The Great Alone

by Janet Dailey

  “Are you with child?” He frowned, then saw she didn’t understand. Her newly acquired and limited Russian vocabulary didn’t include that phrase. “Child,” Luka repeated and indicated her stomach.

  “Yes.” She nodded once.

  He felt a small movement beneath his hand as if the infant in the womb were confirming its presence. Removing his hand from her stomach, Luka rolled onto his back. He had not considered the possibility that she might have his child. Some hunter the boy would make, he thought idly. This new land could provide great riches for a hunter. But that brought back the recollection of the fortune he might have had. He stirred in agitation, silently cursing the scant daylight of winter and the fierce storms that hampered his hunting. At least here the ocean did not freeze as it did in northern Siberia, and the waters were occupied year-round by the sea otter.

  Each day the sun stayed longer in the sky, with its light only rarely breaking through the ever-hovering clouds and fog to shine on the island of Attu. The ice-choked Bering Sea that had battered the rocky coasts all winter grudgingly allowed the warm Pacific currents to dominate the island. The treeless landscape acquired a lush growth of green foliage as rye grass, heather, and putske—wild celery—vied with vast fields of lupine, marsh marigolds, and a host of other wildflowers.

  The promyshleniki hunted at a fevered pace, conscious of time running out. Soon, too soon, they would have to make their return voyage, yet there were more sea otter, seals, and sea lion to be taken. Greed pushed them; the more pelts, the bigger their share would be. Every hour the weather permitted, they were out in their boats armed with harpoons and clubs.

  For the native women, the time was equally busy. In addition to the cleaning of the skins the hunters brought back to the village, there were berries to pick and grass to dry for the making of baskets and matting. This was the season when the streams were filled with spawning salmon. The catching of these was the work of women, children, and the elderly. Rack after rack of drying salmon lined the village. They did all this, plus the cooking and sewing that went on all the time.

  Returning from a successful hunt, Luka helped his Aleut partner, Many Whiskers, haul the two-man bidarka onto the beach, careful to avoid any sharp rocks that might puncture the skin sides of sea lion hide. His legs were cramped and stiff from long hours of kneeling in the boat. He simply could not sit in the bidarka with his legs outstretched the way the Aleuts did. The strain on his muscles was too much.

  They unloaded the bloodied furs they’d stowed inside the Aleut kayak, having previously gone ashore to skin their kill so they could keep their load light and hunt longer. Together they carried the pelts to the village. Luka glanced at the sky, trying to gauge the hours of daylight left and debating with himself whether or not to go back out after they’d eaten. It seemed to require too much effort to make a decision, so he postponed it, hoping some hot food would replenish his energy.

  Off to his right, he noticed three promyshleniki wearily tramping over the faint trail to the sweat bath the hunting party had constructed. Maybe later, he told himself, postponing that decision, too, and slogged on to the village. He spotted Winter Swan on her knees, bending over a seal skin, scraping bits of flesh from the hide. Pausing, she straightened and pressed a hand to the small of her back, arching her spine. Her stomach protruded roundly, making it appear as if she carried a large ball inside the parka. When she returned to her task, there was little space between her belly and the ground.

  Luka guessed that her time would come soon, but he thought nothing of the long hours she worked. She never complained. And native women were strong. They were used to such things, so he expected nothing else of her. He walked over and dropped the fresh skins beside her.

  “I am hungry. Fix me something to eat,” he ordered, then moved off a ways to escape the smell of the putrefied seal flesh. He sank to the ground in fatigue and watched her ungainly attempt to hurry to do his bidding.

  “Men come.” Many Whiskers pointed to the cliff trail.

  Lifting his head, Luka stared at the figures in Russian dress. As they approached the village, he was able to make out the sandy color of one man’s beard. Chuprov. Overcoming his lassitude, he stood to greet the artel’s leader.

  “Tell the other hunters in camp,” he instructed the Aleut.

