I follow Koliuzhi Klara over the rocks. They’re slippery near the water and I’m slower than usual; my new small belly has already unbalanced me in a way that’s disproportionate to its size. The old peasant women would watch me and say I’m going to have a boy.
We arrive before a steep face of rock. The women grab onto it and begin to climb.
The first woman disappears over the top. She comes back an instant later and pokes her head over the edge. “Ishawá kwalílho. Kwό axwό!”51 she says, barely raising her voice, as though she’s conveying a secret.
The small plateau up here is scattered with nests of twisted grass and grey feathers. Each one contains two or three green-brown speckled eggs. No doubt they belong to the gulls whose cries have become even angrier, whose diving is so close now, I could touch them if I dared.
The woman who arrived first on the plateau steps on a nest. There’s a pitiful crunch. Then everyone joins in. The gulls scream and dive as the women move across the plateau, breaking the eggs and flattening the nests. The women say not a single word.
I’m baffled. This is not the way the koliuzhi do anything.
Koliuzhi Klara stops her stomping and peers at me. At my feet is a nest with only a single egg. She stomps her foot to show me what I must do.
I shake my head no. She frowns, then steps over to the nest and crushes the egg herself.
When all the eggs have been broken, we climb back down the rock and go home. Every stroke of the paddle, I hear the thud of Koliuzhi Klara’s foot and the crunch of the one egg that lay before me. I can’t reconcile what she did, what they all did, with what I know of the koliuzhi.
Two days later, Koliuzhi Klara hands me a paddle and leads me to the beach again. This time, there are two canoes waiting for us—one quite deep but much shorter. The young men tie the small canoe to our large canoe. Only two women climb into the smaller vessel. They are towed behind us, but paddle to lessen our load. The bow is pointed, once again, out to sea, and once we pass the headland, I’m certain we’re returning to the gull island.
We destroyed everything there. There are no eggs left. I don’t know why we’re going back. When the canoe bumps up against the rock, the gulls are once again furious.
I follow Koliuzhi Klara and the others. I pull myself up the steep part of our path. I’m the last to reach the top. When I do, I look around. Every nest is once again fluffed up, lined with feathers, and filled with eggs. It’s as though we were never here.
Koliuzhi Klara bends over and picks up an egg. Then she turns to another nest and takes a second egg. The other girls join in. Quietly, they move from nest to nest, ignoring the gulls, and removing only a single egg from each nest. The eggs are placed in small baskets they’ve brought. They stuff dried lichen around the eggs to cushion them.
Every egg is fresh. We know that because we destroyed all the eggs three days ago. The gulls had no problem laying more eggs—they’re no different from hens in Russia—and when we leave they’ll lay again to replace the ones we’re taking. When we eat the ones we’ve taken, we’ll know with certainty that they’re not spoiled.
The gulls will hatch their young in a few weeks and after they get their feathers, they’ll fly away, and then they’ll come back here next year and do it all over again. The survival of this bird is tied to the survival of the koliuzhi. Just as it was with the mussels and the herring roe and just about everything the koliuzhi gather from the land and sea, a cycle of give and take governs their actions. What I’d judged to be wanton destruction is part of a system that stretches out like a spider web, and just like a spider web, unless seen from the right angle, it’s invisible.
I bend before a nest. The egg is as smooth as porcelain and warm. I gently place it in my basket before moving on to the next nest.
When we return to the canoes, our baskets full, there’s a fire blazing on the rock shelf near where we disembarked. The men are tending it. The women show off the eggs, then gather around the fire. The wind gusts and pushes smoke into my face. I cough and rub my eyes. I wonder why we’re not yet going home.
Then the women rise and retrieve their cooking tongs from the bottom of the big canoe. They dig stones from the orange coals and carry them to the small canoe. Plumes of steam rise when the rocks tumble into the boats. I hadn’t realized there was water in the small canoe.
Koliuzhi Klara takes her basket of eggs and gestures to show me that I should take mine as well and follow her to the canoe. We place the eggs alongside the rocks in the hot water. Once all the eggs have been placed in the small canoe, we all climb into the large canoe and turn our bow to shore.
