: starvation, bad weather, illness, death. He couldn’t blame the villagers for their avoidance; he’d have done the same thing. There was an infinitesimal separation between the world of humans and the world of spirits, and often they intricately overlapped.