The smell of cooking fish wafts throughout the brig all afternoon. It’s a relief when the meal’s ready. Because there’s so much fish, everyone’s bowl brims with fat chunks of flesh.
Once the initial exclamations of delight are made, praise for Maria’s skill expressed, and thanks to God offered, there’s silence around the table, except for the sounds of eating and an occasional grunt of satisfaction. The men slurp the meal off their big, thick spoons. The bones are large and easy to find, and they extract them from their mouths impatiently while lifting another spoon of the oily broth to their lips.
Even I gobble the ukha as though I’m back home and my own mother has made it.
The sky clears in the evening. Content after the big meal, I wrap my warmest shawl around me, tie the ends loosely—I can’t find my pin—and take my telescope on deck. It’s breezy, and the air is so cool my face tingles. I look up. A few wisps of cloud remain. It’s far from perfect, but as my father often says, the best astronomers always find a way to work with the seasons. I raise my telescope.
Polaris is faint. The tail of Ursa Minor is all that’s visible of that constellation. Pisces, however, is clear. The two fish remind me of my supper. I follow the cord between them until I find Alpha Piscium, the star that holds them together.
“Anya?” my husband calls from across the deck.
“I’m here.”
He approaches, and I lower my telescope. “Aren’t you cold?” He folds his arms across his chest, burying his hands in those enormous cuffs, then grimaces and shivers. “Come inside.”
I nod and snake my arm through his until we’re latched together. “In a few moments.” We huddle side by side and look to sea. Darkness surrounds us. The stars and moon and their insubstantial reflection that flickers on the edges of the waves provide the only point of reference. Without them, our direction would be unknowable.
It’s easy to imagine how somebody would believe the vodyanoy, the old spirit man of the sea, lurks out there. Swimming just below the surface, hungering for human life, aggravated by the neglect of sailors who fail to make the proper offerings. One swish of his scaly tale would sink a ship. So the stories go.
“They’ll be back,” says my husband suddenly. “Tomorrow.”
“Chief Manager Baranov will be pleased,” I say, but only after a slight pause, because I thought he was talking about the vodyanoy, or perhaps the stars.
“Timofei Osipovich says they’ll bring all the sea otter skins we want.”
I squeeze his arm. “I hope he’s right.”
Nikolai Isaakovich pulls away. “Why would you say that?” he says sharply.
In the dark, it’s hard to see what’s in his face. “I meant nothing,” I say cautiously. “Only that I await their return, with the pelts.”
He relaxes, and, after a bit, he kisses me on the temple. “Come now, Anya. Let’s go. That’s enough for today.”
There’s no sign of life from the coast when we awaken. The morning stretches to noon, and still the koliuzhi do not reappear. Midday, we eat, and the leftover ukha warms my toes. Nikolai Isaakovich refuses his serving and remains on deck. He paces and watches the coast. He peers through his telescope, slowly scanning the shore. Zhuchka watches him, her eyes mournful, her ears flattened as though she already knows that he’ll see nothing of what he seeks.
* * *
1Coat! Coat!
CHAPTER TWO
There are times at sea when everything seems favourable—the wind does not slow the ship, the current is advantageous, the sky is clear, and, if you’re very fortunate, the sun warms the vessel and buoys everyone’s spirits. Six weeks into our journey the brig enters a period of such favourable conditions. After having endured weeks of mostly grey sky, frequent rain, and capricious winds that either blew too strongly or diminished and left the brig becalmed, this ease is welcome.
The crew members work together like they’re in a dance, each man knowing the next step and undertaking it with pleasure. The ropes groan, the rigging rattles, and the sails billow like they aspire to be clouds. The promyshlenniki’s movements are graceful and generous as they manipulate canvas and cordage to move us closer to our destination.
“Destruction Island,” says Timofei Osipovich, indicating a distant pan of land late one afternoon. “That’s the English name.”
“Why? What does that mean?” I say.
