The Great Alone

by Janet Dailey

  Taking the first watch, Luka sat with his arms folded around the musket and studied the darkened landscape from his vantage point halfway up the mound. Below him, the firelight flickered, and he listened to the first snores of sleeping men. The sea glistened, ridged with whitecaps, and the wind ran through the grasses, the sound accompanying the rush of the waves. Occasionally he heard the flapping wings of some night bird or the strange laughing calls of the storm petrel.

  Overhead, the clouds parted to give him a glimpse of the brilliant dusting of stars in the sky. He sat in silence—his mind turned inward to those private thoughts that come to a man alone. At twenty-eight those thoughts had molded him and made an inner world filled with visions and dreams of tomorrow. His mind wandered, recalling disconnected things—the song of the wind in the shitik’s sails, the sizzle of a snowflake on hot ash, the warmth of the long summer sun—and the sound of that native woman’s voice lifted in alarm.

  He shifted position, briefly irritated by the thought, then pondered its cause. He felt the loneliness surrounding him and guessed that it was natural for the thoughts of a man alone to turn to a woman. He saw her again in his mind and wondered why that image remained with him.

  He’d slept with native women before, giving release to the hot urges inside him and some of the hatred, too. He knew no other kind of women, except his mother, who was a dim memory of someone soft and warm. Soft. There was nothing soft in his life now except for furs—the deep, shining darkness of sea otter pelts. That was the softness he sought now.

  In the morning, they spotted the shitik, moving under half sail near the mouth of the bay, and signaled for the boat. They waited on the beach with the filled water casks as the dinghy was rowed to shore and nosed aground on the sand. The barrels were quickly loaded and Shekhurdin climbed aboard. Luka and two others shoved the boat off the sand, then waded ashore to wait for the boat to return with additional men. Shekhurdin intended to capture the natives they’d seen.

  A misting rain fell, driven by the wind. Luka checked the powder in his musket pan to make sure it was still dry and sat with the others on the sand to watch and wait. There was nowhere to seek shelter from the miserable weather on this exposed stretch of beach—no shielding trees anywhere on the island, nor any rocky windbreak—so they endured in silence. In the bay, Luka spotted a sea otter floating on its back and feasting leisurely on a shellfish held between its paws. He smiled the smile of a cat that watches the mouse at play, knowing how short-lived its freedom will be.

  Within an hour, the dinghy loaded with promyshleniki headed back toward the beach. Luka scanned the boat’s occupants and located Shekhurdin. The landing brought an end to the idle wait. After the scouting party, now doubled in size, had assembled on the beach, the rowboat set out once more for its mother craft. Shekhurdin led his armed force inland, striking out in the direction the fleeing natives had taken.

  Yesterday’s trek had prepared Luka for the rigors of the morning walk, but the newcomers from the shitik had to struggle on their sea legs over the rough terrain.

  Shortly after midday, they sighted a band of natives on a bluff along the seacoast. There appeared to be as many as fifteen, but it was difficult to determine whether this was the same band they had seen the day before. Again Shekhurdin ordered the men forward, confident of trapping the natives on the bluff and taking captives.

  “No one fires unless I give the order,” the Cossack instructed. “We want hostages, not bodies.”

  The wind covered the sound of their approach, and the attention of the natives was directed seaward, apparently absorbed by some object, possibly the shitik on its explorations along the coast. They were almost on them before a warning was shouted. Instantly, the adult males grabbed their weapons and formed a rear guard to cover the retreat of the women and children.

  As Luka rushed forward in the attack, he saw a native woman scoop a boy child into her arms and flee before him. A second later, he was confronted by a native brandishing a spear. Gripping the long barrel of his musket like a battle staff, he knocked the oncoming spear aside, then immediately slammed the curved shoulder butt into the man’s stomach. As the native doubled over, he laid the barrel alongside his head and knocked him to the ground. Instinctively, the native rolled away from him and managed to stagger to his feet, swaying drunkenly while looking for his weapon.

