I look at the blanket. It’s white and has lines of blue and black trim running through it. There’s a pretty fringe along the edges. I’ve never seen it before. The eyebrow man tries to snatch it, but my husband turns his shoulder to the man and pulls it away.
“Where did you get it?”
“She gave it to me,” he cries, and points at the crying bride.
“What happened to our old blanket?”
“Nothing happened to our old blanket. But it’s old. It’s worn out. We need a new one.”
I look at the bride, leaning into the women, and sobbing. “But I think it’s her blanket.”
“Whose side are you on?” he spits. “I asked her. I told her I needed the blanket. For you. In your condition. She has lots of blankets.”
“Kolya—no,” I cry.
There’s been a terrible misunderstanding. Obviously, she has lots of blankets. She just married. The blanket’s a wedding present. Maybe it’s part of her dowry.
“She said yes,” he insists.
“She didn’t understand.”
“We need a new blanket. They have to give us a new blanket.”
He’s got to give it back. “Kolya—I don’t need a new blanket. I’m fine.”
He looks as if I’ve slapped him. “Well, what about the baby then? Are you thinking about the baby?”
I haven’t stopped thinking about the baby. Not for one second.
“Kolya, please. Give her back the blanket.”
The men have backed off, but they’re watching every move. The eyebrow man is breathing heavily. He’s coiled and could spring with the least provocation.
“Kolya!” I cry harshly.
He drops the blanket, and it flops into the dirt. “I did it for you, Anya,” he cries. “For you and the baby.” He pushes his way out of the circle and disappears down the trail into the forest.
It’s dark now. I haven’t seen my husband or the promyshlenniki since this afternoon’s disaster. The bride took her blanket from the dirt and disappeared into the house, with the other women trailing behind her. I ran back into the forest, swept up in another wave of nausea. I vomited again and sat on an old log for a long time.
When I finally dared to venture back to the houses, I looked for my husband. I could find no sign of him, but also no sign of old Kurmachev or John Williams. I thought this was hopeful. Perhaps everything had blown over. Perhaps they’d gone to work.
As the hours passed, my theory made less sense. And now it’s far too dark for anybody to be working. Where could they have gone? The house is subdued. As I sit in my usual place, people glance over at me, then look away.
The evening meal is served. There are two chunks of fish and some tiny roasted roots. I feel hungry for the first time today. The roots are fibrous, and their edges are charred. They’re bitter, but I find that taste appealing.
I eat all I can and still my husband and the promyshlenniki haven’t returned. When everyone settles for the night, Nikolai Isaakovich is still not back. If only I knew a few words in the Quileute’s language. If I knew how to say, “where,” and “husband,”that would be enough. What words might appear in their answers? I’d need to know those as well. Fine—maybe. Coming back—likely. Home soon—that’s what I’d like to hear.
I go to our mat and curl into a ball trying to warm up before I fall asleep. I clutch the old blanket, the good-enough old blanket around my throat and close my eyes. The fire whines, then pops and exhales.
A crowd has gathered on the beach. Three canoes with long silver trails are heading for shore. Is it Nikolai Isaakovich and the others returning? I throw aside the firewood I’m carrying and run to the beach.
The first canoe pulls up to shore. He’s not in it. But it’s loaded. There are baskets, boxes, bladders, and packages wrapped in leaves and branches. The Quileutes begin unloading the cargo. My husband is not in the second canoe either. But the American is. His red hair always makes it easy to identify him, even from a distance. As the canoe lands, he wraps his arms around a box that, from the way he lifts it, must be full. He wades through the water bringing the box to shore.
I look to the third canoe. He’s not there either. But one of the koliuzhi men is wearing a black-green greatcoat with no buttons. It droops off his shoulders.
“Where’s my husband?” I cry to John Williams.
He squirms and shifts the heavy box. “Alas—”
“He’s dead?”
“No, no, no,” drawls the American. “He’s alive—God willing.”
