Death of an Eskimo

My name is Naterk. I am an eskimo. I know that I am about to
die.

Out of the window of my igloo, all I can see is a vast sea of icy
nothingness. My son keeps talking to me about going to the coast to
trade. I try to tell him that I have a searing pain in my stomach, but
he won't listen. He tells me that when we reach the coast, the white
men in black ships will trade medicine with us to make me well.

He is so wrong. I know we will not reach the coast. I will tell you
why.

Tradition tells us that when an eskimo is dying, they must have a small
snow hut with a hole in the roof. Then we are left to die, like an
unwanted animal. This allows the soul to drift away to meet our
ancestors. I try to tell my daughter that I do not believe this, but
she thinks it is fear talking.

I heard my son tell his wife that I am brave and I'm not afraid to die,
he is so stupid. I hate him at times - he cannot see the tears. I don't
want to die.

When an eskimo is dying, we must have a snow hut because I will be a
liability to my family. They will not get to the coast, dragging a sick
old woman along. They will be unable to carry me through the snow,
which was my saviour, but now has slain me. My son will leave me to
die.

I beg my son to build the hut, not to postpone the inevitable, he
doesn't hear me. Even though I am too weak to eat, he cracks marrow
bones and puts slithers on my lips. I swallow little. I am going to
die. They will leave me here, believing my soul will drift into some
kind of nirvana, they are wrong. I will drift into non-existence, they
will forget me. I am so scared.

I understand the fear my parents must have felt, watching a loved one
preparing to abandon an unwanted dog, though at the time I thought it
best.

My time is near. I am weak with fever. I can only pretend to eat as the
chill of death draws ever closer.

Son, I plead, build me a snow hut. I don't want my grandchildren to
know what will happen. I choose the animal skins that I will need for
my journey. I choose the oldest so that my son can trade the new
ones.

Outside, my son harnesses the dogs, I am so scared.

Why is my son so stupid. I am not a brave matriarch, but a frail,
frightened old woman, too weak to fight off death.

The dogs are going. They wouldn't leave me here. They must come back. I
want to be with my loved ones when I die, I am scared, what will happen
to me in death?

"Son, please come back". I don't recognise my voice, my strength is
fading. I can barely whisper.

"please come back"

Instead of white, vast glistening snow, all I now see is darkness.