by Janet Dailey
Instead of falling back in terror, the strong man of the village leaped forward—too quickly for Luka to react. He grabbed the fired musket from the promyshlenik’s hands and bent the long barrel into the shape of a horseshoe. The display of strength initially stunned everyone into immobility. Then the disarmed hunter pulled his knife and attacked the powerful Aleut.
“No!” Luka shouted the warning, recognizing a knife blade would never stop this native.
But the promyshlenik didn’t hear him or didn’t heed him. The Aleut seized his knife arm and snapped it like a twig, then closed his fingers around the man’s throat. The other natives, seeing his successful opposition, rushed to attack.
“Kill them! Kill them all!” the bellowed order galvanized the Russians into action.
Luka moved quickly into position for a clear shot at the muscular Aleut and fired. He saw the body go rigid with death shock as a small round hole appeared in the man’s temple. There wasn’t time to watch him crumple to the ground or to reload. Out of the corner of his eye, Luka detected a movement and swung to meet the thrust of a knife.
Arching out of reach of the stabbing blade, he grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it to drive the knife into the man’s own stomach, then used a ripping motion to finish the kill. A red fountain of blood spewed from the man’s mouth, spraying Luka. The staccato-like roar of musketfire, the screams and shouts, the uncertain bawling of confused and frightened children all clamored in the distance. For Luka, nothing was as loud as the rush of blood in his own ears and the pounding of his heart. They blurred all the other noises of battle.
The killing had begun. There was no stopping it now.
Winter Swan left the barabara shortly after Strong Man. Seeking to avoid the strangers who made her so uncomfortable, she didn’t join the women of her village. Instead she took a basket and went to the grassy meadow behind the village to pick berries.
She hadn’t wandered very far when she heard a booming roar followed by a woman’s shriek. Startled, Winter Swan dropped the basket. The thunderstick—it had to be. She could see the commotion in the village, people running in all directions like puffins. The sobbing cry of a bewildered child reached her. Fearing for her son, Walks Straight, she ran toward the village.
In the center of all the turmoil, she saw Strong Man, his hands around the throat of one of the strangers and his face cold with rage. A second later she located Walks Straight solemnly watching his father. Sobbing with relief, she swept him into her arms and hunched her shoulders protectively around him, flinching at the deafening noise from more of the thundersticks. She started to run from the village and remove her son from all this danger.
Walks Straight cried out. Winter Swan turned to look as Strong Man slowly sank to the ground, his features frozen in a death mask. Blood trickled from a hole in his temple. She gasped in horror, then saw more bloodied bodies lying on the ground, none of them strangers. The resistance of the Attuans was broken. The remaining men started to flee, but the raiders pursued them. She saw three of them catch Stone Lamp, the aging headman of the village, and fall on him with their knives.
Struck with terror, she feared they would all be killed. Her one thought was to run to the cliff trail and hide in the mountains. But when she started toward it, Weaver Woman stopped her.
“No. There is no escape that way.” Tears streamed down the cheeks of the old woman, but her eyes held no panic. “They chase everyone down and hack them to death.”
“Walks Straight.” She cupped her hand over the back of his head, pressing him tightly against her. “I must hide him from them.”
“Come.” Weaver Woman hurried up the earth slope of the barabara to the roof entrance, then pushed Winter Swan onto the log ladder to descend first. Her old legs were not as agile as Winter Swan’s and she was slower climbing down the notched steps. “Hide him in the wall hole.” She gestured impatiently in the direction of a cubicle.
“Yes.” At last Winter Swan understood.
She ran to the private cubicle along the wall, partitioned with grass matting, and lifted aside the long woven mat. Behind it, a compartment had been dug into the earthen sides of the dwelling to create a small storage area. She hugged Walks Straight very tightly for an instant, wondering if she would ever hold his small body again, then set him in the hidden compartment. There was little room for him. He had to sit with his knees drawn up and his head brushing the earthen top.
