Anna, Like Thunder

CHAPTER ONE

I can scarcely see my beloved Polaris. The wispy clouds are like the sheerest muslin, and they stretch over the whole of the night sky obscuring the stars. But I keep my telescope pointed at her. If I wait, she may emerge: the brilliant beacon around which the heavens revolve. Navigators call her the North Star or the Ship Star. True amateurs like my father would call her Alpha Ursae Minoris: “alpha” because she is the brightest, and “ursae minoris” because she finds her home in the Little Bear constellation.

She will always be beloved, of course, for her role in guiding explorers and traders for centuries over land and sea. But I adore her for what most don’t know. That she is not one star. Not two. She is three stars. Perhaps more. If not for the renowned astronomers Monsieur William Herschel and Mademoiselle Caroline, his accomplished sister, no one would know that. I aspire to make such discoveries of my own one day.

The brig groans and tilts as she climbs a wave. I wrench the brass telescope from my eye and fumble with my free hand. The bulwark is almost out of reach, but—here, I have it. I clutch the telescope to my chest. The ship tilts in the opposite direction as she slides down the wave and lands with a thud. I stagger. The frigid seawater splashes my face, and I shiver. With my shawl, I wipe the drops from my telescope, hoping no water has seeped through the seams and damaged it. As for my shawl, it’s warm but not my best—grey wool with a peacock-blue fringe that’s almost too pretty for it. If the salt stains it, I hardly care, and besides, nobody will be able to tell.

“Anya!”

My husband strides across the deck. Like the rest of the crew, he is sure on his feet, experienced after so many years working the ships for the Russian-American Company. Roiling seas are no trouble for him, but I’m still learning to live with their caprice.

“What are you doing out here? Come to bed.” Nikolai Isaakovich slips his arm around my waist, and, because it’s dark and the two men on watch can’t see us, I release the bulwark and lean back. He’s warm, and his body shelters me from the wind. His beard scratches my cheek.

“I just wanted one more look,” I say.

He knows about my star log, and that it’s modelled on the published tables my father pores over day and night. In Petersburg I helped my father with his log. Now I have my own, and it will be the first catalogue of the stars ever made along the vast coast that connects Novo-Arkhangelsk to the Spanish colonies in California.

Much to my dismay, there have been many cloudy nights, and the stars have often hidden themselves. There have been many cloudy days, too. Days when the grey sea and the grey sky merge, and the brig crawls along like a cart with a damaged wheel. I’ve not been able to log the stars as much as I’d hoped. So when tonight’s sky looked promising, I tied my cap tight and pinned my shawl high on my neck to keep the cold out so I could extend my time on deck.

My husband releases me, and I latch onto the bulwark again. “Khariton Sobachnikov!” he calls.

“Yes, Commander?” comes the reply from the wheel. He’s the tallest of the promyshlenniki—the sailors, fur traders, and hunters who work for the Russian-American Company—and, because of his height, our main rigger. There’s not a mast or a spar he can’t climb, not a bit of rigging he can’t reach, even when the brig is tilted well over the waves.

He’s also painfully shy. He can barely bring himself to address me, but when forced to, his face turns a livid red as soon as he opens his mouth. I believe it’s because of his manner that he prefers the watch at night, when the rest of us are asleep and he doesn’t have to speak with anybody. I leave him to his work when I’m out on deck, just as he leaves me to mine.

“Everything good?”

“Yes, Commander. The wind’s coming up. But it’s favouring us tonight.”

“And our apprentice? Are you awake?”

“Yes, Commander. I’m over here,” calls Filip Kotelnikov from the bow. Heavy, with a body as round as a kettle and limbs like sticks, he’s sharp and ambitious enough that he’s the only one besides Sobachnikov who’ll volunteer for the night watch. Still, he’s impatient and it irritates my husband, so I doubt his actions will lead where he hopes.

“That’s what I like to hear. Remain alert. Both of you.”

They give assent, and then Nikolai Isaakovich drops his voice. “As for you, my darling, it’s time to come inside.”

“In a moment,” I say, raising the telescope again.

“In a moment. In a moment,” he says and sighs, but there’s humour in his voice. “You think we’re sailing for your amusement? That the chief manager doesn’t have more important work for us?”

The colony’s chief manager, Alexander Andreyevich Baranov, has given my husband a special commission. Nikolai Isaakovich has been put in command of a crew of twenty and tasked with sailing south to further refine our empire’s knowledge. He’s to explore and chart the coast, and to look for a secure harbour where settlement might be established to facilitate the company’s trade for sea otter pelts. He’s to fill the hold with furs along the way. The Sviatoi Nikolai, this brig, is under his sole command for a few weeks of the expedition, after which we’ll meet another Russian ship, the Kad’iak, at a predetermined location, to continue the mission together, as though we’re not merely two ships but a great imperial fleet.

My husband has hung a wooden plaque carved with the Imperial Decree in our quarters. I see it every morning as soon as I wake up, and by now I’ve memorized it. It instructs us “to use and profit by everything which has been or shall be discovered in these localities, on the surface and in the bosom of the earth without any competition by others.” It’s well known in Petersburg that Tsar Alexander is obsessed with Russian America and that, if it weren’t for Napoleon’s aggressions in Europe, he’d sail the coast himself.

The cloud cover thickens, obscuring my Polaris. She tries valiantly to twinkle through the grey, but it’s no use. I’ll have to wait yet another night. I take her cue and follow my husband to our quarters.

The wind and sea are muffled down here, yet the thud of the waves that strike the hull and the answering grind of the timbers are still disquieting. The ship’s dog, Zhuchka, whines and cowers on a mat next to the bed. She’s on board to work—she’s our sentinel when we go ashore, alerting us to danger, assisting the promyshlenniki in the hunt for game. But even when the seas are only a little rough, she’s a coward, and she’s become the source of much mockery among the crew if she happens to be on deck at such times.

“Don’t worry, Zhuchka—it’s just a little wind.” I sit on the bed and pull her head onto my lap. She buries her nose into the damp folds of my shawl. Her russet-coloured tail, tipped in white like a paintbrush, thumps the floor. It has the most endearing curl, like the hair at the nape of a baby’s neck.

“Would you leave that dog alone? You treat it like it’s your child,” my husband says.

“Are you becoming jealous?” I say lightly and kiss the dog’s forehead with a big smack.

“Stop!” my husband cries. He leaps across the room and pries the dog from my embrace, pushing her out the door and slamming it behind her. The walls shake. He throws himself on the bed beside me and makes a big show of wiping my lips clean with his fingers. “Watch who you’re giving your kisses to,” he murmurs, and then he presses his lips to mine.

I pout and push against his chest. “I’m eighteen years old and can choose whoever I want to kiss.” I lie back to get away.

But that’s just part of our game. Nikolai Isaakovich flings himself down beside me and kisses me again. He slides his lips to my throat. I arch my neck to accept him.

He strokes my hair, my cheek. His slips one hand underneath my shawl and onto my bosom. He whispers, “Annichka.” With his other hand, he clutches my wrist and pulls my hand to his chest.

For a short time and a long time, we continue, my arm around his back, his leg bent around mine, my mouth open to his shoulder, his mouth closed on my fingers. Something bony presses against my thigh. For an instant, I think it’s my telescope. But no. I set that on the table. I suppress a smile.

He opens his trousers and pulls up my skirt.

He pushes himself inside me. His eyes close, and his face transforms. He thrusts and pants.

When I pull his hips to mine and thrust back, I feel his touch deep inside. It’s a place I can’t name. I think it’s near where dreams take shape. It’s a place created by romantic thoughts, and nurtured into bloom by the glances and brief meeting of fingers I’ve seen my parents exchange, seen men and women in Petersburg share while dancing.

Finally, sounds form deep inside him, as though some great beast is coming to life. He grunts and grunts and calls out: to me, to God, and to his mother. Then, he collapses atop me, sweaty and gasping, a lock of his hair between my lips.

After he rolls off, and his liquids dribble out, I can think of nothing except facing the old Aleut, Maria, in the morning. Thankfully, our quarters are far from the smelly forecastle where the promyshlenniki hang their hammocks. But we share a thin wall with Maria. She prepares the meals and washes clothing for me and Nikolai Isaakovich, and, since it would be impossible to house her with the men, she occupies a berth next to our cabin. The light from her lamp shines some evenings through the knots and cracks in the planks that separate us. If one were disrespectfully inclined, one could peer through these holes into the next room. I confess that I know how easy this coarse act would be because I did it. Maria wasn’t there at the time. I could see clearly her bunk, a padlocked trunk, and a length of rope that ran from one corner of the room to another, though nothing was hanging from it.

Does Maria have such ill manners? It’s possible, but it makes no difference, for what she can’t see, she most certainly can hear. She could keep her own log book to mark the exact dimension and frequency of our passion, though why she’d care, I don’t know.

When I wake in the morning, it’s to near silence. I’m alone. The wind has died. In our dim quarters, I mull that over—how we say the wind has died as though it’s a living creature. If it were a living creature, what would it look like? What would it say?

The peasants believe in such things. The spirits dwell everywhere in their world and guide them through their lives. The domovoi lurks beneath the kitchen hearth. The leshii, disguised as a mushroom, tickles careless woodsmen to death in the forest. The long-haired rusalki lure young men to their watery graves in murky ponds. And the vodyanoy, who lives deep in the whirlpools of the sea, kicks up storms and sinks little boats and big ships alike.

“The Enlightenment hasn’t reached them yet,” my father says. “The Tsar is right when he says as long as they can’t understand science, they’ll continue to lead deprived lives.” Sometimes when he blusters against superstition, my mother leaves the room.

“What did I say wrong?” my father calls.

It’s easy for him. He has his tables and logs. Three telescopes set up in a turret. He’s invited to address the Imperial Academy of Sciences several times a year. When he was a boy, he went to the home of the celebrated astronomer Monsieur Mikhail Lomonosov just after his great discovery of the gases that swirl around Venus. “Everything in the world is rational, Anya,” he tells me. “And if you think it’s not rational, it only means you haven’t thought hard and long enough about it yet.”

I’m enlightened, too. I know that science governs the earth, the planets, the stars—everything. But does he never wonder? Has nothing ever happened to shake his faith in science? How is he so certain that everything can be measured and logged? I wish I were as steadfast, but it’s too late. The doubts seeded themselves long ago, and after that, nothing he said or did could have stopped them from taking root and showing themselves at the least opportune moments.

I push myself out of bed and shudder when my feet touch the cold planks. I reach for my shoes.

As I emerge on deck, Zhuchka charges over. I stroke her head and look around. Just as I might have predicted from below, the sky is grey and seamless. The sea is smooth and glassy, though not at rest. A gentle swell rocks the brig. The sails sag, and the crew is idle.

I rub the soft place on Zhuchka’s forehead, and when she seems satisfied, she runs back to where the American, John Williams, and the straggly-haired Kozma Ovchinnikov are teasing her with a dried fish head. They toss it to one another, letting her come close enough to smell it, but not to sink her teeth into it.

The American is pale and has carrot-coloured hair and freckles such as I’ve never seen before. He is the only man beside the Aleuts with no beard and his cheeks are so smooth, I don’t think he could even grow one. His Russian is good, but his accent is flat, and he drawls out every word.

Ovchinnikov is a brooding beast of a man. His hair hangs to his shoulders and, unlike John Williams, almost his entire face is hidden behind a beard, which he keeps long and untrimmed. Only his small, dark eyes are exposed and it’s unnerving the way he watches everyone and everything, keeping most of his thoughts to himself. I think he’s best avoided; though he seems no different from the other promyshlenniki, there’s something rough in his manner, and I think he could be a cruel man if provoked.

He’s latched himself onto our prikashchik—the supercargo who oversees the company goods we trade and purchase—who seems pleased to order him around night and day.

Ovchinnikov throws the fish head underhand so it sails high up toward the top of the mast and then plummets down to the waiting hands of the American.

Zhuchka barks and leaps. She has much hope. Her white-tipped tail steadily wags, and her claws clatter as she runs and lunges at John Williams. She’s drawing her own maps on the deck, lines stretching from man to man.

Encouraging her torment is Timofei Osipovich Tarakanov, the prikashchik who controls the dark Ovchinnikov. Timofei Osipovich is the most experienced man on the crew. He seems to know everything and doesn’t hesitate to tell us that he does. His coat, trousers, and boots are all so new I wonder if he’s helping himself to the cargo he’s in charge of. And it’s not just Ovchinnikov he’s put under his spell. The Aleuts also attend to him and perform his bidding. I think my husband should pay more heed to these allegiances, but he’s already told me he has it under control.

Timofei Osipovich cackles as Ovchinnikov pretends to throw the fish head overboard. He taunts, “Go swim for your supper, little Tsarina!” Zhuchka charges after the fish head. At the last moment, she catches sight of it still in Ovchinnikov’s hand and reins herself in. They all laugh as she skids and hits the bulwark.

“Good morning, Madame Bulygina! Did you sleep well?” Timofei Osipovich says, leaving the dog alone.

When I know she’s all right, I force my attention away from poor Zhuchka. “I did, thank you.” Timofei Osipovich is jovial—as he always is before he makes an inappropriate comment or a joke at my expense. “And you?” I’m annoyed about the part he’s played teasing poor Zhuchka, and don’t care how he slept, but I can’t bring myself to behave rudely.

“I slept delightfully,” he says. “Thank you for asking. From the moment my head touched the pillow, I was asleep. I didn’t lie awake for one single minute. I didn’t toss and turn. I didn’t groan and moan.” He looks down and clears his throat. Then he narrows his eyes and looks directly at me with a wicked smile dancing at the corner of his lips.

My face floods with colour. He can’t possibly have heard. Could he? Did everyone? Did Maria say something? She wouldn’t have.

“And you? Did you sleep as restfully as I did?” he asks.

Before I can respond, a gull breaks through the grey with a screech, dips to the brig, and seizes the fish head in mid-air. John Williams screams. “Stop!” he cries, then explodes with laughter. Zhuchka barks and jumps, her body twisting in the air. Even brooding Ovchinnikov laughs, a deep, rolling rumble that transforms into a coughing fit as though he’s not used to laughing and it’s strained his system. He bends, his hands on his stomach. He can barely breathe.

The gull disappears with its prize.

“I guess your game is over,” I say to Timofei Osipovich, and, though I would like a cup of tea, I go back to our quarters.

I sit at my husband’s desk. It’s an indulgence—an ornate secretaire from our house in Novo-Arkhangelsk, a thing far too fine for our plain cabin. He had its elegant feet screwed into the floor before our departure. Atop the desk are a few charts. The paper is as thick as serge. Smooth stones hold them down at the corners. His neat writing is on them everywhere—columns of numbers, symbols that I don’t understand, and scattered place names—there’s Novo-Arkhangelsk. Nootka.

I open his sharkskin case of tools. They’re packed in precisely, a little slot for each. I slide them from the case, one by one. There are two wooden rulers, worn at the corners. A protractor, compass, and dividers, all made of brass. I know their names because my father told me. Russian girls are not normally taught such things, but my father saw no harm in it. He always spoke to me as if I were capable of a level of understanding no less than an adult’s.

My husband is highly educated and accomplished. In Novo-Arkhangelsk, he’s considered wealthy and cultured. He’s already caught the eye of the chief manager, and he’s known even to the Tsar. He works so fastidiously every day, studying the sky and the water. He calculates our movement with the navigation instruments he keeps near the wheel—his compass and quadrant, the log board and the knotted rope, and the leadline. Nikolai Isaakovich deduces and then tells everyone on board what must be done to keep us afloat and heading in the right direction. With extraordinary certainty, he records everything in his log book and on these charts. He is thoroughly enlightened.

I open the dividers and place one pointed end on Novo-Arkhangelsk. We departed from there September 29th, a clear day with a favourable breeze. I open the arms wider and extend them, placing the other sharp end somewhere on the coast of California. Our destination. What lies between is a faint, wandering line. The coast. Our path. But that’s not what it’s like. This coast is thick and certain. Like the barren north of Russia, it continues, unrelenting. Unlike Russia, it’s fecund, rich with visceral odour and bands of dark blue water, pale sand, the black forest with its jagged top and, blanketing it all, the pervasive grey sky. The dark bands are broken up by the headlands of ocean-worn grey rock that sometimes take on rusty highlights on the rare occasions when the sun shines on them. The trees that rise beyond stone-strewn beaches loom unimaginably dense and dark, impossibly vertical.

Our watery path is dotted with stacks and stumps of rock, towering islands, some so small even Zhuchka couldn’t stand on them, others big enough for a house. Nikolai Isaakovich has told me they pose grave danger for our brig. Beneath the surface of the sea, at the base of these stacks and stumps, there are many more rocks, jagged, barnacle-encrusted, and just waiting for a vessel to venture too close. He keeps the ship well back when they come into sight, though he allows us close enough so that he can measure the location and height of each one and mark them on his charts. As dusk gathers, he always moves the ship far out to sea, to a place many versts from shore, to where the coast is invisible, so there’s no danger of running aground in the night.

I fold the dividers up. I want my cup of tea and a bowl of kasha. My husband always keeps a tidy desk, and so before I leave our quarters, I slide each tool back into its appointed slot and shut the case.

When I reach the deck, Main Rigger Sobachnikov nearly knocks me down.

“Madame Bulygina! Forgive me,” he cries. He flings out his long arms and raises his hands in horror, his face redder than ever. “How careless of me. I never should have…” Before he finishes, he whirls away and dashes to the bow. Ovchinnikov and the Aleuts are reefing in the sails, their ostensible master, Timofei Osipovich, barking orders at them. Ovchinnikov’s straggly hair covers his eyes and I don’t know how he can see a thing. My husband is behind the wheel, his telescope to his eye, looking out to sea.

Through the grey, a shoreline reveals itself, a faint line demarcating the water’s edge. Between it and us, there’s a cluster of canoes. The row of heads and torsos jutting out from the vessels look like teeth on a comb. They’re paddling toward us.

When he sees me, Timofei Osipovich turns away from his band of followers. “Opportunity has arrived, and so we open the gates,” he says, with a grin.

With furtive glances to sea, the crew on deck prepares for our encounter. Zhuchka whines and paces, sensing apprehension. The canoes grow in breadth and length as they draw closer. They resemble the koliuzhi boats I’ve seen so often coming ashore at Novo-Arkhangelsk, some of them immense, yet sleek as knives. These ones have long, curved bows and blunt sterns. They’re mostly black but have been painted near the bow with symbols that look like faces, and some have gunwales inlaid with white stones that look like pearls.

When they reach us, the koliuzhi people call out. Their language bears no resemblance to Russian. It’s crammed with popping consonants, with long, drawn-out vowels, and with thick rumbles that erupt from the back of the throat. It sounds unlike any speech I’ve ever heard before.

Surprisingly, Timofei Osipovich responds in their language. He says, “Wacush! Wacush!”

The canoes cluster around our brig and clatter against one another, forming a shape like a crystal pendant on a chandelier. The bow of each boat has a funny little carving on it that looks like a dog’s head. In some canoes, the notch between the dog’s ears supports several long wooden shafts, but I can’t tell what they are. Most of the canoes hold only three or four men; a couple contain as many as ten. I count thirty-two men before I give up; the canoes are moving about too much to allow an accurate count. There are no women.

After a brief conversation, Timofei Osipovich says, “Shall we let them board?” He surveys the crew’s faces and stops on my husband’s.

“I don’t know,” Nikolai Isaakovich says. “They’re armed.”

