The Great Alone

by Janet Dailey

  All of the more than thirty village inhabitants, including the children, rode in the village’s large open skin-boat to the bay where the strangers waited. Weaver Woman, like everyone else, wore all her finery except for the necklace of amber stones, which she had given Winter Swan to wear. The wife of her son was young and had not so many ornaments as Weaver Woman possessed. But neither had she when Kills-Many-Whales had brought her to the village to live in his family’s home and give him children. Her husband had died many years ago, killed by the very creature he was so famed for hunting. The amber necklace had been a present from him the summer he died.

  She glanced at the necklace of hard yellow stone lying against the dark fur of Winter Swan’s coat, then at the young woman. Earrings of bone carved in a flower shape adorned her ears, their white contrasting sharply with her jet black hair. The labrets below her mouth corners were thin bone discs that artfully drew attention to the soft, full curve of her lips. Her lightly tanned skin was as smooth as the surface of the water in a stone pot, with a soft undershading of pink in her cheeks. There was a quiet strength in her features, an inner shining. Weaver Woman thought highly of the wife of her son Strong Man. In some ways, she felt they were “like each other” and thus bound.

  A small boy, five summers old, blocked her view of Winter Swan as he climbed up to stand on the seat so he could see over the high sides of the skin-boat. Thick, straight hair covered his head in a shining black cap. He carried himself so tall and straight that he appeared like a little man. The sight of him eased the ache in her bones. Here was the continuation of her flesh, young and vital, not old and tired.

  “Are we almost there?” Weaver Woman’s grandson, Walks Straight, asked his mother with adultlike seriousness.

  “Soon,” Winter Swan assured him.

  Two seats ahead, a young woman turned to look at Weaver Woman. Curiosity glittered in her dark eyes, framed in a face that was warmly alluring. “If these strange men are not raiders, why did they not bring their women?” Summer-Face Woman questioned boldly.

  “Because they have come to hunt. The sea animals would smell the women and run away.” Weaver Woman had no patience with her or her question. She felt sorry for her grandson, Cliff-Walker, for choosing this woman whose eyes were always looking elsewhere. After reflecting on her answer, Weaver Woman turned to her eldest son, Quick Eyes. “I think these men will ask permission to hunt in our territory.”

  He made a sound in his throat, acknowledging he’d heard her words, but said nothing. It was up to the headman of their village to decide whether to allow this. His far-seeing gaze swept the entrance of the bay, seeking the channel clear of hidden rocks. Like all the other men, he was dressed in his elaborately trimmed bird-skin parka with the feather side out. A long spray of sea lion whiskers festooned the peak of his wooden hat painted in a swirling design of colors. It was important to impress these visitors and establish good relations with them. They were a peace-loving people, willing to blame misunderstanding for recent events. If the sea that sustained them with its bounty took a life, they did not seek to avenge it. A harmony must be found.

  As the large native boat—made from the sewn-together skins of the sea lion stretched across a framework of driftwood ribbing—entered the bay, the occupants saw the huge wooden boat sitting on the sand like a beached whale. When the vessel had first been sighted off the island, they had thought it to be some new kind of monstrous whale. Later, when it had come near the coast, the scanners had reported that it was some sort of boat belonging to a strange people.

  The hairy-faced ones were standing on shore watching them arrive—silently. “Why do they not dance a welcome?” Quick Eyes questioned Weaver Woman.

  “That is not their custom.”

  “They are visitors,” said Stone Lamp, the headman of their village. “We must make them welcome.”

  “They carry their thundersticks,” one of the men observed.

  “I think they are not so powerful that Strong Man could not break them,” Summer-Face Woman asserted as she bestowed an admiring look on Winter Swan’s husband.

  The parka of puffin skins concealed Strong Man’s arms and torso, the mighty muscles that had earned him his name. From the time he was a small boy, he had undergone special training to achieve his physical prowess. Few subjected themselves to the severe regimen, and fewer still completed it. Everyone knew that to possess such great power would mean a premature death, and life was precious.

