Then a woman with a baby on her hip shows a second handkerchief to the Tsar. He’s surprised. He speaks sharply to the woman. She shifts the baby to her other hip and gives him the handkerchief. The Tsar clutches both handkerchiefs in his fists, shakes them toward the woman and raises his voice.
The baby cries. The Murzik hangs his head. The woman shouts back. When she does, the baby wails. The Tsar glowers and says nothing. From behind us, a man yells and the woman with the baby bellows back at him.
Suddenly, somebody pushes me down. I fall hard. My chin strikes the floor. I bite my lip and taste blood.
I try to get up, but I can’t. My skirt is tangled in my legs. Everyone’s shouting now. “Yakov?” I plead.
I come up on my hands and knees, and look up over my shoulder. Who is this furious man glaring down at me?
The Tsar cries, “Wa ťaakwόla xwόxwa!”23 He directs these angry words not at the man who pushed me, not at the woman who produced the handkerchief, not at the Murzik—but at me. He shouts at me a long time and a short time, and when he finishes, he gives back the handkerchiefs—one to the Murzik, and the other to the woman with the baby who’s now screeching and bucking against her grip.
A hand closes around my arm and heaves me up like I’m weightless. I cry out and my sleeve tears. The furious man pulls me toward the door.
“Let go of her,” cries Kotelnikov. He leaps over and reaches for my captor’s hands. Another koliuzhi man pulls Kotelnikov away and pins his arms behind his back. “Get your shit-covered hands off me!” Kotelnikov twists.
“Be careful, Madame Bulygina! Don’t fight! You won’t win!” cries Yakov.
What he doesn’t realize is that even if I wanted to fight, I couldn’t. Every part of my body has turned to jelly.
We paddle upriver in a small canoe. I sit on the frigid keel, my hands clutching the gunwales. The blood on my lip is drying, tightening the swollen skin. The man who pushed me down is in front of me, pulling hard against the current. As our vessel slices through it, water rises up and folds over in a voluptuous, glistening lip.
We’re accompanied by two other canoes and six more koliuzhi. Why has the Tsar sent so many men? Where are we going, and why?
The river bends gently. The canoe tilts a little as they steer through the curve. Ahead, a fallen tree, half-submerged, pokes its many branches through the surface. Should I jump in? If I could reach the tree, maybe it would help me to pull myself to shore. Would they kill me first? Before I can decide, we pass the tree and it’s too late.
The river has a stony bottom that reveals itself where there’s no light reflecting off the water’s surface. A feather twirls by. Rushes lining the riverbanks bend as though bowing their heads for a passing funeral procession. Beyond, the forest is black in all directions. If this is to be my end, let it be quick and free of pain. I close my eyes. The canoe lurches forward against the current.
Then I hear a crunch, followed by another. I open my eyes. The canoes have come to shore. Ours squeaks against the reeds as it, too, stops.
From the opposite bank, a man’s voice says, “Over here!” I turn, and I can’t believe what I see.
Nikolai Isaakovich. The American. Timofei Osipovich and his loyal Kozma Ovchinnikov. Everyone is here. Everyone. Timofei Osipovich pushes through the reeds and stands at the river’s edge.
“Madame Bulygina, are you hurt?” he calls.
His voice is strong and, for once, addressing me he’s serious. I look at my husband. He stands behind the reeds and stares. His face is rutted with pain. He looks shrunken and, with his untrimmed beard, almost beastly. Where is his overcoat? His eyes are too shiny—is he about to cry?
“Fine,” I shout finally. “I’m fine. Kolya?” I begin to cry.
“Anya!” he shouts, his voice breaking. “Oh, Anya!” He stumbles to the edge of the riverbank and leans so far out I think for a moment he intends to jump in.
The entire crew looks filthy and exhausted. They all have sunken cheeks and black circles under their eyes. Their clothing is worn and ripped in new places. The Aleuts are barefoot.
I rise to my knees in the canoe and force myself to stop crying. “Nikolai Isaakovich, I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine.”
“You’re bleeding!”
I touch the newly formed crust. “It’s nothing,” I say.
“What have they done to you? Who did it? I’ll kill him.”
