Narluga

“Bitterly cold” was a term Mac thought rather described the person saying it than the cold itself. People think they know cold living in places like New York, Canada or Switzerland. Those people know of cold, but no one knows cold the way Gelidanians do. Not that it’s a pissing contest. Not that being from the coldest place in the world gives you any kind of bragging rights. It’s just that there’s something about those who not only live at the extremes but love it. And Mac loved it.

You’d think to love a thing you’d have to grow up with it, have it ingrained in your DNA. Or grown up without it and craved it so entirely that once presented with it you had no choice but to embrace it because otherwise what would your entire life of wanting have amounted to? Mac was somewhere in between. She’d grown up in Montana and thought she knew cold, grew up with stories of “the worst winter,” - always a winter that wasn’t this one. She knew how to make the most of every season, but she never craved moving to Gelidia and wouldn’t say she much craved living anywhere really. She was perfectly content to stay in Montana all her days. Only Montana doesn’t have narlugas, and they were her passion.

….

Mary Cetus’ first passion was narwhals. She saw one in a children’s book and, upon discovering they weren’t fantasy, she was hooked. Growing up she’d tell anyone who listened all about narwhals. Every fact you could imagine: some people say they’re threatened but others say we don’t see them enough to get a good count of their pods, they’re technically a medium sized whale like the beluga, their number one risk is suffocation due to ice cover and number two is humans. She could go on and on, and sometimes did.

People in town would listen politely, provide a fact they’d learned from her before, or smile, before making excuses for being on their way. Her parents figured it was a phase and let it go, best not to make too much of it either way.

As Mary entered high school and realized there’d be no marine biology option for her sciences, seeing as how Montana borders no oceans, she decided to make her own. She went home after her first day and told her parents she was going to homeschool. She scoured the internet, came up with a curriculum for her next four years, and even contacted the top arctic marine biology programs in the world, asking them how best to structure her learning.

Her parents balked at first, they’d never considered teaching her at home; but they decided to adopt a wait-and-see attitude. Perhaps this was just another phase.

Mary’s greatest teachers were books. She’d scour the internet for hours learning about this master’s program or that internship, and always there’d be references to follow, many of them books. Her parents were concerned by the costs but decided since she’d never been involved in sports or asked for extravagant gifts, they had enough put by to afford this phase (if it didn’t go on for too long) and encouraged her to obtain scholarships to cover additional funds. Which she did.

Mary’s homeschool days now consisted of searching out and applying for scholarships, reading incessantly about narwhals, the arctic, the ecosystem, climate change, top researchers in the field, and occasionally watching TikTok to stay relevant with her friends, of which she still had many.

Her friends were at turns confused, jealous, encouraging. “We miss you, Mac,” a nickname made of her first and last initials. “You’re so lucky you don’t have to deal with Mrs. Hargin right now!” All her friends figuring, like her parents, she’d be back by sophomore year at the latest.

Her freshman year at home was a master class all its own and she felt sorry for her peers trapped in classroom after classroom at the high school, forced to learn from outdated textbooks and overburdened teachers. Mary related everything she learned to more than one subject to fulfill state requirements. Her study of narwhal populations included math, some of it quite complicated including projections. Her study of narwhal endangerment included Native populations granted subsistence hunting rights, leading to a project on Native histories and stories, cultural studies that were not only fascinating but fulfilled a social studies requirement. She declared she would continue homeschooling her sophomore year.

It was during her sophomore year that Mary stumbled upon the narlugas. She didn’t entirely understand what she was reading and decided it was a hoax at first but was so invested she continued reading for sheer enjoyment. Apparently, a narwhal and a beluga had made an effective mating in the wild producing offspring, the world’s first narluga. It was thought to be a one-hit-wonder until more were discovered, and then more. It turned out that while there were still less than twenty verifiable narlugas in the world, there were still twenty of them which was enough to consider them a new and distinct species. And it turned out, they lived in Gelidia.

It wasn’t a hoax, and Mary knew immediately narlugas were her new focus. It was more than the stunning beauty of the beluga’s bright white coloring and the narwhal’s ridiculously beautiful tooth. Narlugas truly looked like the unicorns of the seas. And what girl isn’t in love with unicorns.

She sent emails to two researchers she could find studying narlugas, sent emails to universities asking if they had any additional info or could assist her in her in any way. She updated the scholarship she was applying for to reflect this new passion, and emailed the few researchers she was already in direct contact with asking them to please put her in touch with anyone who could get her more info, more access, more more more.