The carpenter Kurmachev has climbed out of the third canoe. He pushes through the surf toward us. “Madame Bulygina—the koliuzhi took him away.” He pants like he’s been climbing mountains.
“Where?”
“We went north.”
“Why?”
The American’s box is carved and painted. The shells set into the wood glitter like chips of ice. The face on my side has sharp teeth and a heavy brow. “We don’t know,” he says in his flat voice. “It was many versts from here—on a huge sandy beach. Some other koliuzhi were waiting for us.”
“Is he hurt?”
Kurmachev says, “No one’s hurt. The koliuzhi gave us these things.” He nods to indicate the box and all the other goods being ferried up the beach. “And they took away the commander.”
“It was a trade,” the American says.
I look from the face of one to the face of another. I hope to see something I’ve missed—an explanation, some qualification—he’s coming back, isn’t he? I find only what their words stated. My husband is gone—again.
“They kept his coat,” John Williams adds.
“Madame Bulygina?” Kurmachev says, and he reaches his tired old hand toward me.
“Leave me alone,” I say, and I brush him aside, knowing, even as I say the word, that alone is exactly what I am, and I certainly don’t need to ask for it.
* * *
41Wow! Come with me. Here’s something to make hearts glad. We will be gut-full tonight. C’mon. Let’s go, everybody.
42How about this! I told you this was great.
43Here, poor little sick one. This will help you with the vomiting and make a strong baby.
44You’re doing fine. You can make this.
45It’s not hard from this point on. It’s easy from here.
46Oh, the great Land, help me harvest some of your plentiful cedar bark.
47Her face is so pale.
48Well, of course!
49Are you okay?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As the night noises of the house diminish, I try to understand my husband. I can’t discount his intentions, his concern for me and our child. But has he learned nothing in the months since we’ve been living with the koliuzhi? Sometimes he exhausts me. He’s enlightened, yes, but when it comes to the koliuzhi, he’s senseless. Some block stands in the way of his understanding of our situation and the people who’ve taken us in. Would he, in Petersburg, open the cupboard doors in a home to which he’d been invited, help himself to the contents—and be angry when the hostess objected? Does he think so little of the koliuzhi that he believes such outrageous behaviour would be acceptable here?
Now what will I do? I need him. Without Makee, without Timofei Osipovich, there is no one I can ask to bring him back. To take me to him.
The months ahead stretch out like a serpent in the grass. I pray that a ship will arrive soon. And if it doesn’t? I’ll be the mother of a new baby here. Who will be the nurse? The women here nurse their own children. Can I? What do babies do all day? What if mine cries all the time? The koliuzhi will help me—won’t they?
What if they hate my baby? And what if it gets sick? What if the baby is born sick?
How will I ever work? Without a mother, a sister, who will take care of my baby while I’m away? Will I be one of those women forced to juggle my child and basket over the fallen logs and buckled tree roots as I follow trails that lead to where I must collect shellfish or cut sh
oots or separate bark? Those women move like ancient tortoises, slow, deliberate, indifferent to their burdens. Will the moustached toyon lower his expectations of me?
I fold my hands across my belly. The fire whistles and pops. Smoke hovers over the mat.
Maybe the baby won’t be born here. Surely a ship will arrive first. The season is right. We could be home in Novo-Arkhangelsk long before the birth.
That fills me with an equal measure of dread. For who will help me there? The promyshlenniki? And what if the baby is born on the ship? At least the koliuzhi houses are filled with women like me, women older than me, and girls younger than me, all eager to wrap their arms around the new babies, to shower kisses and caresses on the children.
Without my husband, my nausea grows worse and when it does, I go to the sea. Cold ocean air makes me forget my queasiness. It has a quality that contradicts its physical form. It feels dense and pliant, as though you could cup your hands around it and shape it into something you could keep in your pocket. It feels strong, and yet I know its physical properties. It’s nothing.
I’m on the beach, near the place where the river and sea meet, seeking respite in that air when I hear my name.
“Ahda!” A man’s voice surfaces through the air and finds me.
It’s Holpokit. He’s walking from the houses toward me, waving his arm to catch my attention. A woman is with him.
