dog followed him outside and, when George opened the creaking door, jumped into the truck. At ten ripe years, jumping up onto the bench seat was getting harder and harder for Sam.
George drove to the pond with Sam sitting on the seat beside him, watching the white world pass by. The night was clear, and the moon shone with a hard-edged clarity, casting shadows. When they arrived, George parked along the edge of the road, near to where the blue van had pulled over. Although it was dark, he could see the footprints leading out to the pond, see them vanish at the thinly-frozen place where he and Sam had fallen through. For several minutes he sat in the warm truck and stared at the scarred surface of the pond. He was struck by how the recently formed ice gave the appearance of something solid, solid enough to bear a man’s weight. He laid a gentle hand on Sam’s head. The dog turned and looked into the man’s eyes.
George climbed out and let the dog jump down. He reached behind the seat and pulled out his rifle, checked to make sure it was loaded.
“Let’s go for a walk, Boy,” he said, without looking at the dog.
Eagerly, the dog trotted toward the pond, occasionally turning around to make sure he had not lost the man.
Darkness
Andrew Angiak struggled to lift himself from his thin bed. The steel springs squeaked until he finally sat upright, his bare feet on the floor, which was always cold. This far north, the ground never thawed. Ice penetrated the earth hundreds, even thousands of feet deep. In summer, only the first couple of feet thawed, forming a thin bed of soil on which tundra flowers grew quickly, for the sun lasted briefly here.
The old man bent over, feeling for his slippers. He lit the oil lamp beside his bed and coughed for a long time. Then he checked the oil stove. It was empty again. With little income, the old man had to ration what money he received. He could not afford to keep his house warm all the time. He had to balance the high cost of heat against the high cost of food.
Eat or stay warm—one or the other—never both at the same time.
In the old days, men did not purchase heating fuel. Instead, they earned it through labor hunting whales and rendering fat into oil, which warmed and lit their homes and fed their bellies. There was never a shortage. No family went cold or hungry.
Andrew carefully poured a gallon of oil into the small tank and lit the pilot, turning the knob to its lowest setting. The fire would burn until sometime after noon, then it would die, and the temperature inside would drop until bedtime, when he would again feed the thirsty tank. The old man measured winter by the gallon. Sixty gallons a month sparingly spent, one gallon at a time.
“Five hundred gallons of oil,” he often told the other men in the village. “Spring will be here soon.”
And the other men would begin to prepare for its arrival, mending nets, oiling rifles, tuning outboards, making plans for the short-lived season when the sky releases its burden of light and color. In the old days, all men knew the coming of spring by the shifting of the ice pack, by the way beluga whales arrived from the south following schools of salmon and herring. Back then, men knew how to live off the land, and the land provided to them. Now they remembered only a little.
Andrew looked out his only window, small and frosted. It was dark outside, and the darkness went forever—distant and deep. In the middle of winter, as it was, the sun had not visited the horizon for over a month. Sled dogs lay curled inside their little houses, trying to retain what little heat they could muster, and polar bears nestled in their ice-hewn dens, smelling the relentless wind, their hunger rising. Out of the darkness, the silence of the ice pack mounted toward him. Nothing moved, not even the shivering sled dogs. There was nothing against which to gauge time’s passing.
Nevertheless, it passed.
Still looking out the window, the old man thought of the story of how long ago Raven had brought light to the world, how before that, the world had toiled in darkness. He understood the deepness of such dark. Priests had long ago told him that such stories were childish. Raven was nothing but a black bird. God has no wings. But Andrew liked the old stories. They were of the north. They explained things—why the moon rises and falls, the origin of seals, the northern lights. He wondered what harm there was in their telling.
Once the small heater began to radiate warmth, the old man cut a thick slice of whale fat, which he laid across pilot bread, a thick unsalted cracker popular in the north. He sat a dented kettle of meltwater on the heater, tossing in a single bag of black tea. When it was hot, he drank it slowly in the only cup he owned, looking at the twenty year old calendar hanging on the wall—his only art.
Andrew Angiak was a simple man. He had lived a long, full life—ninety years in fact. He had been a great hunter in his youth, a boat captain on many successful whale hunts from which he pulled as many men from the sea as had been lost to it. Only the hardy and the fortunate survived this far north. He had brought home countless seals and walrus, which he shared with the infirm in the village, those who could not hunt or fish for themselves.
Now he was poor and alone. A hundred years is a long time—too long, he thought. And although he had never ventured far from the sea-edged village, he knew the world. Everything changes. The present destroys the past. History moves forward and backward, written and unwritten, repeating itself. Wars wage whenever peace has lasted too long. Andrew knew the great truths: compassion begets love; jealousy begets ruin; darkness precedes light; death precedes death; and despite it all, life endures.
The old man slowly buttoned his one good dress shirt, set his feet into mukluks, tied them, and donned his fur parka hanging on a nail near the oil stove. He turned down the wick of his oil lamp and blew out the small, yellow flame—the only sun the room had known in months.
After pushing hard to close the door, the old man quickly crossed the village to the church. The frozen sea lay behind it, giant wedges of ice piled endlessly for as far as the eye could see, almost glistening beneath the moon, which looked as though it were a hole torn in the black canvas of the night. It was twenty-eight degrees below zero. A wind arose, the ice pack heaved, and darkness lay on the land.
The church was the largest building in the village, built during The Great Death, when diseases carried from afar decimated the People. Death was everywhere then, in every house, in every igloo, on every family. Andrew had lost two wives and a son. The church, seeing an opportunity, blamed the epidemic on the People’s superstitions, told them that God was punishing them because they did not know Him. He had brought it upon them, His vengeance swift and terrible.
That is what they said, even though the missionaries themselves, among others, had brought the disease in the first place.
Within a couple generations, the old world vanished. The language decayed. Customs rotted. Myths turned into ghosts. Even ghosts found somewhere else to dwell. The old gave way to the new. The People were as lost as any man who had ever lost himself in the Arctic.
Nowadays, they had electricity, television, and soda pop. They had a new church to guide them, built of whitewashed planks with stained glass windows and gilded icons suspended on the inside walls. Icicles hung sharply from the roof eaves. Before each whaling season, whaleboat captains and hunters hauled umiaks through the wide doors for blessing. The tall steeple was visible for miles. Hunters used it to find their way home, a beacon of sorts, since they could no longer steer by stars.
A lone raven, ruffled and discontent, hunkered atop the steeple sulking about the cold and dark.
The church was comfortable inside, warm and well lit. Andrew volunteered at the church often,
