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Katara knows that she’s special.
The village elders hail Sokka in public, celebrating him in front of all the children, but Katara has heard them in private, whispering about spirits and Sokka’s fate as their chosen. The hero’s journey is never happy and they pretend in front of him, trying not to show their fear where he can see. Sokka is honoured and spirit-blessed and he will not live a happy life—but while Katara loves him and despairs his fate, she knows that she’s more special that he is.
Because Katara is a waterbender.
Katara’s fate is certain. Either the Fire Nation will come and take her away to die like the rest of the South Pole’s waterbenders—or Katara will grow up and become a symbol of power. Katara will nurture what little bending remains among her people, in herself and in any others that appear, beginning a secret rebellion against the monsters that tore her culture apart. That doesn’t mean she likes it, but Katara knows that it’s her responsibility and Sokka can’t compete with that. His stupid blessing and his stupid hair can’t compare to Katara and her waterbending. Katara is special. More special than her stupid older brother…
Kicking at her basket of salt, Katara watches the fine grains spill over the edge and feels a pang of guilt from seeing a precious resource go to waste. She thinks, the tribe can’t afford that and looks around for anyone who might be watching. Katara finds herself looking eye to eye with Ooa, whose disappointment is palpable, shrinking into herself at the sight
‘Why would you do that?’ Ooa asks, coming over to join her. She kneels beside her and says, ‘Bend it back.’
Katara feels her blood boil and snarls instead of bending. ‘No!’ she snaps, turning and running away. She hears Ooa call out to her, but Katara ignores her—because it’s true, isn’t it? She’s a waterbender. She can make more salt later.
Running far, far away, Katara doesn’t know where she goes, losing herself in the snow-banks, tripping over some stupid rock and cursing Tui and La for letting her brother die in the first place. They should have saved him before he drowned! Because of it, Sokka is always at the centre of attention and now he’s gone, left with their dad and all the warriors to help with the stupid war effort.
Falling into the snow with an oomph, Katara lays there for a while, sniffling when she thinks of her father and brother sailing to the other side of the world. They could die and Katara might never find out. Every time she imagines them in a Fire Nation prison, it makes her chest hurt, like there’s an imaginary rope wrapped around it, always pulling tighter.
She feels something press into her shoulder. Katara looks up and sees only an outline for a moment, until the outline leans closer, crouching beside her. They aren’t from my tribe, is the first thing Katara thinks and knows to be true, her eyes tracing the unfamiliar tattoos under their eyes and lips. They look sort of like some of the elders and the tribespeople that left with her father—but Katara knows that can’t be right, because that would mean they’re a warrior and all the warriors are away.
When they reach out again, Katara reaches for the snow, turning it to water without looking. She flings a bubble at their chest—but nothing happens. Katara tries again, panicking when the snow doesn’t melt like she wants it to and realising with a jolt that her bending isn’t working.
Nevertheless, her frantic hand-waving makes the warrior retreat and Katara can see the faint smile beneath the fur of their hood.
‘Welcome to the spirit world, young one,’ they say.
‘The spirit world?’ Katara whispers to herself, afraid. She edges backward, getting to her feet as she looks around. All she can see is gleaming tundra, but even then, there’s something…off. The wind is flat and the sun doesn’t shine like it should, pale blue ghosts floating through the sky, high up in the air. In the far-off distance, she can see what can only be the ocean, though Katara would never be able to reach it by herself—it’s too far.
Watching her take in the sights, the warrior says, ‘The destiny of the world is a fickle thing, but here, your worries can fade. You are not here by accident.’
‘How am I here?’ Katara asks, wondering if this is what Sokka saw when he died.
The warrior replies, ‘There are many windows to our world and you stumbled through one, but that is neither here nor there—quite literally. It is gone, now, unserviceable to a mortal such as yourself. To return, you will have to find another portal and you will, eventually. Until that time, however, I offer my services.’
‘What do you mean? When do I get to go home?’ Katara exclaims, ignoring her offer. Thankfully, the warrior doesn’t take offence, instead only replying in a patient voice.
‘Soon. But before then, you will be here. Do not waste this chance, young one.’
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Katara suddenly felt the opposite of jealousy over Sokka’s spirit-blessing, feeling older and more naïve than she ever has before. The warrior looks at her with such kindness, like any other tribesperson and Katara knows Sokka didn’t get this, knows deep in her bones that he never got the chance to refuse. Unhesitant, Katara reaches out to take their hand, trusting that they’ll keep her safe like Tui and La kept Sokka.
‘What’s your name?’ she asks.
