“I don’t know,” my father cried, exasperated. “But I know there’s a rational explanation. It has nothing to do with God and the devil.”
A certain smile stretched across my mother’s face; she looked away and said nothing more.
My mother has her own way of making sense of the world. She knows all the old stories, and when she starts telling me one, it’s my father’s turn to leave the room. I don’t really believe her stories but her faith in them is unshakeable, even in the face of the Enlightenment. On this long climb, I miss her so much it aches. What is she doing right now? Does she know where I am? When the news of the lost brig reaches her, she will most likely think me dead. I think of her praying over my bed for so many hours when I had the measles. I can’t bear to imagine the grief I’ll cause her this time.
When Maria, Ovchinnikov, and I reach the top of the hill, Nikolai Isaakovich is waiting.
“Is everything all right?” he asks.
“Yes.” I smile. “Just—that was a devil of a hill.”
He smiles back, and falls into line behind me. We follow flat terrain for some distance, then we descend. Toward nightfall, as we squeeze out the final minutes before it becomes too dark to continue, Timofei Osipovich shouts from far ahead, “Navigator Bulygin! Hurry!”
“Coming!” he cries and leaps over the roots and mud, leaving us alone again.
Long before we reach them, I hear their voices—loud and laughing, bubbling over with a joy I don’t expect. I can’t distinguish the words, but I know they’re happy. When we arrive, I see a tiny fire in a clearing. It throws light on a hut that sits on a riverbank. The crew is inside the hut.
The grounds are deserted, but the people who belong here can’t have gone very far. In the river, a net stretches from bank to bank. It shivers in the water current.
This place makes me think of the Baba Yaga. She would keep a dwelling like this—a wooden hut in the middle of a clearing with a small fire to lure unexpected visitors inside. My mother told me all the Baba stories, too. I don’t believe in the old hag or her power. Still, something about this place, a kind of eeriness, makes me wonder if perhaps I’m foolish to ignore our lore.
The apprentice Kotelnikov comes out of the hut, laughing, and waving an object dull and flat.
“Kizhuch!” cries Ovchinnikov. His beard opens up to reveal a broad smile and a rarely shown row of uneven teeth.
Maria grins, and her eyes become slits in her wrinkled skin. “Ryba,” she says. It’s fish.
Hanging from the rafters of the little hut are many more fish. They’re dry, dusty orange, and they’ve been split. I touch one—it’s hard and unappetizing, but still my mouth waters. It smells like warm honey in the hut. There are fish heads, too, grotesquely pierced on stakes, as though confirming the Baba’s presence. The crew pull the salmon from the rafters, stack them up, and cradle them against their chests. Some are taking two, even three entire fish.
I leave the hut empty-handed.
Outside, Maria says, “Aren’t you hungry?” Her arms are wrapped around two salmon. Nikolai Isaakovich has one flattened salmon.
“Whose fish are these?” I ask.
“Whose? No one’s. There’s no one here,” my husband says.
But before we leave, he instructs Kotelnikov to leave behind a small heap of korolki and the blue nankeen robe we brought from the brig. He sets them alongside the wall near the entrance, so that whoever comes back won’t fail to find them right away. In return, we’ve taken twenty-seven pieces of fish.
“As the old saying goes—God is on high and the Tsar is far away,” Timofei Osipovich says to me and smirks. My hunger is stronger than my need to respond.
We must leave before anybody returns. So, with our stolen fish, we head back into the forest, following no trail. We ascend, then find a hollow surrounded by thick brush. Here we set up for what’s going to be another cold, damp night. I wish we were back in the cave, but at least we have food. What Maria does to the kizhuch smells miraculous, and despite the weight of my moral unease, I accept the portion offered. I drink the broth, and eat the fish, sharing little bits with Zhuchka. Not once does anybody complain about the little bones.
“Commander! The koliuzhi are back!” cries Kotelnikov.
