by Yuri Rytkheu
“When I left they were living,” John answered, a longing stealing into his soul, while the music and Carpenter’s voice awoke memories long-hidden in the most secret and sensitive corners of his heart.
He rose to his feet and roughly knocked away the membrane, stopping the gramophone.
“Enough! Time to sleep. Whoever doesn’t work, doesn’t eat. And I’ve got to go out hunting on the sea tomorrow morning.”
. . . By the time John had returned from the coast, Carpenter was already gone – he’d driven to Il’motch’s camp, intending to set off for his home in Keniskun from there. That’s what it said in his note of thanks, left behind in the little room where the trader had spent the night. He’d been generous with gifts for Pyl’mau, leaving a supply of flour, tea, sugar and a box of cartridges.
John read the note, and uneasy thoughts colored his mind like dark shadows: Now what does he want, that Carpenter?
Pyl’mau speedily butchered the freshly killed nerpa and set the meat to boiling. She divided up the nerpa’s eyes between the younger children, Bill-Toko and Sophie-Ankanau. Yako, who saw himself as a grown man and carried a real hunter’s knife on his belt, generously declined his share of the delicacy in favor of his baby sister and little brother.
As he waited for his meal, John took out his well-weathered notepad and, after a moment’s reflection, wrote:I have the distinct feeling that Carpenter will try and get rid of me the first chance he gets. My being here has complicated matters for him, although I don’t really interfere in his business. Let him trade, let him even pan for gold on the sly, as long as he doesn’t pick at the hearts and souls of these people, whom he’s been robbing blind with a cheerful smile on his face . . . But a revolution, that is more troubling. If, on the one hand, the Russian csar didn’t pay much attention to Chukotka, then at least the government has had more sense than to repeat the mistake of Alaska. And what can be expected of the Bolsheviks? Acompletely unknown quantity! Maybe they’ll decide to sell Chukotka to Canada or the United States! Who knows whether the twentieth century will be the century that the Chukchi and the Aivanalin disappear forever from the face of the earth . . .
“John! Food is ready!” Pyl’mau called out from the polog.
“Hey-hey! I’m coming!” John stopped writing midsentence and shut the notepad. He didn’t feel like writing anymore. Not in the right mood. Even the faint signs of the coming long spring had not kindled that pulsing warmth in his heart. “Is it that I’m getting old?” he thought testily, as he carefully crawled inside the polog, making sure not to let any cold air inside.
30
The spring raced swiftly by, in sleepless nights out on the sea, in the wake of walrus hunting, and the short lull came when it was possible to transport the kill back to the settlement and store it away.
The shore was clean and deserted. The hide boats had all been raised up on high supports, to guard their coverings from hungry dogs who, although well fed, had no objection to enjoying a bit of walrus hide pickled in seawater.
The White Carolina came to Enmyn in the early hours.
John was already on his feet when he heard the cries outside:
“A ship! A ship coming in!”
Men were already assembled on shore, and Orvo’s binoculars made the rounds from hand to hand.
“A very beautiful ship!” said Tiarat, as he passed the binoculars to John.
The vessel slowly neared the shore. A sailor stood at the prow, measuring depth with a hand-held plummet. The ship was so near that the sailors’ voices were discernible in the morning silence. With a thud, the anchor dropped in the water and the ship came to a full stop.
A launch boat was now hanging over the water. As soon as it touched water, the sailors jumped down into the boat. Last to get inside was a woman.
“A woman coming to pay us a visit!” Orvo said, with surprise, handing John the binoculars.
John pressed the lenses to his eyes. Yes, it was a woman, wearing a dark coat of rough cloth and a wide-brimmed felt hat, her gray hair teased out from under the brim by the wind. It was as though he’d been struck in the chest, and he almost dropped the binoculars. He was afraid of believing in his own intuition, but with each passing moment he grew more and more certain that it was she, his mother.
The launch was almost at the surfline when John knew for certain that it was Mary MacLennan, and he swayed. Tiarat asked him, concerned:
“What’s with you?”
