Despite her embarrassment, Atiqtalik appeared at the fjord again the next day. At their meeting place. Though it would never truly convey the gratitude she had for his pearl, she had come with a gift; the flawless black and white feather of a snowy owl.
She paced along the shoreline, fingering the small gray pearl tucked inside her pocket. It was nearly dinner, the sky was darkening. She had to be home soon, for her mother and father, her brothers. She had waited all of the daylight hours for the boy to come, but still he wasn't here.
Hadn't he wanted to see her today?
She stopped at the boulder where he had sat just the day before. There was no trace of him, this boy who had brought her a gift. Nothing, no marks, no forgotten mitten or bootlace. Only pale-green lichens, enveloping the rock for centuries, perhaps. She settled on the rock face, pulling her knees up to her chest. A strong wind blew across the fjord. Dusk brought colder temperatures, yet she was grateful to see that that hadn't changed, despite the warmth of late. The cold deepened even further, and she tugged her furs closer about her. A sea eagle soared overhead: toward home, she surmised. She should be doing the same, but still she waited. Waited, in the small chance that the boy might appear.
Her sun had nearly dropped past the horizon. Slowly he descended, a red, globular inferno, suspended by nothing at all but will and wind. The sky was streaked with salmon pinks and oranges, and higher up, a watercolor spread of indigo and cobalt. The clouds were sparse yet dark with shadow. And the fjord: it was a crystalline mirror, reflecting and displaying the world above. Atiqtalik, her forehead creased and her thick, dark eyebrows furrowed, stared out at the rapidly changing landscape. A dark lock escaped her hood, waving frantically in the escalating breeze. The air was growing as cold and as sharp as slivers of glass.
Night was fast approaching. She knew if she didn't leave now, she wouldn't get home before dark. Wistfully, she hopped off the rock, giving her fjord a parting glance before turning to go.
She began her trek home, twirling the white feather between her fingers.
She came the next day. And waited. He didn't appear. She came again the next day, and the next, and the next. Waiting. Each passing day gave her less hope that she would see the boy again. Yuka. Bright star. Boy with eyes of flickering stars.
She passed her time wondering over where he might have gone. What he might be doing. Who he was with. Had her thanks provoked him into keeping away? Her hug?
Was it because she had called him 'friend'?
Her mind was an unending labyrinth of questions, and so she found ways to amuse her troubled mind; taking up one activity, or another, to avoid the tangle of her thoughts. Hunting. Sleeping. Sewing with her whalebone needle.
Sometimes she threw pebbles into the dark breadth of the fjord, just to watch them as they battered the surface of the water, then as they sank into its lustrous depths. It was an oddly calming exercise.
Every day, it seemed to get warmer. She felt certain that the fjord was warming, too. Was it just her, or was it less icy than before?
And the wind. The wind was bewitched with a warmth that chilled her to the bone.
She longed to feel the flecks of blistering snow on her cheeks, for the wind to whip her hair and flush her face with cold. She longed to pull her coat up to her chin, taking comfort in the soft fur. But it was too warm. More often than not, her coat found itself unbuttoned for the lack of cold.
She lay dully on the rocks, picking at a strand of her own hair. Who was Yuka? What was his story? She plucked the hair methodically, filled with a desire to know more of the boy, to know him at his heart. Why did he not come? He had seemed so excited to meet her, and to befriend her.
She sat up. She could find him, surely. She could find him, Yuka, the boy of stars. Then another thought emerged, penetrating the mist of her speculating mind.
Did he even want to be found?
She sighed angrily at this thought, angry with herself for even thinking it, then angry because she thought that, unfortunately, it might just be true.
She stuck her hand into the pocket with the pearl and pulled it out. She rolled it across her mittened palm, watching the iridescent object as it glimmered in the sun.
Sudden, angry tears pricked her eyes and she felt unable to look at it any longer. She held the silver item out in front of her, letting it slip from her fingers.
The pearl bounced off of a small stone, and landed with a plunk in the snow. She could see the small tunnel where the pearl had dropped. She turned, fully intending to walk away.
But the very next moment, she had knelt to the ground and pulled off her mitten. She dug into the snow until she had the small, silvery pearl settled back into the palm of her hand. She brought it to her lips. I'm sorry, she whispered over and over again. I'm sorry.
She would not give up on Yuka, the kind boy with his eyes full of stars. She would not now, not ever. So for the next few days she came to the fjord and waited for him through the daylight, as patiently as her nature would allow. She wasn't always patient. But she would remember his kindness to her, and banish her unruly thoughts. Instead, she sat quietly by the edge of the water. Wishing. Hoping.
