Taitsumaniguuq:

On a dreaded winter’s day, the sort that makes old injuries ache, the adults decided to lift their spirits by holding a drum-dance. One particular couple were off to the communal hall, leaving a grandmother to look after their boy. So it was that the old woman was alone and dozing, when she heard an odd noise near the entrance of the igluvigaq (snow-house).

There was no sign of her grandson. She crawled outside to spot a lone figure speeding away – something bent like an aged crone, smoky hair streaming out behind it as it loped with unnatural speed.

It was gigantic, double a man’s size, and upon its back was a vast amouti hood, heavy with something struggling therein. And the woman knew that her grandchild had been stolen by a creature known as the amoutalik.

She held only her ulu (crescent-knife) in hand. She could never catch up with the amoutalik. But she sang a little song she knew, sang it at her ulu, instilling in it her will that the amoutalik should become hindered hereafter. With this, she cast the blade at the creature, crying,

“Be confounded!”

The amoutalik ran until it disappeared from sight.

The old woman quickly stopped the drum-dance, informing the boy’s parents of what had happened. She told them that, with her will upon the amoutalik, they might have a chance of tracking it down.

Indeed, the parents tracked the amoutalik with ease, and soon came to its igluvigaq. Now, the captive boy had spent hours with the amoutalik, which was already referring to him as, “my son.” Its face reminded him of nothing so much as an old raven, and its filthy igluvigaq was filled with lice the size of lemmings. He was already feeling weak, sore, covered in bites, certain that he would not survive for long.

He was longing for home, looking out the ice-window, when he spotted his parents standing outside. Emotion played across his face, and the amoutalik asked,

“What are you looking at, my son?”

“N-nothing,” he said. “Just & two old ravens.”

Then his grandmother’s will began more of its work against the amoutalik. It became confused.

“I never noticed,” it said, “there are too many lice here. Too many lice &”

The great hag began to systematically beat all of the skins in the igluvigaq, trying to shake the lice off. It beat at its own clothes. The boy was afraid that, at any moment, the amoutalik would beat him as well, so he carefully slipped out of the igluvigaq while the creature was preoccupied.

His parents met him outside, and the three fled together. They left the amoutalik beating at lice in the winter dark, and everyone closely guarded their children after that.

The End.

If we need evidence that baby-theft is not a singularly Inuit fear, we need only look toward world folklore. The faery lore of Europe is rife with the belief that faeries steal human children, replacing them with wizened substitutes called “changelings.” Polish folklore has a similarly inclined race of wild women called “Dwiwozony. ” Finnish lore has a female night-demon called the “sukusendal.”

Even more common is the belief in female monsters that simply wish to kill human children. In this way, the Inuit amoutalik becomes almost identical to the “black annis” of Scotland.

Similar creatures include the dancing “hotots” of Armenia; the cave-dwelling “kakamora” of Melanesia; the prowling “nocnitsa” of Eastern Europe. Judeo-Christian apocrypha includes “Lilith,” the failed first wife of Adam, a consummate child-killer. And there is, of course, “Hansel and Gretel,” featuring the archetypal, Occidental ogre-crone who devours children (but only once fattened – a finicky eater.)

So why is humanity anxiety-ridden that its children might be attacked by she-demons?

The answer is perhaps that the anxiety is deliberate. Folklore is important because it represents a pre-manufactured answer to a question that has yet to be asked. This particularly suits Inuit culture, where it is bad manners to lecture directly. Far better to help someone come to a conclusion on their own.

The hag, therefore, is offered as an inverse mother-figure. This baby-thief is offered as the gruesome alternative existence awaiting the child that is not properly attended by its parents.

The folkloric message is simple: Treasure your child. If you do not value it, there are others who may. For the entirely wrong reasons.

Pijariiqpunga.