Anna, Like Thunder

by Peggy Herring

I rinse my silver cross in the bowl of water, then rub it in the fine, warm sand. I rinse it once more, then hold it out before me again, letting it dry. Without the tarnish, it’s even more brilliant, as shiny as the day my mother gave it to me, and fit for a feast.

  I fasten it around my neck once again.

  A dancing man who wears a mask bounds out from behind a wooden screen that’s as big as the front of a mansion and carved and painted with koliuzhi figures. The creature in the centre has eyes on its face but also eyes on its hands and knees and feet. On either side of the figure there are more eyes, and also ears and mouths and snubbed noses, all encased in ovals, all floating away from one another as if they were bubbles. The pointy shape that looks like a wave or maybe even the fin that rides on the back of a fish repeats itself inside and around the creatures. Each half of the screen is a mirror image of the other. Firelight casts rippling shadows that make the figures come alive.

  The dancing man dips close to me and freezes. His head swivels and the carved and painted eyes of his mask bore into me. He dances away, turns his head, and again, the mask’s eyes turn to me. Then with a leap he spins around and though I expect to be released from his gaze, I’m not. There are eyes on the back of his mask, too.

  Makee has a tall chair like a throne with a carved back and arms. It’s so tall, he needs to climb up to sit down. But right now, he’s standing and blowing into a funny little pipe that plays a single squeaky note, keeping time for the dancer.

  When I think I won’t be able to bear the dancer’s gaze any longer, he moves to the other side of the house. Like the first snow, down that’s scattered on the floor floats and settles behind him, marking a white path across the house.

  Makee’s skin sparkles. His face, arms, and legs are painted and powdered with something reflective. His lower arms are ringed with bracelets that dance and rattle as he moves. The bracelets are made of leather and a shiny orange metal that appears to be copper. Could it be? Where would Makee get it from?

  All the men have painted their bodies, some in red and black squares that bring to mind the harlequins and jesters who sometimes entertained us in Petersburg. Some have adorned their faces with oversized black eyebrows in the shape of half-moons or triangles, just like the injured eyebrow man. Their hair, greased and piled atop their heads, is decorated with cedar boughs and sprinkled with white down. The best sea otter capes, black as coal, are draped over the shoulders of the most regal-looking men.

  The women’s bodies and their clothing are also covered with adornments, every one of which eclipses my silver cross with its single jewel. Korolki are stitched onto the fronts and hems of their skirts, often strung next to long, white beads that look like skinny bird’s bones. These white bones dangle in rows and rattle as the women move. Though most women are wearing dresses of cedar bark, there are many with clothing made of fringed animal hide with fur trim. Their skirts are white and painted with designs of fish and animals and red and black patterns that run along the hems and look like my cross-stitch.

  Even Inessa wears a hide skirt; hers is painted with a repeating pattern of birds with outstretched wings that seem to fly along the hem. She also wears a beaded necklace and many bracelets. Her hair, for once, is not tightly tied back, but spills over her shoulders like a glossy waterfall.

  I’ve never seen such robes, furs, and jewellery. I don’t even know where they came from—I never knew the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts had such things in the house. The sight of them is no less majestic then anything that would be seen in the grandest ballrooms of Petersburg. I would never have imagined there could be such lavish clothing in a place so remote.

  When the circling man finishes his dance, some little children take his place. They are five or six years old and so their older sisters or maybe their mothers lead them in a circle while they sing, their voices nearly lost in the big, noisy house. One of the little girls wears a headdress made of the same skinny white beads that look like bird bones. The children are just like pretty, garlanded girls dancing a khorovod in the spring. My mother would get tears in her eyes watching them, and she’d always applaud wildly when they finished, sweaty and panting, for the dizzying dance is much harder than it looks.

  Conversation dies down as the children attract more attention. The people watching call out, and the children pick up their pace. Just when I think they must be dizzy and about to fall, they stop. They remain in a circle, facing one another. The older women start a song, and the children join in, moving their hands up and down, their mouths Os of surprise, their eyes wide and serious. I think they might be telling a story.