After seven days, her hope was realized. As soon as she approached the fjord, to wait out another day, she saw his figure, standing solitary among the rocks and snow. It had been only a week, but to Atiqtalik, it had felt like an eternity.
Her face lit up, and she opened her lips to call to him. But her mouth fell closed, her expression quickly changing as he stood to meet her, and she viewed him with a closer eye.
The warm wind sifted through his hair. When she looked into his eyes she saw not the twinkling of stars that she expected, and hoped, to see, but two deep, dark pools. Intently, she looked into his face with a growing concern, trying to decipher his expression. Something was wrong.
This was not the same bright and thoughtful boy she had met, who had given her a gift just because. This was not the boy filled with the spark of life, who had made her smile so full.
This was a boy consumed with pain.
He looked up, and as soon as their eyes met, he burst into tears.
She ran to his side. She was tentative, at first, to touch him. But he was upset, clearly so, and despite her fears, her first instinct was to hold and protect.
She followed her instinct and wrapped her arms around his quaking body. She held him, and he sank into her embrace. She held him as he cried, as he mourned for a reason unknown to her. But she knew the comfort another soul could kindle in a person, no matter the cause of the grief. So she held him close. When his knees gave way, she sank to the ground with him.
In her heart, she knew that this was how she could help him, to think of him like he had thought of her. But even more, she wanted to simply be there; to care for him as the deepest, truest friend. She felt, deep in her soul, that this was someone she could grow to love and to cherish.
Neither knew how much time passed, but the boy cried out his heart, his head buried in the girl's shoulder. She held him fiercely, her own eyes pricking with unshed tears in kinship with his heartache. He began to whisper, grief-stricken. He rocked back and forth. She rubbed his back in slow gestures, holding him tightly. His sobs seemed to quiet, but still he whispered, tears heavy and plump with grief cascading down his reddened cheeks. He trembled in the embrace of Atiqtalik. Repeatedly, he whispered anaanatsiaq. My anaanatsiaq.
Grandmother. My grandmother.
Tears slipped down her face in smooth trails as she registered the words and their meaning. She held him tighter.
Before long, he pulled his arms from hers. Nakurmiik, he said quietly. His face was swollen with the bruises of still more buried tears and heartache, but she would not make him stay. She watched his back grow smaller and smaller as he made his return to Qikiqtarjuaq, and in time, returned herself.
She asked her mother about Yuka: if she knew of the boy who had lost his grandmother. Her mother, cradling baby Anik in her arms, looked up in surprise. Yes, she said. Yuka Kirima. He lost his only family, his grandmother Sedna, some days ago.
He's a good boy, she added, almost as an afterthought. Then she glanced at her daughter, wondering. But all she did was wrap an arm around the girl's shoulders, giving her a friendly squeeze. Then she pulled the girl back and looked her in the eyes.
If you know him, Atiqtalik, go to him. It is so very hard to lose someone you love.
She pulled the girl back into her arms. She settled her cheek on the girl's head, and slowly began to run her fingers through her daughter's dark hair.
You're a good girl, Atiqtalik, she whispered after a moment of quiet. I know you'll do what feels right.
Atiqtalik leaned into her mother's hug. Nakurmiik, Anaana. Thank you, mother.
She practically flew to the fjord the next day, hoping desperately that he would be there. Be there, she thought, over and over again. Be there, Yuka. Boy of stars.
Be there.
He was.
They sat on the boulder, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the water. They didn't mention his tears, or his grief. She simply held his arm, and they were quiet for a long time.
Then he turned to her, his need for words breaking the comfort of their silence. He told her about his grandmother.
Sedna was her name, and she was a storyteller. She loved stories. She loved learning stories, hearing them, telling them. She wove stories from nothing but the air, the wind, the water; turned them into tales of beauty and heartache. They were such that they wound themselves around and around the soul, to remain there for eternity. She spun tale after tale for the boy, as a comfort, when he had first lost his parents, and purely for his enjoyment, as he grew older. He had never thought her stories would come to an end. They were the breath of her life. The beat to her drum.
But somehow, even more than she loved her tales, his grandmother loved the sea. The sea was her life, her home, her heart. She was the sea herself. She could be calm and serene as a pearl, but sharp and tragic as the waves. Those white-capped waves, you know? he told her. That was my grandmother. Her spirit.
It was the ocean's spirit.
He grew silent, and she turned her eyes to his face. Tears were waterfalling down his cheeks. She squeezed his arm and he turned to her, his eyes wide. It was the sea that killed her, he whispered. His nose quivered.
She turned to him, probing his face for answers, but could find none concealed within the sharp lines of his face. Slowly, she faced the fjord once more, troubled. But she enfolded his hand in hers.
