by Yuri Rytkheu
Toko’s sled was running last. At the head of the column, Armol’ was opening the way. And Orvo, who was driving the wounded man, rode in the middle.
The little tent atop Orvo’s sled was fashioned in such a way that John was looking backwards rather than ahead, so that the snow flurry from under the dogs’ paws didn’t hit him in the face, and so that the wind couldn’t blow into the hood of his overall.
The white man was sitting up straight, watching the running dogs. His blue eyes were darkened with pain, or perhaps fatigue. Or maybe it really was the sadness of leaving his comrades and embarking on such a long journey. Who knows what kind of thoughts may be springing to life in a head like that, covered with hair so light it seems to have gone prematurely gray.
John could feel the intent stare of the brute whose sled followed his own. What strange and narrow eyes he has! What can you make out behind slits like that, like the narrow chink in grandmother’s piggy-bank. And yet, if you look carefully, you’ll fall into them, as into a bottomless crevasse. An utter mystery that no man shall penetrate. What could he possibly be thinking about, this young Chukcha?
The sled stopped rattling as they came over the calm smooth surface of the lagoon, and the pain in his hands died down. For a long time, John’s eyes clung to the Belinda’s masts, those two black smudges in the fading light that tied him to his own world. But over there, where the dogs were heading, the unknowable awaited him; that and the chance of life.
And the masts disappeared. A gaping void in his head, as though all his brains had been dashed while the sleds bumped up and down the ice dunes. Only somewhere deep within his conscience, a terror; terror before this monstrous expanse without end, before the cold that was already creeping under his kukhlianka, terror of the people who bore him across the snow, of their bottomless black eyes that watched and watched him – as though he were walking a closed circle with an abyss at every side.
What was left of his palms and fingers? Sometimes John tried to wiggle them, as it seemed to him that they were whole, only the pain resonated strangely in his elbow and shoulder, where there was hardly a scratch. Afraid of the pain, John was trying to think. To think of anything at all, only to drive away this feeling of his own self-disappearing. Is this how vastness impresses itself on a man: as though drawing him into itself and dissolving him, leaving no flesh, no blood, no thoughts . . .
Realizing that it was better to sit with eyes closed – at least he didn’t see this endless white space – John leaned back on the deer hides folded behind him and tried to sleep, to get away from this melancholy landscape, from his gloomy thoughts and the ache gnawing at his hands.
Armol’, riding in front, began braking and then came to a halt. This meant that it was Toko’s turn to take the lead position and open a trail for the others.
Toko shouted to his pack and overtook the two sleds. It was soft snow, not the mid-winter kind that is tamped down firmly by windstorms and then smoothed by an icy blizzard’s rough palm. This snow was easy on the runners, but hard on the dogs. At times they sank to the belly into the fluffy snowdrifts, the snow clinging to their coats and paws.
Over the rises and at the tallest snowdrifts, Toko would jump off his sled and jog alongside it, holding on to the baran.12 It was warm, and Toko would throw back his hood, running bareheaded until his hair was covered with frost.
Then he would topple onto the sled at a run, so that the lakhtak strips lashing its wooden frame together groaned, and the pack leader turned back his head to give the driver a look of reproach.
Orvo was submerged so deeply in his own meditations and winter clothes that it was impossible to read the expression on his face, much less his thoughts. Orvo was mentally going over his actions in the last few hours, growing sure that he had made a mistake in submitting to the worst of temptations – greed. Yes, it went without saying that those goods were excellent. And yet they had lived without such things, lived as Orvo’s ancestors had done, without tobacco, tea, the bad joy-making water, woven cloth, metal needles, and had managed to hunt with bows and arrows. These new things, brought by the white men to Chukchi shores, had only complicated life. The sweetness of sugar also held a bitter tang. How does one know what’s best? Yes, he had lived in the white men’s enormous settlements, but what could he say, having seen only the tawdry port saloons and municipal dumps?
