After the journey across ice, land, and sea, Sam did not understand where she had arrived at first.
She only knew that she had been carried into a narrow green valley beneath black cliffs, where three hide tents stood close to the mouth of a cave and smoke drifted thinly into the cold spring air.
When the hunters saw it, they called it Kinngani Nuna.
From the way they spoke the name, and from the look of the place itself, Sam could only guess it meant something like the land at the edge of the world. The North she had crossed had held almost nothing but ice and death. Here, at least, there was some meager greenery, some stubborn grass clinging to the thawing earth, and a valley sheltered enough that people had managed to live in it, barely.
Even this place was still harsh. Stone, ice, cold sea, black cliffs, and thin grass made up most of the world around them, as if warmth and patience both ran out here. The tribe lived with the cave behind them and the sea before them, pressed into the narrow shelter of the valley because there was nowhere kinder to go.
So Sam privately named them the people of the ice valley.
And she quickly discovered that there were only nineteen of them. She counted them that first night, while the whole tribe crowded into the largest tent, the one she quickly understood belonged to the elders. It was warmer than the others, smoky and low, with hides stretched over bone and driftwood and a small lamp burning near the center. The elders sat closest to the warmth. The five hunters who had brought her back sat behind them. The women and children gathered farther out, watching her with wide, dark eyes.
Most of the tribe were women and girls.
That was one of the first things Sam noticed. The five young hunters made up almost all of the able-bodied men. Aside from them, there were only two older men, both broad, hard-faced, and dangerous in a way that made everyone lower their heads when they spoke. Three older women sat near them, sharp-eyed and silent, and Sam quickly understood that these five elders held the true power here.
Everyone listened to them, watched them, and looked enough like them that Sam could only assume these were not merely leaders, but the fathers and mothers of the tribe itself, literally.
The three tents had their own order as well. The elders' tent was the largest and most respected. Another belonged mostly to the young hunters and their women. The third was for the mothers, the weak, and the children, which meant it was also the loudest, warmest, and worst-smelling. The dogs stayed mostly outside, roaming the camp, sleeping near the tent walls, and barking whenever anything moved in the dark.
The cave behind the tents was not used for sleeping, at least not normally. From what Sam saw before she was brought inside, it served as storage and workshop both. Bone points, stone blades, hide bundles, carved wood, sinew, old bones, and broken things waiting to be repaired filled the front of it. Farther in, the cave narrowed into darkness, and no one seemed eager to go too deep. Not even the dogs.
Maybe it was something sacred as well.
Sam was not sure. Before she could see more, she was carried into the elders' tent and placed in the middle of the gathering like a strange little offering.
Everyone looked at her.
The young men spoke first, especially Nari. He was clearly boasting. Sam did not need to understand the language to know that. He gestured toward her, puffed himself up, then demonstrated his great victory by lifting her under the arms and shaking her lightly like some wet little rabbit he had dragged out of a trap.
The men laughed, and a few of the women and girls laughed with them.
That only made Sam angrier.
"Damn savages," she snapped. "Keep this up and we are never becoming friends."
Nari only grinned, far too pleased with himself. Some of the women made soft cooing sounds, as if her fury, her voice, and her whole humiliating situation were somehow adorable.
Sam's eye twitched.
She noticed something else then. In this tent, the men did most of the speaking while the women listened. Not passively, exactly. Their eyes were sharp, and they missed very little. But they held their tongues while the men argued and decided.
When one of the children whispered too loudly to another, an older woman hissed at her.
Silence fell again.
Overall Sam understood very little of what was said, but she understood enough.
These people were desperate. They lived at the edge of the world with too little food, too few men, and too much winter waiting behind every season. The hunters had gone searching for a miracle, and somehow they had brought her back.
That was bad, because whatever they had hoped to gain from her, they clearly did not yet know what it was.
What use was she to them? Well, Sam honestly did not know either, because she had barely survived on her own. Still, one truth was obvious. In a place like this, useless things did not last long.
