Читать книгу An Intimate Wilderness - Norman Hallendy - Страница 22

HUNGER, FEAR, AND MAGIC

On a bright, beautiful day in mid-July, a group of us set out for Sarko (Shaqu), a small island just off the tip of Itiliardjuk. Sarko lies about three hours east of Cape Dorset by boat. The island, mistakenly called Alariaq Island, is rather featureless with its bare rock, a few rain ponds, and some very old inuksuit placed on a low ridge near the gap between the island and Itiliardjuk. When you see the gap at dusk or when mist rises from the sea, the inuksuit standing on the ridge appear as dark, shrouded figures. The landscape is both gloomy and forbidding.

Yet the Sarko area provides a favoured location for hunting ring seal, bearded seal, occasionally walrus, and beluga whales off its rocky shores. Despite the powerful current at the gap, the occasional caribou swims across it to browse the lichen that grow in abundance between the rocks on the island.

No caribou were on the island when we went there on a summertime trip. And no rabbits or wildfowl were to be seen that late in the summer. The weather had become sullen by the time we landed. We set up our camp, had a small meal of bannock, some caribou that we had brought with us, and tea.

Itulu Itidlouie and I left the others and went out to have a look at the weather conditions. Itulu was definitely a person you would want by your side during a challenging trip. He was skilled in all aspects of living on the land. He and his brother Udjualuk were remarkably strong. I was told that on one occasion when loading a canoe, Itulu, losing patience, brushed aside two fellows trying to load a fifty-gallon drum of gasoline. He seized the drum of gas, pushed it down into the water, and, upon its rebound, heaved it into the boat. Itulu was a rather serious man whose sensitive side only came out when he sang songs and played his guitar.

On this occasion, I looked to Itulu for guidance. The sea was becoming rough as the wind from the northwest began bearing down on us. During the night the wind had gathered so much strength that we had to haul the canoe further up onto the shore and secure it with rope tied to the boulders. We placed more than the usual amount of rocks around the base of the tent, which billowed in and out from time to time as if it were gasping for breath in the rising storm.

The storm assaulted us relentlessly for three days. Though the wind had ceased its howling, the sea continued to be too dangerous for travel. We had little to eat with only a few fish heads and some rock-hard pilot biscuits. On the fourth day, we boiled the remaining fish heads, drank the broth, and ate everything — and I mean everything — except the few remaining bones.

It was then Itulu determined that we had to go out on the water regardless of how rough it was to hunt for food on nearby islands. I had no choice but to accompany him. The thought of going out on the rough sea in a twenty-two-foot canoe powered by a fitful 25 horsepower outboard, frightened the hell out of me. We struck out toward the islands in Andrew Gordon Bay. It was a terrifying trip. Each time the bow of the canoe rose and then smashed down, I feared the force would split open the vessel. A tragic event a few years before was fresh in my mind. Hunters returning to Cape Dorset with a load of walrus had got caught in similar weather conditions. Pounding waves cracked their canoe, and they drowned. One whose body has not been recovered to this day is said to be walking the hills that rise from the sea where he vanished.

Soaked to our skins by sea spray, we arrived at a small island. Carefully securing the canoe, we headed inland. I can remember seeing several walrus skulls and numerous other bones sticking up from the moss. There were no signs of shelters or caches having been built in the area. As we approached a low ridge, Itulu motioned me to lie down. About thirty metres in front was a scrawny looking caribou pawing away at lichens. Itulu handed me the rifle, but I refused to take it. He took careful aim and the caribou fell like a stone. We approached it gingerly, and I remember the look in the caribou’s eyes. Rather than celebrating the kill, Itulu carefully observed the dying animal, then put it out of its misery by thrusting his knife where the spine connects to the skull. He looked about, picked up a small stone, and began to tap the caribou’s body while listening to the sound his tapping made. Finally, he bent down and near the caribou’s head said in a voice just above a whisper, ”I’m sorry.” Itulu explained to me that the caribou was sick and could not be eaten. So it was back in the canoe and out to sea to another island.

We came upon the second island a short time later. I was beginning to suffer spasms of shivering and dull pain from the cold. We landed, went ashore, and within a short time saw a caribou feeding in the distance. This time Itulu made no offer of the rifle. He took careful aim and brought the caribou down with a single shot. Approaching it carefully, we could see that the animal was in its prime. We jumped up and down like kids in a playground, hugging each other and laughing.

I helped Itulu remove the caribou’s hide, which caused a thin veil of vapour to rise. We slipped our hands inside the caribou and felt life flowing back into our hands that were numb with cold. Without a word to each other, we took out our knives and cut a piece of meat that tasted warm and sweet. At that moment, with warm blood on my hands and in my mouth, I realized I had just experienced an event that would have been part of the daily life of my earliest ancestors who hunted from the Carpathian Mountains to the shores of the Black Sea.

Itulu’s sharp voice shattered those thoughts. “Move the canoe!” he shouted. The tide was quickly receding, which could leave us stranded on this island until the following day. The canoe was loaded and, though the sea had hardly calmed, I felt secure in Itulu’s company. Upon reaching Sarko, we were greeted with much enthusiasm, as was to be expected. The caribou was divided among the other three families. We filled our bellies with fresh caribou and fat. Itulu went on to crack bones as southerners would crack walnuts at Christmas, scooping out the nourishing and sweet- tasting marrow. That evening, we snuggled beneath our sleeping robes warm and content, and when I looked upward, I discovered a marvellous thing.

While we were gone, Leetia had taken those few discarded fishbones and performed a wonderful transformation. Using only the fishbones, she had fashioned a bumblebee, butterfly, gull, and murre, and with a few remnants, had also made a little mosquito. These she had hung from the ceiling of the tent on threads. As darkness fell, our small naphtha lamp provided them with shadows that flew silently about our tent like dreams.

The “aunt” who wanted to adopt me as long as I looked after her for the rest of her life