Indeed, many are holding spears, while others have nocked arrows. Some have what looks like a cow’s horn hanging from straps around their necks or over their shoulders. On closer observation, I see that these objects are blunt and carved with swirling lines. Are they weapons? Or just adornments?

“Their intention is clear,” says the apprentice Kotelnikov, who’s so impatient he’s already concluded what’s going on.

“Yes. They’re here for trade,” Timofei Osipovich says.

“Then why this arsenal?”

“You’d expect them to appear unarmed?” Timofei Osipovich says derisively, but he restrains himself as though the koliuzhi are carriage horses in danger of being spooked. “They don’t know your intent any more than you know theirs.”

“If they want to trade, they should put down their weapons.”

“You put down yours first.”

“Stop arguing,” Nikolai Isaakovich tells them. “Timofei Osipovich Tarakanov, I will have a word with you.” The two withdraw behind the wheel while the canoes stir and rattle against one another. Gulls screech overhead, a lone black crow darting among them. The Americans, it’s said, are the only ones who let the koliuzhi board to conduct trade. The British think this rash and a temptation to fate. The Russians have no protocol, and so, in the end, my husband must choose how our trade will be conducted.

Eventually, my husband steps back and Timofei Osipovich calls to the koliuzhi again. “Wacush,” he shouts. A brief conversation follows, and then two men in the canoes nearest the brig rise and work their way along the length of their vessels toward us. Then I can no longer see them. They’re climbing the boarding ladder.

When they emerge, throwing their legs over the bulwark, I get a better look at them. They carry no weapons; I must assume Timofei Osipovich has insisted upon this. The first man is thin and limber with ropey muscles in his arms that swell against his smooth skin. He’s around the same age as my husband, I think. His hair is knotted atop his head. Like the koliuzhi men in Novo-Arkhangelsk, he wears a cedar-bark breechclout and nothing more to protect him from the cold.

The second man is similarly dressed. His hair hangs loose and is much shorter. He has a slash across his chest, healed, but it’s recent. He looks around and squints, and I wonder if he can see very well. He stops before an iron shackle, part of the rigging, and fondles it, running his fingers around its curve. I notice he’s missing a finger.

Both men have painted themselves red and black. Most remarkable are their eyebrows—black half-moons that give them a look of astonishment. In all, unlike us, they’ve taken great care in their dress. I wonder if we’ve not understood one another’s purpose here today.

Zhuchka is beside me. I hold her jaws so she cannot bark. She twists against me and whines, but I hold fast. “Calm yourself,” I whisper.

Our crew has firearms aimed at the canoes and at the two koliuzhi on deck. The koliuzhi in the canoes point their spears and arrows at us. They hold their bows horizontally, in a fashion I find peculiar, and I wonder why they do so. With all the raised firearms, arrows, and spears, both sides resemble a hairbrush.

Our visiting koliuzhi stand so close to each other that their shoulders press together. Ovchinnikov stares through his straggly hair and drills his eyes into them. A heavy silence settles on deck.

The man with the scarred chest and missing finger watches me. How does he view me? Does he think me pallid and carelessly dressed? The clothing I wear is practical for a sea voyage but plain, a bit shabby, and badly in need of pressing. Thanks to the humid air, my dark hair is unruly—strands have escaped from beneath my cap—and my shawl hangs open, the pin carelessly left behind in our quarters, as though I don’t value my modesty. The only ornament I wear is the silver cross my mother gave me years ago. Vines and leaves are carved into the three cross bars and a tiny tourmaline adorns a flower at its heart. The stone is pink in some lights but otherwise black. Zhuchka squirms, and I clamp down on her even harder.

Timofei Osipovich breaks the silence. The man’s attention shifts. Zhuchka goes limp, accepting her confinement.

Timofei Osipovich’s sentences are short, and he delivers them slowly. There’s a long pause, and then the man who’s been staring at me replies. After he finishes, Timofei Osipovich leaves a similar gap before speaking again. Each time he speaks, he repeats that same word, “wacush,” and though I still don’t know what it means, the koliuzhi respond favourably.

“Ryba, ryba!” somebody suddenly calls from the little boats. They know Russian? Two men in the longest boat lift a halibut about half my size. Maria cries, “My God!” and blesses herself. The men hold the huge fish aloft and wait.

We want that fish. We all want it. I imagine the meal Maria will make, the scent of it cooking in the galley, the steam that will rise from her iron pot as supper reaches perfection, the succulent morsels of the flesh in a salty broth tipped from spoon to mouth. Fresh food has been far from a daily affair on this voyage. My stomach, missing its morning tea and kasha, loudly confesses my hunger.

The negotiation begins. Timofei Osipovich says something, then sends his loyal Ovchinnikov to the hold below deck. Ovchinnikov returns with several strings of deep-blue korolki wrapped around his shoulders, and a string of glass pearls cupped in one hand. I’ve long admired these beautiful beads, though my tastes aren’t as fine as the ladies in Petersburg who would’ve rejected them, not because they’re unattractive, but because they’re not the sapphires, rubies, and emeralds that make other women envious.

Finally, a deal is reached. Timofei Osipovich nods. Our impatient apprentice Kotelnikov shifts his weight and lets his musket sag a little. Zhuchka’s tail wags tentatively.

The beads, pearls, and fish are passed over the gunwales at the same time. The Aleuts accept the fish with a grunt—it must be even heavier than I thought. Maria leads them away, her head held high as though she herself finalized the negotiation.

I expect the two koliuzhi to leave, but Timofei Osipovich is not finished with them yet. “Quartlack, quartlack,” he cries, his hands open. The koliuzhi are impassive.

Sobachnikov blurts out, “They’ve got one, down there,” and points to the canoes. Heads turn in unison. Sobachnikov’s face floods, and he seems startled by his outburst. Timofei Osipovich gives him a withering look. He never has patience for Sobachnikov, and he’s annoyed with the interference. Besides, he probably saw the beautiful sea otter cape long before Sobachnikov did.

A thick, fur cape rests on a man seated in the middle of the largest canoe. It’s nearly black, much darker than my hair; as the man wearing it shifts slightly, he exposes its silver highlights. Everyone believes sea otter is the finest fur in the world. Back in Novo-Arkhangelsk, my husband showed me how its two distinct layers of hair render it thicker than what’s found on any other animal. We call it “soft gold” in Russia, for the Chinese desire this fur over any other, and, fortunately for our empire, they’re willing to pay ridiculous sums for it. I think the Chinese must be uninformed. Our Russian sable is far more beautiful and soft.

It occurs to me that what’s happening—what has been happening ever since the canoes appeared—is about the black cape in the canoe. The halibut and the korolki have been a prelude to more important matters. We’re here for sea otter furs.

“Makuk,” says Timofei Osipovich, his eyes narrowing. “Makuk.” He waits, then says again that word, “Wacush.”

Timofei Osipovich sends Ovchinnikov back to the hold. Ovchinnikov takes a long time. The koliuzhi with the fur cape makes no effort to remove it. Throughout, the weapons on both sides remain aloft and no one speaks. Though the fish and korolki were successfully traded, any trust between us is only a half-cooked blin: batter poured onto the griddle and turned before it was set.

Ovchinnikov returns finally with our part of the trade: more korolki, more glass pearls, a fold of nankeen cotton, dark blue as the sea this day, and an iron bar, which must be poor quality or it wouldn’t be offered so easily. I know this; surely the koliuzhi do, too. However, I still think it a favourable deal, better than what was offered for the halibut. But the koliuzhi remain unconvinced.

Then the koliuzhi man with the scar on his chest cries, “upakuut! upakuut!”[1]

Timofei Osipovich frowns deeply, and it’s easy to predict what he’ll look like as an aged man of forty years. In an instant, the frown transforms into a smile and a sharp laugh.

“They want your coat,” he says to Nikolai Isaakovich.

“My coat? Whatever for?” He looks down at his chest.

“It’s not the coat exactly. They want the cloth.”

“Well, I need it. They can’t have it,” my husband says, somewhat petulantly. It’s his black-green greatcoat, and it’s been chilly enough throughout the voyage that he wears it every day. It nearly reaches his ankles and is adorned on the front and the shoulders with brass buttons stamped with the imperial eagle. With a tall collar and flaring cuffs that more or less reach his elbows, it’s made of coarse broadcloth. “Tell them there’s nothing wrong with the nankeen cotton, and that it’s the best they’ll ever see in exchange for that ratty, old pelt.”

Calling the fur cape ratty is untrue and rude. What is Nikolai Isaakovich thinking? Does he want the fur or not?

Timofei Osipovich tells them something. When he finishes, there’s much discussion in the canoes. Timofei Osipovich leans over the bulwark next to Ovchinnikov and they observe very closely. They remain so focused that they don’t see when the koliuzhi men on deck make a move. They’re halfway over the gunwales before either notices.

Timofei Osipovich is startled. He cries out, “Quartlack! Quartlack! Makuk!” No one from the canoes replies. “Makuk!” he shouts again, shaking his fist toward the disappearing flotilla. “Makuk klush!”

As they paddle away, I release Zhuchka. Timofei Osipovich regains his composure. He says to Nikolai Isaakovich, “Well, the scythe has hit a stone. But they’ll be back tomorrow. I will get you that pelt, and many more.”

“They have more?”

Zhuchka puts her front paws on the bulwark. She barks and wags her tail at the disappearing koliuzhi.

“Of course they do. This is all a part of the trade. You wait until you see what they bring tomorrow. Your eyes will bleed.”

Maria does justice to the halibut. In the galley, she saws through the fat flesh and tosses chunks into a pot of water. I stand away, for I don’t want my apron to be stained. Blood and slime and shiny intestines and organs drip from the cutting surface. She ignores them, though Zhuchka does not. She devours whatever bits land within reach.

Maria chops each slice of carrot in half, frugal as she is. The fresh vegetables we carry—grown over the summer and sold by the bishop’s own gardener in Novo-Arkhangelsk—won’t last much longer. It’s a testament to Maria’s thriftiness and good planning that we have any left at all.

The smell of cooking fish wafts throughout the brig all afternoon. It’s a relief when the meal’s ready. Because there’s so much fish, everyone’s bowl brims with fat chunks of flesh.

Once the initial exclamations of delight are made, praise for Maria’s skill expressed, and thanks to God offered, there’s silence around the table, except for the sounds of eating and an occasional grunt of satisfaction. The men slurp the meal off their big, thick spoons. The bones are large and easy to find, and they extract them from their mouths impatiently while lifting another spoon of the oily broth to their lips.

Even I gobble the ukha as though I’m back home and my own mother has made it.

The sky clears in the evening. Content after the big meal, I wrap my warmest shawl around me, tie the ends loosely—I can’t find my pin—and take my telescope on deck. It’s breezy, and the air is so cool my face tingles. I look up. A few wisps of cloud remain. It’s far from perfect, but as my father often says, the best astronomers always find a way to work with the seasons. I raise my telescope.

Polaris is faint. The tail of Ursa Minor is all that’s visible of that constellation. Pisces, however, is clear. The two fish remind me of my supper. I follow the cord between them until I find Alpha Piscium, the star that holds them together.

“Anya?” my husband calls from across the deck.

“I’m here.”

He approaches, and I lower my telescope. “Aren’t you cold?” He folds his arms across his chest, burying his hands in those enormous cuffs, then grimaces and shivers. “Come inside.”

I nod and snake my arm through his until we’re latched together. “In a few moments.” We huddle side by side and look to sea. Darkness surrounds us. The stars and moon and their insubstantial reflection that flickers on the edges of the waves provide the only point of reference. Without them, our direction would be unknowable.

It’s easy to imagine how somebody would believe the vodyanoy, the old spirit man of the sea, lurks out there. Swimming just below the surface, hungering for human life, aggravated by the neglect of sailors who fail to make the proper offerings. One swish of his scaly tale would sink a ship. So the stories go.

“They’ll be back,” says my husband suddenly. “Tomorrow.”

“Chief Manager Baranov will be pleased,” I say, but only after a slight pause, because I thought he was talking about the vodyanoy, or perhaps the stars.

“Timofei Osipovich says they’ll bring all the sea otter skins we want.”

I squeeze his arm. “I hope he’s right.”

Nikolai Isaakovich pulls away. “Why would you say that?” he says sharply.

In the dark, it’s hard to see what’s in his face. “I meant nothing,” I say cautiously. “Only that I await their return, with the pelts.”

He relaxes, and, after a bit, he kisses me on the temple. “Come now, Anya. Let’s go. That’s enough for today.”

There’s no sign of life from the coast when we awaken. The morning stretches to noon, and still the koliuzhi do not reappear. Midday, we eat, and the leftover ukha warms my toes. Nikolai Isaakovich refuses his serving and remains on deck. He paces and watches the coast. He peers through his telescope, slowly scanning the shore. Zhuchka watches him, her eyes mournful, her ears flattened as though she already knows that he’ll see nothing of what he seeks.

CHAPTER TWO

There are times at sea when everything seems favourable—the wind does not slow the ship, the current is advantageous, the sky is clear, and, if you’re very fortunate, the sun warms the vessel and buoys everyone’s spirits. Six weeks into our journey the brig enters a period of such favourable conditions. After having endured weeks of mostly grey sky, frequent rain, and capricious winds that either blew too strongly or diminished and left the brig becalmed, this ease is welcome.

The crew members work together like they’re in a dance, each man knowing the next step and undertaking it with pleasure. The ropes groan, the rigging rattles, and the sails billow like they aspire to be clouds. The promyshlenniki’s movements are graceful and generous as they manipulate canvas and cordage to move us closer to our destination.

“Destruction Island,” says Timofei Osipovich, indicating a distant pan of land late one afternoon. “That’s the English name.”

“Why? What does that mean?” I say.

“Destruction?” He shakes his head. “It means ruin. Everything that touches that place is ruined. No good has ever come from it. No good ever will.”

Rocky cliffs rim the island. The sea foams like a frothy dessert next to its westernmost edge. It appears harmless, even beautiful from this distance. As we pass to its south, we come closer and are afforded a fresh view. Like a hat, it sits atop the waves. Two long tongues of land bend away from its coast and thrust out into the sea. Behind it, in the distance, the shore looks mostly sandy and flat, except for a few stacks and the distant mouth of a river dotted with sea birds.

“Did they wreck their ships here?” I peer, wondering if I might spot the remains of a broken mast or hull, evidence of the calamities after which the island has been named.

Timofei Osipovich laughs. “It’s not for wrecked ships.”

“Then what?”

“You think—the vodyanoy?” he taunts. He curls his fingers into claws and bares his teeth. He lurches at me with a growl, then laughs when I recoil. “Don’t worry, Madame Bulygina, I’m teasing.” Then nonchalantly he adds, “It’s only because of the koliuzhi.”

The old Aleut Yakov is nearby, cap tilted away from his face, mop in hand, a bucket of seawater at his feet. He’s grey-haired and grizzled, missing many of his teeth, easily the oldest man on the crew. According to my husband, he’s been working for the Russian-American Company since he was six years old, so his Russian is quite good, though accented.

“It’s better we don’t speak of such things here at this time of day,” he says, slapping his mop to the deck, and turning his back.

I stare hard at the island. Are there people out there watching us? People whose intentions are less than noble? What did they do to the English? I’m not pious—I place all my faith in rational thought and the scientific method—but I can’t help but brush my fingers along the silver cross on my necklace, just in case.

My mother fastened the silver cross around my neck long ago. I was only eight years old. I had a raging fever and a hoarse cough, and she sat up with me for several nights. Her hand was cool and weightless as a feather against my forehead, against my cheek. Then a rash spread over my body, rolling hills of red blossoms that reached the ends of my limbs. It itched so badly I wanted to tear off my skin.

“It’s measles,” my father said. “Every child gets it. You must let it be.” He cut my fingernails so short I couldn’t scratch myself.

Within a day, I could no longer see.

The doctor insisted my father was right: it was measles, and the loss of vision, while troubling, would likely be temporary. He’d seen it before. He prescribed bitter medicine. He ordered the curtains drawn and the lamps extinguished; no light was to enter my room as it could render me permanently blind.

I was alone with my mother when the visions started. I bolted upright in bed, and I screamed.

“What is it?” my mother cried.

There were serpents twining around branches, fiery-eyed bears with unsheathed claws, a mushroom that transformed into a wolf that stalked me. These were from the stories all parents told their children to teach them caution. There was also a kitten that I cuddled in my coat only to have it die and transform into a skeleton. A hunter who lured me into the forest and tried to leave me with an old woman who wanted to chop off my fingers. These were strange beings from the even more disturbing stories my mother and her friends shared. The creatures had come alive at last, and I could neither close nor open my eyes against any of them, for they existed inside me.

“If you hadn’t filled her mind with all that superstitious nonsense, she’d be fine,” my father said. “It’s just a fever.”

He called the doctor back. My medicines were changed. He prescribed tonics that smelled so vile I gagged before taking even a mouthful. I couldn’t sleep at all; the visions came whether my eyes were open or closed. My skin was on fire. Days ran into one another, with no change.

My father called the doctor for the third time. He brought a reeking bucket whose contents smelled of rotting fish. He told my mother to apply it to my rash twice a day and leave it for a half hour. Once the proscribed time had passed, she could remove the poultice and plunge me into an ice-cold bath.

My father had the servants carry the bathtub up the staircase and roll it into my bedchamber. They brought bucket after bucket of cold water until it was filled. I heard splash after splash, the servants’ voices subdued.

When it was all ready, my mother said to my father, “I’ll take care of it now.” Her cool hand rested firmly on my forehead.

I detected my father’s uncertainty. He wouldn’t have completely trusted my mother to comply with the doctor’s orders, and yet, his presence in the room while I bathed would have been unthinkable.

“Are you sure you heard the doctor correctly?” my father said.

“I did.” She rose from my side and I heard her footsteps moving toward the door.

“You can’t lift her into the bath tub. She’ll be too heavy for you.”

“I can do it.” The latch clicked as my mother closed the door softly behind him.

No poultice of rotting fish was applied to the rash. I was never plunged into the bathtub. Instead, in the darkened room, my mother whispered to me of a silver cross on a chain. Her lips moved against my ear. She described its arms, the vines and leaves that adorned it, the jewelled flower at its heart. “Now,” she said, “I will tell you what I’m doing with it. Listen.”

She told me that she was dipping the cross in a bowl of water. I heard the splash, heard it knock against the sides of the bowl, heard the drip as she withdrew it. Then she told me she was lighting the wicks of three candles. I smelled the flare of the tallow. She prayed over the candles. “Coffin and grave, thrice I cleanse you,” she said. Next, she told me she was holding the candles over the water one at a time and letting the wax drip into it. Then, I felt the rim of the bowl on my lips.

I sipped the water.

Afterward, she fastened the chain around my neck. The chain was too long for a child and it hung so low no one would ever know I was wearing it. Perhaps that was her intention.

I felt her kneel at my bedside and lean over the mattress. She began to pray.

She prayed for hours, her voice a low rumble of praise, pleas, and promises. When she finally stopped, she said, “Never speak of this night to your father.” She kissed my forehead.

According to my mother, I fell asleep immediately and slept for the entire night. When I woke, my fever was gone, my eyesight had been restored, and I was very hungry. My parents embraced me and for many months afterward, indulged me with whatever I asked for.

As I grew older, and as my father continued teaching me the lessons of the Enlightenment, I dismissed the miraculous cure. It was coincidence. The illness had run its course, and the medicines had worked. While I didn’t share my mother’s view of the world, I knew that arguing would be disrespectful and, moreover, senseless. She’d never allowed enlightened thought to restrain her understanding. I allowed her to believe she’d cured me.

