“You are fired.
If you do not deliver this time, you can consider
yourself professionally dead. A nobody. Do you hear me?
A nobody! This is your last chance! Bring this baby to
me and we might talk. Until then, I do not want to hear
from you. Go away now! Go away!”
The last words
of his editor still clearly rang in his ears. A few
times every day in fact. He did not have a habit of
feeling sorry for himself. Ever since his rather unhappy
childhood he had grown accustomed to being branded a
failure and he quietly suffered frequent injustice in
his professional and private life. Somehow he knew that
no matter how hard he tried to succeed, his lot was to
be a perpetual victim of other people’s plots and
conspiracies. He did not blame anybody for his
misfortunes. He persevered somehow, stumbling from one
disaster to failure and back. He never complained and he
never cried. He carried the burden of his sorry life
with the patience of a mule. His relationships with the
opposite sex were short lived. He was not wealthy or
handsome. Although he was well read, he had little to
say. His spirit dwelled hidden inside and rarely
ventured out.
He needed a
break. He had to find something big to write about.
Given the fact that the planet was on the brink of a
total environmental shut-down, he found his own
inability to find something juicy to report somewhat
puzzling. Was he blind? Stuff was going on all around
him. All he needed was to put it into suitable words and
his editor would be happy. Or would he be happy?
Sometimes it did seem that pleasing his boss was an
unattainable mission.
The razor sharp
arctic wind drew snow flakes horizontally into the
windshield of his rented airfoil craft. The visibility
was very poor. Daylight was virtually nonexistent during
the winter months. The road from Fairbanks towards his
intended destination was pretty desolated and he had not
met a single vehicle during the first hour of his
journey.
He knew that in
the not so distant past, road conditions such as those
would have demanded a driver’s utmost attention and
concentration. He was grateful for the automatic
satellite navigation system and for the vehicle’s
self-steering mechanism.
His destination
was a small Native village at the foothills of the
Endicott Mountains; at least another hour’s drive away
along the snow covered unpaved road, the edges of which
had been obscured by snowdrift. At the village he would
meet with a Greenpeace activist and a scientist by the
name of Peter Kuutvak George. Peter was an old friend of
his from the University. Although they read different
subjects, they shared the digs and whatever campus life
threw at them.
Peter was the
one who sounded the alarm and who tipped him off about
the possibility of scooping a major news story. He could
not stop his thoughts drifting again and again towards
his task. Having succeeded to persuade his editor to
give him the assignment, he intended to produce the
perfect scoop. Nothing and nobody should be able to stop
him. He knew that this was his very last chance to
redeem himself. All he needed was a good plan how to
keep the whole matter under wraps until the publication
of his story.
The video
telephone screen in the middle of the dash of the craft
came to life and he could see the caller’s face. It was
Peter. “Hi Marshall! Everything OK with you? I am really
looking forward to seeing you again and to introduce you
to a bunch of very interesting people. What you will
hear and learn will blow you away. This is big, really
big; and virtually out of this time. When you get here,
approach my uncle’s house from the back of the village,
not through the main street. Some of the guys here do
not want any interference from the outsiders. The
bungalow is the last one on the west side of the main
street. It has blue siding. See you soon!”
“Understood. See
you in a while,” confirmed Marshall.
He never liked
his first name, which had been bestowed upon him on the
insistence of his military minded grandfather. Despite
his own personal preference to use his middle name John,
everybody called him by the first name; so there was
very little that he could do about it without drawing
even more attention to the hated moniker.
The short
conversation brought his mind back to his campus chum
Peter. Peter held a PhD in biology and environmental
studies and it was very natural for him to get involved
with the Greenpeace movement. He had directed his
academic attention particularly to the problems of the
continuous destruction of the environment in the far
North of the American continent, from where his
ancestors hailed.
Peter must have
discovered a major infringement of the internationally
agreed safeguards about protection of the very few still
remaining pockets of wilderness, to explain the urgency
of his messages and to warrant summoning him to the
North only a few days before the start of the December
Holiday season. Peter was aware of Marshall’s aversion
to cold and snow. It was not only mere chance that kept
Marshall snugly planted in balmy Havana, regardless of
the hurricanes.
He had not been apprised of the details of the
discovery. He expected that something big and very
sensitive from the aspect of the protection of the
environment was afoot.
One hour and
twenty minutes later, the small hovercraft steered
itself from the main road into a side road, which led to
the village a couple of miles further along. Marshall
disengaged the autopilot and steered the vehicle
manually. Bungalows of different sizes flanked the road.
Old fashioned wheeled pickup trucks and snowmobiles
littered most of the front yards. Everything looked very
peaceful and not at all as busy as the tourist-infested
Anaktuvuk Pass some fifty miles further north in the
Gates of the Arctic National Park.