That world had not sat well with him, but who can vouch that the white men like the Chukchi way of life? All people live their own way, and there’s no use making another person do as you do, changing his customs and habits. If you don’t stick your nose into another’s life but only try to work to mutual advantage, then there will be no quarrels. It’s no good when the white man enters the life of an arctic shore . . . The thoughts buzzed in his head, allowing him no peace. Oh, why had he agreed to take on this cripple? He’s got an unkind stare, and his face looks like the face of a man drained of his last drops of blood . . .
The eastern horizon had paled and only the brightest of the stars remained in the sky. The backbone of a far-off mountain range sheltering the valley of the Big River that led to Anadyr’ rose jagged and sharp against the blue of the sky, its uncapped peaks glinting ominously under the rays of a sun that was creeping unseen beyond the horizon.
Orvo rose up out of his overall and shouted to Toko:
“We’ll make a stop, go over the runners!”
As soon as Toko made to brake his sled, the pack leader stopped and the rest of the dogs followed suit.
On hearing Orvo speak, John opened his eyes. The sled’s steady rocking over a smooth snowy path had come to a stop.
Again his eyes met those of the Chukcha riding behind him, and marveled how much the other’s appearance had changed, right down to the cut of his garments. Even his eyes different, and his expression were . . . What could it be? And only at Toko’s approach did John realize that the drivers had switched places. He thought of how alike they all were, and that he’d have to learn to know them from one another.
Toko came closer, discussed something with his companions, and looked over at John. The latter could make out something akin to a smile on that face, dark like the cover of an old leather armchair. He returned the smile, drawing back his cold-numbed lips with difficulty.
“Look, he’s laughing,” Toko remarked with surprise, pointing with his finger.
“Why shouldn’t he smile?” Orvo replied. “He’s a person, too. And if he can smile, it must mean that he’s not doing so badly as all that. Maybe we’ll deliver him safely to Anadyr’ after all, and get the Winchesters in exchange . . .”
“Yes, we’ve got to look after him,” said the practical Armol’. “Maybe it’s time to feed him? Go on and ask him, Orvo.”
Orvo pointed to his mouth, then to John’s mouth, and worked his lips.
John had not felt hungry, but it was certainly lunchtime and he nodded his head to indicate agreement. While Orvo headed for the dogsled with John’s own provisions, the other drivers upended their sleds and went about cleaning the runners, chafing them with wet hides. They sprayed the runners from their own mouths, drawing in warm water from flat Scotch whiskey bottles, kept next to their bare stomachs under the fur clothing. Having used all the water, they stuffed the bottles with snow and slipped them back into their kukhliankas. John couldn’t suppress a shudder, just thinking about that freezing glass touching bare skin.
In the meantime, Orvo had brought over the sack that Captain Grover had so carefully packed, opened it up, and began gesturing to find out what John would like to eat. John chose a salt pork sandwich and a lump of sugar.
Having finished their work, Armol’ and Toko came closer and watched the feeding of the white man with undisguised interest.
“Just look at those teeth!” exclaimed Armol’, awed. “White, sharp, like an ermine’s.”
“Yes,” Toko agreed. “If he bit you, you couldn’t shake him off.”
“He could chew through metal, much less bone,”
added Armol’.
John stopped chewing. The humiliation of it, his helplessness and sense of injury, drove away his appetite.
Orvo had understood him and quietly said to his fellows:
“You could stand back a little. Haven’t you ever seen a person eat? He’s shy of us!”
“All right,” Toko concurred, and called to Armol’:
“Let’s go, let the white man eat.”
John gave Orvo a grateful look and, swallowing the last bit, said hoarsely:
“Thank you.”
“Yes! Yes!” Orvo nodded vigorously and continued in the Chukchi tongue:
“Now we can keep going. We have to make the mountain spine by nightfall. There we’ll stay with Il’motch, and we’ll sleep in a warm tent, and have plenty of deer meat, too.”
John suddenly felt unbearably thirsty. The dry, cold food hadn’t left him a drop of saliva, and his tongue was thick and parched in his mouth.
“Drink?” he asked, and mimed drinking some liquid, throwing back his head.
