Kristen Dorsey

The Shamans of Alaska

I’m fighting insomnia by binge-watching some trashy Netflix series on my oatmeal colored sofa, all zipped up in my sexy flannel onesies, feet crossed at the ankle and resting on the chunky coffee table. My Glock is close by, snuggled down amongst butterscotch candies in an oval-shaped bowl at the center of the table.

My cell makes a rare “incoming” buzz and vibrates across the glass tabletop toward my fuzzy footies. I suspect a telemarketer, but my stomach flutters anyway, and I sit up quickly to lean forward and peer hopefully down at my phone. A message rectangle pops up cheerfully to notify me that birdseed is on Super! Sale! this week at my neighborhood Acme market.

“Great. I’ll notify Wile E. Coyote, sooooper genius,” I say aloud, referencing the Looney Toons of my childhood. I crack myself up.

The text disappears, and the screen goes dark again. I can see the wall behind my lumpy sofa, reflected on the cell phone’s glassy surface. My gaze lands on the reflection of the Inuit carved mask, a gift from my Dad, hanging on the wall behind the couch. Only, instead of an empty, painted sculpture with holes for eyes and mouth, real eyes gleam at me from the reflection on my cell phone screen.

I lurch upright, metal taste flooding my mouth and snap my head over my shoulder to look at the wall behind me. My hand instinctively reaches for my sidearm.

“Fuck!” I yell explosively. It comes out like a yelp.

I freeze, holding my breath, both hands clutching my Glock as hard candy tumbles off the table and skitters across the floor. The glass candy bowl follows with a deafening crash, shattering.

A wooden, empty-eyed mask hangs on the wall, exactly as it should be. I take one hand off my sidearm, still pointed at the wall, and reach up cautiously. I touch the surface; the wood is rough under my fingertips. When my breathing slows, I turn away from the wall and gingerly pick up my phone again with the free hand. I tilt up the black reflective surface so I can see the mask on the screen.

Oh, my God, they’re still there.

Eyes, looking at me from the mask’s reflection on the cell phone screen. A strange squeaky grunt escapes my mouth, and I resist the almost unbearable urge to throw the phone. I slowly turn my head again to look back over my shoulder toward the wall and the mask hanging there. No eyes. When I look back once more at the phone, the eyeballs regard me with occasional slow blinks.

I stay frozen like this, both arms extended, one hand holding my 9mm pointed at the wall mask, the other holding my phone with the reflected image. I look slowly back and forth, my neck stiff with my clenched jaws until my arms begin to tremble from the strain.

“This isn’t happening,” I gasp, and another sob escapes me as I toss the phone onto the couch and scrub my hand hard down my flannels as if I had been holding something filthy.

I back slowly out of the living room toward my bedroom, shaking. I surrender to my fear and rush to my bed, wrapping up in a blanket fort, like a child. I sleep just below the surface, startling awake regularly with cold chills and a feeling of dread.

*

It’s 10:00 pm, and I’m starIng out my office window at another breathtaking Alaska sunset. I’m exhausted from the previous night of cowering under the blankets. My eyes feel gritty and dry from lack of sleep and the computer-to-brain connection that I have sustained for the past 7 hours. There is more paperwork than usual with all the strange and violent activity this year in Anchorage, and I have been slogging through it for hours. I don’t mind working late since I don’t sleep for shit these days, and I have, like, zero social life.

I am the only female agent in our small field office, and the male agents are all misogynistic assholes. Typical FBI tough guys, I suppose. Most of the kids I went to the Fairbanks high school with, Lathrop High, moved away as I did to attend college. I thought I had escaped Alaska for good, and I cut all ties with my Alaskan past. The FBI assigned me right back here after graduation from the Academy, in an attempt to appear more politically correct regarding the indigenous population of Alaska.

“Sir, I am not Inuit,” I told my Commanding Officer, clutching the documents which assigned me, upon graduation, to the FBI field office in Anchorage.