The stones that lie high up the beach crunch as they cross over. Their faint voices grow stronger as they come closer. Holpokit beams.
But I’m hardly conscious of him. It’s the woman who’s attracted all my attention.
Koliuzhi Klara.
She wears a cedar dress so new that it blouses around the belt. Her hair’s been cut. It now falls to her shoulders, barely long enough to tie back. One stubborn strand whips across her face. She’s wearing soft brown shoes made of animal hide. When they arrive, she smirks and says, “Wacush.”
I attempt my own smirk. “Wacush,” I answer back. She laughs.
“What are you doing here?” I say. She should be with the Tsar and the Chalats. And Maria.
“Ahda,” she says, and then begins to speak. When she’s finished, I smile, but she’s knows I haven’t understood anything.
Holpokit says, “Kitaxásdo, wiwisaťsόpat. Tixwalísdowálo lobáa.”50 Then, he turns and heads back toward the houses. After he takes a few steps, Koliuzhi Klara grabs my arm and pulls. “Where are we going?”
She says something, and it’s not “wacush.” I go with her.
Digging roots is as repetitive as hauling water and collecting firewood. Squatting on the damp earth with a slender tool, I work my way across meadows in the pale sunshine of early summer, overturning lumps of soil. Despite having the digging tool, I follow the ways of Koliuzhi Klara and the other women and finish extracting each root with my fingers. Dirt lodges beneath my fingernails and when they split, I return to the digging tool. By midday, it’s already hot. The grass sways and the insects buzz and the air doesn’t move. The glare off the bright green meadow makes me long for the sombre shade of the forest. The baskets fill slowly.
The roots we dig are from the same brown lilies that grew all around my house in Novo-Arkhangelsk last summer. Their heads nodded so beguilingly in the breeze that blew onshore, and I tried to encourage their growth, pulling back the weeds that grew over them, adding a cup of water when the earth seemed dry—though that wasn’t often, thanks to the rain. Their season seemed so short.
I hadn’t known the roots were edible. If I had, we’d have been eating them. I could have put them in my piroshki. They’re white clusters smaller than the Spanish potatoes I ate at Makee’s and they break apart into little fragments like the dough of pastry.
While we’re in the meadow, we dig another root as well. Koliuzhi Klara shows me a plant with long roots that are thin and straight, like nails that have been hammered into the earth. They take much longer to dig out.
As she’s showing me, a little girl jumps all over her, playing with her hair, tickling her, stealing her tools, until Koliuzhi Klara leaps at her with a roar, trying to grab her. The girl dashes away with a squeal. But she returns a few moments later and helps dig up the long roots. She flicks the freshly dug earth at Koliuzhi Klara, making sure each handful stops just short of hitting her. Koliuzhi Klara ignores her.
Back at the houses, we wash the roots and lay them in firepits for a long time and a short time. As they roast, they give off a nutty aroma that renews my nausea. I go away from the firepit to where some children are playing.
They sit in a circle around a heap of fern fronds. A boy inhales deeply then picks up one of the ferns. He says, “Pila,” and pulls one leaf from the frond. “Pila,” he says again, and plucks another leaf. “Pila. Pila. Pila,” he repeats, pulling off one leaf each time he says the word. The children lean in and count as he plucks. When he finishes one frond, he picks up another. When he’s running out of breath, his plucking grows furious. “Pila. Pila. Pila!” he gasps. He throws what’s left of the frond down and falls backward, gulping in mouthfuls of air. The children cheer and laugh, then recount the leaves he’s torn off. I try to keep up. I think they reach forty-seven.
Next, a little girl gets a turn. It’s the same girl who was digging roots with me—the one who jumped all over Koliuzhi Klara. “Pila. Pila. Pila. Pila,” she cries, wisely keeping her voice soft and her head down. Her fingers fly, and the leaves collect in front of her. “Pila. Pila. Pila,” she continues. The pile grows. The boy whose turn is finished leads the count. Finally, she gasps her last “pila,” and with a flourish, throws down the nearly bare stem.
