She tries the ukha and grimaces. She says something to the men again and they laugh; they all eat it anyway. Timofei Osipovich converses with the koliuzhi men, and translates their conversation for my husband. They’ve had a mild winter so far. They caught a lot of fish in the summer. European ships have visited before, but they don’t come very often. Though the discussion is slow, with the translation flowing in two directions, the men appear to enjoy one another’s company, and I become convinced that we’re right to trust them.
When we’ve finished, we begin to walk again. Koliuzhi Klara leaves Maria and me and joins her own people in our long line. From behind, I can watch her without appearing rude. With the basket strapped to her head, her shoulders and arms are free. She swings them as she walks and uses them, when needed, to push branches from her path. She’s light on her feet and fast, almost like she’s skipping down the trail. She doesn’t stumble over exposed tree roots or rocks.
Very late in the afternoon, a clearing emerges in the distance. When we arrive, I see it’s not really a clearing. It’s the wide mouth of a river. The water ripples and gurgles over a stony riverbed, and, to the right, only a short way from where we stand, it empties into the sea. I didn’t know we were so close to the ocean. On the other side of the river sit five broad wooden buildings. They appear to be empty.
“Where is everyone?” Nikolai Isaakovich says.
“I’ll ask,” replies Timofei Osipovich. He speaks with the koliuzhi and then translates. “They say everyone’s gone to another village, but I don’t understand why. What they say—it doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, can we get across?” my husband asks.
I wonder if we can sleep in one of the empty houses. If no one’s here, then they couldn’t possibly mind.
“They say it’s too deep, and the current is too strong.”
“Is there a boat? Ask them if they have a boat.”
Timofei Osipovich turns his head slightly. The koliuzhi can’t see his expression of skepticism. “Apparently, it’s not deep enough for a boat right now. This is low tide.”
“Too deep, not deep enough—what is it then?” my husband demands. Then he sighs and says, “Will they bring a boat at high tide?”
“They say yes, they’ll bring one for the next high tide,” Timofei Osipovich says, with a pointed gaze to the heavens, one corner of his mouth turned down.
Every man here can count. Every man here knows—as do I—that the next high tide will fall in the blackest part of the night. The one after that won’t come until midday tomorrow.
My husband taps his lips as he considers this news. “We’ll set up camp, but not here,” he says finally. “Tomorrow, we cross this river, in daylight, high tide, low tide, no matter. Tomorrow, we’ll be on our way first thing in the morning, with or without their help.”
Timofei Osipovich says something and then we turn back toward the forest, leaving our guides on the riverbank. My Koliuzhi Klara doesn’t watch us leave; her face is turned to the grey sea, to the sky woven into it, and to the soft yellow ball of the dimming sun as it sets.
Just as he did so often on the ship, Sobachnikov takes the shift no one else wants and guards our camp until the early morning hours. Then he wakes us. The air is damp, as usual, but there’s no rain. The birds chatter and flit overhead. We each eat a small, grimy helping of kasha that tastes of fish—the pots haven’t been cleaned since yesterday morning—and a mouthful of dried kizhuch. Then we return to the riverbank.
A much different scene faces us this morning. Our guides are gone, and the deserted settlement is now dotted with men. There are at least twenty, but not more than thirty. Each is armed—I see spears, daggers, and bows and arrows—but their weapons remain lowered.
“What’s going on?” says my husband. “I thought they were going to help us cross the river.”
“That’s what they said,” says Timofei Osipovich and shrugs.
The crew spreads out along our grassy side of the river, a narrow band of water that separates stage from audience as if in a grand theatre. But who’s performing here? Who’s paid for the show? If only somebody on either side would move, I might be able to tell.
Where are the people who helped us yesterday? There are no women on their side. Koliuzhi Klara is gone. I can’t tell if any of the three men from yesterday are among those on the riverbank this morning. We’re too far away.
On their side, on the stone-strewn shore, two canoes rest, their bows pointing toward us, as though the boats are about to be launched.
Timofei Osipovich calls out, “Wacush!” His voice thunders and echoes off the trees. He must raise it if he’s to be heard. A moment later, his greeting is returned, and he responds with a long speech. The river performs a soft score that plays beneath his words. He finishes with a question, and waits. The koliuzhi don’t answer. He asks again. Once more, he waits, but it’s clear they’re not going to answer.
