Anna, Like Thunder

by Peggy Herring

I turn away from them and pick from another bush. I keep my head down and tread softly. I don’t want them to know anybody’s spotted them. I pick and pick without looking behind. The signs have been there all along. I’ve been slow to see the truth. I’d told myself that his red hair and pale skin were the only reasons anybody here would stare at him, and I thought giving him the gull egg was simple kindness. But I knew in my heart that there was nothing simple about it.

  She’s so preoccupied with him, and he with her. I have no time to think about that. Putting aside their feelings, the possibilities and impossibilities, I see they’ve presented me with a chance. I take two steps back. Three more. They’re not coming. They’re not calling. No one is. I edge farther away until all the berry bushes are behind me. I pause at the lip of a slight depression, set down my basket, and slip over the edge.

  I’m going to find my husband.

  I try to keep my step light as I run through this vale. I climb the other side of the depression and head straight. I aim to find a path. And if I’m lucky, it’ll be a path that leads to the sea. From there, I need only turn right to go north.

  I can’t think beyond that.

  I stumble upon an old, rutted trail. Judging by the overgrown branches, it’s rarely used. I hope I’m not misreading the thick brush. If the trail’s been abandoned for long, it may lead nowhere, and I may get lost. Ahead, the thick undergrowth ripples in a slight breeze. I choose to take my chances with the trail.

  The minutes slip away. Have they noticed I’m missing? Are the watchmen looking for me? Has anybody run back to the village to alert the others? I force myself to go faster. I must get as far away as I can before they notice.

  Finally, my overgrown path meets another. This new path is wide and clear. I run. I step on a branch and it cracks. The sound echoes off the trees. I stop—but there’s nothing more.

  Off to the side, the forest thins a little. I see sunlight. I head toward it.

  I find a clearing, scented with an indescribable perfume, blanketed with wildflowers. There are the purple ones whose roots we eat. There are the tiny pale clusters of blossoms at the top of fragile stems, looking like candlesticks. There are the starry white ones with butter and sunshine in their centres. They lead my eye around as I find shapes and see the constellations they form.

  But I’ve no time. I plunge back into the forest.

  Using the light and shadows to guide me, I try to head in the same direction. At times, I’m blocked by the land or a fallen tree or one of countless streams. The little creeks are as tangled up as yarn, and I wish I could give one end a good, strong tug and turn them into a single long, powerful river. The kind of river that leads to the ocean.

  As dusk approaches, I hear running water. I head toward it and find a fast-flowing creek. The water is glossy where it curls around the logs and rocks. It flows to my right. This is it—my path to the coast.

  A shadow falls across the little stream.

  One of the guards? A bear? My mother’s leshii?

  No.

  Koliuzhi Klara on the opposite bank. Alone.

  It’s over. I’m going back. “Please,” I say. “I just want to be with my husband.”

  She smiles. Her eyes glitter. “Wacush,” she says. She raises her head and swivels away. She merges into the shadows of the forest.

  In a moment, I don’t hear her at all.

  * * *

  50Come on, ladies. We have to get home.

  51There are so many gull eggs! Hurry!

  52We are playing hide and seek. It means that you run and hide, and I look for you.

  53That’s not a rock dolly. Where did you get it? I like it! NOTE: Traditional Quileute dolls are made of thin, round, flat beach rocks. Eyes, a nose, and a mouth are scratched on that face. The dolls wear dresses of woven cedar bark.

  54I misled you to make you laugh. My heart is sick.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I shelter under a low overhang at the foot of a cliff. I pull my knees up to my chin and wait for sleep to come. Mosquitoes pester me and some bite before I’m able to swat them away. I try not to think too much about what I’m doing. What matters is that I’ll soon be back with Nikolai Isaakovich.

  The night air sags with moisture, but the ledge above prevents it from settling on me. In a few hours, before the sun rises and erases the stars, I’ll leave. Polaris will point me in the right direction. When she fades away, I’ll find a stream, and eventually, following Polaris by night and water by day, I will reach the ocean. From there, I’ll go north until I find him.

