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. 

Two tight pulls of his boot laces, a snug fitting of his hat over his ears, and a wiggling of his fingers into his very thick gloves was the commencement preparations for the father and son who were embarking on their very critical mission. The time, as his father urgently warned him, was now, and both of them scrambled for all the tools needed for the job. The old man, though silent with worry, was less concerned with himself and more desperately overwrought about his son's welfare. While his dry, unyielding expression of solemnity was frozen on his face, the turmoil inside him was unrelenting. The rising knot crept up from his gut and ballooned in his throat, but he swallowed hard and flushed it back down. This happened four or five more times before he was confident enough that he could speak to his son without being betrayed by the emotional menace now weighing heavy in his stomach. He shot out short sentences to the young man bending over his bag of supplies. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, the son turned to look at his father and nod in understanding of the commands, but his father recognized in his son's eyes a deeper comprehension of the major risk at hand. Despite the blatant threat of an impending danger, and despite the fact the father's commands were completely void of affection, the young man still followed the old man out into arctic surroundings of the tent; and though no word was spoken, there was within that short moment of mutual understanding a vital connection that was more powerful than a long embrace. In that short hesitation pride was exposed and acknowledged.

The older man, stuffed inside numerous layers of insulating clothing, walked forward with his back to his son. His strides were even and confident. He was a veteran returning to the call of duty, but this time he was jeopardizing something very precious to him to teach a lesson in self-sufficiency and manhood. Through the soft wool interior of his hat, he listened for his son's footsteps. They were quicker than his own but just as unfaltering. Something like a smile cracked his crusty lips into a slight curve for but a moment, revealing a few dark yellow teeth. The smile retracted back into a thin line as he reached a spot that experience would recognize as a good point to start breaking a hole into. The snow appeared to be a bit unsettled and recently shifted. Without turning around, he motioned to his son to hand him the pick that he would employ for creating a fissure to climb into. Wanting to assist his father with utmost competence, the son untied the pick from his bag and placed it in his father's outstretched hand that was reaching blindly towards him. Immediately his father started hammering into the snow sending chips of the chiseled ice in all directions. Despite his aged appearance, the old man was very capable of the physical exertion that such a job demanded. The son watched in admiration as his father chopped persistently into the thick layer of ice for a good length of time without requiring a moment's rest. The power exhibited in each strike was staggering as he arched his back, raised the pick high, then slammed the point into the ground, inching his way down into the caves of the ice. Eventually the final layer of ice broke away, and a hole big enough for them to fit through was established. He then hammered a stake into the ground a few feet away from the hole and tied a rope around it. Standing up straight and turning to face his son, he nodded as a signal that the time had finally come.

The mussel harvesting was ready to begin and the time was ripe for the younger man to put his hand to the test. Without a second's consideration, the father held on to the rope and plunged down into the depths of the ice, landing solidly on his feet. The son, a little less confidently, grabbed the same rope and leaped in after his father, stumbling a little bit on the landing but still remaining on his feet. The old man steadied his son by grabbing a hold of his shoulder, then he switched on the lantern that was attached to the belt around his hip, and pointed down at the shiny black shells that lined the seabed. For the first time in his life, the young man witnessed the natural beauty that stimulated both his appreciation of these small, unrefined shells that provided a life source, and his fascination of the rude, uncultivated, mysterious world harboring these untouched organisms that are derived from an organic, primitive, and biological existence. A long span of black shells were waiting patiently to be plucked and carried off into the community to serve the people in a very important necessity of life. One by one the father and son harvested them silently, focusing on their task while remaining aware of the ebbing time which evoked a sense of urgency in both of them. They decided to divide and cover more ground individually, but as soon as fifteen minutes were up, they would meet at the hole again. It was approximately thirty minutes until the tide came back to repossess the caves of its kingdom that have been plundered for years by generations of the Kangiqsujuaq community. A sense of belonging and gratification burned within the son who had walked so far down into a tunnel that he was about forty feet beneath the surface. Finally he had lent a hand in feeding his people like his father has done for years. He mused on this great new feeling rising inside him despite the groaning and slow shifting of the unstable ice no longer upheld by the sea.