Again and again she came to the fjord and met him there. Sometimes they spoke, sometimes they didn't. Each other's presence was enough. She was gratified, to be able to comfort him, in her own way. He was thankful for her companionship, more than thankful. He could hardly describe the feelings he had, the relief he felt in having her next to him, there for him.
But he had yet to tell her about his grandmother's death, and Atiqtalik felt the absence of the subject like a pinch in her side. When was he going to tell her? she wondered. Would he?
She wondered, but never aloud, and her questions remained unanswered. Her unease grew.
Yet despite the fact that he hadn't told her, he still treated her with kindness, with compassion and thought. Because of it, she trusted him. And she trusted him with all of her heart. She knew he would tell her when he was ready.
Sometimes it surprised her that she could have so much trust in one person, even when he held things back. Perhaps, she thought, it was because she had known, though briefly, what the boy had been like before his grandmother's death.
She could still see it. Underneath the grief, she could see the remnants of what the boy had been before, and the stars that had sparkled in his eyes and spirit.
They just weren't there anymore.
He didn't expect to see her at his door. He stood there for half a moment before he was able to collect himself, relieving the large soup pot from her arms. Neither was quite sure what to say, so she pointed to the pot. It's seal, she said. Stew. My mother's recipe.
He didn't seem to know how to reply, so she continued hastily. It has sea salt. Lots of it. It's very good.
He blinked, and she shifted uncomfortably. Then he seemed to gather himself. Nakurmiik, he said softly, with feeling. His eyes were red, and his face worn with insomnia. But he seemed almost happy to see her.
Then his head dropped to his chest, tears welling once more in his once star-sprinkled eyes. The pot seemed to grow heavy in his hands, and she reached forward to grab it, settling it in the crook of her arm. Tentatively, she reached for him, and held his elbow to steady him. The fjord? she put forth. He nodded. She handed back the pot, and he took it, gripping it tightly. He disappeared inside to deposit the stew and returned moments later, pulling his hood up to his ears. They set off.
She sat with him, on the boulder, as they often did. But it felt different this time. He was quiet, and though she had only brought the stew as a comfort, her presence at his home seemed to have spurred something, something deep within the recesses of his mind.
He turned to face her, his dark eyes shifting between her own. She turned and regarded him steadily. She could feel the emotion in his soul just by looking at him, though it pained her to see it so vividly.
It was a long while before he seemed to recover. Then he adjusted so he was facing the fjord once more.
My grandmother, he began, was fishing on the ocean. Ice fishing.
She loved to ice fish.
His eyes were wet through. But she could see, deep within the lines of his face, that he was determined to bring voice to his grandmother's story, and she felt gratitude in her heart. He glanced at her, then turned away, to watch the waves on the fjord as he spoke.
She went to her fishing spot, the place where she had fished her entire life. Her friend, Alasie, was with her. Alasie told my grandmother that the ice was too thin. It was too warm to fish there. My grandmother laughed.
The boy laughed then too, a small, recollective laugh. Then his laugh stilled, and his smile fell.
She didn't believe Alasie. Why should she, when she had fished there every winter for as long as she could remember?
A sad smile crept onto the boy's lips, and Atiqtalik watched him carefully.
Alasie tried to tell my grandmother that it was too dangerous. But my grandmother insisted, even when they drilled into the ice, and discovered how thin it really was. But that was the spirit inside her. It wouldn't let her stop from doing something she loved. Just because the ice seemed thin didn't mean they couldn't fish. So they fished from the early morning hours, until midday. The sun was very strong then. Alasie realized, then, that the layer of ice was thinner.
It was thinner...
He trailed off, taking deep breaths. His eyes were squeezed into a thin line; his long, dark eyelashes a tangle atop his lids. Atiqtalik squeezed his hand. Go on, she said. He took another breath. He opened his eyes.
Alasie thought that my grandmother had noticed the ice. But she didn't. She was getting so old.
Alasie thought, too, that because my grandmother had more experience, she knew what she was doing. Since my grandmother paid no mind, Alasie reasoned, the ice must have been safe.
But it wasn't, he whispered. It wasn't.
They heard a crack in the ice. Alasie described... She described my grandmother looking up to Alasie's face, before she fell in. Alasie tried to grab her, but my grandmother became trapped under the surface. She could have made it back up, the ice was thin...
Abruptly, Yuka stopped. He gripped Atiqtalik. She felt tears in her own eyes prick, as he tried to continue, despite the suffering it induced. He looked at her, and his eyes, deep and full with emotion, stared into Atiqtalik's. She felt her very soul bared beneath his naked, anguished gaze. He took a deep breath, still looking at her, and his lips began to whisper the last words of his grandmother's story.