  By the time Chuprov arrived at the village, the rest of the promyshleniki were on hand to welcome him. Cups were filled with the latest brew of raka and passed around to all. Belyaev waited until the travelers had quenched their thirst and rested a few minutes before addressing the purpose of the visit.

  “What brings you to our camp, Yakov Petrovich?”

  “Nevodchikov says we must sail for home within two weeks,” Chuprov stated. “We need that much time to transport all the furs to the base camp and ready the shitik for the voyage.”

  “No.” Luka involuntarily protested, and once he had objected to the decision, he was obliged to defend it. “The hunting is good. The weather is good. Why should we go now? Why not wait a few more weeks?”

  “Nevodchikov claims the winds favor the trip at this time of year. The voyage will be an easy one.”

  “What does it matter whether the winds favor us?” Luka put his argument to the entire group. “Would you care if the seas are rough or the voyage lasted a few more days, as long as the shitik’s hold bulged with furs? Did we come all this way only to go back with less than we could have taken if we had stayed a few weeks longer? Think of how many more otter and seal we could kill in two weeks. Easily fifty, maybe a hundred. That’s nine thousand rubles in the China trade. I say that is worth staying for.”

  “I agree!”

  “Yes!”

  “Stay!”

  “Luka Ivanovich is right!”

  A chorus of voices shouted agreement. Luka smiled faintly in satisfaction. He knew if Chuprov insisted on sailing so soon, the promyshleniki would vote him out of leadership.

  “What do the other camps say?” Luka challenged.

  “They are reluctant to leave now,” Chuprov admitted. Again a rumble of agreement came from the Russian hunters.

  “You are the peredovchik,” Belyaev stated. “You still give the orders. You tell the navigator when we will sail for home.”

  Chuprov surveyed the band of hunters, then gave way to the majority opinion. “We will sail in mid-August. No later.”

  The loud and steady hum of bumblebees came from the thick stand of monkshood. The deep blue flowers swayed in the wind, rivaling the rare blue sky. Winter Swan ignored the highly poisonous plant in her search for edible roots, but she wasn’t so successful at ignoring the nagging pains in her back. When she stooped down to pick up her basket, the first sharp contraction stabbed her. It passed quickly, but she knew it was her time. She called to Weaver Woman, who hurried to her side. Immediately they started back to the village, walking slowly.

  The contractions were strong and evenly spaced when she reached the village. Little Flower, the widow of Stone Lamp, the midwife of the village, was summoned while the other women helped her into the barabara. No mother or baby had ever died when Little Flower was present at the birthings. Even when the baby came the wrong way, she knew what to do. Once she had cut a woman open, taken the baby out, sewn her together again, and both had lived. Winter Swan had no fears with Little Flower to assist her, not even when the pains became so bad she thought they would tear her apart.

  “The head comes,” Little Flower assured a squatting Winter Swan.

  Then she, too, could feel the life bursting from her. A smile of joy and relief broke from her when a moment later she heard its cry. She saw Little Flower pass the red and wrinkled infant to Weaver Woman to clean.

  “It’s a girl,” she told Winter Swan. “Strong like her mother.”

  When the baby was placed in her arms a short time later, she lovingly inspected the tiny infant for herself. Black hair as thick and soft as duck down covered her head. The redness and the wrinkles she knew would so
on go away. She gazed in wonder at the small mouth and nose, and the little fingers each with a perfectly formed nail. The eyes, however, were round—like those of the man called Luka. But Winter Swan didn’t mind. She was lucky to have such a good master, she reminded herself. He treated her well, and had never struck her in anger as some of the other men had their women. If sometimes her heart cried for happier days, she looked to her own error in speaking against peace.

  But with this baby in her arms, she felt happy again. She was glad it was a girl, even though she knew the village needed hunters. A girl child could help with her work and understand certain things that a boy never would. A daughter was very special.

  The baby squirmed, and her little mouth opened like a hungry nestling’s. Winter Swan guided it to her nipple. She smoothed the black fluff atop her daughter’s head with a stroking finger while the baby suckled.