About fifteen minutes had passed and the duo had collected an abundance of mussels. The sound of a low whistle reached the young man's ears, and he knew it was time to return to the opening that they had started at. His father had informed him of the practicality of the whistle technique as yelling could cause snow to fall. Upon his walk back, the young man marveled at the glimmering ice, the strong scent of salt and seaweed, the mechanic-like movements of crabs, and the sea-shaped arches, dips, and curves of the caves. He imagined the sea to be a god-like man, delicately sculpting the walls with a hand twice the size of himself. Waterfalls of glitter were sprinkled from the creator's fingers, shimmering on the floor, walls, and ceiling of the tunnels. Here and there shells were embedded with gentle pressure into the ice and crabs shuffled out of the creator's palm onto the floor. Nature had never unveiled anything as magnificent as these unblemished caves, and the son was taken aback with each step he took. He was so enamored by the secret, startling beauty unseen by most, that he arrived at the beginning hole without having noticed. Latching his bag of mussels onto the back of his belt, he clutched the rope, and with one foot after the other, he climbed out of the hole and back on top of the surface. Carefully he set the bag down, tightened the knot around the puckered opening, then returned to the fissure. He waited a few minutes for his father who didn't appear.

Somewhat worried, the son knelt down by the hole and issued a low whistle. After receiving no response, he jumped back into the hole and whistled again, but the result was the same. His hearing was encumbered by the loud moaning of the ominous ice and the scratching of the crabs legs, both of which were intensified by the heightened sensitivity of his ears. As the level of his disquietude became higher, his hearing enhanced all the more. Time was of the essence as he began to move in the direction his father had gone when they decided to cover different areas of the caves. He stumbled as he tried to remain calm. The melancholy moaning of the ice suddenly sounded infuriated, like teeth grinding down furiously. Both his hands reached out against the walls to assist his unsteady legs. As he hurried through the small tunnel, his feet trampled on and crushed a handful of open shells that were left shattered in the ice. Unable to control his fear, the son stopped abruptly, and for a couple of seconds he was overcome by insanity. The pressure of the ticking time and the concern for his father rattled him severely. The sound of his heart beat deafened him completely so that he couldn't hear anything other than its frantic pounding. Panicked, the young man scratched at his ears until they bled. Minutes were flying by so quickly that only five of them remained, and he had no clue as to where his father was. He dropped helplessly to his knees and pushed his palms against his bloody ears. It was a moment of utter despair, of loss and hopelessness.

Eventually the spell faded away, and his his body released itself from the tight contraction that had seized it. As he dropped his hands from his ears, he looked upon the red pools of blood in his palms. He was mute. The caves were mute. The sea was mute. Everything was silent except for a low, barely recognizable sound that echoed off the walls of his father's cave. A whistle. Another whistle. His father was trying to communicate to him. The broken durations and frequency of the whistles implied something dreadful as the old man was not inclined to becoming unnerved. Inflamed by the love for his father, the son raced in the direction of the whistles. Every now and again, he would be tricked by the echoes that bounced off the walls, leading him down the wrong path, but he wasted no time in discovering the mistake. Two more minutes had passed, leaving three to return to the hole and lift themselves out of the caves before the sea returned. The whistles were getting louder and louder and finally, with a surge of both relief and devastation, the son found his father laying prostate with his leg pinned under a large block of ice. His leg was badly damaged as was made obvious by his face which was twisted into a grotesque expression of pain. Then he spotted it. The hard, white, definition of a bone was protruding from the old man's knee which was angled upwards by a rock partially submerged in the seabed. The ice had fallen on the point of his leg just below the knee so that as it pushed excessive pressure down, his knee remained in its compromising position on the rock. At first it frightened the young man, but as his eyes took in the whole of the scene with his injured father, the bare alabaster bone, the scattered mussels lying in front of an untied bag, and that horrible look on his father's face, the son felt something harden within him. It was deep down in the core of his body. It tightened and solidified, like concrete. A strange sort of compulsion moved his feet and arms towards the block of ice crushing his father's leg. As he lifted the cumbersome mass, his father crawled out from under the threat of the ice and immediately covered his face with his hands. The son dropped the ice block with a large exhalation and for the first time, he looked upon his father with pity.

