The panther visited the deathsite of gray trader, today. He brought a small offering along, placing the glossy mink down and building a small pillar of stones around it. He did not think that a proper altar belonged here, but he still wanted to pay homage to the spirit of the mountain.
"Are you there, grandfather?" he asked, lifting his face skyward. The hounds of the wind nipped at his cheeks, pulling his fur awry. "I feel you with the brother spirit, sometimes. Perhaps you will comfort him."
Or perhaps not. He thought of the sadness that had been in moonwoman's eyes as she stood in this place, and all at once, decided he wanted to be far away from it. Still, he bowed his head for a moment longer in prayer.
It had taken a few days to get settled, during which the ice woman had not often left the caves. Their echoic chambers brought a melancholic homesickness to them which she had tried tremendously to shake, but to no avail. Finally, needing a break, she set about finding a new pelt to replace her old shawl.
The wind grew more merciless she higher up the mountain she climbed, dispersing the scent of prey to her disappointment. Though, upon rounding a corner, a different figure came into view.
Besides a small totem of stones, Dutch stood. Fur tousled in the wind, he appeared rugged and deep in thought. Ulloriaq did not disturb him until his gaze fell from the sky and landed on the ground. A grave, perhaps? Suddenly, the overwhelming feeling of intruding on something personal almost made her turn away. Chest tight, she allowed him however long he needed before she moved to gently touch his hip and wordlessly announce her presence.
His head turned toward Tulugak. Suddenly, the deathsite did not seem so unwelcoming a place.
"Moonwoman showed me this place," he said to her, his voice low, as if there were a sleeping child to disturb. "She said it is where her brother, gray trader, found his final rest." He looked up to the glacier. "He was a troubled man. To think of him is to think of my grandfather, Grayday, who walked these climes many years ago."
He did not fear the names of the dead. Grayday was safe, now, beyond the reach of evil. If he lingered here, Dutch welcomed him.
He studied Tulugak, then. Ulloriaq. She looked a little more rested, but he worried for her, still. He could not help thinking about his own father, whose health was a constant worry at the back of the chief's mind. It was not fair to lump these anxieties in with Ulloriaq's grief, and so he would not voice them to her. Not so soon.
"Have you eaten?" he asked her, instead of, How are you doing?
A warm greeting rumbled in her throat as he turned to her, listening intently as he spoke. The air was heavy with the presence of something intangible to the living - she could sense it in the way the wind stirred their pelts, shivering slightly at the thought.
"I can feel them, Dutch. All around us." Though she did not elaborate, the meaning was clear enough.
The mention of moonwoman and her brother had her gazing past his lamplight eyes and into the skies above, her expression curious and contemplative. How had gray trader met his fate? And Grayday; how did his story intertwine with the spirits of this land?
She took a moment of silence to stare into the distance as if, perhaps, her ancestors lay just out of reach. "What kind of stories do these spirits hold?" she asked. While Dutch's focus shifted to the present, Tulugak's thoughts lingered on the ethereal. "Are they at peace now?"
"I have eaten enough," her voice gentle, but far away. "The village has many great hunters."
The panther dipped his chin in agreement; there was a power to this place. He was glad that Kukutux had shared it with him, so that he might be better in tune with the restless spirits here.
Tulugak showed no interest in food. A twinge of worry surfaced for a moment, but hunger would be there when they were ready to face it. This moment might not be. Shifting, he patted the ground with a welcoming paw. He was grateful for her presence, always — and she was one of the few here with which he felt comfortable discussing such matters.
"I think they must be," he said, still very quiet.
"But what they've left behind — impressions, geist — moonwoman says that the mountain longs to be heard."
A tiny shiver raced down his spine. Sometimes the howling of the wind disturbed even him at the deathsite, but he was not afraid.
"They remind me of something a poet once said to me," he told her, growing more pensive himself.
"How loss can pierce with splintered sounds, and then what stealthy tricks will play, to tangle yearning from the past, with images we strive to still; 'til longing opens sorrows shut away — a touch, a smile, a school..."
He trailed off. Some of the poem had never quite made sense to him, but Slow West had claimed that the words did not matter, so long as it meant something to him.
"The poet liked to say that he and his father were carved from the same tree. Carved from a mean tree, when he was feeling most dramatic." A tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"But in my family, we don't believe in this carving. Instead, we are the branches reaching, still connected to our roots."
He looked back to the morning star.
"And our roots tangle with those who grow close," he said.
"Perhaps, come spring, gray trader will find rest. There will be new life on the glacier, and the mountain will be warm again." His gaze dropped to the ground beneath his paws. He imagined he could still smell gray trader's blood.
"I don't think this place is content to be history."
His voice was barely a whisper above the wind. She was not convinced that their spirits had found peace. Grayday's, perhaps, but the troubled man she was inclined to believe still walked among the living - at least here; at his resting place. Sitting beside him, her tail twined absent-mindedly with the dark fur of his own.
"There is something my people believe," tone no louder than his. "Spirits that are no longer connected to a physical body may choose to linger instead of joining their brothers and sisters in the sea. Tuurngaq, they are called. Killing spirits." Tulugak was less fond of this term, as these spirits were not inherently evil. "Perhaps, that is what gray trader has become if he has not found peace."
They could theorise all they wanted, but it was only moonwoman's brother who knew the true fate of his soul. "Usually it is shamans that are closest to the spirit world. Sometimes, in places like this, the spirits mingle among the living. If the mountain wishes to be heard, this is where it will speak."
She fell into a thoughtful silence then, as Dutch spoke of poetry. There were many words - many nuances - she did not quite grasp. But those she did resonated with recent events. Separating loss from a blossoming future; it was something she grew a little closer to understanding with each conversation she had with him.
