Section 1 — Section 2 — Section 3

When the Toonijuk awoke she pushed aside the ice-plug and crawled from the cramped den. She stretched, glanced carefully about for enemy or prey, then checked her wounds. The bleeding, she discovered, had stopped, and even the gashes felt smaller in size. Soon they would close entirely. The Healer-Spirit worked great magic and worked it quickly. No other Northland dwellers were as blessed. Why should this be, she had one time asked the Shaman. But even he did not know.

The Toonijuk now turned her mind to an important decision: should she continue northward, on the Frozen Sea? Or make the long walk back south and return to the land?

She missed the land. Missed the rocky shores and high cliffs and towering glaciers. Missed the Great Cave, just as she missed the Toonijuk who once dwelled there. She could at least sleep in the cave, maybe long-sleep. Better than in an ice-den!

The land called her home. So what reasons did this one have for staying on the Frozen Sea? She’d hoped to find large game, but without the white coverings for camouflage, the Toonijuk would have trouble stalking even the dumbest seal. Needed a good, long spear, but now this youth-fool did not even have the tusk or cutting tool!

So, the Toonijuk asked herself: did any other reasons exist for staying on the Frozen Sea, with its treacherous ice and the prowling Bear?

She meditated deeply for an answer but could only think of one.

Something that had started her on this long walkabout. An idea that had first made her hope-filled. But after much walking and walking, and seeing nothing but ice and snow and snow and ice, this one’s hope had faded as light from winter’s sky, making her sadder and sadder.

The hope was that she might find, out here on the floes, other Toonijuk Clans. Like the Orca Clan, who had lived southways, along the coast, and the Loon Clan, who had made their home near the ice fields. This Toonijuk had journeyed to both their grounds, hoping to gain acceptance, but had found not so much as a sign of Toonijuk. Had these worthy people also been slaughtered like hers? Or had they fled across the ice? Fled from the most terrible of enemies?

But if Toonijuk were out here, then why has she found neither scat nor scent? Might find such things, she knew, after much travel. But without food, how could a lone Quoo hope to survive long on the Frozen Sea?

Karunk! What should this one do? She needed the wisdom of a Ka-Tornqua and the advice of the Elder-Council to make such a decision.

But before she made it, before she went either north or south, there was something she needed to do. For herself…

…and the Clan.

By following her old scent and the lay of ice, she soon arrived at the narrow lead where she had encountered the bear, who had since departed, of course. A wanderer seldom stayed in one place; by now he was probably many walks away.

Gone too was the seal carcass, a bloody spot where it had lain. But what of the…

The Toonijuk went over to the camouflage-mound, seeing what she had feared. The bear had discovered her walrus-skin pouch, and, either out of hunger or rage had shredded and partially devoured it. Its contents, at least, were intact, if scattered. Right away she found her necklace, and wondered if the bear had noticed it was made from the claws of one of his fellows. She put it on then hunted about until she found the cut of narwhal tusk she used for a fish-spear, and the wristlet woven from musk ox hair, adorned with a piece of ivory carved in the image of Gundrun, the Wayfarer, without which the Guide-Spirits wouldn’t help her.

But search as she did, the Toonijuk couldn’t find the one object she most desperately sought.

She stomped in frustration. Cried. Chewed her thumb.

Felt a tingle on her neck.

And, for no reason that could be thought, she suddenly followed a straight line some paces to a body-deep crevasse. There, at the bottom, its black squiggly markings clearly visible, lay the tusk.

Retrieving it, the Toonijuk thanked the Spirits.

However, though she looked and looked, she was unable to find the cutting-tool! Remembering she had left it on the carcass, the Toonijuk reckoned it had fallen into the lead and now was deep in the waters, forever beyond reach.

Karunk! she thought. How was she supposed to cut meat? Assuming, that was, she even found meat to cut?

The loss of the cutting-tool eased her big decision. Nevertheless, she gazed northward at white and gray and more unbroken white. Stretching for walks and walks.

