Anna, Like Thunder

by Peggy Herring

  She doesn’t respond for a long time. Then she says, “That is written with a pitchfork on flowing water.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I don’t know. And neither do you. Now go to sleep.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Your worrying won’t change a thing.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Well, I can. I’m tired. Good night.”

  Though it’s not like me, I pray—something I haven’t done before bed since I was a little girl—and ask God to grant us our prayers, if they are good, and bring us all back together again in Novo-Arkhangelsk. But it’s futile, and I’m no closer to sleep.

  Long after Maria has succumbed, I lie on my back, my eyes wide open, recreating the night sky on the ceiling. Polaris is overhead. Is my head pointing east? I think so. Cassiopeia would be over there near the post. Orion would be there, where the bundles of dried grass stir in the fire’s rising heat. Pegasus would be over there, near the door, which has been covered with some sort of screen for the night. I worry about my telescope and star log—was my bundle saved? Are my things safe and dry?

  It’s not just my thoughts that keep me awake—the night noises also disturb me. I’ve never slept in a room with so many people. There’s coughing and throat clearing. Some people snore. Some call out in their sleep. One child laughs, caught in a dream.

  And then, after I’ve lain awake for a long time and a short time, a certain rustling begins. Right away, I know what it is, and I’m not surprised when, before much time passes, it progresses to shameless grunts and moans. I put my fists over my ears but it’s fruitless—my imagination furnishes the imagery.

  I don’t know what to do with the fish bones from our supper. My fist closed, I squeeze them lightly in my palms, feel their bend. If there were a way to reassemble them, to put the flesh back on the fish, to turn the clock back, how far back could I go? Could I identify the one miscalculation that brought me to this place—and undo it?

  The next morning, I wake with empty hands. The bones slipped away in the night and they’re now woven into the cedar mat and half-buried in the thin layer of dust that coats the earthen floor. I very badly need to relieve myself. What is the koliuzhi way? Do they have some kind of gutter or a cesspit? If not, where should I go, or does it matter? I ask Maria what I should do, and she tells me to find a private place outdoors.

  “Are you sure?”

  The corners of her mouth turn down, and she studies me like I’m a child who ought to know better.

  “Then come with me. Please.”

  She shrugs. “I may as well.”

  We slowly cross the floor toward the door, taking small, tentative steps. Many people watch. Then a man around my age with hair longer than mine springs to his feet. He remains right behind us as we pass through the doorway, and stays only a step back as we begin a search for a secluded spot. He must know what we’re doing; he makes no effort to prevent us from wandering away from the house. I look around the sodden forest. Drops of water as big as pearls slip one by one from the boughs overhead and plop as they hit the ground. The ground sucks at our feet. Humps of moss that look like velvet pincushions dot the forest floor.

  “Should we stop here?” I say. The dripping water and the cool air aren’t helping. I can’t wait much longer.

  Maria nods and says, “He thinks so.” The young man looks uneasy. He glances from us, to the house we just left, barely visible through the tree trunks, then back at us.

  Before I lose my courage, I step to the side of a small shrub, turn my back, and pull up my skirt.

  The long-haired young man scurries away and waits from a distance. Everywhere it’s the same: even the most courageous men are scared of ladies’ business. Maria squats on the other side of the shrub.

  I try to release my water quietly, but it resounds as it hits the earth. Steam rises through my legs. Relieving myself takes forever. And when I’ve no more water to release, I wipe my hands on the moss, and then on my apron because I don’t know what else to do.

  “Ready?” I ask Maria. She nods.

  The long-haired young man follows in silence and leaves us only when we’re back in our corner.

  We don’t have breakfast. Instead, we again assemble for speeches. Because I didn’t sleep well, I struggle to pay attention. A meal is prepared while the talking progresses. We eat fish once again and when it’s finished, there are more speeches.

  The treatment we’re receiving from the koliuzhi is most unexpected. It tempers my anxiety and leads me to what I believe is the only rational conclusion. If they’ve not harmed us, and continue to feed us, they must intend to release us. I just can’t comprehend why they haven’t done so yet.