“Destruction?” He shakes his head. “It means ruin. Everything that touches that place is ruined. No good has ever come from it. No good ever will.”
Rocky cliffs rim the island. The sea foams like a frothy dessert next to its westernmost edge. It appears harmless, even beautiful from this distance. As we pass to its south, we come closer and are afforded a fresh view. Like a hat, it sits atop the waves. Two long tongues of land bend away from its coast and thrust out into the sea. Behind it, in the distance, the shore looks mostly sandy and flat, except for a few stacks and the distant mouth of a river dotted with sea birds.
“Did they wreck their ships here?” I peer, wondering if I might spot the remains of a broken mast or hull, evidence of the calamities after which the island has been named.
Timofei Osipovich laughs. “It’s not for wrecked ships.”
“Then what?”
“You think—the vodyanoy?” he taunts. He curls his fingers into claws and bares his teeth. He lurches at me with a growl, then laughs when I recoil. “Don’t worry, Madame Bulygina, I’m teasing.” Then nonchalantly he adds, “It’s only because of the koliuzhi.”
The old Aleut Yakov is nearby, cap tilted away from his face, mop in hand, a bucket of seawater at his feet. He’s grey-haired and grizzled, missing many of his teeth, easily the oldest man on the crew. According to my husband, he’s been working for the Russian-American Company since he was six years old, so his Russian is quite good, though accented.
“It’s better we don’t speak of such things here at this time of day,” he says, slapping his mop to the deck, and turning his back.
I stare hard at the island. Are there people out there watching us? People whose intentions are less than noble? What did they do to the English? I’m not pious—I place all my faith in rational thought and the scientific method—but I can’t help but brush my fingers along the silver cross on my necklace, just in case.
My mother fastened the silver cross around my neck long ago. I was only eight years old. I had a raging fever and a hoarse cough, and she sat up with me for several nights. Her hand was cool and weightless as a feather against my forehead, against my cheek. Then a rash spread over my body, rolling hills of red blossoms that reached the ends of my limbs. It itched so badly I wanted to tear off my skin.
“It’s measles,” my father said. “Every child gets it. You must let it be.” He cut my fingernails so short I couldn’t scratch myself.
Within a day, I could no longer see.
The doctor insisted my father was right: it was measles, and the loss of vision, while troubling, would likely be temporary. He’d seen it before. He prescribed bitter medicine. He ordered the curtains drawn and the lamps extinguished; no light was to enter my room as it could render me permanently blind.
I was alone with my mother when the visions started. I bolted upright in bed, and I screamed.
“What is it?” my mother cried.
There were serpents twining around branches, fiery-eyed bears with unsheathed claws, a mushroom that transformed into a wolf that stalked me. These were from the stories all parents told their children to teach them caution. There was also a kitten that I cuddled in my coat only to have it die and transform into a skeleton. A hunter who lured me into the forest and tried to leave me with an old woman who wanted to chop off my fingers. These were strange beings from the even more disturbing stories my mother and her friends shared. The creatures had come alive at last, and I could neither close nor open my eyes against any of them, for they existed inside me.
“If you hadn’t filled her mind with all that supersti
tious nonsense, she’d be fine,” my father said. “It’s just a fever.”
He called the doctor back. My medicines were changed. He prescribed tonics that smelled so vile I gagged before taking even a mouthful. I couldn’t sleep at all; the visions came whether my eyes were open or closed. My skin was on fire. Days ran into one another, with no change.
My father called the doctor for the third time. He brought a reeking bucket whose contents smelled of rotting fish. He told my mother to apply it to my rash twice a day and leave it for a half hour. Once the proscribed time had passed, she could remove the poultice and plunge me into an ice-cold bath.
My father had the servants carry the bathtub up the staircase and roll it into my bedchamber. They brought bucket after bucket of cold water until it was filled. I heard splash after splash, the servants’ voices subdued.
When it was all ready, my mother said to my father, “I’ll take care of it now.” Her cool hand rested firmly on my forehead.
