Anna, Like Thunder

by Peggy Herring

  “We can’t!”

  “We can.”

  “We’ll never survive!”

  “And why not? We’ll eat fish. Snare a few rabbits. Get some mushrooms and roots. We’ll make kvass!” He smacks his lips. “We’ll trade with the koliuzhi for anything else we need. You may not realize it, but Kozma Ovchinnikov is more than a strong and loyal man. He’s also a good carver.”

  “Does Makee know what you’ve done?”

  He laughs. “Why? Are you going to tattle on us if he doesn’t?”

  “Does he?” I insist.

  He shrugs carelessly. “Probably. There are no secrets here; he must have accepted it. He’s done nothing to prevent our little project from proceeding.”

  “You shouldn’t have done this.”

  He bursts into laughter. “Dear Madame Bulygina, your sanctimony is a never-ending source of entertainment. Even when circumstances are most dire, I can always depend on you to make me laugh.”

  A few hours later, Makee calls out from the bench. “Anna? Please come—and ask the commander to come as well.” He’s been in conference with the three older men all afternoon.

  “Why should I go?” my husband mutters.

  “Get up,” I whisper. I nudge him with my knee, a little harder than I should.

  Nikolai Isaakovich glares, and gets up as slowly as he can. Once up, he surveys the room as though it’s something he must map but can’t decide where to start. Lazily, he saunters over to Makee, every step defiant. When he reaches the bench, he says, “What is it—Poppy Seed?” He mispronounces Makee’s name.

  Makee’s hands are folded over his cheetoolth. It rests lightly on his lap. The three men are stern. “Earlier,” Makee begins, “there was a dispute in my home.”

  “We’re sorry,” I cry. “It was a misunderstanding, and it won’t happen again.”

  My husband ignores my words. “Yes, there was a dispute—about how my wife is being overworked.”

  “I’m not overworked,” I say. “Sorry, Makee. There’s no problem.”

  “Yes, there is a problem,” my husband says. “She’s not your slave. She can’t be performing menial tasks for you. She has other obligations.”

  To my surprise, Makee gives a short nod. “I understand. She’s your wife. But you hurt that girl.”

  “She’s fine. She walked out of the house. I saw her.”

  “She’s hurt. I saw bruises on her arms.” His spine stiffens. “She refuses to come back. Everyone is distressed. And for what? Why didn’t you come to me first? We could have worked on a resolution.”

  “I told you both. There’s no problem,” I cry. “I can do whatever my husband wants—and whatever you need, Makee. There’s plenty of time in the day.”

  Makee addresses me as though my husband is not here. “This is what I was trying to tell you. Whenever there are too many babathid around, the smallest feather transforms into the heaviest and most immoveable of rocks. Always.”

  “Makee—I’m sorry.” I don’t dare look at my husband.

  “Did he tell you about the hut in the forest?”

  Heat floods my face. “It’s a mistake. Please—give us another chance.”

  “How many chances should I give? Tall mountains are built of many small rocks. The tragedy is already taking shape. I have a responsibility to my people.”

  “What are you saying?” my husband spits. “Speak clearly—all this talk of mountains and tragedy and responsibility—nonsense. What do you want?”

  A gust of wind scatters drops of water on the roof that sound like soup on a slow boil.

  “Tell me,” says Makee coldly, “what is sacred to a Russian?”

  I fear Nikolai Isaakovich’s answer. I blurt, “God. God is sacred.”

  “The Tsar,” says my husband as though I haven’t spoken. “The Tsar and everything he stands for is sacred.”

  Makee presses his lips together and repositions the cheetoolth. When he raises his head again, he says quietly, “There is another village. They will take you.”

  “What do you mean?” I cry. “We want to stay here.”

  “You can stay here,” Makee says, “but the commander must go.”

  “No!” I beg. “Makee, please!”

  “I will slay the man who tries to separate me from my wife,” my husband declares. He raises his elbows and clenches his fists. He takes a step toward Makee and holds his ridiculous stance.