But no amount of rational thought was able to completely chase away the visions. They’d been so vivid and noisy that day, as though they were alive, and I wasn’t certain they weren’t still alive and wouldn’t one day return. My father would have said they were caused by the fever or maybe the medicine, fuelled by a child’s imagination. If we had ever spoken about them, I would have agreed. But just as my mother had warned me, I did not mention anything else about that night to my father.

The sun begins its descent into the sea, and the air has already cooled. My husband shouts orders from the foredeck. Men scramble with the rigging. The horizon swivels until we’re sailing into the setting sun. Is Nikolai Isaakovich deliberately avoiding Destruction Island?

We sail into the dying light, and when the shore is a distant memory, we come to a halt. The wind that has favoured us for so many days has diminished but not died completely. We go to bed in this welcome quiet and wake to an ominous silence. The air is still, heavy as a decision waiting to be made. We’re becalmed. The brig drifts. My husband and the others seem preoccupied, but there’s nothing to be done except to wait for the wind to reappear. It’s irrational to think it won’t.

We pass a dull, windless day, rocked by the sea swell. Zhuchka is restless and petulant, and it comforts neither her nor me when I rub her ears. I polish my telescope and review my star log. I even while away some time embroidering the dinner napkins I brought. The linen was an unexpected gift from the chief manager. He must have paid dearly for it because it was fine and clear, and not the coarse linen that the promyshlenniki sometimes use to make their trousers and shirts. I’m embroidering an elaborate pattern in red and black, with a Б in the centre of one edge on each napkin. After I miss two stitches and must tear apart several rows, I throw my work back into its basket in a fury and sit and wish for the night to arrive. The movement of the stars will be a more gratifying diversion.

Much later, I bundle up under my shawl and take my telescope out on deck. But it’s pointless. The sky is completely overcast. There’s not a hint of wind. The sea is still dead calm and looks to remain that way all night. We pass a second windless night, and the next day, too, until late in that afternoon, Destruction Island comes into sight once more. The swell pushes us to the north of it, and we drift closer and closer to shore. The sails sag uselessly. We need wind. A storm. I chastise myself after this thought arises. We don’t want a storm, do we?

As we helplessly float toward shore, Nikolai Isaakovich calls everyone on deck.

“We should drop anchor right now,” blurts the apprentice Kotelnikov, impetuous as always. My husband’s face barely moves, but I know what he’s thinking.

“Don’t be irrational. It’s still too deep,” drawls the American.

“Well, what about the skiff? Can’t we use the skiff?” Kotelnikov counters, with an urgency that veers toward panic. “The Aleuts could tow us out to sea. What are we waiting for?”

“Ah, but to what end? There’s no wind. How can we row all night?” says Yakov.

“Perhaps we could raise the sails and try?” Sobachnikov squeaks. He takes a tentative step toward the main mast and reaches toward the ratline. “There’s a trace of offshore breeze.” Timofei Osipovich frowns and the others either don’t hear the main rigger or choose to ignore him. His shoulders droop, his face colours, and he steps away from the mast as if he’d never made the suggestion.

“If we can’t get away from shore, we’ll be pushed onto the rocks in the morning,” says John Williams.

“If it takes that long!” says Kotelnikov. “We’ll run aground before midnight.”

Timofei Osipovich remains uncharacteristically quiet.

Finally, Nikolai Isaakovich waves his hand to terminate the discussion. “Here are my orders: we’ll steer through these rocks and reefs as best we can. The sea will determine our speed. As soon as we’re able, we’ll drop anchor, and we must do so before we lose what daylight is left. Then, we’ll wait for the wind to pick up and, if we’re blessed, it won’t blow a gale. I should be able to steer back out through the same course to the open sea, and we’ll resume our voyage.”

“But the rocks,” says Kotelnikov.

“If we can pass them once, it will be a miracle,” says the American. “We’ll have to pass them twice in order to get out.”

An uneasy silence unfolds. No man knows where to look.

“As we all know, he who sits between two chairs may easily fall down,” declares Timofei Osipovich finally. “Unfortunately, that’s where we find ourselves. It’s time to choose a chair. Our navigator is right.” There’s a stirring among the men, and I can’t easily tell which side they’re on. Then I see the tension dissolve from my husband’s face, and I realize he’s convinced them. We’re going to steer through the rocks and anchor as soon as we can.

The crew whirls around like a waterspout, attending to this and that, and eventually they position themselves around the bulwark on the foredeck. There are no instruments, tools, or devices to help us now. We must depend only on what can be seen with the naked eye, a difficult enough task made worse by the dying light. There are twenty-one sets of eyes strung along the bow of the boat, for even Maria and I have joined the men.

“When you see a shoal or a reef, or a large rock beneath the surf, you must call out right away,” Timofei Osipovich instructs us. “Don’t wait. The survival of the brig may depend on you.”

Nikolai Isaakovich embraces the wheel and holds it tight to his chest. He pushes himself onto his toes and uses the wheel to hold himself up. The men begin to call.

“Reef!” barks Ovchinnikov, peering through his hair.

“Rock!” cries the apprentice. “Be careful!”

We call out to my husband, our voices floating up one by one from all sides of the ship. “There’s one here on my side!” exclaims Yakov. “Watch out!”

The water’s surface ripples and glistens, making it difficult to see below the surface. When I do get a glimpse of the depths, I see shadow, and once, fish that scatter and vanish as quickly as they appeared.

My eyes strain against the moving water. I’m not sure I know what to look for. I don’t want to call out in error, but I also fear my hesitation will cause the ship to run aground.

And then suddenly an object comes into focus. It happens just like it does when I’m trying to find a certain star with my telescope. That sudden clarity. I point. “A rock! Kolya! There’s a rock!”

In response, Nikolai Isaakovich turns the wheel and steers away, along a passage so narrow even our tiny skiff couldn’t navigate through it.

Kotelnikov points, his sizeable trunk pressed into the bulwark. “Look out! Look out! Are you looking out?”

Sobachnikov cries, “A sandbar!”

We’re pushed even closer to shore.

I listen for the sound of a scrape. I listen for the splintering of wood. But neither come. The brig remains afloat.

“Drop anchor,” my husband orders. The men release an anchor hooked to the aft of the brig. It splashes and the sea gulps it down. I hold my breath—we all do—but the anchor doesn’t catch. The water is still too deep. The brig continues to drift toward shore, waiting for that anchor to reach bottom or hook onto something.

As the hazards slide into view the crew calls out: “Rock!” “Sandbar!” “Reef!”

Nikolai Isaakovich turns the wheel to port and to starboard as he’s directed. The guidance comes fast, and he must concentrate.

Then, he orders again, “Drop anchor!” The second anchor goes over. It’s slightly smaller than the first but fitted with the same pointed flukes, so perhaps it will work. We wait to feel the brig slow and stop, but no. We still drift.

“Again!” my husband orders. “Drop anchor!” This time surely we’ll be successful.

But the brig lurches toward shore on the surf. “It’s not working! Navigator!” cries the apprentice.

My husband orders for the last time, “And again!” That’s our fourth anchor. There are none left.

Then—merciful God—the brig stops.

A cheer erupts. The crew members embrace, slap shoulders and backs. I catch the eye of Nikolai Isaakovich. He smiles weakly from behind the wheel. Zhuchka runs back and forth, nudging us with her nose as she passes. She yaps and though I know she can’t possibly understand the peril we’ve evaded, to whatever extent is possible, I believe she feels our joy.

I turn my attention back to the water. Where are we? We’re ringed by rock stumps. Not far from the bow of the vessel lies a patch of pale sea, visible even in the dim light. It’s a broad shoal on which we would have run aground had we not halted when we did. Beyond this patch of sea lies a narrow, sandy beach that stretches away from us until it reaches the mouth of a river—the river we saw as we drifted in, the river that seemed to be pulling us ashore.

Tomorrow, the wind will return, and we’ll reverse our feat. Nikolai Isaakovich will navigate back out through the rocks, and we’ll safely return to our mission.

But the crew members haven’t budged from their places ringing the brig’s bow. They’re quiet and watchful.

“Look,” cries the apprentice Kotelnikov. He points.

The sea heaves. The swell is even stronger this close to shore. It lifts our brig, then releases it. Lifts and releases. Over and over again, and with each rise and fall, the brig strains against the creaking anchor cables that hold us steady. But one anchor cable rubs against a rock as the brig falls with the sea.

Timofei Osipovich and his faithful Ovchinnikov rush to the bulwark. Timofei Osipovich shoves the apprentice aside as Ovchinnikov brushes his hair from his eyes like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Pull,” cries Timofei Osipovich, and he and Ovchinnikov reach over and wrap their hands around the cable. I lean out over the bulwark so I can see what they’re doing. Their fingers tighten around the cable. They twist and pull, trying to shift it away from the rock. They’re fighting not only the cable. The brig and the sea pull against them, too.

“We need help,” Timofei Osipovich shouts. Yakov and the Aleuts squeeze in beside them, but there’s only so much room. One of the Aleuts climbs over the bulwark and hangs upside down, while Ovchinnikov holds him by the waist of his trousers. The Aleut stretches toward the cable. Perhaps from that precarious position he can add force to the others’ efforts.

But whatever they do, it’s to no avail. We helplessly watch strand after strand of the anchor cable wear through, each one shredding then snapping until only one fibre remains. When it goes, the broken cable flops into the ocean like a snake and the brig pivots. The ship comes to rest, held in place by the remaining cables.

Our new position is no better. The second cable ends up similarly compromised. The American, John Williams, climbs over the bulwark and gingerly steps onto the cable. He holds the railing, and the weight of his body is supported by the cable. He springs on it, gets it bouncing up and down.

“Be careful,” says Yakov.

“Get back on board,” orders Timofei Osipovich. “You’re making it worse.” He reaches for the cable. His hands are bleeding. The Aleuts are at his side once again.

This cable doesn’t last as long as the first, and it soon breaks, leaving us with only two anchors.

Night has fallen. Nikolai Isaakovich calls for the lanterns. Sobachnikov takes the first one and leans out as far as he can—farther than anybody else can reach since he’s so tall—and dangles it from a crooked finger, casting light and shadows in the area around the third cable. Eventually, under the weight of the lantern, his extended arm begins to shake, until he has no choice but to retract it. The men take turns and struggle, fighting against what I now believe will be our fate.

When it’s completely dark and Orion is directly overhead, visible without the telescope, I find the three stars of his belt. As if to mock us, strong and solid, it fixes him and his sword to the firmament forever. We don’t need forever—we just need the cables to hold until the wind comes up.

Then the third cable snaps.

As dawn approaches, Orion slips down toward the sea. He’ll disappear soon, as every astronomer knows. But on this occasion, his looming departure feels prophetic.

Then—wait! “Commander!” shouts the American. He’s not the only one who’s noticed. A nearly indiscernible breeze has come up from the southwest. Nikolai Isaakovich jerks to attention. He scans the sails, looking for response, but they only droop. Still, each little gust tickles my cheek, and each time, it feels slightly stronger than the last. Silently I urge: blow, wind! If not now, then when?

We finally lose the last anchor. Whatever noise the severed cable makes when it gives way is consumed by the sound of the surf; I feel the loss immediately as the brig pivots like a dancer unleashed from the grip of her partner.

This breeze is the only thing that can save us now, this inconsequential and capricious breeze blowing from the southwest—that and the skill of my husband. Nikolai Isaakovich orders the sagging sails hoisted. Again, he leans into the wheel and spins it all the way to one side. Stout Kotelnikov thrusts a flickering lantern as far out over the bow as he can stretch, but his reach is inadequate. As the sky brightens in the east behind the black trees, the light his lantern casts is faint, too diffuse.

“Can’t you hold it farther out?” says Yakov. “The navigator can’t see.”

He presses himself tighter against the bulwark until his round body bulges against the wood. Eventually, his lantern lines up with those of Yakov and the American, and I can’t help but feel glad to see Orion’s belt mirrored here on the brig. Maybe we’re going to make it.

The sails flutter in the light wind. There’s a hopeful rattle from the rigging.

“This passage is so narrow,” declares Timofei Osipovich, “no navigator but ours would dare to attempt to find a path through it in the light of day, let alone now.”

For once, there is nothing in his words for me to disagree with.

We pass rock and shoal and rock and reef again. With each wave that breaks, I’m buoyed. I wait for the thud, the splinter, the crunch—but they don’t come. We’re moving into water that’s increasingly deeper. My husband sends the apprentice for the leadline. “I want to know how deep it is before we extinguish the lanterns,” he says. He’s beaming—he knows we’re safe.

Behind the wheel, he stands tall and navigates through what may be the trickiest passage of his career, the most awkward, with the greatest stakes. Dear Nikolai Isaakovich, you’re proving your worth to the company. How I wish Chief Manager Baranov were here to witness your astonishing skill! I squeeze Zhuchka until she coughs and squirms.

But then, the sea and the wind are nothing if not unpredictable. I’m a fool to forget this.

With a groan and a crack, the foreyard breaks.

Twenty-two sets of eyes roll up, drawn to the noise. A length of the yardarm falls and swings, attached only by shards of wood. The once-billowing foresail collapses and flutters uselessly.

Sobachnikov, the main rigger, dashes to the base of the mast and, like a spider, begins to pull himself up.

“Stop! Wait!” cries Timofei Osipovich. “There’s nothing you can do now. We have no spare.”

The brig was to have dropped anchor several days ago so the crew could go ashore to replenish our supplies. The barrels of fresh water needed topping up. The promyshlenniki were to take Zhuchka hunting for ducks or, if they were lucky, a deer. Nikolai Isaakovich also wanted them to cut a few timbers that could be used to repair or replace the masts and yards if they should break. The weather prevented us from getting close to shore that day. The next day, there was no acceptable place to anchor. I don’t remember what happened the third day. The water barrels were low, but the situation wasn’t desperate. Then the brig was becalmed.

“But—” cries John Williams. “You can’t tack against this without the foresail!”

“Our fate is sealed,” Timofei Osipovich declares. For once, there’s no mockery in his tone.

The crew tries valiantly. They manipulate the sails as best they can under the direction of my husband, with Timofei Osipovich offering assurances and advice. Even I, knowing nothing of sailing, can see the futility. Without the foresail, we can only head in one direction. For a long time and a short time, the surf pushes us toward the shore.

Mid-morning, a swell lifts the brig—the most powerful swell to hit us all morning. We rise, rise, rise—and pause. The brig teeters. My husband freezes, his hands clutched to the wheel. Old Yakov removes his cap and blesses himself. Then, with a whoosh, the water recedes. We fall gently. The hull grinds into the sand. The brig stops. We meet our fate.

It’s not noisy. It’s not dramatic. It is merely the end of our voyage.

Zhuchka gives a joyful yap, happy perhaps that we’re finally not moving.

But her joy is short-lived. The surf, finished its inhalation, now exhales. The waves strike us broadside. The brig tilts. Seawater sprays the deck. I flinch when it hits me. Then the water rushes out and the brig levels. A moment later, the waves crash against us again. Our vessel groans. How I wish the force were strong enough to dislodge us from this sandy perch and carry us back out to sea. But we have no such luck.

Then the ship is struck by two terrible waves in succession. There’s no lull, no time to catch my breath. The brig tilts to shore at such a precarious angle that I’m certain we’ll capsize. I press my body against the foremast and hold with all my strength. The ship tilts to the other side when the water recedes. Poor Yakov slips on the wet deck and falls. His cap goes flying. His body slides until it hits the bulwark. Sobachnikov rushes over, helps him up and hands him his cap.

Nikolai Isaakovich should give orders, but latched to the wheel he’s like a sleepwalker—his eyes open and staring but vacant.

“Navigator!” Timofei Osipovich cries.

His one word forces Nikolai Isaakovich from his stupor. He surveys the questioning faces on deck and shakes his head like he’s coming out of his dream. His confusion slips away, replaced with an authority he must have learned in the naval academy.

He calls on the ship’s carpenter, Ivan Kurmachev. “Is there water in the hold?” Kurmachev scurries below deck as fast as he can, given his age. His footsteps bang down the ladder.

Then he addresses Timofei Osipovich. “Where in the name of heaven are we?”

“We’re north of Destruction Island,” he replies.

“I know that,” my husband says, exasperated. “Does this place have a name?”

Timofei Osipovich shakes his head slowly. “It might. You could check your charts.”

Just then, Kurmachev comes clattering up the ladder. “Commander! She’s filling!” he shouts hoarsely and pants.

“How much time do we have?”

“Not long.”

“Then we have no choice. We must abandon ship,” my husband says. He leans in and renews his grip on the wheel, contrary to what he’s just said. The members of the crew are equally insensible. They continue to cling to the bulwark, the masts, or whatever holds them steady. The waves continue to wash in and out.

“Abandon ship!” he insists. Again, no one moves.

Timofei Osipovich intercedes. “First, the arms and the ammunition,” he orders. “Keep the powder dry.”

“We can’t take the skiff out in this surf,” says the apprentice Kotelnikov.

Timofei Osipovich gives him a withering look before he issues orders. “Kozma Ovchinnikov, John Williams—and Yakov—and the rest of the Aleuts—you’ll carry as much as you can manage.” He tells them to jump overboard, run to shore and drop their loads, and, as soon as possible, return to the ship where the remaining crew members will have their next load ready.

“Now, on my mark,” Timofei Osipovich advises. Another fierce wave breaks against the brig, and she tilts alarmingly toward shore. When the waves reach their furthest point up the sand, they turn around and start back toward us. The instant the ship starts to swing back, Timofei Osipovich shouts, “Now!”

The crew jumps, arms loaded and held well above their heads. Zhuchka can’t help it. She flings herself into the sea right behind them.

Dog and men, they surge toward the shore as if pursued by the devil. My arms remain wrapped around the foremast.

Nikolai Isaakovich orders the men to remove the sails. “These will be our tents,” he says. They climb and begin to unfasten the shackles and draw rope through the blocks.

Some of the crew return. They take the next load, more arms and ammunition and, I’m relieved to see, a barrel of buckwheat.

In this way, lifting, leaping, landing, and running in waves timed against the surf, they ferry the necessities onto shore. Timofei Osipovich even gets them to salvage a cannon. They roll it off the deck. It splashes into the shallow water, lands on its barrel, and is impaled in the sand. Much time and great strength are required to dislodge it and get it to shore, but the men manage.

I remain latched to the foremast. The more I look at it, the more the distance between the brig and the shore expands. I can’t swim well, and, as irrational as it seems, I can’t leave without my telescope and star log. I must go get them. But then what? I don’t think I can just jump into the sea. I must save myself, it’s the sensible course of action, but when I look at all I need to do to reach land, I’m immobilized. I dig my nails into the mast.

“Anya,” shouts Nikolai Isaakovich. “What are you doing? Go to shore.”

“Now?”

“Yes now! Hurry up.”

“But I want my telescope!”

“For God’s sake, Anya. Go to shore.”

“No. I want my telescope.”

Flustered, he pounds the air with his fist. “This is not the time!”

“I’m going to get my telescope.” I let go of the mast; the brig shifts violently to one side. I stumble and grab the mast again.

“I’ll bring it to you. When I come to shore. I promise. Now go, Anya. Before it’s too late.”

“And the log! Don’t forget my star log.”

“Oh, Anya,” he groans. I wish I didn’t sound so petulant, but these things are important.