Alasie says that my grandmother, as soon as she hit the water, gave into it. She gave into the sea.
She could've had a chance. The ice was thin and she could have come back up.
But my grandmother loved the ocean. She loved the water, the creatures, the endless mystery. She loved the stories, the tales that made the sea who she was. I think that's why she didn't struggle, why she chose to become one with the sea.
She drowned, he whispered.
The boy let himself cry, crying harder than Atiqtalik had ever seen a person do so. Still, she was there for him, and cried alongside him, for a woman she hadn't even been acquainted with. But she felt the boy's pain in her own heart, in her own way. She was grateful that he had put his trust into her hands.
It was a long time before he calmed, and the canvas of the sky had grown heavy with streaks of color before his grief quieted. The wind surged across the fjord. After a time, he grew silent. His tears had drained, and the grief no longer swallowed his entire soul. He felt almost peaceful, watching the waves lap at the partially frozen ground.
Then he stood. I should go, he said. Atiqtalik nodded. She watched him as he turned and clambered over the rocks toward Qikiqtarjuaq, his head on his chest.
She turned away.
The gods are angry, he noted the next day. His expression was solemn, and hers too. The air was warm. Too warm. Neither of them could bring themselves to button their coats.
She held on to her silence for as long as she felt she was able, before she could hold it in no longer. Why did you bring me the pearl? she asked, and he turned to her in surprise. Her eyes slipped to the water, their expression unreadable. He was quiet for a moment, then spoke, his voice soft.
Before I met you, he said, I watched you.
She turned her eye on him, and the hint of a smile lit up his face; if only for the briefest of moments. Then it disappeared, and his features relapsed into the depths of his pain. He stared out across the rolling waves.
I apologize now, for watching you without your knowledge. And I didn't mean to spy on you, though that's exactly what I did. But you remind me of my grandmother, in the way you watch the water. Like she's an entity, not just a force of nature.
He glanced at her.
I can see the heat of fire inside you, Atiqtalik. But you also have the peace of the sea. Watching you by the water, I believed that you too felt the essence that lives and breathes within those waves, that beats the shore, unfurls within the ripples. My grandmother saw that essence.
I brought you the pearl because I felt you were a kindred spirit, to me as well as my grandmother. You seem to know the ways of the world, of the ice and sea. He smiled softly. And although we don't know one another well, I've greatly appreciated your friendship since my grandmother's... passing.
The faint smile painted across his lips disappeared at these words, his eyes full with grief for his grandmother. His gaze dropped to the ground.
They were both quiet, but Atiqtalik's mind was racing. The words were thick in her heart. She could comfort him. Here, now. She had only need of the courage to let the words come.
But he was her friend. She was his. And he was grateful for their friendship: he'd just said so himself. Her heart flowed full with the knowledge of it. She inhaled slowly.
She's not gone, Yuka, she said finally, her voice soft.
He turned to her, watching her closely, and Atiqtalik reached out to take hold of his hand. She looked into his face, her beautiful, dark eyes dancing. Her courage was there, in the comfort, the assurance of their friendship.
She let the words come, and they began to flow, cascading from her lips like the drift of a river.
Your grandmother's body may be gone, she told him.
But her spirit isn't gone. Her soul isn't gone. She tapped the boy's chest lightly. She's in here, and always will be. You'll never forget her, even I know that.
Maybe your grandmother's body isn't here. But you said she had the ocean's spirit, the spirit of the sea. So think of it as you used to, her soul dancing in the bubbles, fighting in those white-capped waves. I may not have known her, but I do know that she wouldn't have left you willingly, Yuka.
She's here, with you. Inside you. She's in your body, your mind, your soul. As long as you are here, she will be here. Never despair that her physical form isn't here, for that's not what matters. It's the love and preservation of her memory and spirit that does.
Atiqtalik looked away. Let yourself grieve, she said. You have to let yourself remember her through your tears. To respect her, and yourself. It's only human. But she'll never really be gone, Yuka. She will always be here.
Yuka was quiet. His eyes were filled with grief, but they were swimming with a quiet light of recognition, too: arisen from the words of her heart.
She reached for his hand and held it tightly within her own, to comfort him. They stayed that way for a long time, watching and listening, waves lapping at their feet to the lulling rhythm of the sea.
Thank you, Atiqtalik, he whispered finally. Then he turned to her, looking right into her. His eyes shone with sadness, yet overflowed with the life and energy and love of his soul. Thank you. She smiled, small and soft, to see it.
The stars were back.