Sam sat in the center of the smoky tent, dirty white bunny suit stained from travel, surrounded by hungry faces, and realized she had a choice. She could keep fighting, keep screaming, keep acting like a kidnapped victim until they got tired of dealing with her.
Or she could make herself useful, somehow. And it was then that Nari asked for Neo.
At least, Sam thought he was asking. He crouched before her and pointed at her mitten, then at the faint glow hidden inside it. His expression was serious now, without its usual smugness. Around him, the tent went quiet.
Sam tightened her fingers around the Lightstone, she didn't want to let it go.
"No, Neo is precious to me. His my lightstone, ok. So back off." she whispered, and Neo pulsed warmly in her palm as if agreeing with her.
But with nineteen hungry people watching her, Sam swallowed and quickly gave in. Then, slowly, she pulled Neo from her mitten and placed it in Naris palm.
A murmur passed through the tent instantly as they saw the stone. Then so all could see, Nari lifted the Lightstone. Its pale glow washed over his face, and for a moment even his arrogance disappeared. The elders leaned closer. One of the older women whispered something. The children stared as if a star had been brought indoors.
To them, Neo was beautiful, magical. Maybe even holy, but they did not understand what it was. They only understood that it gave warmth and light.
So they tied it to the frame above the center of the elders' tent, hanging it there like a tiny moon.
Sam stared up at it in disbelief. The stone was now apparently property of the elders and completely out of her stubby little baby reach.
"That is not a lamp," she muttered, yet no one as usual listened.
Still, the tent grew warmer. People relaxed beneath it. The old women stretched their hands toward the light. A child smiled. Even the dogs outside pressed closer to the tent wall.
So that was it. Sam had become useful, a little. And in return, she was fed.
Not with meat, not at first, but with milk from Siku, the pregnant young woman Sam assumed belonged to Nari in some wife-like way. She did not know if these people had marriage as she understood it. Maybe they had wives. Maybe they had partners. Maybe everyone belonged to everyone according to some tribal rule she had no interest in unpacking yet.
Either way, Siku became responsible for her, which was almost nice.
Sam hated that. She hated how much she needed the milk. She hated that being fed helped. Most of all, she hated that someone was now taking care of her as if she were a helpless baby girl, which, unfortunately, she was.
She hated it right up until her body accepted the milk with embarrassing relief.
Later that night, she was taken to the children's tent to rest.
It was warm, crowded, noisy, and awful. Siku and another woman named Miri slept there with five little girls, though sleep seemed like a generous word for whatever happened in that place. Children cried. One of the younger girls latched onto Sam in the night like she was a stuffed toy and wet herself just before morning. Another woke up wailing after being accidentally slapped in the face by a sleeping child beside her.
Nearly all of them ended up pressed around Sam at some point, and they smelled terrible.
The women, pregnant and clearly exhausted, still worked through the dimness. They soothed children, fed them, changed their stiff little hide diapers, whispered to one another, and watched Sam with quiet amazement whenever she crawled outside to do her business like a civilized baby before returning to sleep.
Near the entrance, Nari slept with a weapon close at hand. He was guarding them, or guarding her, maybe both.
He woke whenever the dogs barked too sharply outside, whenever something moved in the dark, and whenever Sam dared to crawl out to relieve herself. Annoying as he was, Sam had to admit he was a sharp guard.
The first night was strange. She was surrounded by strangers, trapped in a tent that stank of milk, smoke, hides, children, and too many bodies. Yet it was difficult to stay angry when most of those strangers were innocent little girls clinging to her in their sleep. Their warmth gathered around her. The women's low songs moved softly through the darkness. Somewhere outside, the dogs shifted and barked at the night.
Against her will, Sam relaxed, and she slept better than she wanted to admit.
