Anna, Like Thunder

by Peggy Herring

  I loosen my hair and let it fall. I try to run my fingers through it, but it’s choked with knots and tangled with leaves and twigs. When our ordeal is over, I may have to cut it. If the sacrifice of my hair would end our suffering today, I’d gladly make it.

  “Madame Bulygina—we’re leaving! Hurry!” Maria calls. The men have risen and shouldered their burdens. My husband has already turned and set out along the sand. I finish tying up my hair again. I’m the last to join the procession. There’s a gap between me and the last man. After a moment, Timofei Osipovich steps aside. He waits and, after I pass, he rejoins the line, walking right behind me. His musket rests on one shoulder.

  “That’s a big load you carry, Madame Bulygina.” Mine is less than half the size of his. He must be mocking.

  “I can manage,” I say. “Like everyone else.”

  “You could manage better if you fastened your cloak properly.”

  “I prefer to do it my way.” My words sound childish, and I redden.

  He laughs and says nothing more.

  Out at sea, a bed of kelp rises and falls with the waves. Gulls float nearby, unperturbed by our presence.

  Once more, my shoes fill with sand. It becomes harder and harder to walk. My one hand holds my bundle, the other holds my cape closed. I wonder about my shawl pin. Whatever happened to it? How I long to have it right now.

  We follow the shore until we reach a rocky headland. On the side closest to the forest, it’s navigable. I scramble over the rocks, following the others, Timofei Osipovich just behind me. “There’s a passage to your right,” he advises. “See where it flattens? You can put your foot just there.”

  It annoys me that he’s right. I’m eighteen and capable of finding my own way across the rocks. I don’t need anybody’s help, especially not his.

  On the other side of the headland, the sand on the beach is replaced by loose pebbles, even more difficult to walk on. Each step forward requires two steps of effort. I fall farther behind. I wish I could run like Zhuchka who appears and disappears at will, moving easily over the little stones. How much time would she need to spend here before she became as wild as the wolves? Not long I suspect.

  Judging by the crunch of gravel on my heels, Timofei Osipovich is right behind me. Each step he takes matches mine and it irritates me. I stop, and the cedar cape slides off one shoulder. When I try to pull it back into place, my bundle falls to the stones.

  “Show me,” I grumble.

  Timofei Osipovich looks around and picks up a twig. I allow him to adjust the cloak around my shoulders and pin it in place with the twig. The twig slides easily between the bark fibres. I redden—so simple and I didn’t think of it myself. He tugs the hem to make sure it’s secure.

  “Let’s go,” is all he says.

  The crew is now far ahead, beneath a rocky headland at the other end of this pebbly beach. They’ve lined up and it looks like they’ll wade into the sea to pass around it. The tide is coming in. They’ll have to go quickly if they’re to get to the other side before the opportunity is lost.

  The tide is also narrowing the strand on which Timofei Osipovich and I walk. The straight path between us and the crew is being bent into an arc that lengthens as the water advances. My shoulders burn but I hurry. Each minute I’m delayed, my path grows longer. I, too, must pass the headland before the water gets too deep.

  Then I slip, turn my ankle, and stumble. I throw my arms out and catch myself just before I fall.

  “Steady, Madame Bulygina,” says Timofei Osipovich. “Don’t injure yourself now.”

  I cautiously flex my ankle. “I’m fine,” I say. “It’s not like I’ve been speared and struck with rocks.”

  He laughs. “Thank heaven for that. If you had, no doubt your husband would have ordered us to carry you. Perhaps it would have been your good fortune if he had selected me for the task.”

  I bristle. “Even if I was injured, I’d do the same as any man here, the same as you. I would not add to anybody’s burden.”

  I turn back to our path. The others are very far ahead now.

  “What are you doing?” I cry. “Put me down!”

  Timofei Osipovich has picked me up and slung me over his shoulder like I’m one of the sailcloth bundles. He laughs, and I feel it ripple through my body. His feet dig into the small stones, and we set off toward the others.