  The house is warmer on our second night. Tired from my poor sleep the previous night, I easily drift off. But I wake suddenly at a much later hour to the sound of rain pounding on the roof. The din inside is as loud as the house-drumming that we witnessed the day of our capture. At least I’m dry and warm. I wonder where the crew is and how they’re managing. The tents would be useless in a deluge this heavy.

  Oh, Kolya, what are you doing right now? Are you awake and wondering what’s happened to me? You’re not out in this storm looking for me, are you?

  Dear Kolya. I’m all right. I’m safe.

  Are you?

  That day and the next and the one after are no different from the two we survived. More talking, so much talking—and not just from the three men who spoke that first day. Others also present speeches and stories long and short that unravel in the house, spin themselves around the listeners, the fires, and the things hanging from the rafters—but can’t find their way to me, Maria, Yakov, and Kotelnikov. Even after so many days, we understand so little of what is happening.

  People come and go, bringing firewood, water, and food. In a corner, some women weave on queer little looms that sit on the floor. They aren’t weaving with wool; but I can’t tell what fibre they’re using. They each have baskets at their feet. Every once in a while, a woman withdraws a stick or a tool with teeth that she uses on her work.

  One woman is making a basket. Her hands ripple like flowing water as she weaves thin branches together. She has a cord attached to her ankle. It leads to the head of a cradle suspended from an overhanging bough. Two babies nestle inside like fledglings. When the basket weaver moves her leg, the cradle rocks. The babies sleep on.

  Older children play and whisper during most of the speeches, and we eat twice a day—more fish, and then clams and mussels, and after that, a tangle of small starchy roots, and then a hard, dried cake of berries I don’t recognize. The cakes are tough to chew, and drenched in that same fishy grease. During the long speeches that follow, I dislodge the gummy bits stuck to my teeth.

  I miss Nikolai Isaakovich terribly. I miss the way he stands behind me on the deck of the brig and keeps me warm while I look through my telescope. I miss our long talks in the evening, poring over his charts, discussing the places we’d seen and the places that lay just ahead.

  Why hasn’t he come for me yet? There has to be a good reason. I won’t accept that he might have been killed. I also won’t accept that he’s given up and headed south without us. What am I supposed to think? Everything I imagine is unbearable.

  The days unfold in the same strange routine. Koliuzhi Klara gives Maria and I each a cedar cape. I thank her, knowing she won’t understand. The cape will keep me warm, but it will also serve as a blanket at night. Never again will the cold keep me awake.

  Maria and I continue to relieve ourselves together, always under the watchful eye of the same long-haired koliuzhi man. Our trips together to these private places remind me how mortifying it will be when my monthlies arrive. I plan to tear my apron into strips, but I can’t begin to consider how and where I will wash and dry them.

  Each time I go out, my eye is drawn to the grey-brown mound on the other side of the river. The crows are equally preoccupied with it. Bla
ck shadows, they flutter over it, pick at it, tear bits off it, and squabble and screech over the shreds. Before long, the scent of death hangs in the air. I can’t understand why the koliuzhi seem not to notice.

  One evening, just before the meal is ready, I say, “I wonder what’s keeping them.”

  Yakov and Maria look sideways at one another. Kotelnikov, who’s cleaning his nails with a twig, wipes it on his sleeve and says with confidence, “They’re planning a surprise attack. They’re going to settle the score with these koliuzhi and shoot them all.”

  “Shhh,” says Maria and blesses herself.

  “Why would you say such a cruel thing? They’re feeding us and treating us kindly,” says Yakov.

  “But that won’t go on forever, will it?” I ask. “It can’t.”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t,” says Kotelnikov. “The crew might come back anytime. Any minute now, they could charge through that door . . .”

  “Be patient. There are many things we can’t understand,” says Yakov. “Everything will become clear soon.”

  “Maybe they’re waiting for us,” I say. “Maybe they want us to try to escape.”