“My mother’s come,” John whispered back.
The launch touched shore, and the sailors helped the woman disembark. John’s feet were frozen to the shingle.
Mary MacLennan intently scanned the crowd of people on the beach.
“Where is my son?” she asked.
“I’m right here,” John said, and stepped forward to meet his mother.
At first, Mary MacLennan drew back, seemingly unable to recognize him, but in the next instant, an inhuman cry shattered the morning stillness of Enmyn.
“Oh, John! My boy! What have they done to you!”
John embraced her, held her close, inhaling the long-forgotten scents of home, and an uncontrollable stream of tears sprang from his eyes. A taut bitter lump in his throat kept him from uttering a single word.
“I’ve found you, my precious son! I’ve found you!” Mary MacLennan spoke through her tears. “The Lord has heard my prayers. I’d thought I would never see you again, that you were dead . . . My darling, my boy! Eight years! Eight long years I’ve thought you lost forever . . . Father didn’t live to hear the joyous news . . . Let me look at you.”
She drew aside a little, took a step back.
“What’s happened to your hands?”
“Mom,” John whispered, “I don’t have hands. Not for a long time . . .”
“Oh, the misfortune, what a misfortune!” cried Mary, throwing herself upon her son’s breast.
“Mom, I’ve gotten used to it, and I don’t feel the lack. The people here, they’ve taught me to use the gun, the spear, and the knife. I can even write.”
“But why have you never sent word?”
“Forgive me, Mom,” John hung his head in shame. “I’ll explain everything later.”
The people of Enmyn stood to the side and watched the meeting of mother and son. The sailors did, too.
Thuderstruck by the astonishing news, the remaining souls of Enmyn were descending from the yarangas to the shore. Pyl’mau was at the head, carrying little Sophie-Ankanau in her arms. Yako and Bill-Toko ran up behind her. Pyl’mau did not walk over to her husband. She joined the rest of Enmyn’s inhabitants and, together with the crowd, stood silently observing John and his mother.
“John, dearest,” his mother said, “go and pack. You mustn’t stay here a moment longer. This is the end of your sufferings, the end of your black night, the end of your nightmare. Wake up, John, you’ve come back to life for me and for all your loved ones . . . And Jeannie, she too is waiting for you . . . Let’s go, John. I can’t stand to look at the faces of these brutes. I can’t even imagine what grief you’ve had to suffer from them. They must have taunted you, mocked you. It’s nothing, John, it will all be forgotten, it will slip from your memory like a bad dream . . .”
John listened to this flood of words and his heart broke with pity for his mother, and for himself. He saw Pyl’mau, standing together with the children surrounded by the others, and the deceased Toko’s words came to mind: “You’ll leave, and all the days you’ve lived here will seem like a dream. A dream in polar fog ...”
“Mom, dear Mom,” John’s voice shook with agitation, “calm down and try to hear me and understand. Only let’s go to my yaranga, we can talk there . . . Alright, Mom?”
“No, Son, I can’t stay here any longer. I fear losing you again.”
“Don’t be afraid, Mom,” John smiled sadly. “I won’t disappear. Come with me.”
Mother and son walked up the shingled beach toward the yarangas. The crowd followed them
at a distance, Pyl’mau and the children at its head.
John led his mother past the yarangas, past the tethered dogs, past the walrus entrails hung out to dry. At the threshold of his home he halted:
“Mom, this is my yaranga. This is where I live.”
“Poor John,” Mary MacLennan said with a sob, and bending low walked into the daylight-dim chottagin.
John followed her inside and, while his mother was looking around, took out a deerskin and spread it by the side of the polog.
“Mom, come and sit down here.”
Mary MacLennan walked past the hearth – a cauldron of walrus meat cooling atop it – and lowered herself heavily onto the deerskin.
“And this is where you’ve been living all this time, all these eight years?” his mother asked.
“Yes, Mom,” John answered. “All these eight years.”
“How awful! No one could have stood it. But now it’s all behind you, my son, all behind you!” Again she fell to sobbing, cradling John’s head to her breast.
