I am graced by all the dark Goddesses of the Ice and Sea with the ability to return often to Greenland, almost as often as I wish, but never quite enough to satisfy a sort of infinite nostalgia for the place. Its glowing power and majesty always fill me with an intense connection to my heritage; and reconnects me to the power of the tundra spirits.
Some call it the blessings of Arnakuagsak, Goddess of the Sea herself, who bestows upon men whom she favors many and lavish gifts. The ability to travel far away from home and return safely. The ability to see deep into the future and the past. The ability to find game in times of dire need for the community.
Others call it the rampant abuse of grant money and my staff travel budget. No matter. For I am happy, even with a voicemail box filled to my mobile call carrier’s limit with angry calls from Alaskan State budget auditors.
Fools. Audit me all they want. They will never realize that I falsified the identity of another professor and am utilizing the grant money usually allotted to a more senior (and tenured) position. For powerful am I with the ancient ways - and far too proficient in mainframe hacking to ever be discovered.
But in moments like this, staring out into the unspeakable beauty of the Arctic Ocean, I am often struck by how nerve-wracking and obnoxious it is for total strangers to blunder into my perfect moment - ruining it with their yelling and running and waving of firearms.
Turning slowly and carefully to not provoke the intruder into a display of their small arms abilities, I took in this intruder’s invasion into my moment of calm.
The tall, lanky, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, well-shaven, well-fed form that confronted me, sporting a dapper uniform properly made and manufactured to withstand temperatures to nearly 40 degrees Celsius below, could only mean one thing.
A Dane.
Rolling my eyes with exasperation, and muttering something in Inuit, I managed to stop his train wreck of worm-mouthed Scandinavian bellowings and utterations, affected whilst he cavalierly waved his Colt Canada C7 assault rifle in my general direction.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? Don’t you know this is a restricted area?” He half-growled, half-bellowed at me. At least the volume had decreased and the dialect had changed to something intelligible. Bloody Danish. Horrible language I mused internally.
“As a member of the Circumpolar Council of First Nations, I don’t feel as though I have to answer that question.” I responded, droitly. Reading his reaction, which was akin to throwing a frozen beet, blanched and drained of color into a roiling soup of red hot lava, I quickly and tactfully added “But I would be happy to volunteer a complete explanation for my presence here in exchange for one thing.”
The Danish conscript, torn between the affront to his young male machismo and some small instinctual cultural imperative to not callously murder unarmed civilians, paused to carefully consider his options. He turned briefly to look out over the cold, uninviting sea, littered with broken skeletons of thousands of pieces of icebergs, prematurely aborted by rising Arctic temperatures. Doomed to never know the glory of growing to unimaginable proportions and littering Northern Atlantic sea lanes like lurking limpit mines of death and horror.
“That’s also an amazing weapon you’re holding there” I added.
The appeal to his heroic glory and subtle phallic potency mercifully shaded his thinking back towards civility and away from shooting me and dumping my body in the cold briny ocean.
“What is this thing you ask?? Speak quickly!” he retorted. “And it is a nice weapon, one of my favorites, ever. I could kill many Russians with it.” He added with eyes drawn into the squint of a childish homicidal fantasy.
“Well, first let me point out I am totally not Russian.” A fact I felt all too important given his now clear racist imperative for genocide against his Northern neighbors. “But I would ask that if you advise me as to why you and a well-armed regiment of the Danish Royal Army are grabbing some beach time on the northern tip of Greenland, I will happily return the favor, vis-a-vis my own presence hereto.”
“Our business is our own, Eskimaux!” His racial epithet cut deeper into my soul than the unnecessary ‘x’ at the end of it. “Wait, no - my apologies. Eskimo as a term is horribly inappropriate and I deeply apologize for my lack of consideration to the traditions and the cultural diversity of our Arctic Indigenous Population. What I meant to say is that our business is our own, obviously over-Americanized outsider Inuit speaker!”
My baffled and hurt stare, somewhat mitigated by his retraction regarding my ethnic and cultural history, overcame his brittle 18-year old Danish child conscript defenses. Thawing a bit, he continued.
“If you must know, we are preparing for something truly wonderful. Something that will truly redefine the course of the Kingdom of Denmark. Soon, the world will tremble again at the boots of Danish warriors, and our flag will fly high amongst the peoples of the world!”
“Well, in that case, then I think its only fair to mention that I’m here crassly avoiding my responsibilities to the University of Alaska, wasting American taxpayer money, and engaging in deep metaphysical work intended to reconnect with the spirits of the frozen North. That is to say, I’m tripping my face off off of 6 grams of psilocybin. Want some?”
The proffered baggie, containing my remaining stash of hallucinigens, was carefully considered by the teen epitome of Thor, God of War.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m on duty. And there might RUSSIANS to kill.” His face split into a terrifying grimace foreboding blood, ruin, and cities yet to be sacked and burned.
“Ummm, ok, fair. That’s valid. I guess.” The sky behind him had turned electric orange fractal patterns. It was possible we were currently in Asgard. Nothing could be ruled out.
“If you’ll come with me”, he advised with a strange mixture of courtesy and menace, “you can talk to a Royal Councilor who can tell you more.” His eyes, burning with thousands of years of slaughter and conquest, indicated that my cooperation would be in my IMMEDIATE best interest.
“After you. All of you. All... wow. Umm, are you seeing this?” I asked dumbly. Neon electric fractal Viking Gods were both pillaging and cavorting with the entire collected myth cycle of the Inuit speaking peoples in an epic orgy of blood and procreation.
“Of course.” He replied. “I can see FOREVER.” At least, that’s what I heard.
To be continued....