Fifty-two.
The children cheer. The boy leaps up.
“Wacush!” I blurt. The children turn, some surprised to see me. They laugh and tease the girl. The boy holds out a frond to me.
They make room for me in the circle. I sit and look over the heap of fronds. I smile. Perhaps one is my mother’s fiery fern. She’d be disappointed, I think, to discover that her rare and divine fern did not require a journey across the thrice ninth land, but was so easy to find and pick, it was part of a children’s game, and that they treated it no differently than any other fern frond.
I choose one and slide it from the pile. I twirl it in my fingers. It will do.
Finally, I inhale, and I pluck a leaf. “Pila,” I say. And I pluck and pluck, quietly repeating, “Pila. Pila. Pila.” When I think I won’t be able to go another second without breathing, I cry my last “pila” and throw down all that’s left of my frond.
Twenty-nine.
“Wacush,” says the girl and everyone laughs.
When evening comes, and the meal is ready, I’m still repelled by the smell of the roasted roots, so I offer my share to the carpenter Kurmachev.
He divides it in two, and tosses some to the American.
“You’ve taken the biggest serving for yourself,” cries John Williams.
“What are you talking about? I have not.”
“Yes you did—you swine!”
“I did not! Madame Bulygina—you saw, didn’t you?”
“Hush,” I say, before their voices grow any louder. “There’s enough for both of you. Stop behaving like children.”
Before there can be any further debate, Kurmachev pops all his roots into his mouth and chews. The nutty aroma wafts over, and I turn away.
When I do, I find Koliuzhi Klara watching us. She’s kneeled before the tray she shares with the others. Her eyes flit from me to Kurmachev to John Williams. They stay there. Focused on the American. She stares for so long that, if he was aware of it, he’d be uncomfortable. She’s not yet become accustomed to his red hair, or his pale eyes and skin. No one has.
John Williams runs his fingers around the section of the tray in front of him, picking up whatever fragments of fish are left. He chews while he goes back again in case he missed something. He’s blind to Koliuzhi Klara’s intense scrutiny.
Then the little girl po
ps up out of nowhere, and with a shriek, leaps on Koliuzhi Klara. Koliuzhi Klara cries out and reaches for the tray to steady it and prevent it from spilling. The girl rolls to the ground, then curls into and presses her body tight against Koliuzhi Klara, who looks bemused. She finally nudges the girl away—but not far away—and only then she begins eating.
Jumpy and doe-eyed, the little girl is just like a rabbit. I name her Zaika.
Koliuzhi Klara comes for me after the morning meal. She has no baskets or tools. We head toward the sea, accompanied by five young women, all carrying paddles. The women chatter as we head toward the canoes.
Two young men are already there. They give paddles to Koliuzhi Klara and me.
We push our canoe out to sea. The bow points down the coast. We are heading south.
In Petersburg, I once rowed a little boat across a pond in the park. I pestered my father until he relented and allowed me. My parents sat at the stern, my father instructing me to keep us on course. “Pull on the right. More. Now straight ahead. Hard.” I didn’t dip one oar deep enough and it skimmed the surface. Water sprayed my parents. “Anya!” they shrieked, and we all laughed.
But I’ve never paddled anything before. I dip the blade into the water and pull. We push against the waves that break on the beach and try to force us back. I try to time my stroke to match that of Koliuzhi Klara, but she’s fast. We pass the headland and on the other side lies a long sandy beach and more rocks. It takes a long time and a short time before we arrive at an island I’ve never seen before.
It’s much bigger than it looked when we were approaching. The helmsman steers toward a shelf on the inland side where the water is calmer, the waves are not breaking, and we can pull up the canoe. We all climb out.
The gulls shriek. Their yellow beaks are fiery slashes against the grey sky. They dive at us. Some women bend their arms to protect their heads. The gulls are so close, I hear the huff-huff-huff of their beating wings and feel the air they stir against my cheek.
Anna, Like Thunder Page 29