Would it be any different with the seals? The mussels? If the schooners were to come as my husband imagines, what would the koliuzhi do? Where would they get the shells and teeth and claws and whiskers and skins and stomachs and intestines—to make their knives and tools and bladders to store the oil and floats for whaling and blankets and clothing? What would they eat instead? And what would happen when the schooners come back for that, too?
When I make our bed at night and lie next to my husband, who falls asleep easily, my thoughts weave back and forth, constructing a useless garment that fits no one.
During the night, the rain starts and when we wake in the morning, it’s thundering on the roof. Whoever ventures out, even for a moment, returns soaked, and when I go out to relieve myself, I also return cold and wet as a farmyard hen. I remove my cedar cape and lay it out to dry.
I join my husband, who sits near the fire and stares deeply into the small flames. Many of the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts also huddle around the fires, talking softly, sewing, making baskets, weaving, braiding cordage, waiting for the deluge to pass.
Timofei Osipovich, Kozma Ovchinnikov, my husband, and I sit together near the fire.
“It’s terrible out there,” I say. “I hope the others aren’t wandering around in this.”
“They should have listened to Timofei Osipovich and come with us,” Ovchinnikov says.
Timofei Osipovich laughs, pleased with Ovchinnikov’s continuing fidelity. “They’ll surrender,” he says, “soon enough.” He looks smug and so certain that I almost expect him to crow. He doesn’t add that he wouldn’t be here, warm and sheltered from the rain, if it weren’t for me.
“Maybe they found another cave,” my husband says. “For their sakes, I hope so.”
I imagine the crew, how wet and dejected they must be if all they’ve got to protect them are the tents made of sails. Even if they’ve found a cave, they must be miserable.
Ovchinnikov pushes a piece of wood deeper into the fire with his toe. He still has his boots. “What happened to old Yakov?” he says quietly, without meeting my eye.
I forgot—how could he know? He has no idea what’s happened to us these past weeks. “I think he’s all right. Maria told me he’s back with the koliuzhi on the river—the Chalats—the ones who took us prisoner.”
“Savages,” my husband mutters.
“And Filip Kotelnikov?” Ovchinnikov asks.
“The apprentice is gone. But he’s probably fine. Makee told me they sent him south to live with some other koliuzhi. They’re Cathlamets, I think he said.”
Timofei Osipovich nods. “Good people. He’s lucky.”
“He hates the koliuzhi,” I say. The wind gusts and something outside bangs loudly on the roof. Two young men near the door slide beneath the mat that’s covering the opening and go out to look.
I ask nervously, “What about everyone else? After that battle . . .”
Ovchinnikov folds his hands and drops his head so low, his hair casts thick shadows over the little of his face that’s normally visible.
“We fared well,” Timofei Osipovich says. “We lost only one.”
I whisper, “One? Who?”
“Main Rigger Khariton Sobachnikov. God rest his soul.” He blesses himself. “An arrow pierced his chest.”
There are footsteps and banging overhead. They’re fixing the roof in the storm.
I hold my silver cross. I think about all the evenings I spent together with Sobachnikov on the deck of the brig. Together and not together. How he always let me do my work in peace. How he brought my telescope to shore and didn’t let a drop of water touch it. “How can that be true?” I say finally.
“We had to leave his body on the riverbank,” Timofei Osipovich says. “It was too dangerous to go back for it.”
The grey-brown mound. The hungry crows crawling over it, pecking at it, sailing overhead with strips of flesh swinging from their beaks. The stench, the repellent, pervasive stink of death left to the scavengers of the natural world to clean up. It was Sobachnikov. Ovchinnikov steals a glance at my husband, then Timofei Osipovich. My husband opens his mouth to speak, then thinks better of it.
“What? What is it?” I ask. “You must tell me!”
“Anya—” my husband says. “He was killed going back to get the bundle that had your telescope in it.”
“What?”
“I told him to leave it. But he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t want to break his promise.”