  However, those worthy of the title Strong Man achieved a strength of spirit and great wisdom as well. So Strong Man’s head did not turn to bathe in the warmth of Summer-Face Woman’s look. It was something that didn’t last—like the brief heat of the sun before the clouds closed around it again—or the days of warmth that gave birth to wildflowers before the season fled from the long, stormy months of cold and rain. Weaver Woman was pleased that her son knew this.

  When the native boat was sighted entering the natural harbor of the bay, all the promyshleniki were alerted, and muskets distributed among them. A half dozen men accompanied Chuprov to the water’s edge to confront the boat’s occupants while the rest remained behind guarding the beached shitik. Three days had passed since they had released the old woman. Even though they had the native youth as hostage, their previous encounters with the island natives made them all wary ; and Luka was doubly vigilant and distrustful, a tiny muscle jerking convulsively in his cheek where the scar ran.

  “Are they carrying weapons?” The spyglass enabled Chuprov to see what Luka’s naked eye could not distinguish at this distance.

  “No. They have women and children with them.” Chuprov lowered the spyglass with a satisfied look. “They would never expose them to danger. I think we can relax.”

  Luka reached the same conclusion, and shifted his position on the sand, his taut muscles loosening. When the large skin-boat came close to shore, Chuprov detailed two men to help the natives land.

  “Their boat looks similar to the baidars the natives build in Siberia,” Chuprov remarked. “A baidar such as that could be very useful to us since we lost our dinghy in the storm. I wonder what they would take in trade for it.”

  The need for a boat had been on Luka’s mind. The sea otter lived in the offshore waters, rarely venturing out of its natural element onto land. To successfully hunt them, a boat was necessary. The only source of wood on the island was the driftwood the sea occasionally washed ashore. The baidar offered a solution to the problem. Luka studied the natives climbing out of the skin-boat. Of the adult males on board, only seven were of fighting age; the others were too young or too old to pose much of a threat. If the natives proved resistant to trading, they could be easily overpowered and the boat seized. Luka considered their need sufficient justification for the action. If the boat was not theirs today, it would be tomorrow.

  He spotted the gray-haired woman among the band of colorfully dressed natives getting out of the baidar. “The old woman is with them.”

  “Good,” Chuprov murmured, and quickly spotted her among the other members of her village assembling on the beach. When he heard the first thump of a tambourine-shaped bladder drum, he raised his eyebrows in an expression of forced patience. “I have the feeling we are going to be treated to another demonstration of native dancing.”

  As the primitive performance began, the promyshleniki guarding the shitik drifted forward to watch, drawn by the presence of the children. These sometimes barbaric, sometimes cruel Russian hunters had an inherent affection for children. Even Luka, whose prejudice ran deep, found the antics of these black-haired, black-eyed children appealing as they tried to copy the dance of their elders.

  When the last echo of the drums and singing was swallowed by the green cliffs, the old woman brought the leader of her village over to greet Chuprov. The man was tall, typically broad of feature, with leather-smooth skin. The scattered strands of gray in his hair were the only indications of his age.

  Chuprov ordered presents o
f handkerchiefs, needles, and thimbles to be distributed to the natives. After the commotion died down, he signaled Luka to translate his words to the native leader through sign. “Tell him that we come from a land far across the waters, many days to the west. Our ruler is a great and powerful woman who is very wise and very generous to those who would be her friends.”

  The native’s reaction at learning the Russians followed a female leader satisfied Luka that his sign language was being understood. “I think he finds it strange that men would let a woman lead them,” he said to Chuprov.

  “Stress again how powerful she is, the vastness of the land she rules, and the multitudes of tribes and peoples she commands,” Chuprov instructed and waited until Luka had conveyed his message. “Tell the chief that, like the women of his village, our Tsaritsa prizes the fur of the sea otter above all others. Tell him that we have seen the abundance of sea otter in the waters around this island and that we have come to hunt them.”

  Watching the native’s hands and interpreting their motions, Luka translated their meaning. “He says it is true, the sea otter—” Luka hesitated uncertainly. “I believe he referred to the sea otter as his brother—his brother the sea otter lives in the island waters in large numbers. And the chief gives us permission to hunt them in his village’s territory.”

