Ivory and Paper

by Ray Hudson

  I glanced behind and caught a running silhouette disappear as a hot geyser erupted from the ground. A crooked line of steam escaped from just under the surface as something rippled down the mountain. A series of abrupt jolts sent our legs dancing. Booker jerked as though he had run into himself. He toppled over and skidded away. My feet were kicked off the ground. I struggled onto my hands and knees as Vasilii was thrown backward.

  Damp sand peppered the air. I curled my arms over my head as a gust of fine stone pellets swept past. A rock that must have been the size of an apple shattered as it hit the ground. Booker struggled up the embankment, his legs never quite coming down where he expected them to land. He looked like he was under water or caught in a wild carnival ride. Vasilii rolled onto his stomach and struggled to his hands and knees. I extended a hand just as his eyes widened and he stiffened in panic. Booker was now beside me, and we threw our combined weight onto his convulsing body. My hands sank into his wet raincoat as though it were filled with air. His chest and shoulders shifted as the spasms increased. Unfamiliar bones and muscles protruded under my hands. The mountain gave a terrific jolt. Booker sailed beyond a clump of grass that might have saved him. My fingers slipped as though Vasilii’s jacket had turned into a feathered parka. I was thrown into the air.

  A cool, damp wind struck my face. I opened one eye. And then the other. The world had turned to water. All I saw was gray water slashed with white fissures. My eyes closed, and I disappeared into myself. If time passed, and it must have passed, I was unaware of it. If time compressed, if I drifted in and out of time, I didn’t realize it.

  The air became heavy with salt.

  My arms and feet dangled like a puppet’s cut from their strings. My jacket pressed against my chest.

  I straightened my legs and tried to lock my knees.

  My body began to carry weight. I opened my eyes.

  I was gliding across a world of water. Endless and gray. I closed my eyes again and felt myself drifting outside myself. I heard the steady pulsing of wings. The world tilted. The air became warmer. I was gaining speed, faster and faster, until my feet folded beneath me, and I tumbled onto a carpet of soft heather. All five of my senses collided loosely inside my body, buffeting each other and rearranging themselves into working order.

  When I was able to focus, I saw Booker sitting beside me, rubbing his eyes, while Vasilii stood looking down at both of us.

  “What happened?” Booker asked.

  “We’re back,” Vasilii said.

  “But what happened?” he repeated as he started to stand up. His jacket had two sets of identical tears on the back, three above and one below.

  Vasilii only gestured around. We were on a narrow grassy upland high on the slopes of a mountain. Far below I recognized a familiar cluster of wooden buildings and barabaras. Unalaska’s stately church anchored the far end of the curved shore.

  “How did this happen?” Booker began again. His backpack was hanging from a single strap across one of his shoulders. He removed the carved ivory fox and handed it to me. I took it, but he frowned at how dark my palm had become. He was again dressed in his overly buttoned wool pants and shirt. His cap had apparently blown away. A few brown feathers clung to his pants. They vanished the moment he swept them into the air. I saw Vasilii’s face and shook my head.

  “It doesn’t matter how it happened,” I said. “It just did.” But it did matter, and I think I knew what had happened. Peter Rostokovich had said the Unalaska people could turn themselves into eagles. Vasilii hadn’t believed it. I hadn’t believed it. But that or something like it must have happened.

  I looked at Vasilii and then at Booker, who was frowning as he still tried to piece together what I knew were a series of disjointed memories.

  “Sorry if that was a rough trip,” Vasilii said. “It was the first time.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “And hopefully the last.”

  “What do you mean?” Panic started to work its way up Booker’s throat. I was, like, beyond panicking.

  “Storm’s coming,” Vasilii said. “I guess we should get down to the village.”

  In the west a churning bank of clouds was drawing closer.

  “We call this Mount Newhall,” I said as we started walking. Now I’m blathering like Booker, I said to myself as I continued. “It was named after some missionaries.”

  “Never heard of them,” Vasilii said.