Before entering
the village he remembered his friend’s advice and
steered the craft into a side road, which circumvented
the settlement. Marshall had no trouble in locating the
small bungalow clad in blue maintenance-free siding at
the end of the village. He parked his rented airfoil
craft between similar hydrogen and radiant energy
powered vehicle and an old all-terrain pickup truck
powered by an outdated combustion engine. There were
also three snow mobiles parked neatly side by side. A
large dog was tied to the steps. When Marshall
approached the house, the dog got up and began barking
loudly, at the same time displaying its large yellow
fangs. He was relieved when he saw the door on top of
the steps open, as he did not quite know how to
negotiate a free pass with the animal.
Peter was
covering the whole entrance. He was a huge fellow, at
least six feet five inches tall. He wore his jet-black
hair cropped short. His eyes and mouth smiled a genuine
welcome. In a soft voice of a gentle giant, he said:
“Welcome, Marshall. Do not mind my uncle’s monster, it
mostly barks and rarely bites.”
There were six
other men besides Peter and his uncle in the living
room. Their ages ranged from thirty to a very old
looking man, whose advanced age could not be determined
with any degree of accuracy without inspecting his birth
certificate. If he had one.
Marshall
exchanged smiles and a few words of greetings with those
in the room who cared to acknowledge his arrival.
Peter’s uncle indicated to the visitor to take a seat
and offered him refreshments, which Marshall gratefully
accepted.
He noticed that
besides Peter and his uncle, four other men also looked
as belonging to the Nunamiut Eskimo Nation, which he
knew was the nation of his friend Peter. The oldest and
the youngest of the group however, appeared to be of
different stock. It was not only their facial features
that made them stand out; it was their overall
appearance. While everybody else wore the latest textile
technology thermal clothing, the odd two wore clothes
that must have been borrowed from a museum or from an
old western movie wardrobe. Their clothes were made of
actual caribou skins. The two were clearly not Nunamiut
Eskimos. They were native Indians. And that was unusual,
because Indians and Eskimos gathered together only
rarely and only for very special occasions.
Peter proceeded
to make the formal introductions. Having introduced all
the Nunamiut men, he gestured towards the youngest
looking man and said: “Sahtai Koochin here is Passak’s
great grandson. Chief Passak Koochin is an elder of a
supposedly extinct Kutchin tribe. They do not exist.”
“What do you
mean by ‘they don’t exist’?” asked Marshall.
“Accordingly to
the authorities and the learned anthropologists and
historians, this particular Kutchin people no longer
exist. I must admit that, not being an anthropologist, I
myself did not know much about them until recently, when
I took the trouble to read up on their history. Not much
is known about them. I find now that there are still a
very small number of them around, living like ghosts in
the forests along the Koyukuk River. They do not
communicate with any of the Inupiat nations or with
other Indian tribes. They certainly do not make
themselves known at all to the whites.”
Marshall did not
quite know what to say. After a few moments he said:
“They are missing out on the benefits of the welfare
system.” Then he added: “Sorry; that was not the right
thing to say. Did they cease to exist ten years ago
during the bird flu epidemic? Is your discovery of these
people to be the subject of my story? Pardon me, what
did you call them?”
“They were known
as Kutchin; Dihai Kutchin to be precise. I am actually
not sure that they want to be a part of your story at
all. They have happily lived without the benefits of the
welfare system for thousands of years. And no, they did
not disappear during the bird flu epidemic which
decimated the world population ten years ago. I
understand that they became officially extinct almost
two hundred years ago. However, what is important and
what I believe that you will definitely find interesting
is what they have to say. They certainly consider their
message important enough to step out of the woods, to
approach the outside world and to make their existence
known,” explained Peter.
“Now, that does
sound intriguing”. Marshall sat down beside the elder
and said in a cheerful tone of voice: “Sir, pardon me,
but I did not catch your name. Allow me to introduce
myself again. My name is Marshall and I am a friend of
Peter’s. I am a journalist. I write for a monthly
e-magazine called The Global Investigator. I guess that
you have not heard about it in your neck of the woods. I
understand that you have a truly juicy story to impart
with. Please tell me what it is all about. Is it a major
infringement of the Environmental treaties?”
The old man did
not say anything. His old eyes, partially covered with
cataract, were probing Marshall’s eyes, and then his
gaze slowly moved lower and carefully observed
Marshall’s lips moving while he was speaking.
After a few
moments the old man spoke in a soft tone of voice and in
an ancient language that only his grandson could
understand. He spoke a few short sentences.
Peter said: “I
forgot to tell you that our guests do not speak any
English. Sahtai, that is the young man, speaks some
Inupiaq and our elders here understand some of their
Kuyukon. I am afraid that we shall have to rely on
translations.”
After a short
exchange of words in the old native tongues, Peter’s
uncle turned towards Marshall and said in English:
“Chief Passak thought that your eyes do not speak the
same language as your lips. He said that your eyes are
old and sad, while your speech is not from your spirit.”
“I thought that
he didn’t understand English,” commented Marshall.
“He doesn’t
speak English, but he can read your spirit. A long time
ago some of our elders and shamans could listen and
speak to one’s spirit without words,” explained one of
the Nunamiut elders.
