NaNoWriMo Word Count: 2,487

Moe Ipeelie limped to his cabin door. He twisted his ankle crossing over the rock face of the fjords. He had to abandon his skidoo, after casting off his sled and most of his gear. Not all his gear. His tarp caught in the wind and one of his empty coolers rolled away. He kept essentials. Moe knew how to live on the land, although he preferred modern rigging he easily carried the knowledge of his ancestors who lived in these extremes for thousands of years. Food, water, shelter, warmth and transportation. If you knew where to step, your feet could serve as your transportation. But Moe had been trapped in a less than ideal spot.

The dog with him had been a hassle at times. Especially trying to find a way over the fjords once the sea ice broke up. He’d made it to a narrow bay that held, but he had left his sled at the place he intended to hunt. It was normal for him to leave his sled, even his skidoo and walk out to scout the blow holes or any seals he spotted in the distance. Elijah was going to meet up with him, but the dogs, of course, were slower than a skidoo. He never did see Elijah and hoped his older friend had made it to his own narrow bay sanctuary since Elijah would have been traveling, and not hunting. When hunting, you walked away farther from the rock cliffs.

This one dog was all Moe ever saw of Elijah. She had been wearing her harness and a chewed strand of seal rope. Moe recognized the dog. She was the young one, her first trip out. Elijah called her Maki. It was the same named he called his wife and they always had a dog named Maki, as it was some joke between the married couple. But an affectionate one. Often Maki was a name they bestowed on a dog they had affection for.

And that was not typical. Huskies were not the pets that people in the south made of dogs. In Clyde River, everyone who had dogs kept them in a community pen. You were responsible for feeding your own dogs and often everyone contributed frozen seal to the purpose. Sometimes a hunter had to shoot over the heads of dogs fighting for food or position. The dogs created their own hierarchy and some were quite fierce. Those dogs were certainly not pets.

Hunters looked to their dogs like a work animal. They had a purpose and it wasn’t to curl up at your toes by the hearth fire. The dogs slept outside, often staked out onto the ice in a circle around tents or iglus. They warned off wandering polar bears and signaled any new arrivals. If it snowed hard, the dogs curled up into their own furry balls and let the snow bury them into their own mini iglus. Some southerners were shocked to see the dogs treated in such a way, but it was how they had always worked with dogs.

Of course, each man was his own and some found more companionship in the dogs especially when living long on the land. Children often played with dogs, to get familiar with these community companions. Elijah was tough and smart, something Moe knew first hand. But he was soft for his wife and occasionally one of his dogs.

This Maki-dog was one. She looked like the others in Elijah’s care, white with black lips, black nose tips and rimmed eyes. They looked like some offering from wolves and polar bears. Elijah’s father had preferred the markings and so did Elijah. Everyone in Clyde River and beyond knew Elijah’s dogs. They were big and stocky, too. Sometimes the southerners that Elijah guided for would ask about buying a dog or puppies. But he never did sell any. Once he gave three to the man from Minnesota who had stayed with Elijah and Maki while making trips by his own dogs to the North Pole. But that was the only exception.

As Moe limped into his cold cabin, he set about finding fuel that hadn’t gelled. He had a tiny bit yet left in his pack, and he could thaw some of what he had in the cabin. Funny, to think of burning fuel first before thinking of food. But he had food and would get some seal stored outside for the Maki-dog. He knew he should leave her outside like any other dog, but he’d need to find rope. He also had to admit that this dog had become a close companion to him during his difficult trek back to his cabin. And just because he made it here didn’t mean that the ordeal was over. Clyde River was two days away by dog sled and he neither had a sled or a team. He no longer had a skidoo. He would have to hope that other hunters would come here, seeking shelter or maybe just games and stories.

Maki-dog curled up on the hide by the stove. Moe sat down on one of two chairs at a table. Across the room was his bed, which never looked so good as it did now. First heat, then food. Last time Elijah was here with his team, he kept an eye on this dog. Twice before he had caught her chewing on the seal hide rope of her lead. Once he even had to repair it as she nearly chewed it through. Such actions would often gain a dog the cuff of a hunter’s hand, but Elijah silently repaired the damage and kept watch. She was young, not yet out of that stage where dogs would chew up useful things.