  Later after the baby was asleep, Weaver Woman brought Walks Straight to see his new little sister. He peered uncertainly at the baby in the wooden cradle Many Whiskers had made for it. A little fist waved in the air. When he touched it, the little fingers curled around his forefinger. His smile of surprise was filled with wonder. Winter Swan gazed proudly at her two beautiful children.

  The clouds were pink-etched with twilight when Luka returned from his hunting. He looked around for Winter Swan with faint irritation, wanting some food and a cup of raka—and maybe the aching muscles in his back rubbed. Her hands were adept at easing their soreness.

  “Winter Swan have baby,” Many Whiskers said.

  The words didn’t register for an instant. Then Luka stared dumbstruck at the Aleut’s smiling eyes. His child was born. He tried to think what that meant. But he was suddenly engulfed by the promyshleniki in camp, their hearty voices bombarding with congratulations that were sometimes ribald and sometimes mocking. They pounded him on the back, then laughingly pushed him toward the barabara. At first Luka felt a little foolish, but as he climbed the mounded roof, there was a faint spring to his stride. He was only vaguely conscious of the men following him to have their look at the newborn infant only a few hours old.

  Halfway down the ladder, he saw Winter Swan sitting beside the cradle, her legs curled under the parka, only a single bare foot showing. Her head was bent toward the yet unseen infant, the glow from the stone lamp shining on her hair. The sight triggered an image in his mind—the ikon of the Virgin in church. She looked up and the illusion vanished at the reality of the labrets below her lip corners.

  Moving quickly, Luka crossed to the cradle and knelt down to look upon his son for the first time. The little mite looked so small lying there making faces in his sleep. He didn’t look at all as Luka had expected. As a matter of fact, he was rather ugly. Tentatively, Luka brushed his fingertips over the mass of hair covering his head, black as midnight and soft as eiderdown. The baby’s forehead puckered in a frown.

  “How does it feel to be a papa, Luka Ivanovich?” Belyaev’s lips split in a grin that showed the gaping space between his front teeth.

  Luka straightened to tower above the cradle. “He will make a fine hunter someday.” He spoke gruffly so he wouldn’t appear soft, then stepped back so his comrades could view his son.

  “No hunter,” Winter Swan said and lifted aside the covering to expose the baby’s smooth pubes. “Girl.”

  Sharp disappointment followed the initial shock of the discovery. He had never considered the child would be other than a son. The mocking laughter from the promyshleniki added to his chagrin. What good was a girl, he thought in disgust.

  “What are you going to name your daughter?” a taunting Belyaev wanted to know. When Luka flashed him an irritated look, the man grinned. “Come now, Luka Ivanovich. The babe must have a name.”

  He hesitated, but if he didn’t call her something, the men would never let him hear the end of it. “Tasha.” It was a common enough name. “Tasha Lukyevna,” he said, giving the girl child the status of his daughter.

  “Tasha.” Winter Swan tried out the sound of the name, then gazed at her daughter and gently tucked the soft cover around her. “Tasha,” she murmured.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Continued good weather and good hunting prompted a second postponement of the shitik’s departure from the island of Attu. Not until the end of August did the promyshleniki begin loading their catch of furs into the large baidar to be transported to the base camp.

  All week, Winter Swan had listened to their talk of leaving, and then she watched them tote the bundles of fur pelts to the baidar. She stood amid the noise and confusion in the barabara, clutching her daughter, Tasha, in her arms and holding her son’s hand to keep him at her side. All around her, the men rummaged through the cubicles, gathering their belongings and rolling them into bundles.

  She watched as Luka tied his bundle, and she waited uncertainly for some directive from him. She was his slave. Surely he was going to take her to his village across the waters. But he hadn’t told her to pack. Winter Swan was suddenly afraid that he’d put her on the baidar without any of her property. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving everything behind. Acting quickly, she laid Tasha in her cradle and began collecting essential items—her tiny basket of needles, her crescent-shaped knives for cleaning and skinning, a root digger, and a few other articles.