I crush my face in my hands and press until I think a bone will break, a bone must break. He should have broken that promise. He had nothing to fear. Everybody saw how vicious that battle was; every man did what he could. Who would find fault with him? There must be some restitution for Sobachnikov’s senseless death. Where is justice? My telescope is gone and so is my star log. But they’re not enough.
We must withstand this ordeal. We must endure in memory of Khariton Sobachnikov. We must not let his death be in vain. By the side of this fire, with the heavens opening overhead, I press my hand into my silver cross and vow to do whatever is necessary for us to survive and make it home.
“Anna? Please come,” says Makee, in the afternoon, the rain still pounding on the roof. He’s on the bench at his end of the house with the three men with whom he often confers. His metal cheetoolth is cradled in his hands. We’ve not spoken since his sister’s been freed, and I dread this moment.
My husband glares at Makee and starts to rise. Timofei Osipovich looks at my face, then places a hand on my husband’s arm and shakes his head in warning.
I cross the floor. It takes forever. When I arrive and stand before him, I feel like a child. He must think less of me. The only question is: How much less?
“Is your sister well?” I begin.
“Yes, she’s at home. She seemed quite tired when I last saw her, but she was as well as could be expected.”
“I’m sorry I broke my promise. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”
“She’s not hurt. Thankfully. And neither are the others.”
“I know I made a promise. But I realized as soon as I saw everyone across the river that it was wrong. It was a terrible error for me to make that promise.”
Makee and the men sitting with him look away toward the fire. I turn to see what’s drawn their attention, but it’s passed. There’s only Ovchinnikov, staring at his hands, and Timofei Osipovich, his hand still resting on my husband’s arm. The fire casts very little light, but it’s enough to truly see how haggard they are, how everything between us is in disarray. It’s a miracle that only one man is dead. “We need you, Makee. No one will get home without you.” My voice cracks. “No one will survive.”
He presses his lips together and frowns. “You thought only of your people. You broke your word and jeopardized my sister’s life.”
“She’s free, isn’t she?” I mumble. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes, that’s what I wanted. But not like this,” he cries. His hand sweeps toward the fire. “What am I to do with all of you until a ship takes you away?”
“We’ll work. We’ll try to live as you do. Just as you requested. Please—we won’t be any trouble.”
He turns the cheetoolth in his hands. A carved eye stares at me. “Your people have already caused a lot of trouble.”
“It’s only until the next ship. And you said there are already two ships nearby. Please—we need your help.”
“Along the entire coastline, when there are too many babathid around, there is always trouble.”
“I’ll talk to my husband. He’s in command. I’ll tell him that everyone’s got to listen to you.”
He says something to the three men sitting beside him. One responds.
“And those who you left behind in the forest—who will tell them to leave us alone?” Makee says. “To stop shooting at us and stealing our food?”
“They’re leaving. They’re walking south. They think there’s a Russian ship—far away. They’re
already gone.”
He says something else to the three men. The same one responds, then another adds his thoughts. Makee listens while I try to understand what they’re saying.
Makee speaks briefly then turns back to me. He sets his cheetoolth down on the bench.
“I forgive you, Anna. But you must speak to your husband. And from now on, I will hold you to your word.”
* * *
38Thank you and farewell. You did everything appropriately.
39Here, have some gum.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Why should I do anything for that Poppy Seed?” my husband says.
“Nikolai Isaakovich, there’s no choice.”
“Of course there’s no choice. Anna Petrovna, we’re slaves! Prisoners! And these koliuzhi are only waiting for a chance to murder us.”
“They’re waiting for a ship—just like us.”
The sun is sinking into the ocean. The rain has ended and the heavy clouds have moved away, and now the sky is alive with pink and purple, the colour of boiled beetroot, the colour of the sea stars I saw in the pool beside the rock. There’s a brush of gold hovering over the cobalt sea. It’s a rare evening both for this sunset and for the fact that I’m watching it with my husband as though it’s a display of Chinese fireworks and we’re attending a gathering at a grand dacha outside Petersburg.
