Hannah Ross - The Last Outpost - An Antarctic Dystopia

“It’s they who exceed their authority,” he said quietly, but none of the sleeping people in the house could hear or understand him.

The column of exhausted but triumphant men, bearing a cargo of whale meat and blubber, arrived just as the village began to stir for the morning chores. The carriers then proceeded to sleep, while the rest huddled around the great heap of whale meat, and Ki Tahan was called on to decide what family gets which part. To Scott’s surprise, several men loudly voted that he, too, is entitled to his share of the mulluvik .

“But I didn’t do anything,” he protested. “I only went out in the boat with you.”

“You helped me with oars while I uncoiled my harpoon,” Ri Omrek said, “and besides, you went on hunt with us, you carried burden with us. You deserve a share.”

“There really is, er, no need to,” Scott assured him. He briefly amused himself by imagining the looks he would get at McMurdo, had he showed up with a package of bloody whale meat. “It is enough for me to participate in your celebration. If I’m supposed to have a share, your sister can take it.”

Someone briefly quipped something in Anai, and there was a ripple of good-natured laughter.

“He say, Ki Tahan now has two men bringing her hunt,” Ri Omrek translated, and Scott blushed and muttered something unintelligible.

The preparations for the hunting feast were now in full swing. The large empty space in the middle of the village was cleared, and cooking fires set up for outdoor roasts. Inside the houses, women were coming up with delicacies for the feast, made mainly from grain and edible plants. Others were testing the sound of their musical instruments, primarily drums and flutes.

“Scott, you change clothes,” Tahan told him during breakfast. “Not hunting things — something nice.” She rummaged in her clothes basket once more, and came up with a soft sealskin costume of a handsome tunic and pair of breeches. Unlike the hunting attire, which was quite plain, these garments were decorated with embroidery. Looking closer, Scott realized that the embroidery fibers were, in fact, thin, long leather filaments dyed red and yellow. The clothes were very comfortable, and he put them on with pleasure. Ki Tahan, too, put on a gown of embroidered sealskin. It was a longer tunic, one that reached her knees, with a handsome play of grey and black shades, and a silky gloss.

“These are very handsome clothes,” Scott complimented, and she smiled.

“Wait until winter celebration. It is biggest feast of year, and we all wear our best.”

“You celebrate the coming of winter?” he didn’t understand.

“Yes,” Ri Omrek said. “When sun sets and world goes dark for many months, we must tell the sun we miss her, and wait for her come back. Also, we celebrate the long light that was, our hunt, and our harvest.”

The feast of the mulluvik hunt consisted, of course, primarily of whale meat. Roasted and cut into steaks, it was hungrily fallen upon. Seal meat was also in abundance, and the excess of both whale and seal meat would be carried to the frozen storage holes, as well as salted, dried, and kept for the winter. The fat was rendered for household uses and fuel, and other women, like Ki Tahan, have begun the process of curing the sealskins to make clothes.

Scott felt a pang of guilt when he received a clay bowl with his portion of meat. Fish, or even penguins, where one thing, but species like whale and seal were holy cows for every environmental scientist. Scott had participated in his share of anti-sealing protests when he was younger, and had a clash at an environmental science conference a few years ago with a Canadian representative who claimed that sealing is a carried on in a sustainable way by the indigenous people of North Canada. Scott had flared up back then, and said that ‘in the twenty-first century, being indigenous is no excuse for squandering natural resources’. He knew that the Anai used theirs sparingly, however — otherwise, they could not have survived and thrived in the valley for so many generations.

So he ate, and both whale and seal meat, while unusual to his palate, tasted good — rich, fatty, and satisfying. There was also a stew with chunks of meat, grain, and starchy roots, and bowls of grass-berries carried round among the guests, and skins of the grassy fermented brew favored by the Anai, poured into cups to be savored and enjoyed along with the meal.

Ri Omrek took his drum, which was a simple construction of sealskin stretched over a frame of bone, with sticks of bone to beat upon it. He began a rhythmic beat, and a few moments later, someone took out a flute, whittled out of bone as well, and joined him in a high, harmonious sound. A bone whistle produced an intermittent tune, akin to the twittering of a bird. More instruments followed, joining one another in a melody almost as old as the world itself.

Several of the young men began to caper about, evidently having had too much of the fermented brew. Ri Omrek’s friends called upon him to join them, and he looked longingly at the dancers, until Scott said, “go ahead, I’ll hold your drum for you.”

“Will you?” Omrek brightened. “Is easy. You hold like this — yes — and beat like this.”

Scott didn’t actually mean to take part in the music — his latest experience with playing an instrument were his xylophone lessons from fourth grade, and he did not have very fond memories of those — but he made a tentative move with hitting the stick of bone against taut leather, and the sounds he made joined the instruments of others, not in perfect rhythm, but in varying harmony. Tahan looked at him, and laughed approvingly. She was dancing among the string of women, who took their place a little apart from the men. While over half the men were content to be onlookers, most women, especially the young ones, joined the dancing, occasionally almost touching the circle of men. Omrek’s eyes, Scott noticed, were always on the pretty girl whom he had seen at the riverbank while she was gathering clay.

Egan sidled up to Scott and, using gestures, explained that he wanted to try beating the drum. Scott bent and held it in a convenient position for the little boy, whose music, for the time being, did not get more sophisticated than beating with the sticks as fast and hard as he could. Egan beamed with delight, however, and clapped when the dance brought his mother near him. Then she drew him among the circle of women, and the merriment grew higher.

A couple of hours later, as the revelry began to wane, Scott slipped away to the house of Ki Tahan, and changed into his orange working-suit and synthetic terrain boots once more. Checking his watch, he guiltily concluded that he ought to have gone up to Camp AN-85 a long time ago. He went out of the house, and began heading in the direction of the village center to say goodbye, but met Tahan and her son about halfway. She was carrying dishes of leftover food to her house, and Egan had his little bone flute in his hand.

“You going, Scott?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “It is time. Thank you, Tahan, for everything.”

“You try to come back again soon? Will be here for winter celebration?”

“I will try,” he promised. “I’d like that very much.”

“Wait,” she said, “Egan and me walk with you a little.” She proceeded to the house and left the covered pots there, then rejoined him outside, and they began their way to the edge of the village and the trail leading up to AN-85.

“Where is your brother?” Scott asked as they walked. “Is he still dancing?”

“Yes,” Tahan’s eyes had a mischievous spark. “There is one girl — while she dance, Omrek dance as well. You never dance?”