Minik paddled his kayak through the icy waters some miles north of Savissivik, Greenland. Made largely of fiberglass and metal, Minik’s kayak bore little resemblance to the sealskin and bone kayaks his forebears had once constructed along the banks of his ancestral homeland. Minik was Inuit, a name that had come to be more common than the less accurate and somewhat pejorative “Eskimo.” An even more precise term would have been Tunumiit. Minik, however, had little concern over labels and preferred to live life just as he did now – along the coast of his ancestral land, hunting and fishing. A simple life. A good life. Not like the hustle-bustle, technology-addicted kind so many of his friends and extended family had embraced. He’d seen the effects of that life had on them. The impatience and detachment from Nature that had left an emptiness in them that they tried to fill with augmented reality lenses and liquor. Minik smiled as he paddled. To one side stood an immense cliff of ice, the southeastern edge of an ice cap that covered roughly 75 percent of Greenland. And to his other side, the Denmark Strait. As he had innumerable times before, he marveled at the blue-white wall of ice that stood reached like a mountain straight out of the sea. He never grew tired of looking at that wall, a fixture for his entire life, and with sudden regret, the reality of knowing that he may live to see it fall.

   Minik didn’t know exactly how old he was the first time he saw the immense wall of ice, but he knew he must have been quite young. His father had taken him out in what seemed then to be a giant seagoing vessel, the old kayak his father and grandfather had made in the old way, by hand, from sealskin and sinew. The memory of that kayak reminded Minik that such craftsmanship was now a rapidly dying art form, abandoned to the ever-present lure urban conveniences. With the memory of that first sojourn came other, less pleasant recollections of his father -- more recent and much sharper. Memories of visiting him in the hospital, listening to him wheeze through a respirator as he fought an already lost battle against the cancer in his lungs. A cancer that had been brought into being by a smoking habit he had attempted to break so many times. But even through all the pain and indignities he endured, his father’s true regret was that he would die within the modern, sterile confines of that “house of sickness” as he deemed it, and not as his own father had, at home, surrounded by the furs, harpoons and other objects of his tradition.

   Realizing that the memory was beginning to spoil his trip, Minik pushed the dark thoughts away and concentrated on the present. The icy sea. The blue-white wall. The sound of the breeze. The smell of salt. The slight sting of wind on his cheeks. Closing his eyes, Minik allowed himself to take in the moment.

   Chaotic squawks and flaps of wings made the moment all too brief. Minik’s eyes snapped open. Ahead of him, gulls were fleeing the top of the glacier in droves, taking to the air. Minik didn’t have long to wonder at what may have disturbed the birds. Seconds later came a cannon-like crack, and the mystery was solved.

   Minik froze mid-paddle. His stomach knotted, and he instinctively held his breath. He knew what was coming. Somewhere up ahead, just a few hundred yards away he presumed, the glacier was about to shear. And as fast as the glacier melt had accelerated in recent years, Minik had somehow missed most of the more dramatic events. He resisted the urge to move in closer, erring on the side of caution. He silently chided himself for feeling any excitement as what was to come next. A future without beautiful walls of blue-white.

   He did not have to wait very long for his prediction to come true. He felt and much as heard the shotgun cracks. And then the rumble that built up in his bones, growing into the roar of a thousand enraged sea-demons as countless tons of ancient ice sheared away from the glacier and smashed into the sea.

   Minik simultaneously marveled and grieved as the gargantuan ice chunks punched into the roiling waves, a powerful reminder of the mighty glacier’s mortality and – as it occurred to him with the skip of a heartbeat -- his own. The multiple impacts pushed a wall of gray water outward in all directions, one of those directions was toward a certain man in a kayak. Minik tensed as the wave approached like an enraged beast, its jagged teeth of ice bared in readiness to defend its domain. Most of the debris was no bigger than a softball, but there were more than a few pieces as large as large as trucks, any one of which could easily put a definitive end to this excursion -- and the man himself. Above him, the gulls cawed incessantly as if in a warning that had come too late. Minik put down his paddle, grasped both sides of the kayak and bet to lower his center of gravity. It was all he could do in the closing seconds. His mind raced, survival training lessons running through his mind. The wave loomed. In that moment, Minik was acutely aware of just how small and fragile he and his tiny vessel really were. He clenched his jaw in preparation for the icy bite of the sea that had come to devour him. The water swelled. The kayak’s prow rose to meet it. The wave was huge, but instead of slamming down on Minik, it welled under him like a living hillside, pushing his tiny vessel higher and higher until he could behind its crest. For a very brief moment, as he teetered at the very top, Minik stared down the slope of the wave, the debris he’d just moments ago thought were going to smash into him now seemed far away. As the kayak’s prow dipped toward them, it occurred it him that it was now he who could very well smash into them. But this time, it was in Minik’s power to keep that from happening. Plucking up the paddle, the experienced kayaker eyed the ice, calculated speed and distance, and began to literally paddle for his life.