  As Makee had promised, some of the guests came to look at me. There was no formal ceremony. Most just passed in front of me, their eyes lowered, their glances furtive. I smiled, wanting them to meet my eye. After all, I’d prepared for this. A few stopped and stared in disbelief before saying something to one another and moving on. One woman laughed; a baby, thrust up before my face, cried.

  Two men paused before me. Their faces were painted red and black and their hair, tied atop their heads, was garlanded with cedar boughs. I smiled and lowered my eyes. But not before I saw something that drew my gaze right back to them. Recognition. They had seen me before.

  They spoke in low voices to one another. I studied them. They weren’t from Makee’s village. Had I seen them before? Where? Were they from the Tsar’s house?

  One of the men shifted and the cedar vest he wore opened a little. His chest was slashed with a long, white scar. He adjusted his vest and when he did, I saw a missing finger and I remembered.

  I remembered how, many weeks ago, he’d fondled a shackle onboard the brig. I remembered how the man beside him had hooked a long leg over the bulwark before descending to the waiting canoes. And I remembered how surprised Timofei Osipovich had been with their sudden departure and his failure to get the sea otter cape that my husband had said was ratty.

  We stood for some moments staring at one another. Were they surprised to see me here? Or had they expected it? When they heard about the babathid woman, did they think it might be me? How much had changed, and yet the very unconnected threads of our lives had once again wound around each other.

  “Wacush,” I said, and smiled tentatively.

  The scarred man furrowed his brow and after a short pause said, “e·e·, kwisasiakituc! babaqiyuu·k?”32 I nodded but had no idea what he was saying. “u·šu·bisdakpi·dic,”33 he continued, with a look of concern.

  Finally, the tall, muscular man nudged him, and he stopped.

  “I’m sorry,” I said and flushed.

  They walked away, their necks bent together in conversation, the cedar boughs in their hair interlacing.

  Later, I saw the scarred man speaking to Inessa, whose eyes were averted, whose brow was deeply furrowed. But it didn’t stop him from leaning in and continuing to speak to her.

  For two days, the singing and dancing continued with only a brief pause at night when most people slept. There were playful dances that delighted the audience as much as the dancers themselves. There were men in masks who whirled in dark dances in which they pretended to kidnap and kill others. The Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts cried out. The stories—I concluded that’s what they were—unfolded as in an opera, and just like in an opera, I could hardly understand the narrative.

  For two days, we ate all we could: trays of sour caviar, dried salmon, roasted roots, steamed leaves and stems, some bitter, some sharp like onion, and cakes of sweet, dried berries. Everything was, as usual, served with grease ladled from ornate wooden serving dishes. They were shaped like fish and four-legged animals just like the everyday serving dishes I’d been seeing in Makee’s house, but these were far larger and more decorative. Empty trays were refilled immediately, refusal being, as it is in Russia, out of the question.

  Late in the afternoon of the second day, everything stops. Makee installs me beside him and a heap of objects. Attendants hover, waiting for instructions. Makee begins. He speaks and whe
n he stops, the attendants move. One man extracts a basket from the heap. Another man takes it and lifts it above his head. He parades in a small circle, turning slowly to give everyone a look at the basket.

  It’s a medium-sized basket with four red canoes woven into it as though they’re chasing one another in a circle. Around the base, a pattern that might represent waves has also been woven in. There’s a tight-fitting lid with a knobby handle. The attendant locates an older man whose sea otter robe skims the ground and hands the basket to him.

  Makee speaks again. This time, the attendant pulls out a bladder filled with grease. The same man who held up the basket raises the bladder, his arms straining under the weight. Once again, a recipient is located—this time, it’s an old man with a cedar robe who accepts the gift.

  Makee gives away more baskets, more bladders. Cedar mats, capes, and dresses. Beads and necklaces. Elaborately woven hats. Sea otter pelts and other animal furs and hides. Mirrors, which I’m startled to see. Several caskets of gunpowder, which I’m even more shocked to see. He gives away slabs of dried fish and roe wrapped in cedar boughs and ferns. Each item is lifted high for everyone to behold before being given to a guest.

