Anna, Like Thunder

by Peggy Herring

  The beading woman wipes tears from her eyes, finds her needle, and resumes her work. What’s she making? It’s too dark and I can’t tell. I sit up on my knees and lean to the side.

  “Korolki,” I cry. “Maria—they have korolki!”

  The blue Russian trading beads are piled on the mat where the women work. There are heaps and heaps—more than what we brought on the Sviatoi Nikolai. They have the ones as small as a baby’s fingertip and the big tubular ones that are nearly black. Their facets glitter.

  Maria opens her eyes and I point. “Look! Korolki!”

  “Korolki,” repeats the beading woman. She says something to the other women and they laugh. The woman with the silver comb in her hair turns and looks at me expectantly. Her fingers rhythmically work the basket fibres. As she watches me, a slight smile on her lips, she doesn’t once look down at her work.

  Again, I will disappoint them. I have nothing else to say. I’m as helpless and unable to express myself as an infant. I flush but contemplate this: though neither is destined to get us very far, there are now two words we share.

  The rain persists through the night and into the next morning. Kotelnikov dozes off, snoring, and Yakov brushes his cap while he and Maria talk about an Aleut they haven’t seen in a long time. Yakov thinks he’s left the Russian-American Company and gone home, but Maria heard he died in Hawaii. Around midday, I can no longer bear the boredom. I take advantage of a lull in the storm and leave the house. Ostensibly, I’m going to relieve myself, but I plan to go far from the house, and return slowly, cutting downstream if the guard will allow me, and stopping to watch the river empty into the sea.

  The trees are dripping. The leaves of the bushes are luxuriant with beads of moisture. The air is a misty veil and the earth is covered in puddles. I avoid the trail—it’s all mud—and pick my way around mossy, decomposing logs and boggy hollows.

  Despite the rain, the Murzik is out somewhere. I’m followed instead by a child. He’s small, with wrists as thin and knobby as the legs of a bird. It looks like a wind could blow him away. How old is he? His face is as smooth as a baby’s, and he behaves nervously—walking too closely behind me, lurching to my side with his arms raised when I jump over a puddle as if to prevent me from fleeing.

  High in the trees where lacy crowns caress the clouds, a fragment of blue sky emerges. It’s the colour of hope itself. I know my Polaris is up there, invisible in the sunlight, and that when night falls, she will again reveal herself. I wonder for an instant if I could escape. I’m alone with the boy. I’d only have to outrun him. If I couldn’t? Then, I’d have to knock him unconscious with a stone. I look around—are there any stones nearby? Once he’s knocked out, I’m sure I could go far before anybody notices.

  I’d have to look for Nikolai Isaakovich and the others. How? Where could they be in this forest? Which stars would lead me to them? How long would it take me to find them—and what would happen to me, alone in this vast forest, while I was searching?

  When have I ever knocked anybody unconscious with a stone?

  My eyes fill. I’m trapped here until they come to rescue us. What’s taking so long? Has Nikolai Isaakovich forgotten me? I need my husband. I need to see him, to be near him, to breathe in the scent of him in his damp greatcoat, his breath warm against my neck as he whispers, “Anya,” because he needs me, too.

  A boom resounds through the forest.

  Gunfire.

  My thoughts slip from my fingers like a crystal goblet that shatters when it strikes the floor.

  Another shot. There’s another. Then another.

  They’re coming from far upriver.

  My husband is near. My heart floods with hope and dread.

  The boy looks sideways upriver, staring hard, as though he could bend the course of the water and fell all the trees with his thoughts. He shouts at me. He hammers and twists his skinny fists in my direction. No words are needed. I know what he wants. Without relieving myself, I run back to the house.

  At the doorway, I’m engulfed in chaos. People push in and out of the house, nearly knocking me down as I try to squeeze inside. The looms have all been tipped over. The contents of the baskets of tools are scattered among the spilled beads. A baby shrieks. Men carrying spears and bows and arrows push their way outside.

  I can’t see Maria. Then I spot her, huddled on one of the benches behind me. I go and crouch beside her.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I didn’t see anything.”

