Our Story: Aboriginal Voices on Canada's Past (8 page)

Angula has dipped into his treasures
, Kannujaq thought.

And bows. This was not about fighting, but straight-out murder. They would cripple him with arrows, finish him with blades.

Kannujaq raced to the sled and frantically pulled away lashing, retrieving his own bow. His heart was pounding by the time he found arrows and stepped away from the dogs. He wanted no stray shots falling among them.

The Tunit saw this and froze. He could see the cronies darting questioning looks at Angula, probably trying to convince him that this was a bad idea. Angula only nocked an arrow and drew, aiming high for a good arc.

Kannujaq backed up and the arrow fell short.

Angula tried again. This time, his cronies joined in. Several arrows came at Kannujaq, but again he backed up, and they fell short. This happened twice more, and with every failed volley, Kannujaq's smile grew broader.

Kannujaq had realized something: his was not a Tunit bow. It was made from composite pieces of whalebone, with a stronger recurve than the Tunit style, and better lashing. Its range was greater.

Kannujaq carefully nocked his arrow and took his time in the draw. Breath suspended, he made sure of his stance and loosed.

There was dread elegance in the arrow's flight. Then it came down, finding a home in Angula's chest. There it quivered, before Angula fell to one knee. His cry was long, a wail more of despair than of pain. He fell and lay still.

Kannujaq was nocking another arrow when the cronies at last tore their eyes away and fled like rabbits.

Kannujaq walked over to the dead Angula, frowning, more angry at Angula's corpse than he had been at the living man.

The fool
, he thought.
Making me kill him. The damn fool
.

He put his bow away and began to leave, but paused.

He actually found himself concerned about the Tunit. How would they fare once the Siaraili returned? Perhaps better, with Angula gone. But now they had no one to lead them. Would they have the wits to flee, or would they sit confused, waiting to be slaughtered? And where would they go? As long as they lived by a coast, that Siaraili vessel could find them.

It could find his own people, too.

He looked back toward the Tunit camp, now leaderless. The ptarmigan. His animal. If it had not taken flight, Angula and his cronies would have ambushed him. A sign?

“Probably not,” he grumbled.

Well, there was no point in making away so quickly. He might as well tell Siku what had happened. Siku, young as he was, was somewhat respected. He might point the Tunit to a new leader.

As long as it wasn't Kannujaq.

He gave the dogs the rest of his dried meat reserves.

As Kannujaq had anticipated, the boy was overjoyed at his return. In his
angakoq
way, he saw Angula's death as assurance of exactly what Kannujaq refused to accept: that he was here to save the Tunit.

At least Angula's tether on the community had been cut. People actually smiled, however shyly, at Kannujaq. Enough people offered him food that he had to start refusing it.

One of the first things Siku did was to introduce him to his mother, Siaq, who greeted him coolly. This was the lovely woman whom Kannujaq had spotted earlier. He was still certain that she was not Tunit. What was she doing here, then? There was no chance to ask, since Siku had something of great importance to show him.

The only other person in the community who had ever lived like Siku—alone, that is—was Angula. Siaq had served him, but not as wife. Angula had taken many wives, never keeping any. Siaq, however, had always been only one thing: Angula's slave.

Angula's empty home was left untouched, as though it were a haunted place. So there was no one there to greet them as Siku led Kannujaq into it. It was large, not as big as most communal Tunit dwellings, but large enough for a family. There was something grave-like about it, now that it was abandoned.

The fire
, Kannujaq thought.
It's dead, like Angula
.

Siku did not pause for a moment, leading Kannujaq to the rear of the place, where there was a kind of adjoining chamber meant for storage. There was nothing of value in here, merely old, ragged caribou hides, but Kannujaq already suspected what he was about to see.

Sure enough, Siku pulled the garbage aside to reveal overly large flagstones. With some effort, he heaved one aside.

Here were Angula's treasures, the things the Shining One so desperately sought. Kannujaq had felt that nothing could further impress him, but he was quite wrong.