  Luka took a step toward him, intent on finishing his opponent and smashing the hated features. At the last second he saw the spearhead coming at him from the side and dodged its sharp point, then turned and grappled with its owner. The rush of battle was in his veins, a good, hot feeling that made all his senses come alive. The man’s upper body strength was too much for Luka, and he gave way, seeking a better leverage by tumbling backwards to the ground and spilling the man over his head. Scrambling to his feet, he saw the native spring to his and immediately run after the women and children. Luka started to give chase.

  “Let him go!” The shouted order came from Shekhurdin. “We have our hostage.”

  While his lungs labored for breath, Luka turned and saw a young male, a youth not much more than fifteen, struggling wildly in the hold of two promyshleniki.

  The skirmish over, the promyshleniki regrouped around the hostage. Luka took a step to join them as the youth’s arm was twisted behind his back and he grimaced silently in pain. A sudden cry from somewhere to his left startled Luka. He swung toward the sound, leveling the barrel of his musket.

  An old woman stood beside a tumble of boulders where she must have hidden during the attack. She held her shoulder as if it hurt. Advanced years had bent her once tall frame and turned her hair the color of the clouds, but her tanned face was relatively unlined except for the crevices fanning away from her eyes. Luka stared at the string of dots tattooed across her cheeks and the parallel lines running down the center of her chin. Two button-sized pieces of bone projected from the skin below the corners of her mouth. Lastly, his glance fell on the long coat made from the pelts of sea otter.

  “Where did that old woman come from?” Shekhurdin’s demand put everyone on guard, her sudden appearance making them wonder if more natives were hidden nearby, perhaps waiting to leap on them and catch them unaware.

  “I turned around and there she was,” Luka said. “She must have been hiding in those rocks.”

  Shekhurdin motioned for two hunters to check the area and see if there were any more. Meanwhile the cordon of guards around the hostage closed ranks. The old woman, instead of running from them, hurried toward them. Luka frowned at her actions. The youth yelled something, his tone seeming to warn her away. The nearest promyshlenik silenced him with a restrained clip of his musket butt alongside the head. The boy fell to the ground, dazed by the blow. Again, the old woman cried out and pressed a hand to her head as if she had felt the blow, then rushed toward the boy. Shekhurdin stopped her before she reached him and shoved her backwards.

  “Go!” He waved his hand, directing her to follow the other members of her fleeing band. She simply stared at him, taking no advantage of the opportunity he gave her to escape. “Go! Go with the others!” Impatience roughened his voice and made wild the swing of his arm. The old woman looked past him at the boy, then said something to Shekhurdin in that strange tongue and gestured toward the youth. “Stand him up and let her see that he isn’t hurt,” he commanded the men guarding the hostage. They hauled him to his feet and let him stand on his own. “You see,” Shekhurdin said to the old woman, accompanying his words with hand gestures in an attempt to make her understand him. “He is unharmed. Go tell your people that.”

  She stood silently, apparently comprehending nothing. Taking her by the shoulders, Shekhurdin turned her around and pushed her in the direction the natives had gone. The impetus carried her a few steps forward, but she stopped and turned back. Exasperated by her stupidity, the Cossack swung away from her and dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

  “Everyone move out,” he ordered.

 
Before falling in line with the other promyshleniki, Luka took one last wary look at the old woman. He was inclined to believe she was being obstinate rather than stupid, although he didn’t know why he had that impression. Somehow he wasn’t surprised when she started following them.

  “Maybe she is his mother,” someone suggested.

  “She’s too old,” another insisted.

  Several times they tried to drive her off, but on each occasion she retreated a few steps and stopped, then started following when they resumed their march. Finally they simply ignored her, all except Luka. It made him uneasy to have a native behind him—even an old woman. She was still tagging along after them when they arrived at a stretch of coast where a boat could land. While they waited for the shitik to appear, she remained a little apart from them, always—it seemed to Luka—watching the youth. He guessed that she wanted to learn where they were taking him.