“Why don’t they say something?” my husband asks. “Don’t they understand you?”
“I don’t know,” says Timofei Osipovich. “They understood me yesterday.”
“I don’t think these are the same people,” says Sobachnikov, then flushes.
“What would you know?” Timofei Osipovich snaps, impatient as he always is with the main rigger. He kicks at the moss and an egg-shaped chunk rolls into the water. It bobs away with the current, spinning around the rocks.
We stand and wait for a long time and a short time. Zhuchka, who’s back in the river again, chews at something. She dips her nose in the water whenever something interesting catches her eye. She heads upriver, her tail a rudder floating on the surface behind her.
Finally, my husband stirs. “Let’s go then. No point wasting any more time. I said we’d cross today and cross we will.” He shifts the bundle on his back, turns, and sets out following the riverbank away from the ocean.
Somebody from across the river shouts. Another man calls out. Three or four koliuzhi advance to the river’s edge and wave to get his attention.
“Commander,” says Timofei Osipovich. “Wait.”
The larger of the canoes is launched with only two men onboard. It’s sleek and plain, and takes only a minute to cross to our shore. It scrapes against the bottom as it comes near our grassy bank, but they don’t land it. Instead, they manoeuvre it into a spot where the current is not so strong, and paddle so that it flutters in the channel and moves neither up nor downstream. The paddlers’ faces are turned up to the crew as they wait for us to do or say something.
“That boat is too small,” my husband says. “We can’t all fit.”
“Then we’ll split up,” Timofei Osipovich says. “Cross in two trips.”
“That’s reckless!” cries the apprentice Kotelnikov. “They’re trying to trick us!” He puffs up his big chest in outrage like a cockrel on the wrong side of the fence.
My husband throws down his hands in a fury. “Tell them to bring us another boat,” he sputters, raising his voice. “I demand another boat.”
Timofei Osipovich lowers his voice to a purr. “I will ask, Commander, but if you let your frustration show, we’ll have far more than a river crossing to deal with.”
My husband grumbles but defers.
Timofei Osipovich speaks with the men in the canoe. That’s followed by shouting between the canoe and the people on the opposite shore. Eventually, the other canoe is launched, but it’s smaller than the first and most certainly won’t solve our problem.
The little canoe is proficiently paddled by one person and has a passenger. As it draws close, I’m startled. The passenger is Koliuzhi Klara. She sits quietly. Nothing on her face acknowledges that she’s seen us before. It’s peculiar. Still, I’m happy to see her. Even if we must be divided for the crossing, now I’m sure nothing untoward will happen.
Nikolai Isaakovich, however, isn’t happy. “What is this mischief?”
“You can see for yourself,” Timofei Osipovich says dryly. “If it do
esn’t please you, we can try to find another way across.” He gestures upstream. “All rivers, no matter how long, have a source—somewhere.”
“No. We’ve wasted enough time.” He looks at the crew, one by one. “Remain vigilant! Do you hear me? These are my orders!” Sobachnikov colours, and shifts nervously. John Williams looks away, his pale eyes hooded. The apprentice Kotelnikov exhales loudly and frowns at my husband.
The nose of the little canoe is pulled up to shore.
“How many people can fit?” my husband asks.
“Only three,” says Timofei Osipovich. “I assume the woman is staying.”
“Filip Kotelnikov—you go,” my husband says. “And control your temper.” Kotelnikov looks startled. “Old Yakov. You, too. Make sure he causes no trouble.” Yakov nods, but we all know that no one can stop Kotelnikov. “And Maria, leave your things. We’ll take all the provisions in the larger canoe.”
Yakov slides down the muddy bank and into the boat in one motion. He’s directed toward the stern, to a seat in front of the paddler. Maria follows. She climbs into the small canoe like she’s done this many times before, and she seats herself in front of Yakov. Kotelnikov is next. He submerges a foot but otherwise steps neatly into the canoe. It rocks with his weight. He sits beside Maria.
There remains one more seat between them and Koliuzhi Klara, who occupies the bow.
