Ghost Ship

GHOST SHIP--Chapter One

Old people are talking.

Some, the sons and daughters of ancient Siberians who had walked 50 miles across an icy land bridge to arrive, thousands of years before; Others, the sons of Norwegian fishermen or Eastern whalers, soldiers and gold miners, as many with dark eyes and hair as were blonde and blue-eyed. They spoke in hushed tones that stopped when young people entered the room, somber voices recalling stories from elders before them in Alaskan arctic villages: Nome, Brevig Mission, Teller.

It had been more than a century since people, women specifically, had gone missing from the coast in the way elders worried was now happening again.

People who went missing in the brutal elements of arctic Alaska were not uncommon. Falling through ice, a bad encounter with a bear, getting lost in a 50-below blizzard – it's all part of life near the Arctic Circle. Sometimes the land demanded payment for what it provided. But those deaths were not so unexpected. When you live in a place where simple travel between communities could be a life-threatening proposition, you accept there will be loss. A small mistake on the trail can mean death.

But not since the commercial whaling days, a time old people had knowledge of through family stories, were there rumors of vessels that arrived, took who and what they wanted, and left. Not for 100 years had women cried over missing daughters, sons, sisters and brothers with these particular tears. Fearful that it wasn't the natural toll on life in the far north, but instead, an evil that rode the Arctic Ocean waves.

The Bering Strait communities shivered collectively that summer, grieving and in shock during the last week of August when nine young people vanished.

In late summer, the beach road was the best way to travel, especially if you wanted to get out of town without nosy old ladies watching. And the girls in the village of Teller wanted to avoid detection.

"No one's gonna see us, Rose." Alice Bowman employed her best, this-will-be-easy voice. "Come on, let's go have some fun. It's Friday night!"

Alice playfully shoved her friend's shoulder. Rose gave her childhood friend a sideways look of doubt, brushing her glossy black hair out of her eyes, not speaking, looking out then to the gentle surf of the Bering Sea.

Rose Nagaruk was always thoughtful before answering. Impulse was Alice's specialty. Caution and planning were bred into Rose. Generations of her people had not just survived, they had thrived in the ice and snow of the arctic. It wasn't by accident.

"Adee, you always pushing me to get in trouble, sis." Rose employed her Inupiaq mom's favorite word for exasperation, again pushed her hair from her face and scrunched her nose at her friend.

"We're not gonna get in trouble because no one will see us leave, and we got cover stories remember?" Alice splayed her hands out, the palms facing upward, showing the calluses from cutting fish for the drying racks. Mischievous, hungry for adventure, yes, but also tough and hard working, especially for a 15-year-old.

"You're spending the night at my house and I'm spending the night at yours and we'll really stay with Cassie in Nome. Her parents are gone to Anchorage for the weekend. We got the perfect alibi! It's always worked before."

As if it was decided, Alice swung her leg over the four-wheeler that had been her birthday present in June. She started it, thumbing the accelerator a couple of times, and then let it idle down, the engine puttering smoothly. She looked at her best friend expectantly.

"It's one of the last weekends we can do this. We've got the four-wheeler so we can get there and back by morning and nobody's gonna know! Let's go, Rose! We need some fun before school starts again!"