  I pull his arm down. “No, Kolya. Don’t.” He jerks his arm away.

  Makee remains calm. He knows Nikolai Isaakovich’s blustering will come to nothing. “There is no choice. We have decided.”

  The three old men watch. Their eyes dart from corner to corner of our little triangle. They can’t know what’s being said, but they certainly understand it.

  “Then I want to go too,” I say. I don’t. But Makee’s edict forces me to say I do.

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?” my husband demands.

  “They won’t accept more than one babathid.” He sighs. “Please go peacefully. I will try to bring you back together again—either there or here. But now it will take time. And it won’t be possible if you keep fighting and causing trouble.”

  “In the name of the Tsar Alexander and the Russian Empire, I won’t go!” my husband screams. “You hear me, Poppy Seed? You can’t make me do anything! I’m in charge. Come on, Anya. We’re finished here.”

  He tugs my arm so roughly that my teeth snap together. He drags me outside.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Have you gone mad?” I say. I reach for my silver cross, but it’s gone. How long it’s been gone, I can’t say. Where I lost it, I don’t know. I lay my hand against my heart, feeling the shape of absence. Where will it turn up? Who will find it? Whoever it is must not forget that the fate attached to lost necklaces found in the forest was determined long ago.

  * * *

  40Stop!

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “What are you crying about?” Timofei Osipovich scolds mildly. “He’ll be back.”

  We’re perched on the southernmost point within sight of Makee’s village. The canoe carrying my husband—and fifteen other men and two women—disappeared in the mist a long time and a short time ago. I watched them transform from a rocking cradle of paddlers and singers to a silent, dark cylinder magically suspended against a grey background, to nothing when they slipped behind the dreary curtain.

  My husband didn’t look back but if he had, he would have seen me waving my arm until it ached like it was about to snap off. When I could no longer see them, I collapsed and landed on a sharp stone, but that wasn’t what made me weep. I cried for my abandonment, for once again losing my husband. I imagined my tears channelled into a stream that ran to the sea. Salt to salt. If only I could have slid over the rocks and disappeared, too.

  Timofei Osipovich found me curled up, with my head pillowed on a cold stone. The shroud of grey mist was the only thing that refused to leave me.

  “Go away,” I say.

  “Go away? And leave a lady in distress? The damage would stain my reputation.”

  “Your reputation is well known, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  He laughs. “Ah, you must be feeling better.”

  I watch the sea. The water moves gently like the ocean is breathing. Like it’s an animal waiting patiently for something that no one could ever guess.

  “He’ll be back.”

  “Stop trying to cheer me up.” I know I sound like a child, and I wish I didn’t, but once he starts, I cannot suppress the words, cannot alter my tone.

  “The sea will bring him back to you. One day soon, he’ll float back here, and a strong wave will toss him into your waiting arms. It’s inevitable—for it is impossible for a man to live without the sun, and equally impossible for him to live without his beloved!”

  “Who sent you here?”

  He grins again. “Your toyon is looking for you. And those slave girls you’ve b
efriended.”

  “Will you never stop?”

  “Those girls have something to show you. A new trinket. Perhaps a jewelled locket. Maybe a scrap of white lace for your bonnet.”

  I lift my head, jump to my feet, and make for the path that leads to the village. His mockery follows me. “Or a bonbon from Paris. A satin ribbon for your neck? Maybe one of them has received an engagement ring. Maybe a golden—” until thankfully the wind carries away his voice and his silly sing-song chant fades to nothing.

  Of course, no one is looking for me. Timofei Osipovich’s tale was a fabrication, but if he meant it only to get me to return to the house and stop pitying myself, then perhaps, grudgingly, I must give him credit.

  With the improvement in the weather, my thoughts go to the ship that will rescue us. Makee assures me one will come.

  “They often stop at Mokwinna’s village first. He has a reputation. Sometimes, if they find what they want, then they leave, and we never see them. They go straight to China to sell the furs.”

  “Can’t we send a message to Mokwinna?”