“Listen very carefully to me.” Her voice wavered. There was fear and bewilderment in his eyes. Winter Swan struggled to achieve a measure of calm. “You must stay here and hide. Make no sound. No matter what happens—no matter what you hear, stay where you are … until … all those strangers have gone away.”
“Where will you be?”
“Do not worry about me.” Weaver Woman smiled to keep from crying. “Stay here.” The shouts and shrieks of terror from outside were lessening. Soon the strangers would be coming to see if anyone was inside.
Wrenching her gaze from her son’s face, Winter Swan forced her hand to lower the matting and conceal him from her sight—and that of the strangers. Weaver Woman helped her smooth the woven grass covering so it hung straight. Then quickly they moved away from it to the center of the barabara.
A face appeared in the roof opening—a full-whiskered face with round eyes. Winter Swan recoiled, but there was no place to run. Weaver Woman stood quite calmly. Instinctively she moved closer to her. The man turned his head and shouted something, then started down the ladder carrying his thunderstick. Almost immediately another stranger crouched beside the hatch.
The first man climbed halfway down the ladder, then jumped to the floor. He moved warily about the barabara, searching the cubicles and constantly glancing back at them. Winter Swan held her breath, afraid he would find her son’s hiding place. Her throat muscles strained with a silent cry for him to be still. Finally the man approached them and motioned them to ascend the ladder. Winter Swan let the old woman go first, wanting to stay behind near her son as long as she could. She felt the hard prod of the thunderstick push against her back, but dared not cry out for fear Walks Straight would forget and come running out to see what was wrong.
From atop the dwelling, she could view the carnage, the scattered bodies of the men twisted in their death throes, the women going from one to the other weeping, and the children wandering about, tears streaking their bewildered faces. All the men were dead, every one. The strangers had spared only the women and children. Winter Swan supposed they intended to carry them off to their village across the water and make slaves of them.
Of their own volition it seemed, her feet carried her down the earthen mound to Strong Man’s body. The strangers made no attempt to stop her. She knelt beside him, staring into his lifeless eyes. Crying softly, she reached out and gently pressed his eyelids down to shut them.
Her shoulders bowed under the weight of the guilt she felt. She had wanted the strangers off the island. She had wanted the men of the village to fight and expel these intruders. They had tried, and now they were all dead—including Strong Man, her invincible husband. She traced his broad cheek with her fingers, his skin still warm yet lifeless to her touch.
Surveying the scene, Luka counted fifteen dead—the entire adult male population of the village. He looked at his fellow promyshleniki, noting lingering wild-eyed looks on their faces. Their casualties were light, a few cuts and Khmetevski’s broken arm. Turning, he inhaled deeply to settle his jangled nerves and smelled the stench of blood, powder smoke, and the sweat of battle on his clothes. He felt neither satisfaction nor regret over the extermination of the natives. The killing was simply over; a potential threat had been eliminated. He went to report to Belyaev.
“They are all dead,” he confirmed. “What do you want done with the bodies?”
“Let the women take care of them in their own fashion. It will keep them occupied.” He smiled coldly.
Luka nodded a response, then happened to gla
nce at the woman kneeling beside the body of the powerful man he’d killed. He saw her close the man’s eyes. The wetness of tears that highlighted her cheekbones made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. The sensation didn’t last as Shekhurdin came striding into his field of vision, his shirtfront splattered with blood. He appeared sickened by what he saw and trembled with rage when he confronted Belyaev.
“You are no hunter, Belyaev. You are a bloodthirsty murderer who enjoys killing for the sake of killing!”
“You look pale, Cossack.”
“You massacred these people for a worthless piece of iron.” His teeth were clenched so tightly together he had to force the words through them. “Where is it now, Belyaev? Where is this chunk of metal that you ordered all these men murdered for?”
Belyaev reached inside his shirt and pulled out the iron bolt. “I have it.”
“And I wager you had it all the time,” Shekhurdin accused thickly. “You wanted an excuse to kill them. That was what you wanted, was it not?”
