1BROTHER

Sweat trickled down his back. He ignored it. A mosquito hummed in his ear; he ignored that, too. His body ached from being still so long; his feet were going numb again. Slowly, Piŋa flexed his toes to get the blood flowing. A little longer, he told his body, even though he had been waiting more than four hours already. His heavy-lidded eyes gazed straight ahead, focused on the movement of grass, the shifting of wind. His body moved only when the grass did, so slowly did he creep up on his prey.

The largest bull caribou gave a snort. With a sigh, the bull dropped down in the tall tundra grass, his ears twitching. Several other caribou took the bull’s signal and settled down, relaxing their guard. Piŋa took note of which caribou were left standing, acting as sentinels for the herd, and crept forward again, slowly pulling his bow out and placing it in front of him. It had taken most of the day to get this close; he was determined not to let this chance slip away.

With a practiced movement, the boy nocked an arrow in his bow, pulled back, and released. It was timed, swift and sure, with the exhalation of the largest bull.

The arrow struck the bull with a soft thump. Quietly, as though falling into sleep, the great antlered head lowered itself to the tundra. The bull made no other sound and lay still.

Methodically, the boy shot the other resting caribou, one after the other, with the same silent, deadly accuracy. When the last sitting caribou died, it let out a soft mewling noise, alerting the herd. Nervously, the others hurried away.

The boy straightened from his crouch and stood, stretching his cramped muscles. He walked over to the largest bull and ran his hand slowly over the tips of the antlers. They were almost as tall as the boy. A quiet smile softened his face.

Carefully, the boy set the bull’s head so it faced the boy’s home to the west. He bent down and whispered in the bull’s velvet ear, telling the bull how to find him. He opened the bull’s still-warm mouth and placed a pinch of lichen on the tongue, then he took his sharpest obsidian knife and severed the third vertebra, releasing the bull’s earthbound spirit to be born again. He did this for each of the fallen caribou. These small gifts ensured that he would be remembered as a kind and unashamed hunter, and next time their spirits would recognize him.

The boy had caught twelve caribou. His mother and father would be proud. When he had finished honoring their lives, he began the task of butchering.

With years of experience guiding his hands, his knife found all of the familiar spots to slice and cut and pry, and soon the animals were quartered expertly, wrapped in their own skins to keep the meat clean of tundra debris. Later he would bury the bundles in rocks to keep them cool and prevent animals from getting to them. He carefully examined the meat and the organs as he worked, using all of his senses to look for signs of disease that would make the animal unfit for eating. One animal showed signs of having been attacked by a bear recently, and a couple of the wounds were not healing right. He could see the sickness spreading from the wound into other parts of the animal. He set that one to the side, making sure it did not touch the others. It would be fed to the dogs so it would not go to waste. The meat would not hurt the dogs, as their stomachs were much more robust.

The layer of fat on the largest bull’s back was a finger length deep, showing how healthy and well-fed the animals were.

Piŋa could measure the season and age of the animal by the width of the fat and where it accumulated on the body. He could see how time manipulated the bodies of the caribou, like the length of daylight. Every animal was bound by these changes in their bodies as the moons turned and seasons passed.

That night, the boy lay down on his mat under the cooling light of a stubborn sun. Thoughts, like panicked ground squirrels, scurried through his mind. He ran his fingers lightly along his bow, watching how the smooth wood gleamed in the light, pearlescent with the years of use. It had belonged to his two brothers; each one had carried it before him.

His oldest brother, Atau, had crafted it by hand. The boy had heard stories of how it had taken years to find the perfect piece of wood, with the right height, heft, and suppleness. His brother had chosen well. The sinew had to be changed often, but the wood itself never discolored or cracked. When Atau had disappeared long ago into the mountains, all that his parents found was his bow.

The middle brother, Maliġu, had then used it and carved images into its length. The carefully designed etchings depicted a love of the mountains, a reverence for hunting, and land animals in various poses. Behind each animal were carvings of the place and time of year the animals could be found. The entire bow was a map of sorts, teaching the boy all he needed to grow skilled in the taking of animals. Many of the etchings were almost worn away, but the boy knew its lessons by heart. Maliġu had also disappeared into the mountains, leaving behind only the bow and no clue to his fate.

The boy grimaced. He knew that his mother, seeing all the caribou, would be ecstatic at first, but he knew also that grief would wrap itself around her joy like fall-time darkness. Any excitement she felt would be forgotten as she began to tell stories about his missing brothers. She would talk about Atau’s speed when quartering the caribou, his cuts clean and never hesitant, their skinned hides flawless and smooth, without any holes or thin areas. She would talk about Malġu’s strength, how he could carry a full-grown bull caribou for at least a mile, and how he would work tirelessly for days without complaint. She would go on about the amazing hunters they had been and how proud she was of their prowess.

The boy would sit there and nod as he always did, letting her list all the wonderful attributes his brothers had had. And at the end of her speech, she would look at him, fear clouding her soot-colored eyes, wondering if he, too, would one day disappear. He loved his mother greatly and hoped one day he would only see his own reflection in her eyes, and not the shining memories of his brothers.

His father would say very little, of course. He would just pat the boy briefly on his back, a wide smile on his dark face, and whisper, “Good job, son.”

At times, the boy thought his father took his brothers’ disappearance the hardest. His silence became something you could almost see, a depth and heaviness in the air. He often sat alone, eyes scanning the distant horizon toward the mountains, one calloused and rough thumb gently following the surface of a carved ivory goose that Mother had made. There was nothing more fiercely protective than a goose defending its offspring. He’d kept the carving tucked into the inner lining of his parka ever since his two older children had disappeared. Piŋa didn’t know what to make of his father’s grief, so he focused on just being the best son he could be.

How can you compete with someone’s memories, anyway?

A jaeger beat its wings in the wind, drawing the boy back to the present. The bird was headed for his carefully stashed meat. Annoyed with himself for letting his mind wander, the boy threw a stick in the bird’s direction, letting it know that the meat belonged to another. When the bird had flown off, the boy rolled his body into tanned caribou hides and fell asleep to the sound of flapping wings and buzzing insects.


Copyright © 2023 by Nasuġraq Rainey Hopson