“Maria,” I say. “It’s French. I think she’s speaking French.”
“How would she know French?”
I ignore her question. Instead, I turn to the old woman—she’s silver-haired and wearing a belted cedar dress that covers her neck to ankle but leaves her arms free and bare. She has a ring in her nose and a long necklace of feathers, beads, and shells that rattles as she moves. I point to the black tar in the wound. “Le médicament?” I exaggerate my lips the way the tutor showed me.
“Lamestin,” she says and smiles, showing gaps in her teeth. She lisps a bit because of the missing teeth, but I’m sure I heard correctly. It’s not exactly French, but it’s close.
What is this lamestin? Did they make it? Where did it come from?
“Maria, it is French. I think she’s trying to say medicine.”
“D’où est-ce que vous avez trouvé lamestin?” I ask the koliuzhi. Where did you find this medicine?
“Lamestin,” she repeats. She has no idea what I’ve just said. If she knows French, it’s maybe just this single word.
“If you could find the right herbs and roots, could you help her?” I ask Maria. She furrows her brow, presses her lips firmly together. “Would you at least try?”
“Don’t get hopeful. This isn’t my home and I don’t know anything about this place or their ways.”
It takes gestures, pointing, and repeating this single word, but finally the old woman leads Maria and me into the forest. A koliuizhi man, armed with bow and arrow, accompanies us. He may be here to ensure we don’t flee or harm the old woman, but it’s more likely he’s here to protect us all.
The lamestin woman has a knife with an iron blade tucked into her belt. She also has a small, soft-sided basket of tools made of stone or shell or bone—impossible to tell without examination. Our watchman has a breechclout of hide and a cedar mantle, but it’s ragged and short and barely reaches his waist. I wonder that no one has given him a new one or even a simple shirt to keep him warm outdoors. The lamestin woman leads us along a path that skirts the river.
Maria and this old woman know what we’re looking for. I don’t. Plants, even the ones in our garden in Petersburg, are strangers to me. When I look at them, they blur into a swathe of green, and if they’re flowering, blotches of red, purple, pink, yellow—whatever the colour of the blossoms. To me, plants are pretty, and sometimes sweetly scented, and that’s all.
Across the river, the grey-brown mound still lies waiting for somebody other than the crows to pay it heed. Today, it gets its wish; a gull battles for its share. The reek of death has grown heavier. It’s spreading to our side of the river. Again, I turn away.
The sky’s heavy and promises rain before long. The lamestin woman stops before a cluster of tall plants with jagged leaves. “T’όpit,”15 she says. Many of the stems are brown and bent and the remains of the huge flower heads are dried. Some still contain seeds.
“Putchki?” Maria says. “Is it?” She very gently fingers the leaves and kneels. She digs out earth from around the stem. The lamestin woman passes her a knife that’s a shell with a sharpened edge and she cuts two stalks. The lamestin woman picks a broad leaf growing on a nearby plant and wraps it around the stalks before picking them up. Then she looks at me.
“Is that enough?” I ask Maria.
“No,” she replies. “Let’s keep going.”
“Lamestin,” I say to the old woman. “On y va?” Let’s go.
She leads us until we come across a little creek emptying into the river. We follow the little creek until it vanishes into a bog. A black bird squawks and springs sideways from a tall reed as soon as we appear. The reed sways long after the bird is gone. The spongy bog is hungry and sucks at my shoes. The heels slip off with each step, slowing me.
“It’s hamidux.” From far ahead, Maria says the word as though she doesn’t expect to find it here.
“,”16 says the old woman. She and Maria kneel next to one another. In a low voice, the old woman continues to speak to Maria.
By the time I approach, Maria’s dug out a couple of plants, roots and all. The leaves are round with a jagged edge that’s turned reddish-brown. Mud clings to the roots.
“I have enough,” Maria says. “We can return if we need any more. Let’s go back.”
“Lamestin,” I say to the old woman and I point to Maria’s hands. “Baliya a fini lamestin. On y va.” Maria is finished with the medicine. Let’s go.
The old woman looks confused. She walks away, leading us around the marsh area. On the other side is a small grassy meadow. “Sisibátswa,”17 she says.