He listened to his mother and remembered Toko’s words: “It will end, your dream in polar fog, and you will barely recall our shores.”
A shadow moved at the door. John raised his head and saw Pyl’mau. She was watching her husband, her eyes filled with tears. “She’s already saying her farewell to me,” John thought and, untangling himself from his mother’s embrace, cried out:
“Come inside, Mau!”
Pyl’mau walked inside, uncertainly. Sophie-Ankanau was in her arms. Yako and Bill-Toko sidled in behind her, tightly holding hands.
“Mom,” John turned back to his mother, “I would like to introduce my wife. Her name is Pyl’mau. And these are our children, Yako, Bill-Toko and little Sophie-Ankanau. We had another child, a girl, Mary. But she died . . . Come and meet my wife, Mom . . .”
Mary MacLennan gazed at Pyl’mau with horror.
“It’s impossible!” she cried. “I can’t believe that my son married a savage! It’s impossible, John! Impossible!”
Pyl’mau understood everything. She backed to the door, pushed the boys outside and fled into the path herself.
“Mom! How could you say such a thing!” John rose to his feet. “You’ve insulted my wife, my children. How could you do it? I always had faith in your intellect, and you must understand that the John of Port Hope ten years ago doesn’t exist any longer. There is another John now, one that’s gone through trials I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. You wrong my new friends, Mom. It killed me to hear you say those words . . .”
“Darling John,” Mary MacLennan spoke heatedly, “be yourself once more! I do understand, it will be hard for you to go back to your old life. But that’s nothing, it will pass, it will all fade away and your life will return to its natural path. Pack your things, John!”
“Wait, ma,” John said. “Calm yourself and hear me out. Look inside your own heart, Mom, and ask: Is your son capable of abandoning his wife and children?”
“But is she truly your wife? Is she your wife in the eyes of God and the law?” Mary MacLennan asked harshly.
“She is not my wife under the eyes of God, and not in the eyes of the law either,” John answered her. “She is my wife under a much more important and authoritative power than an imaginary god or a hypocritical law. Pyl’mau is my wife in the eyes of life itself!”
“John, dearest, let’s not speak of that ghastly woman again. I suspect that you fear them. Don’t worry, John, we’ll buy you back, we’ll give them money, anything these savages want for your release, they’ll get. Let’s go now, dearest John, let’s go!”
Mary MacLennan stood up and tugged at John’s sleeve, as though he were a small, unreasonable boy.
“No, Mom. I won’t move an inch from this place. I just can’t do it. I can’t simply blot out my own self, my children, the life that has made me a man again! I cannot do it! You must understand me, Mom!”
“Oh John, you are breaking my heart . . . All right, darling . . . Say good-bye to your . . . your loved ones. I’ll wait . . . I’ll wait aboard the ship, not to get in your way. And tomorrow, I’ll come back for you . . . Only tell me honestly – they won’t do anything to you, will they?”
“Oh, what are you talking about, Mom!”
“All right, all right, my child,” Mary MacLennan quickly said.
John escorted his mother to the beach. As he walked, Enmyn’s people followed him with their eyes. He sensed them at his back, whipping him like a scourge.
“If it hadn’t been for a kind soul from some village on the shore of the Bering Strait, a trader, I’d never have known where you were, or whether you were dead or alive. It was he who sent me a letter and told me of what had befallen you. Son, you must always remember his name – Robert Carpenter.”
“Robert Carpenter?” John was stunned.
“Yes, it was he who sent me the letter. Do you know him?”
“Do I!” John exclaimed. “I’ve been to visit him more than once, and he’s come to see me, too.”
“What a kind heart he has,” sighed Mary MacLennan.
John helped his mother get into the launch boat, kissed her good-bye, and she had a moment to whisper:
“Your last night, John, in that terrible shack, and away from your mother . . .”
John returned to his yaranga. All its inhabitants were already home. Pyl’mau was starting the fire and the boys were playing with their baby sister.