“It was an accident,” I say. “It doesn’t hurt.” I fear for the outcome of this meeting if he doesn’t calm himself. “Everything is fine.” I manage a small smile.
“Are the others all right?” says Timofei Osipovich.
“They’re fine. They’re back at the house. We’ve been waiting.”
Everything makes sense now. The koliuzhi are letting us go. I’m to go first, and though I don’t know why, it doesn’t matter. “Let’s go. We still have time to get to the Kad’iak. Timofei Osipovich, please tell them to bring me to shore.”
The crew begins to fidget. Something’s amiss, something that’s been set in motion by my words. And then I notice.
“Where’s Khariton Sobachnikov? And where’s Zhuchka? Zhuchka!” I call. She does not bound forward, but before I call her again, Timofei Osipovich shouts.
“Madame Bulygina, remain quiet now while we negotiate your release.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have to negotiate your release. Be patient. They’re asking a lot, but I might be able to talk them out of it.”
“Kolya?” I try to control my tone. “What’s he talking about?”
“Be quiet now, Anya.”
At the edge of the riverbank, Timofei Osipovich says, “Makuk.” I recognize this word—he used it when trading for the halibut. A man in one of the other canoes answers. Our prikashchik responds.
John Williams steps forward. His shock of red hair is plastered to his head and his cap most certainly is gone now. In his arms he cradles a fold of nankeen cotton. A string of beads is curled on top of it. He glances nervously at my husband.
Timofei Osipovich continues to speak, his hands moving to give emphasis to his words. The koliuzhi are silent. Finally, the man in the other canoe shouts something.
Timofei Osipovich shrugs and then nods to the carpenter Ivan Kurmachev. He steps up beside John Williams. Folded in his arms is a black-green greatcoat. It’s Kolya’s.
Timofei Osipovich addresses the koliuzhi again but whatever he says is useless. The koliuzhi remain unconvinced. Finally, the koliuzhi in the other canoe snaps at him. Timofei Osipovich sighs heavily and orders Ovchinnikov, “Get the broken one. They won’t know any better.”
Ovchinnikov fusses in his bundle and pulls out a musket. Nothing would indicate it’s broken. He lays the musket in his extended arms and takes his place beside John Williams and Ivan Kurmachev.
The koliuzhi exchange glances, then lift their paddles. Our canoe pushes away from the bank and turns into the current.
“Stop,” cries my husband.
“Stop!” I cry. “No!”
We stop. The canoes are pulled back to the riverbank. But we’re a sazhen or two farther downstream on the opposite bank.
Don’t they want what we have to offer? Why not? They can’t possibly know the musket is broken, so it must be something else.
“Let me go!” I plead. I point back upstream to where my husband stands with the others. “Paddle! Come on, paddle.” I mime for them, an invisible paddle in my hands. “Please!” But we remain where we are.
“Give them the muskets,” my husband screams. “I command you. Now!”
“That would be foolish,” says Timofei Osipovich.
“I want my wife released. Give them the four muskets,” he insists.
“My dear navigator, as you well know, we have only one good musket for each man. We’ve not one single tool to repair them if anything should break. They’re all we have to save us.”
“We have plenty of guns,” shouts my husband. “We don’t need
one for every single man.”
“Maybe you’re right,” says Timofei Osipovich coolly. “But if we give them four guns, they’ll use them against us. Maybe even tonight. Who would you like to see killed first by our own weapons? Him?” He points to the carpenter Kurmachev. “Or him?” He points to John Williams whose face turns even paler.
“Stop!” cries my husband. “You go too far.”
“Forgive me. I will disobey your order.”
My husband runs and plants himself before Kurmachev. “Give me your musket. Give it to me.” Kurmachev squeezes his musket to his chest. His old face is knotted in despair.
“If any man follows our navigator’s commands,” says Timofei Osipovich, “I’ll leave. I’ll get in the canoe with Madame Bulygina and join the koliuzhi. You can fend for yourselves until you find the Kad’iak.”
Kurmachev doesn’t move.
Nikolai Isaakovich faces John Williams. “Give me your musket. I command you.” His voice is hoarse with the threat of tears. But the American is defiant. He looks at Timofei Osipovich and waits.
“A person’s life and liberty are the most precious things on earth,” says Timofei Osipovich. “We have no wish to lose them. We have spoken.”