  Across the house, a man strikes Kotelnikov across his back. He howls. He and Yakov are pushed toward the bench on which Maria and I cower. Kotelnikov’s pushed against me, and I feel the force of his weight as he half-lands on me. I can’t breathe. I shove him away. Yakov’s knees ram the bench and he cries out. He turns until he’s squeezed between me and Maria. He bends, holds his knees, and rocks.

  The gunfire continues. The women and children alongside us scream with each shot as though they’ve been hit. An old woman crushes a wrapped baby to her chest. The baby’s hysterical shriek rises above the din and the old woman tightens her embrace. Koliuzhi Klara’s back is pressed up against one of the carved posts. She’s frozen, her gaze pinned to the doorway. A carved figure with an open mouth and sharp teeth looms over her head, whether to attack or protect her, who can say. The Tsar shakes his rattle and shouts, but his booming voice cannot pierce through the chaos.

  The shots become less frequent. Then they stop altogether. Outside, there’s not a sound. Inside, children sob. A few women try to comfort them, and the rest wait.

  Is the crew getting closer? Are we finally going to be rescued? Yakov, Maria, Kotelnikov, and I watch the door.

  Then I hear a voice outside. The footfall of a person running. The woman with the silver comb rushes to the door. She calls out. Somebody outside replies. Voices join in. The woman with the silver comb veers away from the entrance. A cluster of people bursts into the house. The light from outside is too bright and I can’t distinguish their faces. Is that us? Is that Nikolai Isaakovich?

  “Kolya!” I scream and wave. “Over here!”

  The bodies swarm together like clouds in a storm. Everyone’s talking, yelling, and some are shrieking. I climb up on the bench.

  As they move away from the harsh daylight, I see it’s not Nikolai Isaakovich. It’s not even our crew. It’s koliuzhi men. They’re dragging a body.

  The man, limp as a fallen petal, groans. His head hangs, and his arms drape over the shoulders of two men. There’s blood, dark and glossy, on his leg. He’s been shot in the thigh. His wound is the size of the small celestial sphere my father keeps on his desk. The blood drips all the way down his naked leg and onto his foot. It leaves a trail on the floor.

  The koliuzhi hoist him onto the bench. He’s flat on his back.

  He’s the eyebrow man, the one I said “wacush” to on our first day. His eyes are shut. His mouth gapes as he struggles to breathe. The koliuzhi close in around him. I can’t see what they’re doing. He bellows.

  I collapse down on the bench. I can’t bear to look. Yakov has put his hand over his mouth, and pulled his cap down. He, too, has turned away from the injured man.

  The sound of a man singing rises through the tumult. He wails, long ays and ohs, and cries out. As his voice grows louder, the people quiet. Then somebody begins to beat a drum. The chaos around the injured eyebrow man transforms into order, governed by the beat of the drum. The house itself joins in, its planks and beams coaxed into vibration. I stand up and the rhythm rises through my feet until my heart is no longer only a part of my flesh, but a part of something large that demands compliance. Near the door, four men with sticks as long as their arms pound the wooden bench that, I realize, is hollow and empty as a drum.

  Then a rattling begins, sounding similar to the Tsar’s wooden cylinder carved with the bird’s head, but harsher and more clattery, like the wheels of a coach. Wood is not making that sound. I can’t
see who or what is.

  I look to Maria, then Kotelnikov, then Yakov. Where is Yakov? He’s no longer beside us. Across the house, I spot his cap. Surrounded by koliuzhi men who grip his arms, he’s beside the injured eyebrow man. The koliuzhi speak urgently.

  Through the drumming and rattling and singing, Yakov cries loudly, “No!” Kotelnikov and Maria turn toward his voice. “I told you—I don’t know what you want!” He’s flustered and confused. The more he objects, the more they insist.

  The singing, drumming, and rattling add to his confusion. He tries to twist away, but they push him back toward the injured man. What do they want? How is Yakov supposed to know?

  “Take the musket ball out,” Maria shouts.