In the middle of the forest, we’re surrounded. They stand silently as though they’re shadows attached to the trees. They’re armed with spears, bows, and arrows. I stop and wait. How did they manage to get so close? John Williams’s hair is a beacon in this dim forest. We must have been too distracted—tearing down last night’s camp, packing our bundles, getting ready for another day of marching through the wild. Why didn’t Zhuchka bark? Is it possible that she didn’t notice them?
The koliuzhi watch us watching them. There’s an old man with a harpoon on his shoulder who looks like he’s a peasant with a long-handled hoe. His harpoon has slender prongs better suited to fishing than battle. Another man carries a tiny bow in one hand and an arrow in the other, but neither is raised. The man closest to Kotelnikov, the one who must have startled him, has a dagger with a long, carved shaft. The sheath droops from a cord around his waist. He holds his dagger at his hip.
“Hold your fire,” says Nikolai Isaakovich.
But Timofei Osipovich raises his gun and fires a shot into the air.
It thunders, the sound coming from everywhere at once. The koliuzhi scatter into the forest.
“Why did you do that?” my husband says. “I told you not to shoot.”
“I didn’t shoot. I was just scaring them away. It worked, didn’t it?” To me, he says softly, “Distraction. It works every time. I told you, didn’t I?”
Zhuchka comes running from deep in the bush.
“What kind of people are these?” drawls the American. “You said they’d be looting the ship and would leave us alone.”
“Ah, the ship’s probably gone by now,” says Timofei Osipovich. “You can bet once they finished plundering it, they burned it to ashes.”
I picture the brig, its graceful hull, its towering masts, the line of the bowsprit pointing us forward. The beautiful wheel carved from mahogany. The deck the promyshlenniki mopped every day. The place beside the skiff where I often stood when I watched the stars because it was sheltered from the wind. Gone to ashes. It seems impossible.
“As for you—you could try covering your head. Where’s your cap?”
John Williams reddens and touches his head, as though he’d just noticed the absence of his hat.
“Hurry up and finish your packing. We need to get as far away from here as possible,” Nikolai Isaakovich instructs. I turn back to my bundle. I rewrap and reposition my telescope and the star log, whose pages are becoming wavy in the damp. It’s going to be difficult to keep them safe and dry until we reach the Kad’iak.
We leave the grove where we spent the night and trudge back down to the river, then head upstream, plodding along through the mire until we find a shallow place to cross. The stones in the river’s bed are smooth and round, so I take care. My husband waits on the other side and offers me his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up onto the bank.
The trail disappears again, and though we search, no one, not even John Williams, can find it. So we head into the forest once more. Without a trail, our progress is slow. Every once in a while, the brush rustles, and a shadow flits by and vanishes. I’m sure we’re being followed, though no one says a word about it.
What do they want? Why are they following us? I knew nothing good would come from looting their fish. Perhaps we should offer them what remains of our beads and cloth. Would they leave us alone if we did?
When we finally stop for the night, my husband increases the number of sentries. Seven men guard us, forming a tight ring not far from the fire. A mist settles over the camp, making it impossible to see much beyond the trees that circle us. I look up, searching for the last of the day’s light, but the trunks just fade into the grey. It’s impossible to see the canopy. It will be another
night without the stars, without my beloved Polaris, another night for my telescope to stay wrapped safely in my sailcloth bundle.
Maria cooks another proper and satisfying meal with the fish. The flavour infuses the broth, and there’s the thinnest shimmer of oil on top. It surprises me to see it; the fish was so dry when we took it from the rafters.
For a long time after the meal, the promyshlenniki sit around the fire without saying much. There are no stories tonight, no jokes. They drink desultorily from their flasks. Considering how easily we were surprised this morning, everyone is nervous about going to sleep, even with all the guards. Timofei Osipovich half-heartedly stirs the coals every once in a while and a few sparks rise. Finally, it can be delayed no longer. It’s time to sleep.
For the first night since the brig ran aground, Nikolai Isaakovich had the Aleuts set up a tiny tent at the edge of our circle, slightly apart from the others. “We’ll sleep here tonight,” he murmured to me. I was undecided about this closeness. While it would bring me comfort to lie next to my husband, I felt concerned about what the others would think.