When they left the cabin, Moe knew that the lead was in good repair. Possibly, if Elijah had stopped to scan for seal signs, or walked out onto the ice, Maki-dog could have resumed her chewing. That would explain her escape from the sled. Moe hoped that it was an escape. The other possibility was that Elijah’s sled broke through the ice. The dogs would be able to swim to land or ice. But what Moe saw was ice breaking away from the cliffs. Where would dogs swim to? He knew that Elijah’s sled would float for a time. But was it long enough time?

For some reason, Moe seemed to think that it wasn’t enough time. And the sea-ice was land. If that land fell, the hunter on it would go, too. It nearly happened to Moe. Yet it seemed to be repaired, like a chewed upon rope, re-braided. Never had Moe seen such a thing. Never had he heard such a story. Moe was determined to deliver this Maki-dog to Elijah’s Maki. It was all that was left of Elijah, he was pretty sure. In fact, he had hoped to arrive here to find an iglu built by his friend waiting.

After his meal, Moe thought he heard a plane over head. But he was too tired to step outside. Too disappointed not to find Elijah. Too warm finely, not to disturb Maki-dog. As he dozed off he recalled a childhood story about the littlest sled dog. He could still hear his grandmother and another elder singing it in a throat song. He now had the littlest sled dog. Brave. Loyal. A good dog. Little.

###

When the search plane returned to Clyde River the spotters reported seeing smoke from Moe Ipeelie’s cabin which created a big stir. Sydney pounded on the door of Lucie’s house. Inside he could smell apple pies as if they were attached to her waiting, but he also heard laughter and a guitar.

“Sydney,” she said, welcoming the mountie. “Come in, take off your clothes.”

A woman giggled from across the room, an attractive, bright-eyed woman with hair like those of the hip-hop instructors who had visited, only blond. Dr. Starkka was sitting close to her on the couch and looked as if he could sit next to her a long time. He seemed to be smiling for no apparent reason. The big man, playing the guitar he recognized as the famous explorer, Ax Mathiason, not because he personally knew the man, but because he recognized him from National Geographic posters. Conrado was sitting on a chair in the living room circle drumming his fingers on his knee while balancing a plate of nearly gone apple pie on the other. Despite the small space Tobie was dancing in the hip-hop style with several other youth from the community standing or sitting.

Tobie stopped mid-step when he realized it was Sydney. “Our Mountie,” he shouted. Sydney had not adjusted to the near-hero status he, Alex and the other survivors had gained since returning to Clyde River two nights ago. It seemed ridiculous to honor officials from a plane crash who added more worry to an already concerned community. But as Conrado explained, “You survived man, you are a hero.”

Sydney disagreed with the status, believing Conrado, Dagen and Tobie were the heroes more so than he. None the less the community was planning a celebration for their return. And a funeral. All had reached the sobering conclusion that after six weeks, Moe and Elijah were never coming home again. Lucie was surrounded by people, elders, youth or visitors and she seemed to be coping, even offering comfort to others when she was the one who should be comforted. Maybe baking pies and welcoming the steady stream of people to her house was best for her right now.

But it made Sydney’s official duties feel awkward. “Hello, Mrs. Ujarak,” he said.

Ax stopped strumming and all faces turned to the RCMP standing by the closed door in his parka, wishing he could be anywhere else, even back at the site of the Herc crash.

Lucie handed a piece of pie to Ax, who was now leaning his guitar upright against the arm of the couch. “Mrs. Ujarak, is it,” said Maki, her hands kneading the edge of her black sweater with red embroidery. “This must be official, Mountie Brindeau.”

Sydney felt the tears welling up in his own eyes and he nearly cursed out loud. He swiftly removed his cap, having forgotten to do so upon entering. He took a deep breath, managed to center himself in calm. “They have officially called off the search for Elijah.”

“Thank you for looking so hard, Mountie Brindeau,” said Lucie. She smiled but he could see the tears pooling. It remained silent for several long moments.