  When the shitik hove into view, Shekhurdin signaled for the boat. Luka was not included in the first boatload of promyshleniki to return to the vessel with the hostage, and he stood to one side while the young male was forced into the boat. When the old woman saw him getting into the wooden dinghy, she ran toward it.

  “Get away, you old fool!” Shekhurdin roughly pushed her backwards, and she stumbled onto the sand. Glaring at her, the Cossack took his position at the prow of the boat to accompany his hostage and gestured to the men remaining ashore to shove them off.

  The woman scrambled to her feet, but Luka caught her before she could run into the water after the dinghy. She jabbered something to him and pointed at the bare-masted shitik anchored offshore. He shook his head and firmly set her away from him, admonishing her to stay with his upraised hand. He noticed the determined set of her mouth, but she made no further attempt to go after the boat. He watched her for a minute, then satisfied it wasn’t some ploy, left her and wandered over to stand with the six other promyshleniki waiting for the dinghy’s return trip. While they discussed the excellent hunting prospects on the island, he kept an eye on the old woman.

  As the dinghy approached the beach again, Luka walked to the water’s edge to meet it. Its nose had barely entered shallow water when the old woman darted past him and scrambled into the boat before anyone could stop her. She plunked herself down on one of the seats and folded her arms in front of her, rigidly asserting her refusal to budge.

  Luka surveyed her grimly. “If you are that determined to go aboard the shitik, old woman, we will take you.” He motioned for the other promyshleniki to let her be.

  With the help of another man, Luka pushed the boat into the water, then climbed in. There was space on the seat beside the old woman and he settled himself onto it. He glanced at her, puzzled by the lack of fear she showed. But she kept her eyes to the front, looking to neither side and centering all her attention on the shitik where the youth had been taken. Luka assessed the glossy dark garment of sea otter skins she wore. The fur showed wear in places, but the pelts were prime.

  As soon as the dinghy was tied up to the shitik, Luka climbed aboard and waited by the rail to haul the old woman aboard. When Shekhurdin saw her, he exploded. “What is she doing here? Why didn’t you leave her on the island?”

  “She insisted on coming,” Luka replied. “And I thought”—Luka went on, pushing the old woman forward so the others could see her—“the men might like to have a look at her coat, made from the pelts of sea otter.”

  Belyaev was the first to step up and closely study the quality of the furs. Then he lifted the old woman’s chin so he could see her face. “Ugly old hag.” He grinned. “Wonder if she has any teeth left?” He stuck a thumb and finger into her mouth to pry it open and she bit down—hard, judging by the way Belyaev yelped and pulled the injured digit away. “Why, you old witch—” He raised an arm to backhand her, but Chuprov checked the swing with a steel grip of his wrist.

  “Neither of these hostages are to be abused.” The command was issued to everyone. “We will gain nothing if the natives learn we have mistreated the hostages.”

  With an effort, Belyaev controlled his temper and slowly brought his arm down. He sneered at the woman, then turned away, changing the sneer into a jeering smile directed at Luka. “The next time you bring back spirited female hostages, Luka Ivanovich, make sure they are young ones. An old witch like this one could give me no pleasure.”

  “A woman is a woman. The nights are dark. You couldn’t see her face.” Then Luka smiled. “Or maybe you fear what she might bite next?”

  A dull red crept under Belyaev’s skin at the hooting laughter the remark drew. He glared at Luka, then swung away, making a contemptuous sound in his throat. The old woman took advantage of the distraction and quickly crossed the deck to the boy.

  CHAPTER III

  Weaver Woman, as she was called by her people, quickly looked Little Spear over to see if he was seriously hurt. There was a knot on his temple the size of a gull’s egg, but his eyes were clear. There showed in them a small gladness that she was here with him to share this ordeal.