  “Give it time, Madame Bulygina. Rest and eat well. Take these days to build up strength,” Yakov says. “When they come, we’ll have a difficult voyage ahead of us.”

  “No,” says Kotelnikov. “She might be right. We should go.”

  “I don’t think so,” ventures Yakov.

  “Well, I do,” says Kotelnikov. “They can’t stop us.”

  Yakov looks at him, his expression in shadows. “If you must, then go,” he finally says. “I’m staying.”

  “You’re too trusting, old man. They mean to kill you first.”

  “If you flee, you’ll be killed first.”

  I decide that instant Yakov is right. At least we aren’t hungry. Our lodgings aren’t luxurious, but they’re a great improvement over a tent. The blisters on my feet have begun to dry and harden. We need to remain patient and wait for answers.

  As each day unfolds, I pay more attention to the koliuzhi. This place has been carved out of a Baba Yaga story, with its dense forest, the gloom, the impossible houses in the middle of nowhere, the burbling river, and always the way that fire draws us together in the dark.

  Koliuzhi Klara appears and disappears throughout the day. Once I see her with a large, open-weave basket, but it’s empty. Next, I see her with her arms full of small sticks. Then I see her with a basket that has the image of a bird woven into it and I wonder what might be inside. Koliuzhi Klara is thinner than many other women, and her hair is less well-kempt. Her clothing is adequate but plain. If we were in Petersburg, I would assume she comes from a family that, while not exactly poor, had fallen into difficult circumstances. In society, she wouldn’t be highly regarded, though some would take pity upon her.

  But they don’t treat her like that here. She talks often with a woman with a round, stern face, who, I notice, is much better dressed than many of the other women. Most remarkably, her hair is pinned back with a comb of fine, filigreed silver. Where did she get it? Other women wear combs in their hair, but they’re carved of wood or bone, maybe antler. No woman has anything so sophisticated. Is this woman Koliuzhi Klara’s mother or aunt? I think not—their ages are too similar. However, they’re most certainly not friends. They speak frequently and courteously, but without the warmth of close friends.

  The man with the rattle and the golden cape is the toyon. He’s often at the centre of a group of men who listen respectfully as he speaks. He’s not the only man treated this way, but there’s something that elevates him above them all. In my mind, I call him the Tsar.

  The long-haired young man who follows me outside when I need to relieve myself is often away, and he returns after dark. I was wrong about his age. He’s older than I first believed, closer perhaps to my husband’s age. It’s not just Maria and me that make him skittish and nervous. The slightest sounds, even the shadows on the wall distract him, as though he were a kitten. I call him the Murzik for he behaves like a kitten in many ways.

  “What do you think that Murzik does all day?” I idly ask Maria one day. She laughs. She knows of whom I speak.

  “He’s playing with his mouse,” Maria says and gestures crudely. I redden and ignore her.

  I start thinking. What is he doing? Hunting? Could he be hunting the crew? We hear nothing, not a single gunshot, not a cry to indicate the crew is anywhere nearby. Yet I feel uneasy with the Murzik’s frequent absence.

  There is so much about the koliuzhi we don’t understand. The way they live is beyond imagination. Some things I admire—like being able to cook in wooden boxes, the versatile bark mats that serve as skirts and tunics and capes and bedding and walls and tables and yet are quite soft and beautiful, the houses’ rafters festooned with so much salmon it’s easy to believe the structures are made of fish. They aren’t—but they’re no less miraculous, constructed with logs so thick three men hand-in-hand couldn’t encircle them. How do they stand them in the ground? How do they fall them in the first place? I start to make a list and try to remember these novelties, so I can tell Nikolai Isaakovich and perhaps even my parents one day when we finally get back to Novo-Arkhangelsk and I can write them a letter.

  But other things are less pleasing—how I feel damp even when I’m not outdoors, how the smoke backs up into the house when the rain is heavy and the clouds are low, the lack of privacy when I must relieve myself, the way fish is served at every meal, no matter what time of day or night. The indecent sounds at night—the children must hear them. What do they make of those sounds?