“Nikolai Isaakovich, if you don’t order the crew to cooperate, we’re never going to get out of here. Makee made me promise that we wouldn’t make any further trouble for them.”
“Make trouble—for them?” He laughs cruelly. “That Poppy Seed toyon is cunning. He has a scheme. You’ll see.”
I shake my head, no, but in the dying light—the sun is a glowing dome about to disappear into the water—he’s the one who doesn’t see.
I’ll have to find another way to fulfill my promise to Makee.
“Could I have a word with you—in private?”
Timofei Osipovich cackles. “With me? Are you sure? Whatever for?”
“We can discuss that when we’re alone.”
“Lead me where you will then,” he says. “I put myself in your lovely hands.”
I don’t want to go anywhere with him, but since my husband refuses to agree and Makee’s counting on me, I must find another way to convince the crew that cooperation with Makee is in everyone’s best interests. My husband won’t like it, but if I handle it skilfully, he need never know my part in it. I’ve seen it time after time on this trip. If I can persuade Timofei Osipovich, the others will follow, and it won’t seem like I’m undermining my husband.
I lead him down to the stony beach where the canoes rest. There are some girls and boys playing at the water’s edge not far from us. They toss fragments of dried seaweed into the wind. The seaweed floats for several seconds, then falls and scuttles along the beach until it comes to rest. The children run alongside the dark shards in a race against one another, against the seaweed. Other than a glance our way when we come to their attention, they pay us no heed.
“Timofei Ospiovich,” I begin, “I must ask for assistance concerning a matter of great importance to our future.”
“Our future? That’s a weighty subject for a pretty girl. Or did you mean our future together—yours and mine?”
“Stop your ridicule or I’ll leave.”
“Leave? No, please, I can’t live without you.” He chokes on a sob and brushes fake tears from his eyes. How dare he mock my husband?
“Wait,” he calls when I’m halfway up the beach. “Come back.”
I stop and face him, trying to determine his sincerity. He’s impossible to predict, and the fact remains that I need him. So, I plunge ahead. “Makee is concerned about having us here. He thinks we’re going to cause trouble. I told him we wouldn’t.”
“Well, that goes without question,” Timofei Osipovich says, as he strolls over to face me. “We’ve surrendered. The conquered are never in a position to declare war.” The wind blows a strand of his long hair over his face, and he brushes it back and tucks it behind his ear.
“It’s not just that. Makee expects us to live peacefully. And to work. To earn our keep until we’re rescued.”
“I’m happy to lend a hand here and there.”
“No,” I say, exasperated. “You don’t understand. Makee’s helping us and we have to help him. I’ve been collecting firewood and hauling baskets of water to the houses. This week, I’m gathering shellfish. We all have to work until we’re rescued.”
He laughs. “Tell your toyon he’ll have my full cooperation. But between us—I won’t be gathering, collecting, or hauling anything. I’m not his slave.”
“You don’t understand how it is here.”
“And what exactly do you understand, Madame Bulygina?” He draws out the “madame” in a way that raises the hair on the back of my neck. “Tell me. What is your experience of slavery? Did your father keep slaves back in Petersburg?”
“They’re not slaves,” I cry. “They’re house serfs.” As the words leave my mouth, I think of the arguments of my father’s friends. I think of Maria. I feel unsteady and wish I could stop myself, but Timofei Osipovich always knows how to provoke.
He laughs. At me. “And what about your dear husband? You don’t actually believe the Aleuts are here with him of their own free will, do you?”
“That arrangement is between them and the company! My husband does not mistreat them!”
He hasn’t stopped laughing. “And me? How long before your Tsar’s reforms reach me? How much more time before he gives me an estate in the country where I can live like your father does?”
