Another two canoes appear. A cheer swells up while the pounding on the houses grows even more frenzied. Laughing children chase one another along the beach nearly knocking me over. Gulls spiral overhead and shriek.
“Anna!” I turn. Inessa beams. 35
She laughs and hugs me, then pushes me away and runs off.
At the front of the fourth canoe, Makee sits. Instead of his beaver hat, he’s wearing the kind of woven hat he gave away at the feast. It has a wide brim and a jaunty knob on top that makes it look like the lid of a basket. A rope stretches behind his canoe. Whatever they’re towing is surrounded by pale floats that bob in the water and keep the towed object just below the surface. It traces a broad wake in the grey sea.
Slowly the canoes near the shore, and men on the beach hurl themselves into the ocean. Some reach for Makee and his canoe, while others pull the tow rope and, as soon as they can, push the towed object toward land. The surf crashes around them, and the water rushes back out, each time revealing a little more of the towed object until finally it’s so close that when a wave recedes, I see.
A whale.
They’ve captured a whale.
The way the men work with the force of the sea makes me think of the day the brig ran aground and Timofei Osipovich guided us to do the same as we shuttled our belongings to shore. With each wave, they advance the animal in tiny increments, straining to prevent it from sliding back with the retreating water. Finally, a powerful wave coupled with a forceful push brings the whale up onto the beach. When the sea subsides this time, rattling the stones on its way out, the whale’s grey body is exposed.
Like a rock, the whale is speckled with barnacles. In colour and texture, it blends into the gravel beach. It’s dotted with wounds—it’s been stabbed many times. Its eye is open and glazed. Its long beak of a mouth has been sutured shut with thick cord that’s been looped around the tow rope. An incision circles the whale’s tail. There remains not a twitch of muscle. This animal has been dead a long time.
White down is scattered from baskets over the whale’s back. An older but agile man from Makee’s house hoists himself upon the carcass. With both hands, he raises a spear above his head and plunges it into the animal. The blade sinks in while blood and clear liquid dribble out. He saws through the flesh making a rectangle across the back and down the sides of the body toward the sand. Once he completes three sides of the rectangle, he abandons the spear for a much smaller knife with a wide blade, which he inserts into one of the slits. He cuts beneath, pulling away and rolling a slab of cream-coloured flesh down the animal’s side. The warm scent of fresh slaughter rises.
At the whale’s side, a man opens his hands and reaches for the roll of flesh. He guides it down, and when it’s reached the beach, he cuts the slab free and it sags to the ground in folds.
Several men heave the chunk onto a pole that rests on the shoulders of four men. The pole bows as it receives the weight. They carry the pole up to the house, navigating slowly along the path. The agile man with the spear follows them. Makee watches and I know he’s satisfied, even a little proud.
Now that he’s close, I see the pattern woven into Makee’s hat. There’s a whale, and when he twists his neck, I see the men chasing it, their canoe floating atop waves that encircle the brim. Makee calls out and another man climbs onto the whale’s back. That man also cuts off a slab of flesh, and then follows the procession as it’s carried to the houses. There’s a third man, and a fourth, and so on. Each slab disappears into a different house. When eventually the skeleton is visible and then the organs spill, the stench is powerful. It draws flocks of crows and gulls, even white-headed eagles. Overwhelmed, I leave the beach.
Outside Makee’s house, four fires blaze. Each is filled with the smooth stones used for cooking. Rosy-cheeked women laugh and joke with one another as they tend the fire and, with their tongs, move the stones around in the flames and hot coals.
Other women are helping one another carry dripping containers of water that they lift and pour into four huge vats that stand like stout men on guard. A woman with a knife calls out to Inessa, who says to me, “šuuk. usubi au· atkse·i· au.”36
She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the forest.