She did all this in the course of a day and then sat at her desk, staring out the window, reimagining the scene before her as an underwater one.

By the end of the week, she heard back from one university letting her know while they appreciated her request for information there was nothing they could do, this was the first they were hearing of any “narluga.” The word being in quotes stung a bit, as though they were calling her a liar. She shrugged it off and crossed the university off her list; “Won’t be applying there,” she thought.

The most important thing to happen by the end of the week was that she heard back from one of the researchers she’d found directly studying narlugas. It went something like this: Henri Baleine was currently in the Atlantic section of the Arctic Ocean researching potential source DNA and would have spotty internet for the next several weeks. Upon returning to France correspondence could continue. It’s a very exciting and intriguing new species. All the best.

Mary was over the moon. Not only had one of only two researchers gotten back to her, he’d done so while on an expedition! She felt important and seen and rushed to tell her parents all about this latest development.

Her parents were not thrilled by the idea of their daughter in private correspondence with a Frenchman, notorious Lotharios, but they decided there wasn’t much he could do from “way over there,” and besides this was all business and early stages and they knew and respected their daughter and her choices. They’d sit back, see how it played out. Perhaps this was the natural progression of her phases after all, and a man far away was hardly as much of a threat as a boyfriend in town.

In replying to Henri Baleine, Mary asked if any of her questions had answers: do they migrate like belugas or stay in the arctic like narwhals, are they extremely vocal like a beluga, do they molt like a beluga, do they stay in separate male-female packs like beluga. Henri’s answer surprised her: her questions showed she was a scientist, not simply a young fan of this true sea unicorn and Henri would like to meet in person next month when touring the US. Was she anywhere near Missoula where Henri would be giving a lecture at the University?

Her parents agreed to take her to the lecture, their concern over this Frenchman whisking away their daughter allayed only by the fact that they would be there to prevent it and that she was only fifteen turning sixteen, too young to be legally absconded with, “The bugger’ll have to string her along two more years.” The much-too-long drive to the city was commenced, the traffic became heavier, the drivers less courteous, the tension in their own car getting higher.

By the time they’d navigated to the University, found parking, and entered the vast lecture hall, everyone was on edge; especially Mary who would be coming face-to-face with a man she’d turned into an idol. Seats were found, the noise of the lecture hall deafening to this small group from a small town. Several people were at the podium, some smiles, a furrowed brow, some nodding. Plastic cups of wine were held but none consumed, as though the wine had been purchased to put Henri at ease, no one realizing the plastic cups would have the exact opposite effect.

Finally, it was time, watches consulted, superfluous people took their seats, and two people only remained at the podium. The man stepped forward and began, speaking of himself in the third person: Henri has been here and there, Henri has studied this and that, we’re so lucky to have Henri with us tonight. Mary was quickly losing her interest in the man so interested in himself. Where was the science? Had they really come all this way to hear a pompous scientist discuss himself?

And then there was clapping, the lights dimmed as the man took his seat, the woman stepped up to the podium and amidst the changing slides, a French voice caressed the audience, mesmerizing them with its words, its accent, its feminine tone. Mary nearly missed the lecture she was so shocked, although no one else appeared to be. Her parents had finally relaxed, smiling as they listened to many of the things they’d heard from their own daughter. They were very much at home it turned out, viewing pictures of the beautiful narlugas, those on the giant projector screen so much more enchanting than on their daughter’s small laptop, and really there was something to that French accent wasn’t there.

When the lecture ended, when the clapping and the questions had run the gamut, when the lecture hall had nearly emptied, Mary’s parents asked if she wasn’t going to go meet Henri; they’d come all this way. She was, of course she was, and she did. She walked down the steep concrete floor to the podium at the end, waited politely for a break in the conversation, and introduced herself. Mary was surprised as Henri folded her into a gentle hug, dropped kisses upon each cheek, and handed her a manilla file filled to bursting.

It turned out Henrietta Baleine, for that was her full name, had learned early that papers submitted to scientific journals by Henrietta went unpublished, while the exact same paper by Henri was lauded and applauded, science still being a very male dominated field. She’d struggled mightily getting expeditions as Henrietta, but Henri landed funding and a crew easily.

Henri was thrilled to meet Mary and her parents, congratulated them on their intelligent and persistent daughter, claimed their only mistake was giving her a name that couldn’t be masculinized. Everyone laughed. And then Henri asked Mary to join the next expedition, an internship. This one would be in Gelidia, an island nation east of Canada, south of Greenland, just outside of Davis Straight and the famous Baffin Bay; home of the narluga.

