A Flicker of Perpetual Stars

Ullaakkut (Good Morning)

It should have been cold. The air. It wasn't. Not the way it should. She wished for the sharp breath of Qaummagiaq on her skin, but this was like no January she'd ever encountered. The first month was supposed to be brittle, cold. It was supposed to rush into the lungs and pierce the heart in an unforgiving chill. It was supposed to burn the tips of the ears and fingers and toes with cold, and envelop the body in a frigid blast of heartless draft. It did none of these things. She knelt at the edge of the fjord in her furs, unsettled by the breeze that was flushed with warmth. She wanted to mourn, but did not know why or what it was exactly that she mourned. Only, she felt a subtle, yet deep pain, inside, that told her that something was wrong with this wind. It was a change neither she nor her body liked.

Gentle steps behind her told her she was not alone by the fjord. She chose to ignore them, instead pulling off one of her mittens and dipping her fingers into the icy water. The water was frigid, no doubt. It wasn't long before she had to pull out her hand, shaking it dry, before stuffing it back into her warm, caribou mitten.

After a moment, she addressed her companion. "Atelihai." Hello. Welcome. The syllables were greeting in themselves. Still, she did not turn. She sat kneeling at the edge of the dark water, her mittened hands resting in her lap. She stared out at the large expanse, the ice sheets dotting the fjord like the white snowflakes slowly gathering on her dark head of hair.

"Atelihai." Her companion joined her by the water's edge, folding his legs underneath him. It was a boy of thirteen winters, same as herself. They sat in an amiable silence under a sky growing thick and dark with clouds. Craggy, vertical cliffs rose on either side of the fjord, before opening up into the wide valley where the two young Nunatsiarmiut sat. Gentle waves beat the rocky ground in front of their feet.

It's warm, he said. She nodded concurrence. They were silent again, but it was no awkward silence. It was instead filled with a deep, comforting sort of understanding. The girl turned to the boy, asking for his name. He tipped his chin almost imperceptibly, all politeness. Yuka, he said. Bright star. She understood its meaning. His dark eyes had a brilliant twinkle that anyone could see; a flicker of youth that glinted with intelligence. He asked for hers. Atiqtalik, she said. Polar bear mother.

They watched a pair of eiders, one brown and speckled and dun, the other dressed in a sharp black and white coat, as they coasted down to the rolling plane of water. They landed in sync with a splash on the dark fjord, waves with white caps swelling around them. Atiqtalik stood. I must go, she said. My father and mother await my return.

The boy looked up at her, surprised. Then he, too, stood. Nakurmiik, he said. Thank you.

Uncertainly, she nodded. She wasn't sure what he was thanking her for, but she didn't think it mattered. Tavvauvutit, she said. Goodbye. She pulled up her hood of fur, securing it around her chin.

Tavvauvutit, he replied. He nodded his goodbye and watched her as she turned, climbing across the rocks toward the small village of Qikiqtarjuaq. When she was gone from sight, he turned back to the fjord, gazing out over the water and ice. The wind swept through his dark hair, the draft flushing his face with a sudden, fierce cold. Then he, too, collected himself. He pulled up his hood and tightened his boot laces with efficient, capable fingers. With a last glance at the fjord, he turned, following the girl toward his home village.

When she returned the next day, the boy was there. Yuka. He was perched atop a small, granite boulder, gazing out across the fjord, watching it as though he could read its waters like the pages of a book. The sun was peeking through the clouds, he had left his caribou jacket open, a courtesy of the warm air.