The bundles of food are very small. We’ve eaten a lot in the hours since the brig ran aground—big bowls of kasha and cups of sugared tea. Sobachnikov and the apprentice Kotelnikov made an extra trip out to the brig at Maria’s request to look for more food. They returned with stale bread, a withered onion, and a tub of pickles. They also found strips of the leftover halibut that Maria salted and was starting to dry. Within a few minutes, all of it was eaten.
Now, all that remains is some bruised potato, turnip, and a few carrots, a paltry quantity of buckwheat, flour, sugar, yeast, salt, and tea. How this will feed twenty-two of us, I can’t imagine.
“We still need more,” Maria says, overseeing the packing of the food. “Somebody has to go back to the brig again. I know we have more.”
“There’s nothing left,” says Kotelnikov.
“Old woman, stop worrying! We’ll hunt and fish,” Timofei Osipovich cries. “There’ll be plenty—berries, mushrooms . . .”
“It’s almost winter, you fool. There are no berries and mushrooms. And if you’re such a good hunter, why didn’t you get us some venison last night?”
“You want venison? Why didn’t you say so?”
“What am I supposed to make with this? For twenty-two people? We need to go back and get more.”
“There are limits to what can be carried.”
“And yet you make allowance for—trinkets?” Maria gestures dismissively at the pile of korolki, handkerchiefs, and folds of fabric waiting to be tied into a bundle. The edge of a blue nankeen cotton robe pokes out from the heap.
“These trinkets will buy you a fish or a haunch of good venison,” Timofei Osipovich says. “You’ll thank me later, old woman.”
The bundles and barrels are loaded into the skiff, and, in fours, we ferry ourselves across the mouth of the river. Zhuchka wades in. When it becomes too deep to walk, she paddles, but not for long. Once we’ve all crossed, Timofei Osipovich and the Aleuts push the empty skiff into the middle of the river. It twists one way, then the other, then makes a pretty circle before choosing a direction and heading out to sea. Does any man wish to be on it? It’s conceivable, though he’d have to believe that the fate that awaits him alone at sea would be preferable to the fate that awaits him on shore.
We don’t wait to see our little boat disappear.
Timofei Osipovich pushes aside a few branches and finds an opening into the forest. He ducks in and disappears, Zhuchka on his heels. Half a minute later, they return, Zhuchka panting.
“I found a trail,” he says. “It’s quite muddy, but not terrible. It will be easy enough to see anyway.” Zhuchka trots back to the bank of the river and laps at the water.
“Maybe we should follow the beach instead,” my husband says.
“We’ll be safer surrounded by trees and brush,” counters Timofei Osipovich. “On the beach, we’ll be too exposed. We need sentries, in front and bringing up the rear.”
I look up. Low grey clouds promise rain before long. Perhaps the forest offers shelter from that as well.
As I shoulder my bundle—mostly food, but my telescope and star log are cushioned in the centre of the load—I notice my husband watching. I stop and smile, and I wonder what he’s thinking. He looks wild and hopeful and handsome. His cheeks are ruddy, chafed by the wind and salt air. I feel a longing for him deep in my heart—to be close to him, to hear his voice in my ear, to feel his beard brush against my cheek. How reassuring his arm, tight around my waist, would be before we enter this sombre forest and begin an unimaginable voyage.
He smiles briefly, then turns his attention to his bundle. Despite his injury, he has a load as big and heavy as anybody else’s. As he pulls it up on his right shoulder, he winces. I stifle a cry. He’d want no man to notice.
As commander, he’s the first to push aside the branches and enter the forest. Timofei Osipovich, his loyal Ovchinnikov, and the American follow immediately, while the rest of us trail behind.
I follow Sobachnikov. He pushes aside a springy branch of a low shrub with his hips. I’m so much shorter than him, I must duck underneath it. I lift it and step into the gloom, letting the branch fall behind me.
And I stop. A reverential hush has fallen over our group as if we’ve just entered a beautiful old cathedral in Petersburg.
Green surrounds us, a soft and luscious green as I’ve never seen before, not even in the finest tapestries. Leaves hang heavy with moisture, and everything else seems covered in moss and lichen.
