Skraelings: Clashes in the Old Arctic by Rachel Qitsualik-Tinsley

Author:Rachel Qitsualik-Tinsley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inhabit Media
Published: 2014-07-26T16:00:00+00:00

And lay still.

Kannujaq was nocking another arrow when the cronies at last tore their eyes from Angula’s body. Not having really wanted a fight in the first place, they fled like startled hares.

Kannujaq issued long expletives under his breath. He hated this.

He walked over to the fallen Angula, frowning, somehow far more angry at Angula’s corpse than he had been at the living man.

Idiot! he thought. Madman! Making me kill him. The less-than-nothing fool has made me into a murderer.

Kannujaq suddenly felt dirty. As though he were now something less than human. As though he should go into hiding.

Though his arrows were precious, Kannujaq made no attempt to retrieve the one that still quivered, its fletching stirred by wind, in Angula’s chest. He stood watching its movements for a time, sickened and confused by the feelings this encounter had left him with. Here was the one thing he could not stand: human smallness. The Land, despite its dangers, had never frustrated him. The Land had never lied, or grasped, or pretended to be anything other than what it was. It was only the narrow-minded behaviour of humanity that could leave Kannujaq feeling this way—hollow and weak.

This, the killing of Angula, had not been necessary. And the greed, the ego, the stupidity of it all brought Kannujaq to a kind of certainty:

The Tuniit are human, he thought. They are.

He put his bow away and began to leave. But then he paused.

He actually found himself concerned about the Tuniit. How would things unfold once the Siaraili returned? Maybe better, with Angula gone. But now they had no one to lead them. Would they have the wits to flee? Or would they sit, confused, waiting to be slaughtered? And where would they go? As long as they lived by a coast, that Siaraili loon-wolf-boat might hunt them down.

It might even find Kannujaq’s own folk.

Wherever his family now camped, it was sure to be along some coast or other. Would they not look up one day, startled by the sight of a great loon, having no idea that it brought madness and murder?

He looked back toward the Tuniit camp, now leaderless. He remembered the ptarmigan. It was his friend-animal. If it had not taken flight, Angula and the cronies would have ambushed him. Could it be a sign that he really was supposed to work against the enemies of the Tuniit?

“No,” he grumbled to himself. “Probably means I’ll get killed along with them.”

He shook his head, once again swearing in the drawn-out, colourful way of his people. He swore mostly at himself, for beginning to think in terms of signs. Like Siku.

Siku—he was a shaman, but he was also a boy. Would he be able to hold the Tuniit camp together?

Well, there was no point in sledding away so quickly. He might as well tell Siku what had happened. Siku, young as he was, was somewhat respected. He might point the Tuniit to a new leader.

As long as it wasn’t Kannujaq.

He gave the dogs the rest of his dried meat, then walked back to the Tuniit camp.

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