The young man says, “Was yapotala xáxi. Tsádaslo xwawíki.”45 I smile and exaggerate panting. He stops and waits. I think he’s understood.
Then he says something else. He repeats it. It sounds vaguely like cotton. He presses his hand on his chest as he says it again. It’s his name.
“Holpokit,” I repeat and nod.
He laughs—I must have mangled it—and he repeats his name. “Holpokit,” I say again, but I can’t say it the way he does.
Then I press my hand to my chest. “Anna,” I say, trying hard to pronounce the “n.”
He sounds just like the Murzik when he repeats, “Ahda.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” I say.
We begin climbing again. We’ll have to speed up if we don’t want to lose the others.
My mother once told the story of a pretty girl she knew when she was young who had long, black hair. Galina was in the forest when she heard her grandfather call. “The problem was,” my mother said, “that her grandfather had died the previous year.” Galina knew it couldn’t really be her grandfather, so she ran home as fast as she could. By the time she got there, her hair had turned to pure silver.
“How?” I cried. “Perhaps she only powdered it to fool everyone.”
“Dear Anya,” my mother said, “may you never come across the leshii yourself. But if you do, you may find out that Galina’s story is true.” She lifted a lock of my own dark hair and let it fall.
In this thick forest, it’s easy to imagine Galina’s story is true. I follow close behind Holpokit, and wonder what it would be like to hear my mother’s voice calling from behind the fallen logs. Would I, despite knowing she couldn’t possibly be here, be driven mad in my search for her? Or would I heed the story of Galina and hurry away?
I wonder what my mother is doing right now. When we meet again, the stories we share will be mine.
We catch up to the others on a slope from which many old trees rise. Their trunks are impossibly straight, and far overhead, their crowns spread like the arms of a chandelier. In Petersburg, a distant cousin of the Tsarina had bolted to her dining hall ceiling an elegant fixture that was the subject of much talk one winter. They said it had a thousand Venetian crystals and two hundred candles set in twelve tiers. It took two servants an hour to light it, and an entire day to dust and polish it. These details spread and earned the chandelier and the Tsarina’s cousin much admiration. No one from Petersburg society will ever see the crowns of these trees swaying overhead, but they are magnificent and just as impressive.
The Quileutes have been waiting. Holpokit and I take places alongside the others, closing up a circle. An old woman whose hair really is all grey, whose voice is low and scratchy, sings. In a moment, she finishes. Then she says, “O yix chikw ťsiatíťow kiyatilashílich ishsiwoyawáal.”46
The group scatters among the trees, laughing, looking overhead. There is a great deal of discussion among them.
The old woman who sang immediately goes to a tree right beside her. Using a sharp stone, she cuts into it. She presses hard and saws back and forth, revealing ropey muscles in her arms. She cuts a straight line, perpendicular to the grain of the bark. Though the incision is only the width of her palm, the bark is thick, and it takes time. Then she pushes the blade underneath the cut until a corner lifts. She jams her fingers under the bark and begins to pull it off the trunk.
She leans back as she pulls, so far back I think her feet will leave the ground. The bark separates from the tree in a strip that ripples up the trunk. The tree releases it with a grudging squeak.
We’re collecting bark—the bark that’s woven into clothing, mats, baskets, hats, rope, and nets. It’s rigid and I don’t know yet how it will transform into the soft material of which dresses and bedclothes are made.
When the strip runs halfway up the trunk, the old woman calls Holpokit. He’s taller. So, when he takes the strip from her and backs away from the tree, he gets extra leverage. He’s also on the uphill side of the tree, so as he climbs the slope, the angle at which he pulls is wider, and therefore, more effective.
When I almost can’t see the top of the strip, it falls, a flopping snake. Everyone jumps back. The newly exposed wood glows like a golden waterfall cascading down the height of the tree.
A woman lifts an end of the bark and, using another tool, begins to peel apart its layers. The outer bark comes off in large chunks and what remains is reddish-brown, like the colour Zhuchka was, and fibrous. It smells of potato. Now I feel hungry.
While the layers of bark are being separated, the old woman cuts the bark of a second tree. After she gets it started, Holpokit pulls it and she goes to a third tree. Around the entire slope, she moves from tree to tree, making only one cut on each tree. Holpokit follows her.
There are many trees here that have had bark harvested on previous visits. The exposed wood is smooth and nestles between outer bark walls that have swollen and closed tightly against the wood to protect it. Far above, the debarked trees look as healthy as any of the others. Are insects boring into the bare wood? I don’t see any. It doesn’t appear the trees are suffering.
The next strip of bark that Holpokit pulls down, he gives to me.
Separating the layers isn’t easy. I chip off little bits looking for the right spot. The tool he gives me seems too blunt for the job, but it hurts the tips of my fingers if I try to do without it. When I finally find the right place, the pieces easily pull apart.
When all the cuts have been made and all the strips separated, the Quileutes fold the swathes over and over into small bundles. Each one is tied with a strand of the outer bark.
Though I carried nothing up to this grove, I have a full basket to carry down. Everyone does. Holpokit helps me position the loaded basket. When we get back, we put the bundles into vats of cold salt water, pressing them down to ensure they’re immersed. By then, I’m starved and ready to eat just about anything.
