A Tyranny of Petticoats Read Online Free PDF Page A

through the rote motions of carving the
maktak.
An ominous hush of whispers hung over our village. The hunters gathered in the
qargi
to make sense of what they’d seen. I stayed outside with my mother long after the low sun set, searching the waves.
    “He is still here,” my mother murmured again beside me, as we packaged the
maktak
and loaded it onto our sled. “He has not died. We must keep waiting.” She said it in a feverish, fierce voice that frightened me.
    I couldn’t understand. My father had said that the spirits would guide you, if you took only what you needed and respected them in their domain. Did he somehow anger the Seal King? Had he insulted the great Nanuk?
    Finally, the next morning, we saw the monster for ourselves.
    Several children saw it first. Their shouts woke the rest of us, and we all gathered near the edge of the land. It floated out of the morning haze, a great contraption of wood and cloth. I had never seen so much wood in all my life, and all on one structure. As we looked on, several small boats left the larger and sailed toward us.
    Our elders had always told stories of strangers —
gusaks —
from across the sea and ice, men with an insatiable hunger for furs. Some of these men traded us kettles and needles and warm blankets in exchange for beaver pelts. Others were not so friendly. I’d never thought much of those tales . . . until now.
    I stared at the men who stepped out of these unfamiliar boats. They were very tall, with eyes and skin pale as water, their faces sharp and angular.
Gusaks.
Somehow, the word no longer sounded so funny to me. Were these the men who would smile and give us blankets? Several hunters went out to greet them on the ice. I looked on. My eyes darted to the strangers’ belts. Odd devices hung from them, cylindrical pipes and leather pouches heavy with a shining rock.
    The strangers talked to our hunters in a language I did not understand. Their voices grew louder. I looked up to meet my mother’s gaze and stepped forward, but my mother seized my wrist and pulled me back.
    “Don’t,” she whispered, her eyes still focused on the hunters and the pale men.
    One of the hunters held his arms out to both sides. He shouted at the white men’s leader. “It was your ship that killed Nunviaq!”
    The white man pulled the strange cylindrical pipe from his belt. I looked on as he held it up to the hunter’s chest.
    A loud noise. I jumped.
    A cloud of smoke rose from the pipe. The hunter staggered back a step, clutched his chest, and then fell. Shouts of confusion and alarm rose from the others. I stood frozen in place as they bent over the fallen hunter.
Siluk.
His name came to me. My father laughed often with him. I played with his sons. “Dead!” one of the others shouted. Siluk’s wife let out a wail.
    Then, chaos.
    The leader pointed the pipe at others. They fled. The strangers spread out, and in their hands they all held pipes. I could smell smoke in the air.
    “Mother!” I shouted.
    My mother held my hand tight. “The dogs,” she cried. “Quickly!” Together, we hurried toward our hut.
    Then something struck my mother. She continued to run, but her gait was uneven, her steps staggering forward instead of moving on an even keel.
    “Mother?” I said.
    My mother’s footsteps began to slow. “Keep going,” she said. Her voice came out raspy. I smelled the sharp tang of blood.
    By the time we reached the dogs, the animals were already restless and howling, wild-eyed with the knowledge that something terrible was happening. I ran to them and started to work on tightening the half-finished harnesses. Lessons from my father rushed through my mind. “Mother,” I called out over my shoulder, “the lead!”
    When she didn’t respond, I paused to look back. She knelt in the snow, her hands clutched over her stomach. Dark red drops of blood were scattered in a trail behind her, tainting the snow.
    I dropped the harnesses and ran back to my mother’s