The reverend held up Finn's gift and shook it. “I do wish that he had come,” he said. “It's just a piece of old wood given to me by a teacher, but I think it would give him confidence, keeping his faith strong, whatever his persuasion might be. These things should be passed on.”
“I have been home too long and am growing fat,” said Phil. “I will take it to him. Topcock Creek. I know where that is.”
Phil took the small package from the reverend and tucked it into his pocket. Henriette wanted to ask if he would take it today, but Christmas dinner, red feathers riding on top of it like flags of distress, was carried in on a wooden platform and placed across two chairs.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the goose,” said Ellen quietly, standing behind the others.
People pressed to the edges of the table, child fingers poking out from between them. Seal in all its forms, and salmon. There were steam-heavy potatoes and more meat, and more meat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the reverend said, getting ready for his prayer.
“The goose,” whispered Ellen, again.
“When Joseph awoke the next morning tired and hungry and confused over the three answers he had gotten, three kings were poking their heads in the door.
“âThis couldn't be the place,' said one, but Joseph was on his feet and walking toward them before they had a chance to leave.
“âBeing a good son is being a good father,' he said. âHere's the baby. What makes you think this isn't the place?'
“That was Christmas Day,” said the reverend, “and when the three kings saw the baby they said: âThere are not three kings here, but four,' a comment that pleased Joseph quite a lot.
“Anyway, this is Christmas dinner, in celebration of all that. While we eat we should remember it, but not to the point of forgetting to enjoy the food. Amen.”
The reverend picked up a piece of fresh seal and slid it into his mouth. He brought forks and knives for Ellen and Henriette, but everyone else used their hands.
“Ah seal,” they said. “Your liver is gone but you are still here. Ah seal,” they said, “your heart is gone but you are still here. Ah seal, your body is gone but you are still here.” These were the prayers of the Eskimos; low voices, talking to the food between bites. “Ah seal, ah seal⦔
Phil put strips of the meat in a hide bag and hung the bag next to his body, next to Finn's boxed gift. He talked to his family, gesturing in the direction of Topcock Creek, then strode toward the door, slipping the ice skates under his jacket as he went. Another course, same as the first, had been brought in. People ate, and the reverend looked at Ellen. “To think,” he said, “we have done this with just two seals and with no bread at all.”
Phil closed the door on them, stepping warm-footed onto the trampled ground. He pulled the hood around his head and marched off. The Snake was a smooth path; he'd leave the dogs and be there faster. He got to the beach and could see the shining window of the reverend's house behind him. He walked with his head down, feeling the weight of the seal in his stomach, pretending not to notice the cold.
Inside the house the seal diminished. The reverend walked about the room talking to his parishioners, always knowing exactly where Henriette was standing. Ellen, upstairs, saw Phil go, watched his dark shape move across the window of the loft. He'd find Finn, bring him back safely. Finn, a man with a will like the tides as they flow under the ice, a pubman, a talker. Her father fell forward in her mind when she thought of Finn. She loved her father with all her heart but she'd not end up with one like him. Had she come to the furthest ends of the earth only to find Finn smiling like a neighbor, welcoming her from the ship? No, Finn, father had me years and years and that's enough. I'll not be passed from hand to hand.
Ellen turned away from the window, a smile on her face, a laugh for herself. Here's me talking as if he wanted me and turning him down. I am as a sister to the man and that's as it should be. Still, it's uncanny how he resembles father in his resolutions and his defeats. Father's Christmas speeches were nothing like the reverend's. More like something Finn would say. Yet Finn and father would come to blows if they were forced to spend ten minutes together. Politics and religion. Each would bloody his hands on the head of the other.
From the loft railing Ellen watched the reverend making his rounds. If his mother was French then his father must have been English. Here is a tender man, a gentle, harmless man. Him being a man of religion would be enough to hold her father at bay for a while at least. But religion would be his only weapon and he doesn't know how to use it.
