Eleventh Province

Eleventh Province

The rosy-faced American was in a hurry to complete his goodwill mission to Greenland before the jet returned next week. He had arrived at Lamduk Airport – a landing strip with two quonset huts, a large red barn, and, apparently, no cell service. The four other passengers, Danish tourists with an outdoorsy look, were all headed to the barn where he had read, you could buy a hot meal or rent a bunk. The American did not have time for any of that. He veered off toward a man with a deeply tanned face and long beard – the spitting image of Ho Chi Minh – who stood beside the tarmac with a snowmobile.

The American pulled a small Danish-English dictionary out of his parka. He had an Inuit-English dictionary too, deep in his small pack, and hoped he would not have to use it; the words were hard to pronounce.

"No need for that," the man said. "We all got Netflix. Where you wanna go?"

"Can you take me to Ikalluq?"

"You sure?" the man asked. "I mean, I'll take you there, but wouldn't you rather go to Luknuk, get some fuck fuck?"

"I'm married," the American said. "Trying to get to Ikalluq."

"Hoo boy. Not many wanna go there. Get away from, more like it. I suppose you got your reasons. Still, maybe you should go back and work things out with your wife."

"My marriage is fine."

"Yeah, just keep telling yourself that." He smiled, but then stroked his beard. "You bring a ski mask? No? Wanna borrow one?"

"No thanks."

"Okey doke,” he said, putting on an orange ski mask that came down to his neck, covering most of his beard. “Climb on." He pulled a cord and the engine roared to life.

The ride was an ordeal. Even in his long underwear, thermal pants and shirt, wool sweater, and fleece-lined parka, the cold wind cut right through to his bones. It was worst on his bare face, felt like his skin was burning off.

After about 45 minutes, the driver stopped at a little shed. Inside he offered a thermos. The American accepted it without question – warm tea -- and said, "I think I'd like to borrow that ski mask now."

"Smart man," the driver said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a Spiderman ski mask. "Sorry, it's all I got."

The Spiderman mask was a blessing and after another 45 minutes or so, they arrived at a cluster of about twenty brightly-colored two-story wooden buildings, nestled against a barren, snow swept hill by the sea. The driver pulled up to a gas pump outside a blue building with a white sign that read “Kik Ind.” It was the only building that seemed even vaguely commercial.

The American climbed stiffly off the snowmobile.

"That'll be two thousand kroner," the driver said.

The American realized that he had forgotten to ask about the price in advance. Also, though the State Department had issued him $4000 in hundred dollar bills, he had not had a chance to exchange for kroner. "Visa all right?"

The man smiled and shook his head.

"How about dollars?"

"Sure thing, boss. I don't know no borders."

The American took off his mittens and fished his wallet out. He removed hundred dollar bills one at a time, his fingers stiffening in the cold. When three were out, the driver said, "That'll cover it." The American handed the bills over. Despite his orders to spread money around liberally, he could not help feeling guilty about probably allowing this man to cheat the American taxpayer.

"Hoo boy," the driver said, examining a bill. "Lookit the hair on that guy! Nothing like Eleventh Province money."

"That's American."

"Thought you guys was gonna join up with Canada – become a democracy with health care and gun control."

A weight of fatigue washed over the American. He had been feeling some kinship with this rugged individual, a paragon of self-reliance and stoicism, but now it was obvious that socialism's corrupting influence had reached above the arctic circle. "Thanks for the ride," he said.

"Wait up, you got change coming." The driver counted out four 100 krone bills and some coins. One of the coins appeared to have Kennedy on it. Strange. But no time to figure that out. He stuffed the money in his pocket, pulled his mittens back on, and started trudging toward the door of the gas station. The snow made an odd creaking noise under his boots.

"Meet you back here," the driver said loudly. "I got some visiting to do."

The American turned around. "That won't be necessary. I'll rent a room."

"Okey doke."

Inside the gas station, a man behind an antique cash register called, "Halu! Spidey!"

The American pulled off the Spiderman mask, wondering if he should run out and give it back to the driver but decided it might look like he was running away. "Good morning," he said.

The man frowned.