“Madame Bulygina should go with this group,” says Timofei Osipovich.
I jolt, then turn red. Is he serious? The little canoe is already heavily loaded, and looks so unsteady. I want to cross with Nikolai Isaakovich.
My husband looks from him to me and back to him, and says, “Why?”
“It’s safer,” he replies. “There’s only one man and he has the paddle. What could possibly happen?”
My husband deliberates, and makes his decision quickly. “Anya. You go.”
“Are you sure? Maybe somebody else . . .”
“No. He’s right. It’s safer. You’ll be fine.”
I turn to the riverbank. The others’ feet have left long, thin marks in the mud. It’s slippery. I take a careful step.
“No, Anya,” my husband says. “Leave your things.”
I stop and look over my shoulder at him. “But my telescope—and the star log.” I wrap a protective arm around my bundle. “I can manage.”
“We’ll take them in the big canoe.”
“I think it would be better if I took them.”
“Anya,” he cries, exasperated. “There’s not enough room. Can’t you see?”
“I’ll bring it to you, Madame Bulygina,” says Sobachnikov. “I promise.” He blushes.
My husband looks at him quickly, then back to me, and says, “Are you satisfied now?”
I carefully set down my heavy bundle, and, because it also seems awkward, I remove my cedar cape. With only one step, I slide right down the riverbank and into the water with a splash. Now my skirt is wet. I stand in the river, clinging to the gunwales, feeling my feet sink in the soft muck. I’m not sure how to get into the canoe now, but I’m glad I left my bundle, which could have landed in the water with me.
I hear a quiet laugh. “Be careful, Madame Bulygina,” says Timofei Osipovich, “unless you’ve decided it’s an appropriate time for your bath.”
“You’re a pest,” my husband says to him. “Be quiet.” I give Nikolai Isaakovich a thankful look.
“Come,” says Kotelnikov. I use his pudgy hand to steady me while I climb back onto the riverbank. It’s easy with his support to step over the gunwales. When I put my foot down, the canoe rocks violently as it did when Kotelnikov boarded. Koliuzhi Klara grabs the gunwales. The koliuzhi man in the canoe leans to one side and dips his paddle into the river. “Sit down, Madame Bulygina,” cries Kotelnikov. When I do, the canoe rocks, then settles. I’m backwards, facing Maria and Kotelnikov. “Just stay where you are,” Kotelnikov says. “Don’t move.”
“Anya? I’ll see you on the other side,” Nikolai Isaakovich says.
“Don’t forget my things.”
“Don’t worry.”
Our canoe is pushed into the river. The instant we’re afloat, I feel how unstable the little boat really is. I cling to the gunwales. The balance is so delicate that every ripple of water, no matter how small, unsteadies us. If we capsize, who will save me?
I hear a scrape and glance over my shoulder to see what it is. Koliuzhi Klara has taken a paddle from the hull—I didn’t realize she had one. She dips it into the water and pulls.
Zhuchka swims beside us, her head a wedge that cuts through the flow. She’s so close I can hear the heaviness of her breath. Her eyes roll as they watch me. I smile to reassure her, but I don’t dare call out in case she gets it in her mind to climb into the canoe.
Facing backward, I see everything happening on our shore. They’re boarding the large canoe. They’re loading some of the bundles, passing them from man to man along a chain that runs down the riverbank and into the vessel. There’ll only be enough space for half the remaining crew. The others—and the bundles left behind—will have to wait for the second trip.
My bundle lies where I dropped it, right beside a tuft of reeds. They won’t dare forget it. I’ll go back myself if they do.
My husband is the last to board. As commander, he should be among the first to be greeted by the koliuzhi who wait on the other side. Timofei Osipovich, on the other hand, remains on shore though my husband probably could use his skills to translate once he debarks. They push their canoe out. It’s loaded so heavily it barely rides above the water.
The water divides and flows around our little canoe. The koliuzhi man labours with the paddling. Thanks to the extra weight, even with two people paddling, the way forward isn’t easy. His arms strain, the muscles bulge, and his neck is tight and sinewy. His breath comes in quick puffs. He bends and pulls, bends and pulls. The large canoe begins its journey back to the koliuzhi side. Despite also having only two men to paddle, and being so heavily laden, it advances more quickly than ours.
