Anna, Like Thunder

by Peggy Herring

  One of the dead men is the one who threw the rock at Timofei Osipovich—somebody, perhaps even Timofei Osipovich himself, shot him. The other body belongs to the boy with the blunt, horn-shaped object who accompanied the toyon into our tent and stared at my silver cross. The blunt object is still attached to its cord, still wrapped around his neck.

  I’ve seen dead bodies before, at wakes and funerals. As an enlightened young woman, I never allowed them to disturb me. I know the body is a shell. It holds life—and then it doesn’t—and when the life is gone, that’s it. There is no eternal life. That’s the nature of mortality. It’s the biological ebb and flow of a person’s life.

  But I’ve never seen a body like this boy’s. Fluffy white feathers still cling to his face. His eyes are open and vacant and there’s a piece of down caught in his eyelashes. His hat is gone. His hands lie limp, open and empty at his sides, the fingers slightly curled. With all the life gone from him, he’s diminished. He looks like a little boy.

  However, it’s the red-rimmed cavity in his chest, the size of a dinner plate, bigger than his head, all out of proportion to his tiny body that I can’t comprehend. I see it one minute. The next I don’t, and I wonder why he doesn’t roll over, as my husband just did, sit up, and say, “It’s nothing,” rise to his feet and head home. How despairing his mother and father will be when he doesn’t come back this afternoon.

  Zhuchka thrusts her nose into the hole in the boy’s chest.

  “Get away!” I scream and she cowers, paws over her bloody nose.

  How did this happen? What transformed the goodwill I saw in the tent into this?

  The crew begins to stir. There are wounds to clean. Bloodied sleeves to rinse in the sea. And the spoils of the battle, which we will collect and add to our belongings in the big tent.

  In the meantime, the watch cannot rest. Firearms are reloaded. Sentries are posted. Night will arrive shortly, and when it does, for once, I will turn my gaze away from the heavens. Today my world has shattered, and its remnants have been strewn along a cold beach in a strange land. The order and beauty of the constellations offer no comfort; instead, they only mock.

  * * *

  2Greetings, strange ones.

  3Your floating village is stranded.

  4Do you wish to ask to stay? If so, I will advise the elders to decide whether they will allow it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Late in the morning, Nikolai Isaakovich gathers everyone outside the big tent. The men have scabs on their foreheads and chins, soot on their hands and faces, and torn clothing. Did anybody sleep last night? I didn’t, even though I was exhausted from the wreck and the battle. Nikolai Isaakovich told me to rest, to get some sleep, in preparation for the trials ahead. He was right, of course, but who could sleep? The roar of the sea was so close, I imagined every wave crawling into the tent and soaking us. Other noises, creaks and scratches, were muffled and unidentifiable. Each one made me believe the koliuzhi were just on the other side of the canvas and about to attack. Far worse than these, what made sleep impossible, was the image of the maimed body of the koliuzhi boy on the beach. He wouldn’t leave me, no matter how tightly I closed my eyes. That soft skin ripped open, the shredded flesh, bloody as minced meat, and those eyes, glazed and empty. He’s still with me this morning. I think he’ll never leave me. I don’t know when I’ll ever sleep again. Ever. Never. Forever. But I mustn’t allow myself to think such despairing thoughts.

  Shortly after we’d woken, my husband organized a small group to take stock of our surroundings. Their goal was to find a protected place where we could establish ourselves until our rescue. Would it take a week before somebody came looking for us? A month? When would the captain of the Kad’iak realize we weren’t going to make the rendezvous? Even if someone came next week, could we manage until they arrived? The beach had grown narrower overnight as the tide came in, and though we remained dry, it was a very calm night. Debris showed that at its highest, the tide wouldn’t leave enough space on the beach for the tents. We’d have to find a drier area up or down the coast, or we’d have to take shelter among the trees.

  “Keep your muskets ready,” my husband advised as he divided the men into groups.

  He sent old Yakov and the carpenter Kurmachev up the beach, in the direction we’d come from. I don’t know what he was thinking sending two old men together. If either one ran into trouble, neither would be of much help.

  The apprentice Kotelnikov and Main Rigger Sobachnikov were directed down to the river. “You two be especially careful,” the prikashchik warned them. “We can’t see what’s upriver from here.” Sobachnikov paled.