“O.K, I am sorry
that the content of my opening speech did not impress
the Chief. But could he, or somebody else, please tell
me what it is that he finds so important that prompted
my dear friend here to summon me from the warm climes of
Cuba. I have a funny feeling that this assignment is not
going to be what my slave driver editor envisaged and
that I shall not be able to save my bacon.”
Marshall turned
to Peter and said: “You see Peter, I managed to persuade
my editor to give me the assignment only because I
promised him a scoop on an environmental issue.”
“I have not had
time to investigate this thoroughly; but as far as I
understand this matter might well contain elements
pertaining to environmental issues. When you hear what
they have to say, you will see that this reaches well
beyond our world.” replied Peter.
Marshall looked
incredulous. “Beyond our world, eh? How did you come
across these two, err…, gentlemen?”
“The young one
approached one of our men in the woods sometimes last
week. He asked to speak to our elders. He said that his
grandfather wishes to reveal his dreams to the people of
this world. I must add that ‘this world’ means only the
Koyukuk River valley and Endicott Mountains. However,
the message, and I happen to believe in the dreams of
these spiritual people, pertains to the whole world as
you and I understand it. Especially so, as this Kutchin
tribe, following Chief Passak’s dreams, uncovered hard
evidence.”
“Evidence of
what?” asked Marshall.
“Evidence that
his dreams are not just dreams”, replied Peter.
“They found the
future,” added one of the Nunamiut elders.
“No, no; what
they found was the time yet to come,” corrected another.
“They found
what?” exclaimed Marshall. “Did you say ‘future’?”
Peter said
calmly: “Yes. Chief Passak Koochin had a weird dream.
Why I say ‘weird’ is the fact that most of the
aboriginal peoples do not concern themselves much with
what we perceive as ‘future’. Past is important because
it teaches you how to handle the present. Present is
very important because it is ‘being’. But future? Future
is not a guaranteed commodity. They perceive ‘future’
more as an uncertain part of the ‘present’ or
alternatively as the time yet to come. In the latter
case they refer to the life after death. I think that
Chief Passak had a dream about the time yet to come
existing here and now. Chief remembers how approximately
twenty or thirty winters ago, he is not sure, a few
hunting members of his tribe stumbled upon a hill where
the spirit of death guards the realm of the time yet to
come. Only one member of the hunting party returned.
Since that occurrence no one had ever dared to approach
the area of the hill with the spirit of death inside it;
until one month ago, just after Chief’s weird dream in
which he saw the spirit rising out of his cave to rain
the death of white light upon all life. A small party of
young braves decided to investigate the hill. They
ignored the warnings of the old man. They wanted to find
the future, and find it they did. They also retuned
alive to tell the tale.”
Marshall noticed
that they were all looking at him with great interest;
including the two Indians.
Peter said: “I
think that you should close your mouth now, buddy. I
understand that this kind of thing sounds like science
fiction; out of this time. In fact, I myself suspect
that it probably is.”
“What do you
mean ‘out of this time’? What were the Chief’s dreams
about? What did the Indians find? And where is the hard
evidence?” exclaimed again Marshall. His head was
throbbing. He wanted answers to his many questions
immediately or sooner and he looked at Peter with
pleading eyes. Perhaps this was the one after all;
environmental or not. This just might be his redeeming
scoop.
“Hang on,
Marshall. Take it easy. What’s the rush? One does not
need to chase the future. It is coming towards us like a
run-away train as we speak and whether we want it or
not. We shall go up into the mountain tomorrow. Chief
Passak is too weak to take us, but Sahtai is willing and
able to show us the site; tomorrow. For now you will
have to do with my explanation of Passak’s dreams. The
contents of his dreams should prime you for the
revelations of tomorrow.”
Marshall sat on
the edge of the sofa in anticipation. The others had
heard the story of the old man’s dream before. They sat
back comfortably, ready to enjoy the tale once more.
Some of them opened another bottle of beer; some of them
lit their cigarettes. One of them commented that perhaps
Peter’s uncle should go to see why his dog was barking
continuously. But then the dog stopped barking and an
eerie silence enveloped the house.
Peter looked
around to see if he had the approval of all the elders
to start, when a ray of very bright light, like a bolt
of lightning, entered the house through the large window
of the living room. With the light came heat and
tremendous air pressure. There was no sound. The time
stood still for a while; at least it did appear so to
the nine men in the room. They appeared transparent to
each other and they could see quite clearly through one
another for a moment or so. Then a bright orange ball of
fire consumed not only the living room, but the whole
house as well.
The Fire Chief’s
and the Coroner’s reports stated that a faulty gas stove
might have been to blame for the tragic accident. The
bodies of the men who died in the house were not only
incinerated by the fire, but pulverized. The
investigators’ reports did not mention that the glass of
the large window of the living room was blown into the
room, not out. But nothing much could be found in the
smouldering debris anyway and small details like minute
pieces of melted glass could easily be overlooked.
Nobody ever
noticed or found out that deep in the forests along the
Koyukuk River, and only a few days after the explosion
in the Nunamiut village, a small band of presumably
extinct Indians were wiped out by a mysterious white
flash of light. Not one of them survived and no one
missed them. They did not exist.
,
