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Nunani

February 7, 2003 - Tickler (Part two)
February 14, 2003 - Tickler (Part three)
February 21, 2003 - Inukshuk for sale (Part one)
February 28, 2003 - Inukshuk for sale (Part Two)

Nunani

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February 7, 2003

Tickler (Part two)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

The woman assumed that the noise outside had to be her husband, since she knew that no other families were camped nearby. So, thinking that her man was simply preoccupied and not paying attention (a phenomenon all too familiar to women), she decided to go out and ask him what had cut his hunting trip short.

She paused for a moment, suddenly aware of a new sound. Was it ... chuckling? It didn’t quite sound like her husband, either. For the first time, she began to suspect that a stranger was lurking about outside. The hair began to rise on the back of her neck.

She stood listening for long moments, but the chuckling had ceased — if it had been there at all. Perhaps she had imagined it. But dread had settled into her now, and it was with stiff movements that she worked her way to the porch of the igluvigaq.

She bent down, listening carefully. Nothing. She crawled a little way into the porch.

"Husband?" she called.

Suddenly she was seized and pulled into the porch. She had only a glimpse, the merest flash of spindly limbs and a leering face, and something was pinning her down with fantastic strength. She twisted frantically as something — several icy cold things — found their way onto the flesh of her belly.

She screamed, but her scream was twisted in her throat as it turned into some awful mockery of a giggle; she was being tickled. And she realized then that the icy coldness she was feeling were many fingers, inhuman fingers, working their way across her torso.

She tried to throw her attacker off, but it held her down with preternatural power. Her head was wedged against the ground, so that she could see nothing. And the tickling was increasing now. It was not the kind of tickling that one feels in play, but a digging, raking, malevolent kind of tickling. She was wracked with it, twisting violently beneath it, and increasingly frequent squeals finally gave way to screeches, then to choked sobs.

The tickling never ceased, but only increased in intensity. It was nothing other than pain now. And her wails were such that she was beginning to have trouble drawing breath. Each gulp of air seemed smaller than the one before it, until she was wheezing, gasping for it in desperation. And over her own suffering, she could again hear that chuckling as she had before, except that this was in her ear now, as though the thing that held her was relishing her torment. As it chuckled over her, its fingers only dug deeper and deeper into her flesh.

She could no longer breathe, and she was weakening. That voice that laughed over her began to seem distant, and pinpoints of light began to dance before her vision, as darkness swelled inward and at last engulfed her.

Two days later, the man returned.

He was wiping frost away from his moustache as he approached the igluvigaq, so he didn’t see it at first. But as he looked up and noticed the porch, he spotted a dark mass lying inside. He ran to it with an agonized cry, recognizing his wife. As he grasped her, he felt sick, for touching her was like touching an animal that had been killed some time ago — frozen solid.

He felt numb for some time. All was quiet except for the distant sounds of his dogs. Then, in that Inummarik way, he acted as though life went on regardless of tragedy. There were things to do.

As much as it pained him to do so, he dragged his wife’s body out of the porch and examined it. She had been plump and healthy before he left, no sign of fever. Why had she died? No wounds, yet she had died with her eyes open.

He thought, for a moment, that a spirit might have attacked her. But they had no enemies, no one who would have sent a spirit to do such a thing. He was trying to puzzle it out when he noticed the finger-marks. They were like the scantest of little rashes, or scratches, on her belly and sides, and he was sure they had been left by an attacker.

And whatever has fingers, he thought grimly, can bleed as well.

(Concluded in part three.)

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February 14, 2003

Tickler (Part three)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

The man knew what had killed his wife, a thing that he had once heard of, called "Mahaha, the Tickler." But he knew little about it. He only wanted revenge. Certain that it was still lurking about somewhere, he resolved to bait it. So he disposed of his wife’s body with the respect that it was due, and once finished, he put on a show of great fatigue, as though readying for sleep. But, secretly, he lay waiting for the Mahaha to come.

Time crawled by as he lay upon the sleeping-platform, waiting. At last, there was a shuffling sound in the porch. Someone, some thing, was creeping in, moving ever so slowly.

Still feigning slumber, he listened as it made its way to the bed. Past narrowed eyelids, he could see it rise up over him, eyes shining like twin stones under water. Its dark features split open in a yellowed grin, and the creature could not resist laughing.

"Here I am, father-in-law! Ma-ha-ha!"

The man rolled off the sleeping-platform, knocking the creature aside. Before it could respond, he had seized its ankles and yanked it off its feet. The feeling was eerie — the Mahaha was unnaturally light, and those ankles were hard as antler.