The warrior grins, then hauls her up into the air, onto their shoulders. Katara squeals in delight, grabbing on tight with her legs as more of the spirit realm becomes visible.
‘I am Kimmik,’ they say, ‘Spirit of the Polar Dog Tribe. You know my peoples, though they are gone, now. I miss them.’
Katara feels their pain. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, thinking of her mother. ‘The Fire Nation took them from you.’
‘Yes, those armies and soldiers of Agni’s chosen peoples did take them,’ Kimmik replies, though their voice is not sad. ‘Carry them for me. Carry their war-songs and their faith. I would give them to you, if only you asked.’
‘Please!’ Katara shouts, so dearly excited that a spirit would trust her. She doesn’t expect the sudden coolness to her forehead, like a thousand icy pinpricks across her skull, paired with a dizziness that turns the world upside-down.
‘Kimmik,’ she mumbles, swaying in the non-existent breeze, ‘I don’t feel well.’
‘We are connected,’ replies Kimmik, steadfast and unapologetic. ‘I know.’
Katara’s sickness fades soon after and she begins to sing along to songs Kimmik performs, though she’s not quite sure how she knows the words. It doesn’t really matter, though—because Kimmik takes her to the ocean and when they let her down onto her feet, Katara can reach into the sea and feel her bending again.
‘Kimmik! I can bend, I can-’ Katara turns to show them, only to find that Kimmik has vanished. Abandoned, Katara looks along the snowy beach, realising with a jolt that she can see her village.
Kimmik had brought her home.
‘Oh,’ she mumbles to herself, before slowly trudging along the banks, wondering if she should tell Gran-Gran about her journey to the spirit world.
Katara sneaks into her family igloo, still pondering the idea when her grandmother gasps in fright.
‘Katara!’ Gran-Gran rushes over, kneeling in front of her and raising her hand to Katara’s head. She traces a shape on Katara’s brow, eyes bright with concern. ‘What is this?’
Katara frowns, batting away her hand. ‘What?’
‘My child, you are marked,’ she says in a hush, deftly ignoring her swats as she describes it. ‘It is a blue mark, to welcome a spirit—the name of it is written below, here.’ Gran-Gran guides her finger down, to the skin between her eyebrows, but all Katara can feel is the rasp of her nail. ‘I cannot read it. Who did you meet, my dear? Where did you go?’
‘I- I went to the spirit realm. Kimmik found me and took me home. They…we sang about polar dogs and hunting fish under the ice,’ Katara mumbles, ‘and drowning. They used to drown their enemies in Ipitkaa Lake.’
Gran-Gran kisses her hair, then prays to Amaguk. ‘What did you agree to, Katara? Try to remember.’
‘Nothing,’ Katara scowls. ‘I didn’t make a deal with a spirit!’
‘That tattoo says otherwise, young lady,’ scolds Gran-Gran, but she sounds scared. Katara tries not to imagine what would make her grandmother scared, except she- she sounds like she does when she talks with the other elders. When she talks about Sokka.
‘…it was just about songs,’ she mumbles again. ‘War-songs and faith.’
‘Faith? Faith and war-songs? Oh, my child,’ says Gran-Gran, finally releasing a gust of breath and bundling Katara in her embrace. It’s tighter than Katara’s ever felt before. ‘You got off lightly, my child. Be careful with your words, Katara—the spirits are not like us. They live in a different world and they will take and take and take.’
‘Kimmik was kind,’ Katara says, burrowing her head in her grandmother’s furs. ‘They were like- like tribe.’
‘Because they are the spirit of a tribe,’ Gran-Gran explains, brushing her hand through Katara’s hair soothingly. ‘And faced with a human girl willing to remember them, Kimmik asked for the most important things they valued. The Polar Dog Tribe were solitary and defended what was theirs to the last. None ever fled—none ever escaped. They were a tribe with a rich history that was never recorded and as time passes, we forget what little we knew of them. You hold them now, Katara,’ Gran-Gran cradles Katara’s head, ‘in here. You carry something precious and you must share it. You promised Kimmik.’
‘I said please,’ Katara whispers, recalling it. She thinks of a song—one that she knows she didn’t learn from her village. ‘Do you want to hear about how a chief found her wife?’
Gran-Gran’s eyes are teary as she whispers, ‘Of course.’
The other villagers stare, later and ask her questions about Kimmik and the Polar Dog Tribe—all of which Katara tries to answer the best she can. And then, one day, when Katara starts to dance along to the story of the warrior, Aklavik, Ooa stands and reaches out a hand.
‘Teach me,’ she says.
And one more person carries the tribe.