Four muskets stand between me and freedom. Four. How many muskets did we senselessly destroy and toss into the ocean when we abandoned the brig—while we packed another fold of cotton and another string of beads? “Give them what they want! Please!” I shout.
“Be quiet, Madame Bulygina. Your words only make things worse,” says Timofei Osipovich. My husband buries his face in his hands. My heart breaks, but his tears are worthless to me right now. Why doesn’t he do something? Not a single word passes his lips. No reprimand for the crew who cling to their muskets, nor for the prikashchik whose insolence would earn him severe punishment from the chief manager if he knew. I’m not worth four muskets. My life and liberty are much less precious than any of theirs.
A crow calls out twice from downstream. Its squawking voice carries through the trees.
Timofei Osipovich speaks to the koliuzhi, but they don’t let him finish. They twist their paddles and the canoes respond. The current pulls us downriver, back toward the houses and the ocean.
My voice is as loud as thunder as I wail into the trees. If I survive now, I’ll never let them forget this betrayal. They’ll never forget this day, how they chose their freedom over mine and how they abandoned me for the sake of four muskets.
I jump from the canoe when it touches shore. “Maria! Yakov!” I call as I run, my skirt tangled in my legs. “Yakov!”
They’re standing when I burst through the doorway.
“What happened to you?” Maria cries.
“I thought we’d never see you again,” says Kotelnikov.
“We’re never getting out of here! Never!” I sob. “I hate them all!”
Yakov nudges Maria, and she puts her arm around me. She awkwardly pats my back, and then, with her fingers, pinches the edges of my torn sleeve together and holds it closed. I fold in to her, and put my arms around her shoulders. She’s so tiny but I let her support me like a mother would support her daughter.
“What happened, Madame Bulygina?” Yakov says.
I tell them everything—from the canoes, to the arrival at the riverbank, to the nankeen cotton, Nikolai Isaakovich’s greatcoat, and the four muskets. From Timofei Osipovich’s defiance, to the crew’s submission. From the koliuzhi’s refusal to bend from their demands, to my husband’s relinquishment of his command. When I finish, I press my face into the crook of Maria’s arm. My shoulders shudder. I know I should show more courage, but I can’t restrain my despair any longer.
We’re offered food, but I can’t eat. Maria tends to the eyebrow man, while I lie on the mat and cry until I fall asleep, exhausted. Late in the afternoon, Kotelnikov calls us over to a bench in the corner. The koliuzhi watchmen turn their heads from the doorway as we cross the house to him, but no one stops us.
“We need a plan,” Kotelnikov starts.
“What for?” says Maria.
“We need a plan to get back with the others. Before they leave.”
“They won’t leave! They have to wait for us,” Maria cries. “Don’t say such foolish things!”
When they hear her raised voice, the koliuzhi watchmen peer at us.
“I think the negotiations are not finished yet,” Yakov says. “The crew shouldn’t move until they are—or until the worst of winter has passed. It would make no sense.”
“But Yakov,” I say, “it’s no longer a matter of sense or no sense. Timofei Osipovich won’t give them any muskets—and no one has the courage to confront him.” It saddens me to think how quickly the others aligned themselves with Timofei Osipovich and against my husband, and how easily my husband then capitulated. “What kind of negotiation is that?”
“The kind that takes a long time,” Yakov says.
“We’re fools to think these negotiations will come to an agreeable conclusion, let alone any conclusion,” says Kotelnikov. “The koliuzhi are playing games. If we were to give them four muskets, they’d turn around and demand four more. They’re unreasonable.”
“What’s unreasonable is offering them less than what we were willing to give for a sea otter pelt—and expecting them to hand over the commander’s wife,” says Maria.
“No. Circumstances are different,” counters Kotelnikov. “The rules have all changed. We must act while we’re strong and the snow’s not deep.”
“You’re wrong,” says Yakov. “Now, more than ever, we need to be patient. Let the negotiation continue. I predict that in one or two days, we’ll be released, and then we can be on our way—less perhaps a musket or two.”
“If you want to take your chances, you go ahead. I’m leaving. At the first opportunity,” says Kotelnikov. “And I’ll take anybody who wants to come. Maria? Madame Bulygina?”