  “You will.” I smiled. “What do you call it?”

  Vasilii spoke in Unangam tunuu.

  “Which means what?” Booker asked.

  “‘It’s a mountain,’” he said and laughed.

  Below several folds of the treeless slopes, a line of people had come into view, walking the trail that hugged the shore. A man in front carried a tall, dark wooden cross. Two wide bands of black cloth were tied to it and curled in the wind. Behind him six men carried what was obviously a coffin. Their uneven steps gave the wooden box the appearance of floating on water.

  “They’re headed to the cemetery,” Vasilii said and increased his pace. I made out three figures in dark robes. The priest and his helpers, I thought.

  We half-ran, half-sailed down the smooth, grassy slopes. For a short time we were tucked behind a ridge, and when we emerged we saw a varied assortment of people about to enter the cemetery. Members of the Orthodox community and men from the A.C. Company were following the coffin single file up the narrow trail through a cluster of graves. Vasilii caught up with Huang Zhen, and asked, “Hey, Ivan, what’s this about?”

  The young Chinaman crossed himself and said, “Chris Hansen drowned.”

  A blunt wind sucked away the world. I didn’t really know if he was a relative. But I had wanted to know him. I had wanted to talk with him. He might have been my grandfather. He might have helped me understand better who I was.

  Vasilii and Booker followed Huang Zhen at the end of the line of mourners, but I stumbled away toward the beach where a wide swath of grass protected the shoreline. I scrambled down the bank. Rows of incoming waves fell on each other while cries of seagulls drowned out the continuity of the service that had begun. Fragments of Father Shaiashnikoff’s strong tenor crosscut the rhythmic echoes of the choir. I steeled myself against an unfamiliar grief that rose from my gut until it broke into pieces. I crouched down in a protective cover of grass. The blades wrestled against the wind and struck me like dull knives. I had lost any chance of returning the ivory fox to where it belonged. Now I had lost another chance of figuring out who I was.

  I felt the carved fox inside my pocket. I took it out and held it in my open palm.

  I’m done with it, I thought. I tightened my fist around it. It’s only brought me trouble. All I want is to get back home. All I want is for things to be the way they were. And then, as a long sob rose from somewhere deep inside me, I hurled it into the sea.

  I joined Booker in the arc of people around the coffin, a simple wooden box resting on three planks above a damp hole. He extended his hand. A mound of dark earth rose from the lush green foliage like the back of a whale. I looked out over the great bay stretching in front of us with its pulsing uneven edges. Clouds had darkened the water. The service drew to its conclusion. The coffin was lowered into the grave with two wide bands of cloth. The rain began as the coffin came to rest on two pieces of wood. The cloth bands were pulled up, leaving the coffin by itself forever. It was raining hard now, and the wind masked Father Shaiashnikoff’s voice as he intoned the benediction. He accepted a shovel from the church warden and scattered earth onto the casket three times. He handed the shovel to the person beside him. I waited my turn, which I knew would come after all the men and after the adult women.

  Booker, Vasilii, and I pushed against rain and a headwind as we left the cemetery. I asked about using the bookmark to go back in time a few days, a week at most, so I could warn Chris Hansen. Or talk with him. Or something. But Booker had said we couldn’t, or at least that he didn’t have any idea how to do that even if
the bookmark worked. Which it probably didn’t. Then I had broken away from them and hurried ahead. I waited among the half-dozen cannons in front of the A.C. Company store until they caught up, and we went into the hotel where the company was hosting a reception.

  The damp crowd milled around, standing in small groups or sitting on the chairs placed against the wall. Here and there brief eruptions of laughter accompanied stories about Chris Hansen’s escapades and how he’d picked the worst day in weeks to get buried. Five or six Unanga women, all in black, circled a young woman who was seated and holding a child. Vasilii left three young men and made his way to where Booker and I were sitting near the door.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked. And then he looked at me. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “You still have something to do,” he said.

  “I’m done,” I replied and turned to Booker. “We’re going home.” I shoved a cookie into my mouth to keep it shut.