I stagger to the bulwark and throw one leg over. I hold tight to the railing. It steadies me. I wait, as I’ve seen Timofei Osipovich do, for the surf to break. It crashes against the side of the vessel, releasing an arc of spray that pricks my back. The brig tilts and the timbers moan.

I must wait.

Wait.

The sea makes a terrible sound as it retreats, like a million grains of wheat pouring through the fingers of the mighty hand of God.

Now.

I jump.

My feet meet unyielding sand. The water’s done nothing to cushion my fall. Rather, the sea catches at my skirt and tries to pull me out. The sand washes out from beneath my feet. The ground collapses. I dig in my toes. It’s no use. I’m being pulled out to sea.

It’s cold. Colder than the Neva during a Petersburg spring.

“Run, Madame Bulygina, run!” somebody screams from the brig. I try to see who, but when I turn, the next wave is upon me. It’s a grey wall charging like an angered bull.

I run.

I never could have imagined this. The cold water will break my bones. I’ll go under and drown. My corpse will float all the way back to Russia. The shore is shifting, and it’s so rimmed with froth, I can’t tell how much farther I need to go. My shoes are packed with sand and filled with water. One shoe starts to slip off.

I can’t go on without my shoes. I must not lose this shoe. I reach down. If I can just tug it back over my heel—

The surf knocks me over.

I tumble. Cold envelops me. The sea pulls me up, pushes me down. I’ve nothing to latch onto now. My body is jumbled like coins at the bottom of a pocket. I can’t tell where the sky is. I’m overcome with the irrational fear that something down here is trying to get me. Somebody’s screaming. There’s a rough tug on my arm. And then another on my other side. I’m up. I cough and spit out water. It burns inside my nose. I can’t see for the hair in my eyes, but I know two people are dragging me to shore.

Over the roar of the sea, I hear shouting, but there’s water in my ears and everything’s muffled. It’s as though the person addressing me is in another room, a distant place.

Finally, I’m lugged completely onto shore. Water streams all down my body and pools on the ground at my feet, at my shoes. Both shoes. My ears clear.

My old grey shawl is gone, thanks to my lost pin, presumably still somewhere in our quarters, gone to be with the sea and sky, as though all grey things have an irresistible affinity for one another. I touch my head. My cap has floated away, too, and now I’m bareheaded like a little girl.

Zhuchka leaps around me, barking.

“Madame Bulygina, you almost killed yourself!” Maria scolds.

“Go dry yourself by the fire,” Timofei Osipovich says. “Help her,” he orders Maria. He turns and strides into the sea, strong legs plunging through the surf and propelling him back toward the brig.

“Did your mother teach you nothing?” Maria chastises. She takes my arm and leads me to where the promyshlenniki have built a fire in a ring of smooth stones. A plume of smoke rises into the sky and bends toward the forest until I can no longer see it. I lower myself onto a piece of silvery wood and wait for warmth to enter my body. I can’t wait for night to fall. Perhaps I’ll be able to bear the inconceivable misfortune that has befallen us if my beloved Polaris is there watching over us tonight.

CHAPTER THREE

The fire crackles like a hot frying pan, and my clothes steam as they begin to dry. I adjust the folds of fabric, spreading out the layers around my legs. I extend my arms and turn them like I’m roasting them. The crew has erected two tents with, under the circumstances, a strangely respectable distance between them. I just can’t fathom that I’ll be sleeping in one of them tonight.

Zhuchka doesn’t care about drying off. Unlike us, she’s spirited and good-natured. She noses about the beach, compelled to examine every rock, every shell, every log. She chases the birds bold enough to land. They easily fly out of her reach and return once she’s not looking. Despite our circumstances, it’s impossible to begrudge her this joy. Every once in a while, she raises her muzzle and chews, having found some morsel.

It must be well past the time for our midday meal. I glance at Maria; she’s staring into the fire with a muted expression. I feel reluctant to mention hunger—it seems trivial in the face of our present adversity. I try to concentrate on the warmth from the fire and the comfort it brings.

My perch on this log faces the sea. It’s a convenient place from which to watch the crew finish unloading the boat. They haul barrels and sacks of ammunition, tools, and food through the foaming surf. They fight against the forceful sea, which pushes and pulls them in opposing directions. They make trip after trip after trip, labouring as they drag everything across the stones and through the sand, and then place it beneath the large tent to ensure it stays dry.

Mercifully, there’s no rain falling now, and it doesn’t feel as if it’s imminent. Light clouds blanket the sky far above us. The smoke from our fire merges with it and disappears. I hope we have a dry night.

My husband stands thigh-deep in the ocean, just beyond where the surf breaks, near to where a bobbing flock of black seabirds warily keeps an eye on our activity. He shouts commands to the Aleuts who are still on deck. One of them is high up the mainmast and continuing to dismantle the sails from the rigging. I’m not sure why; perhaps Nikolai Isaakovich intends to erect more tents.

Has he retrieved my telescope and star log and sent to shore yet? I hope he hasn’t forgotten. Otherwise, somebody will have to make a separate trip to fetch them.

Most of the rest of the crew is here beside the fire. The apprentice Kotelnikov sits and stands and sits again, lacking the patience to find a comfortable enough seat on the logs and rocks. Carpenter Kurmachev earlier opened his flask, but when he found it empty, he began whittling a piece of wood. He dejectedly flicks the shavings into the fire. Timofei Osipovich opens his palms to the flames. The bleeding has stopped, but his hands are raw and bruised.

He’s ordered his steadfast Ovchinnikov and the American to stand sentry. They’re a short distance away, facing the forest, their firearms loaded and resting over their shoulders. It’s the koliuzhi they await, but there’s no sign anybody’s nearby. We haven’t seen or heard anything other than what you’d expect from such a vast and desolate wilderness.

We’ve run aground in a place that’s empty and beautiful. The edge of the beach closest to the surf is covered with smooth stones. Bundles of tangled kelp mark the tideline and brilliant white seashells glow even though it’s overcast. Above the stones, there’s powdery, pale sand. A few silvery logs, tossed up on shore and dug into the sand, set up a barricade along this upper edge. Beyond this, beach grass nods in the gentle breeze, and beyond that, dense black forest beckons and threatens at the same time. Birds drift overhead and keen and call out to one another. Their cries echo eerily off the trees and rocks, rising above the incessant sound of the sea.

Ovchinnikov stops. He slips his musket off his shoulder and aims it at the forest, spreads his legs wide. Timofei Osipovich sits up and takes his hands away from the fire. The bushes at the edge of the forest begin to quiver. Then, from the darkness, six people emerge.

Zhuchka, nosing around a bundle of kelp, looks up. Her hackles rise. She barks, and then charges toward the people—all men—who don’t even glance her way.

“Steady,” Timofei Osipovich warns in a low voice. No one at the fire moves or makes a sound. Zhuchka, on the other hand, leaps in circles around the newcomers. They pay her about as much heed as if she were a swirling mote of dust.

As the koliuzhi draw closer to the fire, everyone rises, even Maria and me. Two of the six strangers advance, one a tall, moustached man carrying a spear, the other a slightly smaller version of him who is hardly an adult. This boy has a blunt object hanging from a sinew around his neck, identical to the horn-shaped objects carried by the koliuzhi who gave us the halibut. I’m no closer to knowing its function. This one is so ornately carved I wonder now if these objects are ceremonial, like the sceptre carried by the constellation Cepheus, the king who keeps one foot planted on my beloved Polaris as he spins around her.

Their heads are covered with wide-brimmed hats woven with a material very much like bast. Our peasants, however, fabricate nothing like these hats, which have angular designs woven right into them. More remarkable than the bast hats, however, are the men’s faces and shoulders, which are painted red and black and sprinkled with fluffy white feathers. I’ve never seen anything like it. Their appearance is strange and beautiful, striking and intimidating.

“Liatsatsdoόli,”[2] says the moustached man.

Timofei Osipovich replies—thank goodness he knows this strange language.

The koliuzhi brightens, and says, “K^wok^wósas hok^wachiyólit táad.”[3]

Timofei Osipovich gives a short nod and waits.

Nikolai Isaakovich watches us. Timofei Osipovich waves to say the situation is under control. My husband takes two steps toward the beach, then stops, hesitates, and eventually turns back to his tasks on the brig.

The moustached man and Timofei Osipovich continue their conversation. Timofei Osipovich’s face is a stone; I can tell nothing from his expression. Does he really understand what the man is saying? Is he pleased? As for the moustached man, sensation and thought flit across his features. I think he’s surprised to find us here, but why wouldn’t he be? I can’t yet tell if we’re welcome—or if we’re under threat.

[4] he asks.

Timofei Osipovich smiles and bows his head before replying briefly. Then he slips into Russian and says, “Madame Bulygina, Maria—come with me. The rest of you, stay here and remain alert.” We follow him into the smaller tent. The two koliuzhi in the hats join us.

It’s colder in the tent without the fire. However, I wouldn’t leave even if Timofei Osipovich ordered it. The moustached man wears a sea otter cape dark as a moonless night at sea. When he shifts, the fur’s silver highlights gleam even though only a sliver of light enters the tent. Plump tails of fur dangle from the hem. The boy, on the other hand, is dressed simply in a plain breechclout and a cedar bark vest that hangs to his hips. Beneath it, his chest is bare. He stares at Maria and me, his eyes bulging. His gaze latches onto my silver cross. There is no more space than the span of an open hand between us.

The conversation continues. Timofei Osipovich doesn’t say much, but he listens while his eyes flit around the tent, jumping from the older man, then to me, then to the young man, then Maria, then the sand, and once again the koliuzhi, then the ceiling of the tent.

The older man leans in, one hand open, moving up and down in the same rhythm as his speech. He seems earnest and concerned. About what? Is it us? Is it something happening at his home? Where is his home? There’s not a house in sight, not a sound, not even a trail of smoke leading into the sky that I can see. If he doesn’t live here, how did he get here?

Timofei Osipovich is impassive. Why isn’t he responding? Is it possible he doesn’t understand everything the man is saying?

The moustached man is mid-sentence when Ovchinnikov thrusts his head through the opening of our tent. His face blocks our narrow view of the sea, his hair obscures his eyes.

“The koliuzhi are in the other tent,” he says quietly.

Timofei Osipovich’s eyes widen. He frowns and presses his lips together. He glances at the moustached man who’s stopped talking and is watching with an intensity like smouldering coals.

“What are they doing?” asks Timofei Osipovich.

“They’re looking at our things. They keep touching them and picking them up. I don’t trust them. They’re going to steal something.”

“Watch them. I’ll talk to this one.”

Timofei Osipovich addresses the moustached man. He speaks calmly, and smiles frequently. When the man finally replies, I think I’ve been wrong. Timofei Osipovich must know how to speak their language.

In their faces, in the tone of the conversation, I feel something come to rest like when a bead of water rolls across the deck and arrives at the bulwark. Timofei Osipovich turns to Maria and me.

“Everything is fine. He’ll talk to the others,” he says. “He’s the toyon.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“You don’t know toyon? It’s—a kind of emperor. Their version of it anyway.” Timofei Osipovich pauses. “There’s usually more than one. It depends on where you are. This one’s friendly.”

Whatever disaster has befallen us, it seems it’s not about to get worse. I look at our toyon who is serene and maybe even, dare I hope, a little sympathetic to our circumstance. I don’t know what’s happening in the other tent, but I suddenly have confidence in this toyon to make everything right.

Timofei Osipovich exhales decidedly and announces, “I’m going away with him.”

Maria stiffens.

“Where?” I demand.

“His house. It’s not far.”

“You can’t leave us here.”

He smirks. “Then come with me.”

Maria and I exchange looks.

“Madame Bulygina, you’ll be fine. Ovchinnikov will be in charge here until I return. If the apprentice tries to convince you to do other than what Ovchinnikov tells you, ignore him.”

“What if they turn on you?”

Timofei Osipovich raises his eyebrows and smirks again.

“Nikolai Isaakovich would never allow you,” I continue. But my logic is flawed. These matters are secondary. What’s most concerning is that he’s the only man here who can communicate with the koliuzhi. He mustn’t leave.

“In fact, Madame Bulygina, your husband would insist upon it, if he knew. But, as you are aware, he’s occupied. Would you like to ask his permission on my behalf?” I lean sideways until I can see my husband through the opening in the tent. He’s still thigh deep in the sea. His attention is on the crew members who are lowering the empty skiff into the ocean. It swings helplessly from its cables, banging against the side of the brig. Between Nikolai Isaakovich and the shore, the surf roars. Between the froth and me are stones and sand. Timofei Osipovich will be gone by the time I get to the edge of the beach. And I’ll never be able to shout loudly enough to be heard above the sea.

“He’s a friendly man,” says Timofei Osipovich, rising. The older man and the boy both rise with him. “He wants to help us. I’ll come back in a little while. I’ll settle the rest down before we leave.”

“Timofei Osipovich!” Ovchinnikov calls.

Timofei Osipovich pokes his head out of the tent. “Stand fast, men,” he says quietly.

“What’s happening out there?” I cry.

I can’t see, but it’s certain something’s going on. The koliuzhi outside the tent have raised their voices.

“Do the best you can. Try somehow to get them out of the camp without fighting.” Timofei Osipovich and the koliuzhi sit down again and begin to talk once more. Timofei Osipovich has a lot to say now. The toyon squints and listens thoughtfully.

In the middle of their discussion, a rock flies across the tent opening. Another follows, coming from the opposite direction. “They’re throwing stones!” I cry. I don’t know who’s responsible. I can’t see.

Timofei Osipovich leans toward the opening in the tent and shouts. “Control yourselves! Don’t retaliate!” He assumes it’s the koliuzhi throwing the rocks.

Then, a gun fires. The birds shriek.

Timofei Osipovich rushes from the tent. He catches his foot on one of the cords. “Damn,” he cries, extracting his foot. The tent shivers violently. It might collapse. The fabric springs back and forth. But the tent stays up.

The toyon leaps over my folded legs. I lean back, believing he’ll fall on me. The boy follows seconds later. They leave behind a cloud of spinning white feathers as they fly out of the tent.

There’s another gun shot.

I duck and cover my head with my hands. Maria shrieks, throws herself down, and curls up on the sand. Outside, there’s shouting. Thuds. Grunts. Screams. I snake to the narrow opening and when I muster enough courage, I raise my head.

Timofei Osipovich staggers backward, then twists toward our tent. The shaft of a spear vibrates in his chest. He’s been struck.

Hardy prikashchik—he grabs the shaft and with a grunt, he pulls out the spear. With his free hand, he raises his pistol and turns to the big tent where all our supplies lie. A man with a mouth contorted in rage has a spear in one hand and a rock in the other. He throws the rock at Timofei Osipovich. It strikes him in the head. The blow spins him around so he’s again facing the tent. A stream of blood trickles down his forehead and into his eyes.

The toyon’s empty-handed. What happened to his spear? He streaks around, runs from man to man, shouts and tears at their arms, urging them to leave.

The apprentice Kotelnikov strikes him across the back with his musket. Something cracks. The toyon screams.

Where’s my husband? I can’t see him. I need to find him, but I can’t leave the tent. I can barely breathe.

Timofei Osipovich trips and falls across a huge log. He doesn’t move. He lies there like some hideous mat on a tiny table.

The man who threw the rock at him is on the ground. I can’t tell if he’s alive or not.

Zhuchka barks wildly. I can’t see her.

I must find Nikolai Isaakovich. I rise to my knees. As soon as I do, another gun fires. And another, and another, and another. I throw myself away from the opening and down onto the sand beside Maria. I press my body against hers. I hug my knees to my chest. I hear a wail. It’s me and it’s not me.

Outside, there’s the sound of running feet. They pound the sand and shake the earth. I feel it rumble up into my body. It’s moving away from the tent, in the direction of the forest. Finally, it ceases.

Quiet descends like a bank of fog and smothers everything.

I wait. And wait.

I hear a groan. Somebody sobs. Is it one of us? Is it the koliuzhi?

I look at Maria, but her face is turned away, and she’s still as an old rock.

I leave her side and tentatively approach the tent’s opening. Slowly I push my head through the narrow vee.

It’s over. The battle is over. The only people outside are us.

I immediately find Nikolai Isaakovich. He’s face down on the sand. There’s a spear in his back.

I run from the tent and fall to my knees before him. Zhuchka butts up against my side and whines. I shove her away.

Dear God. My husband is dead. I’m a widow, and I’m not even twenty years old.

I look up, weeping, and there’s Timofei Osipovich, bloodied but alive, standing over us. “Don’t worry. He’s fine. Aren’t you?”

“Get that thing out of me, would you?” my husband mutters.

Timofei Osipovich grasps the shaft and pulls. My husband groans. The spear easily slides from near his shoulder blade. There’s a wide rent in his greatcoat, but it seems the thick wool prevented the spear from penetrating too deeply.

“Kolya?” I cry. “Are you all right?”

He rolls over. Blood coats half his face.

“Oh. Oh.” The sight of so much blood tangles my tongue for a moment. Finally, I find my words. “My darling, what happened to you?”

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry.” With difficulty, he pushes himself up to a sitting position.

“I thought you were dead.” I clasp his arms, but he grimaces, and I let go. “Oh, Kolya.” I blot at the blood with my apron, with the hem of my dress. It instantly blooms across the absorbent fabric, painting big red petals. “Does it hurt?”

The American, John Williams, holds his head and groans. There’s blood oozing down his ear. Yakov limps toward us. “Commander?” he says. “Are you badly injured?”

Kotelnikov has blood drying beneath his nose. He swipes his pudgy hand across it and cries, “They’re filth! Scum!”

Maria crawls out of the tent. She looks around the beach in disbelief. It’s strewn with the spoils of our battle: spears and rocks, cloaks of cedar, and the woven hats. Many of the crew have been injured.

“What happened out here?” cries Timofei Osipovich. He looks at the men one by one. “Can’t I leave you alone for a minute?”

We’re bloodied and beaten, but not seriously. None of us is dead. However, the koliuzhi haven’t been so lucky. Two koliuzhi bodies lie on the beach.

“They carried away another one of theirs when they ran,” says Yakov. “He couldn’t walk.”

One of the dead men is the one who threw the rock at Timofei Osipovich—somebody, perhaps even Timofei Osipovich himself, shot him. The other body belongs to the boy with the blunt, horn-shaped object who accompanied the toyon into our tent and stared at my silver cross. The blunt object is still attached to its cord, still wrapped around his neck.

I’ve seen dead bodies before, at wakes and funerals. As an enlightened young woman, I never allowed them to disturb me. I know the body is a shell. It holds life—and then it doesn’t—and when the life is gone, that’s it. There is no eternal life. That’s the nature of mortality. It’s the biological ebb and flow of a person’s life.

But I’ve never seen a body like this boy’s. Fluffy white feathers still cling to his face. His eyes are open and vacant and there’s a piece of down caught in his eyelashes. His hat is gone. His hands lie limp, open and empty at his sides, the fingers slightly curled. With all the life gone from him, he’s diminished. He looks like a little boy.

However, it’s the red-rimmed cavity in his chest, the size of a dinner plate, bigger than his head, all out of proportion to his tiny body that I can’t comprehend. I see it one minute. The next I don’t, and I wonder why he doesn’t roll over, as my husband just did, sit up, and say, “It’s nothing,” rise to his feet and head home. How despairing his mother and father will be when he doesn’t come back this afternoon.

Zhuchka thrusts her nose into the hole in the boy’s chest.

“Get away!” I scream and she cowers, paws over her bloody nose.

How did this happen? What transformed the goodwill I saw in the tent into this?