We set out along the path heading for the place where I dropped the firewood. The trail is a bit drier—it hasn’t rained since the day before yesterday. Everything is cast in a green hue as light reflects off the soft moss that coats the trees and nests in the forest floor. Just ahead, something rustles in the bushes. A russet-coloured squirrel whose fur looks like Zhuchka’s scampers across the path ahead. It leaps onto a tree trunk and scrambles up, chattering and scolding us.
When we reach the dropped wood, Inessa and I work together to divide it into two piles. As we distribute the sticks, I ask, “What does whale meat taste like?” I know she won’t understand. Even if she could, is there a comparison that would make sense?
Her eyes slide over and she waits.
“Is it good?” I point back to the beach. I pull my fingers to my lips and pretend to chew. “Does it taste nice?”
Her eyes flicker with recognition. Has she understood?
“čabasaps. čabueyiks hauk ti·kaa· du·bačeya iš wi·y u-sakši hauk ti·kaa,”37 she says, her eyes enormous, one hand near her mouth, the other on her stomach. She smiles. Then she takes the larger of the piles of wood and we head back to the house.
By the time we return, steam is rising from the vats. After we drop our wood, I peek into a tub: the surface glistens. I look into the next one. It’s also shiny. I check the third. It’s no different. A woman with a shallow basket skims the surface of one vat and pours it into a different vat. I think I understand: all that grease we eat, the bladders and boxes and dishes full every single meal—how else could they get so much? It’s from the whales. We’re going to render every drop from the carcass and store it away for the months ahead. I had no notion of it, but I’ve probably been eating whale every day ever since I was captured on the river so long ago.
In the evening, the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts celebrate, and we feast. There are strips and chunks of whale meat, roasted and boiled, in soup, wrapped in leaves, covered in grease, all laid out on the best wooden dishes. There’s one dish with carved handles that resemble wings, its rim inlaid with a row of pearly teeth that twinkle when they catch the firelight. There’s a big bowl in the shape of a man lying on his back, a braid of hair dangling from the crown of his head.
The slab of whale flesh that had been draped over the pole and carried to Makee’s house is on display inside near the fire. The pole is suspended between two notched timbers, and the meat is decorated with feathers, cedar boughs, and the whale’s eyeballs, still attached by the sinew that held them together. A shallow wooden tray collects drippings.
Though I’ve eaten plenty of whale grease, I’ve not tried the flesh. I take a small bite. It’s both strange and familiar. It resembles venison but smells and tastes like brined herring, and I take a second, larger bite. As I’m chewing and trying to decide whether I like it, I notice Inessa watching me. When I catch her eye, she smiles and, just as she did on the trail, she lays her hand on her stomach.
A man beside her nudges her, and she looks away and raises her smiling face to him. He takes something out of the tray and puts it in front of her. It’s the man with the scar on his chest—who came aboard the brig, who came to the last feast. She rises and walks slowly toward the cooking boxes. Her hips sway. The man’s eyes follow her.
There’s no koliuzhi celebration without singing and dancing, and this one is no exception. Makee, in his whale hat, and his wife, in a resplendent cape with two whales painted on the back, dance. To the slow beat of a drum, the two turn toward one another and circle, taking big steps. As the beat of the drum picks up, their circles grow smaller and they move closer together. When they reach the centre, they whirl around one another like they’re dancing the Polish mazurka that everyone was learning when I left Pete
rsburg. Makee and his wife send white down spinning in all directions. When they finish, they each drink deeply from a water box that’s been decorated with feathers.
A number of women gather in the centre of the floor. Many of the cooks are among them, their faces still flushed from their labour, wisps of their hair flying loose. When the drumming starts, they circle, shuffling their feet, their hands open before them, palms up, their arms pumping in time to the beat of the drum. It seems as though they’re lifting the sky.
Next, four men carry a thick, heavy plank into the centre of the floor. The people must move to let them pass and many cry out gleefully when they notice the arrival of the plank. Drumming begins, the beat urgent and aligned with the drumming of the benches.