How can I? If I go with him, we may wander the forest for days before we find the crew—days during which we’re pursued by the koliuzhi, days in which we’ll need to fend for ourselves with no food, no shelter, and no firearms. It’s the middle of winter. The cold alone could decide our fate.
Besides, I don’t want to see our crew. I hate Timofei Osipovich. My husband is a coward. How can I forgive them so easily? I know these are the vengeful thoughts of a little girl who imagines she’s been betrayed, and not an eighteen-year-old married woman, but I don’t care. I don’t.
“They don’t want us,” I say. “There’s no point.”
“That’s not true,” says Kotelnikov. “Be rational. We can’t stay here. They’re going to kill us eventually.”
“They’re not going to kill anybody,” Yakov points out.
I agree with Yakov. The koliuzhi have shown no inclination toward murdering us. If Kotelnikov were to go and the rest of us were to stay, would that change? And if I decided to go with him, leaving Yakov and Maria behind, what would the koliuzhi do to them? I can’t leave them to the mercy of the koliuzhi.
“I’m not going,” I decide, “and I don’t think you should either, Filip Kotelnikov. We should stay together.”
“Then come with me. All of you. There’s no other way.”
“We wouldn’t even get to the river,” Yakov says.
“Please, Filip Kotelnikov,” I beg. “Please don’t go. At least wait a few days before deciding. Maybe Yakov is right.”
“Two days then,” he says. “I’ll give you two days to make up your mind. Then I’m leaving, and you will too if you have any sense.”
The dense forest repels the rain but traps us in its twilight. We left mid-morning and except for one break to eat, we haven’t stopped. We’ve been walking for hours at a brisk pace, so I’m sure we’re a long way from the Tsar’s house. I haven’t walked this distance since the days after we abandoned the brig, before we were captured. My feet have blistered in the same places. Though it’s not raining, we’re walking through mist. My clothes are soaked, and my
hair is so wet and straggly I don’t even bother to push it from my eyes.
I have no idea where we’re being taken, or why, or what’s happening with Maria and Kotelnikov, or where Nikolai Isaakovich and the rest of the crew are.
Except to urge us on, no one speaks to Yakov and me.
Kotelnikov’s two-day deadline proved meaningless. Early this morning, before we were offered food, he was pulled to the door by three men.
“Let go,” he cried. He tore one arm from their grip and struck one of the men. The man wrenched Kotelnikov’s arm back and Kotelnikov screamed.
“Let go! I told you to let me go!”
I looked at Maria, then Yakov. The koliuzhi dragged Kotelnikov through the doorway. Perhaps they intended to try and negotiate his release with the crew. But I knew that made no sense. Eventually his shouting faded in the distance.
I waited for them to come for the rest of us. Instead, the morning routine resumed. Koliuzhi Klara offered us fish and grease that she scooped from a round, shallow dish shaped like a bear or wolf, its tail the handle. I could barely eat.
Once we finished, Yakov was pulled to his feet and nudged toward the door. When halfway there, a man pulled me up as well. “Ahda,” he said, and I yielded. I didn’t know what was happening, but it gave me shaky confidence that Yakov was to be part of whatever it was.
I turned when I reached the doorway. “Maria?”
She’d stood but the man who’d pushed me down held her forearm. The lamestin woman was beside them. “Baliya,” she said, followed by an incomprehensible chain of words.
“She can’t stay here by herself!” I cried. “Yakov! Do something!”
“The eye can see it, but the tooth cannot bite it,” he said. “What can an old man do?”
Yakov and I were led to a small canoe on the riverbank and nudged into its bowl. I sat backward, facing the house. I looked for Maria, but the doorway was blocked with koliuzhi. I saw the woman with the silver comb. I saw Koliuzhi Klara and the Murzik. From the distance that stretched between us, I couldn’t guess what any of them were thinking.
We landed on the north side of the river. I gagged. The reek of the grey-brown mound was stronger on this riverbank, and the squabbles of the crows much louder. But the decomposing corpse itself seemed to have disappeared. I didn’t want to look but it puzzled me, and so, I did, and when I couldn’t locate it, I concluded it was my perspective. I just couldn’t see it from where I stood.
Anna, Like Thunder Page 15
