The wind blew my hair and whistled in my ears. I was encased in the whirling whiteness of the cold Alaskan blizzard. “Mama!” I called out. “Mama, where are you?” Sinking to the ground in despair, I frantically looked around. A dark figure loomed in the distance. Forcing my aching body to my feet, I rushed towards the shadow. “Mama!” I screamed. The figure whirled around. Its head was encased in a hood and it wore a black robe lined with red. Black, spidery fingers reached up and slowly pulled the hood off. I saw only the eyes. Red. Glaring. Hateful. I screamed.
***
I woke up to my father anxiously shaking me awake. Pale and covered in sweat, I slowly sat up. My blankets were hopelessly tangled and my throat was raw from screaming.
“Another one?” my father asked. I simply nodded my head. Shakily, I got to my feet and padded to the bucket my father always kept by his bed. Using a hatchet to break up the frozen water, I splashed cold water on my face and attempted to collect myself. For my father’s sake. I knew I was broken beyond repair, but my father did not have to.
Drying my face with my arm, I turned away from the broken, ice-torn reflection in the bucket and towards my father. Taking a deep breath, I steeled my nerves for the coming day. Gathered the force of will and internal strength to plaster a smile on my face. It felt stiff, but it was there. And for my father, that was all that mattered.
Silently and swiftly, on seal skin moccasins, I padded back over to the bed I shared with my brother.

“Time to rise, my little wolf,” I whispered, gently shaking his shoulder. Sighing, he rolled over in his sleep, a smile tracing the corner of his lips. I hesitated, hand wavering over the black hair that gently fell over his eyes. He looked so peaceful in his sleep. Ever so softly, I brushed the hair away from his eyes and kissed his forehead. “Tikaani, the sun is coming and there is much to do.”

Groaning, he sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily. “Does it have to be now?” He pleaded, turning his sapphire eyes to me imploringly.

