earth . . . Ootah's heart quailed . . . Terror gripped him . . . For
he saw--what few men had ever beheld--the shadow of _Perdlugssuaq_, the
Great Evil. Finally he found voice.
"O most dreadful of the _tornarssuit_ (spirits)," he called, grovelling
on his knees, "smite me! Smite me!"
During the tragic days of his isolation the full realization of all
that he had lost had come to Ootah. He fed upon the memory of
Annadoah's face. He remembered how, with the vision of that face
before him, he had excelled in the hunts and games, and for many moons
had felt confident of winning her. He dwelt for hours upon her
stunning rejection, of how she clung to the white man; he visioned with
heart corroding bitterness her days with Olafaksoah, and he burned with
unnameable anguished pangs as he conjured her nights. Now, the
violence of his grief exhausted, he invoked death.
Expectant, fearful, with closed eyes, he waited.
In the valley a storm gathered, and the low whine of the winds Ootah
believed to be the breath of the descending terror. The air became
unbearably colder as the dreaded creator of death, darkness and ice
descended. The taut suspense was terrible. Finally Ootah reached the
limits of human endurance--merciful unconsciousness blotted out the
long agony.
When he recovered the storm had passed. Scores of birds, driven
against the rocks by the terrible winds, lay dead at the entrance of
the cave. Surely the Great Evil had struck, but he lived. Hunger
stirred within him and he fell upon the birds.
Later he sought game in the lower valleys. He had lances and bows and
arrows with him. He found an inland vale, where a patch of green grass
was exposed despite a recent fall of snow--there a herd of musk oxen
grazed. He drew his bow of bone and sinew. One fell after the first
quiver of his arrow. His skill was marvellous. He had struck a vital
spot. He finished his killing of the fallen animal with a lance. He
feasted upon the raw meat, and carried away with him up to his eyrie
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