The next day began with milk for her and a thin breakfast for everyone else. The tribe's meal was little more than scraps and broth, divided with painful care. No one ate enough. The adults chewed bones. The children watched every mouthful with hungry eyes, or, like Sam, drank far too little milk because there was not enough to spare. Even the dogs were looked at in a way Sam did not like.
Things were clearly bad here. And even though no-one looked full, the work of the day began.
The men left first. The five young hunters went with the two older men, taking the dogs, their spears, their packs, and what little strength sleep had returned to them. They had only just come back from their long journey, yet there was no rest waiting for them. Rest was for people with stores of food, full racks, sealed bags, and safe winters. These people had none of that.
So they went out again.
Sam watched them leave the valley in a hard, silent line. From a distance, she saw them split into smaller groups, spreading out across the thawing land and toward the darker ridges beyond the camp. Three hunting parties, each searching a different direction, each hoping the world might give them something worth bringing home.
The dogs went eagerly at first, tails raised, noses low. But even they were lean. Their energy looked borrowed.
The women moved next.
Two of the older women led the stronger women toward the shore with rough nets, hide bags, bone-tipped fishing spears, and tools worn smooth from use. Perhaps they would find fish in the shallows. Perhaps shellfish. Perhaps seaweed. Perhaps nothing.
There did not seem to be much difference between those options here. All of them meant work.
Those who remained in camp were not idle either.
Siku stayed, one hand often touching her belly. Miri stayed with her. So did a hard-faced older woman whose eyes missed very little and approved of even less. The three of them watched the children, mended clothes, scraped hides, patched weak places in the tents, cleaned whatever messes the dogs and children had made, and gathered what small things could be found near the camp itself.
Pregnant or not, tired or not, everyone worked. Even the children, and Sam was placed among them, of course. Where else would they put her?
The five girls were all older than she looked, though none seemed older than six or seven. To Sam, they were like a tiny stone-age kindergarten, except the toys were bones, grass, scraps of hide, and whatever sharp objects the adults failed to keep out of reach. The oldest girl clearly considered herself their leader. The smaller ones followed her around like wild little monkeys, giggling, arguing, helping, forgetting to help, getting scolded, and immediately doing the same thing again.
They were clearly hungry, but they were still children, and children could play even at the edge of starvation. Maybe especially there. So they ran in short bursts, crawled through the grass, tugged at tough little plants, threw clumps at one another, and shrieked whenever one of the women snapped at them to be useful.
One clump of dirt and grass struck Sam directly in the face, and for a moment, she simply sat there.
Then, very slowly, she pulled the green mess from her hood and turned toward the little girl who had thrown it. The girl stared back with wide, guilty eyes, already shrinking as if expecting the strange sky-child to cry, curse her, or do something terrifying.
Sam was just beginning to feel offended when she stopped, because the stem caught in her mitten was not only grass.
It had leaves, shape, patterns of something familiar about it.
Sam lowered her gaze and studied it more closely, turning the young plant over between her padded hands. It was not fully grown yet, and nowhere near flowering properly, but recognition stirred somewhere in the back of her mind, slow and uncertain, dragging itself out from memories of school, late-night internet searches, and old nature guides back on the farm.
Broad-leaved willowherb, maybe.
If she remembered correctly, it was supposed to bloom pink. Hardy, common in cold northern places, and edible when young, though probably bitter enough to make a person regret having a tongue. She had seen it before while reading about Greenland, or maybe in one of those half-forgotten books that had been lying around the farmhouse.
And if her memory was not lying to her, it was the national flower of Greenland. Sam's breath caught at the word, "Greenland."
Slowly, she looked around again, not as a frightened baby lost among strangers, but as someone searching for pieces of a map. The black cliffs. The cold sea. The rough grassy valley. The dark-haired people in furs. The low tents of hide. The flowers beginning to wake in the brief northern growing season.
Could this truly be Greenland?
She had never been there in her old life. Not in person. But she had seen enough pictures, videos, articles, and maps during those random late-night internet spirals to recognize the possibility. And now that the thought had taken root, all the pieces began joining together in a way she did not like at all.