  “We’re falling behind, Madame Bulygina, and we need to catch up.”

  “Put me down!” I repeat and push against him. How does he manage to carry me, my bundle, and his own load all at the same time? Is this his injured side? He gives no sign that he’s in pain.

  I wish Nikolai Isaakovich were here. I wish Zhuchka would come back and bite his legs. But everyone is so far ahead, no one sees us, and with the sound of the surf masking everything, no one can hear me call for help.

  “I’ll put you down once we catch up with the others.” He’s fast. He trots. I bump along, my body pressed into his bony shoulder. My silver cross bounces into my mouth, and I spit it out.

  “If you don’t put me down now, you’ll have to deal with my husband!”

  “I have to deal with him anyway. He’s in charge. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  Then I see them. Three koliuzhi. Emerging from the forest.

  “Timofei Osipovich! They’re back!”

  “Who?”

  “The koliuzhi!”

  He stops, slides me down his shoulder and turns to look. He takes his gun in hand but doesn’t raise it. I wish he would. Our entire crew has disappeared around the rocky headland. I don’t know how Timofei Osipovich alone will be able to defend us against three koliuzhi.

  The koliuzhi call out, “Likái.”5

  They carry bows and arrows. They wear vests and breechclouts, but no paint, and no feathers this time. They have no shoes. How do they manage on these rocks without shoes?

  I recognize one—it’s the man who was in the tent on the beach with me. The moustached toyon. He looks different without the paint and feathers, without his sea otter cape. He doesn’t limp as he approaches. It wasn’t him they carried off the beach. I think about the dead boy, again and dread creeps down my limbs.

  The toyon says, “Hílich hawayishka oki i ixwatililo ”6 Timofei Osipovich frowns and squints.

  “What did he say?”

  He shrugs. “I think it’s about hunting.”

  “I thought you understood their language.”

  “Some of it. Sometimes they understand me better than I understand them.” He smiles at me. “Don’t worry. Your Timofei Osipovich also knows a thing or two about hunting.”

  He asks them a question. The toyon responds. As he’s speaking, Timofei Osipovich shifts his musket and the toyon stops. We all grow still.

  In a low voice, Timofei Osipovich says, “The scoundrels have been stalking us all day. I knew it.”

  He asks another question and after the toyon responds, our prikashchik turns to me. “He wants to know where we’re going. I wouldn’t tell him. He also says there’s a better trail in the forest. He wants us to follow them so they can show us.”

  “We can’t do that,” I cry, colour burning my cheeks. “Do they think we’re stupid?”

  “Madame Bulygina, compose yourself. They can’t understand what you’re saying, but if you look and sound angry and frightened, they’re not going to respond favourably.”

  He’s right. Our strength right now is our language. We can say anything we want. They won’t understand. This may help us escape, or at least hold off an attack until my husband realizes we’re missing and sends somebody back.

  Timofei Osipovich turns again to the koliuzhi. I can tell the toyon is adamant about us following.

  “I think this toyon needs a hunting lesson,” says Timofei Osipovich coolly. “Watch me—but stay calm, please, Madame Bulygina.”

  He says something that seems to please the toyon, and they stop talking. Timofei Osipovich steps away from us and picks up a piece of driftwood.
He sets it atop a larger log stretched on its side, just a short distance away. He jiggles the driftwood until it’s balanced on the big log.

  “Be still, Madame Bulygina, no matter what. I’m going to step away now, but don’t worry. I’ll kill them all if anybody touches you.”

  He takes a few steps away. He turns to see where he is. Then he walks farther. The stones clatter under his feet. When he’s a distance away, he turns, loads his gun, aims, and pulls the trigger.

  The shot echoes through the forest. My ears ring. I understand now. He’s giving a demonstration—a demonstration to instill fear and respect—and at the same time, to signal to our group that we’re in trouble. It won’t be long before the others return.

  The koliuzhi look sideways at one another but say nothing. Once Timofei Osipovich lowers his gun, they go to the driftwood. One of the men—not the moustached toyon—picks it up. There’s a hole punched through the wood. Splinters jut out at all angles like lightning. He gives it to the toyon.

