The little girl is hungry and cold. Frantic to remain in control, her brain sends the command which starts a series of shivers. Temporarily, her temperature spikes. The shivers also dislodge the cloth protecting her face, which she frantically tries to replace. The shivers are futile attempts by her brain to keep blood flowing to her extremities. It is a significant struggle to stay warm, and it is made even more difficult as the covering across a small entryway is moved aside, letting in a gust of frigid air. Two bundles of humanity, her parents, enter. The cold that chases after them quickly permeates every inch of the young girl’s exposed skin. Moisture, captured by the freezing temperatures, floats in the air, forming minuscule ice particles. Running her hand over her face only activates the frozen hair in her nostrils, which causes her to sneeze. This expels even more icy particles into the air.
Her sneeze also rouses the one thing that has been keeping the little girl warm. Shaking its head, Zikri, the lone remainder of what once was an award-winning dog sled team, sheds the blanket it’d been under, and sniffs the air through the leather muzzle covering its face and mouth.
The pack leader and his bitch have returned. Maybe they’ve brought food. I am so hungry. With a slight twitch of its nose, Zikri knows there is no food, and he returns to the pile of blankets, nuzzling into the thickest one. He keeps one eye undercover, one eye uncovered so that he can observe everything that might transpire inside the igloo.
The little girl sits back and quietly reflects on her short life. With silent resignation, she concludes that her suffering now feels oddly normal. How long can a storm last? she wonders, while absentmindedly rubbing the top of Zikri’s head, which he very much likes.
I love her. Why is the pack leader not feeding us? Are my littermates hungry too why don’t I hear them crying in the night? Perhaps they must also wear this face covering?
Taking a seat beside her daughter, the mother bundle reaches out and gives Zikri a pat on the head as she asks the only question that matters.
“Can we survive?”
“I do not have an answer,” the covered face of the father bundle mutters.
The storm has been raging for so long that now it is clear, they do not have enough food to sustain life. And they are not alone. The entire local community is also hungry. Their stomachs are as empty as their spirits.
Months ago, a prophet of some renown had suddenly appeared out of the mist and through his words, captured the hearts and minds of those predisposed to be easily swayed. Soon, all the surrounding communities also fell to his charms. He was quickly revered as a leader. Perhaps too quickly. He prophesied cold and death unless his messages were heeded. Some believed, others looked upon him with scorn.
Until the things he spoke came true.
“All the ancient wisdom says we shall not experience cold as this supposed holy man predicts,” said the heads of the local government. “The gods cannot be mad at us without provocation; therefore, this man is a liar and is not to be trusted.”
Then, the snow began to fall and just never stopped. It persisted until all the igloos were covered. Three moon cycles into the storm, the naysayers, those who still believed the storm was simply a local phenomenon, were forcefully removed and excommunicated. The prophet was soon elevated as their leader. He spoke of a plan by which he could save his people.
However, the snow continued to fall. Every gift the people bestowed upon their self-proclaimed savior did not stop the onslaught of cold. More died from starvation than because of the driving wind and snow. They gave their prophet the prime measure of food and water, yet the snow continued to fall. Whatever food supply had been cached, meant to provide subsistence until warmer times, was soon consumed, and efforts to rebuild it by hunting and fishing were fruitless. His promises became wilder and less believable. Six moon cycles later, they came to view every word he spoke as yet another desperate lie.
And the snow continued to fall.
In their misery, they grew tired of their savior, his prophecies, his growing demands, and desires. One day, the community elders gathered secretly and put their hands on their savior. They quietly marched him out onto the ice without formality, where they permanently severed the relationship. His wasn’t the only death that day, but the elders viewed their action as worthy of any sacrifice. A small measure of reprieve was gained, but it was temporary and hardly enough to matter.
Back inside the igloo, the parental bundle’s crouch together, silent. It is a posture designed to conserve movement and initiate some measure of warmth. It does one but not the other.
“I fear that soon all will be lost. Our time here is ending,” father bundle mutters.
At that moment, a furry head lifts from underneath the blankets and skins that surround the child bundle. Underneath the bundle, the father smiles. It is a smile of love and respect. Zikri’s eyes meet the eyes of his pack leader.
I wish my pack leader would ask me to help. I love him.
Father bundle is so cold and hungry he is almost beyond rational thought. What must I do? What can I do?
The little girl, shivering once again, says through chattering teeth, “I am hungry, pappa.”
Father bundle’s reply, covered in pain and regret, is clear, “I am sorry little one, but there is nothing else for us to eat. We have no more food. No food for us, no food for Zikri. I have delayed what must be done for as long as I can. Today though, I must act while I still have the strength to act, for death sits among us.” Reaching down, father bundle strokes under the neck and around the ears of the only dog left in the entire community.
“Zikri has suffered as much as we have. Even you, my child, must know that his time here has come to an end.” He hesitates, nods to the mother bundle, and softly announces, “I will return soon,” through gritted teeth. Then, taking Zikri gently by the collar, he leaves the igloo.
“We’ll be all right,” mother bundle coos to daughter bundle. The mother bundle sits back, a tear tries to form in her eye as she shakes her head. Can Zikri save us?
Outside, Zikri can hardly hold in his excitement as the father bundle removes the muzzle that has prevented his discovery. In his excitement, he tilts his head back slightly and lets out a low and beautiful howl. It starts slowly and then the howl gains strength and pitch. Father bundle smiles as the tones Zikri creates are carried away by the wind-driven snow.
“I hope they stick to the snow my friend,” father bundle says as he straps a thicker than usual collar harness to Zikri’s neck. It has been months since Zikri led his pack on a sled adventure, and he is anxious to return to the tundra. However, looking around, he is also bewildered. No sled? Just me? Where are the others?
Bending down, father bundle takes Zikri’s face into his gloved hands. Zikri calms himself and sits, awaiting the command he knows is forthcoming, however he senses what he will be told to do may be different than ever before. Finally, a gust of wind clears the space between him and the father bundle, and their eyes meet. What he sees worries Zikri.
He is so thin. Is the pack leader ill? It’s a shock to his system as Zikri’s instincts tell him that this might be the last time he ever sees his pack leader.
Using a pet name for the only dog left alive on the frozen landscape, father bundle points towards trees and mountains in the distance. It is a bleak, barren, snow-swept horizon.
“Zee, you are the alpha male now. Run. Run like you never have. Deliver the message I have attached to your collar. Find someone. Find anyone. Save us.”
I will, Zikri thinks, as he turns and races off into the gathering storm. I will save you.