The pit was crammed with treasures.

These were nothing like Siku's rusted knife. Here was a polished blade as long as his leg, shining like a fish belly, handle decorated with yellow-hued kannujaq. Its home was a sheath of fine leather, wood, and wolf fur.

Kannujaq was even more impressed with the other tools. The majority of them were great, curving crescents—like a woman's
ulu
, but over a
handspan in length—attached to the sturdiest wooden hafts that Kannujaq had ever felt.

These
, he thought,
could hack through anything
.

There were other things as well, spearheads and knives, everything of enormous proportions. It took Kannujaq some time to figure out that some items were belts. Other things he recognized as the bowls worn on the heads of the giants. There was cloth made out of tiny, tiny rings. There were curved plates with no apparent function, and some items that were obviously jewellery.

Kannujaq was excited, but saddened. This was further evidence that Angula had been mad. A sane man would have shared these with friends and family, making life easier for all.

Mostly, he felt panic. He understood why the Shining One wanted all of this back. How had Angula managed to steal it?

They replaced the items, and Siku took Kannujaq back to his dwelling. Siaq was already there, but as Kannujaq sat down, Siku departed, leaving the two of them alone.

A planned meeting
, Kannujaq thought.

There was silence for a time. Finally, when Kannujaq could stand it no more, he asked Siaq why she lived among Tunit—especially as a slave.

She sighed, as though having dreaded the possibility of discussing such things. Then she placed something in the fire. There was thick smoke, the acrid smell Kannujaq now recognized. He began to relax. He realized, then, that she was burning something that had a calming effect on people, made them want to talk, and that she also possessed some
angakoq
knowledge.

“I had a husband once,” she said.

It was so good to hear his own dialect again!

“But a time came,” Siaq continued, “when he did not come home. I was alone, and I began to starve, eating my clothing in order to survive.

“In this state was I found by the Tunit. The Tunit were led by Angula. He took me in as a slave, since I could do waterproof stitching. The Tunit cannot. The Tunit do not like slaves, but Angula always had his
way through bullying. And a slave's life among Tunit is better than death.”

Barely
, Kannujaq thought, but he did not speak. One must not interrupt a story.

“Angula attracts strange beings,” Siaq sighed. “One spring, the Tunit discovered a great boat, wood instead of skin, lying gutted along the shore. There were beast-men there, Siaraili, covered in furs and hard shells. They had got wet. They lay frozen, dead, stuck to the ground. Only one among them had not quite died.”

The Shining One?

“Angula dragged him to camp,” Siaq said. “I was made to care for him. He was huge. Hair like a dogs. Pale, pale skin. He recovered quickly.

“This one was the Shining One, the one who hates us now. But back then, he was grateful only to Angula. He repaid Angula by intimidating others in the camp for him. Angula enjoyed it. It was like having a bear as a pet. In time, Angula made me teach the Shining One some of the way Tunit speak.

“More than anything else, Angulas pet wanted to get home, which he said was across the sea. What he could not know was that great boats were spotted now and again, probably searching for him. Cunning Angula always found ways to keep the Shining One out of sight of these boats, unaware of their presence. He kept him distracted with … games, and hunting. With me.

“Eventually, I was given to the Shining One, like a gift, and the stranger accepted readily. The giving over of slaves, I later learned, was common where he came from, a place called Gronland. His kind called the worthless Tunit lands Heluland, or Place of Flat Stones.”

She broke off to wipe at her eyes, which were tearing. Kannujaq remained respectfully silent.

“But I was laughing at him inside, all the time,” Siaq said, “because I knew that he was just Angula's slave, like me. Seasons went by, and I became sickened with it all. I started to tease Angula. I told him, sometimes, that I would tell the Shining One how Angula was keeping him from being rescued. Angula beat me terribly for this, threatened to kill me.
He was scared. Not only was he keeping the Shining One captive, but he had also stripped the bodies of the Shining One's dead companions. He had told the Shining One that they and their
kannujaq
implements had been lost to the sea. But he had actually kept the
kannujaq
tools, hiding them away safely.

