Authors: Christopher Lane
Season of Death
SEASON OF DEATH
AN INUPIAT ESKIMO MYSTERY
Other Inupiat Eskimo Mysteries by
Christopher Lane
PRELUDE
A
DISTANT RUMBLE
. Water rushing north. Boots thudding against wet tundra. Rhythmic panting. A moaning gust of wind. Willows trembling and bowing. A raven cawing sleepily from its perch atop a leaning, stunted pine.
He pauses, legs burning, lungs unable to suck in enough air. Glancing over his shoulder he sees … nothing: squat alders, the snaking, thorny vines of berry bushes, a sea of autumn leaves, limestone peaks, cirrus clouds floating like brush strokes across a deep blue sky. No movement. No evidence of hostility or danger. But he is certain that the enemy is coming.
Running again, he stumbles down a moose trail, thistles and prickles tearing at the skin of his arms and face. He bleeds, but doesn’t care. He has to get to the river. The river is his only hope.
Slowing for the final embankment, he slips and slides his way down a steep wall of scree, hands waving in a frantic effort to maintain his balance. At the bottom, with only a dozen yards remaining between himself and the raft, he sneaks another look back. The wilderness is pristine, innocent, without guile. Unbridled, untouched by man.
For a split second he wonders if he has lost his mind. Maybe he isn’t being pursued. Maybe he really is alone. Has he imagined the threat to his life? Is this mad dash merely an overreaction? A paranoid delusion gone wild?
Then he hears it: a shout. It comes from the direction of the trail. A single word. A name.
His
name.
Sprinting to the raft like an escaped convict, he drags it to the water’s edge and pushes it out, wading forward until he’s wet to the waist. Gasping, he climbs aboard and pulls the rope on the motor. It coughs once and dies. He swears at it and gives a second pull. The Evinrude belches, then revs enthusiastically. He swears again, simultaneously thanking God and cursing his situation.
Another shout. Closer. His name again.
Has he been spotted? Grasping the throttle, he scans the hillside, then peers downstream. After a long moment of indecision, he guns the motor and forces the raft into a reckless 180.
Upstream. It’s unexpected. Even daring. No one will think to look for him there.
For the twenty minutes that follow, he allows himself to relax slightly, to rest in the knowledge that, for the time being, he is safe. What he will do next, he isn’t sure. Eventually, he will have to go back downstream. To the village. But how?
He’s brainstorming through this, trying to formulate a plan, when he hears the whine: another Evinrude, this one working harder to propel its host against the river’s current.
Panic!
His own engine hiccups. He twists the throttle. It balks, burps, knocks again. He curses it. Beats it with the soft of his fist. Then notices the gauge. Gas! In his hurry to get away, he didn’t bother to check the tank.
Aiming for the bank, he beaches the raft and clambers out. He splashes across a shallow eddy and sprints uphill, into the woods, into a vast, merciless wilderness that stretches for more than thirty-five million acres.
He has no idea where he is going, only that he is running. Running away from death.
The girl jerked upright in bed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her skin was clammy, her sweat-soaked nightshirt clinging to her body. The sheets were twisted and coiled around her like a fabric snake. She was wheezing, suffocating.
“You dream Evil One? You dream Nahani?”
Turning her head, she saw her uncle. He was sitting in the corner of her room, arms crossed, watching her. She nodded timidly, still out of breath, still shaken by the horrible images.
“I dream him too.”
“Mine was awful, Uncle.”
“Nahani alway awful. But you not done.”
“Not done?” She blinked at him, then cringed as the nightmare returned, assaulting her open eyes in Technicolor waves: the man running, fleeing for his life. He was terrified. Being chased by someone. Someone evil. Nahani. She could feel his fear. It was rushing over her, through her, squeezing her chest.
“You watch. You ‘member.”
“Yes, Uncle,” she answered in a whimper, wishing she could do something to make the vision stop. The man was slowing, fatigue setting in as the adrenaline peaked and began to subside. Nahani was closing, gliding through the brush like a skilled predator running down its prey. Oblivious to the physical toll the hunt was taking, he was driven by a demonic resolve. However, this was no otherworldly monster, she realized as the supernatural movie continued. This Nahani was human: a fleshly shadow, trailing long hair.
“No be afraid. No be afraid,” her uncle offered in a soothing tone.
She nodded imperceptibly, paralyzed by the montage. The man had tripped, fallen. He was shrieking. Nahani was upon him. She flinched as Nahani swung a weapon, narrowly missing the man’s head. The man rolled away from his attacker. Rising, he dodged another swipe.
“No be afraid. Raven send help. Send Light-walka. He come. Light-walka come.”
Clamping her eyes shut, the girl concentrated on Lightwalker, on the protection he would offer when he arrived. In her dream, the man sloshed into a brook, drunk with terror, and collapsed on a sandbar. Nahani rushed toward him. Palms lifted over his head, the man begged for mercy, sobbing, pleading … A single blow silenced him. But the assault went on: swing after swing, chop after chop, mud and gravel flying, the ax savagely desecrating his body. The movie was silent now, except for the dull blows and the piercing, cackling laugh of Nahani—the evil woodsman.
The girl held her breath and prayed for Lightwalker to come quickly.
ONET
HEY CAME AT
dusk: silent specters advancing mistlike through crooked stands of gold-leafed willows and flaming poplars. Flashes of white, brown, glimpses of black, blurred without edge or definition.
Backed by the last hints of daylight, the marauders and their drab, elongated shadows circled cautiously, noses sampling the air, steely eyes and pointed ears probing the brush for danger. Darting, pausing, listening, cueing one another with body language and eye contact …. Weaving down the hillside, they continued their studied march toward the river, spurred by a wordless summons borne to them on the wind: blood.
The scent was like an aphrodisiac, arousing an ancient, instinctive desire for raw flesh. In fall and spring, they followed the caribou herds as they migrated to and from the North Slope, separating the sick, the aging, and the very young by boldly charging the skeins and attacking the less fortunate with swift, merciless fury. But when the opportunity presented itself, as it seemed to have done now, they were certainly not above resorting to carrion. In order to survive in the Arctic, carnivores had to be flexible, to take what they could get, when they could get it.