The igluvigaq was old, the floor icy. With a great surge of strength, the man whipped the creature against it. The Mahaha’s head lashed violently against the ice, and the Mahaha made a peculiar noise.

It was laughing.

Again and again the man smashed the creature upon the ice, but the laughter only increased. With every blow, it laughed more loudly, more hysterically, until the man thought that he would go mad.

Casting the creature aside, the man fled, running blindly. In a blur of panic, he ran for some time before realizing that he was approaching a hole in the ice from which he had previously drawn water. He began to slow, wanting to see if the Mahaha had given up the chase. But he had not even turned before he heard its awful cry:

"Here I am, father-in-law! Ma-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

He sped to the water hole, leaping across it and wheeling about. Sure enough, the Mahaha was right there, grinning at him from the other side.

Perhaps the man went a bit mad, then. Perhaps he had simply run out of options, so that any desperate tactic seemed feasible. But for one reason or another, he did an odd thing. He squatted down by the water hole and muttered to the Mahaha,

"Before we finish, let’s have a last drink."

He scooped up a handful of water, and drank.

The Mahaha, perhaps amused, maybe simply desiring to mock its victim, chuckled once again and squatted likewise, bending to drink.

Like bear to seal, the man was upon the Mahaha, bearing down with all his strength, forcing the thing into the hole. The Mahaha fought desperately, a flurry of thrashing limbs and spraying water, but the man defied each of its attempts to claw its way out. At last the struggling ceased. The Mahaha slipped out of sight, beneath frigid black waters, and the man knew that he had at last avenged his wife.

That was how the man defeated Mahaha, the Tickler.

I think Inuit culture should pat itself on the back for an original idea here. It is a rare thing to find a unique folkloric creature, and the Mahaha is basically so. The closest thing I’ve been able to find is a Finnish spirit called the Ovda. But while the Ovda will tickle its victims, it more often dances them to death.

So where does Mahaha come from? It remains a mystery. I’m sure there is an elder out there who knows but isn’t telling. It may possibly be based upon reality, inspired by a madman or murderer executed for dreadful deeds — something that has occurred among Inuit before. Often, such lurid events find their way into folklore, becoming euphemistic over time.

Then again, if we are entertained by the Tickler, we might pause to consider that this might be the whole point of the story. Even ancient stories may exist for the sake of entertainment, rather than didacticism. After all, even the ancients enjoyed a good yarn.

And that, ironically, may be the most valuable thing that this ticklish tale has to tell.

Pijariiqpunga.

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February 21, 2003

Inukshuk for sale (Part one)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

"So if you could just write down the different types of inukshuks there are, that would be good."

"Different types?" I asked. I was confused.

"You know, ones that are used for magical purposes, ones that are tributes to the gods, ones that mark sacred areas...."

Now he was really throwing me. This phone conversation was surreal. I wanted to ask him where he had gotten his bogus information, except that I was still flabbergasted by his use of ‘inukshuks.’"

"Inuksuit," I said.

"Huh?"

"The plural is ‘inuksuit.’ Not ‘inukshuks.’" I found it alarming that he felt qualified to write a book about an inukshuk when he didn’t even know the plural form of the word.

To think, it had all begun with an e-mail.

Several years ago, I had a Web site that provided free information on Inuit culture. It was fun to run, and I got e-mails from all around the world, asking me this and that about Inuit traditions and words. But whereas the mail began as a trickle, a few letters a week, time saw that trickle grow into a flood of dozens, eventually hundreds. Many of the e-mails were getting tiring. Too many were from students writing things like:

"My professor has given us the assignment of explaining how eco-feminism relates to tribal subsistence strategies, and we’re to use examples from Inuit culture. So would you mind writing up, in at least 5,000 words, your reasons why you think Inuit women are eco-feminists, providing real-life examples of Inuit eco-feminism that you have witnessed?"

This might seem hard to believe, but it is not an exaggeration — people were literally requesting that I just sit down, on my own time, and write up free university papers for them. In all fairness, I received the same number of requests from students in grade school and high school, although the university students were easily the most offensive — by the time you are at university, you should know better. Did they suppose that I was some ignorant fool, some Wild Child of the North, unaware of how university worked? Gee, I kept thinking, I wish I had had somebody to write up my papers for me when I was at university. They soon stopped receiving even courtesy replies.

You might be surprised to know, however, that the demands for free academic papers were not the worst of them. The most galling ones, by far, were from businesses and self-employed individuals who wanted to cash in on the global interest in Inuit, without having to do any of their own legwork. I received countless e-mails requesting cultural content for businesses, as well as snazzy Inuktitut names for companies or product lines. I thought it was nice enough that I would answer the latter, at first, but I would still receive back:

"Too long. Make it short, catchy. We need consumers to get a feel from the name."