  “Tell him that if his hunters bring us the skins of the sea otter we will trade for them.” Chuprov indicated the array of goods displayed on a blanket behind them. The assortment ranged from necklaces of cheap beads to copper and tin utensils and some knives of poor quality.

  The Aleut leader looked over the goods with interest, then signed his reply. “He says he will tell his hunters of your offer. But that it is much work to kill a sea otter. It takes many hunters. The men in his village may bring us some skins to trade, but he says the meat of the sea otter doesn’t taste good and his hunters must hunt for food to fill the stomachs of their families.”

  “Tell him I understand.” Chuprov paused and glanced at Luka, a sly gleam appearing in his eyes. “And tell him that our Tsaritsa expects to receive a tribute from his village—a gift of ten sea otter pelts per hunter. When our boat leaves next summer, we will take his gifts to her.”

  Luka conveyed the message to the Aleut leader, fully aware that the law exacting tribute from the natives did not extend to this new land. If the tribute was collected, he suspected Chuprov would make a gesture of turning some of the pelts over to the government’s agent in Siberia, but the rest would be included in the season’s catch, and each man’s share would be worth that much more.

  There was no reaction from the chief to the attempt to elicit furs without paying for them. Instead, he changed the subject.

  “He wants to know about the boy,” Luka said.

  “Belyaev, bring him here,” Chuprov ordered. An air of expectancy settled over the natives as they watched the black-bearded hunter walk to the large wooden craft that sat on the sand well above tideline. When Belyaev came back with the youth walking freely at his side, a murmur ran through their ranks and the tension eased from their faces. Chuprov escorted the boy the last few yards to the chief. “Tell him that we have not harmed his young hunter and that we have kept his belly full.”

  “He says he is glad to see his son.” Luka stressed the last. By a stroke of luck, they had a valuable hostage.

  Chuprov smiled faintly. “Explain to the chief that we’d like to keep his son—that he is an intelligent boy.” Then he paused. “You know what to say, Luka Ivanovich. Convince him that we want his son to learn our language. Anything to keep him in our hands.”

  Surprisingly, the native leader agreed to the proposal without argument. The atmosphere on the beach became friendly. Chuprov invited the villagers to take a closer look at the trade goods on display, then drew the chief aside.

  “Tell the chief that we’d be happy to take that worthless skin-boat off his hands,” Chuprov instructed Luka. “Ask him what he would like in trade for it.”

  “The chief says the baidar is the only one his people have. If they traded it, his people wouldn’t have any way to return to their village.” Luka carefully watched the nimble movements of the man’s hands. “He says it is a long walk to his village and it’s dangerous to cut through the inland mountains. The ground often trembles and big rocks fall.”

  “Ask him to think about it,” Chuprov persisted. “Tell him his people can build themselves a better boat.”

  “He promises he’ll consider it.”

  Chuprov motioned toward the trade goods. “Have him look over our wares and consider what he might like in trade.”

  Accepting the suggestion, the chief joined his villagers and surveyed the merchandise on display. Some of the promyshleniki mingled with the natives, but Luka remained on the sidelines watching. Soon the villagers were taking the presents Chuprov had given them and were piling into the baidar to leave.

  “What about the boat?” Luka stared at the native vessel.

  “There’s much work to be done before we can begin hunting. We have plenty of time,” Chuprov stated, smiling faintly. “The chief appears to be cooperative. I think we can persuade him to part with it.”

  During the next two weeks, the promyshleniki established their base camp on the bay and concentrated on laying in a supply of food. The waters provided a bounty of fish, and the skies overhead supplied a multitude of seafowl. To the delight of the promyshleniki, a variety of sweet grass grew in the valley, assuring them of a winter’s supply of liquor. The sun seldom made an appearance, but the thick fog and wind usually did. Yet the mild climate of the island seemed almost balmy compared to the brutally cold weather of Siberia.