  Timofei Osipovich was sent into the forest with his loyal Ovchinnikov and the Aleuts.

  “What about me?” cried the American.

  “You watch the camp,” said my husband. “Your hair and skin—dear God, you’re a walking target.”

  The men dispersed. Timofei Osipovich and the Aleuts fanned out and were swallowed by the hungry forest. Zhuchka hardly knew which group to follow, but in the end, she chose the forest. They returned first, each man emerging from the woods with the same grim expression on his face. Ovchinnikov brought back a handful of shrivelled purplish-black berries, which he said the Aleuts found soon after entering the forest. I’d never seen these berries before, not in Russia, not in Novo-Arkhangelsk. He offered them to me. I put one in my mouth. It was starchy and bitter. Others spat out the skins and seeds because, as hungry as the men were, the berries were unpalatable. Zhuchka jammed her nose into the ground and licked up the remains, and rolled her tongue, trying to get rid of the sand that inevitably stuck there.

  The crew members who’d been sent to scout along the beach returned much later. I watched them through the mist, dragging their feet in the sand, and long before they reached us, I knew they’d been unsuccessful.

  Now, outside the big tent as we wait for my husband to speak, a cold mist rolls in from the sea. It mutes the cries of the birds. Timofei Osipovich gave me one of the woven cedar capes left from the battle. It smells of smoke and fish. It’s a bit coarse, but softer than I expect and pliant enough to wrap around my shoulders and keep the mist at bay. It disturbs me to think of whose shoulders it covered before mine. But I must not let that stop me from wearing it—my survival may depend on it. I only wish I knew how to fasten it closed. There are no long ends to knot as there are with a shawl; there is no pin.

  Mercifully, my shoes dried before the fire last night. They’re practical shoes—mostly flat, with only a small heel that clicked on the deck and announced my arrival wherever I went. The only ornamentation is on the vamps, which are embossed with a circular pattern of curling vines and feathery leaves. While we were aboard the brig, Maria cleaned them and kept the mould at bay. She sometimes polished them with grease to keep them soft. Though fine for life on a ship, they’re inadequate for this wilderness. They slip on and off my foot too easily, as the teal Morocco leather they’re made with has stretched over the weeks. They fill with sand wherever I go. It compacts between my toes until I have no choice but to empty them. The sand pours from them in a stream, like it does in the sandglass the crew uses to measure the watch. At least I still have shoes.

  Out at sea, our brig rocks gently, rhythmically, keeping time with a small flock of seabirds that floats nearby. The ship’s broken foreyard still dangles from the mast and sways and creaks with the motion. High tide has come and gone, and the ship remains grounded. Many more things need to be brought ashore. My telescope and star log are among those that were left behind yesterday. Nikolai Issakovich thought they’d be safer there, away from the salt and sand. He’s promised me he’ll fetch them as soon as our camp is better appointed, and I have a place away from the elements to keep my things.

  My husband has attempted to clean himself up. He’s brushed his greatcoat. He’s run his fingers through his hair and beard. He perches atop one of the driftwood logs, facing us and the forest. Behind him, the waves break and fin
gers of froth creep up the beach, but he pays them no heed. My husband leans just slightly. I can tell he favours the side of his body where he was struck by the spear. Still, he looks the picture of authority; he bears it well, as he should. All twenty-two of us have survived and, despite the unfortunate skirmish with the koliuzhi, that’s an auspicious beginning.

  “According to the instructions given me by the chief manager of the colonies,” he cries, “the company ship Kad’iak is coming to the shores of New Albion. Its destination is a harbour lying not more than sixty-five nautical miles from where we now stand.”

  Sixty-five nautical miles. No one breathes. Everyone knows how far sixty-five nautical miles is.

  “Between these two points,” my husband continues, “the map shows no bay, no cove, nor even a single river.”

  Every head turns left then, to the river Kotelnikov and Sobachnikov surveyed only a short while ago. Even from this distance, a churning tongue can be seen flowing from its mouth. Where that wild water meets the surf, a turbid tangle of whitecaps, whirlpools, and currents that reverse one another forms. Between here and there, brown birds with pointy beaks scuttle along the sand.