What, was I their employee now? As these e-mail discussions went on, I became embittered, since I sensed that my kindness was being exploited. Sometimes, the e-mails would lead to further phone consultations. Here I was, taking a good chunk of time out of my day for the sake of someone who stood to make money, without even a thought of compensating me.

Only a couple ever offered anything in return, such as the one gentleman who needed a name for his new line of parkas. I told him that one of his parkas, in trade, would be fair, so he honourably sent me one. I wore it for years, and only recently passed it on to someone who needed it more than I did.

As for the others sorts, they soon had me in a state of self-doubt. Was I becoming hardened in wanting compensation for a name they stood to make money from? Education was a totally different thing — I would never begrudge explaining words to school-kids (as long as I didn’t have to do their papers). But were the business types making me into a money-grubber?

I decided to ask a white consultant acquaintance about it.

"Do you think I should charge businesses for Inuktitut words?" I asked.

Scandal! "Absolutely not!" went the reply. "Knowledge should be free."

"Would you name a company, in English, for free?"

"Well ... no. But that’s different."

(Concluded in Part two.)

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February 28, 2003

Inukshuk for sale (Part Two)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

I was disturbed by the opinion expressed by my southern consultant friend.

"Let me get this straight," I said. "You’re saying I shouldn’t charge for naming a company in Inuktitut, because ‘knowledge should be free.’ But you’re also saying you yourself would charge if you named it in English."

"Well, that’s right," was the response. "But Inuit have a tradition of giving, and you don’t want to... sully that by charging."

"But it’s my time," I said.

Silence.

"I don’t mind doing it," I continued. "I just want some kind of compensation. Translation services for Inuktitut cost."

"Yeah," said my friend, "but what do you charge, 25, 30 cents a word? Hardly worth billing someone for one word. Might as well be free."

"But this isn’t translation," I insisted. "Naming a company takes days. Corporate names are always a kind of word-play with multiple meanings. They always want short, trendy words, but the stuff they’re trying to convey in a name makes for long Inuktitut words. It’s hard to cook up something like that."

"Then don’t do it," my friend said again. "Besides, you don’t want them to trample on the, uh, beauty of Inuit culture by involving money and business. That kind of money’s just too dirty for you."

"But you," I reminded, "said that you would charge if you named something in English. That doesn’t sully your culture? That money isn’t too ‘dirty’?"

"Oh, man, look at the time," was the response. "Well, Rachel, it was really great talking to you, but I have a meeting to get to. We should do lunch, right, maybe next week?"

"Sure. Right."

This conversation made me somewhat ill, and only served to convince me that feel-good sentiments such as "knowledge should be free" are absurd. Human beings survive by knowledge that is anything but free, often having to earn it by working or suffering greatly. There is no better way to learn about bears than by surviving a bear attack, for example, often with some scars as a reminder.

But is this free knowledge? One may learn a great deal at university, but only at the exorbitant cost of tuition. (Hardly free knowledge.) And even a child does not really learn for free from a parent, since the child pays the price of yielding to parental will in return.

The truth: If knowledge is power, then it is also currency. Knowledge is mankind’s first and most treasured currency.

Why, then, are some people so shocked when they hear of Inuit wanting compensation for their counsel?

The earliest explorers made careers (i.e., money) by exporting Inuit culture, and the global demand for it quickly spawned a market. In the past, Inuit have depended upon non-Inuit businesses to connect them with the South. But the Inuit embracing of industrial culture has meant that, today, they are well-connected to global media, now able to market their own culture as they see fit. In other words, they are gradually cutting out the middle-man.

With this in mind, this "knowledge-should-be-free" resistance to Inuit charging suddenly comes to more closely resemble what it is: the old school of northern marketeers trying to limit their new competition. Ironically, this new competition is that which used to be the product itself: Inuit culture.

I just didn’t like the idea of people making money from Inuit without paying anything back, so I decided that the corporate types were cut off. From now on, in answering e-mails, I would only give free words or information about Inuit culture to students (but I still wouldn’t write their papers for them). Oh, the business people were pretty peevish about it, and being cut off didn’t stop them from trying several times over. I started to get sneaky e-mails, like:

"Hi my name is Kitty and I’m a litle kidd in grade 3 and teecher says we need to name our hamster. I think it woud be so neet if you name him, so can you pick us a short word that means ‘market success’ or ‘cutting edge’?"

I guess these people thought that some deliberately misspelled words would convince me that it really was a kid writing in. Too bad they forgot to check their e-mail addresses. They were identical to those of companies that I had already refused two days before.

Pijariiqpunga.

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