  Yakov squirms and recoils from the men who nudge him forward. He doesn’t hear her. So she shouts more loudly, “The musket ball! Yakov! You have to take out the musket ball.”

  Yakov hears this time. His face crumples. “How? I can’t. I don’t know how.”

  “For Lord’s sake, Yakov, just do it. It can’t be hard.”

  “No!” he shouts. “I can’t.”

  The singing soars, the beat of the drum grows more urgent. With a shake of her head, Maria pushes forward. She slips sideways between two koliuzhi. She nudges another with her shoulder. She steps around a woman older than she is. Eventually, the koliuzhi crowd divides and allows her to pass until she reaches Yakov and the injured man.

  I strain to hear their conversation. It’s almost impossible with the drumming and singing, but the words eventually rise above the clamour.

  “Poor boy,” Maria says. “He’s not awake, is he?”

  “He won’t live,” Yakov says. “How could he? The blood . . .”

  “Shhh! Are you mad?”

  “They can’t understand me.”

  “Don’t summon the devil.”

  “Not even the devil would dare to come here.”

  “Then go ahead. Call him. Perhaps you’ll be next.”

  This silences Yakov. Under Maria’s oversight, he bends and examines the wound. His head shakes.

  “Oh, you old fool.” Maria bends, and I lose sight of her.

  “Maria!” Yakov gasps. “Maria, no!”

  The eyebrow man bellows so loudly I expect the walls to fall. Others wail. A man near me shouts and tears at his hair.

  Maria’s turned to the crowd. Her arm is raised, her hand bloody to the wrist like a midwife’s. Pinched between her fingers is the flattened musket ball.

  “Maria!” Kotelnikov cries. For once, there’s no sharpness and impatience in his face. He’s shocked.

  Silence falls throughout the house. The eyebrow man must have fainted from the pain and no one knows what to say about the sight of Maria with her raised, bloody hand, holding the musket ball as though it’s a baby she has just delivered or perhaps an amulet she’s conjured up like she’s a sorceress.

  “Bring some water,” Maria says firmly. “Warm, if you can. We need to get cleaned up.”

  The mood changes from that moment, as though having stumbled upon a crossroads, we blindly chose a path and through a miracle it turned out to be the right one. The eyebrow man is alive, and if he survives the night, perhaps we will, too. If she’s saved his life, perhaps Maria will also have to her credit saving ours.

  When it’s late, the fire is stoked and most of the koliuzhi drift to their sleeping places. Only a few remain at the side of the eyebrow man. One is the singer. Even after most people have retired for the night, he sings in bursts, and sometimes, he shakes a staff decorated with feathers and black bones or shells that dangle from cords and rattle together.

  The door is heavily guarded, though I doubt the Russians will come back so soon after today’s battle. The fierce rain that’s started to pound the roof will also keep them away.

  From my place on the mat beside Maria, my mind clambers over tonight’s events and weighs the possible outcomes. I try to think rationally but it’s hard to fight the terrible ideas as they occur to me, one after the other. I try to think instead about what I love. Nikolai Isaakovich. My mother and father. Zhuchka, dear little Zhuchka with her paintbrush tail and her simple joy. My telescope on a clear night, the searing feeling of the cold brass against my fingers. The comfort of a feather bed and a warm cover. A book. I miss reading a book. Dancing in a room so full of people the ceiling swirls and you think it will lift at any moment.

  I’m not the only one who can’t sleep. There’s rustling everywhere. Whispering. Sighs. Babies’ cries as they try to settle, parents’ reassurances as they try to hush them. Any sleep tonight, if it comes, will be troubled.

  I am half asleep when I feel our cedar blanket shift. I think it’s just Maria turning in her sleep but when I look, I see a koliuzhi man. He’s kneeling beside Maria and gently shaking her shoulder. She turns her head, looks, and freezes.

  “Baliya,” he whispers.

  She doesn’t move and neither do I. What does he want?