  But that was as it should be. They were anaaqisagh to each other. That is, dependent upon each other. It was a custom of their people that when a child is born an older person is appointed anaaqisagh to him. From the time Little Spear was small, Weaver Woman had made certain he had food, clothing, and instruction. Everything was shared between them. He was never criticized that she was not also. When he was in pain, she cried for him.

  Weaver Woman had lived for sixty summers, and Little Spear for only sixteen, but the link solidly bound them in interdependence. Now her bones were getting stiff with age, her fingers gnarled with pain. Still she managed to force her aching hands to weave the grasses into the fine baskets that were the trademarks of her skill. Soon, not many summers away, it would be Little Spear who would help her out of this world as she had helped him into it, caring for her as she had cared for him.

  That was the way. It was what had brought her to this strange boat made of wood among this odd-looking race of men. All that happened to Little Spear must happen to her. She would have failed in her duty to him if she had not done this.

  Her legs were tired, so she sat down on the rough planks of wood. Little Spear joined her. The habits of observation had taught each of them when to speak to a man and when to stay out of his way. All the signs told them the latter for this band of men, signs easily read by anyone trained to watch for them—the look of their faces, the pulsing veins in the temples, the thinning of the lips. So they sat silently.

  Weaver Woman noticed the slash in the skin side of Little Spear’s parka where it had been cut in the fight. The feathered side was against his body, as it should be, since the weather was warm and this was not a social occasion. She wished she had her needles to mend the tear for him, but they were in the hut.

  Covertly she studied the men milling about the boat. The sky was full of storm signs. Weaver Woman wondered why these men did not see that. Her glance lingered in dislike on the big one with all the black whiskers on his face, the one who had stuck his fingers in her mouth. He had the cold, cruel eyes of the white-headed eagle, an evil darkness in the centers. She didn’t trust him.

  The one who had stopped him from striking her, the one with hair the color of a seal pup, that one must be the chief, Weaver Woman concluded. She hadn’t made up her mind about him yet. He was the one the husband of her daughter had described after he had paddled over from Agattu Island yesterday to warn them about the strange raiders with the thunder sticks. His village had danced a welcome for them, but when this man had brought his warriors onto the beach, he had accepted a beautiful carved ivory stick, very valuable, then refused to give his iron stick in return. That was very bad. According to her daughter’s husband, he shouted to the sticks and they made a loud noise—louder than thunder. And a cousin who had been too close received a hole in his hand. Weaver Woman didn’t think the light-haired man respected the ways of the people.

  Half fearfully, she
wondered what was to become of them. They would probably be taken in this boat to the village of these men and made their slaves. Little Spear was young and strong, but she was old and not much use any more. Maybe they wouldn’t keep her. As the thought crossed her mind, she looked at the man with the scar eye. The jagged mark across his face gave him a mean look. She had seen the wish to kill in his eyes, yet he hadn’t thrown her off the boat. He’d made the other men let her come.

  The wind picked up in strength, and Weaver Woman hunched her shoulders and lowered her chin so the stand-up collar of her parka could afford her some protection from the gale. The storm rolled toward the strange boat, appearing like a solid wall of black. Only now did these oddly dressed men notice it.

  She listened to their shouts, catching the desperation in their voices without understanding the words, and watched them scurry about the boat. She wondered if they were from alyeska, the mainland. They obviously were not from these islands or they would know how quickly storms could strike and would watch for the signs before the wind lashed the sea into a fury.

  Waves tossed the boat about wildly. The wood made groaning sounds, as if it was in great agony. Someone yelled and she saw the little wooden boat floating away, its rope trailing in the water. The rain came down in sheets, drenching everything and everyone. Some men grabbed her and Little Spear and made them go down into the belly of the boat.

  As the storm raged, the shitik wallowed helplessly in the heavy seas, the gale-force winds driving it away from the island chain. Only the navigator, his mate, and occasionally Chuprov remained on deck, trying to keep some control of the shitik. Everyone else, including the two hostages, took refuge below.