Finally, Ax, who rose from the couch to tower over Lucie, but hug her to his side anyhow, broke the silence. “They recovered his body, then?”

“Well,” said Sydney, “Not exactly.”

“Then why call off the search,” Ax asked. Several faces, some of the youth with tears already wetting cheeks, looked hopefully at Sydney.

“The plane spotted smoke coming from Moe Ipeelie’s cabin,” explained Sydney. “As they flew lower, they saw two sets of tracks, but the second turned out to be animal, not human.”

“A wolf followed,” said Tobie as if it were somehow significant.

“Not a wolf,” said Sydney. “But it was Moe and one of Elijah’s dogs.”

Lucie nodded and said, “Maki, I knew she’d figure her way out of any situation.”

“Moe says the same thing,” agreed Sydney, confirming that the dog found was Maki, Elijah’s youngest sled dog.

“Moe!” Tobie’s eyes widened. “Moe was really on a flow?”

“Not exactly, but Moe did get stranded in a bay that remained intact when the sea ice broke up,” said Sydney. “His eye-witness statement confirms that the ice broke all the way off to the cliff face at the Walker Citadel.”

Dagen shook his head. “That’s unprecedented.” He knew all the popular time lines for climate change based on current greenhouse emissions, but an incident of this magnitude exceeded those. He knew he would need to take samples on the eastern shore and try to collect data to explain what happened. Although that would be small comfort to a widow and a village.

Ax asked, “How did Moe make it out?” He was familiar with the terrain.

“Seems that he found a passage through rocks and ice and traveled over the top of the fjord cliffs,” answered Sydney.

“Where did he find the dog,” Ax asked.

“She swam up to the span of ice that Moe had retreated to when the ice began breaking up,” said Sydney. He took a deep breath and continued. “Moe says that Elijah was going to meet him at a certain point. Moe left his sled there, and managed to race his skidoo into the narrow inlet. He waited for Elijah after the dog swam to the shelf of ice for many days. He left, hoping that Elijah was similarly stranded.”

“Is it possible,” asked Dagen.

“We already searched by air,” said Sydney. “We found no signs and we flew over every nook and cranny between Moe’s cabin and where Moe sought safety. We confirmed that the tarp and cooler were lost by Moe, from his sled. Moe’s skidoo was still in the inlet, but we missed it when flying over in the Herc.”

“Could you have missed Elijah?” asked Elisappee through her tears.

“No,” said Sydney. “Different search pattern was followed once we understood what we might be looking for was closer to the maze of fjords.”

“How did Moe get the dog over the terrain he had to trek,” asked Ax.

Sydney said, “Moe was determined.”

Lucie smiled and Ax hugged her tighter into his side with one arm. “Elijah said was a determined dog.”

“But how is it that she broke free from the team and sled,” asked Dagen. One of the dangers of breaking through the ice with dogs pulling a sled was that if one plunged in, they all did.

Ax answered. “Elijah runs a traditional fan hitch. No trees out here to run dogs the way we do in tandem the way we do in the states.”

“That, and Moe said Maki-dog had been chewing on her lead whenever Elijah stopped,” said Sydney. “The weight of the sinking sled could have snapped the frayed line.”

###

As planned, Clyde River held a celebration. And a funeral for one of their beloved elders. Tarps spread across the community center at the airport where residents brought chunks of country food—slabs of seal, fish, caribou. Many pies were baked and other foods prepared. The town shut down.

More than ever, Dagen realized the impact of global warming in this scientific canary cage. Except, now he knew that the canaries had names.

NaNoWriMo Word Count: 2,389

The trouble with a rescue operation on Baffin Island, or really anywhere in the northern territories is that the area is vast and the resources are sparse. Even with knowing a plane’s final position after going down, the coordinates may not be easily accessible, as such with the downed Herc. One promising advantage was that the men who went down on the plane were all trained in arctic rescue, thus increasing their chance of survival exponentially. Air support was difficult to call in when storms seems to be queued endlessly. Not to mention that the downed C-130 was the result of calling in air support for a search.

