Here it comes. A mountain of clouds slowly rolls across the horizon, over the tundra. The clouds are propped up by a dark, swirling snowstorm, which appears as a soft misty hue, the separation between land and sky dissolved. But I know when it hits, there will be nothing soft about it. There was a time when I would appreciate an oncoming storm from afar with my family, but not now. I quickly secure the capstone, and scuttle inside the long entrance of my igloo. I pull my gloves off and watch my blue hands slowly regain colour as I hold them close to the tiny warmth of the kudluk, praying I have not offended Anirniq, and the storm would pass before the burning seal oil.

And there it is, the deep breath of Qailertetang, walloping the igloo with a loud, dull foomp, the kudluk flame blowing out. I fall to my knees, fumbling for my seal pelt. I carefully roll myself into it and lie on my mat and wait. As a child, I loved being held in my aama’s arms, wrapped in fur during a snowstorm. I always hear her in the wind crying out: ‘Don’t send him away! Please! He is family!’ My mouth fills with the taste of iron; blood of a time past, still lurks in my gums.

Fear always comes first. I am jolted from my sleep by the shifting sound of the wind. I dig out an exit; it is morning and, somehow, the white tundra is covered in yet another layer of white. The distant mountains have also transformed, dust-covered and ancient.

I always must fish when Qailertetang allows it. I quickly put my boots on and begin a steady walk, hoping my canoe lasted the storm. The wind steadily whistles and I have to work hard to push my aama’s cries from my mind; wandering thoughts lead to nothing but a life ended. Once more, my people curse me, for when my con- returns, I am surrounded by the eternal white breath of Qailertetang.

I must keep walking, even though I am lost. My legs move without my will, and when I give up worrying about where I am going, I see them, strangers now, crowded around a fire, cooking fish.

‘No!’ I shout through the screeching wind. They are never there. What I do find is an even greater blessing: my canoe. I tip it upside down and get inside, praying, once more, that I may be spared.

It feels I have been hiding under my canoe all day, when the wind finally comes to a halt. Everything is silent and the moon is mirrored by the still ocean water. Surely this is a sign from Qailertetang that I must fish, or my stomach is empty enough to fool me into thinking that now is the perfect time to push my canoe out into the great sea. I row out further than usual in an attempt to bring some warmth to my body. Only until I feel a hot, stinging pain coursing through my arms do I come to a stop. I throw out my line and wait.

I grow angry as time goes on. The fish are not biting. I hunt and trap well. I have offended no animal; I have not eaten for many days. I scream: ‘You are cruel, Qailertetang! Why do you punish me?’ I see my breath travel a little longer than I am accustomed to. I begin to thump the canoe with my gloved fists and scream as loud as I can. My voice travels across the water rapidly; a red wind that slowly disintegrates into a fading mist. Tears fall down my face and stick to my cheeks. I push the oars deep into the water and begin rowing back.

Three strokes in and I hear a faint, but mesmerising sound. I have never heard it before. I forget everything; is this the sound of heaven? I take my hood off and listen intently. I look out to where the sound is coming from and notice a black shadow far out on the sea. It looks like a gigantic seal’s eye looking up toward the heavens. For the first time I can remember, I have a burning desire to travel to a specific place, a place that is somewhere.