  “Baliya,” he whispers again, 12

  Baliya. That’s how he pronounces Maria’s name. There’s silence and it’s evident that most of the koliuzhi are asleep. No one’s listening. Nobody is going to help us understand what he wants.

  “ Chialiwáyolilo lobáa,”13 he says. Assured she’s awake, he rises and waves his hand as though he wants her to also get up.

  She and I sit up. On the other side of the fire, across the house, two women and several men who’ve gathered around the eyebrow man call out and gesture when they see us. “Baliya!” they cry.

  They want Maria. The watchmen around the door shift nervously and glance back and forth between the eyebrow man and our corner.

  “The koliuzhi want you,” I say. “They’re calling you over there.”

  The man standing beside our bed continues speaking with some urgency. The man with the staff of feather and bones, who’s still posted next to the injured man, shakes his staff as if she might understand that instead of the spoken words.

  Maria’s eyes flit back and forth among the koliuzhi, but she remains next to me, her fingers curled around the edge of the blanket, refusing to let go.

  “You better go find out what they want,” I say, “before they get angry.”

  Stiffly, Maria rises to her feet and lumbers across the floor. When she reaches the bench, she bends. I can’t see her anymore. The fire in the house is burning low and there’s almost no light.

  Finally, she comes back to our sleeping place.

  I hold up her cedar bedclothes so she can slide in more easily. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I think they just wanted me to look at that man.”

  “Is he dead?”

  She shakes her head. “He’s asleep now. But his wound is terrible.”

  “Is he bleeding?”

  “No. It’s stopped—but it’s black. They put medicine in it.” She pauses. “And he needs a splint.”

  “Is he going to live?”

  Silence answers. Lightly I touch my silver cross.

  “They know your name.”

  Maria grunts.

  “They called your name. Baliya, they said. Now they know your name.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  As soon as I awaken the next morning and sit up, the koliuzhi call out. “Baliya! Hákwoti akw!”14 They want her back again.

  She rolls over right away, and pushes herself up until she’s sitting on the mat. She must have been awake. “You come with me this time,” she says.

  “They’re asking for you.”

  “You have to come,” she insists. “Come and see. You have to help me.”

  “There’s nothing I can do.” I’m afraid to see the terrible wound up close, but I feel sorry for Maria. The eyes of the watchmen at the door follow us across the floor.

  Sweat is beaded on the eyebrow man’s forehead and upper lip. His eyes are red and filmy, and they don’t shift toward us. His eyebrows look lifeless. The wound is covered loosely with a small hide. A woman rolls it back. Mari
a is right. Something black has been crammed into it. The surrounding flesh is white and swollen, and water oozes from its lip. Maria places her hand on his forehead, drags it down to his cheek, and tenderly cups his face for a few moments. “He’s feverish.”

  “You already took out the musket ball. Isn’t he getting better?”

  She shrugs. “He needs medicine.”

  I point to the black substance that fills the hole. “He has medicine. Their medicine. Isn’t it working?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know what medicine it is.”

  The peasants use rustic medicine. Onions. Old bread. Concoctions made of wild plants and roots they harvest from the meadow and the forest. Even magic spells and pagan chants. My father believed these were foolish—the ways of the superstitious—and he would always rather call the doctor, just as any adherent to the Enlightenment would. The doctor’s ways and the elixirs and powders he compounded in his chambers seemed just as mysterious to me, but they were, of course, based on science.

  “Can you do anything for him?”

  “He needs a splint.”

  “Then give him one.”

  “After that—I don’t know where to start.”

  “You have to save him,” I insist. “You have to try. Or they might kill us. Give him some medicine. Some herbs or something. Some roots.”

  “Where am I supposed to get medicine?”

  Her iron stubbornness is impenetrable. “Where you usually get it.”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t know anything about what grows here. Or about their medicine.”

  “Lamestin,” says the koliuzhi woman. “Baliya lamestin?”

  I’m not really listening—I think it just more words that we can’t understand. Then the face of an old tutor flits to mind—long, dreadful French lessons, conjugating verbs and struggling to wrap my tongue around a language that never fit.