fires his rifle into the invisible sky and pauses to listen.
On the shores of Lake Polaris they hear something. Turning back to windward they peer into the swarming snow. A little less dense than before. Ebierbing signals Kruger and they bunch down behind a small hummock. The hunter, his moustaches glazed silver, levels his rifle and cocks the hammer and Kruger does the same with his Springfield, now seeing what Ebierbing must see—a white bear clambering down over a hummock on the far shore of the pond and crossing the ice toward them, reared up on its hind legs to attack. In the flying snow it’s impossible to say if this is a small bear very close, or a huge one farther off. It comes on swiftly with the wind at its tail. Kruger squints against the snow and waits, his heart jolting up into his throat, for Ebierbing to fire. The bear is almost on them. Ebierbing lowers his Spencer and jams the tip of his mitten under the hammer of Kruger’s rifle and then begins chuckling, laughing , a sound almost stifled by the wind. This laughter clears Kruger’s eyes. They have come within a trigger’s breadth of shooting Hans Christian. There he stands tottering, his fur clothing and hood impastoed with snow, completely white. Ebierbing rises and shouts something at him and then continues laughing hard, his eyes glistening and welling with tears which freeze on his cheeks, while Hans himself, who has been lost in the storm for a dozen hours and has just barely escaped being shot dead, merrily joins in.
Ebierbing leads them back to Hallburgh, apparently navigating by the wind and the contours of the ice. Hans crawls immediately into his own hut. The squat silhouette of Merkut seated before her fatlamp appears to them as if on the wall of a magic lantern. For a moment Ebierbing studies Kruger obliquely, then invites him into his own bright snowhut, for tea and food. They enter on all fours. How difficult it must be, Kruger thinks, for a native to put on airs, or to play the returning hero, when nobody can barge or strut into a room. Everybody crawls.
In parka and fur pants Tukulito sits cross-legged before her fatlamp, her long braids swinging around the flame but never touching it. The neat and smooth-domed hut is filled with the aromas of tea and burning blubber—a smell like rancid cod-oil, but Kruger would gladly guzzle every hot, stinking drop of it. Ebierbing mutters something to Tukulito in their tongue, seeming to nod toward Hans’s snowhut, then toward Kruger. At her husband’s safe return she is coolly formal, not openly relieved; maybe on account of an outsider’s presence. She will not meet Kruger’s eye. Well, she must wish her family to herself, at this hour. Or is she simply exhausted? Broad, brown Esquimau faces don’t betray fatigue the way white faces do.
Good evening, Mr Kruger. She is carefully pouring tea into tin mugs.
Must be near morning now, he says weakly.
So it is, sir. Good morning, sir. She passes him and Ebierbing mugs of pemmican tea and chunks of biscuit. The men fall on their meal, Ebierbing’s strong jaws working noisily at his slab, Kruger impatiently dunking his in the tea to soften it. How wonderful the tea steam feels on his cheeks! How warm and bright and orderly the hut, compared to the jammed barracks of the crewhut! Little Punnie lies among ox furs on the bed-ledge, only her face and the yarn-haired scalp of her doll’s head showing. She sleeps with her eyes half open, flickering with lamplight, the way Kruger’s baby sister Elke used to sleep in her cradle beside the coalstove. The heat, the food and the cozy closeness and the sight of the child sleeping and the strain of this night overcome Kruger and he brings a hand to his face and fills it with a number of hard, fierce sobs.
Heim. Heimat .
When he has mastered himself, he looks out at Ebierbing, Tukulito.
Forgive me.
With averted eyes they nod.
And thank you for this.
I believe you will need more in a minute, sir.
On the shores of Lake Polaris they hear something. Turning back to windward they peer into the swarming snow. A little less dense than before. Ebierbing signals Kruger and they bunch down behind a small hummock. The hunter, his moustaches glazed silver, levels his rifle and cocks the hammer and Kruger does the same with his Springfield, now seeing what Ebierbing must see—a white bear clambering down over a hummock on the far shore of the pond and crossing the ice toward them, reared up on its hind legs to attack. In the flying snow it’s impossible to say if this is a small bear very close, or a huge one farther off. It comes on swiftly with the wind at its tail. Kruger squints against the snow and waits, his heart jolting up into his throat, for Ebierbing to fire. The bear is almost on them. Ebierbing lowers his Spencer and jams the tip of his mitten under the hammer of Kruger’s rifle and then begins chuckling, laughing , a sound almost stifled by the wind. This laughter clears Kruger’s eyes. They have come within a trigger’s breadth of shooting Hans Christian. There he stands tottering, his fur clothing and hood impastoed with snow, completely white. Ebierbing rises and shouts something at him and then continues laughing hard, his eyes glistening and welling with tears which freeze on his cheeks, while Hans himself, who has been lost in the storm for a dozen hours and has just barely escaped being shot dead, merrily joins in.
Ebierbing leads them back to Hallburgh, apparently navigating by the wind and the contours of the ice. Hans crawls immediately into his own hut. The squat silhouette of Merkut seated before her fatlamp appears to them as if on the wall of a magic lantern. For a moment Ebierbing studies Kruger obliquely, then invites him into his own bright snowhut, for tea and food. They enter on all fours. How difficult it must be, Kruger thinks, for a native to put on airs, or to play the returning hero, when nobody can barge or strut into a room. Everybody crawls.
In parka and fur pants Tukulito sits cross-legged before her fatlamp, her long braids swinging around the flame but never touching it. The neat and smooth-domed hut is filled with the aromas of tea and burning blubber—a smell like rancid cod-oil, but Kruger would gladly guzzle every hot, stinking drop of it. Ebierbing mutters something to Tukulito in their tongue, seeming to nod toward Hans’s snowhut, then toward Kruger. At her husband’s safe return she is coolly formal, not openly relieved; maybe on account of an outsider’s presence. She will not meet Kruger’s eye. Well, she must wish her family to herself, at this hour. Or is she simply exhausted? Broad, brown Esquimau faces don’t betray fatigue the way white faces do.
Good evening, Mr Kruger. She is carefully pouring tea into tin mugs.
Must be near morning now, he says weakly.
So it is, sir. Good morning, sir. She passes him and Ebierbing mugs of pemmican tea and chunks of biscuit. The men fall on their meal, Ebierbing’s strong jaws working noisily at his slab, Kruger impatiently dunking his in the tea to soften it. How wonderful the tea steam feels on his cheeks! How warm and bright and orderly the hut, compared to the jammed barracks of the crewhut! Little Punnie lies among ox furs on the bed-ledge, only her face and the yarn-haired scalp of her doll’s head showing. She sleeps with her eyes half open, flickering with lamplight, the way Kruger’s baby sister Elke used to sleep in her cradle beside the coalstove. The heat, the food and the cozy closeness and the sight of the child sleeping and the strain of this night overcome Kruger and he brings a hand to his face and fills it with a number of hard, fierce sobs.
Heim. Heimat .
When he has mastered himself, he looks out at Ebierbing, Tukulito.
Forgive me.
With averted eyes they nod.
And thank you for this.
I believe you will need more in a minute, sir.