She had not simply died, been reborn inside the Sun, and dropped onto some nameless Arctic island. She had likely appeared somewhere near Greenland. Then the hunters had carried her there.
And if this was Greenland, and if that long journey had shown no ships, no planes, no distant towns, no lights, no engines, and no sign of the twenty-first century at all, then the conclusion was obvious.
She had not only been reborn. She had been thrown back through time.
"Oh," Sam whispered.
For one awful moment, panic rose so sharply in her chest that she nearly forgot how to breathe. She wanted to scream at the sky. She wanted to demand answers. She wanted to find that glowing angel toddler, grab his fat divine cheeks, and ask why, of all possible options, he could not have dropped her into the modern world with electricity, hospitals, supermarkets, and indoor heating.
Was she really going to live and die without ever seeing another electric light?
The thought was too large, yet too useless. So Sam forced it down. Panic later she decided, survival now.
She looked at the plant in her hand.
If it truly was willowherb, then it could be eaten. At least, she thought it could. Her memory might have been wrong, and if it was, she could only hope the strange light core inside her would handle the consequences before her new life ended because she lost a fight with a salad.
Sam put the leaf into her mouth and chewed, and the taste hit immediately, it was bitter, sharp, really nasty, but her body did not reject it.
Her eyes narrowed in realisation, she could eat this. Sure it was not good food, or enough to feed her little belly, but food all the same. And in this place, that made it important.
Sam crawled forward and began to look properly.
Now that she was paying attention, the valley was not as barren as it had first seemed. Life clung low to the earth, small and stubborn, hiding from the wind. Little green shoots pushed through the thawing soil. Dark mats of crowberries spread close to the ground, their black fruit glossy when she found the right patch. Nearby were plants that looked like Arctic blueberries, not ready yet, perhaps, but worth remembering. Near a damp hollow, a sharp scent rose from crushed leaves, and when Sam crawled toward it, she found something that reminded her of a plant called, wild thyme.
She tasted that too and her face twisted in disgust. Yet it was still useful, maybe as seasoning at least, or tea. Maybe medicine, if she remembered enough not to poison herself by accident.
She figured that the tribe must have known some of these plants. They had to. No one survived in a place like this by ignoring every edible thing that grew underfoot. But from what Sam had seen, they treated such things as scraps. Last resorts. Things for children to chew on when hunger became annoying enough. Things that grew where they grew, were picked when found, and vanished again under feet, dogs, and weather.
They knew the plants existed. But they did not seem to understand what Sam was beginning to see.
They did not know how to gather them into one place, protect them, feed them, warm them, multiply them. They did not know the hidden value in bitter leaves, tiny berries, roots, herbs, insects, and soil. They did not know how much food could begin as almost nothing if someone was stubborn enough to make it grow.
And Sam, for the first time since arriving in the ice valley, saw a way to truly be useful. Plus it wasn't only the plants she saw, there were even some small useful Arctic insects too.
There were a few Arctic bumblebees searching for flowers. Tiny beetles under stones. Worms in damp soil. Fly larvae near old dog fur and waste, pale and soft and disgusting. Sam stared at those for a long moment, battling the last remains of modern civilization inside her soul.
Then she ate one.
It was horrible. Not the taste, weirdly. The taste was almost milky, which was somehow worse because now she had to know that. But the idea of it made her whole mind recoil.
Still, it was protein. Tiny, revolting protein. In the old world, she would never have done this. In the old world, she had chocolate cereal, milk from cartons, fast food, microwaves, grocery stores, and the luxury of pretending bugs were not food.
This was not the old world. Here, a fly larva was a resource. A beetle could also be eaten, thus it too was a resource, as were worm's.
And Sam had grown up on a farm. She had spent years around people who knew soil, weeds, roots, seasons, pests, compost, tools, and the thousand small tricks that made plants grow where people wanted them to grow. She had not cared nearly enough at the time. She had complained. She had been bored. She had thought half of it useless.
