After supper one night, my sister and I had been put to bed, but I was unable to sleep. I remember that I felt a sharp tingling in the air, like on those days in the summer when lines of fire reach down from the sky and touch the earth, and the booming sounds like that of shifting ice fill the air. There was a different smell in the igloo, too, like the stinging in the air after it rains. I grew fearful and was unable to sleep, but I dared not disturb my mother and father, who I could hear talking in hushed tones near the whale oil fire on the other side of the igloo. My father was sharpening the point of his harpoon. As I lay there, huddled under my caribou blankets, my childish imagination carried me away. And then, beneath the howling of the wind, I began to hear something else—a low, distant moaning sound, coming from outside. Just then, our dogs began to bark loudly.
Of course, my first thought was that the
inua angkuni
were about, moving invisibly from igloo to igloo, looking in on everyone and trying to decide who—if anyone—they would take with them next. Naked and shivering, I huddled beneath my warm caribou blankets, knowing that if the
inua angkuni
looked in on me and I saw them, I might never again be right in my mind.
Suddenly, a scream loud enough to be heard above the roaring wind and barking of the dogs filled the night. I sat up in bed and looked at my father, feeling only a small measure of relief when I saw that his eyes were wide with fear, too. I knew that he had heard the sound as well as I.
“Ootek,” he said simply, staring at my mother.
I remember how his wide, dark eyes glistened in the reflected light of our small fire. He laid his harpoon aside and made a move to put on his outside clothes, but my mother held him back by both arms and begged him not to go outside.
I remember the twisted torment I saw on my father’s face as he considered what he should do. If in fact his brother was outside and in danger, he of course must try to help him; but if the
inua angkuni
were nearby, to go outside meant that he, too, risked death . . . or worse.
After what seemed like a very long time, my father twisted out of my mother’s grasp, pulled on his thick snow pants, coat, boots, and mittens, and went outside. The wind had died down to a whisper, and the dogs stopped their barking the instant he went outside. After that, I could hear nothing else, not even the heavy tread of his boots in the snow. He was gone for what seemed like a very long time to me, and I began to cry softly to myself, thinking that maybe my father had joined his brother on the journey to the land of the dead. But some time later he returned. I will never forget the look I saw on his face when he told my mother what he had found.
“Yes, it was Ootek,” he said, shifting his gaze away from my mother as though he were afraid to look her in the eyes. “He has seen Paija, the Evil One.”
Well, my friend, it is time for our meal. I will tell you more of this after we have eaten.
Rev. Robert Crocker’s journal entry, July 14, 1964:
I
’ve been travelling with Ajut and his family for a little over three months, now, as they journey across the ice toward their summer hunting grounds. There is a stark beauty to the Arctic, but after days of unending daylight, when the nights are marked by nothing more than the sun’s grazing swing close to the western horizon, a mind-numbing monotony begins to set in. Here in these vast, endless stretches of ice, it amazes me that Ajut and his hunters seem to know at all times exactly where they are and where they are going. They seem to have an uncanny, some might say almost supernatural ability to navigate by an internal compass; either that, or else they see a remarkable diversity in this landscape which, to my civilized eyes, seems to be nothing but vast stretches of windblown snow and ice, and then more snow and ice.
We travel much of the day, and in the evenings, after talking with Ajut and other members of his tribe, I am busy transcribing the stories he tells me. I am particularly interested in the one he began to relate to me earlier today. When I expressed some skepticism, he repeated his promise to take me out across the ice and show me the remains of the burned wooden ship. As if that would prove his tale. I don’t see the connection, but he insists that the ship is no more than a two-day trip from where we are now. He has promised in the morning, that is when the red ball of the sun rebounds off the flat, western horizon, that we will go there, and I will see for myself the proof of his tale.
I wonder, though, if there really is a sailing ship nearby.
What could it possibly be?
Could there be a sailing ship, perhaps a whaler from more than a century ago that got ice bound? How could it have not been destroyed in all this time? Ajut is nearly seventy years old, and if, as he says, the ship was old back when he was eleven, it would have to be at least a century old. Why hasn’t it been crushed by the shifting ice or buried by snow, or destroyed long ago? It is a mystery to me, but much about these people, the land they live in, and their sense of the spiritual is mysterious. Perhaps I’ll know more when—and if—I get to see that ship the day after tomorrow.
Transcript of a conversation with Ajut, a member of the Inuit tribe.
Part Two:
I
n fact, my father’s brother, Ootek, had not seen Paija, the Evil One, but he had seen an
ino
, one of the “great ghosts,” as our people call them. From that night on, his mind was never right. He didn’t become shaman, as often happens when men of our tribe encounter one of the gods or spirits of the ice. Instead, he became only a little bit crazy, like a man of the People who has had too much too drink of the white man’s alcohol.
Sometime shortly after that night, Ootek told me about what he had seen that night on the ice. His wanderings had taken him far and wide on his solitary journeys. A great distance to the north of our summer village, he had discovered the place where a ghost lived within the hull of the ship from the south that had been cast up onto the ice. Ootek told me he once caught a glimpse of the
ino
there, lurking in the darkness inside the ruined ship, but he was fearful for his life and left as fast as he could. But the
ino
, being a spirit, could travel much faster across the ice than he could, and when Ootek arrived back at his igloo, which was near to ours, the
ino
was there, waiting for him.
He told me that the ghost stood at least eight feet tall, and had long, flowing black hair and wrinkled, gray skin. He described to me the
ino’s
skin, which he said was shriveled and cracked like that of a corpse that had been buried for a long time in the ice. But the worst thing about him, he said, what had let him know that this was truly a demon, were his eyes.