When we land, we remove the eggs from the water and put them back into the baskets. Then, we go house to house, giving the eggs to the oldest people. They receive them with open hands, and broad smiles that crinkle the skin around their eyes. When we get to the moustached toyon’s house, the women gesture to show me that I should give an egg to old Ivan Kurmachev.
He takes it so gingerly the women laugh. “What is it?”
“It’s a gull egg. It’s cooked.”
“What about me?” says the American.
“They’re only for the old people. You’re too young.” Then I say to Kurmachev, “Go ahead. Try it.”
He cracks the egg against his leg and peels the shell. Everyone’s watching. With his thumb, he digs into the white and slides a bit into his mouth. After a moment, he grins. “It’s good,” he says.
“What does it taste like?”
“Here.” He offers me a morsel.
“That’s not fair,” the American says. “You’re not old enough either.” I hesitate. What I said was true.
Koliuzhi Klara catches my eye and gestures, putting her fingers to her mouth. So, I take the piece of egg and put it in my mouth.
It’s fishy and greasy and a bit chewy, but warm as it is, it’s also pleasingly rich. It reminds me of turkey eggs, but only if they were eaten with dollops of caviar and sour cream.
The women watch me expectantly. When I smile and nod, still chewing, they laugh. I swallow and say, “Oo-shoo-yuksh-uhlits.” I know it’s Makee’s language, not theirs, but it’s the only word I know for “thank you.” The women shriek with laughter, but from their expressions I believe I’ve done something that has pleased them.
As our group moves to the next old man in the house, I see Koliuzhi Klara slip a gull egg to the American when no one’s looking. His face is surely as shocked as mine. He rolls the egg into his sleeve before anybody notices.
One afternoon, as I head to shore to wash my hands, I find the beach crowded with children, Holpokit is in the centre of their high-spirited play.
“Ahda!” he calls when he sees me. He says something to the children and they laugh. Zaika, the little girl who clings to Koliuzhi Klara, runs over and grabs my hand.
“Wait,” I cry. “Where are you taking me?”
Holpokit laughs at me. She’s just a child—why should I resist? I let her pull me to the others. Holpokit leads them in a kind of a chant or rhyme that they all know. When he finishes, everyone except him—and me and Zaika—runs away.
Zaika pulls on my hand and shouts desperately.
I look to Holpokit for guidance. “What’s going on here?”
Holpokit says, “Hiiláalo kakadiyásal. Alitítaas cha lítiksh híat kadiyásaliksh. Dáki hi’adasákalawόli.”52 He points to the forest.
I look at Zaika. We run.
Zaika and I slip into the forest. We follow a narrow vale until she pulls me up its other side. We head deeper into the forest. I hope she knows where she’s going—we’re no longer on the path. We dart among the tallest trees, avoiding the fallen logs and the thickets of berry bushes. Wet foliage sparkles like jewels. The shrubs must have dressed for an evening out.
I hear rustling near my feet. The boy who won the fern game squats beneath a moss-covered log. When our eyes meet, he puts his hands on the back of his head and pulls his face down until his hair falls like
a curtain and he’s nearly invisible in the shadows.
Zaika says something in a low voice.
We arrive at what looks to be a sheer drop. The underbrush is thick, and it’s impossible to judge how deep this chasm is. There may be a path down. I see a narrow ledge that disappears into the foliage. I shake my head. It’s too dangerous.
Still, Zaika urges me forward.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I say, attempting to extract my hand from hers. But she squeezes my fingers until they hurt. Then she jumps. “No!” I cry. She lands on that narrow ledge. Only by bending awkwardly am I able to stay on the edge and hold onto her.
“You’re going to pull me over.” I slide down until I’m beside her. We share a tiny space that has barely enough room for our feet. Then she leans over and parts a wall of ferns. There’s a cave.
She pulls me inside. The ferns bend back into place.
“What is this?” I say, incredulous, and my voice echoes. The cave is cool and dark—but not entirely black. It must be deep. She tugs my hand, hard, and I think she wants me to be quiet.