  Is my child cold? I hum one of my mother’s lullabies, one about a crying duck, careful to keep my voice low in case the Quileutes are looking for me. I don’t know why Koliuzhi Klara let me go—whether it was pity or kindness or whether her own new feelings guided her decision—but I will remain indebted to her for all my life. I drift in and out of sleep, and then, when I think enough hours have passed, but the sky is still dark, I go back to the creek where I might get a better look at the sky.

  The trickling water seems louder in the dark. I take a drink, then look up. Mercifully there are no clouds.

  In a break in the treetops, through a hole that’s as round as the opening of a telescope, I spot Polaris. I stretch out my arm and I measure fist by fist as my father showed me, arriving at a number somewhere between forty-five and fifty. That’s my latitude. Then I line up Alpha Cassiopeia—the brightest star in the Queen of Ethiopia—with two branches sticking out high overhead, and I wait. When the star sinks out of alignment, I know I’m facing west.

  It’s difficult enough to walk in the dark, and even harder to walk along the riverbank. Shrubs with sharp branches compete with grasses and reeds for water and light. This is why so few koliuzhi trails follow the waterways. I walk a few sazhens into the trees where there’s less undergrowth. I can’t see the water any longer, but its sound is not far. It’s a friend who’s agreed to accompany me on my voyage. There’s no path, but there’s more space. Eventually, I’ll find a trail.

  Are the Quileutes looking for me? I wonder what Koliuzhi Klara told them. That she couldn’t find me? Would she be audacious enough to tell them that she saw me running away—in a southerly direction? If she gets caught in a lie, they’ll punish her. Should I go back to prevent that? What if she told them that I’d gone back to my people on a ship? Or that she’d seen a wolf or a bear dragging my corpse away to its den? My sudden return could make things worse for her.

  I must get much farther away, for her sake, too.

  When the sun starts to rise, I’m hungry. I snap off spruce buds as I go and eat them. I stop to pick some tiny scarlet berries that I recognize. They grow in a spray and pop like fish roe when I bite them. Only half are ripe, and I don’t have time to pick very many anyway. I must carry on. I scratch gum off a tree and chew as I walk, remembering the day I did the same thing with Inessa and the other girl.

  When the brig ran aground, and we first stepped into the forest, I had no notion there was anything here to eat. It was empty wilderness—nothing more. But the koliuzhi live in a kind of Eden with an abundance of berries, roots, mushrooms, and shoots. It has ponds and rivers stocked with fish, and an ocean full of seals, whales, halibut, clams, mussels—and more. Thanks to the koliuzhi—and the night sky, and the good sense my father nurtured in me—I know I can survive until I find my husband.

  When the mud is deep, and when I have to walk a long way to circumvent a heap of fallen trees, and when I come up against a stream too wide and deep to cross, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. Sometimes, I think I should turn back. Then the landscape changes, and my path grows easier, and every time, I decide I must not give up.

  Late this afternoon, a gorge that’s gradually grown deeper forces me farther into the forest, distant from any stream. I miss the company of the flowing water, but I must go where the land permits. When the light starts to fade, and I know evening is not far, I look up. The clouds are moving in.

  By the ti
me night falls, there’s no sense continuing. There’s no stream to follow. I can’t see the stars. I might be walking back to the Quileutes.

  I pray it doesn’t rain.

  I look for shelter. The land is flat, and there’s no overhang that I can hide under until the sky clears. I remember the boy in the game of Cache-Cache—the one who hid beneath a fallen log—and I try to locate a log of my own, one that’s big enough and dry underneath. When I see one that’s suitable, I crawl under and prepare for another night in the forest.

  I’m so exhausted I fall asleep right away. But mosquitoes wake me—and I decide to check the sky, but it’s even worse—so I crawl back under the log. I bend a bough toward me and wedge it into place, thinking it might deter some mosquitoes and maybe even keep my burrow warm. I don’t fall asleep again.

  In the early morning, I decide there’s no sense staying. Even if I don’t know exactly where I’m heading, at least walking will keep me warm, and eventually I will find another stream. If I’m lucky, the sky will clear and tonight I will have the stars to guide me once again.