With a small window of two minutes left to manage an escape, the son quickly grabbed his father by the shoulders, and with great effort, he heaved him up from the ground. His assistance was clumsy, however, and having grabbed his father's shirt instead of his arm, his father slipped down a little. This caused his father to instinctively step his foot down to balance himself, but he stepped with the foot that dangled beneath the fractured knee which elicited a guttural roar that vibrated the weakening ice. Almost simultaneous with his shout was a loud cracking noise that sounded like it just above the two men. They stood in silent terror, hoping that at any moment the cracking noise would cease, but it continued all the more audibly. The father's arm was swung around his son's neck for support, but as the cracking grew louder, the weight of the father's arm became more oppressive. And then, it began. The cracking noise emerged from the ice as an actual, palpable crack directly above the two men. It was inevitable that death should take one of the two men as the ice was impatient to crush its victim. Such a death would only be eluded once. Both men knew that it would be a matter of seconds before the crack widened, split apart from its support, and fell with fatal tonnage. It was also a matter of physical ability and sacrificing love that the son shoved his father from him and from the collapsing ice. His father didn't see the catastrophe that blanched his face and quenched the spark of life within him. He dare not look back to where his son has saved him and died doing so. All for a bag of mussels.

Another minute had passed, and the ice was beginning to cry out more morosely than before. To the father it sounded like a kind of a lament, and as he dragged himself back to the hole which was deceitfully close to where he had been, he joined in the dirge with a pitiful exchange of moaning and sobbing. The sound of water began to echo throughout the caves just as the man arrived at the rope. He looked at it imploringly. The dangling of the rope provoked awful images in his mind. Images that cruelly choked him to tears and terrorized him. The tight weave of the braid, the coarseness of its texture, even the feeble motion of it's swing brought about horrid thoughts for the childless father. He debated whether he should save himself, or surrender to the incoming tide. Should he share his son's coffin? Should he entomb himself in the ice caves and make this God forbidden place his sepulcher? Should he make his son's efforts futile? No. He should rise out of the hellhole that has destroyed him not because he was scared of death, but because he should honor his son's sacrifice. He would live in an anguishing torment for the rest of his days, but he would endure it and fulfill his son's wish. The old man, tears streaming from his burning eyes, tied the rope around his waist, and hoisted himself up with much difficulty. His arms were strong enough to pull his weight, and his good leg maintained a weak balance while he moved up and out of the cave. His bad leg banged against the ice occasionally, causing a searing pain to shoot up his thigh and down to his ankle, but he inhaled any attempt of outcry that challenged his steely composure. If only he had be strong enough for his son.

In time his head emerged from the hole, then his broad muscular back, and finally, most painstakingly, his legs. He looked at his bad legs as he dragged it far from the fissure he had made. It's broken appearance was similar to an old toy or a kind of rag doll. It just laid rigid and motionless, useless to him and his survival. The old man let his body fall back into the cushioning of the snow and stared with empty eyes into the sky. It was covered completely by clouds like a sea of white. Everywhere he looked, it was white. The sky, the snow, the ice, his bone- all of it was white. He teeth were chattering even though he didn't feel very cold. His vision was beginning to fail him as a dizziness blurred anything he laid his eyes on. It was comparable to opening his eyes underwater. Blood was pumping out of his knee and strangely he was comforted by the sight of something red for a short moment. It was so stark and surreal like a lucid water painting, but something was too obvious about it. The vibrancy of the hue was such a contrast to the whiteness of the snow that it suddenly scared him somewhat. The red was beginning to spread uncontrollably with waves being pushed out by each pulse that pumped through his body. It drained out of his body and formed a sea of red around him. The tide of red was reaching his face slowly, but he was completely paralyzed so that all he could do was watch it inch closer to his face as time permitted. The smell of the blood and salt was overwhelming. The cracking of the ice crashed in his ear as the caves filled with seawater. The ground was moving beneath him. Black blotches were appearing in front of his face. He felt his eyesight failing and giving into the black infinity of blindness. An endless sea of white, red, and black. That's all he could see. White, red, and black. And the tide rushed in.