   As he plunged toward the debris, Minik’s arms swept to and fro with practiced precision, the twin-bladed paddle blade cut into the rushing water, every stroke was a split-second decision. The Inuit’s adrenaline-fueled heart raced as he maneuvered. He knew would have to thread a needle, but that only made him more determined. The ice may have been trying to end him for the second time that day, but there was no way Minik was going to simply give in to the Fates. As he plunged, skill and more than a little instinct took over. Minik maneuvered his kayak as if his life depended on it, because in fact, it did. His vessel was made for the very task at hand, and Minik allowed himself a split second of pride for having constructed it. And it was in those few seconds during which he shot through the deadly maze of frozen obstacles that he never felt more terrified, nor more alive. He slid around frozen boulders after frozen boulder, and once even had to duck under an arm of ice that connected two massive blocks before he finally made it past the most dangerous part of the journey.

   The water level evened out and the kayak slowed. The worst of the worst ice was now behind him. Minik allowed himself a moment to look back. The wave was now of the far distance, beyond sight. In its wake was something that resembled a miniature version of the ice wall itself. Minik marveled that he’d made it through at all, and while he wasn’t a particularly religious man, he wondered if something beyond luck and skill had allowed him safe passage through it all.

   It was then Minik realized the paddle was shaking in his hands. No, his hands were shaking the paddle. His breathing was rapid and shallow. His heart raced. At first, Minik had no idea what was happening to him, but memory quickly kicked in. It had been so long since he’d last had a full blown panic attack, he’d almost forgotten what they felt like, his body reacting to trauma faster than his reasoning center of his brain. He began to feel lightheaded, and that worried him. He couldn’t afford to pass out here alone, out on the Bering Sea. The fear of drowning only added to his already dangerously high rate of breathing. Spots appeared in his vision. Unconsciousness threatened. He had to do something quick or his own physiology would be the end of him. Calling on lessons learned years before, Minik put the paddle down, placed his hands on his thighs and closed his eyes. He took a moment to focus on the sounds of the moment, and as the world around him came into sharper focus, time began to slow. He listened to the gentle slosh of water against the sides of the kayak, the gentle wind, and the creak and clack of settling ice. His heartrate and breathing slowed. Clarity of thought replaced the fog of unconsciousness. And in the space of two minutes, Minik was himself again.

   Now back in control, Minik took stock of his surroundings. The churning waters had calmed down and he now bobbed gently in the relatively calm sea. Newly born icebergs surrounded him, but now that they had settled in with the sea, they were relatively harmless. In fact, Minik found them quite beautiful. He imagined how they would look when the sun eventually appeared. But even under the current gray sky, each berg was an original sculpture. Mimik decided to take the opportunity to see one of these marvels up close. He chose one of the largest bergs that had drifted farther than most of the others. Picking up his paddle, Mimik angled his tiny vessel away from the ice wall, now ever mindful of an encore performance from the glacier.

   As he closed his distance to the large berg, he passed a number of smaller ones and began to notice discolorations on some of them. Their pristine blue-white surfaces were marred by a coating of what at first looked like dark green algae. But upon closer examination, it proved to be unlike any algae he had ever seen before. This substance was too gelatinous, like rotting vegetable matter, and a wholly unattractive dark purplish green. It reminded him of gangrene. Then there was the stench. Minik had encountered the pungency of rotting seal carcasses more than once in his life, and once as a boy, he’d been unlucky enough to be downwind of a whale that had beached itself near his home. Those were odors one did not easily forget. But this was something altogether different. Minik found the pungent aroma more than merely offensive. He found it to be…alive. Threatening. He resisted the urge to recoil. Instead, he carefully scanned the area immediately around him. Much of the ice around him was covered with the foul substance, especially those closest to him. Somewhere deep within the very primitive part of his brain, a flicker of paranoia had been ignited. The feeling was vague, undefined, but steadily growing. Minik’s instincts told him there was more to be concerned about than just mere slime-covered glaciers and blocks; he just didn’t know what. There was something more here that he was not seeing. Something that until now had escaped his experience. He’d traveled these waters more times than he could count, and thought he had come to know them so well. Now, facing this unknown, the Inuit was more than a little unnerved. At once, Minik knew he didn’t want to be in this place anymore and resolved to end his journey as swiftly as possible. With renewed purpose, he put paddle to water and began to make haste away from the source of his burgeoning unease.

