Anna, Like Thunder

by Peggy Herring

  “I slept delightfully,” he says. “Thank you for asking. From the moment my head touched the pillow, I was asleep. I didn’t lie awake for one single minute. I didn’t toss and turn. I didn’t groan and moan.” He looks down and clears his throat. Then he narrows his eyes and looks directly at me with a wicked smile dancing at the corner of his lips.

  My face floods with colour. He can’t possibly have heard. Could he? Did everyone? Did Maria say something? She wouldn’t have.

  “And you? Did you sleep as restfully as I did?” he asks.

  Before I can respond, a gull breaks through the grey with a screech, dips to the brig, and seizes the fish head in mid-air. John Williams screams. “Stop!” he cries, then explodes with laughter. Zhuchka barks and jumps, her body twisting in the air. Even brooding Ovchinnikov laughs, a deep, rolling rumble that transforms into a coughing fit as though he’s not used to laughing and it’s strained his system. He bends, his hands on his stomach. He can barely breathe.

  The gull disappears with its prize.

  “I guess your game is over,” I say to Timofei Osipovich, and, though I would like a cup of tea, I go back to our quarters.

  I sit at my husband’s desk. It’s an indulgence—an ornate secretaire from our house in Novo-Arkhangelsk, a thing far too fine for our plain cabin. He had its elegant feet screwed into the floor before our departure. Atop the desk are a few charts. The paper is as thick as serge. Smooth stones hold them down at the corners. His neat writing is on them everywhere—columns of numbers, symbols that I don’t understand, and scattered place names—there’s Novo-Arkhangelsk. Nootka.

  I open his sharkskin case of tools. They’re packed in precisely, a little slot for each. I slide them from the case, one by one. There are two wooden rulers, worn at the corners. A protractor, compass, and dividers, all made of brass. I know their names because my father told me. Russian girls are not normally taught such things, but my father saw no harm in it. He always spoke to me as if I were capable of a level of understanding no less than an adult’s.

  My husband is highly educated and accomplished. In Novo-Arkhangelsk, he’s considered wealthy and cultured. He’s already caught the eye of the chief manager, and he’s known even to the Tsar. He works so fastidiously every day, studying the sky and the water. He calculates our movement with the navigation instruments he keeps near the wheel—his compass and quadrant, the log board and the knotted rope, and the leadline. Nikolai Isaakovich deduces and then tells everyone on board what must be done to keep us afloat and heading in the right direction. With extraordinary certainty, he records everything in his log book and on these charts. He is thoroughly enlightened.

  I open the dividers and place one pointed end on Novo-Arkhangelsk. We departed from there September 29th, a clear day with a favourable breeze. I open the arms wider and extend them, placing the other sharp end somewhere on the coast of California. Our destination. What lies between is a faint, wandering line. The coast. Our path. But that’s not what it’s like. This coast is thick and certain. Like the barren north of Russia, it continues, unrelenting. Unlike Russia, it’s fecund, rich with visceral odour and bands of dark blue water, pale sand, the black forest with its jagged top and, blanketing it all, the pervasive grey sky. The dark bands are broken up by the headlands of ocean-worn grey rock that sometimes take on rusty highlights on the rare occasions when the sun shines on them. The trees that rise beyond stone-strewn beaches loom unimaginably dense and dark, impossibly vertical.

  Our watery path is dotted with stacks and stumps of rock, towering islands, some so small even Zhuchka couldn’t stand on them, others big enough for a house. Nikolai Isaakovich has told me they pose grave danger for our brig. Beneath the surface of the sea, at the base of these stacks and stumps, there are many more rocks, jagged, barnacle-encrusted, and just waiting for a vessel to venture too close. He keeps the ship well back when they come into sight, though he allows us close enough so that he can measure the location and height of each one and mark them on his charts. As dusk gathers, he always moves the ship far out to sea, to a place many versts from shore, to where the coast is invisible, so there’s no danger of running aground in the night.

  I fold the dividers up. I want my cup of tea and a bowl of kasha. My husband always keeps a tidy desk, and so before I leave our quarters, I slide each tool back into its appointed slot and shut the case.

  When I reach the deck, Main Rigger Sobachnikov nearly knocks me down.