“Pellier, you were raised by an Inuit. New agents go where they are needed.” He had not bothered to look up again from a huge stack of papers after granting me a cursory initial glance. “You can request a transfer in four years. Relax, Staci, you’re young. Barely thirty. Plenty of time. Good luck and congrats, Agent.”

My field phone startles me out of my brain fog of memories. I lean back to grope for the cell, and the Alaskan sunset blinds me. I swivel away from the window and feel the last rays of light warm the back of my neck. The cell phone tells me that an unknown caller is on the other end. Annoyed and exhausted, I study the phone. Voicemail or answer? As I decide to let it go to voicemail, my finger slides right, toward the little green answer symbol. Shit.

“FBI, Pellier.”

Silence.

“Hello? This is Staci Pellier, how can I help you?” “Uh, yeah. Hello,” says a male voice. “I’m downstairs at the door. Everything is locked. My mom says she has an appointment with you.”

What the hell? I look up at the clock—a knee-jerk reaction—and verify the time.

“Sir, it is 10:00 pm and the FBI office is closed.” Our field phones are strictly for internal use. How did this guy get my number? I hear the sound of muffled arguing, and then an exasperated sigh.

“Look, I am so sorry. My mom Robin—” A sharp female voice cuts him off abruptly. “I mean, um, Amaruq Hayes, says she has an appointment with you. She insisted I drive her here.” A short pause, and more muffled talking. “She says to tell you that she can help with the, uh, —Jesus Christ Mom—the loose demon or something.” He mumbles this last part with embarrassed resignation.

“Can you please hold?” I press the mute button without waiting for his reply. I trot across the hall to an office that faces the street. Our field office has a flat, glass and brick face, and I peek through the blinds. The fading summer sunlight shows two people in bulky coats—summer evenings are still pretty chilly in Anchorage—but I can make out no additional details from this angle.

The demon. Again. This year has been full of weirdness. So far, homicides are up almost 50%, and domestic violence has skyrocketed as well. Stranger yet, there have been dozens of attacks on people by typically shy animals. For example, one little boy was awakened in the night when a six-foot black bear crashed through his closed window, almost landing on the boy’s bed. Somehow the boy escaped, and the bear left on its own accord, leaving deep claw valleys on the boy’s footboard, wall and window sill. Last month, a vast herd of Caribou faced down and attacked a group of hunters. Sea Lion attacks on ice fishermen are at a record-breaking high. Extremely unusual behavior. The local people have been muttering about a demon. I gaze down at the phone and remember the first time I was confronted with a demon in Anchorage.

It was my first solo assignment, last year, as the newest FBI agent. None of the other agents would touch the case, so it defaulted to me, the newbie, earning me the nickname ‘Scully,’ you know, from the X-Files show. Such clever guys.

“You’re used to this stuff, you were raised by a Native,” they had said, snorting with laughter. I hid the shame that made my belly feel tight and achy.

Almost a year ago now, a Vietnamese man had grounded a United Airlines Chicago to Saigon flight here in Anchorage with a fantastic shit-show. He told me that he saved the plane from crashing by trapping a demon in the airline bathrooms by smearing his shit all over the lavatory walls.

“It was my fault that the demon was on the plane in the first place,” he had insisted in a soft voice. The Vietnamese translator repeated his words to me. “It got onto the plane by riding in my shirt pocket. I became aware of it shortly after takeoff, so I first tried flushing my shirt down the toilet.” He tugged the small airline lap blanket more tightly across his bare shoulders as he said this.

“So,” I had sighed, dividing my attention between the half-naked ghostbuster dude and the translator. “Since you couldn’t flush the shirt, you trapped the, um, demon with your feces. You smeared the, um, shit, all over the surfaces of both bathrooms. This crap-repellant prevented the demon from escaping the bathrooms and crashing the plane. Do I understand this correctly, sir?” He had cocked his head toward the interpreter, listened, then turned his face up to mine for the first time since I had begun questioning him, nodding slowly and deeply. “This is a very smart demon. Very tricky.” Peering into his uneasy face, I understood that he was completely sane and telling what he believed was the truth.

Despite his insistent protests, the airlines had “released” the Vietnamese man’s demon—by cleaning the bathrooms—and eventually sent the repaired plane on to Saigon.

