martinsmithstories

Photo by Hans-Jurgen Mager on Unsplash

At dawn on the first day of the next summer, Ignønsøn burst from the igloo and rushed off in the direction of the walking path to Nuuk.

‘Hey, what about your breakfast?’ Løøkya called out.

‘I’ll pick up an Inughuit on the way.’

When he reached the path, he sat up on his hind legs and cast his eyes southwards, eagerly awaiting the appearance of LøøLøø on the horizon.

All morning he waited. But LøøLøø did not appear.

Just before noon, his heart leapt when a figure appeared on the horizon. But, alas, as it neared and grew in size, he cursed in disappointment, for the figure was not his LøøLøø but, rather, a young black sow who had a ghost-white complexion, an over-application of black mascara around her eyes, black lipsticked lips, a spiked collar around her neck and black Doc Martens boots on her paws.

Definitely not my LøøLøø, Ignønsøn thought. Good grief, imagine parenting that.

The sow plodded towards him, staring ahead with a grim look. As she drew up next to him, he gave her a friendly smile and said, ‘Morning.’

The bear turned and stared through him as she plodded past and soon disappeared into the white north.

Ignønsøn shook his head and said, ‘Seems the older I’m getting, the more invisible I’m becoming to the world.’

And he turned south and cast his eyes to the horizon.

All afternoon he waited. But LøøLøø did not appear.

All evening he waited. But still LøøLøø did not appear.

As the sun dipped towards the horizon, a disappointed Ignønsøn turned and headed home under the fading light of the midnight sun.

***

As he entered the igloo, he met his wife’s eyes and said, ‘She didn’t come.’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘She did? When? Where is she?’

‘Earlier this afternoon. She’s over there, in the corner.’

Ignønsøn squinted as he looked over his wife’s shoulder to the darkest corner of the igloo. And there hunched the young black sow with her head buried in a large book.

‘Oh … H … H … Hi, sweetie.’

A silent LøøLøø ignored her father’s greeting and buried her head deeper in her book.

‘What in Anguta’s name has she done to her fur?’ he whispered.

‘She’s had it dyed black.’

‘Why?’

‘She’s a Goth. Maybe even an Emo, given her mien.’

‘A Goth, you say? But I thought she wanted to be a marine biologist.’

‘She decided that career wasn’t for her. She swapped majors mid-year and is now studying Eighteenth-Century Gothic Literature.’

‘She looks awfully glum. And thin. Dare I say, a tad anaemic. Is she happy? Healthy? Looks like she’s not getting enough seal in her diet.’

‘Why don’t you go over and ask her?’

He approached LøøLøø, cleared his throat with a polite ‘Hem’ and offered his sullen daughter a warm smile.

‘What’re you reading there, sweetie?’

LøøLøø turned her back to him and buried her head even deeper into the book and continued reading.

Ignønsøn leant over his daughter’s shoulder and scanned the top of the right page. ‘The … Mysteries … of … Udolpho. Hmmm, that sounds … mysterious. Is it a page-turner?’

LøøLøø made a languid sweep of turning a page.

‘Who’s the author?’ He scanned the top of the left page. ‘Ann Radcliffe, hey? Is she in any way related to Daniel?’

LøøLøø rolled her eyes.

‘Say, sweetie, any of those pithy llama stories in there?’

She snapped her book shut, stood and walked over to the doorway. She placed her fridge magnet upon the frame and returned to the dark corner to resume her reading.

And there the magnet remained firmly fixed until the last day of summer.

***

‘What time do you think LøøLøø will arrive?’ Ignønsøn asked his wife as dawn broke on the first day of the next summer.

‘She said she’d be arriving just after noon.’

‘She’s speaking now? To you, at least. I thought Goths communicated through telepathy. I certainly wasn’t on her wavelength last visit. I’m dreading another summer of the silent treatment. She needs to get her head out of a book and out into the open air and savour the real world. Not bury her dark-furred self in some fictional fantasy world written two centuries ago.’

‘Oh, she’s not a Goth anymore. That was just a phase. She swapped her major last semester.’

‘Really? And what, pray tell, is she studying now?’

‘Performing Arts.’

‘At least we should get a word out of her. Everyone knows performing artists are born extroverts. Give them an audience, and you can’t shut them up. Did LøøLøø say which discipline she’s training in?’

‘She didn’t say. Said it was a surprise.’

‘Whatever it is, I hope she’s back to her old self and we can have a summer of fun, fun, fun. Just the three of us, like old times. I’ll wander down this morning and welcome her with a nice big daddy bear hug.’

***

When Ignønsøn reached the path to Nuuk at noon, he sat on his hind legs and cast his eyes southwards, eager yet apprehensive about greeting his daughter. All afternoon he waited. But LøøLøø did not appear.

As evening began, Ignønsøn’s heart leapt when a figure appeared on the horizon. But as it neared and grew in size, he cursed in disappointment, for it was not his LøøLøø but, rather, a man wearing a huge sombrero and carrying a backpack. He held a phone aloft with a fully extended arm, searching for a signal.

Ignønsøn sat still and silent and watched in bemusement as the man approached whilst keeping his attention focused on the phone. On and on he walked until he bumped into Ignønsøn’s belly.

‘Excuse—Holy shit!’ the man shouted as he stepped back. ‘What a whopper! Wait! Wait!’

He opened his backpack and frantically searched within until he pulled out an extension rod and a copy of Lonely Planet – Greenland and the Arctic. He then licked his fingers and thumbed through the guide until he stopped at a page.

He cleared his throat and said, ‘Du … mig … foto?’

Ignønsøn exuded a patient smile.

‘No?’ He turned a page. ‘How about Þú … ég … mynd?’

Ignønsøn’s smile turned to an impatient grimace.

‘No? Wait. Wait.’ He thumbed through a dozen more pages. ‘Here, I’ve got it. You … me … selfie? Yes?’ In his excitement, the man fumbled when trying to attach the rod to his phone.

Oh, for Guuti’s sake, Ignønsøn thought, how bloody useless are all these foreigners coming from down south? Honestly, the government really did need to build a wall to keep these deplorables out.

He reached over and grabbed the phone and its extension rod and fitted them together. He then wrapped his arm around the shoulder of the man and dragged him in so his left ear pressed against Ignønsøn’s hairy chest. As the man beamed at his good luck, Ignønsøn held the extension rod out at arm’s length and said, ‘Smile. And remember to say the magic word. At the count of three. One. Two. Three. And “Dinner”.’

As the phone camera clicked, the man said, ‘Holy shit! A talking—’

But he never finished his sentence, for Ignønsøn lowered his jaws and broke the tourist’s neck.

‘How’s that for a happy holiday snap, sombrero man?’