   As he hurried across the sea, Minik thought back to that first time he ventured into Bering Sea. He remembered how impossibly huge it was, and how badly he wanted to get out of that boat and back to the safety dry land. His father, how tall he had seemed then, knelt down and put his calloused hands on his young son’s shoulders, looked hard into his eyes and in the firmest, yet gentlest voice said, “A man braves the elements; the unknown is just one more new experience...” The rest of his words had long ago faded from memory, but the most important ones were still so clear to him all these years later, long after the man who had spoken them had passed into the light. Those words were as powerful as they had been the day they were first spoken; they focused his fear, made it a tool, not a hindrance. Back then, they had inspired him to one day be as big and brave as his father. Today, those words took on new meaning. As Minik was beginning to believe, he was in the midst of the truly unknown. His instincts soon proved to be so terribly correct.

   Above the whisper of wind and lap of water rose a new sound, like a massive exhalation from impossibly sized lungs. Without thinking, Minik immediately froze and tightened his grip on the paddle. As icebergs had a tendency to reflect sound extremely well, the noise seemed to come from everywhere at once. He searched for its source, but again, the ice served to confound his senses, its tightly packed arrangement obscured his view. The sound continued, rising higher in tone, but weakening in volume. Not knowing whether he would be moving toward or away from it, he shakily put his paddle back into the water, pushed onward and made sure to look all around him.

   Several strokes of the paddle later, Minik had made his way around the larger bergs blocking his view. He could see the great ice wall once again. But there was something wholly new about it. Protruding from its otherwise angular surface was something immense, like a rocky sphere. At first Minik thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, the recent excitement causing his imagination to run wild. But as he trained his vision on it, more details revealed themselves. Its surface had a texture like a river bottom made up of smooth stone, but was of a color that he could not place. It seemed that the harder he concentrated on it, the more difficult it was to discern the hue, as if the thing was actively confounding him. Although the sphere seemed to be only partially exposed, Minik estimated the entire object had to be more than three hundred meters in diameter; its size alone was more than enough to unnerve him, but it was the fissure down its center exposed an inky blackness within that made him go cold; the bitterness of surrounding sea and air no longer even made his notice. Coating the fissure’s jagged edges was more of that foul substance, much of it was slowly seeping its way downward into the sea where it collected in an obscene oily slop. And still more evidence of something else to come -- a dark bubble, like an infected pustule was forming at the bottommost edge of the jagged tear. It was all too much, and becoming too obscenely ridiculous for him to handle. The ice shear, the wave, the slime, and now this... dripping thing. When Minik’s father had told him of bravery and experience, he obviously never had this in mind. What would he say to his son if he were alive today? Would he still have the same lesson to impart? Or would he listen to that very ancient part of his mind, the part of him that would have demanded he reject all that he saw?

   As he watched, the viscous mass, now stretched by gravity into a lozenge-like shape, slowly oozed from the lowest point of the tear, until it broke away and splashed into the fouled water below. Seconds passed, and a second globular mass slid into view, pushed its way over the jagged edge, and followed its brethren’s path into the sea. Simultaneously dumbfounded and sickened, Minik could only sit frozen, unable to decide if he should retreat back the way he came or push ahead. Regardless, Minik felt a desperate need to escape whatever this obscenity was. Turning back would mean navigating a veritable maze. He would be able to see what lay just beyond the next bend. But the way forward was an equally terrifying proposition. A journey that would take him past this terrible unknown. As he weighed his options, the pustule-like things came faster, and before long, dozens of them floated among the rippling gray water. Larger ovoid ones by bobbed in the waves by themselves, while smaller soccer-ball sized seemed to cluster together like soap bubbles. Yet despite his fear, he was altogether fascinated. While he wanted desperately to flee, there was still the rational part of him that wanted to know what he was facing, as if leaving now would leave a mystery to haunt him for all his days. Yet if he stayed… Perhaps his father had been preparing him for this very day after all. Would he let his fear rob him of this opportunity to be the first to witness the extraordinary? Long ago, someone had been the very first human beings to lay eyes on an orca. What a terrible, yet amazing sight that must have been for them. What if the sudden burden of knowing such beasts swam the oceans caused those people fleeing back to land to stay? It was then that Minik made his decision. He pushed down his fear into a far corner of his mind. He would not flee from the unknown. Defying all instinct, he put paddle to water and turned to face the great thing in the wall of ice.

* * *

While he moved no closer, Minik quite literally faced his fear and allowed himself the time to plan his next move thoughtfully, with succumbing to the panic that had nearly overcome him just minutes earlier. He watched as yet more of the slimy things plopped into the sea at irregular intervals, looking ever more like an impossibly huge creature evacuating its bowels of some ill-digested meal. He was so transfixed on keeping an eye on its actions that he almost failed to notice just how many of the things the sphere had spilled, and how close the current was taking them toward him. Even the smallest of them were separating from one another, a steadily growing minefield. Minik weighed his options. So far, the new arrivals had done nothing but float among the now gentle waves. Perhaps they were no more dangerous than the excrement they may very well have been. If that was the case, than what a ridiculous day this would end up becoming. The thought of it made Minik chuckle at himself. When he returned home, how would he recall these events to his friends? Yeah, I was scares shitless by a whole lot of shit. Not exactly poetry, but good for a few laughs around the fire with a few beers under the belt.