This is a serious game of Cache-Cache, and Zaika has a perfect hiding spot. How she ever found it is a mystery. Whoever is looking for us—it must be Holpokit—will never find us.
She squats against a wall and pulls me down next to her. The wall is cool. She shivers.
We wait. After a few minutes, my eyes adjust. The floor of the cave is earth and toothy rocks that force their way up through the ground. It’s very wet and there’s a slow plop-plop-plop of dripping water. The little light that filters through the ferns at the cave’s mouth is not enough to enable me to see much more.
Is the girl scared? She turns her head, and I see her eyes and her smile flash white in the sparse light. She’s been here so many times she’s not afraid.
We wait. I try to imagine what’s happening outside. Has Holpokit found the boy hiding under the log? Who else has he found? Do the children set boundaries on how far away they can hide? Unless Holpokit knows all the secret places, we might be waiting a long time.
I shift to get more comfortable for the tedious wait ahead and I feel a jab in my hip. It’s the small wooden doll that the carpenter Ivan Kurmachev made and gave me. It’s still tied to the end of my sash because I have nowhere else to keep it. I reel in the belt.
Zaika watches me unknot it. When I show her what’s there, she’s surprised. I offer her the doll. At first, I only mean for her to hold the doll, but when I see her expression, I want her to keep it forever.
She turns the doll over and over in her hands. She whispers, “Waaxw xwόxwa aachidáal. Kwotaasichíd. wόpatwali.”53
She gazes into the doll’s plain face then touches it to her forehead, her eyes closed. Then she pulls the doll away and tries to give it back. I shake my head, no. “I want to give this to you,” I whisper. “I hope you like it.”
She cups both her hands around the little doll. Again, her teeth are a flash of white.
Suddenly, from the back of the cave, there’s rustling—and then it stops. Zaika is rigid. Is it an animal? It could be a mouse. But it could be a wolf. Or a bear.
Should we run? Would we have time to get through the narrow opening and climb up the ledge? Perhaps we’re better off staying very still. The creature may go away.
I carefully put my arm around Zaika. Her fear seeps into me like I’m a sponge.
What if it’s not an animal? What else could it be? In all my mother’s stories, did she say anything about a cave?
Something bangs. I jump and yank Zaika by the arm so hard she cries out. I drag her to the mouth of the cave. I duck between the ferns. I barely look at the narrow ledge as I fling myself up to the earth above. I swing Zaika by the arm in a way that makes no sense. Where we’re safely on top, I scoop her up and run.
I dodge between two tall trees. I slip on moss but use the motion to push myself in a new direction. I can’t look back. My head is filled with noise: my breathing, Zaika’s breath, the pounding of my feet, and the rustle of whatever is after us. I force myself to go faster. I scrape my leg against something. It hurts.
I come up against a wide tree trunk. I dart around it.
I slam into Holpokit. He grabs me by the shoulders. Zaika’s wedged between us.
“Let go! We have to get out of here,” I cry. Pain shoots through my leg.
I twist. But Holpokit won’t let go.
“No! Stop it!” I push against him, squeezing Zaika. She cries out.
“The game’s over!” What’s wrong with him? He still won’t release me.
Zaika pushes herself out of my arms and slides to the ground. She wraps her arms around my legs and won’t let go. And then there’s rustling all around. I scream. A child appears. Then another. Then a third. They pop out from behind the trees and bushes. They smile. Some laugh.
“No,” I cry, “there’s a bear—or a wolf—I don’t know—” I’m crying. No one knows what I’m saying.
Holpokit peers into my face and when he has my attention, he points.
The smiling face of a boy is poking up out of the ground. His arms appear. He boosts himself up and squirms out of a deep hole concealed by foliage. Another boy pops out of the same hole. They stand side by side before the hole, waiting. Then the second boy slowly extends his arm and opens his hand. In his palm rests the little wooden doll.
And I understand. The cave has two entrances.
“What’s going on?” I ask Zaika.