A wind kicked up, brushing a spectral flurry of snow across the icescape. It seemed to speak her True Name, beckoning for her to continue the trek across the Frozen Sea.

But her Spirit-of-Shell cried for land’s return. And hadn’t she been elder-taught to listen to this voice always? So, tusk in one hand, fish-spear in the other, the last surviving daughter of the Walrus Clan headed south. Headed home.

As north, so south.

Journey-way with life-threat every few steps. Many times did the Toonijuk dodge the Bear, though none, praise Gundrun, came as close as the hunt-kill Raven-thief had!

The greatest danger, of course, as she had been taught and now experience-learned, was the ice itself, always moving and cracking open. She kept her eyes to the stars to keep her direction-sense and often stopped, waiting for wide leads to freeze over. Normally, she might try to swim across, but without the pouch, her hands were too full, and, what’s more, she was too tired. Every time she lay down, she found herself not wanting to get back up.

Once, during such a resting, she nearly got caught in an ice-breaking. Only through sense of water and vibration did she manage to flee the ice before it cracked and erupted beneath her feet. And there were squalls, with winds strong enough to knock even the largest Elder down. But the squalls never caught this one off guard. Ears pricked before she even saw one approach. Toonijuk danger-sense was good.

But as she sheltered in an ice-den from yet another storm, she thought upon this danger-sense. Where was it on that day? The day she could not forget. A warm sunny day with the smell of fish in the air. A smell that grew stronger as her people, bringing skins and narwhal tusks, had come down from the hills, this one small enough to still ride her father’s back. No fear or caution had they shown, no weapons had they carried, no danger had any felt…

Except for her.

It had been as though a chill breeze had run up her back. And everything had suddenly seemed wrong. Looking down at the square-edged “wood” dwellings on the rocky shore below, this Toonijuk had not seen what should have been seen. The ones who lived there. Playing, working. There was only a weird stillness. A lifelessness. All wrong.

The Shaman had told her to never ignore such feelings, and she had promptly told her father and the others, getting them to stop. But her father had thought she might have been ill-at-ease because, a few days before, the Shaman had dreamed of the Raven chasing the Wolf, a bad omen. The ancient one had promptly traveled to the Sacred Place high in the ice fields to speak with the Ghosts. Learn the vision-meaning. He had not yet returned, but this was nothing unusual as a Dream-Quest might take well over a season.

So when someone had finally emerged from a dwelling of “wood,” walking over to the round Naked-make storage-holds where the fish was kept and waving to the Toonijuk on the hill above, her father had ruffled this ones hair, saying, “See, our sweet-pearl. Show no fear-concern. We soon have fine fish for trade!”

And, feeling a youth-fool, she had gone with the others down the hillside, the one by the storage-holds waving them closer and closer. Not until they were almost there had she seen that he was a stranger, with a scarred face and missing teeth. That much she had seen before he ran from the fish.

This one remembered the sounds that followed.

A crack!, like the breaking of ice, only louder and sharper. A red stain had appeared on her brother’s chest as he fell. Then another crack! and the same had happened to her uncle. Then more crack!, crack!, crack!, followed by screaming and screaming and dying and running, mother shouting her name…

The Toonijuk huddled tight in the ice den, while snow piled at its mouth and buried her toes. She tried to think of happier moments, like the Clan gatherings or her time hunting with the Tornqua, but memory of that day was like a nightmare from which she couldn’t awake. And in her mind-eye, she also saw the Shaman, lying as she’d found him, at the foot of a glacier, his Spirit long departed from shell, which had blackish wounds in chest and head. Wounds made by what had killed the others. What this one knew as death-spears, which killed without touching, by Naked-magic.

They had stripped the Shaman of coverings and totems, and judging from the tracks she had seen, chased him far. But the Shaman had led his pursuers uphill, far away from the Clan Grounds. This Toonijuk did not understand why, at first, because the Shaman would have been safe among Tornqua. But when she had later thought about it, she realized the Shaman had made a vain attempt to lead the killers from the grounds, just as the Jaeger lures the Fox from her nest.

