said, go on, amaze me.
'He
said I allow myself to be bossed about by an Indian lemming fart.'
Derek
laughed bleakly. For a small minority in Kuujuaq, he'd always been an object of
derision on account of his mongrel blood: part qalunaat, part Inuit and,
almost unforgivably, part Cree, the Inuit's natural enemy. He'd grown up with
the idea that he was someone who probably didn't belong anywhere, but that
didn't mean he liked being reminded of the fact. He drew out his carton of
cigarettes then, thinking better of it, got up from his desk and went into the
radio room to make his usual morning calls. He didn't want Stevie to see he was
rattled.
Since
the cutbacks the Kuujuaq detachment had been given the communities of Hell
Gate, Jakeman Fiord and the scientific station on Devon Island to police, in
addition to the original beat of Kuujuaq, Eureka and Autisaq. There wasn't much
at Hell Gate or Jakeman Fiord - a couple of tiny weather stations, a few
hunting camps open mostly in the summer, and, at Jakeman, a small geologic
survey, but he was expected to make contact with someone from each community at
least once every other day and to be prepared to fly out at short notice should
anything untoward happen.
Other
than the death of Felix Wagner, nothing untoward had happened in quite some
time and Derek's calls had taken on a slightly desperate air. It was not that
he was willing anything bad to befall any of the five Arctic settlements and
the science station under his wing, it was just that the lack of an event
calling for his intervention or assistance fed the feelings of impotence and
redundancy that had already been brought on by Misha's departure.
To
amuse himself, he'd invented a series of rubrics to determine in which order to
make the calls: alphabetical one day, then the next in reverse order of the
number of vowels in the name. Today, he decided to go for a simple reverse
alphabetical, which meant starting with Jakeman and working his way to Autisaq.
He
sat down in the caribou-leather radio chair and donned the headphones.
'Hey,
Derek,' a voice crackled through the static from Jakeman, 'you're wasting your
time again.'
He
made his way through the list, taking a break for a cigarette at Eureka.
Nothing happening anywhere. His final call was to Autisaq. A familiar voice
answered.
'Joe Inukpuk.
Haven't heard you on radio in a while.' Derek smiled to himself. He'd always
liked that boy. They bonded over their support for Jordin Tootoo, the first
Inuit pro ice-hockey player, who played for the Nashville Predators. On a trip
south one time, Derek had bought Joe a Predators thermos and hat with the
sabre-tooth tiger logo. The boy had worn the hat until it fell apart.
'I've
been busy at the nursing station, sir.'
'Aha,'
Palliser said. Word had got around that Joe was hoping to go into nursing
training. Unusual for an Inuk. Still, he was to be admired for his ambition,
not just for himself, but for his community. It was time the territory of
Nunavut started training Inuit professionals instead of relying on southerners
working short-term contracts.
'See
the Predators game?'
'Oh
man, it was a smash,' Joe said.
'Tootoo,
what a star!'
'Too,
too much.' It was their little joke, one Joe had first alighted on gleefully at
the age of fourteen. They'd been telling it regularly in the six years since.
'Everything
OK where you are?' Derek remembered this was supposed to be an official call.
A
pause on the line. 'Sure.'
Derek
heard voices in the background. The boy didn't sound sure. 'Really?'
'Just
one thing, sir.' There was a hissing on the airwaves, interference probably,
either that or Joe was whispering.
'My
stepmom, Edie Kiglatuk? She'd like a word.'
'Go
ahead and put her on,' Derek said. He always enjoyed talking to Edie and he was
conscious, after
'He
said I allow myself to be bossed about by an Indian lemming fart.'
Derek
laughed bleakly. For a small minority in Kuujuaq, he'd always been an object of
derision on account of his mongrel blood: part qalunaat, part Inuit and,
almost unforgivably, part Cree, the Inuit's natural enemy. He'd grown up with
the idea that he was someone who probably didn't belong anywhere, but that
didn't mean he liked being reminded of the fact. He drew out his carton of
cigarettes then, thinking better of it, got up from his desk and went into the
radio room to make his usual morning calls. He didn't want Stevie to see he was
rattled.
Since
the cutbacks the Kuujuaq detachment had been given the communities of Hell
Gate, Jakeman Fiord and the scientific station on Devon Island to police, in
addition to the original beat of Kuujuaq, Eureka and Autisaq. There wasn't much
at Hell Gate or Jakeman Fiord - a couple of tiny weather stations, a few
hunting camps open mostly in the summer, and, at Jakeman, a small geologic
survey, but he was expected to make contact with someone from each community at
least once every other day and to be prepared to fly out at short notice should
anything untoward happen.
Other
than the death of Felix Wagner, nothing untoward had happened in quite some
time and Derek's calls had taken on a slightly desperate air. It was not that
he was willing anything bad to befall any of the five Arctic settlements and
the science station under his wing, it was just that the lack of an event
calling for his intervention or assistance fed the feelings of impotence and
redundancy that had already been brought on by Misha's departure.
To
amuse himself, he'd invented a series of rubrics to determine in which order to
make the calls: alphabetical one day, then the next in reverse order of the
number of vowels in the name. Today, he decided to go for a simple reverse
alphabetical, which meant starting with Jakeman and working his way to Autisaq.
He
sat down in the caribou-leather radio chair and donned the headphones.
'Hey,
Derek,' a voice crackled through the static from Jakeman, 'you're wasting your
time again.'
He
made his way through the list, taking a break for a cigarette at Eureka.
Nothing happening anywhere. His final call was to Autisaq. A familiar voice
answered.
'Joe Inukpuk.
Haven't heard you on radio in a while.' Derek smiled to himself. He'd always
liked that boy. They bonded over their support for Jordin Tootoo, the first
Inuit pro ice-hockey player, who played for the Nashville Predators. On a trip
south one time, Derek had bought Joe a Predators thermos and hat with the
sabre-tooth tiger logo. The boy had worn the hat until it fell apart.
'I've
been busy at the nursing station, sir.'
'Aha,'
Palliser said. Word had got around that Joe was hoping to go into nursing
training. Unusual for an Inuk. Still, he was to be admired for his ambition,
not just for himself, but for his community. It was time the territory of
Nunavut started training Inuit professionals instead of relying on southerners
working short-term contracts.
'See
the Predators game?'
'Oh
man, it was a smash,' Joe said.
'Tootoo,
what a star!'
'Too,
too much.' It was their little joke, one Joe had first alighted on gleefully at
the age of fourteen. They'd been telling it regularly in the six years since.
'Everything
OK where you are?' Derek remembered this was supposed to be an official call.
A
pause on the line. 'Sure.'
Derek
heard voices in the background. The boy didn't sound sure. 'Really?'
'Just
one thing, sir.' There was a hissing on the airwaves, interference probably,
either that or Joe was whispering.
'My
stepmom, Edie Kiglatuk? She'd like a word.'
'Go
ahead and put her on,' Derek said. He always enjoyed talking to Edie and he was
conscious, after
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