Qimmiq
Ice clung to Anya’s eyelashes as she watched from the lee of the
windblown hut, her fingers squeezing the haft of her bone spear. The creature,
nose to the ground, was a lone silhouette against the snow-dusted tundra.
Her tribe feared the beasts – tirelessly hunting in packs, fangs sharp as winter’s bite. But this one wobbled with its tail tucked low as it sniffed around the bones of a frozen caribou carcass.
Anya's grandmother lowered her spear. “Let it eat, child. There’s naught but bones, and need knows no tribe.”
As Anya crept closer, the
ground crunching under her boots, she could see ribs visible under matted fur.
The animal twitched its ears, and its eyes flashed at hers. It started to turn
then stopped and stood its ground as hunger seemed to fight with its fear. It was a battle Anya knew too well, and she backed off — an invitation to whatever marrow the
animal’s bite could free.
Days turned into weeks, and winter gnawed at the tribe's resources. The beast, ever at the edge of starvation and the camp, grew bolder and retrieved scraps Anya secreted in snow drifts after skinning the day’s kill. One sun-bleached afternoon, the animal lingered as the girl butchered a rabbit, its insides warming her hands. When she held out a string of intestine, hoping her grandmother wouldn’t notice, the creature crept close and snatched the morsel. The next day, the beast dropped a rodent’s head at the girl’s feet.
The animal began following Anya on her daily chores of setting snares, cleaning fish, mending nets. It sometimes would touch her hand with its snout. Anya named her new companion Qimmiq — the sound made by insects the tribe ate after failed hunts.
Spring unfurled and the tundra blossomed. Qimmiq led the way to a hidden spring, helped the hunters track a herd of deer and scared off a bear that wandered too close to the camp. Anya’s grandmother said Qimmiq was only following his nature.
Too soon, winter roared back, and a blizzard swallowed the world as the tribe huddled in their huts. When the sun reclaimed its domain, Anya found Qimmiq lying on his side with ice-caked fur and a bloody tear across his flank.
As her grandmother watched in wonder, the girl cleaned Qimmiq’s
wounds with snow, slathered on fat, covered the animal with skins and sung
calming words. Time became a blur of poultices
and chants until, with shafts of
emerald light rippling in the northern sky, Qimmiq rose, shook off the skins and nudged
Anya’s
hand with his snout.
Qimmiq continued leading the hunting parties and gradually earned a place by the communal fire, his amber eyes glowing like stars. He seemed to enjoy watching as the men and women worked the hide tents, his playful yips replacing the frightening snarls of his kind. His presence became a comfort.
By the following winter, Anya’s grandmother allowed Qimmiq into their hut. He slept nose to tail at Anya's feet — except for the time the girl shivered with fever, and he curled his warmth by her chest.
Qimmiq and the girl became each other’s shadow, and to mark their bond, Anya wove wildflowers into a charm she placed around his neck. She replaced it every spring.
Anya was a young woman the day Qimmiq fell still. This time, her caresses and chants couldn’t revive him. Her grandmother comforted her, saying her best friend was only obeying nature as must they all one day.
The tribe honored Qimmiq with fire to free his spirit.
The animal chased the young girl, who ran shrieking toward her grandmother. Anya scooped up her granddaughter, and the two fell to the ground. The animal leapt on top of them. The three rolled around, wrestling.
After a few moments, Anya
stood, panting, and held up her hand. “Enough,” she said laughing. The animal
yipped, its tongue lolling out, and pawed the air.
The girl went to Anya and pointed to the tooth she wore around her neck. “Tell me again, Grandmother.”
Anya held the tooth between her finger and thumb. ‘This,’ she said, “belonged to Qimmiq. He was the first.”
David Henson
David Henson and his wife have lived
in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been
nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and two Best Small Fictions
and has appeared in various journals including Ariel Chart, Maudlin House,
Gastropoda, Literally Stories, Pithead Chapel, Gone Lawn, and Moonpark Review.
His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter
is @annalou8.