The four men raise the plank. Then, they let one end plummet. They tilt it, twist it, and then raise it again in big slow circles like they’re drawing figure eights in the smoky air. They move slowly, trying not to strike any of the people at the front who are watching.
Sweat glitters on the foreheads of the four men. When the plank is held at a certain angle, I notice a flash of colour. There’s a small red dot painted on it, no bigger than the size of a berry.
Makee steps into the circle. He carries a stiff white feather. People cry out.
He stops, raises the feather, and examines it. He strokes it, pressing flat its vanes. Then he begins to dance alongside the plank.
He follows it. When it rises, so does his arm. When it turns, he follows. When it falls, nearly to the floor, he drops and creeps along behind it.
The plank, I understand, is the whale. The feather is his harpoon.
With no warning, Makee aims, snaps his fingers, and throws. His aim is true. The feather hits the red dot on his first try, and bounces off the plank, fluttering to the floor. Cheers rumble off the walls like thunder.
When I go outside later to relieve myself, the sky is clear. Though I wish I had my telescope, the constellations are brilliant enough tonight. It seems proper that I look for Cetus the Whale. Her big belly is turned, as always, to Orion the Hunter. I think Makee would be pleased to know that tonight the entire sky is a mirror for his successful hunt. I say good night to my beloved Polaris before I head back along the path to the house.
This period of gruelling work and fervent celebrations lasts four days. On the morning of that last day, when there’s nothing left on the beach but the skeleton, it, too, is dismantled. Men saw apart the huge bones. The largest are laid in shallow trenches that surround the houses. Makee tells me they direct the flow of heavy rain away, while keeping leaves and needles from clogging the gutters. The big scapula that look like wings are set aside, and Makee says he’ll use them next time there’s a crack in one of the walls of his house.
“All the outside bones of the skeleton are solid, but the inside ones are quite porous. We need them, too. We can make combs and ornaments from them. And they’re good for certain tools. Spindle whorls need to be light and strong. We also use them to make a tool we need to turn the cedar bark into threads.”
“Aren’t they too fragile for tools?”
“Not really. The pores are what makes them so sturdy. They’re harder to carve than wood, and so, usually the carver decides what to make only after he sees the bone he’s working with.”
When the four days are over, everyone is full. I can hardly imagine being hungry ever again. We’ve produced many bladders plump with whale oil that are stored away in the house. At night, the foot of each building is lit up by moonlight reflected off gleaming new bones. But it’s not just tangible gifts the whale’s left behind. There’s also a mood of contentment that continues for many days.
“Anna, drop your wood,” Makee orders. His face is pale, his voice strained. He’s wearing his red jacket, his trousers, and his beaver hat. He’s come into the forest, partway along the path, to meet me. “We have to leave.” I release the bundle of wood from my arms. “Hurry.”
He strides ahead, and I scramble to follow. “What’s wrong? Where are we going?” Either he doesn’t hear or he’s ignoring me.
After a short time and a long time, we arrive at the beach where men are boarding two canoes. “Makee—excuse me—is there a ship?” Hope swells in my heart, and a powerful longing for my husband pushes every thought from my head. If there’s a ship, I’ll see him very soon.
Makee looks at me distractedly. “No. Get in. Please.”
I climb into the canoe he indicates, but he gets into the other one. There are many other men coming with us. They steer the canoes out to sea and turn south.
The ocean offers little resistance; we’re aided by a current that hurries us along. I’m less nervous than I was on my last canoe voyage. The men sing as they dig into the water, paddles plunging deeply to the song’s rhythm. We pass the same jagged-edged coastline, the same kelp-strewn beaches, the same defining headlands, the same wide-open sea that bleeds into the sky. The light on the horizon is almost gone when the canoes steer for shore. We’ll have to weave through rocky stacks lined up like chimneys along our path. There’s a flat-topped island, and behind it, the yawning mouth of a river.
I’ve returned to where the Sviatoi Nikolai ran aground—to where the moustached toyon lives. I’m like Zhuchka chasing her tail around and around.