My husband comes home when night falls. His return is just in time—the sky grew heavy in the late afternoon, and I expect it to rain throughout the night. By the door, he jokes with carpenter Kurmachev and the American, while Holpokit hovers shyly behind them, watching. He acts like he wants them to notice him, though they pay no attention to him whatsoever.
Kurmachev slips away from the group and slumps down by the fire.
“Where did you go?” I ask.
“We were hunting—for reindeer,” says Kurmachev.
“Were you successful?”
“No,” he says. “It was too hard.”
“Hard? How so?”
“We only had bow and arrow—no muskets. And the arrowheads are wooden! They’re sharp but there’s nothing to them! They’re so light! We had to chase the reindeer first into a kind of channel the koliuzhi cut into the forest. When they were in the channel, then we could get a shot at them.” He shakes his head. “That was clever—having the channel—but the bow and arrow are so impractical. That’s the old way—and the old way is so backward.”
“Perhaps hunters were more cunning back then,” I say.
For old Kurmachev, the shift from carpenter to hunter has been awkward. He’d be much better at making bowls or boxes or handles for tools than he is at waiting in the cold and rain on the slim chance that his arrow reaches its target.
“Perhaps you should show the koliuzhi what you do. All this wood—” I say encouragingly.
“They have some good wood,” he says. “I saw it in another house. It looks like they’re drying it. I’m sure they intend to make something with it.”
“You should try to get a piece.”
His eyes slide sideways and back again. He fumbles in his pocket. “Look.”
He shows me a lump of wood and, in the dim light, it takes a minute, but I soon realize what it is.
“It’s a doll!” I laugh. “Did you make it?”
“A few days ago,” he says. He’s etched a little face on her, two dots for eyes and a crooked sm
ile. Her belly is round and as big as her head. “I found the wood on the beach, and I used one of their tools. Just a piece of stone, but with a really sharp edge. I was slow.” He turns the doll over, examining it. “But the wood is good. It’s softer than birch, and I don’t think it’ll break easily.”
He holds the doll to his nose. “It has a happy smell, this wood here. It’s not like the smell of birch.” He passes the doll to me.
Cold and wet, my husband and John Williams join us by the fire. I see dried blood from the hunt on the American’s hands.
“What’s that?” my husband says.
“Ivan Kurmachev made it,” I say, as I show him. He takes it from me and rubs his thumb along its smooth back.
“Now you’ve got to make the others,” I say.
“What others?”
“The rest of the family.”
“Ah, I hope I’ll get around to that. I’m slow without my own tools.”
“You should make a bowl instead,” says my husband. He hands the doll back to me. “The koliuzhi would be impressed if you made them a bowl. All they have are trays. Trays and these baskets.”
He’s talking about the woven bowls. We use them every day. I didn’t think the Quileutes had any problems with them.
“If you make a really good one, then maybe you won’t have to go hunting anymore,” he continues.
“I need a much bigger piece of wood for a bowl,” Kurmachev says sadly. Then, “You can keep it,” to me.
“Keep it?”
“The doll.”
“No.” I try to pass it back.
“Then you don’t want it?”
“No! It’s not that! It’s just—don’t you want to finish it?”
He scrutinizes it. “It’s finished. In any case, I’ll make another.”
I turn the little doll over in my hands. “I hope you do make another,” I say. I tie it onto the end of my sash like I’m a peasant woman with a coin or a key.
As I had predicted, it rained throughout the night, pounding on the roof like the devil at the door. Morning brings no relief. The storm isn’t finished with us yet. People fidget under their bedclothes, and talk in low voices, delaying the start of the day. Only a few push themselves out of bed to brave the cold air. They stir the fire and throw more wood onto it.
I close my eyes. Nausea washes over me. I pull the blanket up to my chin. My husband makes a weak effort to pull the cover back to his side, but when I won’t relent, he rises and leaves the house. I seize the blanket and pull it up over my head wishing the day were over.
After a long time and a short time, I sense movement and when I peer out from under the blanket, a thick forest of legs encircles me.
“abaiόaksh,”47 says one woman.
“Tsixá a, dáki!”48 replies another.
I wish they’d go away and leave me alone.
What could be making me so ill? I can barely rise again today. The smoke, the cold, the women—everything makes me nauseous. The tonics the women have given me are doing no good.
Maybe I’m dying. Maybe I’m—
I let the blanket fall back over my face. It can’t be. Can it? How could it? And yet—why shouldn’t I be pregnant? I’m already eighteen and a married woman—young married women have babies. It happens all the time.
I inch the blanket down my face and slowly look up. I scan the circle of faces, half of them upside down from my perspective on the floor, on my back. The women convey a strange mix of concern and delight, confirming my conclusion.
Nikolai Isaakovich and I had spoken often about starting a family. Back in Novo-Arkhangelsk, and in our cozy quarters on the brig, we’d have idle conversations about the son who’d distinguish himself in the Imperial Navy, about the daughter who’d have a natural talent for mathematics. I’d only ever seen it as a possibility—distant and not pressing. The absence of my monthlies had been a blessing, and the way time had unevenly stretched and compressed meant I’d lost track of how many I’d missed. Beneath the blanket, my fingers lace together over my belly. Have I become more stout? Impossible to believe a child is only a layer of skin away from my touch.