John sat down on a headrest log and held his head in his leather-covered stumps. Thoughts drummed inside his head, though how badly he wanted to get away from them, to forget himself, to switch himself off, if only for a little while, from all that had weighed upon his heart since this morning! How far beyond his mother he’d gone! And even if the impossible were to happen, and he did return to Port Hope, he would never again be able to resume his former way of life.
“Will you have something to eat?”
Pyl’mau’s voice startled him. He raised his head and saw a pair of eyes, dark with grief. John shook his head no.
Pyl’mau crouched down beside him, right on the earthen floor.
“Why did your mother leave?”
“She’ll be back,” John replied.
“I know how hard it is for you,” Pyl’mau let out a sigh. “Only, I’ll tell you this: A man can always find another woman, but there are no other mothers for him in the world. Go to the ship. Thank you for everything. It won’t be so hard for me to bear losing you: After all, I’ll still have something of you, Bill-Toko and Sophie-Ankanau. You can go with a clean conscience. You’ve done all that a real human being could have done!”
“Be quiet!” John cried.
Pyl’mau was shaken: Her husband had never shouted at her.
John ran from the yaranga.
All day he wandered the tundra, ascending to the Far Cape. He met the sunset atop Funerary Hill, by the sideways-slanting cross with its tin marker: Tynevirineu-Mary MacLennan, 1912 – 1914.
In the morning, the launch boat once again headed for the shore. Alongside her son, Mary MacLennan walked up to the settlement. She flatly refused to enter the yaranga.
And again there were pleas and tears. The mother begged the son, but John seemed to have turned to stone. In the evening, the launch took Mary MacLennan back to the ship.
John went back to his yaranga and found Orvo, Tiarat, and Armol’ inside his chottagin. They were drinking tea, served by Pyl’mau, with great concentration. John sat down beside them and Pyl’mau silently handed him a cup.
Orvo took a loud swig of tea, carefully set the cup on the edge of the little table and solemnly began:
“Sson! We’ve come to tell you something important, to give you our advice. We see how your mother grieves and suffers. It pains us to see this, and our hearts break for you, and for this old woman, and for Pyl’mau and the children, too. We have thought long and hard on this. We pity both you and Pyl’mau. But it would be better if you left with your mother. We have grown to
love you, and have no other feelings toward you. Our affection gives us the right to offer you good advice. We’ll never forget you, but always will remember that the Chukchi of Enmyn have a dear and close friend among the whites, one who became a real brother to us. Go, Sson! Remember us sometimes.”
John’s throat was constricted with sobs. He didn’t notice the tears streaming down his face.
“No! No! I’ll never leave you! I will stay here, and no power on earth could drive us apart!”
“Think of your mother, Sson,” Orvo said quietly.
“And who is going to think of my children?” asked John.
“Don’t you worry about them and Pyl’mau,” Orvo answered. “Your children will grow, and your wife will have everything she needs. There are no poor or dispossessed among our people. If we starve, then we all starve together, but food is something that’s always shared . . .”
It was now three days that the White Carolina had been anchored off the shore of Enmyn. Each morning, a launch boat would push off from the ship and a stooped woman in a dark rough-cloth coat and high rubber boots would come ashore. John would hurry to meet her and carefully walk her up the shingled spit to the yaranga.
In all this time, Mary MacLennan had not entered her son’s dwelling again.
Mother and son slowly climbed up the slope to the yarangas, walked past the hide boats on their supports, past the earthen meat pits, shut tight with the shoulder blades of whales. John tenderly settled his mother on a flat rock, and sat down at her feet.
It took the woman a long time to catch her breath.
“John,” she finally began to speak, in a voice that shook with emotion, “tell your mother one more time that you’ve positively decided to stay.”
John nodded wordlessly.
“No, you tell me so I can hear it!” his mother was insisting, looking at her son with eyes bleary from crying.
“Yes,” John quietly managed.
His mother gave a deep sigh.
“I consent to your coming together with these people that you persist in calling your family. If you find it so difficult, so impossible to break with them, then fine, bring them along . . .”