Dagen and the volunteer rescuers from Clyde River hunkered down on the land during two storms. The first had been a blizzard. The snow pounded the tents and iglu in vertically flying white pellets. That was when the three Inuit hunters and their dogs joined the search. When the weather dulled to gray, overcast skies and a slight breeze, the Clyde River volunteers packed up the sleds hitched to skidoos and far-outpaced the three dog teams. But then they came to a boulder field, strewn with rocks the size of small cars. The skidoos had to skirt the field. Although it was tough going for the dogs and sleds, they actually made it through and held the lead until the skidoos caught up and overtook them once again. They set up camp on the edge of a lake of glare ice. Using ice screws, they volunteers secured their tents right on the edge of the ice.

That’s when the second storm hit. It was warmer, less snow, but windier. In the midst of a full gale, the winds blasted the cluster of tents at eighty miles per hour. When they hit, it was hours before dawn, pitch black. Some of the tents began to rip. Once a tent tore, even minor rents in the nylon, it resulted in complete failure. The volunteers lost three tents. Dagen’s dome with its lattice work of poles was designed to withstand winds at base camps for places like Mount Everest. The volunteers who found themselves tentless, grabbed what gear they could, parkas boots, sleeping bags—the essentials of survival—and holed up in Dagen’s orange dome.

Day dawned white, although it never turned into a blizzard. It wasn’t really snowing, just blowing snow. The sky was white as if a dust storm had hit. It blew like dirt and stung like salt. The colors of the tents were muted and the horizon completely disappeared. The sun never really made an appearance although the day lit up like the glow in a snow globe and a silver-looking ball skirted the southern horizon as if substituting for the sun.

The volunteers made sure the remaining tents were kept in repair as the winds tried to rip them to shreds. There would be no traveling that day and Conrado didn’t dare record anything for knowledge that it would sound like audio banshee screaming if he did. Tobie and another young man from Clyde River made a game of skimming across the glare ice, pushed by the winds. The first run had been an accident and Dagen was ready to charge after the Clyde River youth until he finally came to a stop, crawled to the edge and came back to camp, laughing. Now the two boys made a game of the wind and ice.

Later, as they all huddled in the dome tent, barely able to hear one another over snapping nylon and howling gusts, they played at cheek pulling. Now Dagen understood its appeal. They didn’t have enough space to leg wrestle. It wasn’t dark enough for shadow puppets. It was way too loud for throat singing or story-telling. But cheek pulling filled the space of time while they waited out the winds, allowing the men to expend their energy. Somehow they found it exceedingly funny, most of all Conrado. He had such an infectious giggle that once the Texas radio journalist got to laughing, everyone was laughing. All within the confines of the orange dome.

By nightfall the gale peaked and slowed down. They ate a shared meal of arctic char and refried beans. Dagen wondered what Miriam would make of the meal. Conrado thought it was great. “You’ve been holding out on me,” he said.

“Holding out,” asked Dagen as he blew on a spoonful of beans rehydrated with boiling water.

“Refried beans,” he said, settling down on a mat of hides that his Clyde River grandmother had sent with him. It not only provided comfortable bedding, but also insulated the tent from the cold pushing up from the ice it was screwed to.

“Easy protein to pack into the arctic,” said Dagen. He knew it would be a more complete protein had he also fixed the rice with it, but he figured they had plenty of protein with the fish. The beans he had really just wanted for warmth and flavor.

Conrado took another bite, savoring it as if it were something more than camp food. “It needs some sliced jalapenos,” he said.

“Not much into spicy,” said Dagen. “I opted for the mild version.”

“You are missing out my friend,” he said. Conrado even licked his metal camp bowl.

“Good thing we don’t have sled dogs with us,” said Dagen. “That would be their job.”

“Tonight, I’ll be the camp dog.” He looked as his empty bowl and sighed. “I don’t suppose you have any dark chocolate.”

“Ah, no.” Dagen sat in his camp chair. Tobie and two other Clyde River men were chatting in Inuktuk, leaving Dagen and Conrado a chance to talk without pulling at cheeks or yelling over the noise that had accompanied the wind like a brass section. “I’d enjoy a good pipe right about now, though.”