Maria kneels almost immediately before a plant with fringed leaves. “Look! Cingatudax. It looks different but—” She rubs the leaves between her fingers and smells them. “This might help close the wound.” Then she snaps off all the leaves that show a hint of green. “That’s enough. We should go back now.”
“How fortunate you found everything you need,” I say, and then I chide her. “And you said you didn’t know anything about the koliuzhi plants and their ways.”
Maria looks at me like I’m mad. “I didn’t find anything. She led us here,” she says. “She brought us right to the plants I need. Didn’t you notice? She knows.”
The lamestin woman smiles, showing the gaps in her teeth, then turns down the trail. I’ve lost my sense of direction so I’m not sure where she’s going. After a few minutes, the trail mysteriously twists, and we approach the houses from the back, bypassing the grey-brown mound. Thankfully, I don’t need to see it, though the stench reminds me it’s gone nowhere.
Inside, the koliuzhi women bring utensils to Maria. There are knives like the one Maria used to cut the putchki—sharpened shells, and also rocks whose edges have been honed thin as the paper of my husband’s charts. There are scoops and spoons and ladles with differing lengths of handle, some carved out of wood and bone, some made of large seashells. Koliuzhi Klara brings a mortar and pestle of heavy grey stone. She can hardly lift them. Maria tells me to grind up some of the leaves we collected. I press down and twist the pestle, bruising and shredding the leaves and stems until they turn into a mash. As I grind, Koliuzhi Klara fills the cooking box with water and puts hot rocks into it.
While the medicine cooks, Maria applies the splint. Somehow, she makes the koliuzhi understand what she needs, or perhaps, as it was with the plants, they already know what’s needed. I can’t see what she’s doing but I hear the eyebrow man groan. I hear the rattle of the singing man’s feathered wand and his voice rising in song.
When the medicine is ready, the koliuzhi sit the eyebrow man up and hold him while Maria brings a small ladle to his lip and makes him sip the broth she’s made. After four sips, some of it running out of the corners of his mouth, he’s laid back down. The lamestin woman watches that they’re careful not to hurt him. Maria and the lamestin woman then wash the wound, removing the black medicine. I hold a small woven bowl into which they fling the ooze to be discarded. He groans when Maria must go deep into the wound. The splint holds his leg steady as they work. Finally, Maria replaces the black medicine with a warm green poultice. The lamestin woman holds the sides of the gash while Maria packs it in. They leave the wound uncovered.
When they’ve finished, the singing man with the staff begins again, this time accompanied by drums. During his song, the eyebrow man suddenly goes limp. At first, I think he’s died; then I realize he’s fallen asleep or perhaps simply passed out.
The eyebrow man is our Lazarus. He makes it through another night. Maria tells me his fever is no longer raging. She feeds him more broth. Again, I hold the little woven bowl—a basket, but the weave is so tight it doesn’t leak—while she and the lamestin woman clean out the wound and press more warm poultice into the opening. The wound is less swollen and inflamed. The Tsar with the golden cape looks less worried. The singer waits until we’re done before he rattles his staff and begins another song.
We’re nine days into our trial an
d finally have found a way to start communicating. Yakov decides we should introduce ourselves. He lines us up before the Tsar and begins by pointing to Maria and saying just as they would, “Baliya. Baliya.”
Several people notice and, curious, they approach. The Tsar says, “Baliya,” and others echo him. “Baliya. Baliya.” I’m certain Yakov’s been understood.
Yakov then points at me. “This is our dear navigator’s wife, Madame Anna Petrovna Bulygina.” Silence. He tries again. “Madame Anna Petrovna Bulygina.” This time, the Tsar frowns and others mutter, but no one tries my name. So Yakov makes another attempt. “Madame Bulygina,” he says with exaggerated pronunciation. People smile, then look at one another, and a few of them laugh. Perhaps my name doesn’t translate appropriately.
Yakov looks uncomfortable. He must address me in a much less formal way. In Russia, that’s never done. That name is reserved for use by family and closest friends. But we’re not in Russia, are we?
“Go ahead,” I say. He says nervously, “Anna Petrovna.”
