Red Rooney: The Last of the Crew

A gleaming glance of intelligent humour lighted up Okiok’s face as he said—

“Ujarak is wiser than his torngak in that. He wants to make use of the poor lad for his own wicked ends. I know not what these are—but I have my suspicions.”

“So have I,” broke in Nuna at this point, giving her pot a rap with the cooking-stick by way of emphasis.

Rooney laughed.

“You think he must be watched, and his mischief prevented?” he said.

“That’s what I think,” said Okiok firmly.

“Tell me, what are the ceremonies to be gone through by that poor unwilling Ippegoo, before he can be changed into a wise man?”

“Oh, he has much to do,” returned Okiok, with his eyes on the lamp-flame and his head a little on one side, as if he were thinking. “But I am puzzled. Ujarak is cunning, though he is not wise; and I am quite sure he has some secret reason for hurrying on this business. He is changing the customs, and that is never done for nothing.”

“What customs has he changed?” asked Rooney.

“The customs for the young angekok before he gets a torngak,” replied the Eskimo.

Okiok’s further elucidation of this point was so complex that we prefer to give the reader our own explanation.

Before assuming the office of an angekok or diviner, an Eskimo must procure one of the spirits of the elements for his own particular familiar spirit or torngak. These spirits would appear to be somewhat coquettish and difficult to win, and marvellous tales are related of the manner in which they are wooed. The aspirant must retire for a time to a desert place, where, entirely cut off from the society of his fellows, he may give himself up to fasting and profound meditation. He also prays to Torngarsuk to give him a torngak. This Torngarsuk is the chief of the good spirits, and dwells in a pleasant abode under the earth or sea. He is not, however, supposed to be God, who is named Pirksoma, i.e. “He that is above,” and about whom most Eskimos profess to know nothing. As might be expected, the weakness of body and agitation of mind resulting from such exercises carried on in solitude throw into disorder the imaginative faculty of the would-be diviner, so that wonderful figures of men and monsters swim before his mental vision, which tend to throw his body into convulsions—all the more that he labours to cherish and increase such symptoms.

How far the aspirants themselves believe in these delusions it is impossible to tell; but the fact that, after their utmost efforts, some of them fail to achieve the coveted office, leads one to think that some of them are too honest, or too strong-minded, to be led by them. Others, however, being either weak or double-minded, are successful. They assert that, on Torngarsuk appearing in answer to their earnest petition, they shriek aloud, and die from fear. At the end of three days they come to life again, and receive a torngak, who takes them forthwith on a journey to heaven and hell, after which they return home full-fledged angekoks, prepared to bless their fellows, and guide them with their counsels.

“Now, you must know,” said Okiok, after explaining all this, “what puzzles me is, that Ujarak intends to alter the customs at the beginning of the affair. Ippegoo is to be made an angekok to-night, and to be let off all the fasting and hard thinking and fits. If I believed in these things at all, I should think him only a half-made angekok. As it is, I don’t care a puff of wind what they make of poor Ippegoo—so long as they don’t kill him; but I’m uneasy because I’m afraid the rascal Ujarak has some bad end in view in all this.”

“I’m quite sure of it,” muttered Nuna, making a stab with her stick at the contents of her pot, as if Ujarak’s heart were inside.

At that moment Nunaga entered, looking radiant, in all the glory of a new under-garment of eider-duck pelts and a new sealskin upper coat with an extra long tail.

“Have you seen Angut lately?” asked Rooney of the young girl.

“Yes,” she replied, with a modest smile that displayed her brilliant teeth; “he is in his own hut.”

“I will go and talk with him on this matter, Okiok,” said the seaman. “Meanwhile, do you say nothing about it to any one.”

Chapter Fourteen.

Solemn and Mysterious Doings are Brought to a Violent Close

Angut was seated at the further end of his abode when his friend entered, apparently absorbed in contemplation of that remarkable specimen of Eskimo longevity, the grandmother of Okiok.

“I have often wondered,” said Angut, as the seaman sat down beside him, “at the contentment and good-humour and cheerfulness, sometimes running into fun, of that poor old woman Kannoa.”

“Speak lower,” said Rooney in a soft voice; “she will hear you.”

“If she does, she will hear no evil. But she is nearly deaf, and takes no notice.”

“It may be so; poor thing!” returned the sailor in a tender tone, as he looked at the shrivelled-up old creature, who was moving actively round the never-idle lamp, and bending with inquiring interest over the earthen pot, which seemed to engross her entire being. “But why do you wonder?”