Every tree is oversized. The tree trunks tower distantly to the sky. At the base, they are gnarled and peeling, with roots that push up through the earth, as though there’s no room left for them down there. These trunks are so broad that not even four of us hand in hand could circle them. Even the fungus that clings to the trees is unnaturally large, crusty, and coloured like pretty beze cookies.
The air is fragrant and silky. Though I know it irrational, I feel I could touch it. Hold it in my hand. After so many weeks on the brig, where sea breezes could not dissipate all the foul odours of a vessel at sea, this air makes me think about the courageous and worthy things that people fight for and are capable of but somehow rarely get and even more rarely do.
Tears well up in my eyes, surely from my exhaustion, but also because I’ve never known anything as beautiful as this exists, and I realize how poor my life has been without this knowledge.
Timofei Osipovich’s trail winds through this splendour, then peters out into nothing after only a few minutes. We spread out looking for it again. I walk around a grove of ferns with brilliant green leaves on arched spines that spill over like streams of water in a fountain. Behind the ferns lie spindly branches covered in thorns. I edge around them to avoid being scratched. The ground is spongy. Cold water seeps into my shoes.
Nearby, tall Sobachnikov pushes aside another branch, and this time, when it springs back, it knocks old Yakov’s cap off his head. A small flock of birds as tiny as buttons flit overhead as though launched from slingshots.
Just ahead, Maria skirts along an old fallen log covered in moss. The log is wide like the trees that surround us. She’s dwarfed as she walks its length. Smaller trees and plants grow on top of the log as if it’s a garden. Maria has to walk some distance before she finds a place to cross over it.
“Over here!” John Williams cries. “The trail’s over here.” I head toward his voice.
Big beards of moss so long they could be braided garland the trees. Is it alive? How does it sustain itself without killing the tree? Fixed to the branches as it is, it makes the trees look like a congress of fat, bearded priests, gathered to discuss profound questions of faith and sin.
I follow the others. I walk as well as I can with one hand clutched to the neck of my bundle, and the other trying to hold closed my cedar bark cape. Most of the time, I can’t see Nikolai Isaakovich. But I yearn to be with him. I want to see his face to know if this forest surprises and moves him, too.
As I predicted on the banks of the river, it begins to rain. It’s soft, misty rain that makes me believe we’re walking through a cloud. It continues, soaking my hair and my skirt. I clutch more tightly the opening of my bark cloak. My bundle feels heavier. I wonder if the food I carry is being spoiled in the rain. But it will be even worse if my telescope and star log are becoming wet.
I enter a thicker part of the forest, and the trail grows vague again. I hear the others just ahead; I must be moving in the right direction. After a few minutes, I come upon the crew waiting in a grove. “It’s too dark to go on,” my husband says. “We’ll stop here.”
“How far do you think we’ve come?” I ask.
“We’ve made good progress,” he replies and turns to Timofei Osipovich. “What do you think?”
“I would think perhaps a good three nautical miles.”
No one smiles. Three. Leaving sixty-two more to go.
We drop our bundles and the Aleuts start to put up our tents, tying cords to the trees and branches that
surround us. I walk the perimeter of our camp area. My feet sink into the mossy ground, but perhaps this is as good a place as any we might find in this drenched forest.
Timofei Osipovich sidles over and points. “Look, Madame Bulygina, here’s my supper.” Mushrooms have pushed up around a rotting log. They’re orange, with upturned caps in the shape of a jaunty hat I’d once yearned for in Petersburg. “Cook them for me, will you?” And when I frown, he adds, “You do know how to cook, don’t you?”
“Cook them yourself,” I mutter.
“They’re poisonous,” says Maria. “Don’t touch them.”
Our fire is very small—just big enough for Maria to prepare another meagre meal of kasha and tepid tea. Though we haven’t seen the koliuzhi all day, such a tiny fire won’t draw any attention should they happen to pass nearby. Still, my husband doubles the size of our watch. Four men guard us at once, four more taking their place after a few hours.