  I stop to eat a few berries, but otherwise, I walk and walk, for a long time and a short time. Then I hear water. I follow the sound until I come across a slow-moving, murky creek. I walk downstream, along its mucky banks, until it widens, and the water is clear enough to drink. I gulp handfuls of it and head back into the forest.

  On a hump of land in a clearing, I find some leaves that I recognize. They’re pale green pliant bowls that grow low to the ground, each no bigger than a fingertip, and each one with a speck of a white flower in its centre. I pick the leaves as the koliuzhi taught me, pinching them from their stems so the roots remain intact, and when I have a handful, I eat them.

  I walk on. For a while I think the clouds are lifting. A few minutes later, I look again and find the grey as thick as yesterday.

  I’m far from water. Hours have passed since the murky stream and while it’s been muddy in places along my route, I’ve seen no other flowing water. The land starts to flatten; ahead, the forest canopy is a little lighter. I walk in that direction, pushing branches aside. And then I find the devastating sight of the log under which I spent last night and the bough I bent to close off my burrow. “What have I done now?” I whisper and hold my head in my hands. I’ve been walking all day, and here I am, back where I started.

  What is the sense of this? What foolishness made me think I could find my husband in this wilderness? I’m so lost, I couldn’t even go back.

  Then I hear the crunch of a rotten branch that’s been stepped on.

  They can’t have seen me—otherwise they’d be calling out. I lean into the fallen tree beside me. I put my hands on its moss-covered bark and creep down until I’m on my knees. Slowly, I lie down.

  When I’m as low as I can go, I try to look around. I keep my movements slow and slight. I listen so hard my head roars.

  Then a dry branch cracks right behind me. I leap up and turn around.

  It’s a wolf.

  Its eyes lock onto mine. Its nostrils flare, and its sides quiver. Its sharp ears point forward.

  Should I run? If I do, it will chase. Its legs are long, its paws huge saucers. It knows this place and I don’t. I wait for it to move. If it attacks, I’ll stand no chance. Go away, I urge the beast. There’s nothing here for you. I’m a girl looking for a trail to the sea. I mean you no harm.

  Its eyes are impossible to read.

  Let me go, I urge. Please. I just want to find my husband.

  It breaks off its stare. It turns its head and trots away.

  I exhale. I don’t move. I’ll wait until there’s enough distance between us. And then I must move far, far away from here. Any direction will do.

  When the wolf is only nine or ten paces away, it stops. It looks back.

  Keep going, I again urge. You have to keep going. Somewhere far from here you have unfinished wolf duties.

  It turns around and faces me again. It tilts its head and watches. Like it’s listening.

  Like Zhuchka.

  I nearly laugh. She held her head at exactly that angle when she wanted something. When she wanted me to follow.

  But that’s lunacy. This is not Zhuchka—it’s a wolf. I can’t follow a wolf into a forest. The old stories tell me everything I need to know about allowing a wolf to lead me into the forest. Those who have been foolish enough to follow wolves were eaten or doomed to another painful fate. Go away. I have no business with you.

  But it doesn’t go anywhere.

  So, I take a hesitant step forward. And when I do, the beast turns, and steps ahead. Should I run now? The wolf turns back and, again, watches me.

  What do you want? What do you want, my Madame Zhuchka?

  The wolf tilts its head.

  Warily, I step toward it. The wolf turns and also advances one step.

  I can hardly stop myself from fleeing but I’m equally scared to not follow. So, I decide to go against the old stories, to do what this Zhuchka seems to want, praying this creature is more Zhuchka and less wolf. Leaving a safe distance between us, I follow.

  The beast leads me through the imposing trees. It finds ways that are clear of the thorniest brush and the spongiest bog. It leads me along ridges, circumventing rocky, uneven ground. When we must cross a stream, the wolf finds a place where it’s shallow and calm. This is its land, and the creature knows it well. It never gets so far ahead that we become separated. When I fall behind, it waits patiently.