“You let it out” he had whispered in stunned disbelief. “I begged you not to. Now it is free and outside.” He spread his hands up and outward, circling his arms over his head. “Who knows where it went.” We had detained the guy for almost a day, then released him. Welcome home, Staci, I had thought at the time.

Now, working overtime and exhausted, I lean both hands on the desktop and drop my head, rolling the tension from my neck. Could there actually be demonic forces at work here?

I cannot forget the freaky mask-face I saw in my apartment last night. Is this why am I considering talking to the couple downstairs? My stepmom Marie was native, so I am fully aware that ‘Amaruq’—the woman’s apparent Inuit name—means wolf. Wolves are considered the teachers and wisdom keepers of the Inuit people, and she would not have been given that name lightly.

I felt grumpy and irritated. I do not want to deal with this supernatural crap, whether real or imagined. This is precisely why I fled Alaska following high school. Raised near Fairbanks, I had a white father and an Inuit stepmother. My Dad was a scientist; he was assigned to Fairbanks to study climate change. He brought his young wife, my mom, along with him.

My mom died a few months after I was born, and my Inuit stepmom is the only mother I know.

As a child, my stepmom taught me all of the Inuit beliefs about the Land, the Animals, and the connection “our” people have with the Earth. When I was a kid, it was fun. Her beliefs began to seem ridiculous, even crazy, as I got older. She used to tell me that the Inuit shamans could shape-shift, and once, while chaperoning a school field trip, she waved vigorously at a noisy crow screaming at us from a power line.

“Uncle Pete!” she yelled loudly while my friends snickered behind their hands. Uncle Pete is an old Inuit man, not a crow. He lived the Native lifestyle, out on the tundra, and as a toddler, I used to play with Pete’s son while he and my stepmom talked for hours.

Here I am again. Back in Alaska. A highly educated and trained FBI agent, dealing with demons. Yep. Welcome home, Staci. I poke the mute button again.

“I’ll be right down, sir.”

I escort them to my office. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but she looks pretty normal. She is of mixed heritage, with handsome grey hair that waves well past her shoulders. She has the sturdy curves of an Inuit, and the height of an average white woman—I’d say maybe 5’6”. She smells faintly fragrant, like plants or herbs, as if she has been gardening. Her son stands out in the hallway, shoulders hunched, hands deep in his pockets. He faces away from us as if to say he wants nothing to do with any of this.

The woman and I shake hands. I look at her directly in the eyes, FBI style, and she returns my stare with a mild gaze.

“Ms. Hayes. Agent Staci Pellier. Good to meet you. How can I help?”

“Please call me Amaruq. We have already met.” She smiles pleasantly at me. “I was the face you saw in the wall mask that is hanging behind your couch.” Before I can stop myself, I jerk my hand away from hers. “I needed to check you out. As you already know, there is a demon loose in Anchorage.” Amaruq nods slightly, repeatedly, as I replay the horrifying mask scene in my mind. I finally shut my gaping mouth and flop into my office chair.

“Okay, Ms. Hay—uh, Amaruq—let’s pretend that I believe you about a demon being loose in the city. Why have you come here? Why tell the FBI?”

“I’m not telling the FBI, Staci. I’m telling you.” She leans forward as she says this and points at my face. “I am telling the daughter of Tootega.”

Tootega. My stepmother Marie’s Inuit name. She had often repeated that “Tootega” is the name of a wise Inuit goddess who could walk on water.

“Amaruq, Marie was not my birth mother, although I loved her with all my heart. What does she have to do with this? She’s been dead for at least five years now.”

“You should call her Tootega if you no longer respect her enough to call her Mother,” Amaruq says with quiet authority as she sits, straight-backed, on her chair. “Tootega and I are cousins, raised like sisters. She was one grade ahead of me in the white school. On weekends we took turns attending Inuit school out on the tundra with Uncle Pete, whose Inuit name is Tulugaq.”

Uncle Pete? Tulugaq means crow or raven. The crow on the wire that my stepmom often waved and called to? I feel the hairs on my arms prickle in a wave of icy bumps.