The crew begins to stir. There are wounds to clean. Bloodied sleeves to rinse in the sea. And the spoils of the battle, which we will collect and add to our belongings in the big tent.

In the meantime, the watch cannot rest. Firearms are reloaded. Sentries are posted. Night will arrive shortly, and when it does, for once, I will turn my gaze away from the heavens. Today my world has shattered, and its remnants have been strewn along a cold beach in a strange land. The order and beauty of the constellations offer no comfort; instead, they only mock.

CHAPTER FOUR

Late in the morning, Nikolai Isaakovich gathers everyone outside the big tent. The men have scabs on their foreheads and chins, soot on their hands and faces, and torn clothing. Did anybody sleep last night? I didn’t, even though I was exhausted from the wreck and the battle. Nikolai Isaakovich told me to rest, to get some sleep, in preparation for the trials ahead. He was right, of course, but who could sleep? The roar of the sea was so close, I imagined every wave crawling into the tent and soaking us. Other noises, creaks and scratches, were muffled and unidentifiable. Each one made me believe the koliuzhi were just on the other side of the canvas and about to attack. Far worse than these, what made sleep impossible, was the image of the maimed body of the koliuzhi boy on the beach. He wouldn’t leave me, no matter how tightly I closed my eyes. That soft skin ripped open, the shredded flesh, bloody as minced meat, and those eyes, glazed and empty. He’s still with me this morning. I think he’ll never leave me. I don’t know when I’ll ever sleep again. Ever. Never. Forever. But I mustn’t allow myself to think such despairing thoughts.

Shortly after we’d woken, my husband organized a small group to take stock of our surroundings. Their goal was to find a protected place where we could establish ourselves until our rescue. Would it take a week before somebody came looking for us? A month? When would the captain of the Kad’iak realize we weren’t going to make the rendezvous? Even if someone came next week, could we manage until they arrived? The beach had grown narrower overnight as the tide came in, and though we remained dry, it was a very calm night. Debris showed that at its highest, the tide wouldn’t leave enough space on the beach for the tents. We’d have to find a drier area up or down the coast, or we’d have to take shelter among the trees.

“Keep your muskets ready,” my husband advised as he divided the men into groups.

He sent old Yakov and the carpenter Kurmachev up the beach, in the direction we’d come from. I don’t know what he was thinking sending two old men together. If either one ran into trouble, neither would be of much help.

The apprentice Kotelnikov and Main Rigger Sobachnikov were directed down to the river. “You two be especially careful,” the prikashchik warned them. “We can’t see what’s upriver from here.” Sobachnikov paled.

Timofei Osipovich was sent into the forest with his loyal Ovchinnikov and the Aleuts.

“What about me?” cried the American.

“You watch the camp,” said my husband. “Your hair and skin—dear God, you’re a walking target.”

The men dispersed. Timofei Osipovich and the Aleuts fanned out and were swallowed by the hungry forest. Zhuchka hardly knew which group to follow, but in the end, she chose the forest. They returned first, each man emerging from the woods with the same grim expression on his face. Ovchinnikov brought back a handful of shrivelled purplish-black berries, which he said the Aleuts found soon after entering the forest. I’d never seen these berries before, not in Russia, not in Novo-Arkhangelsk. He offered them to me. I put one in my mouth. It was starchy and bitter. Others spat out the skins and seeds because, as hungry as the men were, the berries were unpalatable. Zhuchka jammed her nose into the ground and licked up the remains, and rolled her tongue, trying to get rid of the sand that inevitably stuck there.

The crew members who’d been sent to scout along the beach returned much later. I watched them through the mist, dragging their feet in the sand, and long before they reached us, I knew they’d been unsuccessful.

Now, outside the big tent as we wait for my husband to speak, a cold mist rolls in from the sea. It mutes the cries of the birds. Timofei Osipovich gave me one of the woven cedar capes left from the battle. It smells of smoke and fish. It’s a bit coarse, but softer than I expect and pliant enough to wrap around my shoulders and keep the mist at bay. It disturbs me to think of whose shoulders it covered before mine. But I must not let that stop me from wearing it—my survival may depend on it. I only wish I knew how to fasten it closed. There are no long ends to knot as there are with a shawl; there is no pin.

Mercifully, my shoes dried before the fire last night. They’re practical shoes—mostly flat, with only a small heel that clicked on the deck and announced my arrival wherever I went. The only ornamentation is on the vamps, which are embossed with a circular pattern of curling vines and feathery leaves. While we were aboard the brig, Maria cleaned them and kept the mould at bay. She sometimes polished them with grease to keep them soft. Though fine for life on a ship, they’re inadequate for this wilderness. They slip on and off my foot too easily, as the teal Morocco leather they’re made with has stretched over the weeks. They fill with sand wherever I go. It compacts between my toes until I have no choice but to empty them. The sand pours from them in a stream, like it does in the sandglass the crew uses to measure the watch. At least I still have shoes.

Out at sea, our brig rocks gently, rhythmically, keeping time with a small flock of seabirds that floats nearby. The ship’s broken foreyard still dangles from the mast and sways and creaks with the motion. High tide has come and gone, and the ship remains grounded. Many more things need to be brought ashore. My telescope and star log are among those that were left behind yesterday. Nikolai Issakovich thought they’d be safer there, away from the salt and sand. He’s promised me he’ll fetch them as soon as our camp is better appointed, and I have a place away from the elements to keep my things.

My husband has attempted to clean himself up. He’s brushed his greatcoat. He’s run his fingers through his hair and beard. He perches atop one of the driftwood logs, facing us and the forest. Behind him, the waves break and fingers of froth creep up the beach, but he pays them no heed. My husband leans just slightly. I can tell he favours the side of his body where he was struck by the spear. Still, he looks the picture of authority; he bears it well, as he should. All twenty-two of us have survived and, despite the unfortunate skirmish with the koliuzhi, that’s an auspicious beginning.

“According to the instructions given me by the chief manager of the colonies,” he cries, “the company ship Kad’iak is coming to the shores of New Albion. Its destination is a harbour lying not more than sixty-five nautical miles from where we now stand.”

Sixty-five nautical miles. No one breathes. Everyone knows how far sixty-five nautical miles is.

“Between these two points,” my husband continues, “the map shows no bay, no cove, nor even a single river.”

Every head turns left then, to the river Kotelnikov and Sobachnikov surveyed only a short while ago. Even from this distance, a churning tongue can be seen flowing from its mouth. Where that wild water meets the surf, a turbid tangle of whitecaps, whirlpools, and currents that reverse one another forms. Between here and there, brown birds with pointy beaks scuttle along the sand.

The maps on my husband’s secretaire are incomplete. That’s why the company had him sighting, measuring, and marking more precisely this coast’s features. What lies to the south is largely uncharted. We can’t depend on what the maps say. So why does my husband insist on it? Every man can see that what he says is false.

Nikolai Isaakovich ignores the skepticism that shows itself on each face and carries on. “If we stay here, we expose ourselves to the threat of almost certain death. We’ll have to fight day and night to stay alive. They’ll besiege us. We’ll have to battle until we have no ammunition left. And then, these dikari will exterminate us without a second thought.”

I think about being in the tent with the two koliuzhi, about sitting so close to them, no weapons, no voices raised, nothing but a conversation between us. The battle has changed everything, even the way we speak. Now, they’re no longer just koliuzhi. They’re dikari. Savages.

“And so, we must leave. We should be able to reach that harbour quite easily.”

“They’ll follow us,” cries John Williams, his face even redder, enflamed with his outrage. “They’ll try to kill us.”

“They may… or they may remain here to plunder the ship and divide the spoils,” says Timofei Osipovich quietly, picking at the scab on his forehead. “Who can tell?”

My husband looks at him gratefully. “Yes. Timofei Osipovich is right. Most likely they won’t pursue us, for we’ll carry nothing they want, and so they’ll have no need come after us,” my husband adds. His eyes shift to the forest. “Most likely.”

There’s silence, except for the persistent, rhythmic murmur of the sea. Every man is imagining the walk we’re about to set out on, through a land we don’t know, during the onset of winter. Every man is imagining the alternative. Waiting. For what? If there’s no ship, will there be a grand carriage pulled by six horses on its way back to Novo-Arkhangelsk? A peasant with his donkey cart who’ll make room for us beside his sacks of grain? Will the vodyanoy intervene and instead of drowning us, take us home? Every man is imagining our demise. How we’ll fall—from illness, battle, hunger, cold. We’ll fall, one by one by one, until none is left standing. No one in the world will ever discover what’s become of us.

“Then, we place ourselves in your hands,” pronounces Timofei Osipovich. He flicks away the scab he picked.

The doubt instantly washes away. Brooding Ovchinnikov cracks a smile now that his ostensible master has given his approval. Old Yakov nods and readjusts his cap. Nikolai Isaakovich folds his arms across his chest and looks pleased with himself. Sobachnikov shyly meets my eye, and I smile to let him know everything will be fine.

Will everything be fine? I think it would be wiser to stay with the brig. Everything we own is onboard the Sviatoi Nikolai—and we may need it all if our rescue takes a long time. Despite the koliuzhi, I’d place greater faith in staying, building a shelter suitable for the winter, and hunting and fishing for our sustenance. Maybe we can make peace with the koliuzhi. Perhaps they’ll leave us alone. I think waiting is a wiser choice than hiking sixty-five miles in near winter, over terrain we know nothing about. But no one asks me. So, I must follow. I’ll go where Nikolai Isaakovich leads.

We begin preparations for our long march. First, the rest of the supplies we’ll need are retrieved from the brig. More ammunition, more food, some knives, bowls, cups, and cooking pots—two wide vessels and a kettle.

The carpenter Kurmachev carries a small keg of rum to shore, thrashing through the waves with the weight on his shoulders. In Novo-Arkhanglesk, every man is allotted four to five cups a month because the company believes spirits, when taken moderately, offset the hazards of living in a wet and unhealthy climate. They also keep away the scurvy. Kurmachev takes this advice to heart and his breath often reeks of drink.

Fortunately, the sea is less turbulent than it was yesterday, and the tide is out. The trips back and forth are less arduous.

Maria and I watch these labours mostly from the side of the morning’s fire, which we stir and feed to keep alive. Timofei Osipovich has ordered his favoured Ovchinnikov and the apprentice to stay onshore and guard us. They stand poised not far from the tents, eyes trained on the forest and the ends of the strand. Occasionally, Ovchinnikov patrols far up the beach, skimming the forest’s fringe, watching for movement behind the trees. The forest is as quiet and brooding as he is. I worry that the koliuzhi are waiting in the shadows and his presence, so near the woods, will precipitate another confrontation.

Later, when the fire’s dying down, I walk up the beach toward the river with a mind to collect a few pieces of driftwood. “Madame Bulygina,” calls Ovchinnikov, “don’t go any farther.” When I turn back to our camp, I notice Sobachnikov near the big tent, fussing with a barrel instead of heading out to the brig again.

I return as instructed and throw the wood I’ve collected onto the fire, watching Sobachnikov the while. I wonder if we could burn the wood from the barrel he’s opening. I’m about to call out to ask when he looks up and beams at me. In one hand, he holds my telescope. In the other, my star log.

“The commander asked me to give these to you,” he says when I approach. He’s flushed, and his hands, as he extends my things toward me, tremble. I receive them. The star log is dry. The telescope doesn’t have a drop of water on it.

“How did you manage to keep them dry?” I exclaim.

He blushes. “I thought to wrap them in an old coat, and then I put them in a barrel of gunpowder where I knew they’d be safe.”

He must have opened the barrel, then resealed it, before carrying it to shore. Once here, he pried it open once more. “I’ve inconvenienced you. I’m sorry. Thank you for undertaking such an effort for me,” I say.

“Madame Bulygina, I…” he fumbles. I wait, though it pains me to see him in such agony. “I see you every night on deck. I know you value it.”

“Yes. My father gave me this telescope,” I say.

My telescope was built in Germany; it’s of the same design as Mademoiselle Caroline Herschel’s first telescope—the one she used to discover many galaxies and comets, when she was not much older than I am now. It’s a solid instrument, reliable, and though I’m not superstitious, I imagine it will bring me the same luck. I would never dream of leaving it behind.

Sobachnikov fidgets and opens his mouth as if to say something. Instead his face flares as he thinks better of it, and he turns abruptly and heads back to the brig for his next load. I watch him until he enters the surf again, and then I return to the fire.

When the crew finishes bringing in all the provisions we’ll need, my husband orders the rest destroyed.

“We won’t make it easy for those dikari,” he says. “They must not profit from our misfortune.”

The men wade back out to the brig. They drive iron spikes through the barrels of the cannon—each strike rings out as though delivered by a blacksmith, and I warily watch the forest wondering if the koliuzhi will be drawn out by the noise. They next heave the cannon, one by one, overboard. Each one falls with a tremendous splash and then disappears beneath the waves. Then the crew moves onto smaller objects: iron tools deemed too heavy and of too little use for our trek. Pikes and axes, inferior firearms—they break the locks on all the guns and pistols first—even the remainder of Maria’s cooking pots and utensils. All the knives and forks and spoons. The rest of the rum. My half-embroidered napkins and my sewing kit. They toss everything into the sea as if making offerings to the vodyanoy. In the hold are a stack of Russian possession plaques—iron plates engraved with the Holy Cross and the bold words “Country in Possession of Russia.” We were to bury them along the coast when we went ashore for provisions. We haven’t had the chance to leave a single one behind. One by one, the crew flings them all into the surf. The powder—what we can’t carry—is tossed overboard too.

It troubles me greatly to see our things thrown so carelessly into the sea. Is there no way to bring them? Granted, we can’t carry such weight for sixty-five nautical miles. But couldn’t we improvise a kind of cart or sled using our skiff and tow or drag our things along? What about hiding them? The forest is vast and empty and surely there are many hiding spots. If bad luck befalls us and we’re forced to return to this beach, we’d have these things to help us. Unfortunately, there’s no time to plan. Destruction seems to be the only choice.

The final act involves the single cannon that took so much effort to roll up onto the sandy shore. The Aleuts roll it back out to sea. They struggle for some time to push it through the surf into deeper waters until it’s completely submerged.

My husband, with the assistance of Timofei Osipovich, divides up the load. Each man is given two guns and a pistol. The boxes of cartridges are evenly distributed. The least injured men will also carry the three kegs of powder. The rum is decanted into each man’s flask until the cask is dry—the wood flares in the fire. Everything else is wrapped in torn sailcloth bundles that are tied closed, to be slung over our shoulders.

The bundles of food are very small. We’ve eaten a lot in the hours since the brig ran aground—big bowls of kasha and cups of sugared tea. Sobachnikov and the apprentice Kotelnikov made an extra trip out to the brig at Maria’s request to look for more food. They returned with stale bread, a withered onion, and a tub of pickles. They also found strips of the leftover halibut that Maria salted and was starting to dry. Within a few minutes, all of it was eaten.

Now, all that remains is some bruised potato, turnip, and a few carrots, a paltry quantity of buckwheat, flour, sugar, yeast, salt, and tea. How this will feed twenty-two of us, I can’t imagine.

“We still need more,” Maria says, overseeing the packing of the food. “Somebody has to go back to the brig again. I know we have more.”

“There’s nothing left,” says Kotelnikov.

“Old woman, stop worrying! We’ll hunt and fish,” Timofei Osipovich cries. “There’ll be plenty—berries, mushrooms…”

“It’s almost winter, you fool. There are no berries and mushrooms. And if you’re such a good hunter, why didn’t you get us some venison last night?”

“You want venison? Why didn’t you say so?”

“What am I supposed to make with this? For twenty-two people? We need to go back and get more.”

“There are limits to what can be carried.”

“And yet you make allowance for—trinkets?” Maria gestures dismissively at the pile of korolki, handkerchiefs, and folds of fabric waiting to be tied into a bundle. The edge of a blue nankeen cotton robe pokes out from the heap.

“These trinkets will buy you a fish or a haunch of good venison,” Timofei Osipovich says. “You’ll thank me later, old woman.”

The bundles and barrels are loaded into the skiff, and, in fours, we ferry ourselves across the mouth of the river. Zhuchka wades in. When it becomes too deep to walk, she paddles, but not for long. Once we’ve all crossed, Timofei Osipovich and the Aleuts push the empty skiff into the middle of the river. It twists one way, then the other, then makes a pretty circle before choosing a direction and heading out to sea. Does any man wish to be on it? It’s conceivable, though he’d have to believe that the fate that awaits him alone at sea would be preferable to the fate that awaits him on shore.

We don’t wait to see our little boat disappear.

Timofei Osipovich pushes aside a few branches and finds an opening into the forest. He ducks in and disappears, Zhuchka on his heels. Half a minute later, they return, Zhuchka panting.

“I found a trail,” he says. “It’s quite muddy, but not terrible. It will be easy enough to see anyway.” Zhuchka trots back to the bank of the river and laps at the water.

“Maybe we should follow the beach instead,” my husband says.

“We’ll be safer surrounded by trees and brush,” counters Timofei Osipovich. “On the beach, we’ll be too exposed. We need sentries, in front and bringing up the rear.”

I look up. Low grey clouds promise rain before long. Perhaps the forest offers shelter from that as well.

As I shoulder my bundle—mostly food, but my telescope and star log are cushioned in the centre of the load—I notice my husband watching. I stop and smile, and I wonder what he’s thinking. He looks wild and hopeful and handsome. His cheeks are ruddy, chafed by the wind and salt air. I feel a longing for him deep in my heart—to be close to him, to hear his voice in my ear, to feel his beard brush against my cheek. How reassuring his arm, tight around my waist, would be before we enter this sombre forest and begin an unimaginable voyage.

He smiles briefly, then turns his attention to his bundle. Despite his injury, he has a load as big and heavy as anybody else’s. As he pulls it up on his right shoulder, he winces. I stifle a cry. He’d want no man to notice.

As commander, he’s the first to push aside the branches and enter the forest. Timofei Osipovich, his loyal Ovchinnikov, and the American follow immediately, while the rest of us trail behind.

I follow Sobachnikov. He pushes aside a springy branch of a low shrub with his hips. I’m so much shorter than him, I must duck underneath it. I lift it and step into the gloom, letting the branch fall behind me.

And I stop. A reverential hush has fallen over our group as if we’ve just entered a beautiful old cathedral in Petersburg.

Green surrounds us, a soft and luscious green as I’ve never seen before, not even in the finest tapestries. Leaves hang heavy with moisture, and everything else seems covered in moss and lichen.

Every tree is oversized. The tree trunks tower distantly to the sky. At the base, they are gnarled and peeling, with roots that push up through the earth, as though there’s no room left for them down there. These trunks are so broad that not even four of us hand in hand could circle them. Even the fungus that clings to the trees is unnaturally large, crusty, and coloured like pretty beze cookies.

The air is fragrant and silky. Though I know it irrational, I feel I could touch it. Hold it in my hand. After so many weeks on the brig, where sea breezes could not dissipate all the foul odours of a vessel at sea, this air makes me think about the courageous and worthy things that people fight for and are capable of but somehow rarely get and even more rarely do.

Tears well up in my eyes, surely from my exhaustion, but also because I’ve never known anything as beautiful as this exists, and I realize how poor my life has been without this knowledge.

Timofei Osipovich’s trail winds through this splendour, then peters out into nothing after only a few minutes. We spread out looking for it again. I walk around a grove of ferns with brilliant green leaves on arched spines that spill over like streams of water in a fountain. Behind the ferns lie spindly branches covered in thorns. I edge around them to avoid being scratched. The ground is spongy. Cold water seeps into my shoes.