  “Madame Bulygina! Forgive me,” he cries. He flings out his long arms and raises his hands in horror, his face redder than ever. “How careless of me. I never should have . . .” Before he finishes, he whirls away and dashes to the bow. Ovchinnikov and the Aleuts are reefing in the sails, their ostensible master, Timofei Osipovich, barking orders at them. Ovchinnikov’s straggly hair covers his eyes and I don’t know how he can see a thing. My husband is behind the wheel, his telescope to his eye, looking out to sea.

  Through the grey, a shoreline reveals itself, a faint line demarcating the water’s edge. Between it and us, there’s a cluster of canoes. The row of heads and torsos jutting out from the vessels look like teeth on a comb. They’re paddling toward us.

  When he sees me, Timofei Osipovich turns away from his band of followers. “Opportunity has arrived, and so we open the gates,” he says, with a grin.

  With furtive glances to sea, the crew on deck prepares for our encounter. Zhuchka whines and paces, sensing apprehension. The canoes grow in breadth and length as they draw closer. They resemble the koliuzhi boats I’ve seen so often coming ashore at Novo-Arkhangelsk, some of them immense, yet sleek as knives. These ones have long, curved bows and blunt sterns. They’re mostly black but have been painted near the bow with symbols that look like faces, and some have gunwales inlaid with white stones that look like pearls.

  When they reach us, the koliuzhi people call out. Their language bears no resemblance to Russian. It’s crammed with popping consonants, with long, drawn-out vowels, and with thick rumbles that erupt from the back of the throat. It sounds unlike any speech I’ve ever heard before.

  Surprisingly, Timofei Osipovich responds in their language. He says, “Wacush! Wacush!”

  The canoes cluster around our brig and clatter against one another, forming a shape like a crystal pendant on a chandelier. The bow of each boat has a funny little carving on it that looks like a dog’s head. In some canoes, the notch between the dog’s ears supports several long wooden shafts, but I can’t tell what they are. Most of the canoes hold only three or four men; a couple contain as many as ten. I count thirty-two men before I give up; the canoes are moving about too much to allow an accurate count. There are no women.

  After a brief conversation, Timofei Osipovich says, “Shall we let them board?” He surveys the crew’s faces and stops on my husband’s.

  “I don’t know,” Nikolai Isaakovich says. “They’re armed.”

  Indeed, many are holding spears, while others have nocked arrows. Some have what looks like a cow’s horn hanging from straps around their necks or over their shoulders. On closer observation, I see that these objects are blunt and carved with swirling lines. Are they weapons? Or just adornments?

  “Their intention is clear,” says the apprentice Kotelnikov, who’s so impatient he’s already concluded what’s going on.

  “Yes. They’re here for trade,” Timofei Osipovich says.

  “Then why this arsenal?”

  “You’d expect them to appear unarmed?” Timofei Osipovich says derisively, but he restrains himself as though the koliuzhi are carriage horses in danger of being spooked. “They don’t know your intent any more than you know theirs.”

  “If they want to trade, they should put down their weapons.”

  “You put down yours first.”

  “Stop arguing,” Nikolai Isaakovich tells them. “Timofei Osipovich Tarakanov, I will have a word with you.” The two withdraw behind the wheel while the canoes stir and rattle against one another. Gul
ls screech overhead, a lone black crow darting among them. The Americans, it’s said, are the only ones who let the koliuzhi board to conduct trade. The British think this rash and a temptation to fate. The Russians have no protocol, and so, in the end, my husband must choose how our trade will be conducted.

  Eventually, my husband steps back and Timofei Osipovich calls to the koliuzhi again. “Wacush,” he shouts. A brief conversation follows, and then two men in the canoes nearest the brig rise and work their way along the length of their vessels toward us. Then I can no longer see them. They’re climbing the boarding ladder.

  When they emerge, throwing their legs over the bulwark, I get a better look at them. They carry no weapons; I must assume Timofei Osipovich has insisted upon this. The first man is thin and limber with ropey muscles in his arms that swell against his smooth skin. He’s around the same age as my husband, I think. His hair is knotted atop his head. Like the koliuzhi men in Novo-Arkhangelsk, he wears a cedar-bark breechclout and nothing more to protect him from the cold.

