Zhuchka leaps around me, barking.
“Madame Bulygina, you almost killed yourself!” Maria scolds.
“Go dry yourself by the fire,” Timofei Osipovich says. “Help her,” he orders Maria. He turns and strides into the sea, strong legs plunging through the surf and propelling him back toward the brig.
“Did your mother teach you nothing?” Maria chastises. She takes my arm and leads me to where the promyshlenniki have built a fire in a ring of smooth stones. A plume of smoke rises into the sky and bends toward the forest until I can no longer see it. I lower myself onto a piece of silvery wood and wait for warmth to enter my body. I can’t wait for night to fall. Perhaps I’ll be able to bear the inconceivable misfortune that has befallen us if my beloved Polaris is there watching over us tonight.
CHAPTER THREE
The fire crackles like a hot frying pan, and my clothes steam as they begin to dry. I adjust the folds of fabric, spreading out the layers around my legs. I extend my arms and turn them like I’m roasting them. The crew has erected two tents with, under the circumstances, a strangely respectable distance between them. I just can’t fathom that I’ll be sleeping in one of them tonight.
Zhuchka doesn’t care about drying off. Unlike us, she’s spirited and good-natured. She noses about the beach, compelled to examine every rock, every shell, every log. She chases the birds bold enough to land. They easily fly out of her reach and return once she’s not looking. Despite our circumstances, it’s impossible to begrudge her this joy. Every once in a while, she raises her muzzle and chews, having found some morsel.
It must be well past the time for our midday meal. I glance at Maria; she’s staring into the fire with a muted expression. I feel reluctant to mention hunger—it seems trivial in the face of our present adversity. I try to concentrate on the warmth from the fire and the comfort it brings.
My perch on this log faces the sea. It’s a convenient place from which to watch the crew finish unloading the boat. They haul barrels and sacks of ammunition, tools, and food through the foaming surf. They fight against the forceful sea, which pushes and pulls them in opposing directions. They make trip after trip after trip, labouring as they drag everything across the stones and through the sand, and then place it beneath the large tent to ensure it stays dry.
Mercifully, there’s no rain falling now, and it doesn’t feel as if it’s imminent. Light clouds blanket the sky far above us. The smoke from our fire merges with it and disappears. I hope we have a dry night.
My husband stands thigh-deep in the ocean, just beyond where the surf breaks, near to where a bobbing flock of black seabirds warily keeps an eye on our activity. He shouts commands to the Aleuts who are still on deck. One of them is high up the mainmast and continuing to dismantle the sails from the rigging. I’m not sure why; perhaps Nikolai Isaakovich intends to erect more tents.
Has he retrieved my telescope and star log and sent to shore yet? I hope he hasn’t forgotten. Otherwise, somebody will have to make a separate trip to fetch them.
Most of the rest of the crew is here beside the fire. The apprentice Kotelnikov sits and stands and sits again, lacking the patience to find a comfortable enough seat on the logs and rocks. Carpenter Kurmachev earlier opened his flask, but when he found it empty, he began whittling a piece of wood. He dejectedly flicks the shavings into the fire. Timofei Osipovich opens his palms to the flames. The bleeding has stopped, but his hands are raw and bruised.
He’s ordered his steadfast Ovchinnikov and the American to stand sentry. They’re a short distance away, facing the forest, their firearms loaded and resting over their shoulders. It’s the koliuzhi they await, but there’s no sign anybody’s nearby. We haven’t seen or heard anything other than what you’d expect from such a vast and desolate wilderness.
We’ve run aground in a place that’s empty and beautiful. The edge of the beach closest to the surf is covered with smooth stones. Bundles of tangled kelp mark the tideline and brilliant white seashells glow even though it’s overcast. Above the stones, there’s powdery, pale sand. A few silvery logs, tossed up on shore and dug into the sand, set up a barricade along this upper edge. Beyond this, beach grass nods in the gentle breeze, and beyond that, dense black forest beckons and threatens at the same time. Birds drift overhead and keen and call out to one another. Their cries echo eerily off the trees and rocks, rising above the incessant sound of the sea.