  Makee smiles. “We must never dream of it. Did you forget? He wouldn’t let Too-te-yoo-hannis Yoo-ett go—remember the American I told you about? I had to get him released. It’s better we say nothing to Mokwinna because once he’s involved, your rescue will become more complicated.”

  “Is there no other way?”

  “Be patient, Anna. You will get home.”

  One evening, as I’m eating with Timofei Osipovich and Ovchinnikov, I say, “I think a ship will come soon.”

  “Ha!” Timofei Osipovich cries. “Ships are out there every day.”

  “They are?”

  “Indeed they are.” A frown flits across the loyal Ovchinnikov’s face and disappears so fast I almost wonder if it was ever there.

  “Then why doesn’t anybody see them? Why aren’t they coming here?”

  “Who knows? Perhaps there’s no reason to stop here.”

  “What about trade?” I say. “Or maybe to look for us.”

  “Madame Bulygina,” he says, his mouth half full of fish. “If you want a ship so badly, you better build one.”

  “Just like the hut you built?”

  “No,” he says dismissively, “I’m talking about a grand enterprise like in Petropavlovsk. Just think of the ships you could build!”

  “I don’t want to build a ship.”

  “You don’t? Aren’t you Russian? Have you no spirit?”

  “Since you’re so spirited, why don’t you build it?”

  “I just might.”

  “Have you ever built a ship before?”

  “No! But neither have I been invited to the Tsarina’s chambers for a private visit. Nor have I ever stumbled upon a cache of gold coins big enough to feed me on cream and jam until I die. But naturally I dream about such things.”

  Ovchinnikov laughs.

  I say, “You’re mad. You dream too much.”

  “And you, Madame Bulygina, don’t dream enough. Imagine this,” he says. “The koliuzhi cut down the trees. They make planks and beams and masts—whatever we need. Then I show them how to assemble it. And they build it. They can build one of their own while they’re at it!” He grins.

  “Why should they listen to you? They already have their own boats. They don’t need Russian ships.”

  He looks at me like I’m the insane one. “They certainly do.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “The toyons want everything we have to offer. They’re smart. They’re thinking about the future.”

  That evening, when I go out to relieve myself one last time, I walk down to the beach where the trees won’t obstruct my view. It’s the first time since finding out about Main Rigger Sobachnikov’s passing that I’ve felt like looking at the stars.

  The sky is clear, and the moon is waning. There’s my Polaris, everlasting and strong. Who has depended on her since I last cast my gaze upon her? Countless men, I imagine. Traders, explorers, and wanderers of all sorts.

  To her side lies Draco the dragon, dim as ever. With one finger, I trace his long back bent like the keel of a ship. My imagination must be spurred on by my longing. For next I see Polaris not as the tip of Ursa Minor’s tail, but as the top of the mast to Draco’s keel.

  There was a ship constellation, the Argo Navis, but half a century ago, Monsieur Nicolas-Louis de Lacaille dismantled it because he thought it took up too much of the sky. He divided it into three constellations: the Keel, the Sails, and the Stern. And then he went on to name the Compass, the Clock, and even the Telescope. I’ve seen none of them—they’re all in the southern hemisphere. Long ago, I pledged to see them myself and, one day, I will.

  Without the Argo Navis, the night sky needs a ship. Has any astronomer thought to look for it in the northern hemisphere? How natural that Polaris, the Ship Star, would be part of it. How perfect that she would be the point around which the vessel’s path would revolve. Such a ship would always come back to where it started. It would always get home.

  How I wish my father were here. He appreciates thoughts like this, and the discussions they spur on. He might tell me that my imagination had run amok or point out the flaws in my discovery. I know they’re there. He might say that even if the academy could ever be convinced to support my claim, the authorities at the French Royal Academy might not view it so favourably. I would know that what he really meant was that he was proud that here, in the land of the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts, a possible new constellation had just been named—by his daughter.