“Uncle Pete is Angakkuq,” she continues, “and Tootega and I have studied with him along with his son, Yutu since we were all kids. We need you now.”

“You need me? For what?” I press my hands, fingers splayed, across my chest, shaking my head in small rapid movements. My exasperation is a ruse. Inwardly I am beginning to be afraid. Angakkuq is the Inuit word for shaman, the influential spiritual leader of the Inuit community, who mediates with spirits on behalf of the people. Could the gentle, wrinkled, old man I remember as Uncle Pete be an Inuit shaman? I played for hours on the floor of his small cabin on the Alaskan tundra.

“Staci, we need to trap that demon and send it to Anirnialuk, the Great Spirit. The released demon from that airplane is a particular type, a Tuurngaq, a demon that has never been carnate, or in the flesh. They are extremely dangerous, and this one needs containing. We need Tootega, but you will have to stand in for her, Staci.”

I have stopped breathing, and an ache is forming behind my eyes. No way. No fucking way. I am not having this conversation. When I feel afraid, I deal with my fear by getting angry. Probably makes me a better FBI agent.

“You are kidding me, right?” I slap my palm on my desk. It stings and resounds louder than I intend. The man in the hallway, Amaruq’s son, swivels a look over his shoulder at the thud of it. “I’m not Inuit, and even if I were, demons and spirits are superstitious, ignorant beliefs made up to justify the ugliness of humankind and the horrors of the human condition. There is no such thing as a demon. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Ms. Hayes.” Tears prick my eyes. I am trying not to cry, trying to hide the tremble I feel expanding outward from my belly. Quietly, the small voice inside me inquires why I am thrown so off-center by this woman.

“Ignorant? Did you buy into the white culture’s ‘noble savage’ mythology? Fascinating cultural artifacts, amusing archaic tales, stupid jagged-toothed natives? It is you who have become ignorant. Like many people ensnared by the bright, shiny glare of Western culture, you have thrown away the gifts your mother and your people gave you.”

Amaruq’s son has now turned around to face us from the hallway, and he squints in concern. “Mom?” He cranes his neck but stays where he is. “Everything cool?”

“Yes, we are just finishing up,” I say as I stand and offer the calm Amaruq a damp, quivering handshake.

“Ms. Hayes, thanks for your concern. You are welcome to come back during working hours, and the folks downstairs will write up a report.” As she stands, I tug her toward the door and hand her off to her son. Before I can release her hand, she quickly scribbles her phone number onto the back of my hand.

“Good night, niece,” Amaruq says softly. Mother and son walk together down the hallway. The son glances over his shoulder at me; she does not. “You will dream.” she declares as they disappear around the corner. I shove my office door closed. Then I cry.

*

And I dream. I dream every night for several weeks following Amaruk’s visit. Big dreams; technicolor dreams. Dreams full of smells, sounds and memories so poignant and crisp that waking feels dull in comparison. I dream of my childhood, the teachings of my stepmother Marie, my sweet father, my life in Fairbanks. I dream of Uncle Pete; his dark head and Marie’s bent together over herbs or drums or other things I cannot quite recall. These dream-memories wash over me, and I almost drown in the intensity of the emotions they bring. How had I suppressed these things so completely? What would a therapist say about this? Probably don’t wanna know.

I’m exhausted and overwhelmed and need these dreams to end. I decide to face my own demons; to dig into the childhood I have tried to deny. I climb the pull-down attic stairs and sneeze a dozen times as I wrestle down a box.

“Mom,” it says in big Sharpie print on four sides. When had I started calling her Marie? I cringe in shame and tear off the crusty, flaking packing tape. Inside I find the items that I just could not toss in the trash. A shoebox full of jumbled photos, most of them of a young me. A walrus tusk carving of two sea otters floating on their backs, little arms linked, a treasured gift to Mom from Dad. A traditional parka made from caribou skin, trimmed in otter fur. I rummage through the memorabilia until I see the round outline of Mom’s medicine drum, tucked safely within the heavy folds of her beloved parka.