“Yes. Now I have boats that cost us nothing, a winter shelter already built—and women to cook, sew, and warm our beds.”
“It was the women. All this was so you could have a woman. That is why you did not have them killed.” His lip curled in disgust.
“Come, Shekhurdin, are you saying you don’t want the company of one of these women?” Belyaev taunted. “Or maybe you are not man enough?”
“You have no brain. You think with your cock! Do you not realize what you have done here? The hostage Chuprov holds is useless to us now.”
“Chuprov can get himself another.” He shrugged his unconcern.
“You fool! Why should the natives trust us after this?”
“What do I care whether they trust me? Let them fear me,” Belyaev declared.
“You will answer for this unprovoked massacre, Belyaev,” Shekhurdin threatened. “I intend to make a full report of your actions.”
“Go ahead.” A taunting smile continued to lurk in his expression. “Who will care about the death of fifteen savages? God is high in His heaven and the Tsaritsa is far far away. Tell Chuprov. It will change nothing.”
“I will tell him. And if he does not have you flogged, I will tell the government agent in Bolsheretsk.”
“You make me tremble with your threats, Cossack,” Belyaev said, then threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Go. Go and report my crimes to Chuprov.”
“I will. Then I will watch the whip take the skin from your back,” Shekhurdin promised and started to leave.
“Take two men with you, Cossack,” Belyaev called after him. “To carry the powder and ammunition Chuprov will send back.”
CHAPTER VI
Fog shrouded the massacre site. Wispy threads of it trailed into the semi-subterranean dwelling from its dirtroofed entrance, attempting an invasion, but the wavering flames from stone lamps held it at bay, sending up curls of dark smoke from the burning moss wicks that floated on pools of seal oil. The boisterous promyshleniki sat on the floor in the light, heartily consuming the food prepared for them by the Aleut women who cringed in the shadows.
Belyaev shouted for water, then watched with dark eyes gleaming as a young woman hastened forward at his bidding, bringing him a water container made from the heart sac of a sea lion. He took it from her and poured some water into his mouth, then spat out most of it.
“A man needs something stronger,” he declared to his men. “Tomorrow we will send the women to gather sweet grass for us. Then we can distill our own spirits. A man needs his daily draft to keep the chill from his bones.”
The Russian hunters echoed his sentiment. Belyaev thrust the container in the direction of the native woman. When she took it from him, he looked up at her, his interest aroused by the play of the lamplight on her face, highlighting its bone structure. He closed his hand around her ankle, forestalling her retreat.
“Enough food.” He set aside the wooden dish, with a leer. “It’s time we sampled the rest of our spoils.”
His hand glided up her leg, lifting the ankle-long fur parka to reveal a muscled calf. She pulled away from him and backed toward the huddle of silent women in the shadows. Belyaev got to his feet and unhurriedly pursued her, circling to block her from the other women. He stalked her in a cat-and-mouse game, pouncing and retreating, letting her think she could slip by him, then jumping to block the opening, laughing all the while.
Luka watched the sporting play while he scraped his bowl clean with his fingers, then licked off the fish flakes that clung to them. Finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dragging it across his beard as the Aleut woman feinted in one direction, then bolted in the other.
“Catch her, Nikolai Dimitrovich!” The men laughed at her near escape from their leader.
But Belyaev grabbed her before she reached the women and hauled her against his body. When she tried to struggle loose, he cuffed her alongside the head. Her resistance crumpled instantly. He snagged his fingers in the black bun of her hair and forced her head back, making her look at him.
“You had eyes for me this morning,” he reminded her, grinning. “Now you have me.” Turning, he surveyed the others. “What are you waiting for? Here, Luka Ivanovich.” Still holding the first captive, he grabbed the arm of the nearest woman and slung her forward. “Take this one.”
She stumbled and fell, sprawling onto the grass-strewn floor beside Luka. She made no attempt to rise, nor did she lift her head to look at him, her attitude one of submission. He looked at the jet-black sheen of her hair and the flash of white bone stuck through her earlobe. He felt little lust, but he knew what the rest expected of him.
