Red Rooney: The Last of the Crew

In Eskimo land, as in England, power and industry result in the elevation and enrichment of individuals, though they have not yet resulted there, as here, in vast accumulations of wealth, or in class distinctions. The elevating tendency of superior power and practice is seen in the fact that while some hunters are nearly always pretty well off—“well-to-do,” as we would express it—others are often in a state of poverty and semi-starvation. A few of them possess two establishments, and some even go the length of possessing two wives. It is but just to add, however, that these last are rare. Most Eskimo men deem one wife quite as much as they can manage to feed.

Our friend Okiok was what we may style one of the aristocracy of the land. He did not, indeed, derive his position from inheritance, but from the circumstance of his being a successful hunter, a splendid canoe-man, and a tremendous fighter.

When it is added that his fights were often single-handed against the Polar bear, it may be understood that both his activity and courage were great. He was not an angekok, for, like his friend Angut, he did not believe in wizards; nevertheless he was very truly an angekok, in the sense of being an uncommonly wise man, and his countrymen, recognising the fact, paid him suitable respect.

Okiok possessed a town and a country mansion. That is to say, besides the solitary residence already mentioned, close to the great glacier, he owned the largest hut in the Eskimo village. It was indeed quite a palatial residence, capable of holding several families, and having several holes in it—or windows—which were glazed, if we may say so, with the scraped intestines of animals.

It was to this residence that Okiok drove on the afternoon of the day that he missed Ippegoo’s visit.

On finding that most of the men had gone southward to hunt, he resolved to follow them, for his purpose was to consult about the Kablunet, who had so recently fallen like a meteor from the sky into their midst.

“But you will stop here, Nuna, with Nunaga, and tell the women all about the Kablunet, while I go south alone. Make a feast; you have plenty to give them. Here, help me to carry the things inside.”

Okiok had brought quite a sledge-load of provisions with him, for it had been his intention to give a feast to as many of the community as could be got inside his hut. The carrying in of the supplies, therefore, involving as it did creeping on hands and knees through a low tunnel with each article, was not a trifling duty.

“Now,” said he, when at last ready to start, “be sure that you ask the liars and the stupid ones to the feast, as well as the wise; and make them sit near you, for if these don’t hear all about it from your own mouth they will be sure to carry away nonsense, and spread it. Don’t give them the chance to invent.”

While her husband was rattling away south over the hummocky sea in his empty sledge, Nuna lighted her lamps, opened her stores, and began to cook.

“Go now, Nunaga,” she said, “and tell the women who are to feed with us to-night.”

“Who shall I invite, mother?” asked pretty little Nunaga, preparing to set forth on her mission.

“Invite old Kannoa, of course. She is good.”

“Yes, mother, and she is also griggy.”

We may remark in passing that it is impossible to convey the exact meaning of the Eskimo word which we have rendered “griggy.” Enough to say, once for all, that in difficult words and phrases we give as nearly as possible our English equivalents.

“And Kunelik,” said Nuna, continuing to enumerate her guests; “I like the mother of Ippegoo. She is a pleasant little woman.”

“But father said we were to ask liars,” remarked Nunaga, with a sweet look.

“I’m coming to them, child,” said Mrs Okiok, with a touch of petulance—the result of a gulp of lamp-smoke; “yes, you may ask Pussimek also. The wife of Simek is always full of wise talk, and her baby does not squall, which is lucky, for she cannot be forced to leave Pussi behind.”

“But name the liars and stupid ones, mother,” urged Nunaga, who, being a dutiful child, and anxious to carry out her father’s wishes to the letter, stuck to her point.

“Tell Issek, then, the mother of Arbalik, to come,” returned Nuna, making a wry face. “If she is not stupid, she is wicked enough, and dreadful at lies. And the sisters Kabelaw and Sigokow; they are the worst liars in all the village, besides being stupider than puffins. There, that will be enough for our first feed. When these have stuffed, we can have more. Too many at once makes much cooking and little talk. Go, my child.”

An hour later, and the gossips of the Eskimo village were assembled round Mrs Okiok’s hospitable lamp—she had no “board,”—the raised floor at the further end of the hut serving both for seat and table in the daytime and for bed at night. Of course they were all bursting with curiosity, and eager to talk.