  The third week Chuprov divided the promyshleniki into five groups. The largest one would remain at the base camp under his personal leadership to hunt, superintend the distribution of supplies, and guard their hostage, the son of the tribal leader. The other four would go to different points on the island to make contact with other villages and establish outlying camps from which to hunt.

  In addition, he appointed the four men who would be in charge of each hunting party. As Chuprov was about to name the promyshlenik to lead the group Luka was in, Luka noticed the way the Cossack Shekhurdin squared his shoulders and stood a little straighter. There was little doubt that he expected to head the party. When Nikolai Dimitrovich Belyaev’s name was called instead, Shekhurdin stiffened and clenched his hands into fists at his sides. Luka smiled faintly, knowing how much the Cossack hated Belyaev, and how doubly galling it was for Shekhurdin to lose out to him.

  “Those of you I have just named to be leaders of your group”—Chuprov began the instructions—“I want you to keep a close eye on your men. Keep them honest. Make certain they hide nothing away for their own use. Watch closely so that they don’t eat secretly. And you, promyshleniki, watch your leaders, and make certain they obey our rules. All infractions are to be reported to me when you return.”

  The meeting was concluded with a prayer for a successful hunt, then the promyshleniki dispersed. Those who were leaving went to gather together their gear and supplies to make their trek over the island and establish outcamps.

  Later in the morning the four groups of hunters set out, each to its own quadrant of the island. Luka’s band struck out for the southeast side, an area with which he was already familiar. His pack was heavy and cumbersome. Everything they needed had to be carried on their backs. In addition to his personal belongings, each man’s load contained a few days’ food supply, including a bag of flour for the making of bread on Holy Days, fox traps, harpoons and nets for the taking of sea otter. They went armed with muskets, swords, lances, and pistols. Belyaev had charge of the vital sourdough starter.

  About midafternoon, Belyaev called a halt, ordering a short rest stop. Luka shrugged out of his heavy pack and lowered it to the ground, the muscles in his shoulders and back aching from the strain of carrying its weight. He sat down beside it, stretching and flexing to ease th
e stiffness. As he glanced over their back trail, he recognized the cliff where they’d captured the boy. Since their approach to it had been from a different direction, he hadn’t been certain it was the same one until now.

  “Somewhere around here is where you captured the chief’s son, isn’t it?” At the sound of the question, Luka turned back and encountered Belyaev.

  “That cliff.” Luka indicated the location with a jerk of his head.

  “How far is the village from here?”

  “Two—maybe three hours’ walk.” He scanned the coastline ahead of them, trying to identify landmarks. “See that point of land. It’s on the other side along the shores of a bay.”

  Belyaev studied the clouded sky, trying to estimate the number of daylight hours left. “We should reach it before the light goes,” he concluded, then grinned at Luka. “It will be a good place to make camp tonight—and maybe have somebody else do our cooking.”

  “The village has a baidar, too,” Luka reminded him. “We’re going to need one.”

  “Yes.” His grin widened.

  Rising, Belyaev gave the order to move out. With their packs shouldered once more, the band set out again. Belyaev picked up the pace of their march, intent on reaching their destination before the light faded.

  When they topped the cliff behind the village, Luka paused to look over the setting and gauge the native strength. He counted fifteen men scattered over the site, some sitting and staring seaward, others engaged in various tasks. Two were on the beach, where a half dozen one- and two-hatch kayaks—known in Siberia as “bidarkas”—rested on the sand. A screaming, soaring flock of seagulls fought over the discarded fish entrails where a group of women were cleaning some fish. The wind carried a shouted warning from the village. A second later, Luka spotted the man hurrying off the earthen mound that roofed the native dwelling to alert the villagers to the approach of the Russians.

  With trepidation, Winter Swan watched the band of strangers make their way down the cliff path toward the village. Instinctively she gripped the carved bone handle of the fan-shaped knife more tightly, forgetting the cleaned halibut she was slicing into chunks. Strong Man came up behind her, his bare calloused feet making little sound on the sand. She turned to look at him, but his attention was centered on the approaching visitors.