We enter choppier waters. Froth curls on the water’s surface like a confection. Trees line both sides of the river, drawing to a deep, shadowy vee upstream. I turn away and look back downstream to see how the larger canoe is progressing.
From the sea, a grey wall of water advances. It rises steadily, alarmingly, heading for the river. What is it? It narrows, the riverbanks funnelling it into a bulging mass of water. I want to scream but I’m mute. I raise my hand and point.
Maria, Kotelnikov, and Yakov look. In the big canoe, John Williams leaps up and also points.
“No!” I finally cry.
The wall of water curls over like a serpent then falls in a huge sweep that swallows the big canoe. The boat disappears. An instant later, our little boat is lifted like a feather. We’re turned around.
What’s happening to the ocean?
In a rush, the water recedes. Our canoe stays afloat. But the big canoe is half submerged, and it tilts as though the hull has been breached. Not many men are still aboard. Those that are have no paddles, no way to stop their vessel from drifting toward the sea. Where’s Nikolai Isaakovich? A few heads bob in the water, fighting the current that pulls them downstream. Two people stand waist deep near the bank as the water swirls around them. They’re Russians. They hold their guns above their heads. Is one my husband? Three other men swim toward the koliuzhi’s shore, where everyone has lined up along the riverbank. I can’t tell anybody apart.
Zhuchka swims frantic circles around the bobbing heads.
“Kolya!” I shriek. I don’t know where he is.
It’s impossible to know who throws the first spear or shoots the first gun.
Maria slides down in the canoe, cowering in the hull. Yakov clutches the gunwales.
“Go back! Take us back!” Kotelnikov shouts.
Our paddlers ignore him and head away from the gunfire and the soaring arrows. They continue toward the koliuzhi shore. “Turn around!”
&
nbsp; Kotelnikov lunges for the paddler behind him. He’s pushed away. Our little canoe rocks threateningly. Kotelnikov lunges again and this time, the koliuzhi man knocks him down with the paddle.
One end of the big canoe sinks and the other swings around toward our shore. The remaining men jump out and make for land. John Williams is the first to climb out of the water—he’s the easiest to see with his red hair. He aims his musket; nothing happens. He shakes it. In a fit, he throws it on the riverbank. The musket must be wet, useless. He picks up a stone and throws it. But the river swallows the rock before it reaches the midway point. It’s too far. Still, he takes another and tries. He re-enters the river to get closer, and when knee-deep, he stops and positions himself. The riverbed has hundreds of rocks. He bends to get one, throws it, then reaches for another. Arrows plunge into the water all around him.
Zhuchka climbs out of the river. She runs up and down the bank on our side, barking. She jumps back in, chasing a flying rock.
Our little canoe crunches against the koliuzhi shore. Our paddler tries to steady the boat. Kotelnikov turns on him again. This time, three koliuzhi men emerge from the trees and rush over to help. Kotelnikov grabs the paddler’s neck, but the men easily pull him off.
They drag Kotelnikov and Yakov from the boat. While they’re distracted, I wonder if Maria and I should push the canoe back out. But there’s no sense to that. We’d drift right into the crossfire. We meekly climb onto shore.
Koliuzhi Klara is gone. I didn’t see her disappear. I’m certain she didn’t go overboard but in all the confusion, I didn’t notice her leaving the canoe.
We’re now a safe distance from the thundering battle. The fighting has shifted into the forest on the opposite side of the river. Where’s Nikolai Isaakovich? I glimpse men darting between trees, but none is my husband. Timofei Osipovich still has his musket. So does his dependable Ovchinnikov. They shelter behind the trees while they load their weapons, then lean out to shoot. John Williams has climbed a tree. He hides his red head in the foliage and shoots down on the koliuzhi. Somebody must have given him a dry gun. The carpenter Kurmachev and one of the Aleuts burst from the forest. They drag Sobachnikov between them. He’s limp as a wilted violet, and his long arms and legs flop uncontrollably. He’s unconscious, and there’s blood on his jacket. The trio line up like the three stars in Orion’s belt and disappear into the trees.
Anna, Like Thunder Page 10