  Then they walk toward Timofei Osipovich who hasn’t moved. They walk with purpose—I think they’re counting their steps. They want to know how far Timofei Ospiovich’s musket can shoot. It takes more than a minute before they reach the prikashchik.

  I don’t know what they say. They don’t even wave before they disappear into the forest. They take the shattered piece of driftwood with them.

  At that moment, our group appears down the beach. They’re running as fast as they are able to on loose rock, while dear Zhuchka bounds along at their side. Timofei Osipovich hollers and waves his gun in the air.

  “They’re late for the party,” he says, grinning. “In such a hurry, they miss all the entertainment.” He looks to the grey sky, which is still light. “Come on. Maybe we can manage another mile or two before night.”

  * * *

  5Stranger!

  6You are acting like a deer in the hunters’ grounds.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  This cave is wet and smells like mushrooms and fermented cabbage, but we’re better off in here than out in the snow. The firewood is damp, and though we wave our caps and cloaks to direct the smoke outside, the cave has other ideas. My eyes water and old Yakov has a coughing fit—still, no one leaves the fire’s side for long. No one wants to know the exact depths of this cave and risk meeting the creatures that sprout and grow in perpetual darkness.

  The mouth of the cave frames the falling snow. The flakes are as big as feathers but judging by the way they fall, they’re heavy. Snow ought to be a delight, but this fills me instead with dread. Much more of this lies ahead. It is only November, and it will only become colder.

  I already miss being dry and warm under the covers of a bed where I can sleep properly. My house in Novo-Arkhangelsk is full of holes, and it leaks as bad as a barn. It’s an ugly grey block of a house, perpetually dark inside, one of many arranged so randomly they appear to have been inadvertently dropped into that outpost. The houses are clustered atop a hill dwarfed by mountains whose peaks are always concealed in cloud. The furnishings are austere and uncomfortable. But I’d rush up the rough path to its front door right now if I could, unlatch it, and enter, throw myself onto the first piece of serviceable furniture I could find and never complain again.

  The men are also tired, cold, and hungry. The food we salvaged from the ship is indeed not enough. Maria’s already reduced our portions in order to stretch out what’s left. She’s asked the brooding Ovchinnikov to go hunting or fishing so she can make something instead of plain kasha and tea; he looked to Timofei Osipovich who shook his head, no. Even our prikashchik is too dejected.

  The old carpenter Kurmachev emptied his flask and asked the others to share. Only Sobachnikov agreed. He poured some of his rum into the carpenter’s flask, and Kurmachev nodded his thanks before fixing himself a place away from the smoke, and quaffing a mouthful or two. Or more.

  Not an hour ago, Zhuchka began to act strangely. She hovered at the opening of the cave and whined. Finally, just when John Williams offered to go see what was bothering her, something crashed outside. I looked up. A boulder landed at the mouth of the cave. It was followed by a second boulder and a third. They were falling from above the cave entrance. At first, I didn’t understand what was causing this landslide. Then my husband said, “It’s the koliuzhi again.”

  “What are they doing?” grumbled the apprentice Kotelnikov.

  “They’re throwing rocks.”

  “Rocks again? Are they trying to kill us?” said Kotelnikov.

  “No. They want to scare us,” said Timofei Osipovich. “If they wanted to hurt us, believe me, they would have done it by now. They know we’re cornered in this loathsome prison.” He picked up a loose rock and sent it flying out into the daylight. “I thought I made it perfectly clear to them . . .”

  “It seems all you did was challenge them to a contest,” I said. “Perhaps they’re not as scared of your little gun as you think.”

  He glowered but then laughed. “Clever girl.”

  The falling rocks stopped. We waited. Then a rustling began outside. Zhuchka raised her hackles and growled. A koliuzhi ran by. He moved so fast, it was impossible to say anything about him—how big he was, whether he was armed, what he was wearing, whether he was somebody we’d already met. Then another man dashed by in the opposite direction. There was a third. Timofei Osipovich and Ovchinnikov raised their guns in preparation for the fourth, or even an invasion. It seemed Timofei Osipovich’s mistaken assessment of their intentions had brought into being what we most dreaded. But there wasn’t another sound, and no other koliuzhi disturbs us all night.