  When the pile has all but disappeared—there’s only a box, a basket, and a thick coil of rope remaining—dancers take to the floor once more. A drummer and singers join them. The attention of Makee’s attendants is drawn to the music.

  Makee watches for a minute and then, without taking his eyes from the dancers, he says, “I have something for you, too.”

  From a wooden box at his feet, he draws a pair of floppy boots.

  They’re made of brown hide, stitched together with sinew. They haven’t been dyed and decorated, they have no heels or silver buckles, but to me they’re the most beautiful pair of shoes in the world.

  “Thank you. I didn’t think anybody noticed.”

  “We say: ušu·yakšalic.”

  “Oo-shoo-yaw—” I stop, shake my head. “I can’t.”

  “Yuksh-uhlits. Go ahead.”

  “Yuksh-uhlits.” I smile apologetically.

  “I hope you’ll be more comfortable outdoors.”

  They slide on. My feet feel warmer and drier than any time since we abandoned the brig.

  There’s a hush over the house that night. I go to bed believing I’ll sleep deeply. Instead my slumber is broken, coloured by outrageous dreams of a ball in Petersburg that transforms into a shipwreck and then into the crazy, whirling dance of a disembodied mask that sees and speaks.

  It snows two days later, huge feathery clumps that thrill the children and melt as soon as they hit the ground. It falls furiously for a few minutes, then is followed by an abrupt downpour of cold rain. Christmas is coming—soon. But when? I lost track of time long ago. I have missed my own name day and Nikolai Isaakovich’s too. Unless I make a plan to mark Christmas Day, I’ll miss it as well. So, I randomly choose a day to have my own Christmas feast.

  That day, I harvest one potato and pick the last cabbage. It’s smaller than my fist. I prepare them as always, struggling with the curve of the shell knife, uncertain still of where it’s supposed to fit in my hand, nervous about cutting myself. When the food is ready, I bless myself and remember the clatter of forks and knives, the clinking of glasses, and the irresistible aromas that would signal that start of the Christmas feast in my parents’ home.

  I bow my head. It feels wrong to eat alone and I want to share my food with Makee and his family, with Inessa, but I have so little, I’m ashamed. It’s nothing compared to their feasts. I tell myself they wouldn’t like my food anyway, but that argument is a thin veil and I’m pretending when I say I can’t see past it.

  I miss my husband. I miss everyone.

  Salmon spill from a barrel-sized open-weave basket onto the ground and slither over one another, forming an ever-expanding heap. The women cry out in dismay and call the children to help keep the fish in a more orderly pile.

  This week, I’m with the women, deep in the forest on the bank of a stream. It ripples over rocks and gurgles, then turns a corner not far from where we’re working. There’s a hut where we’re hanging salmon to smoke, and there’s a small house where we sleep. Wooden vats as big and round as cabinets squat in a row at the edge of the clearing. A scaffold of thick, straight branches lashed together looms over the vats. This is our camp.

  On the first day, Inessa and I naturally fetched many bundles of wood. Late in the morning, when we’d apparently brought back enough, I was given a new job.

  Inessa started by indicating that I must choose a fish from the heap. She showed me how to scrub it with ferns, until the coarse leaves removed the slime and scales.

  She then gave me a shell knife. It was much larger than any I’d used so far. My whole hand could not cover it. The cutting edge was shiny and freshly sharpened. I wondered if a knife like this had given Inessa the scar on her hand.

  Inessa cut into the fish just behind its gills, slicing off its head. Next, she slit open the belly, crooked her finger deep into the cavity, and pulled out shiny entrails.

  She then filleted the fish. I could hardly see around her elbows and hunched back. In an instant, she unfolded two boneless halves that remained attached at the tail. She picked it up to show me. Her fish resembled a drooping reticule.

  She trimmed the fins and fatty pieces, and then tossed all the scraps into one of the large vats. She called one of the children. He took the fillet from her, scrambled up the drying rack, and threw it over the highest crossbar.