We lie on my cedar cape, though there’s barely enough room for one. We face each another. He opens his greatcoat and pulls me into his chest. I feel uneasy, but his body radiates warmth. Light from the fire ripples over his face.
“Kolya!” I whisper, startled by his expression. “What’s wrong?”
He whispers back, “Anya—we’re in trouble.”
“Hush.” I press my finger to his lips. “Go to sleep.”
When I remove my finger, he says, “I don’t know what to do. We’re lost.” He cups my silver cross and slowly runs his thumb across each of the bars. His hand trembles. “It’s hopeless.”
Our situation is terrible. It’s worse than any of us ever could have imagined. If it’s not the koliuzhi who kill us, it’ll be the cold or a wild animal or we’ll starve to death. No one dares to speak it, but it’s the truth. I’d hoped my husband believed in his plan and in the wisdom of the instructions he’s been bravely issuing to the crew. They depend on his confidence, and so do I, and without it, I don’t know what could happen.
“Everything will be fine,” I whisper. “It’s hard. But we’ll get to the Kad’iak.”
He drops the silver cross and cradles my cheek. I smile. “Now go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
His hand slides from my cheek to my shoulder. “Annichka,” he murmurs. The firelight flickers in his eyes. His fingers glide down my arm to my waist. He tugs at the ribbon on my skirt and leans in to kiss me.
“Kolya,” I say quietly. I pull back. I shove his hand away from my waist.
“Come on.” He slides his hand around mine, and pulls it to his groin.
“No!” I push hard against his chest. But not before I’ve felt his stiffness.
He’s lost his mind. No. Not here, not now. I sit up and roll out of the tent.
“Where are you going?” he demands.
“I have—ladies’ business.” I scurry away, heading for the forest. Ovchinnikov, on sentry duty again, grows alert as I pass beyond the ring of guards. When I stop and reach for my skirt, he knows to discreetly turn away. Zhuchka’s awoken and followed me into the darkness.
I squat in the bushes. I can’t see far through the mist, but I know Zhuchka will let me know if there’s any threat. Like all animals, she’s acutely aware of everything surrounding us. I finish relieving myself. But I remain squatting, curled into myself, because I don’t want to go back in the tent with Nikolai Isaakovich.
“Anya?” he finally calls.
“I’ll be right there,” I reply. But I wait.
“Anya? Where are you?” he calls again after a few minutes.
“Coming.” But I still wait. Zhuchka whines and tilts her head at me. Funny girl. What does she want?
Finally, I rise. I go slowly back toward the fire. How am I to avoid this mortification? When I reach the little tent, much to my surprise, Nikolai Isaakovich is asleep. He lies on his back, in the centre of my cedar cape. His limbs are flung wide. He snores softly.
I don’t dare to wake him. I lie down as close as I can. At least part of my body is off the damp ground. Zhuchka curls on my other side. I can count on her and her fur to keep me warm.
CHAPTER SIX
On the trail, far ahead, leaves shiver and there’s the quiet crack of a branch. Ovchinnikov and the apprentice Kotelnikov, who are protecting us from the front, raise their weapons.
“Wait,” says Timofei Osipovich. “Don’t shoot.”
A woman and three men emerge through the trees and quietly approach us. The men are armed with spears, but they remain lowered. The woman is young—younger than me. She wears a cedar-bark skirt and over her head and shoulders, a bark cape that, unlike mine, has no front opening. She has boots made of brown animal hide. A soft-sided basket curls into the curve of her back. It’s strapped to her forehead. From the tightness in her neck, I presume the basket is not empty. She smiles.
The instant she does, I’m reminded of a girl from Petersburg named Klara. Klara was never without a dance partner. She knew all the steps before anybody else—the ecossaise and the anglaise and even the mazurka when most people had only just heard of it—and she never once looked my way. I tried several times to earn her kind regard by smiling at her. There were always rumours of her engagement—to a handsome prince, to a wealthy count, to whichever man was deemed the most eligible that week—but I left the city before anything was announced.
The men scan our group, looking, I think, for our toyon. Nikolai Isaakovich notices this too, and steps forward, but it’s Timofei Osipovich who greets them in that language he knows. “Wacush.”
