Anna, Like Thunder

by Peggy Herring

  Eventually she calls, “Anna!” She motions me to come. We each carry a basket of empty shells to an area just beyond the edge of the village. There are thousands, maybe millions of shells already spread out here, bleached white by the sun. We each tip our baskets. When they spill, the river of shells rattles on and on, like it will never stop, just like the never-ending river that pours from the vase of Aquarius.

  The world around us is starting to awaken. Thin, green shoots push through the surface of the damp earth. Buds swell at the ends of grey branches. Birds sing us awake, and flutter about with twigs and moss in their beaks as they fly away to build nests. Winter is coming to an end. The ships will be back soon.

  On a rare afternoon when both Nikolai Isaakovich and I are idle, I say, “Let’s go see how the garden is faring.”

  “Anya, gardens hold little charm for men of the sea,” he complains.

  “It’s not far. Please?”

  After a moment of hesitation, he nods and pushes himself to his feet.

  I lead us along the winding path through the trees. The crows are cawing—we’ve startled them—and in the distance, the surf roars. New life is stretched out along the entire trail, in the buds and shoots and moss, vivid against winter’s dull palette. The odour of growth is also sharp. It clamours for attention, and behind the hopeful pleasures it suggests, there’s insistence, as the new season pushes against confinement. Spring wants to break free from the winter.

  “How much farther is it?” my husband grumbles.

  “We’re almost there.”

  We pass the tree shaped like a chalice. The path veers closer to the sea. We bound across a rivulet channeling water toward the ocean. The water’s etched a shape like the outline of an ancient oak tree in the sand.

  When we reach the garden, I find it more overgrown, as indistinct from the plant life that surrounds it as it ever has been.

  “This is it?” Nikolai Isaakovich says.

  Upon closer examination, I find that the burst of spring growth has not forgotten the garden. A green shoot pushes through the grey winter debris like a knife blade. Beside it is another.

  “Look!” I point. I pinch the tip off one of the shoots and let him smell it.

  “Onions?” he says.

  “Open up,” I say, and I place the fragment in his mouth.

  I pull the thatch back. It’s too early but I can’t resist. With a flat rock, I score a circle around the plant, trying not to get too close to the bulb. Then I dig away the earth. With my fingertips, I find the smooth skin of one small onion. There is another right beside it. I brush the earth from the first, and tug gently until it gives way and pops into my fingers.

  It leaves behind a hollow space that’s perfectly round as though it once held a giant pearl.

  “Give it to me,” Nikolai Isaakovich says and takes the root by its stubby stem.

  He wipes it on his trouser leg. It’s an impossibly white and glossy ball, with a hairy tangle of roots.

  He sinks his teeth into it. It crunches. He chews. “God, it’s delicious.” He wipes his chin.

  I laugh. “Give me a bite.”

  The juice rolls over my tongue. It’s so sweet and tender. I take another bite before passing it back.

  There are only three bites each. It’s gone too soon.

  “What else is here?” my husband asks.

  I poke around, but it’s too early, and I find nothing of interest. Not yet. There may be a few seeds that have yet to germinate, a few shoots that have yet to push to the surface and so, I pull the vines back into place for next time.

  I sit back and my husband flops down beside me.

  “The koliuzhi don’t want anything from the garden,” I say. “Except the potatoes. They like the potatoes.”

  My husband shakes his head in incredulity. “Why don’t they want it? They should take care of this garden. Make it bigger. They should make more gardens. They need farms. How can any civilization advance without producing its own food?”

  “I thought the same thing when Makee showed me the garden. But now—Kolya—what if they don’t need farms? They get everything from the forest and the sea.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “And anyway, they take care of the forest and the sea. They don’t plant gardens, but they tend to things. It’s not so different from the peasants tending to their land and livestock.”

  “It is completely different! Have you lost your mind?”

  The afternoon presses in on us. The heat weighs us down. There’s a bee humming and hovering woozily, and a buzzing in my ears, too, that might be the bees. Or it might just be me.