The American was irritated with himself as he realized his mistake. He dug through his pockets for his Danish-English dictionary, looking over at the dozen or so other customers, all black-haired natives seated at two tables by a gas stove. Somehow he had expected a warm welcome, smiles of innocent wonder, women carrying babies on their backs, and men crowding around him trying to barter pelts for trade goods. Instead, he found people dressed like downscale Americans with a distinctly hostile aspect. One young woman had a baby on her knee which the American made a point of smiling at. A very old man spat on the floorboards, then an old woman, and so it proceeded in age sequence, each patiently waiting their turn, until only the baby was left held by its mother over the floor. The baby's contribution was more dribble than spit, but the others expressed murmurs of approval in a language that had to be Inuit.

"You gonna buy something?" the man behind the cash register asked. His face was native but, strangely, he had light brown, almost blonde, hair.

The American moved quickly to the counter. "Sure," he said, pulling out his krone bills, "what do you have?"

"Don't got no Eskimo pies," the man said loudly.

The American heard tittering at the tables. He smiled at the people to show that he was able to take a joke at his expense. They glared back.

"We got smokes," the man said. "Marlboros? Or how ‘bout whiskey?"

"I’d like coffee, please."

"Coffee, huh?" He turned to a machine, muttering, "Must be a rough customer. Better get that extra quick." He pushed a button and the machine made a loud whine. A cup dropped down. "Hope you like Americano."

"I'd prefer espresso," the American said.

"Sorry," the man said with a shrug. "Already pushed the button."

The American considered pointing out that the man could just make another. The customer was always right. But remembering his goodwill mission, he held his tongue.

The coffee took longer than expected. A black sludge dropped into the cup, followed by fluids of brown, white, and amber. The man carefully removed the cup, placing it down on the counter. The American handed him a 100 krone bill which was pocketed without ringing it up or making change.

"What brings you to Inuit land?" the man asked, placing special emphasis on the words “Inuit land.”

"Tourism," the American said.

"We ain't got no prostitutes."

"I'm married."

"Then go back and patch it up. You won't like it here."

"I'm not looking to settle. I want to tell you guys about a wonderful opportunity." The man just stared at him. The American pressed on, "You ever think you might like to be a territory of the United States?"

"No thanks!" he said with somewhat more conviction than seemed appropriate.

"Why not?"

"It's like you Eleventh Province guys always say, 'no taxation without representation.'"

There it was again: Eleventh Province. The American felt obligated to clear up this misconception once and for all. "Canada hasn't, nor will it ever, make us a province. Not even if they offer us socialized medicine."

"I heard you was after clean drinking water, rule of law, and one man one vote."

"We have all that."

"You sure?"

"Yes, now listen, we could bring investment in mineral resources. You'd get mining jobs."

"We're fishermen. Don't wanna work in no mine."

"Ok, but the mines will provide tax revenue. We can bring people in to do the mining."

"No thanks. Miners would want our women. I heard what happened down in Luknuk."

The American did not want to talk about Luknuk. Whatever was going on down there, it was not America's fault.

"So," the man said, "how long you staying on Inuit land? I only ask 'cause this place has a history. People disappear without a trace. Take me for instance."

"You don't seem to have disappeared."

"That's not it. What I mean is, well, this might sound strange. The name's Erikson, Leif Erikson."

"That would explain the hair."

Leif narrowed his eyes. "What the hell, that suppose to mean?" he asked.

The American heard a squeaking of chairs. The customers stood up as if they had heard enough and began filing out, still glaring at him with various levels of hatred except for the baby whose eyes merely contained suspicion. The American had a brief insane thought that maybe he could splash around a little money, pay them to stay. He certainly didn't seem to be winning much goodwill. "Where's everybody going?" he asked Leif.

"Tide's changing. Time to catch fish and so forth. Either that or they're getting ready for a fight."

"I didn't mean to offend you or your people," the American said, "it's just your hair is a lighter color."

"Yeah," Leif said, "Viking blood. Or so my family says. A story there if you care to hear it."

The American was not in the mood for a story. Something akin to spidey sense was telling him he ought to get out of this place, catch up with the driver before he left, but he also thought it necessary to show that Americans don't cut and run. "Ok," he said, "tell me a story."

"Many years ago the Vikings came here to live. For a time they prospered, raised cattle, fished, and hunted walrus. Didn't like us natives much. Thought we might be demons. The only way they had to check was to stab us. If we bled, that meant we was human. As you can imagine, the two groups didn't mix much.

