3.25.09
Bright sun on an endless sea of snow stretching from one end of eternity to the other. Stilted branches clutching helplessly at the sky; the plunge and splash of huge distant sea creatures. The womb of the iceland is empty devoid barren but for the broad prints of wolves the wheeling crying birds. Even
in this harsh waste the small scratchings and whistles of lemmings and mice are appreciated, their bodies forming small shadows against the tundra. Talons gleaming in the cold sunlight, wings silent, owls and hawks descend to partake of them. Caribou, breath rising in white plumes from their flared nostrils, pound the flatland into a morass of mud and frozen grass. The sharp antlers of elk spread against the frigid blue of the heavens and the hollow snorts of musk oxen vie with birdsong. Out on the ice, the one whom the Inuit call Grandfather White Bear catches and hurls seals against the floes. Rich dark blood stains his snowy fur and the ice around him as he too indulges himself in the gift of ageless Earth. It was on the long stretch of cold, icy beach that the boy was left, to die alone among the rocks and the cold tapering of wind-dried plants. Tiny hands on frozen stone; a small round belly, naked, cold, vulnerable to the predators that would invariably, mercifully, spare the child his misery. Boys are almost never left to die. Here he crawled, thorns plunging into his feet; he paused, sat, and mewled for his mother, snuffling sobs creeping out from where his head bowed on folded arms. His tiny dirty knees already ran with thin trickles of blood. Here he lay flat against the tundra as caribou stamped and snorted within inches of his small matted head; his fingers worked feverishly against the frozen earth as he stuffed his small mouth with bits of vegetation, swallowing dirt in his haste. The night came quickly, bringing with it the midnight souls of those who had died in the barren wastes. And the wolfsong, the silvery notes that rose, lingered, and fell. The child listened, shuddering, as foxes crept around him and the round golden orbs of owls’ eyes fixed themselves on the nude intruder, ribs like bars beneath his muddy skin. Morning found him close to death, scoured by the cold wind’s breath. Night faded into morning, faded into afternoon, faded into dusk, all beneath the cold and unfeeling eye of the frosted sun. Evening fell and the shallow undulation of his chest was hardly enough to keep the breath within his fragile body. Stars emerged early to contemplate his fate, and long dark shadows drew forth to ring about him, press slender muzzles against his skin— —he had lived but a night and a day. Even Grandfather White Bear came close, the wide pads of his feet shuddering the earth beneath the boy, causing the caribou to spook, the wolves to step back, the savage round eyes of the birds to blink with obeisance. A skua wheeled overhead and screamed its desperate cry as the wide fringe of white fur that adorned Grandfather’s neck draped across the fading eyes of the small body, the rattling throat, the chest already gathering ice. Here the Bear’s nose sniffed; here his great paws pressed themselves into the earth around the child’s frail frame. Here he tasted the mud and blood caked on the small knees; here a growl rumbled low in his throat. In the far-off distance, closer to the end of the white perpetuity than the rest of them were, the massive sea-beasts called and cried beneath the surface of the icy water to each other, contemplating in their sea-herds and their sea-packs what Grandfather White Bear would do. The wolves drew near to lick the silent feet of the boy. Let us take him, they begged. He will feed our children, and in return for his gift, we will restore him to the Earth. And we will scatter his bones across the land, the caribou offered, lowering their great antlered heads to touch his cold ankles. We will see that his essence reaches both ends of eternity. The hawks and owls drew near, reaching broad wingtips to touch his bloody knees. And we will spread the memory of his existence through the heavens. We will see that every creature knows of his great sacrifice to the Earth. Grandfather kissed the cold face of the boy, breathed energy and vitality upon him, his eyes settling to the last descent of the small chest. When it had passed, and serenity settled upon the tiny face, he turned to the wolves and the caribou and the hawks and the owls. I will bequeath his body to the Earth, he rumbled, and when he spoke, it was as if his voice was thunder over the ocean. I will bestow him to the ends of eternity. I will see that the world knows of his essence and of his sacrifice. He spoke no more, but lifted the tranquil little figure into his shaggy white arms and bore him away, across the stretches of barren tundra, across the floes of ice and snow, to the very edge of eternity and the wide expanse of the cold vast sea. There, he lifted, gently, the child’s heart from his body and laid it upon the lapping waves, where it would be carried to the village of human souls claimed by the tundra; there, he laid a stone in both of the tiny curled hands to weight the body in order for the Earth to embrace the child more easily. The sun dipped into the ocean, turned it into a burning breadth of gold ice and blood-tinged waves. And when at last the darkness came, it took with it one more soul on its endless trek across the land, borne on the breath of the wind. Its silent journey reflected itself in the eyes of Grandfather White Bear, who watched darkness settle across his world as a lone skua bird wheeled and wept overhead.