Ovchinnikov stops. He slips his musket off his shoulder and aims it at the forest, spreads his legs wide. Timofei Osipovich sits up and takes his hands away from the fire. The bushes at the edge of the forest begin to quiver. Then, from the darkness, six people emerge.
Zhuchka, nosing around a bundle of kelp, looks up. Her hackles rise. She barks, and then charges toward the people—all men—who don’t even glance her way.
“Steady,” Timofei Osipovich warns in a low voice. No one at the fire moves or makes a sound. Zhuchka, on the other hand, leaps in circles around the newcomers. They pay her about as much heed as if she were a swirling mote of dust.
As the koliuzhi draw closer to the fire, everyone rises, even Maria and me. Two of the six strangers advance, one a tall, moustached man carrying a spear, the other a slightly smaller version of him who is hardly an adult. This boy has a blunt object hanging from a sinew around his neck, identical to the horn-shaped objects carried by the koliuzhi who gave us the halibut. I’m no closer to knowing its function. This one is so ornately carved I wonder now if these objects are ceremonial, like the sceptre carried by the constellation Cepheus, the king who keeps one foot planted on my beloved Polaris as he spins around her.
Their heads are covered with wide-brimmed hats woven with a material very much like bast. Our peasants, however, fabricate nothing like these hats, which have angular designs woven right into them. More remarkable than the bast hats, however, are the men’s faces and shoulders, which are painted red and black and sprinkled with fluffy white feathers. I’ve never seen anything like it. Their appearance is strange and beautiful, striking and intimidating.
“Liatsatsdoόli,”2 says the moustached man.
Timofei Osipovich replies—thank goodness he knows this strange language.
The koliuzhi brightens, and says, “Kwokwósas hokwachiyólit táad.”3
Timofei Osipovich gives a short nod and waits.
Nikolai Isaakovich watches us. Timofei Osipovich waves to say the situation is under control. My husband takes two steps toward the beach, then stops, hesitates, and eventually turns back to his tasks on the brig.
The moustached man and Timofei Osipovich continue their conversation. Timofei Osipovich’s face is a stone; I can tell nothing from his expression. Does he really understand what the man is saying? Is he pleased? As for the moustached man, sensation and thought flit across his features. I think he’s surprised to find us here, but why wouldn’t he be? I can’t yet tell if we’re welcome—or if we’re under threat.
4 he asks.
Timofei Osipovich smiles and bows his head before replying briefly. Then he slips into Russian and says, “Madame Bulygina, Maria—come with me. The rest of you, stay here and remain alert.” We follow him into the smaller tent. The two koliuzhi in the hats join us.
It’s colder in the tent without the fire. However, I wouldn’t leave even if Timofei Osipovich ordered it. The moustached man wears a sea otter cape dark as a moonless night at sea. When he shifts, the fur’s silver highlights gleam even though only a sliver of light enters the tent. Plump tails of fur dangle from the hem. The boy, on the other hand, is dressed simply in a plain breechclout and a cedar bark vest that hangs to his hips. Beneath it, his chest is bare. He stares at Maria and me, his eyes bulging. His gaze latches onto my silver cross. There is no more space than the span of an open hand between us.
The conversation continues. Timofei Osipovich doesn’t say much, but he listens while his eyes flit around the tent, jumping from the older man, then to me, then to the young man, then Maria, then the s
and, and once again the koliuzhi, then the ceiling of the tent.
The older man leans in, one hand open, moving up and down in the same rhythm as his speech. He seems earnest and concerned. About what? Is it us? Is it something happening at his home? Where is his home? There’s not a house in sight, not a sound, not even a trail of smoke leading into the sky that I can see. If he doesn’t live here, how did he get here?
Timofei Osipovich is impassive. Why isn’t he responding? Is it possible he doesn’t understand everything the man is saying?
The moustached man is mid-sentence when Ovchinnikov thrusts his head through the opening of our tent. His face blocks our narrow view of the sea, his hair obscures his eyes.
“The koliuzhi are in the other tent,” he says quietly.
Timofei Osipovich’s eyes widen. He frowns and presses his lips together. He glances at the moustached man who’s stopped talking and is watching with an intensity like smouldering coals.