  When we rise the next morning, it’s to discover that the snowstorm is over. The light that streams in the mouth of the cave is intense. Blinded by the brightness, I cautiously follow the others outside. No rain. Vibrant-blue sky peeps through the forest canopy. The air is as crisp as a freshly starched cuff. Patches of snow are scattered here and there. It seems most of it has already melted. I scoop up a small handful and put it in my mouth. It’s as cold as the light is bright. I scoop again and wash my face with it. It stings, but I’m revived. If this weather holds, perhaps the stars will be visible tonight.

  While we’re outside exploring our surroundings and clearing our lungs of last night’s foul cave air, John Williams locates a trail. My husband announces that we’ll follow it for as long as we can, for as long as it heads in the right direction. He doesn’t mention what happened on the beach yesterday. I know he’s worried. He wants us to stay together; he also wants us to maintain a brisk pace, which is nearly impossible when crossing sand and gravel beaches. The farther south we can get, the warmer the weather will be, and hospitable weather means a better chance of survival.

  Near mid-morning, our trail ends at a narrow, but deep, stream. Zhuchka is already halfway in, up to her belly, lapping up water, and snapping at debris carried from upstream. The water turns her fur nearly black, except for the white tip of her paintbrush tail, which retains its brilliance and its curl even when wet.

  “Look—the track turns this way,” says John Williams. The path he indicates follows the riverbank upstream, into deeper bush.

  “If there’s a path, we should take it,” says Nikolai Isaakovich.

  “With caution,” Timofei Osipovich concurs. “Remain alert, men.”

  We follow the path. Sunlight reaches us in fingers through the trees. Maria finds some edible mushrooms. Though slimy and well past their prime, she boils them when we stop for a meal, with some purplish berries like the ones I tasted our first day on shore. The broth is dismal, but I’m so hungry and the broth is so warm that I gulp my entire portion except for a few pinches of mushroom that I offer to Zhuchka. She gobbles them.

  “I don’t know about this trail,” my husband says as we shoulder our bundles for the next stretch.

  “It’s going in the right direction,” says John Williams.

  “The koliuzhi trails are all like this,” says Timofei Osipovich.<
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  We march on through the afternoon. I hobble a bit. The blisters on my heels sting, but I try to forget about them. Eventually callouses will form if I give them time. Maria walks with me. Ovchinnikov, whom Timofei Osipovich charged with guarding our backs, is the last man in our queue. Zhuchka returns periodically to insert her wet nose into my hand before plunging back into the undergrowth.

  We leave the little stream. Its burbling disappears, and the trail starts to climb. Maria and I slow to a crawl. The path is muddy and uneven; gnarled roots protrude from the soil. It grows more and more slippery as it weaves up the hill in short segments that snake back and forth on one another. Maria and I stop often to catch our breaths. Ovchinnikov has no choice except to slow to match our pace. The way he watches us when we stop makes me shorten our breaks.

  My bundle pulls against my shoulder, and though I shift it often, it makes no difference. The sailcloth digs painfully into my shoulder. In the mire, I see evidence in the footprints of how others before us have slipped.

  My mother once told me that on the day God and the devil made the world, they had to decide whether to make it flat or mountainous. The devil chose flat, but God chose the mountains. “Why?” asked the devil. “Why would you choose mountains and hills? What good are they?” And God said, “They’re for the people—so they’ll remember us. When people want to descend from the hills, they’ll think, dear God, help me get down. And when they want to climb, they’ll think, what a devil of a hill. So you see—mountains ensure they’ll never forget either one of us.”

  “You’re treating her like a child,” my father had said that day. “Don’t fill her head with nonsense.”

  “She is a child and that’s not nonsense. If you’re so smart, tell me—where do hills come from?”