And when the Toonijuk realized this, she had bit her hand and scratched her face and then run, run, until she was in the farthest chamber of the Great Cave, where she had sat huddled for days and days and days.

Just as she sat huddled now, humming, gently rocking, waiting for the storm to pass, trying to remember the way her mother and father and brothers and the old Shaman and all her other Clan-Mates had looked in life, but seeing in the flurries only blood, death…

…and monsters.

The trek southward seemed to be lasting longer than the walk north had, and the Toonijuk began to think she had lost her bearings. But she was traveling as elder-taught, by keeping the star-image of Gundrun in sight at all times, the star marking the tip of his club always to her right. Seemed the hump of the land should soon appear on the south-horizon.

Her hunger had flared, and so did her frustration after many a seal-stalking failed to end in a kill. She grew tired easily and became dizzy frequently. Many times did she stop to rest and rub feet, made sore by walking over rubble and needle ice. Sometimes, when facing difficult weather or ice, it was all she could do to walk a few paces. The urge to lie down and sleep and sleep grew increasingly inviting.

Good things happened, though. The Healer-Spirit sealed her wounds, ridding the Toonijuk of all pain. And the twilight returned, the sky changing from black to violet, meaning the sun was coming, and with it, the warm season! The thought made her happy for during the summer there was fishing and bird-snaring and games and the Ritual of the Walrus, down on the shore, and the Gathering of Clan.

But then the Toonijuk remembered that none of these things would ever be again, and the darkness returned to her Spirit. So she thought only of the journey, each step of which now required her full attention and effort anyway.

After wearing herself out by crossing a tricky mat of shifting floes, the Quoo snow-walker stopped to rest in the shadow of an embedded ice-island a walk away. It was as wide as some of the small islands off the coast of the land, and its steep ridges rose to nearly the height of the rock wall overlooking her Clan Grounds. It offered plenty of room for game to hide. The Toonijuk was thinking she might explore it when a breeze delivered an odor to her nose. A fishy odor. She followed it.

It led her some paces to a large, deep hole. And sure enough, beside the hole was a fish. A big gray fish. The Shark! Half-eaten up to the head, but still with plenty of flesh left for this one, and while it was bitter, it was still flesh. She pounced on the carcass, using her nails, teeth, and the walrus tusk, nails, and teeth to cut off a few strips, which she greedily devoured.

She finished with a loud belch and went back to cutting up more shark. Whose kill was this? she wondered. For the Shark lived deep in the waters, and even the Bear would have trouble…

She sniffed hard, now detecting odors that had been masked by shark, and crept to the slushy hole. Such a big hole, in thick ice. Too big to have been made by the Bear or anyone else, except…

She studied the snow around the hole, seeing what she had been too careless to see before.

Paw prints.

Not the Wolf. The Clan-Friend never wandered so far onto the Frozen Sea. Only one could have made these prints, and with them, she was sure to find…

Yes.

Farther from the hole was another set of prints. They were shaped much like Toonijuk footprints or the Bear’s hind paw, only smaller, with no toe or claw marks. And on their insides were many tiny holes that no Northland dweller would ever leave behind.

Here also was another scent. A little sweeter than ermine musk. Salty.

When the Toonijuk smelled this, she shrieked. Drew back.

Trembling, her heart stopping, she heard a squish, squish.

Loud footfalls on the ice. Too loud for the Bear.

She looked to the ice-island and saw a figure standing near its rim. On two legs, like a Toonijuk, but shorter. Slighter. Wearing coverings as red as blood.

It was the Naked. Killer of her family and Clan.

It stood there, looking at the Toonijuk, and the Toonijuk stood there, unmoving except for the shaking of hands and knees. Hearing the slow thump, thump of her heart and the whimpering of the frightened Mitt.

The Naked removed a small object from its shoulder, putting it to its face. The Toonijuk recognized this thing, a magic-piece used for sighting. The Naked continued to stare at her, its shell flashing with excitement.

And in the Toonijuk’s head her people screamed and fell and died while the Naked came out from behind rocks.