  As night reveals its face again, I’m exhausted and terrified. We’ve made unbelievable progress—much more than I ever could have made on my own. I’ve put so much trust in this wolf, but I still don’t really know what it wants. As the shadows grew, I began to wonder if I was making the biggest mistake of my life. Was this wolf leading me to its den? What other motive could it have?

  My mother’s friend Yelizaveta recounted a story told by a strange man at a party. A few years before, he’d attended a wedding and even though the host had properly assembled the requisite twelve-member wedding party, still some ritual had not been carried out properly, and the entire party was transformed into wolves. “The sources of human vice are idleness and superstition!” my father had cried. “You’re excelling at both.” He left the room. My mother quietly asked Yelizaveta to continue. The transformed wolves ran with the real wolves for seven years and over that time, one by one, they were killed and eaten because the real wolves could tell by their scent that they were really human. One man survived—the man Yelizaveta met. He’d always lie downwind from the pack so they could never smell his humanness. And after the seventh year, he returned to his village. The villagers were terrified and threw rocks and sticks to drive him away. But he persisted. Finally, somebody in his family thought it could be him and that he might have been enchanted. So, they left a heel of bread out for him. He ate it. And every night afterward, they left more bread, and every night he ate it all, until he’d eaten so much bread, his pelt opened like a cloak and fell from his shoulders and he transformed back into a person. All that remained of his years as a wolf was a long tuft of grey hair that grew on his chest and never went away.

  Yelizaveta swore the tale was true. At a dinner party, he’d told his story, then boldly unfastened his jacket and his shirt. He showed everyone in the room the tuft of grey hair. Until that moment, Yelizaveta herself had doubted.

  I was ten years old, and I didn’t believe her. My mother’s friend tended to embellish, and, besides, I agreed with my father. Her story was impossible. It was exactly the type of superstitious nattering that spread among the peasants, which the Tsar was so anxious to purge from our society. It had only been a couple of years since my illness and that strange blindess that had afflicted me. The visions of that night were still fresh. And my mother listened so earnestly I could tell that in her heart, she believed Yelizaveta.

  In this forest, where everything seems possible, I wonder if my mother heard something in Yelizaveta’s story that s
he’d caught and I’d missed.

  When it’s so dark that we can no longer see very well, the wolf stops. It’s dry, and the mosquitoes seem less numerous here. I sit with my back against a tree while the wolf curls next to a nearby log. We stay within sight and watch each other. When sleep overcomes the creature and it settles its head on its paws, I allow my own eyes to close. Just for a minute I tell myself. One minute is all.

  When the birds wake me in the morning I’m astonished to find myself alive. The wolf sits by its log and watches me. It’s been waiting for me to wake up.

  Good morning. Where are you taking me today?

  The wolf’s ears are cocked. Very carefully I walk away and relieve myself without taking my eyes off it. Its ears twitch at the sound of my water hitting the earth.

  When I’ve risen, it trots ahead, and, having little choice, I follow.

  We stop to drink from streams but otherwise continue for a long time and a short time. Then, just ahead, I see expansive light and wonder if we’re near the sea. I don’t smell salt water, but this amount of bright light is unusual.

  When we emerge through the trees, we come upon a huge lake. It’s the biggest lake I’ve seen in the koliuzhi territory. The wolf trots to its edge and wades in. It laps at the water. I walk across the spongy ground until I’m a short distance down the shore. I hear the plop of a frog, but it’s gone before I see it. Water ripples out in rings marking the place where it vanished. I splash cool water on my face and neck and arms. I drizzle some on my head. I hear the krya-krya of a duck; a flock bobs near shore. I’m surprised the wolf pays it no attention—Zhuchka would have been off on a chase—but this creature’s only waiting for me.

  You’ve missed your chance for a big breakfast. I wouldn’t have stopped you.

  The shore of the lake is too boggy and overgrown to follow, so the wolf leads me back into the trees. Still, I’m sure, from the marshy smell, that the lake’s not far. The path the wolf chooses is flat and only slightly moist, so we cover much distance. The sky remains grey throughout though I sense that it’s lightening and perhaps by tonight, I’ll be able to find Polaris again.