“Haćháachid?”49 a woman asks.
I smile, nod, and hope it’s the correct response.
My husband returns from outdoors. The women scatter when he draws near. He shakes his wet head. Water dots the earthen floor.
“It’s going to storm all day,” he says. “The path’s already deep with mud. Look at my feet.” He stomps and more water sprays around. Then he looks at me bundled up on the mat. “Come on, Anya, get up.”
I must tell him my news, but this isn’t how I thought it would be. When we spoke about starting our family, I had imagined this moment. We’d be before a roaring fireplace or pressed against each other in our bed at home, or maybe even sharing our morning tea, the sun slanting in the window and cutting across the polished wood floor when I told him. I imagined the surprise, then delight flooding his face. How he’d scoop me into his arms, maybe even twirl me around in a little dance before he realized he’d need to be more careful with me.
I see myself right now—huddled beneath a stained and smoke-scented blanket, surrounded by the quiet morning chatter of the many people with whom we share a house, rain thundering overhead, a small smoky fire valiantly trying to catch in the chilly air.
“What’s wrong?” He kneels at the mat’s edge. “What is it?”
I take his hand. He tries to pull it away, but I won’t let go. “I know what’s wrong with me. Why I feel so sick.”
“Well—tell me. What is it?”
I should be planning a nursery. New furniture. I should be stitching blouses, knitting small mittens, slippers, and caps. Blankets as soft as fur. I should be calling the midwife. Preparing for my confinement. Looking for a nursemaid. And my mother should be at my side, her hand brushing back the hair on my forehead; she’s the only one with the power to make this right.
“Anya?” He pales. “What?”
“Remember how you said you wanted a family?”
His hand tightens. He’s not breathing. “It’s impossible,” he says. “It can’t be.”
I nod and shrug.
“Oh my God,” he says. He tears his hand from mine. “Oh God.”
I think Nikolai Isaakovich has never really considered a family beyond it being something he would like to have one day. He never expected to receive this news in a place like this. He never expected he’d have to consider the future of a child when his own future is so beyond his control. Now everything has changed. His abstract idea has transformed into a reality. I put my hand back under the blanket.
“Anya—are you sure?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “You’re happy—aren’t you?”
“Yes! Very happy! Of course,” he cries. “I just—”
I close my eyes and feel the swell of tears.
“No,” he cries. “No, Anya, don’t. That’s wrong.” He grabs the blanket and finds the shape of my hand. He squeezes hard. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Anya, I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of everything.”
The place inside that desperately needs reassurance accepts his words. Though I still long for my mother, he’s here now and whatever needs to be done, we’ll do it together.
That afternoon, I finally learn how bark is transformed into the soft fibres the koliuzhi weave into clothing and blankets. The folded slabs that have been soaking in salt water have been laid out on flat stones. The cord that held them in place has been discarded and each one is partially unfolded.
I work with a group of women from my house. Each of us has a little hammer that’s made from the porous inner bones of the whale—just as Makee had told me several weeks ago. My hammer is very light, but when I run my thumb along the ridges carved into its head, I feel how sturdy it is. With the hammers, we pound the bark against the flat rock. It grows flatter and flatter, and the ridges cut and separate it into strands. I don’t look up for fear I’ll strike my own f
ingers.
The pounding warms the bark, releasing the scent of potatoes and salt water. The strands become as supple as silk. I watch how the women position their bark, and I do the same. The strands fall away from my hammer onto my lap. I work my way up the strip of bark, and create threads as long as my hair, and then much longer. When I reach the top of my slab, and all the strands are detached, I follow the other women and twist the threads into skeins by winding them around my outstretched fingers until they are transformed into fibrous loops.
More than any other job the koliuzhi have given me, I’m able to perform this one well. The threads I’ve created feel just like silk embroidery threads, and the way they respond to the winding and tying is no different.
The women converse, voices raised so they may be heard above the sound of the pounding. I grow alert when from the corner of my eye I notice one woman glance in my direction as she’s speaking. Is she talking about me? Many of the women look, then go back to pounding the bark.
After a short time and a long time, my head aches with the constant thud of the hammers and the nearly shouted conversation. The nausea grows intense. I have to go. I drop my hammer and run.
Afterward, I stay on my knees behind the bushes, not sure if I’m finished. I lick some drops of water off a broad leaf and savour the sensation of the cool liquid in my sour mouth. What were the women saying about me? Did they understand why I ran away?
Then I hear shouting. One of the voices is my husband’s. I run back along the trail.
Outside the houses, my husband is in the centre of a circle of men, screaming at all of them. His arms are wrapped around a woolen blanket. It drags in the dirt. Nearby, the new bride—the moustached toyon’s daughter—is weeping while the women with whom I was shredding bark are trying to console her.
“Kolya,” I call, “what’s going on?”
“These savages,” he cries. “They’re trying to take my blanket.”
Anna, Like Thunder Page 28