Tweaking his cheek, I laughed quietly. “Yes, little wolf. Now.” I handed him his parka of downy eagle skin, which he begrudgingly accepted.
“Someday, when I am a man, father told me he will make me a parka just like his,” he said. “A real one, made of bird feathers.”
“And I am sure you will look very handsome, little wolf.” I assured him. I handed him his bird skin cap. “But for now, wear this.”
“Tomorrow.” He decided. “Tomorrow, I will make my first kill and become a man.”
I risked a glance at him, and found his face set in an expression of stubborn determination. His hands were placed on his hips in a gesture of defiance, and he had thrust his chest out confidently. Laughing, I caught his head in the crook of my arm and affectionately ruffled his hair. “Wait till you are taller than me, then you will have your chance.”
“Father always said, it is not the size of the man in the fight, but the size of the fight in the man that matters,” he challenged defiantly, bravely meeting the injustice of youth with angry eyes.
“You have only five years, Little Wolf. You have much time to prove yourself. Besides,” I said as I playfully shoved him away, “there is work to be done.”
Pulling aside the curtain that afforded our privacy, I walked to the stove to begin preparing breakfast for my family. My mother’s chore, before her passing. I reached for the apron that hung beside the stove, the very same apron my mother always wore. Suddenly and without warning, grief sent physical pain wracking through my chest. I inhaled sharply, hugging my sides, holding the pieces of myself together. It was like this, sometimes. Sharp and unexpected reminders of my mother; crippling reminders. Sometimes, if I concentrated hard enough, I could still hear her soft footsteps, her voice, her laugh. The wound still felt so raw and exposed. Father promised the wound would heal with the passing of time, but sometimes I wondered if a lifetime will be enough to curb the pain.
“Little Wolf, go fetch some water,” I commanded falteringly, making sure to turn my back so he couldn’t see the tears brimming in my eyes. I had to be strong for my brother. Little Tikaani, so innocent and eager.
“Sure thing, Kari,” he replied, as willing to help as always. Despite the pain in my chest I smiled through my tears. I loved his nickname for me. Kari. My real name is Sakari, the name I was given by my mother when I was born. It means “sweet” in my native language, and my mother always said that it fit me perfectly. She used to say I was her sweet little angel. But when Tikaani was learning to talk, he couldn’t pronounce my name. So instead, he called me Kari, and the nickname has stayed with me ever since.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to turn to the task at hand. The takusaq was not going to make itself. I began gathering the ingredients. Berries, boiled fish and seal fat left over from last night’s meal. I was whisking it all together when my little brother came back with the water.
“I hauled it all by myself,” he said proudly.
“Thank you, little man of the house,” I laughed, winking at him as he scampered away. I watched as he came to an abrupt stop before the doorway. He turned back to me slowly, beckoning me to him imploringly. The look of serious consternation on his face drew me forward.
“What is it little wolf?”
He looked at me guarded eyes, eyes ready to judge my reaction. “Salaksartok,” he whispered.
I gasped and immediately clamped my hands over my mouth. Had they heard me? I listened intently, then shook my head in denial. They hadn’t. I strained my ears to hear what they were saying.
“…a beautiful young lady,” my father was saying. “I worry about her. She is still broken. I pray to the spirits every night, but it is no use. She needs someone strong to protect her.”
“Amok,” Salaksartok was saying. Amok was my father’s name. In my language, it means father wolf, a most fitting name for the caring man that was my father. “Amok, I am strong. I can protect your daughter. And I will heal her broken spirit.” Arrogance rang in his words, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out in frustration. Surely my father wouldn’t choose this man for me. Surely he could feel the insincerity and haughtiness this man was exuding. I held my breath, waiting for my father to deny this man his request for my hand. But his denial never came. “Very well then. I give you my blessing.”
My brothers hand gripped my arm so hard it drew blood. He looked at me with frightened eyes. “Kari, you can’t marry that man!” He whispered desperately. “Remember Kappiataitok?” I closed my eyes and nodded my head. I remembered. My brother and I had gone to gather, when we had seen Salaksartok and Kappiatoitok walking along the edge of a cliff. They were arguing. Salaksartok was angry, so angry that his face was a bright red and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. Kappiatoitok was calm, holding his hands up in a gesture of harmlessness. And suddenly, so fast I thought I had imagined it, Salksartok had pushed Kappiatoitok, and Kappiatoitok was falling, falling, into the water where he never came up again for air. My brother and I had run all the way back to camp, but Salksartok was already there, explaining how Kappiatoitok had tripped on a rock and tumbled to his unfortunate death. My brother and I told my father what we had seen, but it was no use. It was Salksartok’s word against a woman’s and a small child’s. The tribe believed Salksartok.
That night, I prayed to the spirits. I prayed that Salksartok would reap the punishments of this deed. And I prayed that he stayed away from my family. But the spirits must not have been listening that night, or found fault with my request. After my mother’s death, Salksartok began speaking about taking me as his bride to my father. My father had refused at first, claiming that I had needed time to grieve. But as many moons passed, Salksartok had gotten impatient, and my father’s refusals had begun to weaken. And then to wither away completely.
My brother’s arm pulled me away from the door as my father entered. He looked at my face tenderly, brushing away the tears that had threatened to overflow. “Be strong,” he whispered. And then he was gone.
I looked up and my eyes met those of my father. They were ice blue and full of sadness. As they looked into mine, pain flashed across my face. He knew that I had heard.
“Kari,” my father began, seeing the look upon my face. “You know I had no choice.”
This cool logic surprised me. It was true that women generally married the son of their mother’s brother. But my mother’s had two brothers, and four sons between the two. It most certainly did not have to be Salksartok I took as husband. My father had seen his black heart, so I had thought. “I cannot refuse one so willing and eligible.”
He looked at me intently, and suddenly I needed to be alone. I pushed past him into the cold Alaskan air.
“Kari!” I heard him begin to follow me. My feet, unbidden, broke out into a run. I heard his attempt to follow me, but I had always been quick, faster than even the fastest of men. I kept running until I was gasping for air and my toes were numb. I collapsed onto the ground, sobbing. How could this be happening to me? My father, the most caring, compassionate man I had met could not see the evil in this man he had promised me to. I wished my mother were here. She would know what to say to change my father’s mind. She could make my father see the blackness in Salksartok’s spirit. And suddenly I was praying to my mother’s spirit for the first time since her passing. My voice was pleading, desperate. I prayed for strength, I prayed for courage, I prayed for guidance. After some time I rose, brushing the snow from my knees. I turned to return home when something caught my eye on the horizon. An army of men, carrying Russian flags. “Father!” I called as I ran. “They’re coming!”
When I came to, it was to a sharp pain stabbing me in my side. I attempted to sit up, but was overcome with a wave of dizziness that forced me to lay back down. I looked down and saw blood-stained bandages strapped to my side. I forced myself to breathe in and out. What had happened to me?
My father entered with a damp cloth. Seeing that I was awake, he smiled. But the smile never reached his eyes. He looked ancient when he met my questioning gaze. “You were wounded by a Russian,” he explained patiently. Then he hesitated, as if to add something more. But he shook his head and said nothing more. “You’re lucky to be alive,” he simply stated.
After my father left, I laid back, staring at the ceiling and trying to piece together my broken memories. Tikaani entered timidly. “Kari?” he asked, questioning.
“Little Wolf!” I smiled, pulling him close to me. I tweaked his nose. “How have things been?”
He looked at me seriously. “Salksartok is dead.” He said quietly. I blinked and fell back onto my mattress. Dead. I tested the word out. “Salksortok is dead.” My brother nodded, looking at me with such concern in his small little face that I began to laugh. And suddenly, I was laughing and crying and singing in joy, all at the same time. Salksartok was dead. I was alive. I offered a prayer of thanks to my mother’s spirit. She had not abandoned me, after all. She was protecting me, just like she always had. And, I realized, like she always would. And for the first time in many moons, I thought of my mother with happiness in my heart.
My wound healed quickly, and soon I was well enough to move around again. The first day I was able to walk on my own, I cautiously made my way over to our door, and gasped at the sight of the once magnificent village that I called home. The tribe was busy reconstructing the damage done to the camp by the battle. Battle scars , a small price to pay for the lives that were saved. At first, it had seemed an impossible task. There was not one house that wasn’t damaged in some way, and fire had ravaged many. Nevertheless, progress was being made.
On one particular morning, I was sitting in the doorway, resting, and watching the wounds the village had suffered slowly heal. Houses being rebuilt, crops being replanted, food stores being replaced. And I was feeling my own broken spirit heal along with the village. There were still mornings where I woke up screaming for my mother, but my nightmares were getting fewer. And every once in a while, I could feel my mother’s spirit, in the gentle breeze that caressed my face and in the crystal-blue sky of the Alaskan landscape. I smiled to myself, thinking of my gentle mother. I still missed her terribly. My father came up behind me, laying his hand on my shoulder. “Daughter, it is time.” He said in a low urgent voice. I turned to him, and saw in his hand a beautiful journal.
When she is ready. I stared at my mother’s handwriting scrawled across the first page in the journal my mother gave me to fill up with my thoughts. To find spiritual relief for my grievances. I knew that the day would come when I had no pages left to fill; and I would look back on this moment as the beginning of the wonderful journey my life would follow. But for now, all I had was my thoughts, a pen, and a stack of blank paper. I looked up at the sky, filled with beautiful white clouds, the harmonious call of the Aleutian Tern, the sun that never gives warmth—only promise; and begin to write.