Spring had finally arrived in the polar north. Inuksuk paced the tundra. In every direction, native rhodies burst with pale pink blossoms. Lush salal packed primeval trails. Inuksuk’s ancient land, having again weathered the harsh winds of winter, needed a bit of cleanup.
“I shall make fire tomorrow,” Inuksuk announced to Oma-Inuksuk. “With our branch grabbers and road bucket, we shall harvest winter’s detritus and pile it high upon our burning circle. We shall reclaim our plot prior to the summer solstice.”
Oma-Inuksuk agreed. She brewed mugs of hot brown beverage for sustenance and inspiration. She delivered them to her warrior king.
Flames soon rose high above the burning circle, snapping and smoking with their gusto and Inuksuk’s expertise. He was a fine fire-starter.
Half the day they worked. Many trips forth and back had they loaded the road bucket with winter’s wreckage. Great, billowing, gray clouds rose into pristine skies and drifted across hedges. Inuksuk’s neighbors voiced no complaint. Their own burning circles would shortly ignite. At last, Inuksuk declared their work accomplished.
“Our land has withstood winter’s ravages for many seasons,” he mused. “We shall never tidy her once-and-for-all, but we shall stop now. It is the napping hour.”
Later that evening, Inuksuk and Oma-Inuksuk sat at the burning circle. They spoke of the goodness of their land, its verdant foliage, its child trails carved many years ago by their offspring and now adored by their offspring’s offspring. Barely smoldering, the fiery flames had been diminished into a pristine yet pointy pile of light gray ash. It was a good evening.
“Huh,” said Inuksuk. “A very large raptor has just overflown the neighbor’s sky patch.”
“An eagle?” inquired Oma-Inuksuk.
“Maybe,” he mused. “Probably not.”
Through the deck door strode Inuksuk’s own animal. Scouty-nuk, previously wraithlike and ugly, had shed her winter mats. Now she appeared skinny and sleek, her black-brown coat glistening in the golden hour glow.
She strolled through the mossy glen. She was heading for the ash volcano.
“Scouty-nuk,” warned Inuksuk. “Do not potty in the formerly burning circle — it remains toasty.”
Perhaps because Scouty does not speak the language of her people, or perhaps because she did not care, she peed in the ash pile and then wandered forthwith to the tundra.
Suddenly, Oma-Inuksuk glimpsed a raptor, great and fierce, its snow-white head and hooked beak identifiable against the gathering dusk. It was over-flying the sky circle in the opposite direction.
“An eagle!” she cried.
Inuksuk sprang into action. “My kitty!” he roared, grabbing his whale-spear and rushing into the tundra. “I will protect you, my ancient and noble pet!”
Visions of a mighty sky-fighter, beady eyes trained upon his Scouty-nuk, filled Inuksuk with righteous rage. He knew this foe. Many times had he observed sky wraiths snatch protein packets from the family fishing hole. Silently swooping from great heights, they resembled death maulers — razor-sharp talons piercing tough skin and scales, mighty beaks tearing flesh from bone.
Armed with his whale-spear and scanning the skies above, Inuksuk stood at the ready. Scout ate a blade of grass.
The eagle flew on. Inuksuk lowered his whale spear and returned to the burning circle.
“Danger has passed,” he declared. “Yet, I shall remain vigilant. Our kitty and our offspring’s offspring shall not face a foe whilst I remain ruler of this good and ancient land. You have my word.”
Inuksuk’s boast pleased his lady well.
“You’re a good man,” remarked Oma-Inuksuk. “I smell like smoke. I’m going to the bath.”