the effect of what happened next could have been any more drastic. A pounding, satanically loud, shook all four walls of the mess. The four of us stared at the door, its sturdy construction suddenly enfeebled. Vanderbyl, not a man given to cursing, sat straight up and yelled, Jesus Christ . Ray looked like a cartoon image of alarm—goggle-eyed, mouth open.
It came again. We were immobilized, dumb as figures in a natural history tableau.
I nominate Ray to answer the door, Wyndham said quietly.
Ray shook his head. He seemed to be getting smaller in his chair, as if he would sink under the table.
I got up and approached the door. Jens?
The mad thing on the other side pounded again.
I opened the door and an enormous Inuit man, rounded, solid and monolithic as one of their sculptures, was bathed in our light. The depth of his hood made his face a black circle.
Welcome, I said in Inuktitut. Undoubtedly this represented a naked attempt to hide my fear, not good manners.
He crooked an arm much rimed with snow, beckoning. He was enveloped in the cold of hell.
Honour us, I said, and gestured toward the stove, the table. Quickly, if you would.
He stepped inside with the lumbering gait of Arctic dress. He was clad head to foot in sealskin and wolf hide. I closed the door.
My name is Karson Durie, I said. Will you have some tea?
In another country one might offer vodka or brandy, but there are communities where the offer of alcohol is received as an assault, and not for religious reasons.
He pulled back his hood. The ageless smooth face of an Inuk in his prime. He was the tallest I had ever seen. My head came to his shoulders.
Karson Durie, I said again. How do you call yourself?
He received my words like a plate of stones.
Come in, Vanderbyl shouted down the length of the mess. He was fluent in Inuktitut. Let your testicles hang low.
No change of expression, no sign of recognition. He pointed to the door, crooked his head toward it.
Vanderbyl turned to me. “Where the hell’s Hunter?”
I don’t think this fellow speaks Tuk, I said.
What do you think he is, Romanian? Come in, Vanderbyl yelled again, you are welcome to our food and our fire. Come and share a story.
I don’ see why we ’ave to invite ‘im in, Ray said, if he don’ even try to be frien’. Ray’s face was drained white’ he looked in danger of fainting. And ‘ow did he get here in da first place?
There must be quite a jam behind us, I said.
From the Inuk, no shadow of a response. I had an unnerving sense of figure and ground, as if the air in the mess had turned solid and the figure before me were empty space. It pointed at the door and again crooked its head. I retrieved my parka from a hook.
Jesus Cry, Ray said. Don’ go widdim.
This is great, Wyndham said. I love this. Good luck, Kit. Don’t forget to write.
I put up my hood and opened the door. The Inuk went out ahead of me. The generator suddenly seemed terribly loud, our camp lights as gaudy as Times Square.
How had we not heard his dogs? A full team lay crouched before a traditional Inuit sled. The whites of their eyes flashed as they looked up. Why had our own dogs not been roused?
The Inuk didn’t wait for me, didn’t speak—to the dogs or to me. He went to the sled and pulled away the side panel. A heap of sealskins. He reached down and pulled back the layers. The face of a young man stared up at the stars with milky eyes. His features were dark, and at first I thought he was of some exotic race, but of course I was looking at the effects of extreme frostbite.
Not ours, I said.
The Inuk flipped hides away. He bent and reached down and waited.
I took the feet and we lifted the stony weight of him from the sled. The Inuk backed toward the mess.
Wait.
He stopped and we lowered the boy to the ice pack. The clothes were odd. Buckskin jacket, trousers of some material I didn’t recognize. High boots of sealskin, hand-sewn with gut.
I was reaching for the door when it
It came again. We were immobilized, dumb as figures in a natural history tableau.
I nominate Ray to answer the door, Wyndham said quietly.
Ray shook his head. He seemed to be getting smaller in his chair, as if he would sink under the table.
I got up and approached the door. Jens?
The mad thing on the other side pounded again.
I opened the door and an enormous Inuit man, rounded, solid and monolithic as one of their sculptures, was bathed in our light. The depth of his hood made his face a black circle.
Welcome, I said in Inuktitut. Undoubtedly this represented a naked attempt to hide my fear, not good manners.
He crooked an arm much rimed with snow, beckoning. He was enveloped in the cold of hell.
Honour us, I said, and gestured toward the stove, the table. Quickly, if you would.
He stepped inside with the lumbering gait of Arctic dress. He was clad head to foot in sealskin and wolf hide. I closed the door.
My name is Karson Durie, I said. Will you have some tea?
In another country one might offer vodka or brandy, but there are communities where the offer of alcohol is received as an assault, and not for religious reasons.
He pulled back his hood. The ageless smooth face of an Inuk in his prime. He was the tallest I had ever seen. My head came to his shoulders.
Karson Durie, I said again. How do you call yourself?
He received my words like a plate of stones.
Come in, Vanderbyl shouted down the length of the mess. He was fluent in Inuktitut. Let your testicles hang low.
No change of expression, no sign of recognition. He pointed to the door, crooked his head toward it.
Vanderbyl turned to me. “Where the hell’s Hunter?”
I don’t think this fellow speaks Tuk, I said.
What do you think he is, Romanian? Come in, Vanderbyl yelled again, you are welcome to our food and our fire. Come and share a story.
I don’ see why we ’ave to invite ‘im in, Ray said, if he don’ even try to be frien’. Ray’s face was drained white’ he looked in danger of fainting. And ‘ow did he get here in da first place?
There must be quite a jam behind us, I said.
From the Inuk, no shadow of a response. I had an unnerving sense of figure and ground, as if the air in the mess had turned solid and the figure before me were empty space. It pointed at the door and again crooked its head. I retrieved my parka from a hook.
Jesus Cry, Ray said. Don’ go widdim.
This is great, Wyndham said. I love this. Good luck, Kit. Don’t forget to write.
I put up my hood and opened the door. The Inuk went out ahead of me. The generator suddenly seemed terribly loud, our camp lights as gaudy as Times Square.
How had we not heard his dogs? A full team lay crouched before a traditional Inuit sled. The whites of their eyes flashed as they looked up. Why had our own dogs not been roused?
The Inuk didn’t wait for me, didn’t speak—to the dogs or to me. He went to the sled and pulled away the side panel. A heap of sealskins. He reached down and pulled back the layers. The face of a young man stared up at the stars with milky eyes. His features were dark, and at first I thought he was of some exotic race, but of course I was looking at the effects of extreme frostbite.
Not ours, I said.
The Inuk flipped hides away. He bent and reached down and waited.
I took the feet and we lifted the stony weight of him from the sled. The Inuk backed toward the mess.
Wait.
He stopped and we lowered the boy to the ice pack. The clothes were odd. Buckskin jacket, trousers of some material I didn’t recognize. High boots of sealskin, hand-sewn with gut.
I was reaching for the door when it
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