Orvo grasped his meaning immediately, and reached inside his clothes. He brought out the same kind of bottle as his comrades’, used his teeth to pull out the dirty rag that did for a cork, and held it out readily.
John couldn’t conceal a grimace of disgust and had to screw his eyes shut before he could touch his lips to the bottle’s neck. He drank the warm water with greedy gulps, hurrying, choking, making an impossible effort of will to chase away the thought that the warmth of it came from the old driver’s body. When he took his lips off the bottle, he saw Orvo’s flat smiling face, incredibly similar to the stylized picture of an Eskimo in the National University Museum in Toronto.
John managed a smile. He had wanted to show his gratitude with it, but something sparked inside him, and the resulting smile was sincere, not forced.
The drivers took up their places and the dogs pulled the sleds toward the mountain range, which rose up relentlessly against the travelers, taking up more and more of the horizon and shattering the line where earth and sky met.
The air became more and more blue, as though someone enormous and invisible were thickening the color. The snow that stretched ahead was blueing, the bumps, the hillocks and snowdrifts were blueing, and the sky too, lighting up the stars; the blue seeped into the sleds’ tracks, into the dogs, the harnesses, and Toko’s face, framed by wolverine fur.
Night was descending over the tundra.
4
Like a lullaby, the congealing darkness damped the sound of sled-runners over snow. Within the even rocking of the sled and the cozy creaking of its leather fastenings, John drifted in and out of sleep, remembering his last autumn at home, the blazing fires of maple-leaf fall. Forgotten details were taking on symbolic meaning, and resurrecting them in memory was sweet and surprisingly pleasant.
A narrow path, almost invisible in the grass, led to a shady corner that was proudly called the city park. You could have counted all its trees on your fingers. There was a set of brightly colored swings in the middle of a grassy stretch, and John and Jeannie liked to climb aboard and push one another, to the disapproving comments of strolling mothers. And when they finally had to give up the swings to children, they would lie on the grass for hours, watching squirrels cavort in the branches overhead.
A horn trill would bring them back to reality; John’s father blowing into a seashell, gathering the family to a late lunch . . .
The way was definitely becoming steeper. It was hard on the dogs, and the drivers went on foot to spare them. Now it was Toko’s turn to bring up the caravan’s rear. He walked alongside the sled, holding on to the baran. The slope was covered in deep snow, his feet kept sinking, and he kept thinking how good it would be to sit down on the sled, or at least place your foot on one of the runners and ride a little, cooling your straining heart with a deep breath.
Toko looked at the somnolent white man, tucked in cosily atop the dogsled, and felt a muffled irritation take hold of him. He didn’t fight against the feeling now, didn’t try to convince himself that the sled was occupied by an unfortunate and sick person whose very life was in their hands. Toko’s tired, hungry, and frustrated mind saw only the cause of all this hardship. He remembered the strong white teeth that noisily crunched hard biscuit, the white throat greedily gulping water, the icy blue eyes and that semblance of a smile . . . Yet beyond all this beckoned the image of the new Winchester – a weapon that would make his life worthy of a real man. No animal could evade him then, and he would never again feel ashamed of himself when one escaped from right under his nose. With a good Winchester you could hunt white fox in the tundra. Even in the bright whiteness of snow, a sharp eye can discern a different shade – a sable creeping, following mouse tracks across the snow. You could get three-dozen by spring with a Winchester. Cure them nicely and hang them outside for the dry cold wind to bleach the pelts even more and fluff up the downy fur.
And when the ice broke and you could see a ship’s sail, then you could come down to the shore without hurry, sensitive to the white tails streaming behind you. The trader’s eyes will spark to a greedy glow, he’ll clutch the fox pelts. Then you can ask for plenty of tobacco, a good pipe, buy a knife and a string of big glass beads for your wife.
You didn’t even have to wait for a ship. You could get on your sled and set off on a long journey to Irvytgyr, to the ancient settlement of Uelen where the trader Carpenter lives, the one who is almost like one of the natives, as he’s taken a native from the other side of the bay – an Eskimo – for his wife, and has made children with her. He trades fairly and never tries to burden a tundra-dweller with a useless item.