“Pipe? Just roll some good tobacco,” said Conrado. “Of course, I haven’t had a cigarette in ten years. But I think of them fondly, now and again.”

“And I abandoned my pipe a few years ago,” said Dagen. Actually. He had lost his pipe on location in Norway and just never replaced it. He felt like he lost himself, who he was and what he used to enjoy. His dad had smoked a pipe, not often, but enough for Dagen to think it somehow made him close to the man he still missed.

“Gave it up when you went Holloywood,” asked Conrado. Dagen stiffened at that word, but Conrado seemed not to notice. He continued. “I gave up cigarettes when I got serious about radio. Didn’t want to develop a husky sound. Not sure it matters, seems how the biggest story I’ve covered is the one I’m living right now.”

“Regrets,” asked Dagen.

“Not the cigarettes,” Conrado said with a laugh. “Some women, yes, missed meals, definitely. Career? Well, what’s there to regret? I could have been pushing cattle across scrub grass. Maybe I didn’t hit high points, but, hey, the name Conrado Elizonso has been in the media for ten years and not because it was a name mentioned in the police blotter.”

Dagen smiled. “I guess we can also start over, too.”

“Is that why you’re doing the sitcom role,” asked Conrado. “Getting serious about acting, not just a history spokesperson.”

Dagen felt as though those gale force winds just punch him in the gut. “What sitcom role,” he asked fully knowing who was behind such a sneaky turn of events in his career. Could she do that, he wondered with a chill that had nothing to do with his current environment.

“That new show on Thursday nights, coming out next fall. About country boy who inherits a winery in Napa Valley?” Conrado looked perplexed. Dagen had learned that this man readily wore all his emotions openly.

“That doesn’t even sound funny,” said Dagen. “What’s so funny about the wine country. I mean, it’s the country. Why wouldn’t a country boy know about growing things. Maybe not grapes, but I can’t even think what could possibly be funny.”

Conrado shrugged. “Making fun of wine snobs?”

“That’s why I don’t like sitcoms,” said Dagen. “Why make fun of anybody.”

“So, you don’t know about this,” said Conrado.

“No,” said Dagen. “I don’t know about this.”

“Huh,” he said, looking at his empty bowl. “That agent of yours seemed pretty adamant about getting it announced. I was supposed to ask you about it in the interview, but she said she had to be there and that she’d fill in the details.”

“Oh,” said Dagen. Of course, Vina would have to orchestrate her next loop in his noose herself.

“Sounds like you don’t know anything about the detail,” said Conrado.

“Nope,” said Dagen. He got up from his chair to clean up after dinner in their tent. He cleaned up in silence, listening to Tobie and the others. Soon, everyone was getting ready for sleep. If the weather held, they would leave as early as the sun made its presence.

The next day dawned with brilliant pink streaks across the sky that gave way to the bluest sky Dagen had seen since coming to Baffin Island. Once loaded up, they roared across the snow plains on skidoos. Stopping for a quick lunch of hot coffee or lemon water from thermoses and shared slices of arctic char, the volunteers studied the map, their GPS coordinates and figured that the location of the Herc was within reach. Today.

Since their conversation the night before, Conrado had hardly said a few words to Dagen. Not that Dagen noticed, being engrossed in his own thoughts. While drinking hot lemon water, though Conrado asked about the meaning of the arctic circle.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking,” said Dagen. He downed the last of his water and screwed the thermos lid back in place.

“Well, it must mean something,” said Conrado. “What is the circle, exactly?”

“I see,” said Dagen, welcoming an opportunity to slip into scientist mode. “It’s a line of latitude that encircles the region of the north pole. The circle is the southern most point that experiences polar day and polar night.”

Conrado tilted his chin downward and raised both eyebrows. “Okay,” he said, “What’s a polar day or night?”

“That’s the twenty-four hours of daylight or darkness that the arctic experiences. It occurs as far south as the arctic circle,” explained Dagen. “Have you noticed how long the days are getting just since we arrived at Clyde River?”