She laughs but she’s nervous. Holpokit says, “Kidatlíswali dixá tich bayaá. Hitkwotaítilili.”54 In his face there’s the same combination of humour and contrition.
He probably initiated the prank. All the children were in on it.
When they see that I’ve finally understood, everyone laughs and shrieks. They jump into the knot that’s me, Holpokit, and Zaika. There’s no bear, no wolf. No creature from my mother’s stories. Of course not. It was only ever us.
That night, I go to the beach to look for my Polaris. The ocean sighs softly; I think the last of the winter storms has blown itself to exhaustion. The sky is clearer than it’s been in a long time, and I easily find her, perched in the arms of Draco. My ship constellation. Surely, it’s a portent. When we’re back in Novo-Arkhangelsk, I’ll write to my father and tell him about the constellation, but when I write to my mother, I’ll tell her about how it foretold our rescue.
Corona Borealis, the northern crown, is a little to the south. Many think it’s the crown that Theseus used to light his way through the labyrinth, and that he wouldn’t have found his way home without it. I have often wondered about its shape, which I see not as a crown, but as an unfinished circle.
How perfect its arc, how tempting to try to identify stars that could complete the circle. But they are not there. They are not where one would hope to find them.
If I were on the brig right now, I would hear my husband’s footfall. From behind, he would call out, “Anya!” And before I could lower my telescope, I’d feel his arm slip around my waist and pull me toward him. I’d lean back into his solid form. Right away, I’d be warmer. His beard would scratch against the side of my face as he nuzzled into my neck. Those short moments when we stood like that, quiet, together, our faces pointed to the sky, those were the bright moments that held the possibility of making that circle complete.
I will find a way to bring us together again.
The berries are at their prime. Because of last night’s rain, they’re plump and with the slightest touch, they tumble into my fingers. The berries are as orange as salmon, each one a tiny cluster of jewels worthy of the Tsarina’s collection of jewels. The ripest dangle from high above, forcing me to stretch if I can or, if I can’t, to bend the thorny branches toward me. The canes arc, making incomplete circles that mirror Corona Borealis.
Koliuzhi Klara is here, Zaika, too, and many other women. This is the largest group with whom I’ve ever gone into the forest. Three men have come: two Quileutes, our gua
rds, and John Williams. He tells me he’s only here to carry back one of the large baskets—there are three—all of which we aim to fill today.
The Quileute men have their bows in hand, and talk softly to one another as we weave through the bushes picking berries. John Williams, on the other hand, seems at a loss for what to do. He wanders around, stopping every once in a while to eat a berry. His hair is a brighter colour than the berries.
The dappled sun reaches through the forest canopy and warms both us and the berries. The insects hover and buzz around my ears looking for opportunities to land and bite. I swat them away, but they’re back in an instant. I pop a berry into my mouth. It bursts with a sharp sourness that slides over my tongue and turns sweet before I swallow.
Tonight, we’ll eat berries—of this I’m certain—but most of what we’ll pick today will be preserved. All winter long, we ate last summer’s berries. I’ll see how they press the berries into loaves, and how they keep birds, rodents, and insects from eating them while they dry. The children will be involved. I can imagine their delight, flinging sticks and stones and shouting at the birds who, being very clever, will dodge whatever they throw and still manage to steal a few berries.
Some of the fruit are very hard to reach without getting scratched. But the reward of a particularly plump berry or a branch that droops with the weight of many berries makes us all endure a few prickles. It seems we must risk the thorns if we want the sweetness.
Koliuzhi Klara and I move to opposite sides of a bush, picking, picking, picking as we go. We drift farther and farther away from the group. The rustling, the conversation, and the low laughter tell me we’re not alone. Eventually we lose sight of Zaika. Then we can’t see the watchmen.
I spot a heavily laden branch, and I pull it toward me. I hear a soft laugh nearby. The branch I’ve pulled aside reveals Koliuzhi Klara and John Williams. They’re not speaking but the way they’re looking at each another makes me blush. They’re so attentive to one another they don’t even notice me. I let the branch spring back up again.
Anna, Like Thunder Page 30