  I wonder whether the koliuzhi would like to see how we live in Novo-Arkhangelsk, or even in Petersburg. I wonder what they’d make of private bedchambers. Steaming bathtubs. Feather beds. Silk. Butchers and bakeries. Letter writing. While we think these the pinnacle of civilization, I wonder whether the koliuzhi would find them novel at first sight, and then tiresome. Such things seem meaningless here. A man who does not eat bread has no need of a bakery. A cathedral is useless to a man who does not worship. And a man who does not read and write has no use for a letter, no matter how beautiful its penmanship.

  What would they think of the hours I spend marking the position and measuring the brightness of the stars, writing it all down for others who will do exactly the same thing?

  This reflection on our differences reminds me of our inability to communicate. It’s language, yes, but the gap stretches beyond simple words. I’m beginning to believe certain elements of my world are so fundamentally different from theirs that I couldn’t begin to describe our odd customs and ways even if anybody were to ask. As they go about their lives, they could never imagine ours. The converse is equally true. They have and do things for which we have no words. The pool into which we must plunge to understand one another is infinitely deep and, as irrational as it seems, perhaps for all of us, immersion would be impossible.

  * * *

  7If you wish to live, you better act like you’re a puppy!

  8I am Chabachita, a name that has passed down through five generations.

  9Some drifting village people have come to our land before.

  10Those strangers didn’t kill the Indians with their thunder sticks. They gave us gifts and bought fish or animal fur.

  11The families of those you killed will probably ask me to kill you for revenge.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Six days after the battle, we wake to heavy, steady rain. It traps us inside with fellow prisoners, darkness, and dreariness; time slows in this confined space. The children fare best with our imprisonment. They bound around as though catapulted from wall to wall, gamboling like they have learned their play from lambs. What fun Zhuchka would have with them, chasing them, yelping to get their attention, and then running from them while they chase her. I half expect a reprimand from the Tsar and the men deep in conference in the corner or from the women tending the fires and handling hot rocks as they prepare the
food, but no one speaks a harsh word or lays a corrective hand on them.

  In Russia, there’s no such lenience. Though we love children, we believe they’ll be spoiled if not taught to be good. My own parents always tried to be fair but firm because they knew proper discipline would determine my future, and, like all parents in Russia, they aspired to raise a responsible adult. I feel ambivalent about how the koliuzhi children are behaving. Part of me is enchanted by the purity of their joy and I feel nostalgic for the times in my childhood when I felt so free. Another part of me is more cautious and I wonder if this lack of discipline will harm them.

  Though the children play, the rain is no excuse for idleness among the adults. Several women are once again crouched before their looms, weaving slowly and purposefully in this dull light. Talk and laughter wrap around them like a transparent shawl. The looms are decorated with stones or shells, maybe even teeth—I don’t know which—that are set into the upright posts like jewels. Some women work on looms of three sticks lashed together at the top with their legs spread wide like the tripods my father uses in his turret observatory. After some study of their work, I realize the tubes they’re weaving will be skirts.

  Other women sew, their white needles small fish that dart up and down and flash when they catch the firelight. One of the women is plump-faced and thick around the waist. She’s expecting a child. She pulls her needle aloft, then lowers it, draws a bead onto its point and once more lifts it. The bead slides down the thread. An instant later, she does it again. She barely looks because she’s engrossed in the words of the woman with the silver comb in her hair. Her previously stern face has relaxed. She’s making a basket as she speaks. Her hands are swift, and she, too, never looks at her work. Suddenly, all the women burst into shrieking laughter and the beading woman drops her needle in her lap.

  I recall the day on the brig when we were becalmed for so long that I turned to my embroidery project with the napkins to pass the time. How easily I let my patience fade and allowed myself to give up. After six long days of waiting here with nothing to occupy my time, I would relinquish my supper to have that napkin and needle back in my hands today, and if it could be instead my telescope and star log, I might give up a week’s worth of suppers.