“I wonder because she has so little to make her contented, and so much to ruin her good-humour and cheerfulness, and to stop her fun. Her life is a hard one. She has few relations to care for her. She is very old, and must soon grow feeble, and then—”

“And then?” said Rooney, as the other paused.

“Then she knows not what follows death—who does know?—and she does not believe in the nonsense that our people invent. It is a great mystery.”

The Eskimo said the last words in a low voice and with a wistful gaze, as if he were rather communing with himself than conversing with his friend. Rooney felt perplexed. The thoughts of Angut were often too profound for him. Not knowing what to say, he changed the subject by mentioning the object of his visit.

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.

“Ho!” he thought, “here it comes; it comes at last! Ujarak told the truth—I am becoming one of the wise men.”

So delighted was the poor fellow with the idea, and with the strong hope created thereby, that his blood began to course more rapidly and his heart to beat high. Under the impulse, he gave vent to a yell that drew a nod of gratified approval from his mother, and quite astonished those who knew him best. Redoubling his twistings and drummings, he soon wore himself out, and ere long fell down in a state of temporary exhaustion.

Having thus, according to instruction, worked himself up to the proper pitch of enthusiasm, Ippegoo lay still and panted. Ujarak then, coming forward, led him into Angut’s hut, which was lighted as usual with several cooking-lamps. The people flocked in after them till it was nearly full; but spaces in the centre and upper end were kept comparatively free. Near the lamp the Kablunet was seen seated, observing the proceedings with much gravity; Okiok sat near him.

When all were seated, the wizard led his pupil into the centre space, and, making him sit down, bent him forward until his head was between his legs. He fastened it in that position, and then tied his hands behind his back. All the lights were now extinguished, for no one is allowed to witness the interview of the unfinished angekok with the torngak, nor to move a finger for fear of disturbing him.

The room being now in the state which is described as darkness just visible, Ippegoo began to sing a song, in which all joined. Presently he took to groaning by way of variety; then he puffed and gasped, and in a quavering voice entreated his torngak to come. Spirits, however, like human creatures, are not always open to entreaty. At all events, Ippegoo’s torngak refused to appear.

In such circumstances it is usual for an aspirant to writhe about until he brings on a sort of fit, during the continuance of which his soul goes off to fetch the obstinate torngak. After a short time he returns with him, laughing loudly for joy, while a rustling noise, resembling the wings of birds as they swoop about the roof, is heard.

But Ippegoo was not a sufficiently wise man to get through this part of the programme. True, he wrought himself into a wonderful state of excitement, and then humbly lay down on his side to have a fit. But the fit would not come. He tried his best to have it. He wished with all his heart for it, but all his efforts were vain.

“O why won’t you come to me, torngak?” demanded the poor youth, with a pitiful whine.

“Because you are wise enough already,” said a low voice, which startled the audience very much, and sent a thrill of alarm, not unmingled with surprise, to the hearts of Ippegoo and his master.

The voice seemed to come from the outside of the hut.

“Ask him to come inside and speak to us,” whispered Ujarak, who was a good deal more surprised even than his pupil at this unexpected turn of affairs.

“Won’t you come in, torngak?” said Ippegoo timidly. “It is very cold outside. You will be more comfortable inside, and we shall hear you better. I suppose you can come as easily through the wall as by—”

“Stop your stupid tongue!” growled Ujarak.

At that moment a deep unearthly voice was heard inside the hut. Every one trembled, and there ensued a silence so oppressive as to suggest the idea that all present were holding their breath, and afraid to move even by a hair’s-breadth.

Suddenly there was a faint murmur, for at the upper end of the hut a dark form was seen slowly to arise. It must be remembered that there was barely light enough to render darkness visible. No features could be distinguished on this apparition, but it gradually assumed the form of a gigantic bear, rising nearly to the roof, and with its great forelegs extended, as if it were brooding over the assembly. Every one remained perfectly still, as if spell-bound.

Only one of the audience was sceptical. Being himself a master of deception, Ujarak suspected some trick, and slowly approached the giant bear with the intention of testing its reality—in some trepidation, however, for he was naturally superstitious. When he had drawn near enough to touch it, he received a tremendous blow on the forehead, which laid him flat on his back in a partially stunned condition, with his head in Pussimek’s lap. That amiable woman considerately allowed it to remain there, and as the wizard felt mentally confused he did not care to change his position.

