She Who Holds the Eye

By Andrea Renae

Akiak’s life was a tapestry of legends.

She knew it was Silla, Keeper of Sky, who glazed the night with northern lights when he was lovesick for the Sun. The tears Tapeesa shed for her lost daughter caused the tiny arctic flowers to bloom on the hillsides in the warm season. And it was Nanouk who released white bruins to prowl the ice, seeking always those who had stolen his life.

The old stories filled Akiak with awe, and she wondered if a simple hunter’s daughter could ever find a place among them.

Like her grandmother had. The tales spun around Akiak’s aana Ticasuk made the legends sound as tame as arctic summers.

Akiak’s village shivered with whispers…

“They say she caught Ukiuk’s eye; that is why we have been spared his winter gales.”

“I heard she traded her soul to the death god, Pana, so he would leave us in peace.”

“No, no, you are mistaken. She herself is Kuak, come to see how mortals fare the onset of her ice.”

Akiak didn’t know what to believe, except every time a great calamity approached, her home was spared.

One day, Ticasuk grew gravely ill, and a terrible storm finally fell upon the village. Dwellings collapsed under the fury of the wind and the weight of the snow. The people found refuge in the strongest buildings and wrapped their babes in caribou fur.

Akiak’s aana beckoned to her with a crooked finger.

“My daughter, I have done a terrible thing.” The frail woman coughed into the arctic fox tail that framed her face, staining it red.

Akiak took her aana’s thin hand, dread squeezing her chest. “What is it?”

Ticasuk’s eyes mirrored the storm that surged outside—frosted glass over a sea of gray. She tried to push herself off her musk-ox fur mat, and Akiak hastened to help her sit up. Ticasuk bit down, her teeth drawing blood from cracked lips. She reached inside her furs, pulled out a parcel wrapped in oilcloth, and placed it in Akiak’s mittened hands.

“Take this into the storm, brave one. It belongs to him, although I have held onto it since I was a fair girl like you. But it wasn’t mine to keep. If I…” A fierce shudder gripped her body. “If I should die, I fear he would tear apart what’s left of our village to get it back.”

“Who, Aana?”

She laid on her mat and let her eyelids fall. “Ukiuk.” Her last breath carried the name far away.

Akiak’s eyes blurred as she unwrapped the fabric. A stone the size of her fist fell out, its weight nothing compared to the grief crushing her heart. She blinked and stared at it, noticing how lightning-flecked white swirled around a midnight-black core within.

It was like an eye.

A terrible crash of wind caused the timbers of the building to crack, shaking Akiak out of her stupor. Screams pierced the air, and terror filled the room like rancid seal oil.

Brave one. That was what her aana had called her, what her name meant.

With one kiss on Ticasuk’s already cool cheek and a hoarsely uttered prayer for her eternal rest, Akiak stood and slipped the stone into her pocket.

Calling it a “storm” was inaccurate. It was more like a den of countless starving wolves, all frozen fur and claws and teeth. Akiak’s warmest parka felt like cheesecloth against its brutal bite, and her lungs convulsed as they threatened to turn to ice.

She thought of the tales Ticasuk had brought her up on, like the one about the brown hare who had struck a deal with the very creature that hunted him. If you but lend me your magnificent cloak for the night, then I will lay down my life willingly. The fox, pleased with flattery and tired of the chase, had agreed, and the next morning, her kits had feasted on rabbit meat. But when the fox had gone to hunt the hare’s children, she could not find them. The hare had learned the fox’s secret to blending in with the snow and clothed her own children in white.

Legends were what Akiak was made of, and like the hare, purpose drove her.

Ukiuk’s rage escalated as she trekked through the drifts, but Akiak pressed on. When she cleared the village, she stopped and held her mitten high.

“Ukiuk, I beg you to see me—that is, if you can with only one eye.”

The storm parted around her. Akiak gasped as she was drawn into a sphere where everything, including time, seemed to stand still.

“What makes you so bold, small one?” Ukiuk’s voice thundered like a frozen ocean cracking in the thaw.

Akiak squinted at the tall figure materializing from the crystals. The winds themselves wove into his garments, and sorrow chiseled his hard face.

“L-long ago, you gave this to my aana, though I am sure you regretted it. It has served its purpose, and my village has been spared your ruin until now. But with Ticasuk’s…” Akiak’s voice faltered, and she swallowed. “With my aana’s p-passing, I return it to you and beg that you visit your grief upon my people no longer.”

“Ticasuk….” Ukiuk’s voice issued in a burst of frost. He approached Akiak, gently took the stone from her hands, then pressed it to his frozen lips.

For a moment, Akiak feared his wrath would swell once more, but he let out a long sigh and nodded his glittering head.

“For Ticasuk,” he breathed, then pressed the stone back into Akiak’s hand. With a whirlwind of snow and lightning, Ukiuk, King of Winter, left the brave one standing on the white-washed tundra.

Akiak spun around, watching the storm circle in the distance, leaving its eye—and her village—in blissful calm.

By the time Akiak returned home, her own legend had been written.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Andrea Renae grew up wandering the Canadian prairies with a cat in tow. An only child, she thrilled in stories of all kinds. Writing became a way to process life’s countless beauties, hardships, and oddities. She can often be found playing piano, experimenting with watercolors, knitting sweaters, or practicing for her inevitable fame on the GBBO. Her heart will always be with her family, her friends, and her goofy goldendoodle.

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