Kaala

The De Havilland Twin Otter charter plane shuddered through grey clouds as its mouthy pilot wrestled with the controls, navigating toward the barely visible landing strip ahead. Like the plane’s humming engines, the bearded Inuit’s mouth hadn’t stopped buzzing since we’d taken off from Iqaluit three hours before, and my tolerance for both noises had grown slim. Happily, the end of this ordeal was in sight, the small hamlet Mittimatalik–known as Pond Inlet–which we were rocking and tilting down towards. From this vantage point and in this dawn-greeting, sleet-spitting weather, the village at the northernmost tip of Baffin Island appeared little more than a shadowy cluster of shacks dwarfed by glaciers in the distance. It looked every bit the town at the end of the world it was, and exactly the kind of place you’d find someone like her.

“I’m just sayin’,” the pilot continued, having received approval to land. “I get it the dating world’s tough, but comin’ all the way to Mittimatalik for a woman? All she wants is a ticket outta this dump! No amount of hot flesh on a cold night is worth bein’ takin’ for a ride!”

I forced another smile, though my lips were resistant, watching the landing strip lights glow brighter.

“Like I said, she’s got a wonderful personality,” I said, for the fifteenth time. “You don’t have to worry. Not everyone’s a scammer.”

“Spoken like a love-struck fool with more money than sense!” the pilot laughed. “Well, I hope it goes okay. At least you’ve got your return flight booked! I’ll be back tomorrow, same time, but if you’re not here–with or without your girl–I’ll be gone. No refunds!”

I nodded, staring out at the endless expanse of snow that had become visible as dawn broke. Calling it ‘dawn’ at ten to noon seemed wrong, but that’s what it was this time of year, during Nunavut’s polar night, when the sun barely rose above the horizon and daylight–more twilight—didn’t last long. A one to two hour period of faint light that quickly retreated to darkness. It suited me fine.

Because it suited Kaala. 

December 5th. The body of 35-year-old Naqi Paqta is discovered in Rankin Inlet, Kivalliq, having bled out from multiple stab wounds. The nature of the injuries is baffling. The star-shaped structure of the wounds suggests they were inflicted from within. No murder weapon is found. No persons of interest are identified. Naqi is found in a remote area outside the town, half buried in a mat of arctic heather.

Kaala wasn’t my online girlfriend or the catfish the pilot suspected. That was a convenient lie. This time tomorrow, he’d either laugh at me or pat me on the back, depending on how things went. Both eventualities were covered.

The plane convulsed as we landed, tires skidding briefly before finding their grip, then we came to a halt at the ‘terminal’, a corrugated outhouse set against a dull, hazy backdrop.

“Here we are,” he said, grinning through his beard. “Good luck with your woman! You’ll need it!”

I thanked him and disembarked with backpack and camera. The biting cold stabbed me but I didn’t flinch. I inhaled sharply, the icy air burning my lungs, and made my way deeper into the ghost-like outpost of swirling snowflakes, the most remote place I’d ever come to meet a subject.

Beyond the airstrip, the snow-covered streets of Mittimatalik were deserted. Dim street lamps illuminated squat, weather-beaten buildings, wide-eyed structures that seemed to huddle together to keep warm and endure the endless night, which had introduced insomnia, sleep paralysis and nightmares to their eaves.

December 10th. Aputi Qanuk, 38, is discovered in his pickup in Whale Cove. The insides of the cab are painted red. Police are baffled. The Inuit sports hundreds of wounds. Pinpricks that seem to have punctured the flesh from within. There is nothing untoward in the vehicle. Just some strands of heather in the footwell.

I passed residences with lights glowing in windows, stores hibernating like frost-covered monuments and vehicles remade as ice sculptures. I didn’t pass people. Even though it was midday and as bright as it was going to be for another twenty-four hours, nobody was getting their steps in. But that’s not to say no one was out. As the snowfall grew thicker and I approached a junction in the road, laughter reached my ears from my destination.

Ukpik Tavern.

Where, according to Sigil, the woman I was seeking should be. 

A few more steps and it materialised, a nondescript bar that doubled as a restaurant, dull light spilling through the window. A wooden sign above the door creaked as I pushed through. Inside, I took a moment to shake off the cold and the snow before making my way to a table.

The bar was decorated simply, with wooden tables and chairs and a fireplace burning thick logs. A handful of locals were seated, meeting friends for lunch during this nighttime reprieve. They eyed me with mild suspicion as I came in. I made a show of checking my camera and placing it on the table like it was sacred. They looked away. Just another rich tourist or hipster blogger, come to photograph the Northern Lights. Boring. 

A barman with a ducktail beard that somehow looked better than mine sauntered over as I shrugged off my parka. He informed me the bar was closing at half one, an hour and a bit from now. He noted my Nikon and the guidebook for neighbouring Bylot Island I’d placed on the table. He didn’t ask why I was here. I ordered beer and a bowl of caribou stew, then settled down to warm myself and wait. 