  The maps on my husband’s secretaire are incomplete. That’s why the company had him sighting, measuring, and marking more precisely this coast’s features. What lies to the south is largely uncharted. We can’t depend on what the maps say. So why does my husband insist on it? Every man can see that what he says is false.

  Nikolai Isaakovich ignores the skepticism that shows itself on each face and carries on. “If we stay here, we expose ourselves to the threat of almost certain death. We’ll have to fight day and night to stay alive. They’ll besiege us. We’ll have to battle until we have no ammunition left. And then, these dikari will exterminate us without a second thought.”

  I think about being in the tent with the two koliuzhi, about sitting so close to them, no weapons, no voices raised, nothing but a conversation between us. The battle has changed everything, even the way we speak. Now, they’re no longer just koliuzhi. They’re dikari. Savages.

  “And so, we must leave. We should be able to reach that harbour quite easily.”

  “They’ll follow us,” cries John Williams, his face even redder, enflamed with his outrage. “They’ll try to kill us.”

  “They may . . . or they may remain here to plunder the ship and divide the spoils,” says Timofei Osipovich quietly, picking at the scab on his forehead. “Who can tell?”

  My husband looks at him gratefully. “Yes. Timofei Osipovich is right. Most likely they won’t pursue us, for we’ll carry nothing they want, and so they’ll have no need come after us,” my husband adds. His eyes shift to the forest. “Most likely.”

  There’s silence, except for the persistent, rhythmic murmur of the sea. Every man is imagining the walk we’re about to set out on, through a land we don’t know, during the onset of winter. Every man is imagining the alternative. Waiting. For what? If there’s no ship, will there be a grand carriage pulled by six horses on its way back to Novo-Arkhangelsk? A peasant with his donkey cart who’ll make room for us beside his sacks of grain? Will the vodyanoy intervene and instead of drowning us, take us home? Every man is imagining our demise. How we’ll fall—from illness, battle, hunger, cold. We’ll fall, one by one by one, until none is left standing. No one in the world will ever discover what’s become of us.

  “Then, we place ourselves in your hands,” pronounces Timofei Osipovich. He flicks away the scab he picked.

  The doubt instantly washes away. Brooding Ovchinnikov cracks a smile now that his ostensible master has given his approval. Old Yakov nods and readjusts his cap. Nikolai Isaakovich folds his arms across his chest and looks pleased with himself. Sobachnikov shyly meets my eye, and I smile to let him know everything will be fine.

  Will everything be fine? I think it would be wiser to stay with the brig. Everything we own is onboard the Sviatoi Nikolai—and we may need it all if our rescue takes a long time. Despite the koliuzhi, I’d place greater faith in staying, building a shelter suitable for the winter, and hunting and fishing for our sustenance. Maybe we can make peace with the koliuzhi. Perhaps they’ll leave us alone. I think waiting is a wiser choice than hiking sixty-five miles in near winter, over terrain we know nothing about. But no one asks me. So, I must follow. I’ll go where Nikolai Isaakovich leads.

  We begin preparations for our long march. First, the rest of the supplies we’ll need are retrieved from the brig. More ammunition, more food, some knives, bowls, cups, and cooking pots—two wide vessels and a kettle.

  The carpenter Kurmachev carries a small keg of rum to shore, thrashing through the waves with the weight on his shoulders. In Novo-Arkhanglesk, every man is allotted four to five cups a month because the company believes spirits, when taken moderately, offset the hazards of living in a wet and unhealthy climate. They also keep away the scurvy. Kurmachev takes this advice to heart and his breath often reeks of drink.

  Fortunately, the sea is less turbulent than it was yesterday, and the tide is out. The trips back and forth are less arduous.

  Maria and I watch these labours mostly from the side of the morning’s fire, which we stir and feed to keep alive. Timofei Osipovich has ordered his favoured Ovchinnikov and the apprentice to stay onshore and guard us. They stand poised not far from the tents, eyes trained on the forest and the ends of the strand. Occasionally, Ovchinnikov patrols far up the beach, skimming the forest’s fringe, watching for movement behind the trees. The forest is as quiet and brooding as he is. I worry that the koliuzhi are waiting in the shadows and his presence, so near the woods, will precipitate another confrontation.