His eyes!
Huge and bulging, he said they were, and stained with a milky yellow glaze, like the yolk of a rotten egg. I joked with him, and said that his
ino’s
eyes must have looked like the snow where one has relieved himself, but when I asked if his
ino’s
name was “Piss Eyes,” Ootek didn’t laugh. He told me in a stern voice that I should show respect for the spirit world. He then told me that he had screamed because he had seen the demon moving in silence among the igloos of our people, looking for his next victim to claim. In my mind ever since that day, though, I have always thought of Ootek’s
ino
as “Piss Eyes.” He warned me that if I didn’t show more respect to the
inua angkuni
, they would come to claim me during the long, cold winter night. Perhaps, he said, the
ino
was looking for me that night! For a long time I was fearful of that happening, but—well, as you can see, I have lived a long time, now, and I have never in my life encountered “Piss Eyes.”
My friend, if we are going to make the journey to the old ship, we will be gone for five or six days. Let us pack our provisions and begin now that we are well rested.
Rev. Robert Crocker’s journal entry, July 17, 1964:
A
fter traveling across the ice for two days, now, I am absolutely exhausted; but before I rest, while Ajut builds a small, temporary igloo for the night, I must write down what we have found.
At least some element of Ajut’s and Ootek’s story is true. There is, in fact, an old sailing ship out here in the middle of nowhere on the ice. I am amazed that Ajut could find it so easily. It was as if he had followed a clearly marked trail directly to it. The ship looks like it had at one time been a grand, three-masted sailing ship. It might possibly have been a whaling ship, but, as Ajut told me, it has been nearly destroyed by fire except for a large portion of the hull, which is heeled over onto the frozen ground. Drifting snow and ice have all but covered the blackened hull, which stands out against the blinding whiteness of the land like a beached whale carcass.
Amazed as I was to see something like this, where the flat, snow-covered ground stretches to the horizon in all directions, I asked Ajut how far we were away from open water. He told me that it is still more than a two-day journey to the open sea, so I have no way of knowing how this ship got here. Perhaps we shall never know.
Exhausted as I was from our traveling, I set out to explore the derelict. Inside the fire-blackened hull, sheltered from the elements like the interior of a small cave, I found evidence that someone had indeed been living within this ruin some time in the past. After staring at the bright glare of sunlight on the snow for so long, it took a while for my eyesight to adjust to the darkness; but as I wandered about inside the ship, I found to my horror what were obviously human remains scattered about. Many of the bones had been stripped clean of flesh and broken lengthwise, apparently to remove the marrow. It was obvious, even to me, that this was not done by any scavenger. My first impression, as horrifying as it might be, was that the survivors of this shipwreck from some long-ago forgotten time had been trapped here and, in a vain attempt to survive, had resorted to the un-Godly practice of cannibalism.
The thought nauseates me even now as I write it.
I hurried out of the ship’s hull, back into the white glare of the snow, but I have vowed, tomorrow, after I have rested, that I will go back into the ship and try to discover the identity of those poor souls who were reduced to such a horrifying end, and tonight I will say a prayer for them.
Transcript of a conversation with Ajut, a member of the Inuit tribe.
Part Three:
A
s I told you yesterday, I have never seen “Piss Eyes” myself, but besides Ootek, who died more than twenty winters ago, there are several members of my tribe and other tribes who have reported seeing him, at least at a distance. Of course, the People believe that there are many spirits who wander out here on the ice, especially during the long winter night. It is only a fool who would want to get close enough to identify any of them.
There is a man named Kakumee in our tribe. He died many winters ago, too, but he told me one time that he had seen and actually spoken to “Piss Eyes.” I know this could not be true because if he had in fact seen and spoken to an
inua angkuni
, if he hadn’t died right there on the spot, he would have never again been in his right mind. No one can speak to one of them and live. But Kakumee used to tell us how, many years ago, when he had been traveling across the ice to a fishing hole, he had seen the dark figure of a man off in the distance. Because the
inua angkuni
seldom appear in broad daylight, Kakumee had guessed that this must indeed be a man, although he said the being stood at least eight feet tall. The man or spirit saw him, and as he approached, Kakumee saw beneath the being’s ice-fringed hood a face that was gray and wrinkled like that of a dead person. He also said that the spirit’s eyes—because as soon as he was up close and got a good look at him, he saw that he was no human being or even a white man—were glazed a bright, milky yellow.
As yellow as the eyes of “Piss Eyes”!
By gestures, Kakumee said the creature made it clear to him that he was hungry and would allow Kakumee to live if he shared his meager food with him. When a spirit demands anything of you, it is wise to give it to him. “Piss Eyes” appeared to be very thankful for the food, but then, Kakumee said, again by way of gestures because the language the spirit spoke was like nothing Kakumee had ever heard before, the spirit made him understand that he would kill Kakumee if he didn’t provide him with his sled and dogs.
Now, as you can no doubt guess, to be left out on the ice far from camp without any means of transportation is almost certain death, but Kakumee had no choice but to give “Piss Eyes” his sled and dogs. He almost died during the long trek back to the tribe, but he lived to tell his story many times around the lodge fire. Of course, maybe members of the tribe never believed him, and they thought that he had made up this story to hide the fact that he had lost an entire team and sled, nearly the entire measure of a man’s wealth out here on the ice.
Rev. Robert Crocker’s journal entry, July 18, 1964:
A
s tired as I was, I slept poorly last night. The wind howled around our makeshift igloo, whistling with a shrill whine that rose and fell in plaintive, hollow notes. I couldn’t help but think that it sounded like Ajut’s
inua angkuni
wailing in the icy desolation.