"Your poet's carving and your branches - perhaps they are the same tree." They did not have to be so separate, no? "Each branch will be shaped by the snow and the sun to look different. Some may bear fruit, others may rot or grow old, but, all will share the same roots." Her lips quirked in a smile as he met her gaze. "As our roots tangle together, maybe they will carve each other that way too."
Dutch did not like the idea of a killing spirit in their home — but Tulugak seemed calmly accepting of it, so perhaps it was not what he feared. It was his family's belief that their family members had a limited ability to go back and forth between world — but only to those close to their heart and blood. This limitation had never been comforting until this moment, when he imagined an untethered ghost roaming their lands.
Digesting this, it took him a moment to settle in to talk of family trees. When he did, his smile echoed hers, small but warm. He liked the idea of their roots tangling much more than he liked the rest of it — but when he laid aside his own stubborn desire to be right, he could admit that these nuances seemed to coexist together quite nicely.
"You are wise," he said, but of course, this was no surprise to him. "I will listen to you. I will listen for gray trader as well, but..."
He hadn't heard much, thus far.
"We have no shamans here," he said at last, his tone a mixture of regret and — hope? Curiosity?
"And you are wise, also," she remarked. He had always had a way with words, whether in the form of poetry or song. The northwoman could always find something worth knowing even if she could not sing nor speak as well as he. And she would carry his knowledge wherever her paws would take her next. Here, she hoped; with new life came new ears and new minds to teach.
They spoke of shamans next, the thought which drew a furrow of her brow. "There is something I neglected to tell you. Tuurngaq - they are not all killing spirits. Often, they are the friends of shamans and help guide them through their duties." Morningsong did have a notable absence of spirit-talkers. When sickness or storm came, they had no one to call for. No one to walk their dreams.
An idea crossed her mind, then. "I could learn. I would need help - moonwoman - she may teach me if I asked." What would he think of that? Beyond the thought of helping Morningsong, a small part of her wanted to explore the path of angakkuq for herself. To hear the voices of her mother and father again, to seek her sisters beyond the glacier.
Would this be something he wanted of her?
The panther nodded, pensive. He'd thought as much, and when she said it like that, it sounded more like the spirits as he had come to know them. Gray trader was a lost spirit in need of an anchor, and perhaps guidance into the next life, if what Tulugak said was true. He was inclined to trust her in this — women knew things that men could not.
His head turned fully toward the morning star when she proposed her idea. His burnished gaze searched her face for signs of reluctance or worry.
"You have my support," he said at last. "Moonwoman showed this place to me. Perhaps she will be willing to show more to you."
These were not men's secrets to know.
"Let's leave this place," he said, looking one last time at the little cairn. "I have done what I came to do."
It felt unnatural to turn his back on the deathsite, but he did it, and he walked sedately down the trail instead of fleeing, as he might have if Tulugak were not present.
"This path calls to you?" he asked, still stealing glances at her face.
Ulloriaq felt her chest swell with warmth to know he had her back. The idea had been just that: an idea, until his words had blossomed it into something more. If she decided the path of a shaman was truly right for her, she would seek moonwoman upon her return from Hearthwood. But, only if she was sure.
Wordlessly, she rose to give him space as his head turned towards gray trader's resting place once more. Hopefully, Dutch had found what he came to seek here. If not, she would accompany him again, and again, until he too was at peace.
She did not truly relax until the grave was out of sight and the wind spirits were left to howl alone again.
"I have not given it much thought until now," she admitted, ears drooping slightly. "But, I have always felt a connection with spirits." Somewhere along the raven's path she had begun talking to the ethereal more than flesh and blood. "Becoming a shaman comes with responsibilities - as does becoming Chief." Concerned, her eyes worriedly traced the slope of his muzzle in a silent question: how have you been?
Although the whole interaction had been one long joke, Dutch recalled what Tulugak had said to him when they first met. Even with the silliness that followed, he had always believed that she spoke to the spirits. That they were all around, and that she could see them, even if he could not. Part of this was because of women's magics, of course, but part of it was the sturdiness and surety of the woman beside him. That quality that made him feel safe and brave and yet simultaneously like he was about to fall from a great height.
She would be a good shaman to them, he thought. But would such a path be good to her? She had suffered a deep wound to her own spirit so recently — Dutch wasn't sure it was wise to delve into these things in such a delicate state.
He came back to the present when she spoke, and for a moment, he felt sure she was talking about them — and the new life a leader was duty-bound to introduce to the land. Dutch felt he'd fulfilled this in bringing Eira and Fallen Sun together, but if she was willing —
The concern in her eyes set him straight. Dutch dropped his gaze and breathed out a long sigh.
They'd come to a ridge that overlooked the valley floor and the distant walls of Moonglow. Dutch dropped to his haunches and leaned his shoulder against a stalwart pine.
"When I reached home and Ariadne was not here," he said, his voice pitched low. Like it was a secret between them, instead of like there was something out there they were trying not to wait. But he spoke to the mountains, his gaze lingering somewhere in the middle distance. When he'd reached home: "I went to Moontide. To the lodge of Chakliux. He said that I had a home with him and his family, and I told him that I would come to him when things were settled here. I thought that moonwoman would send another of her sunshine people to lead us. And when she didn't..."
He looked back to Tulugak, searching her eyes for understanding.
"I have always walked my own path," he told her. "And I have always been lonely for it, but no place has been quite like home. When I met Ariadne, I thought — here is a leader that I can grow with, instead of a stranger I would have to learn to bend beneath. And I found my place here. And I found — " You. "My people."
The near-slip scrambled his thoughts for a moment, but he soon got them back in order.
"Sometimes it is hard not to think about running off to become a seal hunter," he admitted. "And if it were just Chakliux and his wives and his sons — perhaps things would be different. But I don't want to leave my place or my people. Even though things are different now."