“I suppose. When it isn’t cloudy, foggy or snowing,” said Conrado.

“Well,” said Dagen. “In nearly two weeks the sunset is already coming two hours later than when we arrived.”

Again, Conrado’s eyebrows shot up. “No, I hadn’t noticed. That’s gaining a lot of daylight.”

“We are speeding toward polar daylight now,” said Dagen. “Well, we should be speeding on our way, too.”

Everyone mounted back up on skidoos. Tobie and the other youth were excited that their journey was nearly at its destination. Dagen hoped they found the survivors in good shape. The journey back would then be before them. Maybe the Herc was able to get radio contact. Maybe another air rescue is on it’s way.

Just before sunset—at 4:40 p.m.—the Clyde River volunteers spotted the downed plane and smoke rising from the other side of it. The plane had cut a deep trough through the snow that even the two recent storms had not been able to obliterate. The plane seemed tilted with the right wing down and the left wing pointing toward a rocky ridge in the distance. The pilots did a good job of landing the crippled plane down a long relatively flat valley. The other direction might have ended with the Herc slamming into a rocky outcropping that formed the ridge that rimmed the valley.

As the skidoos neared, several men in parkas stepped out of tarp topped snow shelters built against the Herc. All were waving, a few shouted and whistled. Tobie gunned the engine of his skidoo, passing everyone else in the small group of volunteers. He pulled up to the plane, cut the engine and ran, shouting, “Mountie Brindeau!”

Sydney trudged through the snow with open arms and embraced Tobie. Soon all the volunteers were off their skidoos and were clasping gloved hands to gloved hands and patting shoulders. So many questions started and stopped at once, laughter, the kind that comes from sheer relief, filled the darkening night air. The Clyde River volunteers set up their tents near the survivors’ shelters. They all shared the communal fire that night and listened to Alex explain what went wrong, what went right in cool tones as if they had simply been learning how to build a house on their own.

All the men were clean shaven, and Dagen commented on that, not expecting plane crash survivors to be shaving. But Alex explained that they stuck to a routine and kept up survivalist procedures, including shaving.

“How is that part of surviving,” asked Dagen.

Alex said, “A frozen beard leads to a frozen face.”

“I always thought of a beard as being protective of the face,” said Dagen.

Despite the multiple conversations going on, the obvious excitement of the survivors and rescuers both, it was time to plane extraction. Alex had already created several plans, explaining that air support could occur further out if another plane, outfitted with skis could reach them at that point. But the snow had to be flat and hard packed, long enough for take-off, too. Alex also inventoried the survival gear that they had, including sleeping bags, rations and water. The volunteers could easily pack sleds with the extra gear and double up on the skidoos, except for Dagen who was already driving with Conrado.

The next day, the group, now numbering fifteen, set out on the packed skidoos. The sleds also carried the extra fuel that allowed for the skidoos to journey far from towns. Since no one was injured beyond minor scrapes or bruises, injuries were not a hindrance. As they left the valley, the group ran into the three Inuit hunters with their dog sled teams. They all agreed to rendezvous near the point where air rescue might reach them.

That’s when they saw the polar bear.

NaNoWriMo Word Count: 1,882

“If you’re going to crash a C-130 in the arctic, do it in the winter, I say.” Alex poked at the fire on the open wall of their half snow-cave, half lean-to. To their backside was the Herc itself, but in order to produce a heat source, the search and rescue team had to build several makeshift shelters that radiated from the fire built in the middle. Alex, one of the pilots whose name was Hamilton Prevette, and Sydney occupied this shelter.

Alex continued as if he were lecturing a class of cadets. “In the summer, most likely there won’t be any snow to cushion the impact.” he said. “That’s because 80 percent of the land north of the arctic circle is free of snow. If you do crash land in snow during the summer, most likely you’re in Greenland.”

Sydney was not so sure he’d call that a snow-cushioned landing. Judging by the jarring to his spine and backside, he’d call impacting the tundra ice pack with a 80-ton plane a brutal mat slam. And he hoped they were not so far off course to be over Greenland. Unlikely, but crashing had been an unlikely thought, too before yesterday.