I detected my father’s uncertainty. He wouldn’t have completely trusted my mother to comply with the doctor’s orders, and yet, his presence in the room while I bathed would have been unthinkable.
“Are you sure you heard the doctor correctly?” my father said.
“I did.” She rose from my side and I heard her footsteps moving toward the door.
“You can’t lift her into the bath tub. She’ll be too heavy for you.”
“I can do it.” The latch clicked as my mother closed the door softly behind him.
No poultice of rotting fish was applied to the rash. I was never plunged into the bathtub. Instead, in the darkened room, my mother whispered to me of a silver cross on a chain. Her lips moved against my ear. She described its arms, the vines and leaves that adorned it, the jewelled flower at its heart. “Now,” she said, “I will tell you what I’m doing with it. Listen.”
She told me that she was dipping the cross in a bowl of water. I heard the splash, heard it knock against the sides of the bowl, heard the drip as she withdrew it. Then she told me she was lighting the wicks of three candles. I smelled the flare of the tallow. She prayed over the candles. “Coffin and grave, thrice I cleanse you,” she said. Next, she told me she was holding the candles over the water one at a time and letting the wax drip into it. Then, I felt the rim of the bowl on my lips.
I sipped the water.
Afterward, she fastened the chain around my neck. The chain was too long for a child and it hung so low no one would ever know I was wearing it. Perhaps that was her intention.
I felt her kneel at my bedside and lean over the mattress. She began to pray.
She prayed for hours, her voice a low rumble of praise, pleas, and promises. When she finally stopped, she said, “Never speak of this night to your father.” She kissed my forehead.
According to my mother, I fell asleep immediately and slept for the entire night. When I woke, my fever was gone, my eyesight had been restored, and I was very hungry. My parents embraced me and for many months afterward, indulged me with whatever I asked for.
As I grew older, and as my father continued teaching me the lessons of the Enlightenment, I dismissed the miraculous cure. It was coincidence. The illness had run its course, and the medicines had worked. While I didn’t share my mother’s view of the world, I knew that arguing would be disrespectful and, moreover, senseless. She’d never allowed enlightened thought to restrain her understanding. I allowed her to believe she’d cured me.
But no amount of rational thought was able to completely chase away the visions. They’d been so vivid and noisy that day, as though they were alive, and I wasn’t certain they weren’t still alive and wouldn’t one day return. My father would have said they were caused by the fever or maybe the medicine, fuelled by a child’s imagination. If we had ever spoken about them, I would have agreed. But just as my mother had warned me, I did not mention anything else about that night to my father.
The sun begins its descent into the sea, and the air has already cooled. My husband shouts orders from the foredeck. Men scramble with the rigging. The horizon swivels until we’re sailing into the setting sun. Is Nikolai Isaakovich deliberately avoiding Destruction Island?
We sail into the dying light, and when the shore is a distant memory, we come to a halt. The wind that has favoured us for so many days has diminished but not died completely. We go to bed in this welcome quiet and wake to an ominous silence. The air is still, heavy as a decision waiting to be made. We’re becalmed. The brig drifts. My husband and the others seem preoccupied, but there’s nothing to be done except to wait for the wind to reappear. It’s irrational to think it won’t.
We pass a dull, windless day, rocked by the sea swell. Zhuchka is restless and petulant, and it comforts neither her nor me when I rub her ears. I polish my telescope and review my star log. I even while away some time embroidering the dinner napkins I brought. The linen was an unexpected gift from the chief manager. He must have paid dearly for it because it was fine and clear, and not the coarse linen that the promyshlenniki sometimes use to make their trousers and shirts. I’m embroidering an elaborate pattern in red and black, with a Б in the centre of one edge on each napkin. After I miss two stitches and must tear apart several rows, I throw my work back into its basket in a fury and sit and wish for the night to arrive. The movement of the stars will be a more gratifying diversion.