Presently a low musical voice broke upon the assembly. We need scarcely say that it was that of our hero, Red Rooney, but so changed in character and tone as to be quite unrecognisable by the company, most of whom, indeed, were not yet very familiar with it. Even his more intimate friends, Angut and the Okiok family, were startled by it. In fact, the seaman, besides being something of a mimic, possessed a metallic bass voice of profound depth, which, like most bass voices, was capable of mounting into the higher latitudes of tone by means of a falsetto. He utilised his gifts on the present occasion.

“Ippegoo,” he said solemnly and very slowly, “I am not your torngak. I am an angekok, and as I chanced to be passing by your hut in my wanderings, I stopped to hear. I have heard enough to be able to tell you that you shall never be an angekok. Nor shall you ever have a torngak. You do not need one. You are wise enough already, much wiser than your master, who is no better than a miserable puffin. Is it not the duty of one who would be an angekok to go away and live alone for many days fasting, and praying, and meditating? Has not Ujarak advised you to change the ancient customs? Pooh! he is a fool. You cannot succeed now. All the spirits of water, earth, and air have been insulted. This assembly must break up. You must leave off trying. You may all be thankful that the ice does not burst up and crush you; that the sky does not fall upon you; that the great sea does not roll its maddest waves over you. Up, all of you—Begone!”

Rooney finished off with a roar so deep and fearsome that the very rafters trembled. A pile of wood, stones, and earthenware, previously prepared for the purpose, was tipped over, and fell with a most awful crash. At the same moment the seaman culminated in a falsetto shriek that might have shamed a steam whistle.

It was enough. Had the tunnel entrance of the hut been long and strong, suffocation to many must have been the result, for they went into it pell-mell, rolling rather than running. Fortunately, it was short and weak. Ujarak and Simek, sticking in it, burst it up, and swept it away, thus clearing the passage for the rest. The last to disappear was Kunelik, whose tail flapped on the door-post like a small pistol-shot as she doubled round it and scrambled out, leaving Rooney, Angut, Kannoa, and Ippegoo to enjoy the situation.

Chapter Fifteen.

A Great Singing Duel interrupted by a Catastrophe

When the lamps were rekindled by Kannoa, it was discovered that the old lady’s nostrils were twitching and her throat contracting in a remarkable manner, with smothered laughter. Very different was the condition of Ippegoo, who still lay bound in the middle of the room. Fear and surprise in equal proportions seemed to have taken possession of him. Rooney, having dropped the bear-skin, approached him, while Angut stood beside the lamp looking on with a sort of serious smile.

“Now, Ippegoo,” said the sailor, stooping and cutting his bonds, “I set you free. It is to be hoped also that I have freed you from superstition.”

“But where is the bear-angekok?” asked the bewildered youth.

“I am the bear-angekok.”

“Impossible!” cried Ippegoo.

To this Rooney replied by going back to his bear-skin, spreading it over himself, getting on a stool so as to tower upwards, spreading out his long arms, and saying in his deepest bass tones—

“Now, Ippegoo, do you believe me?”

A gleam of intelligence flashed on the youth’s countenance, and at that moment he became more of a wise man than he had ever before been in his life, for he not only had his eyes opened as to the ease with which some people can be deceived, but had his confidence in the infallibility of his old tyrant completely shaken. He reasoned somewhat thus—

“If Ujarak’s torngak was good and true, it would have told him of the deceit about to be practised on him, and would not have allowed him to submit to disgrace. If it did not care, it was a bad spirit. If it did not know, it was no better than a man, and not worth having—so I don’t want to have one, and am very glad I have escaped so well.”

The poor fellow shrank from adding, “Ujarak must be a deceiver;” but he began to think that Red Rooney might not have been far wrong after all when he called him a fool.

Ippegoo was now warned that he must keep carefully out of the wizard’s way, and tell no one of the deceit that had been practised. He promised most faithfully to tell no one, and then went straight home and told his mother all about it—for it never for a moment occurred to the poor fellow to imagine that he was meant to conceal it from his mother!

Fortunately Kunelik was a wise little woman. She knew how to keep her own counsel, and did not even by nod or look insinuate to any one that she was in possession of a secret.

“Now, then, Angut, what is the next thing to be done?” asked Rooney, after Ippegoo had left.

“Make Ujarak fight his duel,” said Angut.