Read Online Ice Drift (9780547540610) by Theodore Taylor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Theodore Taylor
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the storm. Jamka sniffed the tracks but didn't seem disturbed by them. Apparently, the
nanuks
weren't nearby. "Better we stay inside for a while anyway," Alika said.
Then he double-checked the carbine to make certain it was ready for use. There were ice crystals on the barrel, but it cocked easily. Alika well knew that against a charging bear, he'd likely have only one shot. He'd have to depend on Jamka to slow the charge and not get in the way.
To pass time, he resharpened every knife and then began kneading the sealskins, though they'd need sunshine for stretching and softening. What else was there to do? Finally, Alika said, "Let's hunt. I need to get out of here." But Jamka's holes weren't active, and they returned to the
iglu
for another harrowing night.
The wind moaned and, combined with the creaking of the floeânow and then a muffled collision, perhaps a bergy bit crashing against their floeâand the eerie darkness inside the snowhouse, made each hour agonizing. Alika wondered how long they could take it. How many days and nights could they last, not even counting the dangers of the weather and
nanuk?
Sulu asked, "Will there be another summer for us?"
"Of course," Alika said. But he had no proof. Maybe not even another night?
Sulu said, "I can't wait."
"Just keep thinking about it, brother," Alika said. "Close your eyes and think about all the sunshine. You'll get warm just thinking about it."
All Inuit lived for the spring and summer, delighted in each day and night, especially those who lived north of the Arctic Circle. The sun would stay above the horizon from mid-May until late July, and even though the temperature could dip to thirty below in the spring for a day or two, or snow could fall, those seasons were like heaven to Alika and Sulu and their people.
As the snow disappeared, the tundra would be covered with willow catkins and poppies and buttercups and mountain avens and purple saxifrage and Lapland rosebay and heather. Orange lichen covered the rocks; yellow-green moss filled the valleys. Huge Arctic bumblebees came out of nowhere to suck nectars. Summer was goodness and happiness to Alika and Sulu.
In the late winter and spring, occasionally there were sun dogs, twenty-two degrees on either side of the sun, caused by airborne ice crystals, sometimes accompanied by luminous arcs and bands. The Arctic sky, Qilak, was a place of wonder to every Inuit.
Summer was the time of year when the moon slept. If it could be seen at all, it was the color of pale white cheese. No stars could be seen. Sun flooded the northland, and the Inuit collected eggs and hunted and fished around the clock. Who wanted to waste the good light and relative warmth bedded down?
Sulu said, "Will I see the birds again?"
Alika said, "Of course."
Sulu's papa and mama had no idea why he had fallen in love with birds. Neither did Alika.
The only birds that Sulu could see during the winter were the ravens, the dovekies, the gyrfalcons, the ptarmigan, and the snowy owls. So Sulu worshiped the flocks of birds that came in the spring and summer. He couldn't wait each year until the migrating waterbirds were seen, the snow geese and the ducks, the common eiders and gaudy king eiders,
the red-throated loons, the black guillemots and the piratical, nest-robbing jaegers. Almost thirty different kinds of birds visited during the spring and summer, millions of them. Sulu could identify most. He knew the perching birds as well as the seabirds that skimmed low over the melting ice.
When a peregrine dived on a horned lark, he would shout, "Look out, lark!" When the jaeger plundered the nest of a phalarope, he'd yell, "Thief!"
"Yes, you'll see the birds again," Alika assured him.
Sulu kept talking about the birds for a long time, until his small voice faded out. He was different from all the other boys in Nunatak, Alika knew, a carver and bird lover.
Alika had his own memories of the springs and summers onshore. They paraded
nanuks
weren't nearby. "Better we stay inside for a while anyway," Alika said.
Then he double-checked the carbine to make certain it was ready for use. There were ice crystals on the barrel, but it cocked easily. Alika well knew that against a charging bear, he'd likely have only one shot. He'd have to depend on Jamka to slow the charge and not get in the way.
To pass time, he resharpened every knife and then began kneading the sealskins, though they'd need sunshine for stretching and softening. What else was there to do? Finally, Alika said, "Let's hunt. I need to get out of here." But Jamka's holes weren't active, and they returned to the
iglu
for another harrowing night.
The wind moaned and, combined with the creaking of the floeânow and then a muffled collision, perhaps a bergy bit crashing against their floeâand the eerie darkness inside the snowhouse, made each hour agonizing. Alika wondered how long they could take it. How many days and nights could they last, not even counting the dangers of the weather and
nanuk?
Sulu asked, "Will there be another summer for us?"
"Of course," Alika said. But he had no proof. Maybe not even another night?
Sulu said, "I can't wait."
"Just keep thinking about it, brother," Alika said. "Close your eyes and think about all the sunshine. You'll get warm just thinking about it."
All Inuit lived for the spring and summer, delighted in each day and night, especially those who lived north of the Arctic Circle. The sun would stay above the horizon from mid-May until late July, and even though the temperature could dip to thirty below in the spring for a day or two, or snow could fall, those seasons were like heaven to Alika and Sulu and their people.
As the snow disappeared, the tundra would be covered with willow catkins and poppies and buttercups and mountain avens and purple saxifrage and Lapland rosebay and heather. Orange lichen covered the rocks; yellow-green moss filled the valleys. Huge Arctic bumblebees came out of nowhere to suck nectars. Summer was goodness and happiness to Alika and Sulu.
In the late winter and spring, occasionally there were sun dogs, twenty-two degrees on either side of the sun, caused by airborne ice crystals, sometimes accompanied by luminous arcs and bands. The Arctic sky, Qilak, was a place of wonder to every Inuit.
Summer was the time of year when the moon slept. If it could be seen at all, it was the color of pale white cheese. No stars could be seen. Sun flooded the northland, and the Inuit collected eggs and hunted and fished around the clock. Who wanted to waste the good light and relative warmth bedded down?
Sulu said, "Will I see the birds again?"
Alika said, "Of course."
Sulu's papa and mama had no idea why he had fallen in love with birds. Neither did Alika.
The only birds that Sulu could see during the winter were the ravens, the dovekies, the gyrfalcons, the ptarmigan, and the snowy owls. So Sulu worshiped the flocks of birds that came in the spring and summer. He couldn't wait each year until the migrating waterbirds were seen, the snow geese and the ducks, the common eiders and gaudy king eiders,
the red-throated loons, the black guillemots and the piratical, nest-robbing jaegers. Almost thirty different kinds of birds visited during the spring and summer, millions of them. Sulu could identify most. He knew the perching birds as well as the seabirds that skimmed low over the melting ice.
When a peregrine dived on a horned lark, he would shout, "Look out, lark!" When the jaeger plundered the nest of a phalarope, he'd yell, "Thief!"
"Yes, you'll see the birds again," Alika assured him.
Sulu kept talking about the birds for a long time, until his small voice faded out. He was different from all the other boys in Nunatak, Alika knew, a carver and bird lover.
Alika had his own memories of the springs and summers onshore. They paraded
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