“We cannot lie here,” Ortnar said, stumbling to his feet. He seized Kerrick’s hand and helped him to rise, pushed him out ahead of him back into the storm.
They hacked and chopped clumsily at the low branches, breaking off what they could with hands that were unable to close properly. Ortnar dropped his knife from his numb fingers and they wasted precious time digging through the drifts until they found it. With the last of their strength they dragged the wood back; it would have to do, they could not go back for more now. Kerrick fumbled out the firebox, but could not feel the stones inside until he had put his hands inside his furs to warm them against his body.
The fire was finally lit and they built it high, huddled next to it gasping in the smoke yet feeling the life return to their numb bodies. It was dark outside now, the wind howling incessantly, while the snow drifted across the entrance so that they had to keep digging it free to allow the smoke to escape.
“We are not the first ones to shelter here,” Kerrick said, pointing to the low ceiling of rock where the outline of a greatdeer had been traced with a charred stick. Ortnar grunted and kicked at the ground next to the fire.
“At least they did not leave their bones here.”
“And we might?” Kerrick said.
In silent answer Ortnar pulled over his pack and shook out the remaining food. “This is all we have left, about the same in your pack. Not enough to get back with.”
“Then we must go forward. We will find the Paramutan. They must be here. Somewhere.”
“We go forward only when the storm lets us.”
They took turns, one tending the fire, one getting wood. Darkness came quickly and Ortnar had difficulty in finding the cave with the last load of wood. The temperature had dropped sharply and there were white spots on his cheek that he rubbed with snow. They were both silent now because the time for talking was past. There was nothing more to be said. The storm continued for days to the count of a hunter’s hand. One day for every finger — including the thumb. They went out only for wood, melted snow for water. And felt the first knife of hunger in their guts as they rationed out the remaining scraps of food.
It was on the next day that there was the first break in the storm. The wind died down and the snow seemed to be thinning.
“It is over,” Kerrick said, hopefully. “We cannot be sure yet.”
They emerged into grim daylight. Snowflakes still drifted down from the dark gray sky. For a short while the falling snow thinned a little and they could see the waves breaking on the beach, running high up on the pebbled shore. The seas were heavy, foam-topped, dark.
“There!” Kerrick shouted. “I saw something out there — it’s a boat of some kind. Wave to them, wave!”
They stumbled down to the shore, into the edge of the foaming sea and stood there, leaping and shouting hoarsely. Once the boat rode high onto a wave and they thought that they could even make out some figures aboard it. Then the waves rose up again and hid it from sight. The next time they saw the boat it was further out, going north.
It disappeared once again among the mountainous waves and never reappeared.
Wet and exhausted they stumbled back to the cave, barely visible now through the driving snow as the storm struck again with redoubled fury.
The next day they ate the last of their food. Kerrick was licking the crumbled bits of sour meat from his fingers when he looked up and caught Ortnar’s eye. He wanted to speak but could not. What could he say?
Ortnar pulled the furs about him and turned away.
Outside the storm winds blew, screaming along the cliffs. The ground beneath them trembled as the high waves thundered down onto the beach.
Darkness came and with it a great and all-possessing despair.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Outside the paukarut the blizzard blew with unceasing fury, the wind hurling the snow before it across the arctic ice. Nothing could live before its blast, nothing moved in this totally barren landscape — other than the attacking blizzard. It heaped high around the snow-banked paukaruts until each had a downwind drift like a white beard. In the frozen desert of endless night there was only darkness and certain death.
Inside the paukarut the yellow light of the oil lamp shone on the black ularuaq skin, the white-arched ribs that supported it, the furs and skins and laughing faces of the Paramutan as they dipped bits of rotten meat into the open skin of blubber, fed mouthfuls to the children, roared with laughter when they rubbed it into their faces instead.
Armun enjoyed their presence and was not too disturbed at Kalaleq’s constant attentions, his hands always reaching out to touch her when she came close. They were different, that was all. They even shared their women and no one seemed to mind. Laughed about that too. Her temperament was not theirs so she could not join in the wild laughter.
But she smiled at their antics and was not bothered when Harl joined in with the others. They moved aside to make room for him — some reaching out to touch his light hair. They never tired of the novelty of this and always talked of the Tanu as Erqigdlit, meaning fantasy-people in their own language, for they were Angurpiaq, real people as they called themselves. Armun could understand their talk, this was the second winter that they had spent in the paukaruts on the ice, and that was long enough. When they had first arrived among the Paramutan she had been grateful just to be alive. She had been weak, had lost weight, was worried about Arnwheet in this strange place. It was so different in every way — the food, the language, the way they lived. Time passed very quickly while she was finding out how to adjust to this new life, so that the second winter was upon them even before she realized it.
There would be no third one for her here — she was steadfast in her conviction about that. In the spring she would make them understand that it was time for her to leave. She had her strength back: she and the two boys were well fed. An even more important reason to leave was the disturbing knowledge that by this time Kerrick would have discovered that they had left the sammads; he would be sure that they were dead. The smile slipped from her face at the darkness of this thought. Kerrick! She must go to him, go south to that strange murgu place that they had burnt, go wherever he was…
“Alutoragdlaq, alutoragdlaqoq!” Arnwheet said, shaking her by the knee. A strong little boy who had already seen his third summer, talking excitedly through his uneven new teeth. She smiled again as she wiped some of the grease from his face.
“What is it you want?” she asked, speaking Marbak. She could understand him well enough, but did not want him to only talk in Paramutan. If the two boys were left alone, he and Harl only spoke to one another in what had now become their daily manner of communication.
“I want my deer! My deer!” He beat on her knee with hard little fists, laughing. Armun dug into the jumbled furs until she found the toy. She had made it from a strip of deerskin, adding bits of carved bones for antlers. He seized it to him and tumbled away, laughing.
“You should eat more,” Angajorqaq said, sitting down at her side and holding out a handful of the white blubber. She had thrown most of her skin clothes aside in the heat of the paukarut and her fur-covered breasts swung free when she extended her arm. Armun dipped out a small bit of the greasy substance and licked at it. Angajorqaq made unhappy clicking noises with her tongue.
“There was a woman once who did not eat the fish when it was caught.” She had a story about everything, saw hidden meanings in any event no matter how commonplace. “It was a silver fish and very big and fat and it looked at her and did not understand. Tell me, the fish said, why you do not eat me? Deep in the ocean I heard the right spells that the fisherman said, saw the hook with the bright bait. I ate it as I should and now I am here and you do not eat me. Why?