“You leave my father out of it! And tell the others what I said!” I speak so loudly the children on the beach stop racing the seaweed and look over. “Don’t put our rescue in jeopardy.” I stomp away like I’m no older than the children on the beach, and then chastise myself for failing, once again, to act like I’m eighteen years old. How does he manage to always make me feel so infantile?
“You’re working far too hard,” he calls.
Despite what he said, Timofei Osipovich must have spoken to the others. The next day, I see his loyal Ovchinnikov and the Aleuts helping the Kwih-dihch-chuh-aht men dig a hole near the houses. With long, pointed sticks, they hack into the soil, breaking it up, and using baskets they move the earth to nearby piles. Ovchinnikov’s stick snaps, and he curses, but a man gives him another one. The hole grows deep and by the end of the day, it’s a pit.
I see neither my husband nor Timofei Osipovich taking part in the digging and I wonder how they’ve been exempt from the task. I hope they’re not idle, or, if they are, I hope Makee is not aware of their indolence.
In the evening, as we eat around the fire, I ask, “Where were you all day?”
My husband glances sideways at Timofei Osipovich and says, “We were on the other side of the headland.”
“Working,” says Timofei Osipovich. “I was told it would be advisable if we were to work.” He looks at me, raises his eyebrows, and smiles.
He didn’t say something to my husband. Did he? Nikolai Isaakovich keeps his eyes on his meal, and I know better than to ask anything further. They’re working; that’s all that matters.
The next day, I notice the Aleuts and Ovchinnikov helping make planks from a log that’s washed up on the beach. With a heavy stone tool, a man pounds wedges into the wood. Each strike rings out across the bay. The Aleuts hold the plank and guide it away from the log, as it splits down its length. Its final release from the log is gentle; it comes apart with no effort. Then, Ovchinnikov and other men carry the planks from the beach up toward the houses. They must be heavy—it takes four men to carry each plank.
I watch them make the planks from down the beach, where I’m with Inessa and the other girl. We’ve pulled the baskets of mussels from the sea and we’re removing their fibrous beards. They’re coarse like dried straw, and sometimes so firmly fastened to the mussels that I can’t detach them wit
hout a knife. I add each beard to a heap the girls started. Eventually, there’s enough to stuff a mattress though it’s not clear what use the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts have for the beards. I can see, now that I’ve done it myself, that they might be suitable for scaling fish or scrubbing the cooking ware.
After all the beards are removed, we put the mussels back into the baskets and carry them to the pit that the crew helped dig. Heat radiates from it—there’s a fire buried deep below—and it’s been lined with ferns. I prepare to tip my basket and pour the mussels in but Inessa stops me. She kneels at the lip of the pit and begins to place her mussels inside it. She leans in and positions each mussel beside the one she placed before it, leaving no room between. I lower myself nearby and begin to lay my mussels in the pit as well. We work slowly and deliberately, nudging the mussels up against one another. I bathe in the warmth that washes over my face and arms. When the baskets are empty, the dark ovals blanket the entire space and gleam like jewels. We lay more ferns over the mussels until they’re completely covered, and, finally, on top, cedar mats that we tuck in at the corners.
Two women pour water from a large basket into the pit. There’s a hiss, and a cloud of steam rises. They fetch a second basket, and then a third. Steam billows up as more water is added. After a few minutes, the steaming stops, and the smell of cooked mussels wafts up.
The mat is peeled back, and the ferns, now black, are removed. The acrid odour of wet charcoal is released. The shells gape, a frill of orange peeping out from each. We scrape out the flesh—still a bit gelatinous—and thread the mussels on sharpened sticks. Even the liquid in the shells is saved, poured into a cooking box.
The women who added the water to the pit look pleased when they see all the sticks of mussels lined up like orange soldiers at attention. One says something to Inessa and everyone laughs. Inessa blushes. Refusing to look up, she gathers the discarded shells, throwing them into the baskets, but she listens keenly to the women.
Anna, Like Thunder Page 23
