After Summer comes the fall

Day Zero, September 9

Utqiagvik, Alaska

            In the dream, the sun shone brightly and the day was cold. Rosemary walked the tundra alone on her way into town. She was nowhere near town. There was noise in the distance, but she resisted the intrusion and focused on her walk. Her boots trudged through haphazard lanes between proud pines that refused to lean under the weight of snow. She was in a place that she had never been before, but everything was familiar. She was on her way to town for –

“The grocer’s shipment,” Philip said, suddenly walking beside her. 

“Yes.” Rosemary gave a nod of confirmation, her purpose suddenly obvious. The one grocery store in town, dependent on shipments from distant shores, would have long lines following a fresh delivery. 

“Mind the bears,” Philip cautioned, and then he wasn’t there anymore. 

The noise was louder now, closing in. Rosemary stopped walking and turned a three-sixty, the sound intensifying, but she saw nothing until she was back where she started and face-to-face with an oddly lugubrious grizzly. Something in the bear’s face – the curve of its snout, the heaviness of its big brown eyes – communicated great sadness. As though trying to explain, the bear roared. Once, twice, again and again, it roared. 

Rosemary opened her eyes, disoriented, then relieved. But the noise hadn’t stopped, a cacophony of multiple inputs, instantly recognizable to her awake brain. Philip snapped to attention beside her, and they cried in unison, “The dogs!”

Both Rosemary and Philip leapt from the bed and ran toward the yard. Rosemary plunged her feet into a pair of boots beside the door, then grabbed the knob and threw it open. She halted, taking a step back, squinting in the bright light. “Whoa.”

Philip, behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and looked over her head. “I’ve never seen them this bright,” he said.

“No, me neither,” Rosemary agreed. She had spent her whole life in this remote Alaskan town and had seen the Northern Lights too many times to count, but never like this. These Lights danced with a passion through the night sky, thick bands of green cavorting with ribbons of red and purple. The effect was mesmerizing, beautiful, and somehow ominous. “What’s going on?” 

“I’m not sure …,” Philip responded, squeezing her shoulders a little harder. 

Rosemary shook her head. Her senses, overwhelmed by the lights, now refocused on the barking. “The Huskies,” she said, taking a step forward, “they’re all wound up.” 

“Let’s go see.” Philip’s family had been mushers for generations. Their kennel was moderate these days but still thriving, their sleds providing access to some of Utquigyik’s most remote spaces. 

“Don’t need to turn the lights on,” Rosemary mumbled as she and Philip walked out to the dog yard. There, they were greeted by feverish barking from several dozen sled dogs, each tied to its own swivel post. The yard was lit with daytime brightness, and it was easy to see the excited dogs yelping wildly and racing in frenzied circles. 

Philip shouted commands, and the dogs quickly fell silent.

For a moment, a familiar current of warmth spread through Rosemary. She admired her husband’s graceful command of the dogs. And she simply loved her Huskies, each a member of her unconventional family, each like a child to her. She scanned the dog pen and her eyes connected with the haunting, piercing blues of their lead dog, Mishka, head tilted, with silver ears darting furtively. Mishka, meaning little bear, always radiated confidence. But, for the first time that Rosemary could remember, Mishka looked unsure of herself. She pawed the packed snow erratically, twisting her body into seemingly random positions before suddenly turning to stone, like a Greek statue, massive shoulders stilled, claws dug in, blue eyes wide and nose pointing.

The pride on Rosemary’s face quickly melted into a faded smile and furrowed brow. The dogs were all standing in identical alignment, heads facing south as they watched the colors dance across the horizon.

Rosemary shot a sideways glance at her husband and could tell he shared her bemusement. She asked for the second time that night, “What’s going on?”

“These are unusual Lights,” an old, gravelly voice responded. Philip’s father, Siqiniq, had come from the house and joined them in the clearing.

“I’ll say,” Rosemary agreed, turning to regard her father-in-law. “Have you ever seen Lights like this?”

The old man coughed and stood still, looking up at the sky. Rosemary could see the green light reflected on his irises. “Not like this, no,” he finally said. 

“What does it mean?”

Siqiniq smiled and kept his eyes on the horizon. “Depends on who you ask,” he answered cryptically. “Some believe there is a narrow portal in the skies through which the dead enter heaven. The Lights come from torches held by spirits to guide the lucky few that discover the passage.” 

Rosemary followed the Lights with her eyes, searching for the mythical torch from which they originated. 

“I thought the Lights were from a big, celestial football game in the sky,” Philip said, his tone snide.

Siqiniq laughed, the sound bold and clear in the night. “Yes, well, naturally, that’s what spirits do to pass time in the heavens. They hold celebrations with great feasts and play football with the head of a walrus. Food, football – now that’s Heaven!” The old man grinned, and Rosemary chuckled.

The three of them continued to gaze at the lights, each lost in thought. After a minute, Siqiniq continued, “Of course, our people have always thought something different about the Lights.”

Philip nodded, familiar with the lore. Rosemary looked to Siqiniq to continue. He said, “Our ancestors considered the Lights an evil thing.”

“Evil?” Rosemary repeated, feeling suddenly uneasy. She quickly castigated herself and shook the feeling off, then said confidently, “The dogs would be growling and snarling if there was anything bad out there. They’d be able to sense it.”

“Look at the dogs,” Philip said.

Rosemary scanned the yard from one side to the other. The dogs remained in the same strange alignment, stock-still, and silent. “It’s weird, I admit,” she said. “Perhaps they do sense something. Or maybe,” she added, “they are just wondering, like me, where these incredible Lights are coming from so early in the season. It’s technically still summer!” Rosemary exhaled dramatically, her breath condensing into a cloud in the balmy thirty-degree-Fahrenheit weather.

 “Maybe the dogs can sense what comes next,” Siqiniq said quietly.

“And what comes next?”

Siqiniq looked back to the sky and gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, his lips curving into an unusually cheerless smile. Rosemary held still for an instant, studying her father-in-law, waiting for his response. It may have been silly and naive, but at moments like these she relied on the old man to say something profound and enlightening, drawing on wisdom passed down through generations. 

But all he said was, “After summer comes the fall.”

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