  Later, when the fire’s dying down, I walk up the beach toward the river with a mind to collect a few pieces of driftwood. “Madame Bulygina,” calls Ovchinnikov, “don’t go any farther.” When I turn back to our camp, I notice Sobachnikov near the big tent, fussing with a barrel instead of heading out to the brig again.

  I return as instructed and throw the wood I’ve collected onto the fire, watching Sobachnikov the while. I wonder if we could burn the wood from the barrel he’s opening. I’m about to call out to ask when he looks up and beams at me. In one hand, he holds my telescope. In the other, my star log.

  “The commander asked me to give these to you,” he says when I approach. He’s flushed, and his hands, as he extends my things toward me, tremble. I receive them. The star log is dry. The telescope doesn’t have a drop of water on it.

  “How did you manage to keep them dry?” I exclaim.

  He blushes. “I thought to wrap them in an old coat, and then I put them in a barrel of gunpowder where I knew they’d be safe.”

  He must have opened the barrel, then resealed it, before carrying it to shore. Once here, he pried it open once more. “I’ve inconvenienced you. I’m sorry. Thank you for undertaking such an effort for me,” I say.

  “Madame Bulygina, I . . .” he fumbles. I wait, though it pains me to see him in such agony. “I see you every night on deck. I know you value it.”

  “Yes. My father gave me this telescope,” I say.

  My telescope was built in Germany; it’s of the same design as Mademoiselle Caroline Herschel’s first telescope—the one she used to discover many galaxies and comets, when she was not much older than I am now. It’s a solid instrument, reliable, and though I’m not superstitious, I imagine it will bring me the same luck. I would never dream of leaving it behind.

  Sobachnikov fidgets and opens his mouth as if to say something. Instead his face flares as he thinks better of it, and he turns abruptly and heads back to the brig for his next load. I watch him until he enters the surf again, and then I return to the fire.

  When the crew finishes bringing in all the provisions we’ll need, my husband orders the rest destroyed.

  “We won’t make it easy for those dikari,” he says. “They must not profit from our misfortune.”

  The men wade back out to the brig. They drive iron
spikes through the barrels of the cannon—each strike rings out as though delivered by a blacksmith, and I warily watch the forest wondering if the koliuzhi will be drawn out by the noise. They next heave the cannon, one by one, overboard. Each one falls with a tremendous splash and then disappears beneath the waves. Then the crew moves onto smaller objects: iron tools deemed too heavy and of too little use for our trek. Pikes and axes, inferior firearms—they break the locks on all the guns and pistols first—even the remainder of Maria’s cooking pots and utensils. All the knives and forks and spoons. The rest of the rum. My half-embroidered napkins and my sewing kit. They toss everything into the sea as if making offerings to the vodyanoy. In the hold are a stack of Russian possession plaques—iron plates engraved with the Holy Cross and the bold words “Country in Possession of Russia.” We were to bury them along the coast when we went ashore for provisions. We haven’t had the chance to leave a single one behind. One by one, the crew flings them all into the surf. The powder—what we can’t carry—is tossed overboard too.

  It troubles me greatly to see our things thrown so carelessly into the sea. Is there no way to bring them? Granted, we can’t carry such weight for sixty-five nautical miles. But couldn’t we improvise a kind of cart or sled using our skiff and tow or drag our things along? What about hiding them? The forest is vast and empty and surely there are many hiding spots. If bad luck befalls us and we’re forced to return to this beach, we’d have these things to help us. Unfortunately, there’s no time to plan. Destruction seems to be the only choice.

  The final act involves the single cannon that took so much effort to roll up onto the sandy shore. The Aleuts roll it back out to sea. They struggle for some time to push it through the surf into deeper waters until it’s completely submerged.

  My husband, with the assistance of Timofei Osipovich, divides up the load. Each man is given two guns and a pistol. The boxes of cartridges are evenly distributed. The least injured men will also carry the three kegs of powder. The rum is decanted into each man’s flask until the cask is dry—the wood flares in the fire. Everything else is wrapped in torn sailcloth bundles that are tied closed, to be slung over our shoulders.