Father'd have him sitting quietly in the corner of the parlor among darned stockings and women's talk. It'd be no match, after all. Ellen shook her head as if to get the thought away. And who I spend my life with will be my own business, she said, punching her voice back into her memory. Never mind who I choose and I'll not be bringing him home to boot, thank you very much. You've seen the last of me.
She turned and started down the ladder, backing into the voices of the Christmas party. Her father, bull-headed even about leaving her thoughts, stood in the parlor one hand each on the throat of Finn and of the reverend. She could see his thumbnails digging into their flesh, she could see them wriggling, trying to get away. “These two? Are these what you've brought back after such a long cast?” Finn and the reverend hung like trophies from her father's arms. Ellen turned to the room where the Eskimo women were full and joking. She took up a piece of meat quickly, like a change of subject.
Phil, at the river now, locked the skates to his feet the way the reverend had shown him, the way he'd done before. Sharp knives on his shoes, he always expected the skates to disappear into the ice when he stood up. Like a ship's keel, the skates would keep him up, letting him lean, but not letting him fall over.
Phil circled down toward the sound once, testing the strength of the leather straps that bound the skates to him. He could feel the soreness returning. The bay stretched vast in front of him, white-gray ice touching light-gray sky, nothing protruding. He had the gift sack tied around his neck and his hands clasped behind his back. He made a wide arc, watching his skate line in the ice, then started up the river toward Topcock Creek. Gray narrow path, trees frozen in tangled positions at the sides, logs rotting but hard as granite, sticking like cannons out of the bank. Thank the gods there was no wind.
A small part of Phil's face touched the weather, the hinge of his jaw was locked tight by the cold, cheeks were like leather. Left, right, he thought, keep your ankles stiff. Words to skate by. Rumor, truth, invention, discovery. Was his life better now or better before the gold was found? Nome has scarred the land like a wound the body. Who would want such a city? Left, right. The muscles in Phil's thighs were very tight, but he was making good time, moving quickly. The sound that the skates made on the ice was like that of a knife on the bone of a seal, the tusk of a walrus. He imagined his whole person as etching some picture on the face of the river, a message for the gods to see. Or for God, for these were the reverend's skates and would carry his message.
Rumor, truth, invention, discovery. Phil slid up the river to the beat of his heart. Left. Right. If he looked back now the bay would be gone. The path behind him would look like the path in front. On both sides of the river trees were scarce. Just grass and tundra moss and dead trunks all frozen and silent. Only the sound of the skates. Knife on bone. He passed a pile of shallow gold pans and a miner's shack. Deserted. The gold pans were stacked like coins on the river bank, like pie plates, and soon other claims began appearing along the sides of the river. All were deserted and all had their shallow pans stacked at the water's edge, the river their poker table. Left, right. Was this what would happen to his people? The Eskimos, forever scurrying around the edges of the game â¦
A man with a rifle stood near a larger claim, watching. No surprise on his face, only staring, gloved finger moving from stock to trigger just in case. Rumor. Truth. What does he think he is seeing? Why is he outside? Who does he expect? Larger claim placers projected into the river. Company man perhaps, hired for a share to do the guarding. Phil kept his hands behind his back to show he meant no harm. Just skating by. Invention. Discovery. Phil quickens his pace a little until he is around a corner where the man's eyes can't follow. There are a few more poker-chip sites, and then nothing again. From here on into the foothills the river coils, easing back to its source. Topcock Creek is at its tail, but its mouth bites gently down on the edge of the bay. The Snake, aptly named, slithers down from the hills.
The Christmas dinner was no longer heavy in Phil's stomach, and the sun was down, and everything was dark. He stopped the pumping motion of his legs and glided to the side of the river. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. Silence. With his knife Phil cut blocks of ice from the river and formed a small igloo at the side of the bank. He made no doorway, but stepped over the low walls of the igloo, carrying a block of ice with him, and sat down before lowering the block until it covered the hole he'd entered through. It was dark and warmer than on the outside. Phil took off his long sealskin coat and put it between himself and the ground. His legs still seemed to be pumping and he believed it would be difficult to sleep well. All night long he would dream of skating. Phil lay down on the clothing, wrapping himself in it. From the gift bag he took slices of seal. Tomorrow he would start early and arrive at Topcock Creek before resting again. Ah seal, he said, chewing slowly.
