At least
so he dreamed, in his immeasurable loneliness.
He did not tolerate the thought that other forces might have called her
even had she lived, and that she might not have been his to hold and to
fight for. He did not question the possibility of shackles and chains
that might have bound her, or other inclinations that might have led
her. He claimed her, now that she was dead, and knew that living he
would have possessed her. Nothing could have kept him from that. But she
was gone. And for that he was accountable, and the fifth night he lay
sleepless under the stars, and like a boy he cried for her with his face
upon his arm, and when morning came, and he went on, never had the world
seemed so vast and empty.
His face was gray and haggard, a face grown suddenly old, and he
traveled slowly, for the desire to reach his people was dying within
him. He could not laugh with Keok and Nawadlook, or give the old tundra
call to Amuk Toolik and his people, who would be riotous in their
happiness at his return. They loved him. He knew that. Their love had
been a part of his life, and the knowledge that his response to this
love would be at best a poor and broken thing filled him with dread. A
strange sickness crept through his blood; it grew in his head, so that
when noon came, he did not trouble himself to eat.
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