  When she reached past Luka for her best parka and pouch of valuables, he grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”

  “We go to your village,” she said, then saw his frown of surprise. “You take us?”

  “No.” He bent his head, avoiding her gaze, while he quickly finished tying his bundle. “You will stay here. There isn’t room for you.”

  She sat back on her heels, bewildered.

  Later she stood on the beach with the other women and children and watched Many Whiskers and the other three Aleuts, the only adult males left in the village, push the heavily laden baidar into deeper water. The wind whipped the misting rain against her face, obscuring her view of the boatload of men.

  When the baidar headed out to sea, Winter Swan realized the village was free. Their masters were leaving. But the exultant lift of her spirits didn’t last, dashed by a sense of abandonment. They were free, but how would they live with only four men to hunt and provide sustenance for the entire village? She clutched the baby closer to her breast.

  By the time the promyshleniki gathered at the base camp, repaired the winter damage to the shitik, recaulked its seams, collected provisions for the return voyage, launched the vessel, and loaded their valuable cargo of furs, two weeks had passed. In the middle of September, they hauled the new wooden anchor from the water, unfurled the reindeer-hide sails from the spars of the shitik’s twin masts, and sailed for Russia. Their young orphaned hostage accompanied them, now the ward of the navigator Nevodchikov, who had become very attached to the native boy over the past year.

  Heavy gray clouds hid the volcanic peaks of the island, and angry waves lashed its rocky coast. Luka stood near the stern of the flat-bottomed vessel and watched the island grow smaller and smaller. With his feet spread for balance, he swayed with the roll of the shitik as it bucked the ocean swells.

  Belyaev made his way across the heaving deck to the stern. “How much do you think our cargo is worth, Luka Ivanovich?” The sum was a constant source of speculation among the company.

  “I say a hundred thousand rubles.” He doubted that the price of a pelt had changed very much during the year they’d been gone.

  “What are you going to do with your share?” Everyone was making plans for the ways they were going to spend their fortune, ranging from the practical to the wasteful. It was a way to pass the time. Most of them, Luka suspected, would end up drinking and gambling it away. There were few luxuries for a man to spend his money on in the dreary, isolated towns of Siberia. The man who achieved riches usually left. Those who stayed rarely kept theirs.

  “I am not going to lose it playing cards in some tavern,” Luka stated.


  Belyaev laughed. They all said that. “Then what will you do?”

  As he stared at the island, Luka noticed a sea otter watching the shitik from a safe distance, its head bobbing above the water like a cork. “Maybe I’ll come back,” he said. “Maybe I will use my share to build a vessel of my own and finance another expedition to these islands.” The profit from such a venture would be staggering, he realized. So many sea otter lived in these waters he could come again and again.

  “It was good on the island—plenty of fur animals. And the women were not bad either, eh?” Belyaev grinned and heartily slapped Luka on the back.

  His mouth crooked in response as Luka thought of the tall and stately Winter Swan. Again he regretted that the infant had not been a boy.

  Everyone had known from the beginning of the voyage that their delayed departure meant they would encounter adverse conditions. The second day out, the seas became rough and the weather turned bad, rain and wind thrashing the boat. And the conditions never improved for long.

  By the fourth week, their water supply was reduced to the rain they could catch, and the food was nearly gone. Gums began to bleed and breaths turned foul as men grew weak from scurvy. The men began to fear that they had left too late.

  The shitik battled the waves and the contrary winds for two more weeks, taking a beating while the men struggled to keep her afloat, mending her torn sails, shoring her masts, repairing her cracks and praying their luck had not run out. No one labored any harder than Luka.

  Lurching with the boat’s violent motion, he made his way to the two hunters manning the pump and tapped the shoulder of the nearest to take his turn at the pump. Although the men were relieved frequently, they were barely able to stay ahead of the steady seepage.