  The second man is similarly dressed. His hair hangs loose and is much shorter. He has a slash across his chest, healed, but it’s recent. He looks around and squints, and I wonder if he can see very well. He stops before an iron shackle, part of the rigging, and fondles it, running his fingers around its curve. I notice he’s missing a finger.

  Both men have painted themselves red and black. Most remarkable are their eyebrows—black half-moons that give them a look of astonishment. In all, unlike us, they’ve taken great care in their dress. I wonder if we’ve not understood one another’s purpose here today.

  Zhuchka is beside me. I hold her jaws so she cannot bark. She twists against me and whines, but I hold fast. “Calm yourself,” I whisper.

  Our crew has firearms aimed at the canoes and at the two koliuzhi on deck. The koliuzhi in the canoes point their spears and arrows at us. They hold their bows horizontally, in a fashion I find peculiar, and I wonder why they do so. With all the raised firearms, arrows, and spears, both sides resemble a hairbrush.

  Our visiting koliuzhi stand so close to each other that their shoulders press together. Ovchinnikov stares through his straggly hair and drills his eyes into them. A heavy silence settles on deck.

  The man with the scarred chest and missing finger watches me. How does he view me? Does he think me pallid and carelessly dressed? The clothing I wear is practical for a sea voyage but plain, a bit shabby, and badly in need of pressing. Thanks to the humid air, my dark hair is unruly—strands have escaped from beneath my cap—and my shawl hangs open, the pin carelessly left behind in our quarters, as though I don’t value my modesty. The only ornament I wear is the silver cross my mother gave me years ago. Vines and leaves are carved into the three cross bars and a tiny tourmaline adorns a flower at its heart. The stone is pink in some lights but otherwise black. Zhuchka squirms, and I clamp down on her even harder.

  Timofei Osipovich breaks the silence. The man’s attention shifts. Zhuchka goes limp, accepting her confinement.

  Timofei Osipovich’s sentences are short, and he delivers them slowly. There’s a long pause, and then the man who’s been staring at me replies. After he finishes, Timofei Osipovich leaves a similar gap before speaking again. Each time he speaks, he repeats that same word, “wacush,” and though I still don’t know what it means, the koliuzhi respond favourably.

  “Ryba, ryba!” somebody suddenly calls from the little boats. They know Russian? Two men in the longest boat lift a halibut about half my size. Maria cries, “My God!” and blesses herself. The men hold the huge fish aloft and wait.

  We want that fish. We all want it. I imagine the meal Maria will make, the scent of it cooking in the galley, the steam that will rise from her iron pot as supper reaches perfection, the succulent morsels of the flesh in a salty broth tipped from spoon to mouth. Fresh food has been far from a daily affair on this voyage. My stomach, missing its morning tea and kasha, loudly confesses my hunger.

  The negotiation begins. Timofei Osipovich says something, then sends his loyal Ovchinnikov to the hold below deck. Ovchinnikov returns with several strings of deep-blue korolki wrapped around his shoulders, and a string of glass pearls cupped in one hand. I’ve long admired these beautiful beads, though my tastes aren’t as fine as the ladies in Petersburg who would’ve rejected them, not because they’re unattractive, but because they’re not the sapphires, rubies, and emeralds that make other women envious.

  Finally, a deal is reached. Timofei Osipovich nods. Our impatient apprentice Kotelnikov shifts his weight and lets his musket sag a little. Zhuchka’s tail wags tentatively.

  The beads, pearls, and fish are passed over the gunwales at the same time. The Aleuts accept the fish with a grunt—it must be even heavier than I thought. Maria leads them away, her head held high as though she herself finalized the negotiation.

  I expect the two koliuzhi to leave, but Timofei Osipovich is not finished with them yet. “Quartlack, quartlack,” he cries, his hands open. The koliuzhi are impassive.

  Sobachnikov blurts out, “They’ve got one, down there,” and points to the canoes. Heads turn in unison. Sobachnikov’s face floods, and he seems startled by his outburst. Timofei Osipovich gives him a withering look. He never has patience for Sobachnikov, and he’s annoyed with the interference. Besides, he probably saw the beautiful sea otter cape long before Sobachnikov did.