Birds, nocturnal snowy owls, swoop the silent highways, follow the river fifty feet above it, game eyes cocked darkly, white bodies invisible because it is night. Topcock Creek is their territory. All of their brethren have gone south, yet these two fly from Finn to Phil. They sometimes move like birds of the sea, coasting inches above the land, raising and lowering with the terrain. The swivel-headed owls fly, wing tips touching, wide human eyes looking down, heads sometimes turned to look at each other, faces blank, eyes inches apart, registering nothing. Finn and Kaneda saw them lift themselves into the air at dusk. Phil sleeps under them and they view his igloo suspiciously, something new, smooth-topped lodging for lemmings.
Phil awakes when the two owls land on his igloo but he doesn't make a sound. He can feel their weight and a sense of tension holds him just as their talons hold the ice. The owls listen. They stand facing each other at opposite sides of the top block, the one Phil had lowered in over himself. They are identical, white-feathered chests puffed, like the two sides of Nanoon's hut. They are three feet tall but not nearly as heavy as they were before winter. Phil feels their presence and knows they are hunters. What could it be this late in winter? Is it a bear or a wolf? He is afraid and he is afraid that they can smell his fear. Not a bear or a wolf, what is he thinking? Bears and wolves don't need silence. They would rummage, push against the ice. Phil has never seen an owl so late in winter and for a moment he can't consider them. What could it be? He imagines his fingers and lists on them all those he can think of who hunt creatures under the ice.
The igloo is filled with the smell of Christmas dinner and suddenly Phil knows that it is a man. Strips of seal. The odor is so strong that he feels he must move closer to his air hole to breathe. The air hole! Phil knows that if he reaches for the ice a harpoon will come into him and he will die, red-feathered. He thinks, If this hunter has exactly my skills I will die, for I know nothing about being a seal. His body aches. He has not moved since waking. Phil, swaying on his heels at the breathing hole of a seal, can wait for hours, harpoon cocked. How long can he wait as the hunted?
The two owls feel their talons melt deeply into the ice. They cannot grasp ice without waiting, for it is too hard for them to push into. The eyes of one watch the eyes of the other. No thoughts.
Phil, after hours, begins to feel for the first time that he will not die. Not hunters, perhaps. Sentries. He imagines that if he pushes the top block away he will see the reverend's three wise men looking in and saying, “This can't be the place.” His discomfort eases though he has not moved a muscle. He had forgotten the smell of the seal strips; indeed, it is as though he can breathe without using his lungs, as if he is floating in the swollen belly of the earth like a baby, birth bound. After hours of no sleep he feels rested. The reverend's skates still dig into his back but he has forgotten them. The reverend's wooden gift for Finn lies dead in its box, in the sack next to him.
As the darkness begins to fade the word comes to him out of nowhere. Owls. He sees them stiff as statues, standing above him. Owls. Phil, fearless now, moves about his small room. He kicks lightly at the top block and then pulls the skates out from behind him. His space is filled with shadows. Phil eats the last of the Christmas seal. He gets ready to continue his journey.
In the cold daylight the owls shake themselves. Their talons are secure enough to lift the heaviest of game. They feel betrayed by nature, hungry and tired of searching the ice-bleak land. Their broad wings beat the air slowly and the top block cracks loose from the igloo. Phil watches it go up and thinks of himself as a seal again. View of the outside world as the ice melts. When the owls have cleared the ground one of them releases the block and the weight of it lowers the other in the sky. They move off toward Topcock Creek, tired and slender as salmon.
Phil stands up, the skates already tied to his feet. The sides of the igloo come to his knees and he can see the owls in the distance, like scars on the belly of the sky, one above the other. When he steps back on the river Phil feels the soreness in his muscles as he did the day before. The sound of the skates seems wrong to him and he regains his rhythm by saying his words. Owls, he thinks. He would have been embarrassed had his family known that he'd first thought of wolves or bears.