  “Everything has gone wrong. Everything,” my husband declares.

  “Not everything,” I reply softly. “We’re alive—and together.” I take his hand. It’s cold and limp.

  “We’ve lost the brig and everything on board. Khariton Sobachnikov is dead. Yakov and Filip Kotelnikov are gone. And who knows what’s happening to the rest of the crew? If we ever get back home, what will the chief manager say?”

  I tighten my grip. “What he’ll say is: you’ve made the best of a disastrous situation. Under your command . . .”

  “But we’re slaves! I’ve failed!”

  “Stop saying that,” I cry. “You’ve done your best, and we’ve far more men alive than dead. We’ll be rescued. You haven’t failed at all.” I draw him into my arms and kiss his cheek. I lean in and press my head against his. He softens and wraps his arms around me. I kiss his lips. Like me, he tastes of onion.

  Perseus rescued Andromeda from the sea. He cut the chains at her wrists and ankles and set her free before the sea monster could take her. They married and had seven sons and two daughters. They whirl overhead and on any autumn night, if it’s clear, I will see them together and be reminded of their message: that love’s path has always been twisted and confusing, filled with hope—and fear. In the end, when we seek reassurance, we need only look overhead.

  “Anya,” my husband whispers. He lays me down at the edge of the garden. I close my eyes and the sun’s so bright everything’s deep pink. His hand runs down my side, and when it reaches my hip, it begins to tug at my clothing. He swings his leg over, and pushes it between mine.

  His desire is quick and demanding. It beckons me to follow. If I do, I must skirt a ledge so narrow there’s no space to turn around. I can’t see the end of the ledge—I don’t know how far it is and what lies beyond. There’s nowhere to go except ahead. And that is the path I choose.

  When he finally calls out, I’m glad there’s nothing but a few birds and insects who’ve witnessed our coupling. I feel like one of the creatures here, wild and lacking the reason that would tell me how wantonly I’m behaving. We lie in each other’s arms for a long time and a short time afterward, while in the air above us those creatures trace lazy paths.

  The next morning, the girls and I head into the forest. We carry smaller baskets with a tight weave, so I know we’re gathering something new. We stay on the trail and pass alongside an area where many logs crisscross one another. One gigantic tree has put down its roots atop a fallen log. The roots wrap around the trunk and reach to the ground, forming the moss-covered bars of a cage. We eventually emerge into a level grove where the canopy has thinned. Spring is here, too, in the swollen buds and the pale shoots that push through the surface of the forest floor.

  I’ve long lost track of the date, but we’re close to the time of year when the peasants celebrate spring. My mother told me there’s a ritual in which, on a certain day, they go into the forest to look for a fiery fern.

  “It’s not easy. It grows beyond the thrice ninth land, in the thrice ninth realm,” she said. “And it shows itself only one day a year. But . . .whoever finds it will become steeped in wealth.”

  “Mother . . .” I said. “I’m not a child anymore.” I was still a girl, yes, but already too smart to believe in such superstitions. “There is no thrice ninth land except in somebody’s imagi
nation. And people don’t become wealthy from finding plants.”

  “Ah, you think so literally. I’m not talking about the kind of wealth they worship these days. The fiery fern promises prosperity in wisdom and an abundance of grace.”

  “People can grow wise and choose to behave with grace,” I said primly. “They don’t need a plant if that’s what they desire.”

  She looked at me doubtfully. “Well, you’d best watch for it when you’re in the forest. You’re young still and the possibility of learning wisdom and grace certainly won’t harm you.”

  My mother, if she were here today, wouldn’t know where to look for all the ferns unfurling their fronds. As the days grow longer and hint of warmer days to come, they stretch out and open their pale arms.

  The girls drop their baskets. Inessa gives me a shell knife.