“The other reason is more significant,” said Alex who was now heating up three cans of soup in their cans. “No mosquitoes.”

That was one Sydney could agree to, having spent several summers on Baffin Island. He had heard that there were ten times more mosquitoes per square mile here than in any tropical region. Never before had Sydney seen clouds of mosquitoes. Yes, he was glad they were dormant, but the snow, plunging cold and predators were worrisome enough. “Hope we don’t see any polar bears making their way to the sea ice,” said Sydney.

“Might be fortunate for us if we do,” said Alex, stirring soup with a metal spoon. It was beginning to smell delicious. “A polar bear would be enough meat to sustain all of us for bit longer than our canned rations.”

“Don’t eat the liver, though,” said Hamilton. His brown eyes looked sleepy, which concerned Sydney. The pilot had conked his head during the crash. Alex had cleaned up the wound and applied butterfly tape to close the worse part of the gash. But he probably had a good concussion.

“Why not,” asked Sydney, hoping to keep him alert with conversation.

“Polar bear livers are poisonous,” he said. “Learned that in training for the RAF. Flew plenty of times over the arctic circle. First time I ever crashed. Yes, better that we had snow to cushion the impact.”

Sydney shook his head. The front ski on the Herc had snapped and the impact dug a trench half a mile long. He supposed if it had been rocky terrain instead, the damage to the plane would have been worse. But a crash was still a crash. And it got them further away from finding any trace of Moe or Elijah.

Hamilton began to nod off, his chin sloping toward his chest. “Do you think we should keep him awake,” asked Sydney.

Alex barely glanced at the man as he continued to stir each can in succession. “He’ll be fine. Downright snug in here.”

“For now, by the fire but we can’t go burning all our diesel fuel. We’ll need to conserve it,” said Sydney. When they crashed, one of the earliest orders that Alex gave was that someone collect the diesel before it coagulated. That was after discerning any injuries and making sure the engine fire was out. Of course, that right wing dug into the snow, snuffing out any fires.

The pilot jerked his head up. “Diesel,” he said. “That’s probably what happened. The diesel froze in the line of the right engine we had shut down. Caused a fire trying to power up, caught the other engine on fire before we shut it down.”

“Well,” said Alex, “At least we had enough engine power to get up this far and enough time to call in coordinates before the wind interfered.”

That was the main reason they decided to stay put. They were not within walking distance of any village, mine or base. With their coordinates known, they could dig in. If they had flown so far off track without any communication outside, no one would think to look for them over the land. They had survival gear, including the tarps snapping overhead and sleeping bags, food, water and fuel to burn in a common fire that served three shelters. Keeping part of it open was important to avoiding carbon monoxide poisoning.

“Soup is done,” announced Alex. Using his arctic glove like an oven mitt, he picked up cans of soup, setting one before Sydney and Hamilton. The third he held in his glove and at with a spoon clutched in his bare hand.

Sydney had already removed his own mittens, so he used one as Alex did. He blew on the first spoonful of soup, vegetable beef, and savored the hot bite as it filled his mouth with tangy-salty warmth. Never had canned soup tasted so good.

Hamilton did not touch his, as he was nodding off again. Sydney reached over and nudged the pilot’s parka-clad arm. He startled awake. “Eat some soup,” Sydney said.

“Oh, yes,” said Hamilton. “I was just letting it cool.”

“It’s best hot,” said Alex, “but be mindful of the can.” He held up his can, showing the glove he used to do so. The pilot nodded at him and took out a glove from within his jacket. “Good,” said Alex.

From behind the Herc, the wind howled like a beast from the elders’ stories. No wonder the Inuit of Baffin Island came up with such fanciful tales, thought Sydney. Not only the noise, but the long stretches of time in the dark and the cold to contemplate the noise.

That night, lying awake on his back, cocooned in an arctic sleeping bag, tugged tight with a draw string around his face, Sydney thought of Elijah. The winds howled, but snow merely swirled outside the shelter as they were protected by the plane from the full blast of the straight line winds.