"The Vikings had a habit of killing walruses without ritual or ceremony. This angered Sedna. She wrecked one of their boats and pulled the men down into Her erotic embrace. They became ijiraujaq. Came ashore by night to kill Vikings and their cows. The Vikings tried stabbing them and, when the ijiraujaq didn't bleed, Vikings knew they was in trouble. They managed to chop up a few, but Sedna just wrecked more boats and sent in new ijiraujaq."

"So," the American said, massaging his chin dubiously, "you're saying these … zombies killed all the Vikings?"

"Not all of 'em. One of the Viking women fled. Her fingers got frostbit and she chopped the ends off to avoid gangrene. When she got to an Inuit camp, they brought her into a large igloo. While they debated whether or not to kill her, an old woman offered her a bowl of soup. When she took off her mittens to hold the bowl, everybody gasped. You see, Sedna got her finger ends chopped off back before she was a goddess and from Her fingers came all the whales and seals and walruses. So now nobody wanted to harm the Viking girl and besides she was pretty, so she married in. Turned out her name was Sigga which even sounded a little like Viking for Sedna."

"I get it," the American said, "Sigga was your ancestor."

Leif laughed. "Not by a long shot. My family history is less romantic, more nonconsensual. Feeds into my reluctance to sign on with the Eleventh Province."

The door opened and the customers began filing back in. All but the baby carried axes. Once seated they started sharing a whetstone in a very communal way and the American was reminded of a time he had visited a neighbor's farm to help slaughter a flock of chickens.

The door opened again. "Halu Leif!" It was the snowmobile driver. He spoke some Inuit and Leif handed him a pack of Marlboros. Then the driver turned to the American, "Ready to get back?"

"Yeah," the American said, "let's go." Remembering his mission, he turned to the people with the axes and said, "Sorry I can't stay longer. Nice meeting you!"

The ride back was made less miserable by the relief of getting out of Ikalluq. He looked forward to renting a bunk, getting a hot meal and shower, maybe even some English language TV.

When they arrived at Lamduk Airport, the American was delighted to see the jet still on the landing strip. The stewardess, a pretty blonde woman he remembered from the flight in, stood on the tarmac in a parka, smoking a cigarette. She told him they had dealt with some mechanical trouble and would be leaving in about ten minutes and of course they took Visa. It was like Christmas. That reminded him he still needed to get something for his wife. He could pick something up at the duty free shop after he landed.

“Hey,” the driver said, grabbing the American’s elbow. "I could still take you to Luknuk. It'll be dark when we get there but you won't mind. They love Eleventh Province guys down there."

"I'm getting on the plane."

"Okey doke, boss. Remember to tell your friends about Greenland – date a destination, embrace an adventure."

"This place isn't what I expected."

"In a good way?"

"I heard some unsettling things at the Kik Ind," the American said. "You ever hear of undead monsters killing off all the Vikings?"

"That old story?" the driver asked. "My anaha used to tell it. But then some archaeologists came here, dug up the Viking settlements, and found out they died of climate change."

"Sounds like woke ideology to me."

"You might be onto somethin'," the driver said, pursing his lips and nodding. "Them archeologists had a black guy in their crew and one lady had blue hair. Woke through and through. Still, one thing's for sure, the Vikings starved to death after it got colder and all the grass disappeared. No grass, no cows."

"Leif said they caught fish."

"Right but the archaeologists found evidence they fed all the fish to their hunting dogs even though there's nothing here for dogs to hunt. After their cows died, they ate the dogs, then each other. Us Inuit was doing just fine. We had a whole way of life that could have supported Vikings too, but then, well, that brings you to the real reason they died off." The driver went silent with a far away look.

The jet revved up its engine and the stewardess called urgently from the top of the stairs. The American rushed up the stairs but curiosity tugged and he turned at the door. The driver was waving goodbye. "What was the real reason?" the American shouted.

"Huh?" the driver shouted back.

"The reason why they all died out!"

"Our way of life! Vikings just couldn't get Inuit!"

The stewardess pulled him in forcefully, shouting, "Tavenistplace!" or some such thing. He started down the aisle, eager for the familiarity of placing his pack in the overhead compartment and fastening his seatbelt for takeoff. Maybe, when the stewardess came by with drinks, he would ask if that was really Kennedy on their coins.

End