Nikolai Isaakovich sits beside me, tired and sagging toward his injury. I’m tired as well. My feet are achy and blistered. My loose, wet shoes have rubbed the skin off my heels and toes, and they bleed in several places. However, I’m so exhausted, I’m sure I’ll forget as soon as I lie down. Tonight, I’m destined to sleep the deep and bottomless slumber of little children.
Zhuchka is on my other side, pressed into my leg. Her steady breathing offers as much comfort as the heat she generates.
The night looms over us the way the mountains hang over Novo-Arkhangelsk. There are no stars to be seen overhead. It’s too overcast, and even if it wasn’t, the canopy would block any view. It will be many hours before the sun rises again. The men slouch and sigh, and if it weren’t for their full flasks—thanks to the carpenter—I’m sure they’d have given up and retired for the night.
The fire sighs and pops.
“Long ago,” Timofei Osipovich says, breaking our silence, “not near, not far, not high, not low, the Tsar sent me to sea, alone.” The American peers at him. With one hand, the carpenter stirs the fire with a stick, while he takes a swig from his flask with the other. The other men shift. “I was on a secret mission. Don’t ask for details—I’d be put before a firing squad if I were to reveal its true nature.” The men sit up.
“The winds howled, as they do, and the seas were higher than these trees, as they sometimes are, and I was forced ashore to an island so small and rarely visited that it fails to appear on any navigator’s map.” My husband stiffens and looks as though he’s being accused of incompetence, but no one’s paying any attention to him. Everyone is mesmerized by Timofei Osipovich.
“It was a merciless piece of land forsaken by God. A barren rock in the middle of nowhere. Even the birds stayed away. There was hardly anywhere to land my little baidarka. I fought the waves until I came to a stony beach, scarcely wider than this.” He holds up his hands to show us. “I didn’t think my boat would fit through the opening, but I forced it. I had no choice.
“Then, I made a horrible discovery. I’d been wrong. The island was not abandoned. A hundred men jumped out from behind a rock. They waved their swords and spears and screeched like the devil’s army as they came for me.”
Every man leans in. In the fire, a burning log collapses with a soft thud. The fire crackles and a few sparks rise and then extinguish themselves.
“I’d walked right through the gates of Hell. I couldn’t fight those savages on my own. I’d drown if I tried to go back out into the sea. I thought for certain that day I would die.
“And so, having no other choice, I raised my empty arms high above my head.” He throws his arms aloft, slapping the jaw of his loyal Ovchinnikov who doesn’t so much as wince. “I faced the charging savages. And I hoped that one of them would understand that I was surrendering, and placing my fate in their hands.
“Much to my astonishment, my assailants immediately stopped. They were no farther away from me than Ivan Kurmachev is right now.”
Every head turns to see where the carpenter is, to gauge the distance and estimate how long it would take if one had to withdraw to save his life. Kurmachev takes a nervous swig from his flask, and when he lowers it, he reveals eyes as round as full moons. Timofei Osipovich continues.
“I didn’t budge. Neither did they for a long, long time. It seemed a lifetime or two. Finally, slowly, one man at a time, they lowered their weapons. And then two of them approached. They inspected my boat. They began to take everything out, running their filthy fingers over each item, discussing the ones that interested them. You know the koliuzhi way—you’ve seen it yourselves. All the while, I did and said nothing, for fear of driving them, once again, into a savage rage.
“When they got to the end of my belongings, and seemed not to know what to do next, I realized immediately that I had to do something to distract them. Otherwise, they might think that the next best thing to do would be to kill me.”
“What did you do?” Sobachnikov says, in awe.
“What could I do?” Timofei Osipovich laughs. “I made a kite.”
The men around the fire shift, but no one laughs with him. No one wants to miss his next words.
“I found two sticks about this long.” He shows us with his hands. “I lashed them together with a piece of kelp that was there on the beach beside my baidarka. I attached a piece of paper to it. And when I was finished, I held it up to show them.
“No one spoke. I tied some thin rope to it, and threw it into the air.”
He makes a motion like he’s throwing something into the wind. Old Yakov flinches.
