The Reaping of the Sea

A violent chattering of his teeth awoke him. He swept his hand across a hardened brow and brushed off bits of icy drops bejeweling his fur-edged hood. This rude awakening was followed by an irritated carping from his father who's voice was as rough as his wind-burned skin. The nagging continued until he sat up half way despite the strong gravitational pull of every fiber in his body to the soft, warm comfort of his sleeping bag. He had felt so wonderfully cocooned in his insulated bag that he had momentarily enjoyed a very deep slumber, unconscious of the horrible reality that his shelter was constructed of a mere teepee shaped hut and the ground below him was nothing but stiff ice that was unsettled only a few yards away from him. It was shifting as the spring equinox tide shrank slowly back into the sea, leaving caves and crevices in the abandoned ice. Within those caves was a treasure worth more than his own life. It was more valuable and desired in the Inuit community of Kangiqsujuaq than gold or rubies, and all he had to do in order to gather this treasure was crawl through the crevices, drop down into the tunnels of the caves, and snatch it up from the ground. Mustering as much optimism as he could, he dared not think in too much depth of the reality of the task, or more mind-consuming, the ultimate consequence that was simply impossible to push aside. Although he closed his eyes and focused on the brighter side of a successful day of mussel hunting, there was just no ignoring the intimidating thought of what could happen, and in fact, has happened to past harvesters. Nevertheless, the treasure, the multitude of glimmering mussels with their rich source of food and life preserving powers, was worth more than his one extra mouth to feed in the community. Should he steal a decent amount of mussels from within the ice caves before the tide returned thirty minutes later, he would feel a wholesome satisfaction of having supplied not just for his blood family, but for his communal family as well. There was great honor in returning with mounds of mussels, but there was also a throbbing internal relief in simply returning. The latter feeling, he always thought, should be kept within but secretly shared with all. 

Dearest Mae

Dearest Mae,

How long is it since I've been deprived of your existence in my life? How bizarre is it that despite our one and only meeting that proved to be as brief and precious as the life of a mayfly, my thoughts are always with you? For all I know, you are a very prosperous woman, gallivanting the world and building life where it was once abandoned. I hope you don't think me too whimsical in imaging you as a fierce, yet incredibly real heroine who bides her time by rescuing all the ailing children in the streets and improving their conditions so drastically that they are forever in your debt. Perhaps the last bit of your illustration is not too humbling, so I will alter it by saying that these children, now successful adults, will forever hold you in their hearts as a mother, a very dear friend, or even a saint. Yes, that seems to brighten the shining glow surrounding your grotto within my mind. It may be too much to hope, but whenever you come frolicking into my mind, I cross my fingers and entertain the thought that you are thinking of me as well. You know they tell me that we are identical. Imagine that! Well, for once, I can't imagine it; which is ironic enough because if I ever wanted to see you, I should be satisfied by my own reflection, but the woman who smiles back is always me, and never you. It simply isn't the same. Therefore I had a team of researchers tracing you. Honestly, that last phrase makes you sound like a hardened criminal, but you've escaped me for so long that I should think you a thief. You are my sister, so your heart is bound to mine, and if that be true, then you have run off with a good portion of myself, and I would be much obliged should you return to me.