“It happens,” Maratse said.
“Aap. All the time.”
Maratse turned to his left to look at the fjord, now covered in a thick blanket of fog. “Tell me what happened in Kussannaq.”
Kilaasi’s face twisted into a grimace before he began. “They came fast, with ships and a helicopter.”
“Ships? More than one?”
“Aap. The big American ship with lots of small boats. And Sisak.”
“Sisak III?”
Kilaasi nodded. “But they just sat there, watching.”
“They didn’t send anyone ashore?”
“Naamik.”
“And they stayed?”
“They’re still there. They saw everything. When the man grabbed Innuina, they came a little closer. But still, they didn’t land. We saw them from the path.” Kilaasi pointed to the bend in the path curving around the mountain leading to Kussannaq. “Until we came around the corner. But now… the fog.”
“Hmm.” Maratse took a step back, tilting his head as if he could see around the corner.
“Are they still Greenland police?” Kilaasi asked. “Aboard Sisak.”
“Iiji.”
“And you? Are you still police?”
Maratse dropped his pack onto the ground and nodded.
“Then you should talk to them.”
“I will.”
Kilaasi dug his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small handheld VHF unit. He pressed it into Maratse’s hand, and said, “Talk to them.” Maratse twisted the dial to turn the unit on, but Kilaasi reached out to stop him. “No signal. Save the battery. Use it when you get further down the path.”
“I will.” Maratse stuffed the radio into his jacket pocket.
Kilaasi chuckled as he watched him.
“It’s funny,” he said.
“What is?”
Kilaasi nodded at Maratse’s jacket. “Now we’ve met, it makes sense. Your stories on the radio.” Another chuckle. “Your jacket is a police jacket.”
“Iiji.”
“But it looks… It smells like a fisherman’s jacket. And now the stories make sense. Only a hunter could talk about ice the way you do, or a fisherman about the sea. I understand now.” He looked along the path to where Kamiila sat watching them. “She understands.”
“She thinks I should do more than tell stories.”
“You will,” Kilaasi said. “Stories are where it begins.”
Maratse caught the older man’s eye and frowned. “Where it begins?”
“You know what I’m talking about, Constable.” Kilaasi pointed at the bend in the path. “Go and talk to your colleagues. Rouse them into action.”
“They work for the Americans now.”
“On paper.” Kilaasi shrugged. “But here…” He pressed his wrinkled fist to his chest. “They are still Greenland. Talk to them. They will help you. I will stay with the girls. I’ll look after them.” Kilaasi’s thin lips stretched into a gappy smile.
“You’ll look after them?”
“I will pretend to. Kamiila is a good girl, a strong woman. She will pretend to let me.”
Maratse shook Kilaasi’s hand, thanked him for the radio, and then dipped his head in a brief farewell.
“Keep telling your stories, Constable,” Kilaasi said, as Maratse walked away. “They give us hope.”
Maratse took a last look at Kamiila, then turned to walk along the path curving around the mountain, down to the fjord, and Kussannaq. Like all the settlements in Greenland, Kussannaq was full of stories bleached into the weathered wood of the houses, packed into the dry earth, twisting on the wind through tall Arctic grasses. Maratse curled his fingers around the dial of the radio in his pocket, as he wondered what to say.
It will be all right. You’ll see.
“How do you know?”
I know. Trust me.
Maratse shook his head, wondering how and when he let Inniki in, only to remember the window box in Kapisillit, their daily walk around the houses, and the way she had grabbed her rifle – without hesitation – to protect her life, and her greatest love: her country.
Trust me.
“Iiji,” he said. “I do.”
The fog curled around Kussannaq, giving Maratse little more than a minute to observe the settlement before the houses shrank into the blanket of grey. He tugged the radio from his pocket, turned the dial to switch the unit on, then changed the frequency to channel 16. He pressed the transmit button, speaking in Greenlandic, as he called the police cutter Sisak III.
“Received.” The radio crackled to life. “Go to channel 12.”
Maratse changed channels, then paused as he considered what to say, and how much.
Constable Aqqa Danielsen beat him to it, bringing a smile to Maratse’s face as the younger constable’s voice and Greenlandic words boomed out of the speaker. “Good to hear you, Qilingatsaq. What do you need?”
Maratse’s smile stretched into a laugh as Danielsen addressed him with his Greenlandic name. Everyone – Kamiila, Danielsen, even Kilaasi – seemed to be just a few steps ahead of him.
Catch up, David.
“I know,” he whispered, before pressing the button to transmit. “I’m thinking of coming down to the settlement.”
Maratse let go of the button to wait for Danielsen’s response.
“Ah, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Are you close?”
“Close enough.”
“Then we can meet.”
“Also, not a good idea. You need to think about this.”
Maratse lowered the radio. He tapped the thick antenna against his thigh. Everyone else was thinking about the bigger picture, while he was just reacting as he always did.
“It’s what I know,” he whispered, suddenly curious at the thump of something on the wind. “It’s what I do best.”
It occurred to him then, just as it occurred to Kilaasi, there was a reason Maratse’s stories resonated with his people, especially those in the sledge dog districts above the Arctic Circle and on the east coast. Hunters, while they were adept at reading the signs, often reacted to reports of whales in an open lead, or a herd of reindeer that strayed into difficult terrain. They reacted to any given situation, with little and often no time for planning.
Start planning.
“I know.”
It’s the only way.
“I need a plan,” Maratse said. He lifted the radio to his face, pressed the transmit button, and repeated himself.
Danielsen agreed, but Maratse lost the rest of the constable’s transmission as the thumping he heard earlier, returned, amplified by the fog.
“I