Now all of it came back like treasure. Plants needed soil, warmth, water, protection, and time. This place had poor soil, too much cold, too little season, and no proper tools.
Normally, agriculture this far north would be a nightmare. In old Greenland, without modern greenhouses, fertilizer, metal tools, glass, pumps, plastic coverings, or a warming climate, growing enough food to matter would be brutally difficult. Maybe impossible for people like this, who lived by hunting and fishing because the land gave them little else.
But Sam had something they did not, she had Magic. She also had Neo which passively gave off warmth and light which encouraged life. And if Meighen Island had taught her anything, it was that even the Arctic could be persuaded to soften if enough gentle power pressed against it.
Here she just might be able to make a little garden.
The thought came so clearly that she almost laughed. Not a farm. Not yet. Not fields of grain or rows of potatoes or any civilized miracle like that. But a protected patch. A place where edible plants could be gathered together instead of scattered. A place warmed by Neo, fed by fish scraps, crushed bone, seaweed, ash, and whatever else she could convince these people not to waste. A place guarded from dogs and careless children. A place where roots could strengthen, seeds could fall, and growth could be helped along by light.
This would be the beginning of a true Greenland.
Thinking of it she kept crawling through the grass, gathering plants, tasting tiny pieces, spitting out anything too suspicious, and arranging the useful ones into clumsy little piles. The five girls watched her with growing fascination. To them, she probably looked deranged.
A fair skinned sky-child with platinum hair, violet eyes, and a muddy white bunny suit, crawling around the camp eating weeds, berries, bugs, and dirt-things like some tiny starving spirit of bad decisions. Honestly, Sam could not blame them.
The oldest girl said something to the others. One of the smaller girls giggled. Another pointed at Sam's mouth.
Sam swallowed the last bitter leaf and looked at them.
"What?" she said.
They stared.
Sam looked down at the plants in her hands, then at the bugs in the soil, then at the watching girls. Then she grinned.
"All right," she said. "I think I know what I'm doing."
They did not understand a word, which was fine. Sam turned toward the elder's tent.
Neo hung inside it, out of reach, glowing gently from the roof like the world's most important stolen lamp. Its warmth spread through the hide walls and into the ground nearby. Not much, but enough. The soil around that tent was softer than the rest, darker where meltwater had worked into it, protected somewhat from the worst wind by the camp itself.
If she wanted to begin anywhere, it had to be there.
Sam crawled over, found a small flat stone with a rough edge, and began scraping at the grass.
It was miserable work. Her mittened hands were not made for digging. Her arms tired quickly. Her balance was terrible. Every few moments she had to stop, breathe, and remind herself that she had once fought grown men and would not be defeated by grass.
The grass might have been stubborn, but that merely meant that Sam had to be more stubborn. She tore it out in clumps, pushed it aside, and exposed the dark soil beneath.
The girls followed. At first, they only watched. Then one came closer and crouched beside her. Sam pointed at the grass, then mimed pulling. The girl blinked, looked at the ground, and tried it.
"Yes," Sam said immediately, nodding hard. "That. Good. Keep doing that."
The girl smiled uncertainly. Another joined. Then another.
Soon all five were around her, pulling grass, scraping dirt with stones, arguing over who got the better clump, and treating the whole thing as a game. They did not understand the point. That was obvious. But children did not need to understand the point if the work looked interesting enough.
Sam dragged her stone through the soil, making a rough line. Then another, as she tried to make seven rows. Crude, crooked, badly measured rows, but rows all the same.
She pointed to the piles of useful plants. Then to the rows. Then to the elder's tent where Neo glowed. Then back to the hungry children.
The girls although just stared at her, and Sam sighed, "Okay. Too advanced."
She took one willowherb shoot, dug a little hollow with her stone, placed it carefully into the cleared soil, and pressed dirt around its roots.
