Maria and this old woman know what we’re looking for. I don’t. Plants, even the ones in our garden in Petersburg, are strangers to me. When I look at them, they blur into a swathe of green, and if they’re flowering, blotches of red, purple, pink, yellow—whatever the colour of the blossoms. To me, plants are pretty, and sometimes sweetly scented, and that’s all.
Across the river, the grey-brown mound still lies waiting for somebody other than the crows to pay it heed. Today, it gets its wish; a gull battles for its share. The reek of death has grown heavier. It’s spreading to our side of the river. Again, I turn away.
The sky’s heavy and promises rain before long. The lamestin woman stops before a cluster of tall plants with jagged leaves. “T’
όpit,”[15] she says. Many of the stems are brown and bent and the remains of the huge flower heads are dried. Some still contain seeds.
“Putchki?” Maria says. “Is it?” She very gently fingers the leaves and kneels. She digs out earth from around the stem. The lamestin woman passes her a knife that’s a shell with a sharpened edge and she cuts two stalks. The lamestin woman picks a broad leaf growing on a nearby plant and wraps it around the stalks before picking them up. Then she looks at me.
“Is that enough?” I ask Maria.
“No,” she replies. “Let’s keep going.”
“Lamestin,” I say to the old woman. “On y va?” Let’s go.
She leads us until we come across a little creek emptying into the river. We follow the little creek until it vanishes into a bog. A black bird squawks and springs sideways from a tall reed as soon as we appear. The reed sways long after the bird is gone. The spongy bog is hungry and sucks at my shoes. The heels slip off with each step, slowing me.
“It’s hamidux.” From far ahead, Maria says the word as though she doesn’t expect to find it here.
“
,”[16] says the old woman. She and Maria kneel next to one another. In a low voice, the old woman continues to speak to Maria.
By the time I approach, Maria’s dug out a couple of plants, roots and all. The leaves are round with a jagged edge that’s turned reddish-brown. Mud clings to the roots.
“I have enough,” Maria says. “We can return if we need any more. Let’s go back.”
“Lamestin,” I say to the old woman and I point to Maria’s hands. “Baliya a fini lamestin. On y va.” Maria is finished with the medicine. Let’s go.
The old woman looks confused. She walks away, leading us around the marsh area. On the other side is a small grassy meadow. “Sisi
bátswa,”[17] she says.
Maria kneels almost immediately before a plant with fringed leaves. “Look! Cingatudax. It looks different but—” She rubs the leaves between her fingers and smells them. “This might help close the wound.” Then she snaps off all the leaves that show a hint of green. “That’s enough. We should go back now.”
“How fortunate you found everything you need,” I say, and then I chide her. “And you said you didn’t know anything about the koliuzhi plants and their ways.”
Maria looks at me like I’m mad. “I didn’t find anything. She led us here,” she says. “She brought us right to the plants I need. Didn’t you notice? She knows.”
The lamestin woman smiles, showing the gaps in her teeth, then turns down the trail. I’ve lost my sense of direction so I’m not sure where she’s going. After a few minutes, the trail mysteriously twists, and we approach the houses from the back, bypassing the grey-brown mound. Thankfully, I don’t need to see it, though the stench reminds me it’s gone nowhere.
Inside, the koliuzhi women bring utensils to Maria. There are knives like the one Maria used to cut the putchki—sharpened shells, and also rocks whose edges have been honed thin as the paper of my husband’s charts. There are scoops and spoons and ladles with differing lengths of handle, some carved out of wood and bone, some made of large seashells. Koliuzhi Klara brings a mortar and pestle of heavy grey stone. She can hardly lift them. Maria tells me to grind up some of the leaves we collected. I press down and twist the pestle, bruising and shredding the leaves and stems until they turn into a mash. As I grind, Koliuzhi Klara fills the cooking box with water and puts hot rocks into it.
While the medicine cooks, Maria applies the splint. Somehow, she makes the koliuzhi understand what she needs, or perhaps, as it was with the plants, they already know what’s needed. I can’t see what she’s doing but I hear the eyebrow man groan. I hear the rattle of the singing man’s feathered wand and his voice rising in song.
When the medicine is ready, the koliuzhi sit the eyebrow man up and hold him while Maria brings a small ladle to his lip and makes him sip the broth she’s made. After four sips, some of it running out of the corners of his mouth, he’s laid back down. The lamestin woman watches that they’re careful not to hurt him. Maria and the lamestin woman then wash the wound, removing the black medicine. I hold a small woven bowl into which they fling the ooze to be discarded. He groans when Maria must go deep into the wound. The splint holds his leg steady as they work. Finally, Maria replaces the black medicine with a warm green poultice. The lamestin woman holds the sides of the gash while Maria packs it in. They leave the wound uncovered.
When they’ve finished, the singing man with the staff begins again, this time accompanied by drums. During his song, the eyebrow man suddenly goes limp. At first, I think he’s died; then I realize he’s fallen asleep or perhaps simply passed out.
The eyebrow man is our Lazarus. He makes it through another night. Maria tells me his fever is no longer raging. She feeds him more broth. Again, I hold the little woven bowl—a basket, but the weave is so tight it doesn’t leak—while she and the lamestin woman clean out the wound and press more warm poultice into the opening. The wound is less swollen and inflamed. The Tsar with the golden cape looks less worried. The singer waits until we’re done before he rattles his staff and begins another song.
We’re nine days into our trial and finally have found a way to start communicating. Yakov decides we should introduce ourselves. He lines us up before the Tsar and begins by pointing to Maria and saying just as they would, “Baliya. Baliya.”
Several people notice and, curious, they approach. The Tsar says, “Baliya,” and others echo him. “Baliya. Baliya.” I’m certain Yakov’s been understood.
Yakov then points at me. “This is our dear navigator’s wife, Madame Anna Petrovna Bulygina.” Silence. He tries again. “Madame Anna Petrovna Bulygina.” This time, the Tsar frowns and others mutter, but no one tries my name. So Yakov makes another attempt. “Madame Bulygina,” he says with exaggerated pronunciation. People smile, then look at one another, and a few of them laugh. Perhaps my name doesn’t translate appropriately.
Yakov looks uncomfortable. He must address me in a much less formal way. In Russia, that’s never done. That name is reserved for use by family and closest friends. But we’re not in Russia, are we?
“Go ahead,” I say. He says nervously, “Anna Petrovna.”
There’s still nothing more than a broken murmur. His only recourse is to cross a final social boundary and speak to me like a husband or parent. I nod my consent.