Red Rooney: The Last of the Crew

At once Angut turned, and gave undivided attention to the subject, while the seaman described his recent conversation with Okiok. As he concluded, a peculiar look flitted across Angut’s countenance.

“I guess his reason,” he said.

“Yes; what may it be, think you?”

“He fears to meet Okiok in a singing duel.”

Rooney laughed. “Well, you know best,” he said; “I daresay you are right. Okiok is a sharp fellow, and Ujarak is but a blundering booby after—”

A low chuckle in the region of the lamp attracted their attention at this point. They looked quickly at Kannoa, but that ancient’s face was absolutely owlish in its gravity, and her little black eyes peered into her pot with a look of intense inquiry that was almost philosophic. Resuming their belief that she was as deaf as a post, or an iceberg, Rooney and Angut proceeded to discuss Ujarak and his probable plans without any regard to her. After having talked the matter over for some time, Angut shook his head, and said that Ujarak must be closely watched.

“More than that,” said Rooney, with decision; “he must be stultified.”

The seaman’s rendering of the word “stultified” into Eskimo was curious, and cannot easily be explained, but it was well understood by Angut, and apparently by Kannoa, for another chuckle came just then from the culinary department. Again the two men glanced at the old woman inquiringly, and again were they baffled by that look of owlish intensity at the stewing meat.

“She hears,” whispered Rooney.

“Impossible,” replied Angut; “a dead seal is not much deafer.”

Continuing the conversation, the seaman explained how he thought it possible to stultify the wizard, by discrediting him in the eyes of his own people—by foiling him with his own weapons,—and himself undertook to accomplish the task of stultification.

He was in the act of concluding his explanation when another chuckle burst upon them from the region of the lamp. This time there was no attempt at concealment, for there stood old Kannoa, partly enveloped in savoury steam, her head thrown back, and her mouth wide-open.

With a laugh Rooney leaped up, and caught her by the arm.

“You’ve heard what I’ve been saying, mother?”

“Ye–yes. I’ve heard,” she replied, trying to smother the laughter.

“Now, look here. You must promise me not to tell anybody,” said the seaman earnestly, almost sternly.

“Oh, I not tell,” returned the old woman; “I love not Ujarak.”

“Ah! just so; then you’re pretty safe not to tell,” said Rooney.

“No fear of Kannoa,” remarked Angut, with a pleasant nod; “she never tells anything to anybody.”

Satisfied, apparently, with this assurance, the seaman took the old woman into his counsels, congratulating himself not a little on having found an ally in the very hut in which it had been arranged that the mysterious performance was to take place. Shortly after that Angut left.

“Now, Kannoa,” said Rooney, after some preliminary talk, “you remember the big white bear that Angut killed two moons ago?”

“Remember it? Ay,” said Kannoa, licking her lips; “it was the fattest and best bear I ever chewed. Huk! it was good!”

“Well, where is that bear’s skin?”

The old dame pointed to a corner of the hut where the skin lay. Rooney went and picked it up, and laid it at the upper end of the hut farthest from the door.

“Now, mother,” said he; “you’ll not touch that skin. Let it lie there, and let no one touch it till I come again. You understand?”

“Yes,” answered Kannoa, with a look so intensely knowing that it made the seaman laugh.

“But tell me,” said the old woman, becoming suddenly grave, and laying her thin scraggy hand on the man’s arm; “why do you call me mother?”

“Oh, it’s just a way we have in my country when—when we feel kindly to an old woman. And I do feel kindly to you, Kannoa,” he added, with sudden warmth and energy of look and tone, “because you are so like my own grandmother—only she was younger than you, and much better-looking.”

Rooney meant no rudeness by the last remark, but, having observed the straightforward simplicity of his new friends in saying exactly what they meant, he willingly adopted their style.

Kannoa seemed much pleased with the explanation.

“It is strange,” she said pathetically, “that I should find you so very like my husband.”

“Indeed!” returned the seaman, who did not feel flattered by the compliment; “is it long since he died?”

