Spirits of the Mist

THE LITTLE VILLAGE of Malagwa was like any other Eskimo village in the upper confines of the Arctic because they housed themselves in igloos and lived icy miles away from the next village. Still, there was a significant deviation to the everyday Eskimo Villages.

The Malagwan lived in the transient Arctic, dwelling in places somewhere between the transition of Cold Desert Tundra and the thin Conifer Forests. Villages like the Malagwan were spread across this precarious ice land and were always situated close to a strong life force; either a cluster of forest conifers or a permanent water stream. In addition to the deviation, none of these villages were migratory. The villages being non-migratory made villagers like the Malagwan cautious and suspicious of anything and everything, so the Malagwan kept a keen eye on visiting strangers. To the Malagwan, intruders always signified some form of imminent trouble.

The spirits wafted across the lands in a cold Mist. In the very least, they came twice a month, and claimed the lives of whichever child or full grown they could claim. The time these spirits arrived could never be known, near or far apart, but they always arrived under the cover of the rising mist. These spirits entered the Igloos as unhindered as in passing the protecting animal leather that lined the walls of the sleeping family to the lonely hunter exposed in the haunted Woods. There was no hiding from their grip.

The death transition was called Sacred Rite of Passage, and it didn’t help matters that each family lived quite a distance from one another. Everybody was too concerned with their own fears to bother of the other’s sorrows. Still, one family lived the farthest, banished to the outskirts of the little remote village of Malagwa; a single mother and her daughter— Itherica, the demon child.

ONLY TWO THINGS brought the village together; trade and festivals. Of these things not even the outlawed could be denied— that mistake would tip the balance of fate, the balance of good and evil, and then the Jenagoa could destroy the village.

“Come quickly, gather around!” Witch Mother called out to the children slugging it out in a fierce game of snowball. The Witch Mother was the Soul Seeker of the Malagwan and conducted Séances for the community. She was fondly called Witch Mother because she told stories by the bonfire on gatherings like these with full fire and light sorcery whenever she felt up for it.

The village had gathered under a large tent of wolf fur and dried mat held up by skinned tree stems. Dry thick ferns were spread across the ground as a thick carpet and everyone wore a thick blanket of animal fur. The whole assembly had gathered, no one would stay away or rather be alone, and a big bonfire was being fanned by the Men of the village. The elderly crowded in its warmth and the Malagwan Women made strong wine and herbs for the grown-ups but bittersweet juice for the children. There was merriment and thread music in the tent and every worry dulled under the collective laughter.

“Ah, come over!” Witch Mother said, calling to some children outside the tent. The girls dropped their balls and scurried inside obediently, but the boys laughed and continued pounding each other with snowballs, ignoring Witch Mother with blithe excitement. She returned under the tent to begin the ceremony and soon forgot about the boys.

“Itherica!” a child yelled across the snow and the boys stopped tossing their snowballs. They were all quiet, frozen in fright. “Stay away from us!” they said frightened, as she approached, her furry footwear sloshing in the snowy ice. She slowly picked up a snowball and juggled it to amuse the boys. They were dead stiff. She tossed the snowball playfully at one of them. The boys threw away their snowballs and sped at the top of their heels into the tent yelling, “Itherica! Itherica!”

The tent was as quiet as a churchyard by the time Itherica walked in; the cheerfulness seemingly cast out by the demon child. The girl had a small head under her hood and her frail legs made piercing crackles as she walked over the carpet of ferns to the other end of the tent to meet her mother, who was separated from the rest of the company like a waterhole in an ice lake; Malarina was served only water, simple herbs and a morsel of hard cake. Some elderly women hid their faces as the child passed by and Witch Mother waved her hand in exorcism of any unwanted spirits in the tent. After Itherica sat down with her mother, the ceremony slowly returned to life.

Malarina, Itherica’s mother, was very thin and pale, impoverished because the village rarely, or at great expense, traded with her. Everyone in Malagwa was in great fear of incurring a curse. Itherica on the other hand was fit and active despite being underfed, and had striking godlike beauty.

The children sang by the bonfire and danced to string music made from tendons. As the music faded the children called for a tale, but no tale was more famous than the happenings of the demon child. It scored a new tale every time.

“Settle down,” Witch Mother gathered the children and signaled for the musical strings to cue to her story. She dipped her hands into her cloak and brought out some dust, sprinkling it over the bonfire; she looked to the demon child and her mother and chanted some incantations.

The Soul Seeker began to sing Itherica’s tale with a low-key. The fire swayed frighteningly with her every move and gesture and then suddenly lit the whole tent in a heat-deprived blue flame.