Rising to his feet, he seized the arm she used to brace herself off the floor and pulled her along with him. She kept her head down, her face averted, but he had no desire to look upon it. Luka paused, glancing at the partitioned cubicles that lined the sides of the barabara, and chose the nearest one. When he moved toward it, hauling her with him, the woman offered her first resistance. A yank from him ended her opposition, and she went inside ahead of him.
Luka lowered the inner wall matting to obtain privacy, not wishing to perform for the entertainment of his comrades. Turning, he saw her crouched on the sleeping mat well away from the solid wall of the native dugout. Now she watched him. Despite the shadowed dimness, he recognized the woman as the one he’d seen kneeling beside the body of the village strong man—the man he’d killed.
His hesitation was brief. He signaled her to remove the sea otter parka, wanting only to get this over. She was slow to respond to the command, exhibiting an unwillingness as she gathered up the sides of the parka and pulled it over her head. The sight of her pale skin, glistening like polished ivory in the darkness, briefly entranced him. His hands hesitated on the fastening of his trousers while his glance shifted from the rosy-brown points of her nipples to the curling black hairs of her pubes, both standing out vividly against her pale skin. He loosened his trousers and let them drop around his knees. She lay on the sleeping mat, with her head turned and her eyes closed, her body steeled to accept him.
Her body was that of a woman, but the labrets and tattoos on her face belonged to a native. Luka mounted her without preliminaries, forcing his engorged muscle into her dry vagina, then driving it into her again and again while she lay unmoving, her lips pressed tightly shut. Long weeks of sexual abstention hastened his ejaculation.
With the fading of the last climaxing shudder, he let his weight sag onto her while he regathered his strength. Vaguely he was conscious of sweat trickling under his shirt collar, the pounding of his heart, and the labored roughness of his breathing. But the sexual gratification brought an ensuing emptiness of pleasure. He levered himself off her and straightened to pull up his trousers, aware that she still had not moved, although he didn’t look at her.
Abruptly he left the cubicle to return to the communal area, refastening his pants as he went. Luka stopped and lit his pipe, ignoring the debauchery go
ing on and the occasional burst of ribald laughter and obscenity that accompanied it.
Huddled against the smelly earthen walls of his hiding place, Walks Straight was frightened by the sounds he heard without. Only moments ago there had been noises in his parents’ cubicle—the grunting breaths of a man and the rhythmic rustle of bodies coupling together. But he hadn’t heard the soft mewling sounds his mother usually made when she entwined her body with his father’s. The man had left, but he was certain his mother was still there.
He was frightened and hungry. He knew she had told him to stay in this place, but it was black in here and he didn’t want to be by himself any more. Quietly, carefully, Walks Straight pushed at the woven matting until he could see into the cubicle. After the inky darkness of his hiding place, the light filtering through the side slits of the woven grass partitions seemed bright. His mother lay naked on the sleeping mat, staring vacantly at the grass-thatched ceiling. She was so still—the way his father had been after he fell.
Alarmed, Walks Straight forgot all caution and slipped out of the hollowed earthen compartment. At the rustle of the grass matting, Winter Swan’s head jerked toward him. He stopped guiltily, knowing he should have remained in that dark, stuffy hole. As she hurriedly sat up, she cast a frightened look over her shoulder, then reached for him. She started to push him back to the hiding place, then hesitated and pulled him into her arms, hugging him tightly.
Something was gravely wrong, but he didn’t know what it was. She clung to him and he was conscious of the firm roundness of the breasts pressing against his skin. There was no reassurance, no comfort in her arms, and he became a little more frightened.
The grass curtain separating the cubicle from the large inner room of the barabara was suddenly lifted. Walks Straight blinked, unaccustomed to so much light. The looming figure of a man—one of the strangers—blocked some of it. As his mother clutched him more tightly and moved as if to shield him, Walks Straight stared at the man’s face and the ragged white scar that half closed one eye.
