“No; I sometimes wonder—for their minds seem to remain in the childish condition; though Okiok and Simek do seem at times as if they were struggling into more light. I often wonder that they think so little, and think so foolishly; but I do not speak much about it; it only makes them fear that I am growing mad.”
“I have never asked you, Angut—do your tribes in the north here hold the same wild notions about the earth and heavens as the southern Eskimos do?”
“I believe they do,” replied Angut; “but I know not all they think in the south. In this land they think,”—here a smile of good-natured pity flickered for a moment on the man’s face—“that the earth rests on pillars, which are now mouldering away by age, so that they frequently crack. These pillars would have fallen long ago if they had not been kept in repair by the angekoks, who try to prove the truth of what they say by bringing home bits of them—rotten pieces of wood. And the strange thing is, that the people believe them!”
“Why don’t you believe them, Angut?”
“I know not why.”
“And what do your kinsmen think about heaven?” asked Rooney.
“They think it is supported on the peak of a lofty mountain in the north, on which it revolves. The stars are supposed to be ancient Greenlanders, or animals which have managed in some mysterious way to mount up there, and who shine with varied brightness, according to the nature of their food. The streaming lights of winter are the souls of the dead dancing and playing ball in the sky.”
“These are strange ideas,” observed Rooney; “what have you to say about them?”
“I think they are childish thoughts,” replied the Eskimo.
“What, then, are your thoughts about these stars and streaming lights?” persisted the seaman, who was anxious to understand more of the mind of his philosophical companion.