  Booker looked surprised.

  “Those people on Kagamil,” I said, eventually forced to swallow, “are still without their so-called magic charm.” Crumbs stopped partway down my throat, and I coughed until I recovered enough to add, “They’re probably all dead by now anyway. Nobody’s luck has changed. Ash got the revenge he wanted. And this—” I was having a hard time keeping my voice steady. “This—” I gestured around—“it must mean we should leave things the way they are.”

  Vasilii didn’t disagree.

  As though to confirm my conclusions about the future of those long-ago people, Peter Rostokovich stumbled across the threshold accompanied by a gust of alcoholic fumes. He lurched forward and latched onto the first upright thing within reach. It happened to be Mrs. Otis. She had not attended the funeral but had heaped her plate to overflowing at the reception. She shrieked and sent cookies and a wedge of cake flying. I wanted to laugh, but it was all so sad.

  Poor drunk Peter, the last of the Four Mountain people.

  The old man stared furiously at Mrs. Otis as two men moved to restrain him, but he ducked sideways long enough to stretch out his hand and drop a soiled cloth onto my lap.

  “It’s yours,” he said as he was pulled backward and pivoted toward the door. “You lost it,” he shouted over his shoulder as he was propelled out into the fresh air.

  I unwrapped the cloth. Booker and Vasilii looked down at the small, carved fox and then at me.

  “What do you want?” I shouted as I stood and made for the door, cramming the fox into my pocket. “What do you expect me to do?”

  How had Peter found the fox? How had he known where to find me? There were a dozen questions I couldn’t answer. If he was a Four Mountain person, why hadn’t he kept it for himself? Hadn’t I made more than an honest attempt to return it? I couldn’t have done anything more. It just wasn’t to be.

  In the end, Booker and Vasilii agreed. The storm had subsided. We had gone out to the cannons. I remembered about the bookmark’s small torn fragment tucked between the pages of Dall’s book on Aleutian mummies. If Vasilii would bring the book to us, Booker could attempt to unite the two pieces and activate the bookmark. It might work. It was worth a try.

  “We were on Hennig’s ship when we got here,” Booker said. “That’s our best bet for getting back.”

  “Here,” I extended a hand to Vasilii.

  He saw the ivory fox in my palm and shook his head.

  I held the carved fox out to Booker. He just looked at it.

  “Please,” I said. “If Vasilii won’t take it, we can give it to the museum at home.”

  He slipped it into his backpack. Rain had started to sprinkle, so we went back inside. The reception was over. The crowd had dispersed. Hennig and a few of the A.C. Company men had moved to a smaller room where periodic laughter interrupted their card playing.

  “It shouldn’t be hard for you to get aboard his ship,” Vasilii said.

  It felt like an ending. It felt like we were saying goodbye.

  “Thanks for everything, Vasilii,” I said. “I mean it.”

  He reached into his pocket and took out two small white objects. “Here,” he said. “These are for you.”

  He handed over two finely carved ivory cleats that he said had been used to secure hunting spears to the outside of a baidarka.

  Each was shaped like an eagle at rest. One hole allowed it to be fastened to the vessel while another threaded the cord that held the sea otter spears.

  “I’ve had them a long time,” he said as Booker examined his. “They came off a real old-time baidarka frame that somebody was taking apart for the wood.”

  We stepped back outside. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Vasilii said and headed to his house to get the book with the small fragment of the bookmark in it.

  Chief, not priest, I thought.

  “Well, let’s get to the boat,” I said as I gave Booker a slight tug on his jacket and added, “Angaayu.”

  “After you, partner,” he said and started toward the Eider. I had taken only a couple of steps when I turned and sprinted back to where the Russian cannons clustered around the flagpole. I ran my hands along the back of the largest one, the one I knew would never be returned once they were shipped away.

  “Stay safe,” I said to it and gave it a hard slap before I bolted back to where Booker waited. We made our way to the wharf as the rain returned.