“At that moment, I realized I might have misjudged and placed myself in even greater peril. The koliuzhi leapt back in fear. The wind caught the kite. They raised their swords and spears. Some pointed them at me and others at the kite. I thought I was about to breathe my last.
“But then—as I released more of the rope—they lowered their weapons. They began to smile. One laughed. Then others joined in. As they watched the kite climb, they rejoiced. And by the time it reached its full height,” he pauses long and hard and swivels his head around the fireside, meeting the eye of each and every person here, “we were best friends. All of us.
“‘You Russians are clever people,’ they said over and over again. ‘Surely you can reach the sun.’ ‘Oh no,’ I said to them, ‘no one can do that.’ ‘But you are so intelligent. Is Russia full of geniuses like you?’ ‘You flatter me much, and I thank you for such consideration, but no. I assure you I am a very ordinary man.’
“So remember: if you find yourself in terrible trouble with the koliuzhi, with nowhere to turn, find a distraction. They’re such little children at heart, all of them, and very easily amused. In this part of the world, that may be the only thing that will save you from the hungry jaws of death.” He slaps his knee. “There’s a tale for you and crock of butter for me.”
They laugh. And laugh, and laugh—that familiar line from the old tales, how often I’d heard my own mother append it to her stories. The men closest to him smack him on the back and nudge him with their shoulders. Even Nikolai Isaakovich laughs.
But why? His story is not rational. Right from the beginning—why would the Tsar trust a serf with a secret mission? And why would he be out on the stormy sea by himself? He’s tough as an old piece of dried meat; still, he wouldn’t be so foolish as to venture out into the open ocean by himself.
Does an island such as he describes exist? Does anybody live there? From where would he get paper? How could he speak so fluently the language of a people he’s never seen before—and who, it must be presumed, if they’re that forsaken, couldn’t have learned Russian? When you think about it, his story is like a quilt coming apart at the seams because the seamstress hadn’t thought beyond the basting.
Yet the others are charmed. Tomorrow, they’ll heed and follow him. They’ll think fashioning a kite is going to save their lives. Kotelnikov is sharp; so is the American. Can’t they see through his embellishments? Doesn’t anybody understand that he’s
treating us like we’re children? He has such high regard for himself, and so little regard for us and the truth.
When the men have finally tucked away their flasks, we settle in for the night. I wait, cold and achy, for sleep to overtake me. But then somebody calls out in his sleep, and I’m wide awake again. Eventually, I feel myself drifting off. I’m once more ready to fall deep into slumber. But somebody rolls over and bumps the tent and the walls shiver. I awaken again. How I wish I were a little girl, my mother with me, holding my hand until my restlessness leaves me. This goes on all night, so that when I wake in the morning for good, I don’t feel restored.
We’re a ragged troupe carrying our bundles and our hopeless spirits. I don’t know which is heavier. Early this morning, as we packed up, everything damp from the mist, my husband announced we’d head back to the seashore and walk along the beach for the day. So, as we set off, we turn toward the coast and after only a half hour or so, we break through the forest’s edge and see the water.
The ocean is calmer today than it was yesterday. It’s dark grey and, even though it’s placid, the water still rushes up along the beach and floods back out again. The sky remains overcast, though the clouds are high and light, and so there’s no rain. My husband orders a brief rest. Timofei Osipovich and his devoted Ovchinnikov clean their muskets. Maria and Yakov enter into a brief discussion that ends with them redistributing the contents of their bundles.
I look for a place where I can wash my hands and face. I locate a small pool on a rocky outcropping at the edge of the beach. A purple sea star droops its arms over a rock in one corner, and I take it as a sign of welcome.
When I put my hand into the water, the pool comes alive. Small fish dart away. Tiny snail shells quiver and then totter off as though they have legs. Things I thought were rocks or seaweed begin to wave their arms and curl into tight little balls. I pull my hand out and wait. The creatures grow still. Then, I dip only my fingertips in. I rub them around my eyes, across my cheeks, and over my lips. When I wash off the layer of mud and dirt, I feel a little less tired.
Anna, Like Thunder Page 7