Alex was asleep. His snores a testament to that fact. Hamilton didn’t snore but his breathing seemed slow and even as if asleep. As many times as the man had nodded off at the cooking fire, he didn’t doubt that he would be slumbering now in his bag. Sydney had expressed concern to Alex about Hamilton freezing. Normally a person woke up before freezing, but with a possible concussion, Hamilton might sleep through such impulses. Alex didn’t think so, but they agreed to wake him up during the night just to check in. Ask him his name, wiggle his toes. Alex set his watch for the first observation.

Other than the wind, it was so cold and empty, this night. Sydney wished he could dash off to sleep as easily as the others but his mind kept coming back to Elijah and the broken sea ice. Why did it open up that way? Had Elijah any warning? Where could he have gone but under. It was not a comforting thought. And Moe? What became of him. Maybe he really did go out to sea on a flow of ice, past Greenland. And what of those in Clyde River? Bad enough they had to wait on news of two missing loved ones, but now the search and rescue crew needed rescue.

“This is one way of thinking,” said Elijah. Sydney sat up. He was on a comfortable pad of hides within a dim iglu. He must be dreaming. Elijah was sizzling caribou on an open flame spit that many Inuit hunters used, packing stove, spit and fuel on their sleds. It smelled better than the canned soup. Sydney remembered that anytime Elijah disagreed, he didn’t really argue. He’d graciously acknowledge the point and then offer another. Two different ways of thinking without judging one right over the other.

“Thinking about what,” asked Sydney. He watched Elijah turn the spit, stop and then makes shadow puppets on the wall. He was smiling at Sydney like he were a boy to be entertained. Each shadow animal took form on the ice wall, each hide a black and white pattern of geometric shapes. As each animal took form, it ran in circles around the inner walls of the igloo. A seal chased a fox, a raven dove as if swimming and a narwhal flew across the highest pitch of the roof. Mesmerized, Sydney watched.

Elijah sat back and ate caribou, handing Sydney hot, greasy strips that should have burned his fingers but didn’t. In silence they watched the dance of the shadow animals on the wall. “These belong here,” Elijah said. “I am Inuk. I belong here.”

Sydney knew that Inuk was the singular for Inuit. Somehow that thought penetrated his mind in the dream-state as he watched the animals and ate caribou. “Where did you get the caribou,” asked Sydney, licking his fingers.

“The ravens feed me,” said Elijah. “They belong here.”

“The ice,” said Elijah, “It belongs here.” Suddenly, they were standing on the sea ice. Oddly, Sydney was in his dress reds and hat of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. White ice stretched for miles in three directions. White, solid, cold. Turning, Sydney was surprised to see the Walker Citadel rise up like a black fortress of rock, a hulking ruin of an ancient castle transported to the ends of the earth.

Sydney said, “This is one way of thinking.”

“Yes,” answered Elijah as they both stood on the ice. Elijah then turned to face Sydney, “But the ice is warm.”

“Warm,” asked Sydney, not understanding. “But the ice is cold.”

Elijah stomped with one foot on the ice. Sound reverberated as if the world were a drum and the ice its skin. The black and white shadow animals appeared, illuminated upon the black wall of rock.

“But the ice is warm,” said Elijah and he stomped again and the ice caved in, sucking the shadow animals down into a whirlpool of spinning black waters with chunks of floating ice, sea ice broken up, swirling with the animals. Elijah went down but then rose up from the middle of the widening pool as a huge white bird.

Sydney stood in his uniform, standing as if above the melting ice and sucking whirlpool. The white bird circled over head. Soon the mountains broke up like the sea ice, and the land sucked down into the whirlpool, too. The earth itself turned inside out and drained away. Sydney saw buildings, cars and planes, all black and white like shadow animals, but all breaking up and disappearing. And all went dark.

Sydney woke up with a startled jerk and gasp. It was as pitch black as the end of his dream. So real. It felt so real. But what was real was the silence and the darkness. The wind had stopped. Sydney thought about his dream, could almost taste the savoriness of the caribou.

In the darkness, a thought occurred to him; Elijah’s way of thinking. If the arctic broke up and melted, would the rest of the earth endure?