The World Under the Ice
The Arctic Ocean is a ceiling of white. Above the ice, the wind howls at fifty miles an hour. Below, the water is still and impossibly cold, hovering just above the freezing point.
Swimming through this dark, brine-filled world is the Qalupalik.
She is a mermaid of the north, but she has no fish tail. She has human legs, ending in fin-like feet. Her skin is a sickly, toxic green, scaly and slimy to the touch. Her hair is long and wild, floating around her like seaweed. Her fingers are long, tipped with sulfur-yellow claws.
She wears an amautik, the traditional parka of Inuit women. But hers is not made of caribou skin. It is made of eider duck skins, waterproof and stinking of old oil. The hood is huge, designed to carry a baby.
She is empty. The hood is empty. That is the problem.
The Ventilation Hole
She swims upward. She needs air, though she can hold her breath for hours. She finds a seal hole in the ice. She surfaces, just her nose and eyes breaking the water.
The air is sharp. It smells of snow and polar bear.
She spots a village in the distance. Small houses huddled against the white expanse. She sees movement. Children playing near the shore.
They are jumping on the ice floes. They are laughing. They are too close to the edge.
A smile splits her green face. It is a mouth full of jagged teeth.
The Humming
She begins to hum.
Hmmmm-mmmmm-mmmmm.
It is a strange, resonant sound. It travels through the ice. It sounds like the wind singing in the cracks, or the groaning of the shifting pack. But there is a rhythm to it, a lullaby quality.
The children stop playing. "Do you hear that?"
The sound draws them. It makes them curious. They move closer to the water's edge, peering into the dark depth.
The Snatch
The Qalupalik dives. She swims beneath the ice, tracking their shadows. She positions herself perfectly.
She bursts through the surface. Ice shards fly.
Before the children can scream, she grabs the closest one—a boy who had wandered too far. Her long fingers wrap around his ankle. Her grip is like iron.
She pulls. He slides across the ice. He scratches at the snow, but there is no purchase.
"Help!"
He is gone.
She drags him underwater. The cold shock hits him instantly. He tries to breathe and swallows salt water.
The Pouch
She does not eat him. She stuffs him into the pouch of her amautik.
Inside, it is surprisingly warm. It smells of rotten kelp and ancient magic. The boy is trapped. The magic of the parka keeps him alive. He will not drown. He will not freeze. But he will not grow up.
He joins the others. The faint, sleeping forms of other children taken years ago. They are her family now. She is the mother who loves too much, the mother who never lets go.
The Return to the Deep
The other children on the surface run away, screaming for their parents. The elders rush out with harpoons, but they are too late. The water is still again.
The Qalupalik swims down, deep into the black abyss. She pats the bulge in her parka. She coos to the child, a gurgling, underwater sound.
"Hush now," she seems to say. "You are safe. You are mine."
She disappears into the darkness, a boogeyman of the ice, waiting for the next child who refuses to listen to their parents and comes too close to the water's edge.
