The high Arctic had more snow that year than anyone remembered. - Alexander Knox

There was no shame, but only graciousness, sun-soaked air, and, at the last, a peace such as the moss knows in the deepening corridors of trees.

How many would die this winter? There'd be a few more babies, but far more piles of stones. The Old Ways were a trap. The ceremonies and the rituals were pegs where living hangs suspended. Mad. Learn ancient, beautiful skills with spear and kayak in order to conquer impossible country, then struggle back to impossible country so you could use the skills you'd learned? Mad. Learn the skills to prove you're a man, and then to prove you're a man run, run, run to where you have to use the skills! Mad. ... To prove yourself a man. To whom? The million dead worked out these skills so they wouldn't die, but they did die, and the hissing of the Northern Lights was wry, accepting laughter. The million dead wouldn't be so foolish a second time.

He whispered steadily along in this pearly place, but though his steps were steady, a tension had seized him. It was a quivering, high-note vibration rather than a trembling. His flesh did not shake: inside his tightened skin he hummed, making no sound — a silent scream.