“What are they doing?” asks Timofei Osipovich.
“They’re looking at our things. They keep touching them and picking them up. I don’t trust them. They’re going to steal something.”
“Watch them. I’ll talk to this one.”
Timofei Osipovich addresses the moustached man. He speaks calmly, and smiles frequently. When the man finally replies, I think I’ve been wrong. Timofei Osipovich must know how to speak their language.
In their faces, in the tone of the conversation, I feel something come to rest like when a bead of water rolls across the deck and arrives at the bulwark. Timofei Osipovich turns to Maria and me.
“Everything is fine. He’ll talk to the others,” he says. “He’s the toyon.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You don’t know toyon? It’s—a kind of emperor. Their version of it anyway.” Timofei Osipovich pauses. “There’s usually more than one. It depends on where you are. This one’s friendly.”
Whatever disaster has befallen us, it seems it’s not about to get worse. I look at our toyon who is serene and maybe even, dare I hope, a little sympathetic to our circumstance. I don’t know what’s happening in the other tent, but I suddenly have confidence in this toyon to make everything right.
Timofei Osipovich exhales decidedly and announces, “I’m going away with him.”
Maria stiffens.
“Where?” I demand.
“His house. It’s not far.”
“You can’t leave us here.”
He smirks. “Then come with me.”
Maria and I exchange looks.
“Madame Bulygina, you’ll be fine. Ovchinnikov will be in charge here until I return. If the apprentice tries to convince you to do other than what Ovchinnikov tells you, ignore him.”
“What if they turn on you?”
Timofei Osipovich raises his eyebrows and smirks again.
“Nikolai Isaakovich would never allow you,” I continue. But my logic is flawed. These matters are secondary. What’s most concerning is that he’s the only man here who can communicate with the koliuzhi. He mustn’t leave.
“In fact, Madame Bulygina, your husband would insist upon it, if he knew. But, as you are aware, he’s occupied. Would you like to ask his permission on my behalf?” I lean sideways until I can see my husband through the opening in the tent. He’s still thigh deep in the sea. His attention is on the crew members who are lowering the empty skiff into the ocean. It swings helplessly from its cables, banging against the side of the brig. Between Nikolai Isaakovich and the shore, the surf roars. Between the froth and me are stones and sand. Timofei Osipovich will be gone by the time I get to the edge of the beach. And I’ll never be able to shout loudly enough to be heard above the sea.
“He’s a friendly man,” says Timofei Osipovich, rising. The older man and the boy both rise with him. “He wants to help us. I’ll come back in a little while. I’ll settle the rest down before we leave.”
“Timofei Osipovich!” Ovchinnikov calls.
Timofei Osipovich pokes his head out of the tent. “Stand fast, men,” he says quietly.
“What’s happening out there?” I cry.
I can’t see, but it’s certain something’s going on. The koliuzhi outside the tent have raised their voices.
“Do the best you can. Try somehow to get them out of the camp without fighting.” Timofei Osipovich and the koliuzhi sit down again and begin to talk once more. Timofei Osipovich has a lot to say now. The toyon squints and listens thoughtfully.
In the middle of their discussion, a rock flies across the tent opening. Another follows, coming from the opposite direction. “They’re throwing stones!” I cry. I don’t know who’s responsible. I can’t see.
Timofei Osipovich leans toward the opening in the tent and shouts. “Control yourselves! Don’t retaliate!” He assumes it’s the koliuzhi throwing the rocks.
Then, a gun fires. The birds shriek.
Timofei Osipovich rushes from the tent. He catches his foot on one of the cords. “Damn,” he cries, extracting his foot. The tent shivers violently. It might collapse. The fabric springs back and forth. But the tent stays up.
The toyon leaps over my folded legs. I lean back, believing he’ll fall on me. The boy follows seconds later. They leave behind a cloud of spinning white feathers as they fly out of the tent.
There’s another gun shot.
I duck and cover my head with my hands. Maria shrieks, throws herself down, and curls up on the sand. Outside, there’s shouting. Thuds. Grunts. Screams. I snake to the narrow opening and when I muster enough courage, I raise my head.