A Winchester is certainly a good thing, and it’s worth driving the white man to a far-off place, all the way to Anadyr’, for such a weapon.
John could barely see Toko’s exhausted, overheated face. The thickening gloom filled his field of vision, already shadowed by his overcoat’s thick wolverine fur hood. Armol’, walking in front, was shouting at the dogs and cracking his whip. Old Orvo, though invisible to John, was breathing loudly and heavily, often joining in Armol’s exhortations.
The dogs suddenly took off with a burst, although the sleds were still crawling up the gently sloping incline. John felt the leather fastenings moan as Toko jumped back on, but they continued to gain speed. Armol’ rushed by, through a whirlwind of snow. He was braking with all his might, but the dogs flew on ahead – as though there had been no long day’s crossing in the deep tundra snows.
There came the sound of human voices, and then a stranger clad in a long chamois robe rushed to Orvo’s aid. He grabbed hold of the baran, and the dogsled began to slow down, finally coming to a halt in front of a yaranga that had seemingly appeared from nowhere.
Ignoring the pain, John peeked out of the tent and looked around curiously. The yaranga was markedly different from those on the shore. It was smaller and did not have wooden walls. The roof, stitched together from a multitude of shorn deer hides, turned into walls as it came down, anchored to the ground with large stones, and packed down with snow for extra hold. A palisade of wooden stakes projected over the roof and exhaled a homey curlicue of warm smoke.
This was the camp of the reindeer-herding Chukchi. John had heard of them before, and had even seen one such reindeer-herder back in Enmyn. The latter hadn’t dared ascend to the ship’s deck. Instead he stared at the white people from afar, hiding neither his curiosity nor his amazement. He seemed to have been a little afraid.
But here, the reindeer-herding folk, exchanging a few words with the new arrivals, immediately surrounded Orvo’s dogsled to stare at John. They traded loud comments with one another and unceremoniously pointed their fingers at the white man, propped up helplessly on the sled.
“Sitting like a frozen crow!”
“Look how furry his cheeks are!”
“But the mustache is all white . . .”
“That’s just hoarfrost . . .”
“Wrapped himself up,
like an old woman.”
“Move off, move off!” Orvo shouted at the mouthiest ones.
John hadn’t understood a single world, but could feel that he was being laughed at.
A murky rage was kindling in his heart. He shifted a little, stretching muscles that had grown numb with sitting still, lifted himself from the sled and stood on his feet. He could barely believe that he was able to move unassisted. It was such a boon that he almost shouted his joy out loud. Holding himself in check, and with only a triumphant glance around, he took a few steps on weak, trembling legs.
“Look at that,” said Toko with surprise, “he’s walking!”
He looked John in the eye and could suddenly discern a warm yellow light glowing in the icy blue depths. That’s how a hunter, clambering over hummock-churned fast ice is guided home by a blubber-filled stone lantern that calls to him from the shore. It was the look of a worn-out man who has suddenly found his sought-after shore, a place where he can breathe freely and feel the earth firm beneath his feet. It was the look of a man who rejoiced.
And Toko smiled back at him.
Orvo called to John and led him into the yaranga.
John followed meekly, carefully holding up his bandaged hands. They had to bend low at the yaranga’s entrance. Even from afar, John had felt the comfortable warmth of smoke, and on entering the yaranga he was engulfed in steamy air. The smoke wound its way up from the fire, pooled by the deer-hide cupola and left through the smokehole, through which peeped the darkened evening sky.
Orvo led John through to the center of the dwelling and got him down onto a low seat that turned out to be a lengthy log, covered over with deerskins. To sit on, it was fairly uncomfortable, and John took a long time settling until he found the right position.
The chamber was quite roomy. Not far from the entrance, a fire blazed, giving off enough light for John to be able to thoroughly look over the yaranga. A large sooty cauldron, clearly of foreign make, was over the fire. Some sort of stew was bubbling away inside it, and John, who’d gotten hungry, could smell the aroma of boiled meat through the bitterish smoke.