“Pst!” Maisanguaq’s eyes lighted.

Outside he heard the sharp barking of dogs. “Huk! Huk!” Ootah’s voice called.  Others joined in the clamor.  The entire tribe seemed to wake as from a sleep of the dead.

“He starts for the mountains,” said Maisanguaq.  “Thinkest thou the spirits will strike?”

Sipsu opened his eyes—­and glared wildly at Maisanguaq.

“Speak,” Maisanguaq demanded.  “Hast thou not the power?”

“Did I not once go to the bottom of the sea to Nerrvik, she who rules over the sea creatures?  Hath she not only one hand, and is she not powerless to plait her hair?  Doth she not obey me?  For did I not plait her hair?  Did I not carry wood for weapons to the spirits of the mountains?  And have they not answered for nigh a thousand moons?”

“Yet there is doubt in thy voice, Sipsu!”

“Yea, to be truthful with thee, Maisanguaq, there is dispute among the spirits.  I cannot determine what they say.”  He bent his head as if listening.  Then he asked: 

“Doth Ootah not go that Annadoah may have food?”

Maisanguaq nodded assent.

“And the tribe?”

Maisanguaq again nodded.

As though he suddenly heard some terrifying converse among his familiars the necromancer’s face blanched.  He struggled to his feet.

“Take thy food,” he flung the blubber to Maisanguaq.  “I dare not take thy gift.  I am afraid.”

Maisanguaq sprang at the old man.  “Revoke not thy curse,” he breathed, his fingers sinking into the angakoq’s throat.  “Will the hill spirits strike?”

“Yea,” the old man gasped, “but they say——­”

Maisanguaq’s fingers loosened.  “What?” he demanded.

“That there is . . . some other power . . . which is very strange—­which——­”

“Yea, yea——­”

“Protecteth Ootah . . .  It concerneth . . .  Annadoah.  I do not wish thy gift.  I fear the spirits.  The magic of Ootah—­what it is . . .  I cannot tell thee . . .  But the spirits say . . . it . . . concerneth . . .  Annadoah.  And against it none of the tornarssuit can prevail.”  Maisanguaq threw the old man fiercely to the floor and, disgusted, left the igloo.

Outside, the entire tribe, with the exception of those dying of hunger, had gathered in groups.  Ootah lifted his whip.  His team of eight lean dogs howled.

“Tugto! Tugto!” he called.  The dogs leaped into the air—­his sled shot forward.  Ootah strode forward.

In his desperate adventure Ootah was joined by one of the younger members of the tribe, Koolotah by name, a lad barely eighteen years of age.  All the others had hung back.  Koolotah’s mother was dying; a desperate desire to save her stirred in his heart as he lifted his whip in the signal to start.  The tribe cheered.

“Huk! Huk!” he shouted, and his lean dogs followed Ootah’s team.