Timofei Osipovich staggers backward, then twists toward our tent. The shaft of a spear vibrates in his chest. He’s been struck.
Hardy prikashchik—he grabs the shaft and with a grunt, he pulls out the spear. With his free hand, he raises his pistol and turns to the big tent where all our supplies lie. A man with a mouth contorted in rage has a spear in one hand and a rock in the other. He throws the rock at Timofei Osipovich. It strikes him in the head. The blow spins him around so he’s again facing the tent. A stream of blood trickles down his forehead and into his eyes.
The toyon’s empty-handed. What happened to his spear? He streaks around, runs from man to man, shouts and tears at their arms, urging them to leave.
The apprentice Kotelnikov strikes him across the back with his musket. Something cracks. The toyon screams.
Where’s my husband? I can’t see him. I need to find him, but I can’t leave the tent. I can barely breathe.
Timofei Osipovich trips and falls across a huge log. He doesn’t move. He lies there like some hideous mat on a tiny table.
The man who threw the rock at him is on the ground. I can’t tell if he’s alive or not.
Zhuchka barks wildly. I can’t see her.
I must find Nikolai Isaakovich. I rise to my knees. As soon as I do, another gun fires. And another, and another, and another. I throw myself away from the opening and down onto the sand beside Maria. I press my body against hers. I hug my knees to my chest. I hear a wail. It’s me and it’s not me.
Outside, there’s the sound of running feet. They pound the sand and shake the earth. I feel it rumble up into my body. It’s moving away from the tent, in the direction of the forest. Finally, it ceases.
Quiet descends like a bank of fog and smothers everything.
I wait. And wait.
I hear a groan. Somebody sobs. Is it one of us? Is it the koliuzhi?
I look at Maria, but her face is turned away, and she’s still as an old rock.
I leave her side and tentatively approach the tent’s opening. Slowly I push my head through the narrow vee.
It’s over. The battle is over. The only people outside are us.
I immediately find Nikolai Isaakovich. He’s face down on the sand. There’s a spear in his back.
I run from the tent and fall to my knees before him. Zhuchka butts up against my side and whines. I shove her away.
Dear God. My
husband is dead. I’m a widow, and I’m not even twenty years old.
I look up, weeping, and there’s Timofei Osipovich, bloodied but alive, standing over us. “Don’t worry. He’s fine. Aren’t you?”
“Get that thing out of me, would you?” my husband mutters.
Timofei Osipovich grasps the shaft and pulls. My husband groans. The spear easily slides from near his shoulder blade. There’s a wide rent in his greatcoat, but it seems the thick wool prevented the spear from penetrating too deeply.
“Kolya?” I cry. “Are you all right?”
He rolls over. Blood coats half his face.
“Oh. Oh.” The sight of so much blood tangles my tongue for a moment. Finally, I find my words. “My darling, what happened to you?”
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry.” With difficulty, he pushes himself up to a sitting position.
“I thought you were dead.” I clasp his arms, but he grimaces, and I let go. “Oh, Kolya.” I blot at the blood with my apron, with the hem of my dress. It instantly blooms across the absorbent fabric, painting big red petals. “Does it hurt?”
The American, John Williams, holds his head and groans. There’s blood oozing down his ear. Yakov limps toward us. “Commander?” he says. “Are you badly injured?”
Kotelnikov has blood drying beneath his nose. He swipes his pudgy hand across it and cries, “They’re filth! Scum!”
Maria crawls out of the tent. She looks around the beach in disbelief. It’s strewn with the spoils of our battle: spears and rocks, cloaks of cedar, and the woven hats. Many of the crew have been injured.
“What happened out here?” cries Timofei Osipovich. He looks at the men one by one. “Can’t I leave you alone for a minute?”
We’re bloodied and beaten, but not seriously. None of us is dead. However, the koliuzhi haven’t been so lucky. Two koliuzhi bodies lie on the beach.
“They carried away another one of theirs when they ran,” says Yakov. “He couldn’t walk.”
Anna, Like Thunder Page 5