   Minik watched as one of the “mines” slowly approached. Now only a few feet away, he discovered most of the oddity actually floated under a slowly spreading pool of ooze; the greenish substance and dark water obscured most details. He peered at it intently. What he could discern within appeared to be irregularly shaped. Organic. Alive. Not unlike oversized frog eggs, the tadpole inside still obscured.

   A loud slap of water startled Minik, diverting his attention from the thing. Perhaps another of this oddity’s kin had taken the plunge while he wasn’t looking. But no, some among group stirred. There was another smack, and Minik watched as a long, ropy … something flailed over the water and violently smash back down. Next to it, another began doing the same. In seconds came a chain reaction, the water was churning like a school of fish panicked by a pod of orcas, only with thick tendrils that seemed to attack the very air around them. Instantly, his courage fled. He suddenly felt very alone, and very vulnerable. He no longer cared to know more. The iceberg maze was definitely the better option. And it was past time to leave. The paddle was smashed back into the water as Minik began to double time it back the way he had come. As if sensing his retreat, the ice-entrapped mass gave a geyser-like roar, and from within its fissure, a cloud of greenish gas steamed forth like a boiling teapot, rapidly clogging the air with its thick awfulness. Minik jumped at the sound, his already frayed nerves becoming even more undone. Now more than convinced he had made the right decision, he mustered every ounce of strength he had into escaping this ridiculous nightmare. But outracing the cloud was impossible.

   A curtain the hue of dark mucus settled around him, obscuring his surroundings. Its wet warmth, combined with musk not unlike putrefaction was too much. Minik gagged once violently, and swiped his gloved hands across his face in a futile attempt to wipe away the offensive odor, and almost lost his paddle with the effort. Behind him, the sphere stopped emitting its pollution, and after a brief period of inactivity, it started to crumble. Little bits at first, but with their departure, the more cracks formed and larger pieces began to give way. As they gave way, the fissure grew steadily larger, until a building-sized chunk separated with a resounding crack, and collided with a larger chunk of ice below it. The barrage of noise made Minik grit his teeth. For the second time that day, a wave rushed to meet him. The wave smacked into back of the kayak, flipping the vessel and its occupant completely over. By now fear had given way to panic, but Minik’s grip on the paddle couldn’t have been tighter. He was pitched head over heels into the icy sea. Years of experience with rough waters had created muscle memory to hold on to the paddle after being knocked out of more than one kayak; and this time was no exception. Minik floated among roiling waves, paddle gripped, yet he was separated from the other half of his salvation.

   But the kayak wasn’t far. Minik had made sure it never would be. The fifteen-foot nylon rope fastened around his ankle grew taut as the kayak it was tied to floated to its maximum allowable distance, just as intended. No matter how many times he’d been knocked into the sea, the water was still a shock. Even in his thermal gear, it wouldn’t take long before his core body temperature would drop dangerously low, Minik wasted no time in making his way back into his tiny vessel. He swam the scant few feet to its side and was about to get back in when something gently bumped the little boat on the opposite side. He hesitated, but only for a moment, as he had more immediate concerns to address. He placed the paddle into the kayak and hoisted himself in. One problem solved, he set about resuming his escape from all this madness. In his haste to get moving again, he had forgotten about whatever had just made contact with his boat. When he saw the disgusting thing bobbing there right beside him, looking so much like a ball of slimy ropes, Minik made his first and last error -- he tried to violently push it away from him.

   The moment the paddle touched the prone object, it sprang to violent life like a spring-loaded trap. The paddle was wrenched from his hands, and the sheer force of it pulled Inuit and kayak sideways. Minik tasted briny seawater again.

   Training took over as Minik leaned to right his boat. He was under the surface for perhaps two seconds, but in that tiny passage of time he saw more than most ever would. There was his paddle, slowly turning, well out of reach. Much closer was the thing that had pulled it from his hands. It shot toward him with the speed of a hungry shark; its form, very clear now, was a nightmare. Then it hit him with more than enough force to knock him from the kayak’s cockpit and force the air from his lungs. Minik floated free. His mind reeled.

   Desperate for oxygen, he kicked his way back up before his oxygen-starved lungs forced him to inhale frigid seawater. Mercifully, he was only a few feet under. He broke the surface and gasped at the corrupted air, not caring about or even registering its horrible taste. Minik assumed the creature was still close. It was, in fact, very close. As he turned, he found himself staring into what might have been an eye. He couldn’t be sure. It was unlike any he had ever seen before, or would ever see again. A perversion of something sacred. Something sharp slammed through his chest. The Inuit vomited blood.

As consciousness faded and synapses winked out came random thoughts of crucifixes and pain.