Then a voice, sounding like father’s, yelled, “Run!”

So the Toonijuk snatched the tusk from where it lay and ran. Once-weak legs carried her falcon-swift over the ice, bounding ridges. When she looked back, she saw the Naked running toward the ice-island, holding another object against its mouth. It moved awkwardly, stumbling to knees, giving the Toonijuk time to escape.

She realized that in her haste she had left the fish-spear behind but dared not return for it. For this Naked might be fetching a death-spear (!), which could take life over a great distance. And the Naked was never solitary. Where there was one there would be others.

She hurdled a crack and raced another few walks, finally seeking cover and her breath behind a snow bank. When she again looked back, the Naked was gone.

The Toonijuk moved swiftly thereafter, with an eye always looking behind her, doing everything elder-taught to pursuit-evade: back-walking, water-crossing, looping. She thanked the Spirits for winds that erased her prints. After a time, she felt a little safer for she saw or sensed no Naked in pursuit. But this was not reason to lower guard-sense, she knew, for though the Naked possessed not Toonijuk strength, speed, or tracking-sense, they used a powerful magic! Magic that allowed them to kill without touching and move floats without paddling. They could even move ice-sleds without the strange Naked-wolf to pull them. This one had seen such an ice-sled once. It had made a noise like the growl of the Bear.

She had also heard tell of the giant, stiff-winged birds that carried the Naked in their bellies. The Shaman himself had seen them land on the ice, and he had spoken about it with the Ka-Tornqua in the Council Chamber, while this one had pressed herself against the entrance, listening in as she shouldn’t have been. She’d heard the Shaman urge caution-sense against those commanding such demons. And he had reminded the Ka-Tornqua of the once-conflict between the Naked and the People, a conflict that had ended with the Toonijuk being driven to the Northland.

But the Ka-Tornqua had said to the Shaman, “This Toonijuk gives full ear to the words spoken by the most elder-wise and revered among the Walrus Clan, but the conflict of which you speak did happen in the many ages before you and I had breathed our first air. Such ill-differences be long forgotten now, and the Naked who share our land have since become as a Clan-friend to the People. We need show no fear of them.”

Hearing sense in the great Ka-Tornqua’s words, this daughter had agreed, and long thought, until that day when the Toonijuk had come down from the hills for fish-for-trade. When Clan-friendship had shown itself a Raven-deceit!

She wondered if the Naked had wandered the Frozen Sea searching for the last of the Walrus Clan. It occurred to her that the enemy might also be waiting for her on the land. But she would hide in the Great Cave, whose location no Naked knew. Hide, hide, in the grounds of her people. The Naked would never find her.

The quick pace grew wearying. When the Toonijuk was absolutely sure no Naked came in pursuit, she denned for a short sleep. And when she awoke she saw the sun peaking over the south-horizon.

Day’s return she would most times welcome. But the sun was as a friend to the Naked, who saw better in its light. The sun, too, brought warmth to the Northland, receding the ice. Not having the strength or will for a long swim, the Toonijuk knew she must reach the land quickly. But she still had walks and walks to go, leads to cross, the Bear to dodge.

And so the Toonijuk traveled on, while the sun rose higher and higher, until she had to lower membranes to protect her eyes from the white-glare. She crossed a vast plane then hunted alongside a perilous crevasse for an ice-bridge. After finding one, she carefully stepped across like the stealthy Fox and met her next obstacle: a steep ridge. She climbed, climbed, the effort robbing her of strength, and when she reached the top, she sat, rested, blotted sweat from her forehead and looked to see…

Distant black humps on the white.

The land!

The Toonijuk whooped in delight, skated down the other side of the ridge, and moving at a slow run, headed home.

After some time, she began to make out blue-gray cliffs and snowy plateaus. Couldn’t yet see the fiord leading to the Walrus Clan Ground and the Great Cave, but it would be there. Some things never went away.

The Toonijuk faltered, asking herself what joy was in a home-return with no family or Clan to return to?