We land just beyond the river’s mouth. These koliuzhi—I remember Makee told me they’re the Quileutes—welcome us and lead us by foot up the river to the place just inside the edge of the forest where their settlement lies.
This is where I left Yakov. He should still be here.
Makee joins the moustached toyon on the bench. I can barely see them through the crowd that mills about and presses forward. No one’s smiling or laughing. We’re not here for a celebration. I scour the heads, looking for Yakov’s cap.
Then I see Maria.
No one pays attention as I approach her. She starts when she sees me. “What are you doing here?” she whispers. She pulls me close and holds me for a long time. I kiss her cheeks.
“I came with him,” I whisper back, indicating Makee with my chin. “What are you doing here?”
“Those people we were with—that wounded boy and the old woman who makes the medicine and the others—they brought me here.”
“Where’s Yakov?”
She shrugs. “They took him away when they left. I think he went back with them.”
“Do you know what’s happening?”
Again, she shrugs. “Everyone’s been upset for days but I don’t know why. Where have you been?”
Softly I tell her how I live now. How hard I work with Inessa. The things I’ve had to learn to do. “I’m nearly a slave now,” I say and give a short, wry laugh. A quick glance at Maria makes me realize I’ve said something wrong. She looks at me sharply. I redden.
I change the subject. “I have other news. Their toyon speaks Russian.”
“What?” Maria cries. A woman peers at us. “How?” she says more softly.
“He learned it a long time ago from some Russian sailors.”
Maria frowns at Makee. She’s assessing his jacket, trousers, beaver hat—and his boots. “He looks very strange,” she finally says, “as if he’s walked out of a house from far away.”
“He’s very kind, in spite of how odd he appears.”
Makee speaks and he’s even more distressed than he was before we left Tsoo-yess. He’s angry, too. The moustached toyon responds with irritation. Is he unhappy with Makee? I can’t be certain. I turn back to Maria.
“What about you? Do they treat you kindly?”
Maria nods. “I also work every day—just as you do. Sometimes I help the woman who does the medicine here. But it’s fine—maybe even a little better. There’s much less work than on the ship, and what they ask me to do—it’s not as wearying.”
Nikolai Isaakovich told me that the Russian-American Company was very generous with Aleuts like Maria. It offered them a way out of their remote villages where eking out a living was almo
st impossible. It gave them food, clothing, medicine, and good jobs. Once they paid back their debts to the company, many went on to live very comfortable lives. I didn’t argue, but I knew from the discussion among my father’s friends that it wasn’t quite like that.
Until now, I never thought Maria aware of these abstract debates. I thought her willing to perform her duties until she earned her freedom, and maybe even a little grateful for the opportunity. My work with Inessa has changed the way I see the things my father’s friends debated night after night. I peer at Maria.
“Where are the others? Have you heard news?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I haven’t seen anybody. You’re the first.”
In the morning, Makee seeks me out. He looks like he didn’t sleep all night. “Anna, I need your help,” he says. “Something terrible has happened.”
“What is it?”
“It’s my sister. She’s been taken by your people.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your people have captured my sister. Her husband is frantic.”
So—this is the source of Makee’s distress, of the moustached toyon’s irritation, of the upset that Maria said had plagued the Quileutes for days. But is it possible? It makes no sense. “Are you certain?”
“She was seized a few days ago. Everyone’s tried to negotiate her release, but your people won’t let her go.”
What’s come over the crew? Why are they still battling the koliuzhi? I’d have thought they’d be trying to get to the Kad’iak, or at least settling in for the winter until fairer weather made the voyage south possible.
“What can I do?”
“They wish to exchange her freedom for yours. Yours—and all the Russians’. Once you’re released, they’ll free my sister and the other prisoners.”
“Others? How many are there?”
“Three. My sister, a young woman, and the man guarding them. Anna—the life of my sister is more valuable to me than anything I own. Please help me.”
Anna, Like Thunder Page 20