They look surprised, but they answer in a cordial way, then pause. Timofei Osipovich replies and asks a question.
Only six days ago, the koliuzhi on the beach had been friendly when we first met them, but that changed so quickly. These koliuzhi also appear to be well intentioned, but how can we really tell? If Kotelnikov becomes impatient again or one of the Aleuts becomes too nervous and raises his weapon, the koliuzhi are so close that any one of us could be killed.
Then, with a swing of her hip and a dip of her shoulder, the woman rolls her basket around to her side. She withdraws several pieces of dried fish and offers them to Timofei Osipovich. He accepts them, says something—presumably he thanks her—and he hands the fish to Maria.
After more discussion, Timofei Osipovich turns to us. “Well,” he begins, “they’re different. Another clan altogether. And it seems they’re at war with the koliuzhi who’ve been tormenting us.”
“A different clan? They look exactly the same,” says Kotelnikov.
“What about the woman?” says the American. “There was no woman before.”
“Do you believe them?” Isaakovich asks Osipovich.
He shrugs. “Who knows? It wouldn’t be the first time some impostor has tried to fool Timofei Osipovich Tarakanov, would it? But they say terrible things about the other koliuzhi—how they raid their villages, capture their people, and then force them to work. They told me those koliuzhi steal their food and tools. They also claim that they’re more peaceful.”
“Are they at war with the other koliuzhi?”
“Who knows? They could be.”
My husband ponders this news before finally he shrugs, too. “I guess we should believe them,” he says. “After all, if they were treacherous, they probably would have attacked us by now.”
“And they wouldn’t have offered us food,” says Sobachnikov awkwardly. Timofei Osipovich gives him another withering look and the main rigger looks away. I pity him. No matter what he says and does, Timofei Osipovich finds fault with it.
“I don’t know,” says the apprentice Kotelnikov. “I don’t trust them.”
“Well, I don’t know either,” my husband says briskly. “But there are only four of them, and this woman is as scrawny as a plucked grouse. What do they want?”
Afte
r further conversation with Timofei Osipovich, it seems what the koliuzhi want is to help. They’ll walk with us, protect us, and guide us through the forest. Would they take us all the way to the Kadi’ak? A wave of fresh hope washes over me. Perhaps the worst of our ordeal is over.
“I think we should go,” says Timofei Osipovich. “If they try anything funny, we’ll kill them.” Ovchinnikov barks a cruel laugh.
I flush. I’m still not used to the fact they can’t understand us.
We don’t stop until midday when everyone’s hungry. We’ve made good progress through the forest partly because the koliuzhi know where they’re going but also because their pace is faster than what we’re used to. Koliuzhi Klara—in my mind, that’s how I’m thinking of her—sits at the fire near Maria and me. She watches us openly, in a way that’s nearly impolite, but she can mean nothing by it. I can’t imagine what she thinks of us—how filthy we are, our clothes muddy, our hair unkempt. Does she think this is normal for us? I hope not.
She seems especially curious about John Williams. He’s the only one in our group with such pale skin, freckles, and a thatch of red hair. She stares as though she’s never seen red hair before. John Williams frowns and looks away. He keeps checking to see if she’s still staring and mostly she is.
She also watches Maria as she cooks. Her eyes widen when Maria sets the pots of water on the hot coals. When Koliuzhi Klara detects the scent of the cooking fish, her eyes dart away from John Williams and back to the pots.
When the ukha is ready, Maria ladles it into our bowls. “Give her some,” she tells me, and nods toward Koliuzhi Klara. I cradle the bowl in both hands and lower it to the woman. She takes it, looks at it, then looks at me. Doesn’t she understand?
“Wacush,” I say, attempting the word Timofei Osipovich always uses with the koliuzhi, always with positive results.
Koliuzhi Klara jerks back. A few drops of ukha spill. Her eyes grow wide, then crinkle at the corners. A laugh bursts out of her. She says something to the koliuzhi men and they look amused. I blush and turn away. I have no idea why what I said is so funny.
Anna, Like Thunder Page 9