Nearby, tall Sobachnikov pushes aside another branch, and this time, when it springs back, it knocks old Yakov’s cap off his head. A small flock of birds as tiny as buttons flit overhead as though launched from slingshots.

Just ahead, Maria skirts along an old fallen log covered in moss. The log is wide like the trees that surround us. She’s dwarfed as she walks its length. Smaller trees and plants grow on top of the log as if it’s a garden. Maria has to walk some distance before she finds a place to cross over it.

“Over here!” John Williams cries. “The trail’s over here.” I head toward his voice.

Big beards of moss so long they could be braided garland the trees. Is it alive? How does it sustain itself without killing the tree? Fixed to the branches as it is, it makes the trees look like a congress of fat, bearded priests, gathered to discuss profound questions of faith and sin.

I follow the others. I walk as well as I can with one hand clutched to the neck of my bundle, and the other trying to hold closed my cedar bark cape. Most of the time, I can’t see Nikolai Isaakovich. But I yearn to be with him. I want to see his face to know if this forest surprises and moves him, too.

As I predicted on the banks of the river, it begins to rain. It’s soft, misty rain that makes me believe we’re walking through a cloud. It continues, soaking my hair and my skirt. I clutch more tightly the opening of my bark cloak. My bundle feels heavier. I wonder if the food I carry is being spoiled in the rain. But it will be even worse if my telescope and star log are becoming wet.

I enter a thicker part of the forest, and the trail grows vague again. I hear the others just ahead; I must be moving in the right direction. After a few minutes, I come upon the crew waiting in a grove. “It’s too dark to go on,” my husband says. “We’ll stop here.”

“How far do you think we’ve come?” I ask.

“We’ve made good progress,” he replies and turns to Timofei Osipovich. “What do you think?”

“I would think perhaps a good three nautical miles.”

No one smiles. Three. Leaving sixty-two more to go.

We drop our bundles and the Aleuts start to put up our tents, tying cords to the trees and branches that surround us. I walk the perimeter of our camp area. My feet sink into the mossy ground, but perhaps this is as good a place as any we might find in this drenched forest.

Timofei Osipovich sidles over and points. “Look, Madame Bulygina, here’s my supper.” Mushrooms have pushed up around a rotting log. They’re orange, with upturned caps in the shape of a jaunty hat I’d once yearned for in Petersburg. “Cook them for me, will you?” And when I frown, he adds, “You do know how to cook, don’t you?”

“Cook them yourself,” I mutter.

“They’re poisonous,” says Maria. “Don’t touch them.”

Our fire is very small—just big enough for Maria to prepare another meagre meal of kasha and tepid tea. Though we haven’t seen the koliuzhi all day, such a tiny fire won’t draw any attention should they happen to pass nearby. Still, my husband doubles the size of our watch. Four men guard us at once, four more taking their place after a few hours.

Nikolai Isaakovich sits beside me, tired and sagging toward his injury. I’m tired as well. My feet are achy and blistered. My loose, wet shoes have rubbed the skin off my heels and toes, and they bleed in several places. However, I’m so exhausted, I’m sure I’ll forget as soon as I lie down. Tonight, I’m destined to sleep the deep and bottomless slumber of little children.

Zhuchka is on my other side, pressed into my leg. Her steady breathing offers as much comfort as the heat she generates.

The night looms over us the way the mountains hang over Novo-Arkhangelsk. There are no stars to be seen overhead. It’s too overcast, and even if it wasn’t, the canopy would block any view. It will be many hours before the sun rises again. The men slouch and sigh, and if it weren’t for their full flasks—thanks to the carpenter—I’m sure they’d have given up and retired for the night.

The fire sighs and pops.

“Long ago,” Timofei Osipovich says, breaking our silence, “not near, not far, not high, not low, the Tsar sent me to sea, alone.” The American peers at him. With one hand, the carpenter stirs the fire with a stick, while he takes a swig from his flask with the other. The other men shift. “I was on a secret mission. Don’t ask for details—I’d be put before a firing squad if I were to reveal its true nature.” The men sit up.

“The winds howled, as they do, and the seas were higher than these trees, as they sometimes are, and I was forced ashore to an island so small and rarely visited that it fails to appear on any navigator’s map.” My husband stiffens and looks as though he’s being accused of incompetence, but no one’s paying any attention to him. Everyone is mesmerized by Timofei Osipovich.

“It was a merciless piece of land forsaken by God. A barren rock in the middle of nowhere. Even the birds stayed away. There was hardly anywhere to land my little baidarka. I fought the waves until I came to a stony beach, scarcely wider than this.” He holds up his hands to show us. “I didn’t think my boat would fit through the opening, but I forced it. I had no choice.

“Then, I made a horrible discovery. I’d been wrong. The island was not abandoned. A hundred men jumped out from behind a rock. They waved their swords and spears and screeched like the devil’s army as they came for me.”

Every man leans in. In the fire, a burning log collapses with a soft thud. The fire crackles and a few sparks rise and then extinguish themselves.

“I’d walked right through the gates of Hell. I couldn’t fight those savages on my own. I’d drown if I tried to go back out into the sea. I thought for certain that day I would die.

“And so, having no other choice, I raised my empty arms high above my head.” He throws his arms aloft, slapping the jaw of his loyal Ovchinnikov who doesn’t so much as wince. “I faced the charging savages. And I hoped that one of them would understand that I was surrendering, and placing my fate in their hands.

“Much to my astonishment, my assailants immediately stopped. They were no farther away from me than Ivan Kurmachev is right now.”

Every head turns to see where the carpenter is, to gauge the distance and estimate how long it would take if one had to withdraw to save his life. Kurmachev takes a nervous swig from his flask, and when he lowers it, he reveals eyes as round as full moons. Timofei Osipovich continues.

“I didn’t budge. Neither did they for a long, long time. It seemed a lifetime or two. Finally, slowly, one man at a time, they lowered their weapons. And then two of them approached. They inspected my boat. They began to take everything out, running their filthy fingers over each item, discussing the ones that interested them. You know the koliuzhi way—you’ve seen it yourselves. All the while, I did and said nothing, for fear of driving them, once again, into a savage rage.

“When they got to the end of my belongings, and seemed not to know what to do next, I realized immediately that I had to do something to distract them. Otherwise, they might think that the next best thing to do would be to kill me.”

“What did you do?” Sobachnikov says, in awe.

“What could I do?” Timofei Osipovich laughs. “I made a kite.”

The men around the fire shift, but no one laughs with him. No one wants to miss his next words.

“I found two sticks about this long.” He shows us with his hands. “I lashed them together with a piece of kelp that was there on the beach beside my baidarka. I attached a piece of paper to it. And when I was finished, I held it up to show them.

“No one spoke. I tied some thin rope to it, and threw it into the air.”

He makes a motion like he’s throwing something into the wind. Old Yakov flinches.

“At that moment, I realized I might have misjudged and placed myself in even greater peril. The koliuzhi leapt back in fear. The wind caught the kite. They raised their swords and spears. Some pointed them at me and others at the kite. I thought I was about to breathe my last.

“But then—as I released more of the rope—they lowered their weapons. They began to smile. One laughed. Then others joined in. As they watched the kite climb, they rejoiced. And by the time it reached its full height,” he pauses long and hard and swivels his head around the fireside, meeting the eye of each and every person here, “we were best friends. All of us.

“‘You Russians are clever people,’ they said over and over again. ‘Surely you can reach the sun.’ ‘Oh no,’ I said to them, ‘no one can do that.’ ‘But you are so intelligent. Is Russia full of geniuses like you?’ ‘You flatter me much, and I thank you for such consideration, but no. I assure you I am a very ordinary man.’

“So remember: if you find yourself in terrible trouble with the koliuzhi, with nowhere to turn, find a distraction. They’re such little children at heart, all of them, and very easily amused. In this part of the world, that may be the only thing that will save you from the hungry jaws of death.” He slaps his knee. “There’s a tale for you and crock of butter for me.”

They laugh. And laugh, and laugh—that familiar line from the old tales, how often I’d heard my own mother append it to her stories. The men closest to him smack him on the back and nudge him with their shoulders. Even Nikolai Isaakovich laughs.

But why? His story is not rational. Right from the beginning—why would the Tsar trust a serf with a secret mission? And why would he be out on the stormy sea by himself? He’s tough as an old piece of dried meat; still, he wouldn’t be so foolish as to venture out into the open ocean by himself.

Does an island such as he describes exist? Does anybody live there? From where would he get paper? How could he speak so fluently the language of a people he’s never seen before—and who, it must be presumed, if they’re that forsaken, couldn’t have learned Russian? When you think about it, his story is like a quilt coming apart at the seams because the seamstress hadn’t thought beyond the basting.

Yet the others are charmed. Tomorrow, they’ll heed and follow him. They’ll think fashioning a kite is going to save their lives. Kotelnikov is sharp; so is the American. Can’t they see through his embellishments? Doesn’t anybody understand that he’s treating us like we’re children? He has such high regard for himself, and so little regard for us and the truth.

When the men have finally tucked away their flasks, we settle in for the night. I wait, cold and achy, for sleep to overtake me. But then somebody calls out in his sleep, and I’m wide awake again. Eventually, I feel myself drifting off. I’m once more ready to fall deep into slumber. But somebody rolls over and bumps the tent and the walls shiver. I awaken again. How I wish I were a little girl, my mother with me, holding my hand until my restlessness leaves me. This goes on all night, so that when I wake in the morning for good, I don’t feel restored.

We’re a ragged troupe carrying our bundles and our hopeless spirits. I don’t know which is heavier. Early this morning, as we packed up, everything damp from the mist, my husband announced we’d head back to the seashore and walk along the beach for the day. So, as we set off, we turn toward the coast and after only a half hour or so, we break through the forest’s edge and see the water.

The ocean is calmer today than it was yesterday. It’s dark grey and, even though it’s placid, the water still rushes up along the beach and floods back out again. The sky remains overcast, though the clouds are high and light, and so there’s no rain. My husband orders a brief rest. Timofei Osipovich and his devoted Ovchinnikov clean their muskets. Maria and Yakov enter into a brief discussion that ends with them redistributing the contents of their bundles.

I look for a place where I can wash my hands and face. I locate a small pool on a rocky outcropping at the edge of the beach. A purple sea star droops its arms over a rock in one corner, and I take it as a sign of welcome.

When I put my hand into the water, the pool comes alive. Small fish dart away. Tiny snail shells quiver and then totter off as though they have legs. Things I thought were rocks or seaweed begin to wave their arms and curl into tight little balls. I pull my hand out and wait. The creatures grow still. Then, I dip only my fingertips in. I rub them around my eyes, across my cheeks, and over my lips. When I wash off the layer of mud and dirt, I feel a little less tired.

I loosen my hair and let it fall. I try to run my fingers through it, but it’s choked with knots and tangled with leaves and twigs. When our ordeal is over, I may have to cut it. If the sacrifice of my hair would end our suffering today, I’d gladly make it.

“Madame Bulygina—we’re leaving! Hurry!” Maria calls. The men have risen and shouldered their burdens. My husband has already turned and set out along the sand. I finish tying up my hair again. I’m the last to join the procession. There’s a gap between me and the last man. After a moment, Timofei Osipovich steps aside. He waits and, after I pass, he rejoins the line, walking right behind me. His musket rests on one shoulder.

“That’s a big load you carry, Madame Bulygina.” Mine is less than half the size of his. He must be mocking.

“I can manage,” I say. “Like everyone else.”

“You could manage better if you fastened your cloak properly.”

“I prefer to do it my way.” My words sound childish, and I redden.

He laughs and says nothing more.

Out at sea, a bed of kelp rises and falls with the waves. Gulls float nearby, unperturbed by our presence.

Once more, my shoes fill with sand. It becomes harder and harder to walk. My one hand holds my bundle, the other holds my cape closed. I wonder about my shawl pin. Whatever happened to it? How I long to have it right now.

We follow the shore until we reach a rocky headland. On the side closest to the forest, it’s navigable. I scramble over the rocks, following the others, Timofei Osipovich just behind me. “There’s a passage to your right,” he advises. “See where it flattens? You can put your foot just there.”

It annoys me that he’s right. I’m eighteen and capable of finding my own way across the rocks. I don’t need anybody’s help, especially not his.

On the other side of the headland, the sand on the beach is replaced by loose pebbles, even more difficult to walk on. Each step forward requires two steps of effort. I fall farther behind. I wish I could run like Zhuchka who appears and disappears at will, moving easily over the little stones. How much time would she need to spend here before she became as wild as the wolves? Not long I suspect.

Judging by the crunch of gravel on my heels, Timofei Osipovich is right behind me. Each step he takes matches mine and it irritates me. I stop, and the cedar cape slides off one shoulder. When I try to pull it back into place, my bundle falls to the stones.

“Show me,” I grumble.

Timofei Osipovich looks around and picks up a twig. I allow him to adjust the cloak around my shoulders and pin it in place with the twig. The twig slides easily between the bark fibres. I redden—so simple and I didn’t think of it myself. He tugs the hem to make sure it’s secure.

“Let’s go,” is all he says.

The crew is now far ahead, beneath a rocky headland at the other end of this pebbly beach. They’ve lined up and it looks like they’ll wade into the sea to pass around it. The tide is coming in. They’ll have to go quickly if they’re to get to the other side before the opportunity is lost.

The tide is also narrowing the strand on which Timofei Osipovich and I walk. The straight path between us and the crew is being bent into an arc that lengthens as the water advances. My shoulders burn but I hurry. Each minute I’m delayed, my path grows longer. I, too, must pass the headland before the water gets too deep.

Then I slip, turn my ankle, and stumble. I throw my arms out and catch myself just before I fall.

“Steady, Madame Bulygina,” says Timofei Osipovich. “Don’t injure yourself now.”

I cautiously flex my ankle. “I’m fine,” I say. “It’s not like I’ve been speared and struck with rocks.”

He laughs. “Thank heaven for that. If you had, no doubt your husband would have ordered us to carry you. Perhaps it would have been your good fortune if he had selected me for the task.”

I bristle. “Even if I was injured, I’d do the same as any man here, the same as you. I would not add to anybody’s burden.”

I turn back to our path. The others are very far ahead now.

“What are you doing?” I cry. “Put me down!”

Timofei Osipovich has picked me up and slung me over his shoulder like I’m one of the sailcloth bundles. He laughs, and I feel it ripple through my body. His feet dig into the small stones, and we set off toward the others.

“We’re falling behind, Madame Bulygina, and we need to catch up.”

“Put me down!” I repeat and push against him. How does he manage to carry me, my bundle, and his own load all at the same time? Is this his injured side? He gives no sign that he’s in pain.

I wish Nikolai Isaakovich were here. I wish Zhuchka would come back and bite his legs. But everyone is so far ahead, no one sees us, and with the sound of the surf masking everything, no one can hear me call for help.

“I’ll put you down once we catch up with the others.” He’s fast. He trots. I bump along, my body pressed into his bony shoulder. My silver cross bounces into my mouth, and I spit it out.

“If you don’t put me down now, you’ll have to deal with my husband!”

“I have to deal with him anyway. He’s in charge. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

Then I see them. Three koliuzhi. Emerging from the forest.

“Timofei Osipovich! They’re back!”

“Who?”

“The koliuzhi!”

He stops, slides me down his shoulder and turns to look. He takes his gun in hand but doesn’t raise it. I wish he would. Our entire crew has disappeared around the rocky headland. I don’t know how Timofei Osipovich alone will be able to defend us against three koliuzhi.

The koliuzhi call out, “Likái.”[5]

They carry bows and arrows. They wear vests and breechclouts, but no paint, and no feathers this time. They have no shoes. How do they manage on these rocks without shoes?

I recognize one—it’s the man who was in the tent on the beach with me. The moustached toyon. He looks different without the paint and feathers, without his sea otter cape. He doesn’t limp as he approaches. It wasn’t him they carried off the beach. I think about the dead boy, again and dread creeps down my limbs.

The toyon says, “Hílich hawayishka oki i ix^watililo ”[6] Timofei Osipovich frowns and squints.

“What did he say?”

He shrugs. “I think it’s about hunting.”

“I thought you understood their language.”

“Some of it. Sometimes they understand me better than I understand them.” He smiles at me. “Don’t worry. Your Timofei Osipovich also knows a thing or two about hunting.”

He asks them a question. The toyon responds. As he’s speaking, Timofei Osipovich shifts his musket and the toyon stops. We all grow still.

In a low voice, Timofei Osipovich says, “The scoundrels have been stalking us all day. I knew it.”

He asks another question and after the toyon responds, our prikashchik turns to me. “He wants to know where we’re going. I wouldn’t tell him. He also says there’s a better trail in the forest. He wants us to follow them so they can show us.”

“We can’t do that,” I cry, colour burning my cheeks. “Do they think we’re stupid?”

“Madame Bulygina, compose yourself. They can’t understand what you’re saying, but if you look and sound angry and frightened, they’re not going to respond favourably.”

He’s right. Our strength right now is our language. We can say anything we want. They won’t understand. This may help us escape, or at least hold off an attack until my husband realizes we’re missing and sends somebody back.

Timofei Osipovich turns again to the koliuzhi. I can tell the toyon is adamant about us following.

“I think this toyon needs a hunting lesson,” says Timofei Osipovich coolly. “Watch me—but stay calm, please, Madame Bulygina.”

He says something that seems to please the toyon, and they stop talking. Timofei Osipovich steps away from us and picks up a piece of driftwood. He sets it atop a larger log stretched on its side, just a short distance away. He jiggles the driftwood until it’s balanced on the big log.

“Be still, Madame Bulygina, no matter what. I’m going to step away now, but don’t worry. I’ll kill them all if anybody touches you.”

He takes a few steps away. He turns to see where he is. Then he walks farther. The stones clatter under his feet. When he’s a distance away, he turns, loads his gun, aims, and pulls the trigger.

The shot echoes through the forest. My ears ring. I understand now. He’s giving a demonstration—a demonstration to instill fear and respect—and at the same time, to signal to our group that we’re in trouble. It won’t be long before the others return.

The koliuzhi look sideways at one another but say nothing. Once Timofei Osipovich lowers his gun, they go to the driftwood. One of the men—not the moustached toyon—picks it up. There’s a hole punched through the wood. Splinters jut out at all angles like lightning. He gives it to the toyon.

Then they walk toward Timofei Osipovich who hasn’t moved. They walk with purpose—I think they’re counting their steps. They want to know how far Timofei Ospiovich’s musket can shoot. It takes more than a minute before they reach the prikashchik.

I don’t know what they say. They don’t even wave before they disappear into the forest. They take the shattered piece of driftwood with them.

At that moment, our group appears down the beach. They’re running as fast as they are able to on loose rock, while dear Zhuchka bounds along at their side. Timofei Osipovich hollers and waves his gun in the air.

“They’re late for the party,” he says, grinning. “In such a hurry, they miss all the entertainment.” He looks to the grey sky, which is still light. “Come on. Maybe we can manage another mile or two before night.”

CHAPTER FIVE

This cave is wet and smells like mushrooms and fermented cabbage, but we’re better off in here than out in the snow. The firewood is damp, and though we wave our caps and cloaks to direct the smoke outside, the cave has other ideas. My eyes water and old Yakov has a coughing fit—still, no one leaves the fire’s side for long. No one wants to know the exact depths of this cave and risk meeting the creatures that sprout and grow in perpetual darkness.