I didn’t have to wait long. She came out of the men’s room, carrying a mop and bucket, head high as she went behind the bar. The information I’d received had been correct. Not that I doubted it. Sigil was always correct. And though she looked older than forty and heavier than 180 pounds, she was recognisable as the person who’d been described. Her face was weather-beaten, strands of grey threaded her braided hair and the birthmark on her neck was visible above the folds of her jumper.

It was her.

December 15th. Panic spreads through the Kivalliq region as a third body is found. The frozen corpse of Nuvuk Kayuk, 42, is discovered at the foot of a cliff in Chesterfield. It seems he may be the victim of a fall. Until he is thawed out and the stab wounds appear. Multiple star-shaped incisions that confirm murder. But there are no clues to be found. Except the cluster of heather in his grasp. 

I received my glass of amber liquid and bowl of meat and veg, which I ate and drank slowly, watching her interact with the locals. She had an infectious laugh and a warm voice. I gathered she’d worked here a while. She seemed kind. Not like one who could hurt another. But appearances are deceptive. I knew that better than most.

Time crawled as I finished eating. Every so often she’d look in my direction, flash a smile or nod, and I’d look away. I didn’t need to make a connection. Not yet.

Shortly after 1.15, the locals started getting up to leave. I drained my glass and pulled on my coat. It had been a successful visit. I’d found who I was looking for and gotten a feel for her form. Despite her slight bulk, there was no question she could handle herself. Behind the smiles and laughs she could wield violence.

I paid my bill and left. Outside, it was already black, the brief daylight hours having retreated. The snowfall had ceased, as if scared back into hiding by the night. Pond Inlet was silent except for the now muted voices of the locals, who slunk out of the tavern behind me, showing less than zero interest in this photo-hunting fool. 

Stepping onto the stoop of what appeared to be a post office, I took cover in the shadows and fished out my vape. Blood orange and charcoal. My flavour of choice. Enough bite to keep me alert.

Though, of course, I had Sigil for that. And as if on cue, to remind or reprimand me, a sudden cackle of noise penetrated my ear, making me wince as I cupped it. It was a garbled message, like always, broken syllables that were difficult to understand but whose meaning was clear. 

I was on the right track and things were escalating. Kaala was about to strike again.

December 21st. The remote community of Arctic Bay, Qikiqtaaluk, is shaken by the discovery of Panaa Piqtu, 39, found dead while camping on the outskirts of town. Her body, exsanguinated, sports familiar stab wounds. A charred stem of heather is found in her camp fire’s ashes. Four Inuit are dead, killed in mysterious fashion. The killer remains at large.

I’d taken the third pull on my vape when the bar door opened and my target stepped out, wrapped in a sealskin coat. I couldn’t see her face but I knew from her gait it was her. She didn’t waste time, stomping off towards the far end of town, where the street lamps petered out and darkness reigned. 

I gave her a minute’s head start. The snow would record her path. She wasn’t expecting me so she wouldn’t try to give me the slip. I took another drag and waited for the barman to lock up before setting off.

I activated my Nikon's night vision function and kept an eye on its viewscreen as I followed her tracks. The buildings thinned out as I left town, until there was nothing left but rocks and snow. Somewhere ahead was a forest but I couldn’t make it out. What I could make out was a flat, oblong structure surrounded by a chain-link fence. I didn’t know what the building was but the footprints led to it so that’s where I went. 

A hole had been cut in the fence, spliced wires bent back. I ducked to slip through the gap, careful not to snag my Canada Goose parka, then slunk through the snow to the building, what I could now guess was some kind of supply station. It was abandoned, at least for the winter, but its door had been forced to admit one guest.

Two, as I eased it open. Three, if Kaala’s trap had already been set. 

I winced in anticipation of a squeal. It didn’t come and I was able to enter a cluttered office lit by a battery-powered lantern. Empty crates and barrels filled the space, paperwork lay scattered on the floor. In one corner was a sleeping bag, a rucksack, and a small heater. A seal skin coat lay next to the heater, which had been plugged in and was starting to glow. 

Clever. This wasn’t her home. She was using this place as a lure. 

A crash and a yell brought my eyes to the door behind a dusty reception and I started towards it, depositing my camera on the desk. 

“Thought you could sneak up on me, eh? Thought you could take me like the others?” 

A thud, a cry, a slam. I reached the door, which was slightly ajar, and peered through.

"I knew you’d find me, you bitch! But guess what? I got ready!"

In my ear, Sigil was humming, spitting instructions in urgent, guttural tones. I winced and ignored. I knew what to do. Like Tuinnaq Ittukallak, I was ready, so I pulled open the door and stepped through.

It was a large storage area, illuminated by more lanterns on aluminium shelving units that had been rearranged haphazardly. The shelves, which were presumably used to store produce in normal times, now displayed nothing but flowers, lots of flowers, potted and in full bloom. Which was odd, because of the season. And because of what Sigil told me to bring.

“Killed Nuvuk. Killed Panaa! Now I’ll kill you. For real this time!”