Then she pointed.
The oldest girl understood first. Her eyes brightened. She grabbed another plant and shoved it into the dirt far too roughly.
Sam winced. "No, no—gentle. Gentle, you tiny barbarian."
She corrected the plant as best she could, patting the soil around it. The girl watched closely, then tried again with more care, better. The others copied her.
By then, the women had noticed. Miri came over first, frowning in confusion. Siku followed more slowly, one hand braced against her belly. The older woman stayed farther back, arms folded, eyes sharp and suspicious.
Sam could almost hear what she was thinking.
Is the sky-child searching for something? Is this a ritual? Is she playing? Is she wasting time?
Fair questions, honestly.
Sam did not have the language to explain agriculture, soil preparation, transplanting, compost, microclimates, pollination, edible perennials, or the fact that she was about to drag their entire civilization one tiny step toward farming whether they understood it or not.
So she used gestures.
She pointed at the children's mouths.nThen at the plants. Then at the soil. Then at Neo. Then she pressed both hands together near her cheek and mimed sleeping. After that, she spread her hands outward like something growing tall.
Miri and Siku stared, while the older woman narrowed her eyes even more.
Sam repeated the gestures, more firmly, food, plant, ground, warmth, wait, grow, and eat. Maybe they understood. Maybe they thought she was casting a spell. Maybe both.
Siku was the first adult to kneel.
She moved awkwardly because of her belly, but she came down beside Sam and began pulling grass from the marked area. Miri hesitated only a moment longer before joining her. The girls grew excited at once, working harder now that the women had decided this strange game was allowed.
The older woman did not join, she merely watched, but that was fine.
Sam began organizing with all the authority a baby in a dirty bunny suit could manage. She drew the rows again, clearer this time. Seven of them, because seven felt like enough to be a plan and not merely a patch of dirt. She marked the ends with stones. She shoved useless grass aside. She saved plants she recognized. She slapped one little hand over a girl's fingers when the child almost tore out a useful root.
"No," Sam said sharply.
The girl froze and nearly cried. Sam though just shook her head as she pointed to the plant and made a hugging gesture as she said, "Keep."
Then she pointed to ordinary grass and made a throwing motion as she said, "To the Garbage."
The girl had no idea what the words meant, but she understood the tone, which again was good enough.
The work continued.
Sam pointed, gestured, corrected, and commanded with all the authority her tiny body could manage, and the others followed as best they could. The girls pulled grass. Siku and Miri turned the earth. Stones were set aside, plants were gathered, and little by little the dark soil opened beneath their hands.
Soon, crude rows began to take shape beside the elders' tent.
They were uneven, ugly, and very far from impressive, but when Sam looked at them, a real smile crept across her face.
Because this was not merely dirt.
This was agriculture.
The first little piece of the greatest technology humanity had ever invented. Animal husbandry could wait. Better tools could wait. Houses, walls, laws, cities, all of that could wait. Agriculture came first. It was the thing that had dragged mankind out of the Stone Age and carried it toward bronze, iron, engines, electricity, and the stars.
And now she had begun it here, in this cold valley at the edge of the world, with a handful of starving Arctic cavemen who looked like lost Mongolians in fur.
The thought was so ridiculous that Sam almost laughed.
Could she really do it? Could she turn these hunters into farmers? Could she push them farther still, into villages, walls, workshops, maybe even some strange northern city-state like an Arctic little Greece?
She had no idea.
But for the first time since being taken from her island, the thought did not feel impossible.
Sam looked over the crooked rows, the curious children, the confused women, and the stolen Lightstone glowing warmly in the elders' tent.
She still did not like being kidnapped. She still did not even like this place, but life had given her option's and she was going to use them.
After all, It wasn't about where you started, or what you were handed. It was about what you did with it.
Sam exhaled, wiped dirt from her mitten, and looked at the first garden of the ice valley.
"All right," she whispered.
Then she smiled.
"I'll work with this."