The mouth of the cave frames the falling snow. The flakes are as big as feathers but judging by the way they fall, they’re heavy. Snow ought to be a delight, but this fills me instead with dread. Much more of this lies ahead. It is only November, and it will only become colder.

I already miss being dry and warm under the covers of a bed where I can sleep properly. My house in Novo-Arkhangelsk is full of holes, and it leaks as bad as a barn. It’s an ugly grey block of a house, perpetually dark inside, one of many arranged so randomly they appear to have been inadvertently dropped into that outpost. The houses are clustered atop a hill dwarfed by mountains whose peaks are always concealed in cloud. The furnishings are austere and uncomfortable. But I’d rush up the rough path to its front door right now if I could, unlatch it, and enter, throw myself onto the first piece of serviceable furniture I could find and never complain again.

The men are also tired, cold, and hungry. The food we salvaged from the ship is indeed not enough. Maria’s already reduced our portions in order to stretch out what’s left. She’s asked the brooding Ovchinnikov to go hunting or fishing so she can make something instead of plain kasha and tea; he looked to Timofei Osipovich who shook his head, no. Even our prikashchik is too dejected.

The old carpenter Kurmachev emptied his flask and asked the others to share. Only Sobachnikov agreed. He poured some of his rum into the carpenter’s flask, and Kurmachev nodded his thanks before fixing himself a place away from the smoke, and quaffing a mouthful or two. Or more.

Not an hour ago, Zhuchka began to act strangely. She hovered at the opening of the cave and whined. Finally, just when John Williams offered to go see what was bothering her, something crashed outside. I looked up. A boulder landed at the mouth of the cave. It was followed by a second boulder and a third. They were falling from above the cave entrance. At first, I didn’t understand what was causing this landslide. Then my husband said, “It’s the koliuzhi again.”

“What are they doing?” grumbled the apprentice Kotelnikov.

“They’re throwing rocks.”

“Rocks again? Are they trying to kill us?” said Kotelnikov.

“No. They want to scare us,” said Timofei Osipovich. “If they wanted to hurt us, believe me, they would have done it by now. They know we’re cornered in this loathsome prison.” He picked up a loose rock and sent it flying out into the daylight. “I thought I made it perfectly clear to them…”

“It seems all you did was challenge them to a contest,” I said. “Perhaps they’re not as scared of your little gun as you think.”

He glowered but then laughed. “Clever girl.”

The falling rocks stopped. We waited. Then a rustling began outside. Zhuchka raised her hackles and growled. A koliuzhi ran by. He moved so fast, it was impossible to say anything about him—how big he was, whether he was armed, what he was wearing, whether he was somebody we’d already met. Then another man dashed by in the opposite direction. There was a third. Timofei Osipovich and Ovchinnikov raised their guns in preparation for the fourth, or even an invasion. It seemed Timofei Osipovich’s mistaken assessment of their intentions had brought into being what we most dreaded. But there wasn’t another sound, and no other koliuzhi disturbs us all night.

When we rise the next morning, it’s to discover that the snowstorm is over. The light that streams in the mouth of the cave is intense. Blinded by the brightness, I cautiously follow the others outside. No rain. Vibrant-blue sky peeps through the forest canopy. The air is as crisp as a freshly starched cuff. Patches of snow are scattered here and there. It seems most of it has already melted. I scoop up a small handful and put it in my mouth. It’s as cold as the light is bright. I scoop again and wash my face with it. It stings, but I’m revived. If this weather holds, perhaps the stars will be visible tonight.

While we’re outside exploring our surroundings and clearing our lungs of last night’s foul cave air, John Williams locates a trail. My husband announces that we’ll follow it for as long as we can, for as long as it heads in the right direction. He doesn’t mention what happened on the beach yesterday. I know he’s worried. He wants us to stay together; he also wants us to maintain a brisk pace, which is nearly impossible when crossing sand and gravel beaches. The farther south we can get, the warmer the weather will be, and hospitable weather means a better chance of survival.

Near mid-morning, our trail ends at a narrow, but deep, stream. Zhuchka is already halfway in, up to her belly, lapping up water, and snapping at debris carried from upstream. The water turns her fur nearly black, except for the white tip of her paintbrush tail, which retains its brilliance and its curl even when wet.

“Look—the track turns this way,” says John Williams. The path he indicates follows the riverbank upstream, into deeper bush.

“If there’s a path, we should take it,” says Nikolai Isaakovich.

“With caution,” Timofei Osipovich concurs. “Remain alert, men.”

We follow the path. Sunlight reaches us in fingers through the trees. Maria finds some edible mushrooms. Though slimy and well past their prime, she boils them when we stop for a meal, with some purplish berries like the ones I tasted our first day on shore. The broth is dismal, but I’m so hungry and the broth is so warm that I gulp my entire portion except for a few pinches of mushroom that I offer to Zhuchka. She gobbles them.

“I don’t know about this trail,” my husband says as we shoulder our bundles for the next stretch.

“It’s going in the right direction,” says John Williams.

“The koliuzhi trails are all like this,” says Timofei Osipovich.

We march on through the afternoon. I hobble a bit. The blisters on my heels sting, but I try to forget about them. Eventually callouses will form if I give them time. Maria walks with me. Ovchinnikov, whom Timofei Osipovich charged with guarding our backs, is the last man in our queue. Zhuchka returns periodically to insert her wet nose into my hand before plunging back into the undergrowth.

We leave the little stream. Its burbling disappears, and the trail starts to climb. Maria and I slow to a crawl. The path is muddy and uneven; gnarled roots protrude from the soil. It grows more and more slippery as it weaves up the hill in short segments that snake back and forth on one another. Maria and I stop often to catch our breaths. Ovchinnikov has no choice except to slow to match our pace. The way he watches us when we stop makes me shorten our breaks.

My bundle pulls against my shoulder, and though I shift it often, it makes no difference. The sailcloth digs painfully into my shoulder. In the mire, I see evidence in the footprints of how others before us have slipped.

My mother once told me that on the day God and the devil made the world, they had to decide whether to make it flat or mountainous. The devil chose flat, but God chose the mountains. “Why?” asked the devil. “Why would you choose mountains and hills? What good are they?” And God said, “They’re for the people—so they’ll remember us. When people want to descend from the hills, they’ll think, dear God, help me get down. And when they want to climb, they’ll think, what a devil of a hill. So you see—mountains ensure they’ll never forget either one of us.”

“You’re treating her like a child,” my father had said that day. “Don’t fill her head with nonsense.”

“She is a child and that’s not nonsense. If you’re so smart, tell me—where do hills come from?”

“I don’t know,” my father cried, exasperated. “But I know there’s a rational explanation. It has nothing to do with God and the devil.”

A certain smile stretched across my mother’s face; she looked away and said nothing more.

My mother has her own way of making sense of the world. She knows all the old stories, and when she starts telling me one, it’s my father’s turn to leave the room. I don’t really believe her stories but her faith in them is unshakeable, even in the face of the Enlightenment. On this long climb, I miss her so much it aches. What is she doing right now? Does she know where I am? When the news of the lost brig reaches her, she will most likely think me dead. I think of her praying over my bed for so many hours when I had the measles. I can’t bear to imagine the grief I’ll cause her this time.

When Maria, Ovchinnikov, and I reach the top of the hill, Nikolai Isaakovich is waiting.

“Is everything all right?” he asks.

“Yes.” I smile. “Just—that was a devil of a hill.”

He smiles back, and falls into line behind me. We follow flat terrain for some distance, then we descend. Toward nightfall, as we squeeze out the final minutes before it becomes too dark to continue, Timofei Osipovich shouts from far ahead, “Navigator Bulygin! Hurry!”

“Coming!” he cries and leaps over the roots and mud, leaving us alone again.

Long before we reach them, I hear their voices—loud and laughing, bubbling over with a joy I don’t expect. I can’t distinguish the words, but I know they’re happy. When we arrive, I see a tiny fire in a clearing. It throws light on a hut that sits on a riverbank. The crew is inside the hut.

The grounds are deserted, but the people who belong here can’t have gone very far. In the river, a net stretches from bank to bank. It shivers in the water current.

This place makes me think of the Baba Yaga. She would keep a dwelling like this—a wooden hut in the middle of a clearing with a small fire to lure unexpected visitors inside. My mother told me all the Baba stories, too. I don’t believe in the old hag or her power. Still, something about this place, a kind of eeriness, makes me wonder if perhaps I’m foolish to ignore our lore.

The apprentice Kotelnikov comes out of the hut, laughing, and waving an object dull and flat.

“Kizhuch!” cries Ovchinnikov. His beard opens up to reveal a broad smile and a rarely shown row of uneven teeth.

Maria grins, and her eyes become slits in her wrinkled skin. “Ryba,” she says. It’s fish.

Hanging from the rafters of the little hut are many more fish. They’re dry, dusty orange, and they’ve been split. I touch one—it’s hard and unappetizing, but still my mouth waters. It smells like warm honey in the hut. There are fish heads, too, grotesquely pierced on stakes, as though confirming the Baba’s presence. The crew pull the salmon from the rafters, stack them up, and cradle them against their chests. Some are taking two, even three entire fish.

I leave the hut empty-handed.

Outside, Maria says, “Aren’t you hungry?” Her arms are wrapped around two salmon. Nikolai Isaakovich has one flattened salmon.

“Whose fish are these?” I ask.

“Whose? No one’s. There’s no one here,” my husband says.

But before we leave, he instructs Kotelnikov to leave behind a small heap of korolki and the blue nankeen robe we brought from the brig. He sets them alongside the wall near the entrance, so that whoever comes back won’t fail to find them right away. In return, we’ve taken twenty-seven pieces of fish.

“As the old saying goes—God is on high and the Tsar is far away,” Timofei Osipovich says to me and smirks. My hunger is stronger than my need to respond.

We must leave before anybody returns. So, with our stolen fish, we head back into the forest, following no trail. We ascend, then find a hollow surrounded by thick brush. Here we set up for what’s going to be another cold, damp night. I wish we were back in the cave, but at least we have food. What Maria does to the kizhuch smells miraculous, and despite the weight of my moral unease, I accept the portion offered. I drink the broth, and eat the fish, sharing little bits with Zhuchka. Not once does anybody complain about the little bones.

“Commander! The koliuzhi are back!” cries Kotelnikov.

In the middle of the forest, we’re surrounded. They stand silently as though they’re shadows attached to the trees. They’re armed with spears, bows, and arrows. I stop and wait. How did they manage to get so close? John Williams’s hair is a beacon in this dim forest. We must have been too distracted—tearing down last night’s camp, packing our bundles, getting ready for another day of marching through the wild. Why didn’t Zhuchka bark? Is it possible that she didn’t notice them?

The koliuzhi watch us watching them. There’s an old man with a harpoon on his shoulder who looks like he’s a peasant with a long-handled hoe. His harpoon has slender prongs better suited to fishing than battle. Another man carries a tiny bow in one hand and an arrow in the other, but neither is raised. The man closest to Kotelnikov, the one who must have startled him, has a dagger with a long, carved shaft. The sheath droops from a cord around his waist. He holds his dagger at his hip.

“Hold your fire,” says Nikolai Isaakovich.

But Timofei Osipovich raises his gun and fires a shot into the air.

It thunders, the sound coming from everywhere at once. The koliuzhi scatter into the forest.

“Why did you do that?” my husband says. “I told you not to shoot.”

“I didn’t shoot. I was just scaring them away. It worked, didn’t it?” To me, he says softly, “Distraction. It works every time. I told you, didn’t I?”

Zhuchka comes running from deep in the bush.

“What kind of people are these?” drawls the American. “You said they’d be looting the ship and would leave us alone.”

“Ah, the ship’s probably gone by now,” says Timofei Osipovich. “You can bet once they finished plundering it, they burned it to ashes.”

I picture the brig, its graceful hull, its towering masts, the line of the bowsprit pointing us forward. The beautiful wheel carved from mahogany. The deck the promyshlenniki mopped every day. The place beside the skiff where I often stood when I watched the stars because it was sheltered from the wind. Gone to ashes. It seems impossible.

“As for you—you could try covering your head. Where’s your cap?”

John Williams reddens and touches his head, as though he’d just noticed the absence of his hat.

“Hurry up and finish your packing. We need to get as far away from here as possible,” Nikolai Isaakovich instructs. I turn back to my bundle. I rewrap and reposition my telescope and the star log, whose pages are becoming wavy in the damp. It’s going to be difficult to keep them safe and dry until we reach the Kad’iak.

We leave the grove where we spent the night and trudge back down to the river, then head upstream, plodding along through the mire until we find a shallow place to cross. The stones in the river’s bed are smooth and round, so I take care. My husband waits on the other side and offers me his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up onto the bank.

The trail disappears again, and though we search, no one, not even John Williams, can find it. So we head into the forest once more. Without a trail, our progress is slow. Every once in a while, the brush rustles, and a shadow flits by and vanishes. I’m sure we’re being followed, though no one says a word about it.

What do they want? Why are they following us? I knew nothing good would come from looting their fish. Perhaps we should offer them what remains of our beads and cloth. Would they leave us alone if we did?

When we finally stop for the night, my husband increases the number of sentries. Seven men guard us, forming a tight ring not far from the fire. A mist settles over the camp, making it impossible to see much beyond the trees that circle us. I look up, searching for the last of the day’s light, but the trunks just fade into the grey. It’s impossible to see the canopy. It will be another night without the stars, without my beloved Polaris, another night for my telescope to stay wrapped safely in my sailcloth bundle.

Maria cooks another proper and satisfying meal with the fish. The flavour infuses the broth, and there’s the thinnest shimmer of oil on top. It surprises me to see it; the fish was so dry when we took it from the rafters.

For a long time after the meal, the promyshlenniki sit around the fire without saying much. There are no stories tonight, no jokes. They drink desultorily from their flasks. Considering how easily we were surprised this morning, everyone is nervous about going to sleep, even with all the guards. Timofei Osipovich half-heartedly stirs the coals every once in a while and a few sparks rise. Finally, it can be delayed no longer. It’s time to sleep.

For the first night since the brig ran aground, Nikolai Isaakovich had the Aleuts set up a tiny tent at the edge of our circle, slightly apart from the others. “We’ll sleep here tonight,” he murmured to me. I was undecided about this closeness. While it would bring me comfort to lie next to my husband, I felt concerned about what the others would think.

We lie on my cedar cape, though there’s barely enough room for one. We face each another. He opens his greatcoat and pulls me into his chest. I feel uneasy, but his body radiates warmth. Light from the fire ripples over his face.

“Kolya!” I whisper, startled by his expression. “What’s wrong?”

He whispers back, “Anya—we’re in trouble.”

“Hush.” I press my finger to his lips. “Go to sleep.”

When I remove my finger, he says, “I don’t know what to do. We’re lost.” He cups my silver cross and slowly runs his thumb across each of the bars. His hand trembles. “It’s hopeless.”

Our situation is terrible. It’s worse than any of us ever could have imagined. If it’s not the koliuzhi who kill us, it’ll be the cold or a wild animal or we’ll starve to death. No one dares to speak it, but it’s the truth. I’d hoped my husband believed in his plan and in the wisdom of the instructions he’s been bravely issuing to the crew. They depend on his confidence, and so do I, and without it, I don’t know what could happen.

“Everything will be fine,” I whisper. “It’s hard. But we’ll get to the Kad’iak.”

He drops the silver cross and cradles my cheek. I smile. “Now go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

His hand slides from my cheek to my shoulder. “Annichka,” he murmurs. The firelight flickers in his eyes. His fingers glide down my arm to my waist. He tugs at the ribbon on my skirt and leans in to kiss me.

“Kolya,” I say quietly. I pull back. I shove his hand away from my waist.

“Come on.” He slides his hand around mine, and pulls it to his groin.

“No!” I push hard against his chest. But not before I’ve felt his stiffness.

He’s lost his mind. No. Not here, not now. I sit up and roll out of the tent.

“Where are you going?” he demands.

“I have—ladies’ business.” I scurry away, heading for the forest. Ovchinnikov, on sentry duty again, grows alert as I pass beyond the ring of guards. When I stop and reach for my skirt, he knows to discreetly turn away. Zhuchka’s awoken and followed me into the darkness.

I squat in the bushes. I can’t see far through the mist, but I know Zhuchka will let me know if there’s any threat. Like all animals, she’s acutely aware of everything surrounding us. I finish relieving myself. But I remain squatting, curled into myself, because I don’t want to go back in the tent with Nikolai Isaakovich.

“Anya?” he finally calls.

“I’ll be right there,” I reply. But I wait.

“Anya? Where are you?” he calls again after a few minutes.

“Coming.” But I still wait. Zhuchka whines and tilts her head at me. Funny girl. What does she want?

Finally, I rise. I go slowly back toward the fire. How am I to avoid this mortification? When I reach the little tent, much to my surprise, Nikolai Isaakovich is asleep. He lies on his back, in the centre of my cedar cape. His limbs are flung wide. He snores softly.

I don’t dare to wake him. I lie down as close as I can. At least part of my body is off the damp ground. Zhuchka curls on my other side. I can count on her and her fur to keep me warm.

CHAPTER SIX

On the trail, far ahead, leaves shiver and there’s the quiet crack of a branch. Ovchinnikov and the apprentice Kotelnikov, who are protecting us from the front, raise their weapons.

“Wait,” says Timofei Osipovich. “Don’t shoot.”

A woman and three men emerge through the trees and quietly approach us. The men are armed with spears, but they remain lowered. The woman is young—younger than me. She wears a cedar-bark skirt and over her head and shoulders, a bark cape that, unlike mine, has no front opening. She has boots made of brown animal hide. A soft-sided basket curls into the curve of her back. It’s strapped to her forehead. From the tightness in her neck, I presume the basket is not empty. She smiles.

The instant she does, I’m reminded of a girl from Petersburg named Klara. Klara was never without a dance partner. She knew all the steps before anybody else—the ecossaise and the anglaise and even the mazurka when most people had only just heard of it—and she never once looked my way. I tried several times to earn her kind regard by smiling at her. There were always rumours of her engagement—to a handsome prince, to a wealthy count, to whichever man was deemed the most eligible that week—but I left the city before anything was announced.

The men scan our group, looking, I think, for our toyon. Nikolai Isaakovich notices this too, and steps forward, but it’s Timofei Osipovich who greets them in that language he knows. “Wacush.”

They look surprised, but they answer in a cordial way, then pause. Timofei Osipovich replies and asks a question.

Only six days ago, the koliuzhi on the beach had been friendly when we first met them, but that changed so quickly. These koliuzhi also appear to be well intentioned, but how can we really tell? If Kotelnikov becomes impatient again or one of the Aleuts becomes too nervous and raises his weapon, the koliuzhi are so close that any one of us could be killed.

Then, with a swing of her hip and a dip of her shoulder, the woman rolls her basket around to her side. She withdraws several pieces of dried fish and offers them to Timofei Osipovich. He accepts them, says something—presumably he thanks her—and he hands the fish to Maria.

After more discussion, Timofei Osipovich turns to us. “Well,” he begins, “they’re different. Another clan altogether. And it seems they’re at war with the koliuzhi who’ve been tormenting us.”

“A different clan? They look exactly the same,” says Kotelnikov.

“What about the woman?” says the American. “There was no woman before.”

“Do you believe them?” Isaakovich asks Osipovich.

He shrugs. “Who knows? It wouldn’t be the first time some impostor has tried to fool Timofei Osipovich Tarakanov, would it? But they say terrible things about the other koliuzhi—how they raid their villages, capture their people, and then force them to work. They told me those koliuzhi steal their food and tools. They also claim that they’re more peaceful.”