  At the end of the process, Inessa said, “aa·al, wa·su·qa·k čabu qwisi·u·?”34

  My first fish ended up ragged. The edges were rough, the tail that was supposed to hold the halves together had almost been severed, and there were strings of skin and flesh hanging loose. My second was better, and my third fish contained skeins of glossy roe. Inessa showed me how to pull them out without breaking them. She tossed them into a different vat.

  Over the days, the fish on the rack accumulate, and they begin to dry. When the women decide they’re dry enough, the fish are slung over the rafters in the small hut. Fires inside the hut are fed green branches that Inessa and I gathered especially for this purpose. The branches create acrid, slow-rising smoke. We attend to the hanging fish, turning it, moving it farther away or closer to the smoke to ensure everything will be ready at the same time.

  Whenever it’s my turn to work in the smokehouse, the harsh air irritates my eyes. But the sweet scent of the salmon is comforting, like an old memory.

  The women and I work hard, but we are rewarded—some fresh salmon is set aside for our meals. These fish are cut differently, opened like butterfly wings and skewered flat with cedar splints, then propped before a very hot fire until they bake. The taste of the cedar enters right into the flesh.

  There was a ceremony for our first meal of baked fish. When it was ready, it was laid on fresh cedar boughs on a mat and sprinkled with down. The women sang a song. After we finished eating, the bones and all the small scraps were gathered, paraded down to the river, and thrown in the water, just like the offerings fishermen make to the vodyanoy.

  I try to remember how many days have passed since we came to the smokehouse and how many days since I arrived in Makee’s village and how many days since the brig ran aground. I can’t. I think it’s nearly two months since the wreck, but the passage of time feels fluid here, as fluid as the flow of the little stream we’re working alongside. Two months reminds me that it’s been a long time since my monthlies. I haven’t had one since I was onboard the brig. I pray they won’t return until we’re rescued.

  Every day I see Makee. He’s busy speaking with the other men, or joking around with the children. Sometimes I see him outside, down on the beach by the canoes, and other times, he comes out of the forest carrying a bow and arrow. He’s busy but he often speaks with me, asking after my health or telling me about fish they’ve caught or a herd of seals nearby or any other piece of news from t
he house that he thinks I should know about.

  But then a day passes, and I don’t see him. I wonder if he’s gone away—no one seems disturbed. Then, there’s a second day when I don’t see him, and a third, fourth, and fifth. He must have gone to another village up the coast, though I have no one to ask. His wife has stayed in bed since he’s disappeared. She barely moves under her cedar blanket, and no one disturbs her. What if Makee’s dead? No one would be able to tell me. But I refuse to believe it. Wherever he’s gone, he’s coming back.

  * * *

  29Don’t be cowardly! You bathe now—you need to bathe!

  30Do you need help?

  31Come here, we’ll scrub you.

  32My, you have changed a lot. What happened?

  33You must be having troubles.

  34So, do you think you can do that?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Anna!” Inessa shouts from far ahead. “Anna!”

  I drop the firewood I’m carrying. It clatters to the earth. I hurry down the path that leads back to the houses as fast as I can, heading for her voice.

  As I draw near the village, I see people streaming through the doors, going in and out, some stopping to embrace one another. Where’s Inessa? Young men on the rooftops lean over and pull their friends up beside them. Once up, they pound the roofs with staves, and with so many young men on the rooftops, it’s not long before the rumble of their enormous drums thunders through the whole bay.

  A crowd has gathered on the beach; Inessa must be there. They’re gazing toward the rocky headland. Out on the headland, a smaller group waits, their faces turned to the sea. When they begin to cheer and cry out, the crowd on the beach joins in. I head down to where celebrations unfold.

  A canoe glides into sight. Everyone on board sings. The paddlers take two strokes then strike the gunwales. Two strokes again, then thud. When their paddles are lifted, I see how they’re as narrow as sticks, and how they end in a long point. They’re not like other paddles I’ve seen.