“In time, the Shining One grew into the Tunit community. He even began to treat me kindly. But I was always tempted to tell him the truth about Angula.

“Then a night came when the Shining One and I were quarrelling. All of my hate came out somehow, made my mouth move on its own. I told him the truth. I told him everything. Everything.”

Siaq went silent for some time.

“He never spoke after that,” she said. “He never looked at me. Not at Angula. Not at the Tunit. Angula became scared. But he was relieved when the Shining One slipped away one day. No one saw him go. Maybe he sighted one of the ships of his people.

“It wasn't long before Angula started showing his
kannujaq
treasures around, claiming that spirits had given them to him, that he had special powers. He had learned that wealth can buy people. He began to lend his treasures out, in return for loyalty. In this way did he enslave everyone.

“But Angula had made a mistake, for the Shining One was no normal man. He was a leader among his own kind. Angula had only a few years to enjoy his power before the Shining One returned. And he brought the Siaraili. He sent out his giants to punish the Tunit shore encampments, laughing, killing, always searching for Angula and his stolen artifacts. Others died, but Angula escaped every time. Angula became mad, paranoid, trying to hold onto his waning power. He claimed that the sea raiders were punishing the community for disobeying him.

“In time, every Tunik in that camp was killed or scattered. Angula survived, fleeing to a new Tunit community—this one. I and Siku, who was smaller then, came with him. Here, over the next few years, it was easy for Angula to buy himself authority with his stolen artifacts. And the whole thing started again.”

Siaq was weeping openly by the time she finished her tale; what from, exactly, Kannujaq could not tell. But there was lots to weep about. He suddenly understood how little her son truly knew of his mother. She had told Siku bits and pieces of truth, but he had interpreted everything through the eye of an
angakoq
(as well as that of a boy). To Siku, as to the other Tunit here, this was a battle against sea monsters. The Siaraili were
tuurngait
—evil spirits. In Siku's world, there were signs and portents all around him, but his mother's burden was truth. Only she and Angula had known what the Siaraili really were.

Kannujaq returned truth with truth.

“If all of us do not leave this place,” he said, “we die.”

Siaq sniffed and agreed.

“I can't leave the Tunit, though,” she said. “I've been with them too long. They are friends, family. Life has more meaning among them, now, than it does among your … I mean, our kind.”

She has become a Tunik
, Kannujaq thought.

“And the Tunit are not like our people,” she said, “always travelling, always sledding. The Tunit like their homes. Their homes are part of them.”

Kannujaq could not understand why anyone would be attached to a home, but he said, “No time for this, Siaq. No time. The Siaraili left last time only because they were worried about the storm. But once they feel safe again, they'll finish this camp. If the Tunit do not move, because of love of their homes, then there is only one other thing they can do. They must fight.”

He was surprised to find her laughing, a dry, mirthless, bitter sort of laughter.

“I told you how I taught the Shining One our language,” she said. “But I learned some of his, too. The Tunit call the giants Siaraili because that is what they shout as they attack. The Tunit think that this is what the giants call themselves. But shall I tell you what they are really shouting? They shout ‘Skraeling!' because they are calling to the Tunit, in mockery. It is their word for ‘weakling.' They call the Tunit Skraelings,
because they never fight, but simply run, and run, and run. As well they should. For the Shining One's people have spent generations at war. They have grown fond of it. How could a community of Tunit contend with even a few of those born of conflict, armed with materials harder than stone? This is why the giants run through the camp playfully, kicking walls in, slashing at everything blades can reach. This is fun for them. Afterward, they gorge themselves on whatever they find in camp, washing it down with a harsh tea they are fond of.”

Kannujaq was silent. Siaq was right. There would be no standing against the giants, not even with their own artifacts. These were the men whose ship prow was carved like a beast, like a wolf. And that was how they attacked. The Tunit were like caribou. They were all caribou. And the sea raiders were wolves.