There’s still nothing more than a broken murmur. His only recourse is to cross a final social boundary and speak to me like a husband or parent. I nod my consent.
“Anna. Anna.” Kotelnikov flinches when he hears Yakov. The name sounds unnatural and disrespectful coming from this Aleut.
“Ahda,” says the Tsar. Then I hear others repeat it. “Ahda. Ahda.” I feel my face redden. The woman with the silver comb in her hair smiles at me.
Yakov then lays his hand on his chest and says, “Yakov. Yakov.”
“Hálas ‘Ya op?’”18 says a woman. Muffled laughter spreads through the house. “Ishkida! Bayílo ťísikwo.”19
The koliuzhi laugh loudly. Kotelnikov hesitates for a moment, then a smile spreads across his face and he joins in. He points at the old Aleut and says, “Yah-kop. Yah-kop. May I introduce Monsieur Yah-kop?” He has no idea what he’s saying; only that it amuses the koliuzhi and annoys Yakov.
Yakov doesn’t wait for the laughter to die down completely. As soon as he can be heard, he points to chubby Kotelnikov’s stomach and says, “Kotel.”
The koliuzhi stop and look disbelieving. The Tsar is wide-eyed. Then the koliuzhi screech with laughter that’s magnitudes greater than how they laughed at Yakov’s name.
A laugh dies on Kotelnikov’s lips and his face twists with anger. “No!” He straightens and thumps his sturdy chest. “Kotelnikov! Kotel-NIKOV! Don’t forget the Nikov part.”
It’s too late. The koliuzhi repeat, “Kwόxwal. Kwόxwal.”20 And with each repetition, the laughter grows.
I have no great affinity for Kotelnikov, and I share my husband’s belief that his impatience and ambition cloud his judgment. But I try not to laugh because he’s so offended and no one will listen to him. The koliuzhi cannot possibly know they have called him a cooking pot, a name that cruelly draws attention to his stoutness, and yet they’ve made sense of his name, sense that they find amusing. Many koliuzhi wipe tears from their eyes, they laugh so hard.
It’s impossible to resist. His overreaction is as funny as his new name. I give in and laugh, too.
“Listen! Kotelnikov! It’s Kotel-NIKOV!” He stomps around, gestures wildly, and looks for anybody who’ll listen.
He circles back and turns on Yakov. “Tell them! Tell them my proper name!”
“You tell them yourself,” Yakov says dismissively and frowns. He turns away from the apprentice and smiles slyly. The laughter explodes anew.
Then Kotelnikov grabs Yakov’s arm, and pulls so hard that Yakov, caught off guard, falls.
He lands hard, cries out, and reaches for his knee. “What are you doing?” he shouts at Kotelnikov. “Stop it!”
Kotelnikov kicks Yakov’s backside.
The laughter dissolves. The koliuzhi descend. Several men pull Kotelnikov away from Yakov. They lift Kotelnikov onto their shoulders. They struggle a bit with his girth. They carry him toward the door while the singer with the staff helps Yakov up.
“Where are they taking him?” I ask Maria.
“I don’t know,” says Maria. “Come on.”
Kotelnikov jerks with all his strength, but outside there’s more room, causing other men to join the effort. They hold him high as they head toward the river. They immobilize his kicking legs and swinging arms. “Put me down, you savages!” cries Kotelnikov.
When they get to the river’s edge, they launch Kotelnikov like he’s a sack being thrown from the deck of a ship.
His body lifts. His arms and legs thrash. Then he changes direction and plummets. The river cracks when he hits the surface and swallows him whole. Huge waves ripple out.
The river’s not very deep, and he’s up in a second. He stands. Water streams down his body.
“I’m going to kill you all!” Except for Maria and I, no one understands him, but translation isn’t necessary. He spits out a string of curses, most of which I’ve never heard.
“That fucking goat will pay for this! He’s going to regret what he did! You tell him,” he cries when he notices Maria and me, “Filip Kotelnikov is going to get even.”
Many of the koliuzhi walk away. Surprisingly, two men don’t. They enter the river and wait at its edge. Perhaps they want to make sure he neither hurts anybody else nor escapes.