But food at first claimed too much attention to permit of free conversation. Yet it must not be supposed that the company was gluttonous or greedy. Whatever Eskimos may feel at a feast, it is a point of etiquette that guests should not appear anxious about what is set before them. Indeed, they require a little pressing on the part of the host at first, but they always contrive to make amends for such self-restraint before the feast is over.

And it was by no means a simple feast to which that party sat down. There were dried herrings and dried seal’s flesh, and the same boiled; also boiled auks, dried salmon, dried reindeer venison, and a much-esteemed dish consisting of half raw and slightly putrid seal’s flesh, called mikiak—something similar in these respects to our own game. But the principal dish was part of a whale’s tail in a high or gamey condition. Besides these delicacies, there was a pudding, or dessert, of preserved crowberries, mixed with “chyle” from the maw of the reindeer, with train oil for sauce.[1 - For further light on this interesting subject see History of Greenland and the Moravian Brethren, volume one, page 159. Longman, 1820.]

Gradually, as appetite was satisfied, tongues were loosened, and information about the wonderful foreigner, which had been fragmentary at first, flowed in a copious stream. Then commentary and question began in right earnest.

“Have some more mikiak?” said Mrs Okiok to Pussimek.

“No,” replied Mrs P, with a sigh.

These northern Eskimos did not, at least at the time of which we write, say “thank you”—not that there was any want of good feeling or civility among them, but simply because it was not customary to do so.

Mrs Okiok then offered some more of the delicacy mentioned to the mother of Ippegoo.

“No,” said Kunelik, leaning back with a contented air against the wall; “I am pleasantly stuffed already.”

“But tell me,” cried Issek, the stern mother of Arbalik, “what does the Kablunet say the people eat in his own land?”

“They eat no whales,” said Nuna; “they have no whales.”

“No whales!” exclaimed Pussimek, with a ‘huk’ of surprise!

“No; no whales,” said Nuna—“and no bears,” she added impressively. “Ridroonee, (that’s his name), says they eat a thing called bread, which grows out of the ground like grass.”

“Eat grass!” exclaimed the mother of Arbalik.

“So he says, and also beasts that have horns—”

“Reindeer?” suggested Kunelik.

“No; the horns are short, with only one point to each; and the beasts are much heavier than reindeer. They have also great beasts, with no name in our language—hurses or hosses he calls them,—but they don’t eat these; they make them haul sledges on little round things called weels—”

“I know,” cried Sigokow; “they must be big dogs!”

“Huk!” exclaimed old Kannoa, who confined her observations chiefly to that monosyllable and a quiet chuckle.

“No,” returned Nuna, becoming a little impatient under these frequent interruptions; “they are not dogs at all, but hurses—hosses—with hard feet like stones, and iron boots on them.”

A general exclamation of incredulous surprise broke forth at this point, and the mother of Arbalik silently came to the conclusion that Nuna had at last joined the liars of the community, and was making the most of her opportunities, and coming out strong.

“Let there be no talk, and I will speak,” said Nuna somewhat indignantly; “if you interrupt me again, I will send you all away to your huts!”

This threat produced silence, and a sniff from Arbalik’s mother. Mrs Okiok went on:—

“The land, Ridroonee says, is very rich. They have all that they wish—and more!” (“Huk!” from the company)—“except a great many people, called poo-oor, who have not all that they wish—and who sometimes want a little more.” (A groan of remonstrative pity from the audience.) “But they have not many seals, and they never eat them.”

“Poo! I would not care to live there,” said Pussimek.

“And no walruses at all,” added Mrs Okiok.

“Boo! a miserable country!” exclaimed Ippegoo’s mother.

“Then they have villages—so big!—oh!” Nuna paused from incapacity to describe, for Eskimos, being unable to comprehend large numbers, are often obliged to have recourse to illustration. “Listen,” continued Nuna, holding up a finger; “if all the whales we catch in a year were to be cooked, they would not feed the people of their largest village for one day!”

The mother of Arbalik now felt that she had sufficient ground for the belief that Mrs Okiok was utterly demoralised and lost, in the matter of veracity. Mrs Okiok, looking at her, perceived this in her countenance, and dropped that subject with a soft smile of conscious innocence.

Thereupon curiosity broke forth again with redoubled violence.