But then she heard, somewhere in the distance, a huff! The Walrus, breaking for air. A good omen for one of her Clan. Spirit-lifted, the Toonijuk continued on, the land appearing close enough to touch but still many walks away.

She heard a low rumble.

The ice? She checked about for cracking but saw nothing. Coming from the land, perhaps? An avalanche?

But the rumble continued to grow louder. To the Toonijuk’s ears, it sounded much like the stampede of the Musk Ox. But they didn’t venture on the ice. And besides, as she listened better, it seemed the rumble came from…

…the air?

She stopped. Looked about, pinpointing the sound-source until she saw, to the west, by a craggy bluff…

…a bird?

Flying her way.

Strange bird, black and large, flying not quite right. Growing larger as it approached.

The Toonijuk remained in place, fascinated, for she soon saw that this was an odd bird indeed, with wings placed far on its back, as were a mosquito’s. And like that crit’s, these wings beat so fast they were a blur. But no crit grew so big, the Toonijuk knew. So what might this be?

It veered leftways, giving her a better look. She saw now its shape, a head connected to a thin tail, this also with a smaller set of beating wings. The creature’s four legs were as slender stems, each pair attached to only a single giant foot!

No Northland dweller be like this! The Toonijuk understood she was looking at a monster!

An orca-big monster that now turned, dipped its head downward, and flew straight at the Toonijuk.

She ran back the way she had come, hearing the whirrrrrr of those terrible beating wings, then feeling a gust tease her hair as the monster flew right overhead. The Toonijuk made a sudden halt and switched direction, sprinting diagonally at a sharp angle. The Hare, she knew, often did such things to evade the Owl, and surely a sky-dweller this large could not quickly turn, giving her a moment to look for open water.

But she saw no cracks or leads, while she did see, from the corner of right eye, the winged demon, zooming by. It passed the Toonijuk, flew a short distance ahead, stopped, and, with the speed and flight-skill of the Falcon, turned completely around, hovering above her path, its wings not beating, she could now see, but spinning, round and round.

The Toonijuk screamed. Screamed for other Toonijuk. For the Spirits. But none came to help as the monster swooped down.

She started to run the opposite way, but as the whirrrrr filled her ears and spinning wings turned the air white with snow, she knew she could not outrun the monster. That her only hope was to scare it into retreat.

Facing the beast, she was surprised to find it had not completed its swoop, but instead hovered a short length above her. She brandished the tusk, bellowing, yelling “Keepfrom! Keepfrom!” But that black, eyeless face showed no fear nor any feeling or Spirit. Its skin looked as hard as a glacier wall. With the sun out, the Toonijuk couldn’t see a shell’s light, but she somehow knew whirling-wing, like Navra, had none to shine.

She bellowed again, reached down, and grabbed a handful of snow, packing it into a ball and flinging it upwards. The ball exploded on the belly, but did no harm, and instead of retreating, the monster descended. An opening appeared on its side, and from it emerged the Naked, holding and aiming a death-spear.

Shrieking, the Toonijuk started to run.

There was a crack!

And a sharp pain where the bear-wounds had recently healed. She kept running until it seemed she must have been crossing new ice as she suddenly wobbled and bobbed.

Dizzy too, and sleepy, but she needed to run, run. She took another few steps, feeble steps, and saw blood drops on the snow. Slowing, she touched her back and felt warm wetness and something stuck in her flesh.

Her feet hit a bump, and she fell, the walrus tusk sliding far from her grasp. But though the world raced around her and the strength fled her body, she managed to get to her feet, even as she heard another,

Crack!

And a sharpness pierced her throat. She pawed at her neck, facing the monster, which still hovered in place. Saw two, then one, then two again. The Naked with a death-spear hanging on its side.

The Toonijuk pulled from her neck what looked like a thin spearhead. Casting it aside, she heard a roaring scream that echoed across the Frozen Sea until it must have reached the land. A sound filled with rage and hate.

A sound made by her.

The ice slid from beneath her feet. The world rose and turned upside down. Falling, she saw once again the land — so close — and then there was whiteness, followed by black.

Section 1 — Section 2 — Section 3