  I turn away from the ferns. The shoots we’re cutting are faint green quills with only the hint of leaves. I guess the ones growing near spiny canes must be berry shoots. They have tiny white hairs that hint of the thorns to come, but, for now, the stems are so supple I could pinch them off without a knife.

  “Anna,” says Inessa. She holds a shoot and delicately peels back the skin in ringlets as pretty as freshly curled hair. Then she bites into the shoot and smiles as she chews.

  She offers me a shoot. Nicking the end with my fingernail just as she did, I peel it. Then I bite into it.

  “čabas,” she says.

  My mouth puckers—it’s so sour—but as I chew, that taste diminishes and something as sweet and fresh as summer rain emerges. It’s how I imagine waking up would taste if such a thing were possible.

  She laughs at my surprise.

  “Chabas,” I repeat.

  We work our way around the grove until we arrive at a damp hollow of shadows. Here, we shift our attention to a different kind of shoot. These look like tiny Chinese bamboo, their stems segmented into ever-decreasing lengths, dressed in frilly, brown skirts. The shoots are so slender, it will take many hours before we fill our baskets. Nevertheless, it happens and when the girls seem satisfied, we wind our way back along the trail.

  Along a drier section of the path, I come across a big patch of chabas. The shoots, lush and pale, are everywhere. I can’t believe we missed it on our way out.

  “Chabas,” I cry out and point. “Chabas.”

  The other girl smiles at me, then says something. Inessa agrees. I expect us to pick these shoots—surely we could squeeze a few more into the baskets—but the girls carry on.

  In Russia, everyone believes the wilderness is free and open to all. The bounty of the land goes to the first man clever enough to find it and he’ll take it all before anybody else can get it. The koliuzhi don’t live the same way. Either we have enough already, or they want to save what’s here for another time. In any case, they’re not afraid somebody else will take it, which, in Russia, is how most people would feel before harvesting every shoot in sight before the sun had the chance to set.

  We eat the shoots that night. The cooks steam them in shallow pits, similar to how we steamed the mussels. They’re served with grease and a flaky white seafish that tastes of cedar and the smokehouse. They slide down my throat easily, but I think I preferred them peeled and raw on the side of the trail.

  “My shirt was torn today,” my husband says through a mouthful.

  “Where?”

  He twists away from me and with greasy fingers, points. There’s a tear running along the shoulder seam, then down, forming a triangular flap of fabric. “It was caught on a branch.”

  “I can fix it,” I say. I’ll get Inessa to give me a needle and thread.

  “Would you? While you’re at it, some stitching is loose at the bottom.”

  I lean over and look more closely. “Tomorrow morning,” I say. “There’ll be more light, and I’ll be able to see properly.”

  He runs his fingers around his bowl, scooping up a last shoot, and nods as he slips it into his mouth.

  “Why does she come for you every day?” my husband grumbles.

  Inessa’s waiting with a basket, just as she does every morning. It’s raining, but it’s so light, barely a mist, it won’t keep us from our work outdoors.

  I start to rise. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “No,” my husband says. He grabs my arm and holds firmly. I can’t stand. I’m hunched over, waiting. “You’re supposed to fix my shirt this morning.”

  “I’ll fix it when I come back.” I struggle to keep my balance.

  Inessa shifts uneasily and my husband glares. “There are other people here. Somebody else can go with her.”

  “I will make your shirt as good as new when I get back. I promise. I won’t be long.”

  He pulls on me, but I resist. I refuse to sit. “Tell her you can’t go.”

  I laugh. “How? I don’t know her language.”

  “Stay here.”

  “You’re making a scene. Let me go.”

  “If you won’t tell her, I will.” Nikolai Isaakovich thrusts me away. I stumble backward. He leaps up and grabs Inessa. “No. Go away,” he shouts into her face. “She’s my wife. She has work to do here. Leave us alone.”

  Inessa recoils. Despite telling her to go, he won’t let her. She twists and tries to free herself, but he holds on. Her hair falls and covers her face. He screams. “She’s not going. Do you hear me?” Inessa throws her head back, and her hair parts like a curtain. Her anguish drives me forward.