“O yes; long, long—very long,” she answered, with a sigh. “Moons, moons, moons without number have passed since that day. He was as young as you when he was killed, but a far finer man. His face did not look dirty like yours—all over with hair. It was smooth and fat, and round and oily. His cheeks were plump, and they would shine when the sun was up. He was also bigger than you—higher and wider. Huk! he was grand!”

Although Rooney felt inclined to laugh as he listened to this description, he restrained himself when he observed the tears gathering in the old eyes. Observing and appreciating the look of sympathy, she tightened her clutch on the seaman’s arm and said, looking wistfully up in his face—

“Has Ridroonee ever felt something in here,”—she laid a hand on her withered bosom—“as if it broke in two, and then went dead for evermore? That is what I felt the day they brought my man home; he was so kind. Like my son Okiok, and Angut.”

As the seaman looked down at the pitiful old soul that had thus broken the floodgates of a long silence, and was pouring out her confidences to him, he felt an unusual lump in his throat. Under a sudden impulse, he stooped and kissed the wrinkled brow, and then, turning abruptly, left the hut.

It was well he did so, for by that time it was nearly dark, and Kannoa had yet to arrange the place for the expected meeting.

As the time drew near, the night seemed to sympathise with the occasion, for the sky became overcast with clouds, which obliterated the stars, and rendered it intensely dark.

The chief performer in the approaching ceremony was in a fearful state of mind. He would have done or given anything to escape being made a wise man. But Ujarak was inexorable. Poor Ippegoo sought comfort from his mother, and, to say truth, Kunelik did her best for him, but she could not resist the decrees of Fate—i.e. of the wizard.

“Be a man, my son, and all will go well,” she said, as he sat beside her in her hut, with his chin on his breast and his thin hands clasped.

“O mother, I am such a fool! He might let me off. I’ll be disgraced forever.”

“Not you, Ippe; you’re not half such a fool as he is. Just go boldly, and do your best. Look as fierce and wild as you can, and make awful faces. There’s nothing like frightening people! Howl as much as possible, and gasp sometimes. I have seen a good deal done in that way. I only wish they would try to make an angekok of me. I would astonish them.”

The plucky little woman had to stop here for a moment to chuckle at her own conceit, but her poor son did not respond. He had got far beyond the point where a perception of the ludicrous is possible.

“But it is time to go now, my son. Don’t forget your drum and the face-making. You know what you’ve got to do?”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Ippegoo, looking anxiously over his shoulder, as if he half expected to see a torngak already approaching him; “I know only too well what I’ve got to do. Ujarak has been stuffing it into me the whole day till my brain feels ready to burst.”

The bitter tone in which the poor youth pronounced his master’s name suggested to his mother that it would not require much more to make the worm turn upon its tormentor. But the time had arrived to send him off, so she was obliged to bring her questions and advices to an abrupt close.

As Ippegoo walked towards the dreaded hut, he was conscious of many glaring eyes and whispered words around him. This happily had the effect of stirring up his pride, and made him resolve to strive to do his part creditably.

At the door of the hut two dark figures glided swiftly in before him. One he could perceive was Angut; the other he thought looked very like the Kablunet “Ridroonee.” The thought gave him some comfort—not much, indeed, but anything that distracted his mind for an instant from the business in hand afforded him comfort.

He now braced himself desperately to the work. Seizing the drum which he had been told not to forget, he struck it several times, and began to twist his body about violently. There was just light enough to show to onlookers that the poor youth was whirling himself round in contortions of the most surprising kind. This he did for the purpose of working himself up to the proper pitch of enthusiasm.

There seems little doubt that the mere exertion of great muscular effort, coupled with a resolute wish and intention to succeed in some object, has a powerful tendency to brace the energies of the human mind. Ippegoo had not contorted himself and beaten his drum for many minutes when his feeling of warmth and physical power began to increase. The feeling seemed to break on his mind as a revelation.