The drum is about fourteen inches in diameter, and three inches deep. It is a round wooden frame, covered on one side with tightly stretched hide; the opposite side is open to reveal the handhold made of webbed sinew. Tucked under the webbing is the beater—a soft lump of leather on a hand-carved branch that ends in a handle covered with fur. I assume it is also otter fur, to match the stylized image of a frolicking otter inked on the front of the drum. This is the item that stars in every one of my nightly dreams. Her Otter drum. I sink to the floor and cradle it in my lap, tracing the outline of the otter with my finger. My other hand reaches into my back pocket for my cell. I dial Amaruq’s number. I’m ready to talk. I’m ready for the dreams to stop.

*

I stumble through the following work week, going through the motions, and barely react to the usual barbs from the male agents.

“Nothing sexier than a girly-girl packing heat,” one guy says as he leers at me appreciatively. He says this at least twice a week. The married ones are the worst.

“Uh huh,” I reply distractedly, squinting into my computer screen. My disinterest disappoints them, and they begin to ignore me. I take note of this for future reference. I have fanatically been documenting unusually violent occurrences, looking for evidence, or the lack of evidence for the demon that Amaruq spoke of. We talked for over an hour when I called her, and she encouraged me to come to her home to continue the conversation with her and Uncle Pete.

On Saturday, at zero-dark-thirty, I head north on State Route Three toward Amaruq and the town of Willow, population 2,000. It’s close to a 2-hour drive, and I have time to think. I am both scared and exhilarated. Once I make a decision, I am in one hundred percent. So glad that Daddy isn’t around to see this. He was always the pragmatic, the scientist. As I drive, I wonder how he and Mom navigated the extremes of their belief systems. I glance at the backpack on the passenger seat of my pickup. I can see the edge of my Mom’s Otter drum poking out of the top, and I shake my head.

What the hell am I doing? Whatever it is, I am doing it.

I turn right onto Willow Fishhook Road. Despite the glaring sunlight, it is early morning, and I am tempted to stop at the Alaskan Dream Espresso Café. Instead, I accelerate past it, fishtailing and spraying gravel, not wanting to prolong my anxiety. I pass the Willow Trading Post, where Amaruq says she barters medicinal roots and leaves in exchange for supplies. “Slow down when you pass Willow Creek Inn, on the left,” she had said when I called her, “then take the next dirt road on the left. My place is the A-frame, just past the ranch house with the red roof. Look for the chickens in my yard. Come on into the kitchen-no need to knock-we’ll be there.”

Chickens scatter, shrieking loudly as I pull up the drive. I cut the engine and sit back, listening to the chickens mutter about me as they settle back into scratching for breakfast. I breathe the crisp morning air deeply as I wipe my damp palms down the thighs of my jeans, calming my nerves. The vacant spot on my side, where my Glock usually rests, feels conspicuously empty. Amaruq had insisted I leave it home. I pull my ponytail apart with both hands to tighten up the rubber band that restrains it. Leaning to the right, I loop my arm through the backpack strap. Twisting back to the left, I pull the door handle of my rusty pickup, and it opens with a piercing screeeee. I cringe in the otherwise dense morning silence.

“Shit,” I gasp. My neck hairs prickle as I practically step on a mammoth-sized husky, who is calmly regarding me beside the open truck door. Where did he come from? I slide cautiously down the truck seat to the dirt and offer the back of my hand to the furry beast.

“Hey there, monster. Please don’t eat me.” He cocks his head then leans forward politely, shiny black rubber-stamp nose brushing my extended hand. Then he spins toward the A-frame, tail fanning gracefully. I follow obediently.

The dog stops expectantly at the front door; shiny black eyes look over his shoulder at me, tail curled gaily over his back. Obligingly, I test the knob. It’s unlocked, and as I twist it, monster-dog shoves his cinder-block head into the widening crack to move things along. We pad together through a dark room toward the yellow light in the rear of the house. The rich, warm scent of coffee reaches me from the kitchen, where Amaruq said they would meet me.