  I thrust my body between them and try to force them apart. He smells of sweat and grease from his breakfast. She smells of smoke and cedar. “Stop, Kolya, leave her alone. It’s not her fault.” Inessa’s head hits mine and she cries out. Everything goes white for an instant.

  My husband tries to shove me aside, but I won’t let go. “She’s my wife. Don’t you understand?”

  Then the man with the scar on his chest is on us. His voice is like a blow. “hiyu·a!”40 Strong arms do what I could not—he forces himself between Inessa and Nikolai Isaakovich and pulls them apart. The scarred man holds my husband’s arms behind his back. Inessa pauses an instant, gasping, her face a mask of disbelief, and runs outside. Her basket, one side caved in, rocks back and forth on the floor where she dropped it.

  “Don’t come looking for her again,” my husband shouts.

  “She’s never going with you.” He twists against the scarred man who finally lets him go and runs after Inessa.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I snap. “You hurt her.”

  “I did not. Didn’t you see the way she ran out of here? There’s nothing wrong with her.”

  “You can’t do that to people here,” I say. “Nobody acts like that. They’re not used to it. And now Makee’s going to think we’re causing trouble.”

  “All you care about is what that Poppy Seed thinks.” His expression of disapproval makes him look like a toad.

  “I’m going to work now. I’ll fix your shirt later.” I storm out of the house. There’s no sign of Inessa, and without her, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing.

  I walk away from the houses to the edge of the forest and stand beneath the shelter of the boughs. They’re enough to keep me dry. The misty rain falls, but the sky is light, and I think it won’t be long before it stops. Down on the beach, some men have gathered beside the canoes.

  The scent of smoke in the air makes me want to go back to the house, where it’s warm and dry. But I can’t face the mess my husband’s created. Let him deal with the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts. Let him explain to Makee. I should find Inessa, but I haven’t any idea where to go look for her.

  Somebody steps outside Makee’s house. For an instant, I think it’s my husband, but then I see it’s Timofei Osipovich. He looks around and when he sees me in the shelter of the trees, he comes to me.

  “You don’t need to stand out here in the rain. Come inside.”

  “No,” I say. “Please leave me be.” I have no patience for him today.

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nbsp; He turns and watches the men on the beach, but he doesn’t go. A gust of wind blows, and heavy drops of water fall from the boughs. One lands on my head and trickles down my face. It’s cold.

  The men on the beach have turned one of the canoes over. They’re running their hands along the keel, deep in discussion.

  “There’s nothing you can do about it out here. Come back.”

  “Everything was fine,” I blurt. “Things were finally working out for us.” Tears press against my eyes, but I won’t give in to them. “I thought he understood. He’s been working hard, hasn’t he? Just like Makee wanted?”

  Timofei Osipovich peers at me, in disbelief, then laughs. “Yes, he’s been working hard.”

  “Then why this outburst?”

  He sighs. “Madame Bulygina, I must show you something. Come.”

  We go into the forest and follow the trail that leads toward the headland. We veer away from the sea and climb, then descend on the other side. It’s the same trail I took with the girls to collect mussels.

  When we’ve passed the headland, we turn off the trail and head toward the beach. Before we step out of the trees, he stops and points.

  A huge patch of soil has been disturbed. All the shrubs have been torn out. Boughs have been collected and propped up against one another. We go closer. It’s a hole in the ground that’s covered with branches. There’s a tiny opening with steps cut into the earth leading into the darkness. “What is this?”

  “A house. A place to live.”

  “Who made it?”

  “Your husband—and I.”

  “Makee asked you to build a house?”

  “No, Madame Bulygina,” he replies, enunciating each word. “Makee did not ask us to build a house.”

  They have been working hard. It took a lot of work to build the hut. But this is not what I meant, not what Makee wants.

  “It’s almost finished. We’ll move here in a few days.”