  Dressed magnificently, the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts board the canoes. They wear clothing of fur and hide and cedar bark, much of it clattering with korolki and shells. Their dresses and robes ripple as they move, bringing to life the designs of animals and people that are woven into or painted onto their clothes. Their necks and arms are adorned with jewellery. Hats perch on men’s heads, those men’s faces, arms, and chests painted red and black. We’re going to celebrate a marriage—so Makee informed me yesterday.

  Makee has a freshly brushed sea otter cape draped over his shoulders. Timofei Osipovich sits just in front of him. He’s tied back his hair with a sinew, and it hangs nearly to the middle of his back. He must have tried to trim his beard with a shell knife; it looks less disorderly than it did yesterday.

  The Aleuts and Kozma Ovchinnikov are in the same canoe as me. Ovchinnikov’s followed his master’s lead and also done something with his hair and beard. I can almost see his eyes now. He and the Aleuts have paddles.

  Inessa and the other girl wave from shore. They’re staying home—as are some of the older people, three new mothers and their babies, and a cluster of young men who are already strutting about the beach like roosters. They’ll watch over the village while we’re gone. One of them is the man with the scar on his chest. He’s watching Inessa wave at me.

  A few days ago, when Makee told me about the wedding—and that I was to attend—he also told me I’d be given a new dress. When I later took the garment from his wife, it was much lighter than I expected. It draped over my arm like it was made of fine linen. It was much more delicate than the cedar robe I had to wear when I washed my clothing. Still, if anybody had told me in Petersburg that I’d one day own a dress made of bark, I would have thought her words in jest. I smiled. “Oo-shuk-yu—” I hesitated because I’d forgotten half the word. Enunciating each syllable, she said, “Oo-shoo-yuksh-uhlits.” I thought that one day I’d get the entire word out without help.

  Would my husband be irritated when he saw me in my dress? Probably. But it made no sense to refuse. I’d been wearing the same clothing for several months now. The cuffs, collar, and hem were stained and shredded. The seams had all come apart and been stitched back together. There were tears where I’d caught my sleeve or hem on branches while I was working. I repaired my clothes as often as needed, but the fabric was so thin and had torn so often that, in places, my clothes were held together by mending and nothing more.

&nbs
p; Besides, I now found the cedar dresses, with their fringes and the patterns woven into them, to be quite pretty.

  Inessa and the other girl helped me dress. They showed me where the robe should sit on my shoulders and they tied a belt around my waist to hold the dress in place. Inessa patiently untangled my hair and fixed it in a single braid that trailed down my back just like hers. I felt nearly unclothed without my chemise, and with my limbs so exposed. My cedar cape would keep my shoulders covered and assure some modesty.

  They circled me when they were finished, tucking in the dress where it protruded, and my own stray hairs. The only mirror I had was their faces. My doubt was alleviated for what I saw reflected back surprised and pleased me.

  Once the canoes leave the shelter of our cove, the waves lift us like we’re in a basket and set us down again on the other side. However, this canoe is so solid and heavy, it never feels like it will capsize. I sit still and low in the boat where the wind can’t reach, and I listen to the songs that carry us with the current.

  We pass the stacks and stumps with their fringe of trees, and the open arms of beaches. Gulls follow us then veer back toward the shore. A compact black bird shaped like a Chinese teapot floats in groups farther out to sea. On a pan of rocks, at the base of a stack, seals bask. They raise their heads and look, but as far away as we are, they deem us unworthy of their attention, much less important than the sun.

  The ocean opens on our other side to a kind of eternity that’s as timeless as the night sky, and, on a day like today, just as beautiful.

  For a long time and a short time, we continue until finally, barely visible, a thread of smoke rises straight through the tops of the trees. The canoes turn toward it, toward the mouth of a river that will lead to it.

  This is the Quileutes’ village. Where I last saw Maria.

  Beneath the cries of the seabirds, the faint sound of drumming rises, thin as that wisp of smoke. As we draw closer to shore and it grows louder, the paddles begin to dip and pull to match its rhythm. Finally, we’re near enough to see the faces of the people waiting on the beach.