“I select my crew always myself,” Henri told Mary while looking at her parents, “You would be with scientists of the gentle and boring nature, and you would be entirely safe with them. You will also be youngest by many years.”

Her parents exchanged a look then began asking questions: expenses, transport, food, insurance. The things parents worry about when their child goes on a school field trip, this feeling very much like an extended sixth grade camp to them. When they were satisfied, they turned to Mary, “Do you have any questions?” They asked her.

Mary looked into Henri’s eyes; they were both smiling. “Just one,” Mary said, “can you call me Mac?”

…

“Bit cold, innit?” the hand extended towards her for a shake, and Mac took it automatically, her eyes so full of glacial ice that everything now appeared to glow a sort of ghostly blue and black, as though an old photograph hadn’t developed properly.

“Is it?” Mac asked, distractedly, only recognizing the truth of the words as she came back to herself, no longer lost inside her own gratitude for being on this boat, on this expedition, in this frozen landscape of her life-long fantasy.

There was gentle laughter followed by a mug being placed in her hands, a mug she expected to be warm, but was just as frozen as her surroundings. “Insides warm, ‘n tis the best feelin’ ta drink sommit hot in the worlds coldest place.”

Mac fiddled with the lid trying to figure out how to open it, her “thank you,” coming a beat too late as she realized the gifter had already turned and walked away. “Cian, Ireland, Glacial Ice Monitoring,” she thought, trying to remember the spirited introductions from the day before, people all about her loading bags and boxes onto the ship as Henri rattled off names, countries, and scientific specialties amidst bear hugs, the extremely loud engines and churning water - despite their being anchored to a dock - filling the air with pollution of all kinds.

Mac had been invited to dinner that night but had declined, unexpected nausea sending her to “bed” early, her bed for the night a bathroom floor, as close as she could get to one of two places she could leave her land loving stomach behind, refusing to throw up over the ships rail despite being told there were others who did exactly that at the outset of every trip.

She didn’t think she was ready for food yet, but the coffee was welcome and she sighed with relief as she finally navigated the opening on the lid and steam escaped, the vapor seeming to turn to miniature crystals of ice for a moment before disappearing. Taking what she thought was a tentative sip, she nearly screamed as the scalding liquid assaulted her tongue, would have screamed, the scream dying as coffee dripped from her chin, the burn immediately soothed by the speedy freeze and the sight before her.

Mac had been so distracted by the ice earlier, she hadn’t been looking down, but now, her gloved fingers wiping at the now frozen coffee on her chin, she saw shape after shape moving in the water. It was almost as though the sea were reflecting the sky, and Mac looked up to confirm the clouds were a solid wall of gray above and not the motley whites she saw below. Were these whales or simply the churning water from the ships’ progress across the frozen landscape, the ice-breaking prow in front causing a massive ripple effect the length of the ship before the engines had a chance to churn it all up once more.

“Even if they are whales, they’re probably belugas,” Mac whispered, desperate for one to break the surface, for confirmation of what she was seeing, for this to be real. “Please,” she sent out to whoever or whatever might be listening. But instead of coming up further, the shapes receded, back and down. She followed the railing as long as she could, until she was standing at the stern, the engine noises a persistently grumbled snore, a grizzly to make her feel at home.

Her shoulders sagged, but she forced her head up; had she really expected to see a narluga on her first day? Snorting a breath of derisive determination, Mac made to turn back towards the deckhouse, a flash in the ocean to starboard catching her eye. Used to tracking pronghorn back home, Mac instinctively followed a line ahead and behind the flash point. She kept her head still, letting the ocean dissolve like the plains, watching for movement.

There! It was light catching water droplets, the giant tooth itself unreflective, made of bone, not enamel. Better than even her own daydreams, the spiral rose from the depths, an impossible thing, the white head emerging in a silent burst behind it. Several other white heads emerged, mostly smooth, occasionally toothed. Their undulations less soothing than Mac had imagined, more like sealions than whales. It occurred to her too late to record the sighting, to yell or stomp for the other researchers, to do something, anything. But the whales were gone.

Counting to sixty over and over again, Mac waited roughly twenty minutes, tracking the path, hoping for another glimpse, the adrenaline slowly leaving her as the cold crept back in despite her layers. For the first time in her life, Mac felt sated and home.