The words accompanied more thumps and cries and then something else, an unnatural keening. I peered around one of the shelving units and found the source of the noise. Jovial, happy Tuinnaq from the bar, straddling the Inuit Kaala, slamming her head against the floor as she tried to sing a song.

A window on the opposite wall was up. That’s how Kaala had entered. Seeing the flowers would have made her feel safe. Given her confidence, inspired bravado. Of course. That’s how Tuinnaq had made ready. A second glance at the nearest ‘flower’ confirmed it. All the potted plants in here were plastic.

“Shut up, witch! There’s nothing here you can use!”

Tuinnaq slammed Kaala’s head harder. The dark-haired, younger woman’s words faltered but she quickly resumed her bird-like song, an eerie, chirping sound that made me shiver. Tuinnaq’s back was to me. Kaala’s eyes found me as I shucked off my bag. She was surprised but didn’t react. I could see in her eyes she was broken. I could see in her face she was weak. She’d been trekking for weeks, through darkness, making her way up from Tukik, stopping at townships on the way. 

This was her last stop but she was tired, hungry, the net was closing in and she’d underestimated the last of her prey. 

I’d come to help.

“Hey,” I said, startling Tuinnaq as I unzipped my bag. “Haven’t you hurt her enough?”

“Who the fuck -?!”

“Your turn.”

I removed a potted plant of arctic heather, real, not plastic, from my bag and put it on the floor, then kicked it towards the barmaid with my foot. 

Tuinnaq’s eyes went wide. Kaala’s fluttered shut but her cracked lips continued to warble. 

“Stop!” Tuinnaq spat, falling away from the plant. I watched as its leaves began to tremble, in response to the quickening of Kaala’s song. In my time and profession, in the circles I travelled and amongst the fiends I called my crew, I’d seen my share of weird shit. But I’d never seen anything like this. I’d never known an animist, someone who could control earthy matter with their voice, so this was one for the books.  

Kaala’s eyes snapped open and as she started to sing-shout her words the plant reacted. Its stems lengthened, stretching toward Tuinnaq like snakes. The soft leaves twisted and hardened, curling into deadly thorns. The petals flared, exposing a dark, pulsing core.

Tuinnaq tried to flee but the heather was fast. Thorny stems wrapped around her limbs, pulling her down. The more she struggled, the tighter they constricted. Kaala sat up and sang louder, and the heather responded. Vines forced their way into Tuinnaq’s mouth. Grew down her throat, muffling her screams as they choked her. I watched as she convulsed, thorns punching out through her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut against probing stems but that was the least of her worries. I couldn’t see what was happening inside her clothes but the pool of blood seeping out from under her back told the tale.

I stood there and watched for several minutes, until she stopped moving and Kaala fell silent, her animist hymn at an end.

She collapsed in a heap, fully spent.

I went to her, sat behind her, eased her close. She didn’t object. She didn’t fear me. It was always the way. They could trust me. They knew. I wasn’t there to harm them or turn them in. It was the aura of Sigil. They knew I was only there to help.

As blood-covered stems of heather slid from Tuinnaq’s mouth, thorns returned to leaves and petals drooped, I cradled Kaala in my arms.

“It’s okay,” I said, allowing a slug-like tentacle to exit my ear. “My name is Bertram Belasco. I was alerted to your existence when you took your third victim. I run a Network, dedicated to supporting people like you. Serial Killers, for want of a better term. The Mounties haven’t pieced things together but they’ll find you. I can get you out. I have a passport for you in my bag and flights are booked. I can take you to the States. But you have to agree. Do you agree, Kaala Piaq? Will you join my Network and kill for me?”

Sometimes they thought about it, weighed the pros and cons, took time to make sure I was legit. Kaala didn’t. She was in no state. And she didn’t care. She simply nodded, eyelids flickering.

It’s all Sigil needed. It wriggled its tentacle to her throat, slid out a proboscis and stabbed her. For a moment, Kaala's eyes widened in shock. Then, as quickly as it had struck, the tentacle retracted and slunk back inside my ear, having deposited a small lump of matter under her skin. Coding her. Making her his.

Ours. 

A member of the SK Network, in which, as an animist, she’d excel.

The world was going to become that bit more deadly.

And the craving my Master had would be fulfilled.

November 28th. The peaceful life of Kaala Piaq comes to an end when five friends visit her guest house in Tukik. Initially friendly, their true intentions emerge when they reveal they’ve seen a video online–footage secretly recorded by a hiker showing Kaala performing animism. Desperate to create a viral video, they pressure her to perform and make them famous. She refuses and the confrontation turns dark. Threatened with violence, Kaala reveals the eskimo magic she was born with, using a houseplant in self defence. It starts to strangle Nuvuk. His friends hit her over the head to stop the act. Panicked, thinking her dead, they throw her from a cliff to hide their crime. Kaala awakes mid-fall and sings for help. Arctic heather at the base of the cliff answers the call.

Her animism, now tainted, has a taste for revenge.

And she has the names of five who can satisfy it.