“Let’s go see how Yakov is doing,” Maria says, and we head back to the house, followed closely by the watchmen.
* * *
12Wake up.
13Wake up! We need help.
14Come!
15Cow parsnip or wild celery
16Avens
17Yarrow
18Did he say, “Feel the urge to fuck?”
19Ha! Crazy name!
20Scrawny. Scrawny.
CHAPTER NINE
In the misty afternoon, the Murzik follows me when I venture out to relieve myself. Before we reach a secluded spot, he shows me a startlingly white handkerchief.
“Where did you get that?” My voice squeaks, raspy as a rusty gate. I reach for it.
The Murzik grows uneasy and pulls the handkerchief closer. Its folds lie stark against his dark, worn hands. He starts to crumple it into his fingers.
“Let me see. Please.” Before he can put it away completely, I snatch it.
He protests, but I turn my back on him and examine it against my apron front. This cheap Russian trading handkerchief, fresh and undamaged, is white as new snow against my filthy clothing. However the Murzik managed to get it, it hasn’t been with him long.
He snatches it back.
“No,” I cry. “Give it back. Just for a moment. I promise I’ll return it. Please.” I hold out my hands. “Wacush. Korolki. Lamestin. Please.” He laughs. Then he dangles the handkerchief before me, flicking it beyond reach. After a minute he releases it and the tiny white scrap flutters back into my hands.
I pull it to my nose. It reeks of smoke and fish. “How did you get this?”
“Híli hílils kíwa kiyáli ti’l xwa hόtskwať,” he says. “Óas xwoό yix ichaawόwa.”21
He points and gestures, but I understand nothing. Has he stolen it? Killed somebody and taken it? Has he been given it? His story is long, and he mimes many things—one moment, he’s carrying something burdensome, the next, it’s vanished, then he’s embracing himself and rocking back and forth. Sometimes he laughs. Other times he frowns as if annoyed.
“Kiyáli xwa hόtskwať ‘at hidáťot histáalach i icháat,”22 he says.
“Come,” I say, and I turn back toward the house. He reaches for the handkerchief. “No,” I say. “Come with me.” I crumple the handkerchief in one hand and gesture with the other to urge him along.
The crows lift from the grey-brown mound on the opposite side of the river as we run past, cawing their annoyance at the disruption. When I enter the house, I find Maria and Yakov. There’s no sign of Kotelnikov.
“Look!” I cry. “The Murzik has a handkerchief.”
Yakov takes the crumpled handkerchief and inspects it.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Yakov ponders. Of the many ways that this handkerchief might have come to the Murzik, some are frightening, while others bring hope.
“He’s stolen it,” says Maria, eyeing the Murzik suspiciously.
“Maybe,” says Yakov. “Perhaps it was given to him.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why would they give something to the Murzik? A few days ago, we were shooting at them.”
“Maybe it was given in trade.” Yakov passes the handkerchief back to the Murzik.
This pristine handkerchief is a sign our crew is alive and not far away. If the handkerchief has been acquired in trade, then they’d have to be talking amicably to the koliuzhi. Are they talking about us? If they can trade a handkerchief, what else might they be able to do? Perhaps we won’t have to wait much longer for our rescue.
The handkerchief tucked away, the Murzik extends his closed fist. Slowly he opens his fingers to reveal korolki of varying shapes and sizes. He cups them like seeds. The faceted surfaces catch the light as he rolls them around with his thumb. He also has some silver beads. He watches our faces.
Yakov frowns, puzzled. “It must have been a trade. I wonder what he gave in return.”
“Are they coming for us?” I look to the door.
“More likely they needed something to eat.”
Of course. Though I understand, I’m disappointed.
Very early the next morning, before we eat, we’re brought before the Tsar. The Murzik is already here. The handkerchief, less pristine than it was yesterday, droops from the Tsar’s hand
The Tsar questions the Murzik. The Murzik fidgets and replies in bursts, his eyes darting around the house, as though he might scoot away like a startled cat. There’s no doubt—he’s come into possession of this handkerchief through mischief, and now he’d do anything to be rid of it.
Anna, Like Thunder Page 14