“Are they at war with the other koliuzhi?”

“Who knows? They could be.”

My husband ponders this news before finally he shrugs, too. “I guess we should believe them,” he says. “After all, if they were treacherous, they probably would have attacked us by now.”

“And they wouldn’t have offered us food,” says Sobachnikov awkwardly. Timofei Osipovich gives him another withering look and the main rigger looks away. I pity him. No matter what he says and does, Timofei Osipovich finds fault with it.

“I don’t know,” says the apprentice Kotelnikov. “I don’t trust them.”

“Well, I don’t know either,” my husband says briskly. “But there are only four of them, and this woman is as scrawny as a plucked grouse. What do they want?”

After further conversation with Timofei Osipovich, it seems what the koliuzhi want is to help. They’ll walk with us, protect us, and guide us through the forest. Would they take us all the way to the Kadi’ak? A wave of fresh hope washes over me. Perhaps the worst of our ordeal is over.

“I think we should go,” says Timofei Osipovich. “If they try anything funny, we’ll kill them.” Ovchinnikov barks a cruel laugh.

I flush. I’m still not used to the fact they can’t understand us.

We don’t stop until midday when everyone’s hungry. We’ve made good progress through the forest partly because the koliuzhi know where they’re going but also because their pace is faster than what we’re used to. Koliuzhi Klara—in my mind, that’s how I’m thinking of her—sits at the fire near Maria and me. She watches us openly, in a way that’s nearly impolite, but she can mean nothing by it. I can’t imagine what she thinks of us—how filthy we are, our clothes muddy, our hair unkempt. Does she think this is normal for us? I hope not.

She seems especially curious about John Williams. He’s the only one in our group with such pale skin, freckles, and a thatch of red hair. She stares as though she’s never seen red hair before. John Williams frowns and looks away. He keeps checking to see if she’s still staring and mostly she is.

She also watches Maria as she cooks. Her eyes widen when Maria sets the pots of water on the hot coals. When Koliuzhi Klara detects the scent of the cooking fish, her eyes dart away from John Williams and back to the pots.

When the ukha is ready, Maria ladles it into our bowls. “Give her some,” she tells me, and nods toward Koliuzhi Klara. I cradle the bowl in both hands and lower it to the woman. She takes it, looks at it, then looks at me. Doesn’t she understand?

“Wacush,” I say, attempting the word Timofei Osipovich always uses with the koliuzhi, always with positive results.

Koliuzhi Klara jerks back. A few drops of ukha spill. Her eyes grow wide, then crinkle at the corners. A laugh bursts out of her. She says something to the koliuzhi men and they look amused. I blush and turn away. I have no idea why what I said is so funny.

She tries the ukha and grimaces. She says something to the men again and they laugh; they all eat it anyway. Timofei Osipovich converses with the koliuzhi men, and translates their conversation for my husband. They’ve had a mild winter so far. They caught a lot of fish in the summer. European ships have visited before, but they don’t come very often. Though the discussion is slow, with the translation flowing in two directions, the men appear to enjoy one another’s company, and I become convinced that we’re right to trust them.

When we’ve finished, we begin to walk again. Koliuzhi Klara leaves Maria and me and joins her own people in our long line. From behind, I can watch her without appearing rude. With the basket strapped to her head, her shoulders and arms are free. She swings them as she walks and uses them, when needed, to push branches from her path. She’s light on her feet and fast, almost like she’s skipping down the trail. She doesn’t stumble over exposed tree roots or rocks.

Very late in the afternoon, a clearing emerges in the distance. When we arrive, I see it’s not really a clearing. It’s the wide mouth of a river. The water ripples and gurgles over a stony riverbed, and, to the right, only a short way from where we stand, it empties into the sea. I didn’t know we were so close to the ocean. On the other side of the river sit five broad wooden buildings. They appear to be empty.

“Where is everyone?” Nikolai Isaakovich says.

“I’ll ask,” replies Timofei Osipovich. He speaks with the koliuzhi and then translates. “They say everyone’s gone to another village, but I don’t understand why. What they say—it doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, can we get across?” my husband asks.

I wonder if we can sleep in one of the empty houses. If no one’s here, then they couldn’t possibly mind.

“They say it’s too deep, and the current is too strong.”

“Is there a boat? Ask them if they have a boat.”

Timofei Osipovich turns his head slightly. The koliuzhi can’t see his expression of skepticism. “Apparently, it’s not deep enough for a boat right now. This is low tide.”

“Too deep, not deep enough—what is it then?” my husband demands. Then he sighs and says, “Will they bring a boat at high tide?”

“They say yes, they’ll bring one for the next high tide,” Timofei Osipovich says, with a pointed gaze to the heavens, one corner of his mouth turned down.

Every man here can count. Every man here knows—as do I—that the next high tide will fall in the blackest part of the night. The one after that won’t come until midday tomorrow.

My husband taps his lips as he considers this news. “We’ll set up camp, but not here,” he says finally. “Tomorrow, we cross this river, in daylight, high tide, low tide, no matter. Tomorrow, we’ll be on our way first thing in the morning, with or without their help.”

Timofei Osipovich says something and then we turn back toward the forest, leaving our guides on the riverbank. My Koliuzhi Klara doesn’t watch us leave; her face is turned to the grey sea, to the sky woven into it, and to the soft yellow ball of the dimming sun as it sets.

Just as he did so often on the ship, Sobachnikov takes the shift no one else wants and guards our camp until the early morning hours. Then he wakes us. The air is damp, as usual, but there’s no rain. The birds chatter and flit overhead. We each eat a small, grimy helping of kasha that tastes of fish—the pots haven’t been cleaned since yesterday morning—and a mouthful of dried kizhuch. Then we return to the riverbank.

A much different scene faces us this morning. Our guides are gone, and the deserted settlement is now dotted with men. There are at least twenty, but not more than thirty. Each is armed—I see spears, daggers, and bows and arrows—but their weapons remain lowered.

“What’s going on?” says my husband. “I thought they were going to help us cross the river.”

“That’s what they said,” says Timofei Osipovich and shrugs.

The crew spreads out along our grassy side of the river, a narrow band of water that separates stage from audience as if in a grand theatre. But who’s performing here? Who’s paid for the show? If only somebody on either side would move, I might be able to tell.

Where are the people who helped us yesterday? There are no women on their side. Koliuzhi Klara is gone. I can’t tell if any of the three men from yesterday are among those on the riverbank this morning. We’re too far away.

On their side, on the stone-strewn shore, two canoes rest, their bows pointing toward us, as though the boats are about to be launched.

Timofei Osipovich calls out, “Wacush!” His voice thunders and echoes off the trees. He must raise it if he’s to be heard. A moment later, his greeting is returned, and he responds with a long speech. The river performs a soft score that plays beneath his words. He finishes with a question, and waits. The koliuzhi don’t answer. He asks again. Once more, he waits, but it’s clear they’re not going to answer.

“Why don’t they say something?” my husband asks. “Don’t they understand you?”

“I don’t know,” says Timofei Osipovich. “They understood me yesterday.”

“I don’t think these are the same people,” says Sobachnikov, then flushes.

“What would you know?” Timofei Osipovich snaps, impatient as he always is with the main rigger. He kicks at the moss and an egg-shaped chunk rolls into the water. It bobs away with the current, spinning around the rocks.

We stand and wait for a long time and a short time. Zhuchka, who’s back in the river again, chews at something. She dips her nose in the water whenever something interesting catches her eye. She heads upriver, her tail a rudder floating on the surface behind her.

Finally, my husband stirs. “Let’s go then. No point wasting any more time. I said we’d cross today and cross we will.” He shifts the bundle on his back, turns, and sets out following the riverbank away from the ocean.

Somebody from across the river shouts. Another man calls out. Three or four koliuzhi advance to the river’s edge and wave to get his attention.

“Commander,” says Timofei Osipovich. “Wait.”

The larger of the canoes is launched with only two men onboard. It’s sleek and plain, and takes only a minute to cross to our shore. It scrapes against the bottom as it comes near our grassy bank, but they don’t land it. Instead, they manoeuvre it into a spot where the current is not so strong, and paddle so that it flutters in the channel and moves neither up nor downstream. The paddlers’ faces are turned up to the crew as they wait for us to do or say something.

“That boat is too small,” my husband says. “We can’t all fit.”

“Then we’ll split up,” Timofei Osipovich says. “Cross in two trips.”

“That’s reckless!” cries the apprentice Kotelnikov. “They’re trying to trick us!” He puffs up his big chest in outrage like a cockrel on the wrong side of the fence.

My husband throws down his hands in a fury. “Tell them to bring us another boat,” he sputters, raising his voice. “I demand another boat.”

Timofei Osipovich lowers his voice to a purr. “I will ask, Commander, but if you let your frustration show, we’ll have far more than a river crossing to deal with.”

My husband grumbles but defers.

Timofei Osipovich speaks with the men in the canoe. That’s followed by shouting between the canoe and the people on the opposite shore. Eventually, the other canoe is launched, but it’s smaller than the first and most certainly won’t solve our problem.

The little canoe is proficiently paddled by one person and has a passenger. As it draws close, I’m startled. The passenger is Koliuzhi Klara. She sits quietly. Nothing on her face acknowledges that she’s seen us before. It’s peculiar. Still, I’m happy to see her. Even if we must be divided for the crossing, now I’m sure nothing untoward will happen.

Nikolai Isaakovich, however, isn’t happy. “What is this mischief?”

“You can see for yourself,” Timofei Osipovich says dryly. “If it doesn’t please you, we can try to find another way across.” He gestures upstream. “All rivers, no matter how long, have a source—somewhere.”

“No. We’ve wasted enough time.” He looks at the crew, one by one. “Remain vigilant! Do you hear me? These are my orders!” Sobachnikov colours, and shifts nervously. John Williams looks away, his pale eyes hooded. The apprentice Kotelnikov exhales loudly and frowns at my husband.

The nose of the little canoe is pulled up to shore.

“How many people can fit?” my husband asks.

“Only three,” says Timofei Osipovich. “I assume the woman is staying.”

“Filip Kotelnikov—you go,” my husband says. “And control your temper.” Kotelnikov looks startled. “Old Yakov. You, too. Make sure he causes no trouble.” Yakov nods, but we all know that no one can stop Kotelnikov. “And Maria, leave your things. We’ll take all the provisions in the larger canoe.”

Yakov slides down the muddy bank and into the boat in one motion. He’s directed toward the stern, to a seat in front of the paddler. Maria follows. She climbs into the small canoe like she’s done this many times before, and she seats herself in front of Yakov. Kotelnikov is next. He submerges a foot but otherwise steps neatly into the canoe. It rocks with his weight. He sits beside Maria.

There remains one more seat between them and Koliuzhi Klara, who occupies the bow.

“Madame Bulygina should go with this group,” says Timofei Osipovich.

I jolt, then turn red. Is he serious? The little canoe is already heavily loaded, and looks so unsteady. I want to cross with Nikolai Isaakovich.

My husband looks from him to me and back to him, and says, “Why?”

“It’s safer,” he replies. “There’s only one man and he has the paddle. What could possibly happen?”

My husband deliberates, and makes his decision quickly. “Anya. You go.”

“Are you sure? Maybe somebody else…”

“No. He’s right. It’s safer. You’ll be fine.”

I turn to the riverbank. The others’ feet have left long, thin marks in the mud. It’s slippery. I take a careful step.

“No, Anya,” my husband says. “Leave your things.”

I stop and look over my shoulder at him. “But my telescope—and the star log.” I wrap a protective arm around my bundle. “I can manage.”

“We’ll take them in the big canoe.”

“I think it would be better if I took them.”

“Anya,” he cries, exasperated. “There’s not enough room. Can’t you see?”

“I’ll bring it to you, Madame Bulygina,” says Sobachnikov. “I promise.” He blushes.

My husband looks at him quickly, then back to me, and says, “Are you satisfied now?”

I carefully set down my heavy bundle, and, because it also seems awkward, I remove my cedar cape. With only one step, I slide right down the riverbank and into the water with a splash. Now my skirt is wet. I stand in the river, clinging to the gunwales, feeling my feet sink in the soft muck. I’m not sure how to get into the canoe now, but I’m glad I left my bundle, which could have landed in the water with me.

I hear a quiet laugh. “Be careful, Madame Bulygina,” says Timofei Osipovich, “unless you’ve decided it’s an appropriate time for your bath.”

“You’re a pest,” my husband says to him. “Be quiet.” I give Nikolai Isaakovich a thankful look.

“Come,” says Kotelnikov. I use his pudgy hand to steady me while I climb back onto the riverbank. It’s easy with his support to step over the gunwales. When I put my foot down, the canoe rocks violently as it did when Kotelnikov boarded. Koliuzhi Klara grabs the gunwales. The koliuzhi man in the canoe leans to one side and dips his paddle into the river. “Sit down, Madame Bulygina,” cries Kotelnikov. When I do, the canoe rocks, then settles. I’m backwards, facing Maria and Kotelnikov. “Just stay where you are,” Kotelnikov says. “Don’t move.”

“Anya? I’ll see you on the other side,” Nikolai Isaakovich says.

“Don’t forget my things.”

“Don’t worry.”

Our canoe is pushed into the river. The instant we’re afloat, I feel how unstable the little boat really is. I cling to the gunwales. The balance is so delicate that every ripple of water, no matter how small, unsteadies us. If we capsize, who will save me?

I hear a scrape and glance over my shoulder to see what it is. Koliuzhi Klara has taken a paddle from the hull—I didn’t realize she had one. She dips it into the water and pulls.

Zhuchka swims beside us, her head a wedge that cuts through the flow. She’s so close I can hear the heaviness of her breath. Her eyes roll as they watch me. I smile to reassure her, but I don’t dare call out in case she gets it in her mind to climb into the canoe.

Facing backward, I see everything happening on our shore. They’re boarding the large canoe. They’re loading some of the bundles, passing them from man to man along a chain that runs down the riverbank and into the vessel. There’ll only be enough space for half the remaining crew. The others—and the bundles left behind—will have to wait for the second trip.

My bundle lies where I dropped it, right beside a tuft of reeds. They won’t dare forget it. I’ll go back myself if they do.

My husband is the last to board. As commander, he should be among the first to be greeted by the koliuzhi who wait on the other side. Timofei Osipovich, on the other hand, remains on shore though my husband probably could use his skills to translate once he debarks. They push their canoe out. It’s loaded so heavily it barely rides above the water.

The water divides and flows around our little canoe. The koliuzhi man labours with the paddling. Thanks to the extra weight, even with two people paddling, the way forward isn’t easy. His arms strain, the muscles bulge, and his neck is tight and sinewy. His breath comes in quick puffs. He bends and pulls, bends and pulls. The large canoe begins its journey back to the koliuzhi side. Despite also having only two men to paddle, and being so heavily laden, it advances more quickly than ours.

We enter choppier waters. Froth curls on the water’s surface like a confection. Trees line both sides of the river, drawing to a deep, shadowy vee upstream. I turn away and look back downstream to see how the larger canoe is progressing.

From the sea, a grey wall of water advances. It rises steadily, alarmingly, heading for the river. What is it? It narrows, the riverbanks funnelling it into a bulging mass of water. I want to scream but I’m mute. I raise my hand and point.

Maria, Kotelnikov, and Yakov look. In the big canoe, John Williams leaps up and also points.

“No!” I finally cry.

The wall of water curls over like a serpent then falls in a huge sweep that swallows the big canoe. The boat disappears. An instant later, our little boat is lifted like a feather. We’re turned around.

What’s happening to the ocean?

In a rush, the water recedes. Our canoe stays afloat. But the big canoe is half submerged, and it tilts as though the hull has been breached. Not many men are still aboard. Those that are have no paddles, no way to stop their vessel from drifting toward the sea. Where’s Nikolai Isaakovich? A few heads bob in the water, fighting the current that pulls them downstream. Two people stand waist deep near the bank as the water swirls around them. They’re Russians. They hold their guns above their heads. Is one my husband? Three other men swim toward the koliuzhi’s shore, where everyone has lined up along the riverbank. I can’t tell anybody apart.

Zhuchka swims frantic circles around the bobbing heads.

“Kolya!” I shriek. I don’t know where he is.

It’s impossible to know who throws the first spear or shoots the first gun.

Maria slides down in the canoe, cowering in the hull. Yakov clutches the gunwales.

“Go back! Take us back!” Kotelnikov shouts.

Our paddlers ignore him and head away from the gunfire and the soaring arrows. They continue toward the koliuzhi shore. “Turn around!”

Kotelnikov lunges for the paddler behind him. He’s pushed away. Our little canoe rocks threateningly. Kotelnikov lunges again and this time, the koliuzhi man knocks him down with the paddle.

One end of the big canoe sinks and the other swings around toward our shore. The remaining men jump out and make for land. John Williams is the first to climb out of the water—he’s the easiest to see with his red hair. He aims his musket; nothing happens. He shakes it. In a fit, he throws it on the riverbank. The musket must be wet, useless. He picks up a stone and throws it. But the river swallows the rock before it reaches the midway point. It’s too far. Still, he takes another and tries. He re-enters the river to get closer, and when knee-deep, he stops and positions himself. The riverbed has hundreds of rocks. He bends to get one, throws it, then reaches for another. Arrows plunge into the water all around him.

Zhuchka climbs out of the river. She runs up and down the bank on our side, barking. She jumps back in, chasing a flying rock.

Our little canoe crunches against the koliuzhi shore. Our paddler tries to steady the boat. Kotelnikov turns on him again. This time, three koliuzhi men emerge from the trees and rush over to help. Kotelnikov grabs the paddler’s neck, but the men easily pull him off.

They drag Kotelnikov and Yakov from the boat. While they’re distracted, I wonder if Maria and I should push the canoe back out. But there’s no sense to that. We’d drift right into the crossfire. We meekly climb onto shore.

Koliuzhi Klara is gone. I didn’t see her disappear. I’m certain she didn’t go overboard but in all the confusion, I didn’t notice her leaving the canoe.

We’re now a safe distance from the thundering battle. The fighting has shifted into the forest on the opposite side of the river. Where’s Nikolai Isaakovich? I glimpse men darting between trees, but none is my husband. Timofei Osipovich still has his musket. So does his dependable Ovchinnikov. They shelter behind the trees while they load their weapons, then lean out to shoot. John Williams has climbed a tree. He hides his red head in the foliage and shoots down on the koliuzhi. Somebody must have given him a dry gun. The carpenter Kurmachev and one of the Aleuts burst from the forest. They drag Sobachnikov between them. He’s limp as a wilted violet, and his long arms and legs flop uncontrollably. He’s unconscious, and there’s blood on his jacket. The trio line up like the three stars in Orion’s belt and disappear into the trees.

But where’s Kolya?

The battle moves deeper into the forest, away from us, until we can no longer see anybody. Where’s Zhuchka? Has she been hit? Is she dead? I hear a bark and a yelp. Poor girl. She must dodge fire from both sides of the battle.

The sound of gunfire echoes off the trees and riverbanks, as do the cries of men shouting to one another, and the men who’ve been struck. I cover my ears. I can’t stand to hear another sound—every scream sounds like it’s Nikolai Isaakovich. But we’re not allowed to leave. Instead, we’re made to sit together, back to back, these koliuzhi pressed up against us with their spears and arrows and daggers. Helpless to do anything to prevent it, we four are forced to listen to the long, low howl that marks the end of our world.