  17. Booker

  The Eider was dark under the rain and mist. I was reminded of the day we arrived. We had not known where we were or what would happen. Now I knew where I was. But as to what would happen next, all I knew was that I did not want to get soaked. I convinced Anna we should find the room where we had arrived. It was a closet-sized cabin tucked below the back of the ship. The two narrow bunks built against the hull suggested it had once been used by the crew. Now it was mostly a storeroom, crowded with odd pieces of equipment, wooden crates, and two wooden barrels. I cleared off a bunk and sat down. With only a single porthole, it was pretty dark, but I made out the words Remington’s Horseradish on one of the crates.

  No, thank you, I said to myself.

  I leaned back against the wall and yawned.

  “I’m going up on deck to wait for him,” Anna said.

  “Do what you want,” I answered. “It’s raining hard. He’ll find us. He’s been here before.”

  She left. Normally, a storm would have kept me awake. But it didn’t. Even worry about whether or not I would be able to reunite the bookmark and get it to work, didn’t keep me awake. What did make my pulse race a bit faster was the memory of Fevronia sitting across the table and asking, “Will you remember me to my relative?” and me answering, “Yes,” as though I knew what I was saying. That was a long time ago. A long time ago and several islands away. And then I fell asleep.

  18. Anna

  I waited on deck in the long evening light that was dimmed further by clouds and rain and mist. There was no sign of anybody along the curved stretch of beach. Something had delayed Vasilii, but I was confident that he’d show up. Booker was right: he would know where we were.

  I went below deck and found myself a blanket. I removed two crates from the other bunk, burrowed under the blanket, and tried not to think.

  Somewhere in the lost space of the night, the ship bumped against the dock. I rolled over and dreamed while waves and wind surrounded me. They lifted me up. I floated above crevices of water, coasted in air currents that angled over the sea. I stretched my arms and banked full-bodied into the wind. Up and across, down and over, higher and wider, I glided in swelling currents until the air thinned, the ship buckled, and the floor toppled away. I scrambled to my feet fully awake, only to be tossed backward as I struggled against gravity to Booker. I shook his shoulders and shouted with as much energy as I could inject into a whisper, “Booker! We’re at sea. Wake up!”

  With one smooth motion, he hurled himself to the porthole above his bunk and wiped away the cond
ensation. Dawn was breaking, and the gray sea was studded with whitecaps.

  “What do we do?”

  “We ride it out,” I said. “What else can we do?”

  “Did Vasilii show up?”

  I shook my head. I joined him on his bunk, and we sat with our backs against the bulkhead as the tumult roared a few inches away.

  “We need some pilot bread,” I said. “It’s good for this kind of sea.”

  “Why did she let us escape?”

  “That Volcano Woman?”

  “She could have stopped us, you know.”

  “Maybe she didn’t care much one way or another.”

  “And Ash?” Booker teetered over to a crate. He had a nose for food.

  “What about him?” I asked.

  He removed the lid on a tin box and handed me a cracker.

  “Would he have helped us?”

  “Seems unlikely,” I said.

  He finished off a cracker. He was a tad bit wired.

  “Take out the fox,” I said. “Let me see it.”

  He removed a rolled-up sock from his pack.

  “You kept it in a dirty sock? Disgusting.”

  He handed it over.

  “Poor thing,” I said and blew on it.

  Then I brought it closer to my eyes.

  “Is this the same one?”

  “What do you mean? Of course it is.”

  “I don’t remember the opening here.” I pointed where the two front legs crossed. “I need a piece of string.”

  I made it to a wooden barrel filled with pants and shirts, oilskin rain jackets, hats and gloves. I rummaged around until I found a leather boot. I unlaced it and, using a moment when the ship wasn’t bouncing, threaded the leather shoestring between the crossed front paws.

  “There,” I said as I tied the cord together and handed it to Booker who opened the sock.

  “Wait!”

  I returned to the barrel, dug around again, and carried back a red plaid handkerchief.