The winds danced a frenetic circle around the two lone men, and Kamik had to yell just to be heard a yard away.

Justin was growing accustomed to the tasteless venison after three days in the wilds. In Edmonton he would respond to even the mildest reproach, would defend himself with the precise, piercing elocution that had become his trademark. In the Arctic, blinded by the snow, frozen to the marrow, quivering with hunger, he sheepishly heeded Kamik and stuffed the meat back into the backpack.

***

The next morning, stiff and parched from a night in Kamik's igloo, the two men braced the gelid winds and raging storm, and headed in the direction of Hooka.

Justin plodded forward, each step tortuously sinking into the soft snow. Only two more days, he told himself repeatedly. The communication between the two men was spare. Talking exacerbated the misery: not worth the energy. Energy is a valuable commodity in the Northwest Territories, Justin thought.

Once in a while, Justin wondered why he had embarked on such an impulsive venture. Not like him at all: maybe that was the point.

Justin asked himself why Kamik did this all the time, why he had painstakingly learned English, just to wander from checkpoint to checkpoint in the dismal, cursed Arctic. Probably because it was part of Kamik's Eskimo mentality, Justin decided, but the Edmonton man realized he would never fully understand.

***

The mercurial tempest continued during the fourth day, and the pair of solitary figures on the tundra landscape struggled forward, knees buckling with every step.

Snow seared the eyes, swelling them, making it an effort just to see. The boredom and the weight of every step exhausted him. For a moment, Justin thought he saw the sun. Then he saw sand.

Then he saw three black dots forming a curious triangle. After several strides, however, the dots did not disappear. They resolved themselves into a pair of jet-black eyes and a glistening nose. Polar bear.

Justin stopped dead. Kamik yelled, "It has the curse."

"What is the curse?" Justin muttered, and then in a blur, the statuesque bear hurled itself toward him, intent on the venison Justin carried and Justin noticed the foam spewing from the bear's prognathous jaws.

Then, a calm silence settled over the tundra. The rabid polar bear lay peacefully, harpoon through the throat, its guts coloring the bland snow. Justin kneeled, motionless. Kamik rubbed his arm violently in the snow, wailing in his native Eskimo dialect.

***