Much later, I bundle up under my shawl and take my telescope out on deck. But it’s pointless. The sky is completely overcast. There’s not a hint of wind. The sea is still dead calm and looks to remain that way all night. We pass a second windless night, and the next day, too, until late in that afternoon, Destruction Island comes into sight once more. The swell pushes us to the north of it, and we drift closer and closer to shore. The sails sag uselessly. We need wind. A storm. I chastise myself after this thought arises. We don’t want a storm, do we?
As we helplessly float toward shore, Nikolai Isaakovich calls everyone on deck.
“We should drop anchor right now,” blurts the apprentice Kotelnikov, impetuous as always. My husband’s face barely moves, but I know what he’s thinking.
“Don’t be irrational. It’s still too deep,” drawls the American.
“Well, what about the skiff? Can’t we use the skiff?” Kotelnikov counters, with an urgency that veers toward panic. “The Aleuts could tow us out to sea. What are we waiting for?”
“Ah, but to what end? There’s no wind. How can we row all night?” says Yakov.
“Perhaps we could raise the sails and try?” Sobachnikov squeaks. He takes a tentative step toward the main mast and reaches toward the ratline. “There’s a trace of offshore breeze.” Timofei Osipovich frowns and the others either don’t hear the main rigger or choose to ignore him. His shoulders droop, his face colours, and he steps away from the mast as if he’d never made the suggestion.
“If we can’t get away from shore, we’ll be pushed onto the rocks in the morning,” says John Williams.
“If it takes that long!” says Kotelnikov. “We’ll run aground before midnight.”
Timofei Osipovich remains uncharacteristically quiet.
Finally, Nikolai Isaakovich waves his hand to terminate the discussion. “Here are my orders: we’ll steer through these rocks and reefs as best we can. The sea will determine our speed. As soon as we’re able, we’ll drop anchor, and we must do so before we lose what daylight is left. Then, we’ll wait for the wind to pick up and, if we’re blessed, it won’t blow a gale. I should be able to steer back out through the same course to the open sea, and we’ll resume our voyage.”
“But the rocks,” says Kotelnikov.
“If we can pass them once, it will be a miracle,” says the American. “We’ll have to pass them twice in order to get out.”
An uneasy silence unfolds. No man knows where to look.
“As we all know, he who sits between two chairs may easily fall down,” declares Timofei Osipovich finally. “Unfortunately, that’
s where we find ourselves. It’s time to choose a chair. Our navigator is right.” There’s a stirring among the men, and I can’t easily tell which side they’re on. Then I see the tension dissolve from my husband’s face, and I realize he’s convinced them. We’re going to steer through the rocks and anchor as soon as we can.
The crew whirls around like a waterspout, attending to this and that, and eventually they position themselves around the bulwark on the foredeck. There are no instruments, tools, or devices to help us now. We must depend only on what can be seen with the naked eye, a difficult enough task made worse by the dying light. There are twenty-one sets of eyes strung along the bow of the boat, for even Maria and I have joined the men.
“When you see a shoal or a reef, or a large rock beneath the surf, you must call out right away,” Timofei Osipovich instructs us. “Don’t wait. The survival of the brig may depend on you.”
Nikolai Isaakovich embraces the wheel and holds it tight to his chest. He pushes himself onto his toes and uses the wheel to hold himself up. The men begin to call.
“Reef!” barks Ovchinnikov, peering through his hair.
“Rock!” cries the apprentice. “Be careful!”
We call out to my husband, our voices floating up one by one from all sides of the ship. “There’s one here on my side!” exclaims Yakov. “Watch out!”
The water’s surface ripples and glistens, making it difficult to see below the surface. When I do get a glimpse of the depths, I see shadow, and once, fish that scatter and vanish as quickly as they appeared.
My eyes strain against the moving water. I’m not sure I know what to look for. I don’t want to call out in error, but I also fear my hesitation will cause the ship to run aground.
And then suddenly an object comes into focus. It happens just like it does when I’m trying to find a certain star with my telescope. That sudden clarity. I point. “A rock! Kolya! There’s a rock!”
Anna, Like Thunder Page 3