Trilogy: Song for Life

By Jørn Riel

During the time she had lived with the Kutchin she had heard and seen and learnt a great deal. Even though these people had been a lot like the Inuit, their minds and way of life were different. They were proud and coveted honour and loved disputes. Quite the opposite then to the Inuit who preferred to maintain peace at any price. She had hated them, but never feared them because, in many ways, they seemed both childish and ignorant.

The earth was their mother and not available for ownership. This was so self-evident to Shanuq that she had smiled every time she had heard it. Of course no person could own either earth or sky or ocean. War had been their father and he led them into conflict at any opportunity.

They fought for completely unimportant trifles. Women and perishable goods. To steal weapons and tools, pelts and meat and to cut out hearts and livers from the fallen enemy, to be eaten raw. The malignant blood of war flowed briskly through their veins and their cruelty was massive. They thought nothing of fighting with the Eaters of Wild Reindeer - and they were kinsmen of sorts - and they confronted the Dogrib, Cree and Nahani whenever they came across them. If they couldn´t find anyone from the Athabask clan to kill, they headed north for the Inuit. These people, they were totally unpredictable.

The clan controlled an enormous area of forest, an abundant source of game and rivers abounding in fish. But still, while Shanuq was living with them, big bands would set off to find new territory and new people they could wage war against. So great was their lust for slaughter that they would, without a second thought, leave the land their ancestors had bestowed upon them. Shanuq was glad that Shapokee was old and settled and completely lacking in wanderlust. She didn´t want to move any further away from the part of the coast that she missed so much.

The clan had many taboos, more than the Inuit. She knew quite a few, ones they had in common, and she soon learnt the rest. Itqiliit, for instance, never killed ravens or dogs and at certain times of the year neither wolves nor bears either. But those animals they were permitted to kill were pursued with great bloodthirstiness. During a reindeer hunt there would often be a hunter who would go on and on killing until he was so tired he could no longer lift his spear arm. It was thought to be impossible to deplete the stock of animals and it was assumed that if many reindeer were killed there would be plenty of food for the foxes who would then multiply and provide many pelts the next year.

They had a heartfelt hatred of the wolverine. For the wolverine was stronger than a dogperson. It could with ease lift up and remove the great logs that were put under the caches of meat and it could climb up into the tallest trees and devour the frozen meat and bones that were hung up safely out of the reach of wolves and bears. Now and then the hunters trapped a wolverine and then they would rip its eyes out of their sockets and, blinded, let it loose again. Or they cut out its tongue and let it go. Once, on Shapokee´s orders, it was kept in the camp so that everyone could witness its agony at close quarters. With his knife, Shapokee slit open its belly and tied the hapless creature to a young birch tree with the assistance of its guts. The cruelty of this people went beyond any cruelty Shanuq had seen among her own people.

She had also become acquainted with song. Not the same song that her father had possessed, that had belonged to the spirits, but a narrative song she had found very pleasing and entertaining. Now, many years later, as she walked along the misty Arctic shoreline collecting wood for the fire, she could effortlessly call these songs to mind.

Translated by Gaye Kynoch