I walk into the circle of light and see two men and Amaruq, surrounded by piles of gear, sipping steamy-hot coffee from mismatched mugs. The dog trots in ahead of me, and the three people look up in unison.

“Orca! Good boy,” Amaruq pats the behemoth’s head as he collapses at her feet, his ginormous open mouth forming a smile of black lips and lolling pink tongue. Orca thumps his tail once in reply.

“Orca. But of course. What else would he be called?” I laugh nervously.

“Hello, Staci,” she says with a tight smile. “I’m glad you finally decided to honor your mother. I wasn’t certain you would come.” I slide my eyes guiltily from hers, and turn my gaze to the man who is sitting beside Amaruq and Orca and...I freeze. I’m jolted; an electric shock slams into my body and shivers down my spine. The damp, grey heaviness that I did not know was living in my chest parts at that moment, and the bright sun of his gaze warms my center and rolls outward.

“Oh...Oh.” I gasp. Dear God, did I just say that out loud? Use your words, you idiot.

“I mean, um, hi. Yutu? It’s Staci. Marie’s daughter. I remember playing with you as a child.”

The man holds my gaze but otherwise appears unaffected. After a moment he lifts his coffee cup in salute and dips his head slightly. “Yep, I’m Yutu. Pete’s son. I remember you well. Your mom was like a big sister to me.”

The older man in my peripheral vision rises as I stare motionless at Yutu, my breath stuck in my lungs. The old guy steps in front of me and extends open arms, and his bulk breaks both my line of vision and my immobility. I breathe. “Staci. It’s been a while. I am so glad you are here.” Freed from Yutu’s eyes I look up into the older man’s warm, wrinkled face. Of course. I know this man. I move into his arms with a choked sob. He holds me until I pull back, and smiles into my face. He presses his hand into my shoulder, turning me back toward the others.

“The Four Directions are all here now, and the Circle is complete,” Pete says as he looks at each of us. He pulls my stepmom’s drum from the pack slung over my shoulder and puts it on the table, near three other drums. Amaruq’s drum has an image of a wolf; Yutu’s drum the profile of a polar bear; Pete’s drum has a jet black raven.

“Staci, you have inherited your mother’s Otter Medicine. You will hold the direction of the West, which is Water. Amaruq will keep the North, the place of the Earth. Yutu, my son, will be in the South position, representing Fire. I will be in the East, with my Raven medicine for Air. Are you ready to catch a demon, my dear?”

“Ready?” I pull away from him and back up a few steps, heart thudding. “Amaruq said we were just going to talk. Uncle Pete, I have no idea how to catch a demon,” I whine. “I have no training, and... I’m not, you know, one of you.” I pull away from him, eyes wide, heart thudding. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Amaruq shake her head sadly at my outburst.

“Could I just... shoot it?” I whip my hand to my hip—no gun. Oh no. No, no, no. I left my sidearm. Horror blooms across my face.

“You don’t need a gun,” Uncle Pete taps my stepmom’s Otter drum three times with a big, rough finger. “You have a stronger weapon right here. The time of choosing successors by bloodline or tribe has passed. You have trained with Tootega since the Spirits gifted you to her. You were born for this, Staci. Just hold your place in the Circle with courage and trust. The rest will come.” He turns his palm up and crooks his fingers back and forth, signaling that it is time to follow him.

I stand motionless, my mouth forming a silent O. Inside, I am reeling. Do I leave? Stay? The others silently gather their gear as I gather my thoughts. I watch Amaruq, calm and serene. This was my mother’s closest friend. I watch Yutu as he drains his coffee cup and slings his backpack over a muscled shoulder. My heart flutters in an unfamiliar fashion.

I realize that Uncle Pete is right. I have trained for this my entire life, straddling two cultures. I never had to choose one set of beliefs over the other—that was my personal demon; it was my own ego. Is protecting the community from a spirit demon that different than protecting society from the demons within some people? I steal glances at Yutu. He catches me peeking and smiles impishly as he brushes past me. My face reddens.

As our shoulders touch, he leans down and murmurs near my ear,

“Welcome home, Staci.”