"Climb?" he asked.
"It's not too far," she said. "Probably a thousand vertical feet."
Qawik stuck his head through the door, saw a rusty ladder to the right, felt the cold air fall down on him. "But what do I do when I get to the top?"
"Like the Grace said; hunt whales."
He swung his leg around, put a foot on a rung, tested it. The rung bent, rust flaked away, but it held. He put another foot on the rung, grasped a rung above. The Welcome Woman poked her head through the door.
"Have fan," she said. "Look me up When you're in New Hell." She added, "When you file your appeal. See you." She ducked back into the hallway, and the door shut behind her.
Qawik climbed, one hand up, a foot, grasp a rung, again. He climbed. And climbed...
He came up into the cold.
Icy snow, snow that was the color snow looked when blood dripped into it, swirled around the surface of the shaft. Qawik grabbed the last rung, pulled himself up, crawled onto the surface.
He crawled away from the open shaft and lay in the snow, his legs like shigs, muscles like rotted sinew. The ruddy snow blew into his face, down his neck, over his body; he was embraced by cold.
The ground groaned behind him, Qawik turned his head, watched as the open shaft moaned shut. One foot was dangling over the edge. He lifted it, and the hole closed shut like a deep sphincter, until the dirt was healed.
The wind stopped.
Clouds near the southern horizon glowed pale gray, but the rest of the sky was deep ebony-no stars, no moon, only low clouds. The south grew brighter, and the dark shroud over the sky fell back into the dawn. A great red globe rose over the horizon, a light-giving globe. Warmth washed over Qayvik's face. The globe rose higher, and the warmth turned to cold, to agony, to pain-the same feeling he felt when his hand was in the kettle of Grace.
"Paradise," a voice said.
Qawik looked to his right. Fur-dad feet stood next to him. He looked up: feet, polar bearskin breeches, a reindeer parka, a head, a body ... a person. He squinted, stared at the face. The face had a labret-a face plug-under the lip: a black labret. with a red bead, a blue bead, stuck in the plug, "Ukalliq?" Qawik asked. "Little rabbit?"
The man smiled, held out a hand. "Qawik."
Qawik grasped Ukalliq's hand, let him pull him up.
He stood, stared at Ukalliq, hugged him. "Ukalliq. Little Rabbit."
"Do not stare at Paradise," Ukalhq said. "Her Light is too painful for the damned, though Her Heat is merciful."
"It is a short-lived mercy," a man said. Qawik turned.
He was six feet tall or more, dressed in a parka and breeches like Ukalliq's, but his face had a savage countenance, due, perhaps, to the quilt of purple squares tattooed across his cheeks. He had no hat, no hair, except a little top-knot at his crown.
"I am Queequeg," he said, "late of the Pequod. I am your harpoonist." He held out his hand, and Qawik reached behind his back, unstrapped the darting harpoon, and handed it to the giant.
Queequeg hefted it, tested its weight, and smiled. "Is good," he said.
"We heard you were coming, Ukalliq said. "The Fallen Angels swept through several sleeps ago and told us a great whaler would come."
"But where are the whales?" Qawik asked.
"Out there." Ukalliq turned, and Qawik followed his gaze. "The Sea of Purgatory."
The Sea of Purgatory was one great flat plain of pink ice. Great ridges thrust up against the land, mountains of ice pushed against the coast, peaks along the horizon. The air flickered beyond the ridge; as Paradise rose, water and whitecaps could be seen glinting on the horizon.
"The leads are opening," Qawik said.
"Ai, the channels will be filled with whales soon enough," Ukalliq said.
"Arviq?" Qawik asked. "The whale?"
"No," Ukauiq said, "not Arviq. Arviqluaq. The gray whale, the whale that fights back."
"Az-zah," said Qawik.
"Leviathan," Queequeg said. "The Great Whale."
The whalers took Qawik to their village, a small mound at the end of a spit that thrust out into the Sea of Purgatory. They called the village Qitiqliq, which meant "middle finger." They were building sod houses for the days when
Paradise would not shine, but the huts were incomplete, only depressions in the ground. For the moment, they lived in old canvas tents and warmed themselves by small blubber fires.
There were ten whalers-men, women-all tied to the sea in some way. They sat around a small fire, working on their whaling tools, trading tales. Pat, a small woman with short-cropped hair, dressed in a bright orange parka, asked
Qawik why he was in Hell.
"Pride," he said.
"Qawik was a great man in our village," Ukalliq said. "He was a great shaman, a good hunter. He killed ... how many whales?"
"Twelve," he said.
"You killed twelve whales?" Pat asked. "I do not understand you. The whale is a noble animal, with a language, intelligence. How could you km a whale?"
"I was hungry," Qawik said. "Who are you to judge?"
"I worked for Friends of the Whales," Pat said. "After your time. Our organization fought to keep the whalers from decimating the great herds."
"Pat's a suicide," Ukalliq said. "She boarded a Soviet whaling ship and jumped in front of a harpoon gun."
He shrugged. "Ask her to show you her scar sometime." He smiled at her.
"Assholes," she said. Pat got up and walked away.
"Never mind her," Ukalliq said. "Qawik, I want you to know that after you died you Were a hero to our people. In my old age, the children feared and respected you, Qawik."
Qawik looked down. "That is good to hear." He pointed at Ukalliq. "But you?
Why are you here? You never sinned. You were a deacon in the church."
Ukalliq shook his head. "I did not worship God," he said. "All that was a lie.
My whole life, even in the church, I was praying to the whale." He fingered a charm around his neck, an ivory carving of a bowhead whale. "And I was wrong.
My god does not exist. And God does."
"But your sin is less than mine," Qawik said.
"All sins are equal in the eyes of God," Ukalliq said.
Pat came back with a slab of meat, handed it to Qawik. "Eat this," she said.
"What is it?"
"Whale meat, from a stinker. We found Leviathans body washed ashore last fall."
"No," said Ukalliq. "He hasn't eaten."
Pat glared at him. "fiat."
Qawik took the offered meat, held it to his mouth.
"No," said Ukalliq. "You shouldn't eat it."
Qawik smiled. "You should know that it is wrong to refuse food offered by a woman." He bit down on the meat, chewed. "This is good."
"It is done," said Pat. She held her hands to her hips, laughed. "How do you like Hell food, whaler?"
"It is good," said Qawik.
"I'm sorry," Ukalliq said.
"Sorry? Why?"
"Is this your first food?"
"Yes," said Qawik. "It is good."
Ukalliq looked down. "I'm sorry. I tried to warn you."
"Warn me? Why? I was hungry." He turned to Pat. "Thank you."
"Do not thank her," said Ukalliq. "Now that you have eaten, you can never be satisfied."
"I do not understand."
"You must satisfy your hunger, and you will. But the food ... the food will never settle."
"You cannot shit," said Queequeg.
"You will feel like you have to shit, but - you cannot." Ukalliq winced. "Your groin feels like it's on fire. The only time you can shit is if you, well, if you-"
Queequeg held up his left hand; he was missing two fingers. "If you eat human flesh, you can shit.
Little tiny turds, but it's shit. The flesh grows back."
He rubbed tiny nubs growing from the stumps.