  A thick, fur cape rests on a man seated in the middle of the largest canoe. It’s nearly black, much darker than my hair; as the man wearing it shifts slightly, he exposes its silver highlights. Everyone believes sea otter is the finest fur in the world. Back in Novo-Arkhangelsk, my husband showed me how its two distinct layers of hair render it thicker than what’s found on any other animal. We call it “soft gold” in Russia, for the Chinese desire this fur over any other, and, fortunately for our empire, they’re willing to pay ridiculous sums for it. I think the Chinese must be uninformed. Our Russian sable is far more beautiful and soft.

  It occurs to me that what’s happening—what has been happening ever since the canoes appeared—is about the black cape in the canoe. The halibut and the korolki have been a prelude to more important matters. We’re here for sea otter furs.

  “Makuk,” says Timofei Osipovich, his eyes narrowing. “Makuk.” He waits, then says again that word, “Wacush.”

  Timofei Osipovich sends Ovchinnikov back to the hold. Ovchinnikov takes a long time. The koliuzhi with the fur cape makes no effort to remove it. Throughout, the weapons on both sides remain aloft and no one speaks. Though the fish and korolki were successfully traded, any trust between us is only a half-cooked blin: batter poured onto the griddle and turned before it was set.

  Ovchinnikov returns finally with our part of the trade: more korolki, more glass pearls, a fold of nankeen cotton, dark blue as the sea this day, and an iron bar, which must be poor quality or it wouldn’t be offered so easily. I know this; surely the koliuzhi do, too. However, I still think it a favourable deal, better than what was offered for the halibut. But the koliuzhi remain unconvinced.

  Then the koliuzhi man with the scar on his chest cries, “upakuut! upakuut!”1

  Timofei Osipovich frowns deeply, and it’s easy to predict what he’ll look like as an aged man of forty years. In an instant, the frown transforms into a smile and a sharp laugh.

  “They want your coat,” he says to Nikolai Isaakovich.

  “My coat? Whatever for?” He looks down at his chest.

  “It’s not the coat exactly. They want the cloth.”

  “Well, I need it. They can’t have it,” my husband says, somewhat petulantly. It’s his black-green greatcoat, and it’s been chilly enough throughout the voyage that he wears it every day. It nearly reaches his ankles and is adorned on the front and the shoulders with brass buttons stamped with the imperial eagle. With a tall collar and flaring cuffs that more or less reach his elbows, it’s made of coarse broadcloth. “Tell them there’s nothing wrong with the nankeen cotton,
and that it’s the best they’ll ever see in exchange for that ratty, old pelt.”

  Calling the fur cape ratty is untrue and rude. What is Nikolai Isaakovich thinking? Does he want the fur or not?

  Timofei Osipovich tells them something. When he finishes, there’s much discussion in the canoes. Timofei Osipovich leans over the bulwark next to Ovchinnikov and they observe very closely. They remain so focused that they don’t see when the koliuzhi men on deck make a move. They’re halfway over the gunwales before either notices.

  Timofei Osipovich is startled. He cries out, “Quartlack! Quartlack! Makuk!” No one from the canoes replies. “Makuk!” he shouts again, shaking his fist toward the disappearing flotilla. “Makuk klush!”

  As they paddle away, I release Zhuchka. Timofei Osipovich regains his composure. He says to Nikolai Isaakovich, “Well, the scythe has hit a stone. But they’ll be back tomorrow. I will get you that pelt, and many more.”

  “They have more?”

  Zhuchka puts her front paws on the bulwark. She barks and wags her tail at the disappearing koliuzhi.

  “Of course they do. This is all a part of the trade. You wait until you see what they bring tomorrow. Your eyes will bleed.”

  Maria does justice to the halibut. In the galley, she saws through the fat flesh and tosses chunks into a pot of water. I stand away, for I don’t want my apron to be stained. Blood and slime and shiny intestines and organs drip from the cutting surface. She ignores them, though Zhuchka does not. She devours whatever bits land within reach.

  Maria chops each slice of carrot in half, frugal as she is. The fresh vegetables we carry—grown over the summer and sold by the bishop’s own gardener in Novo-Arkhangelsk—won’t last much longer. It’s a testament to Maria’s thriftiness and good planning that we have any left at all.