“Why?” I ask. “Why would they give something to the Murzik? A few days ago, we were shooting at them.”
“Maybe it was given in trade.” Yakov passes the handkerchief back to the Murzik.
This pristine handkerchief is a sign our crew is alive and not far away. If the handkerchief has been acquired in trade, then they’d have to be talking amicably to the koliuzhi. Are they talking about us? If they can trade a handkerchief, what else might they be able to do? Perhaps we won’t have to wait much longer for our rescue.
The handkerchief tucked away, the Murzik extends his closed fist. Slowly he opens his fingers to reveal korolki of varying shapes and sizes. He cups them like seeds. The faceted surfaces catch the light as he rolls them around with his thumb. He also has some silver beads. He watches our faces.
Yakov frowns, puzzled. “It must have been a trade. I wonder what he gave in return.”
“Are they coming for us?” I look to the door.
“More likely they needed something to eat.”
Of course. Though I understand, I’m disappointed.
Very early the next morning, before we eat, we’re brought before the Tsar. The Murzik is already here. The handkerchief, less pristine than it was yesterday, droops from the Tsar’s hand
The Tsar questions the Murzik. The Murzik fidgets and replies in bursts, his eyes darting around the house, as though he might scoot away like a startled cat. There’s no doubt—he’s come into possession of this handkerchief through mischief, and now he’d do anything to be rid of it.
Then a woman with a baby on her hip shows a second handkerchief to the Tsar. He’s surprised. He speaks sharply to the woman. She shifts the baby to her other hip and gives him the handkerchief. The Tsar clutches both handkerchiefs in his fists, shakes them toward the woman and raises his voice.
The baby cries. The Murzik hangs his head. The woman shouts back. When she does, the baby wails. The Tsar glowers and says nothing. From behind us, a man yells and the woman with the baby bellows back at him.
Suddenly, somebody pushes me down. I fall hard. My chin strikes the floor. I bite my lip and taste blood.
I try to get up, but I can’t. My skirt is tangled in my legs. Everyone’s shouting now. “Yakov?” I plead.
I come up on my hands and knees, and look up over my shoulder. Who is this furious man glaring down at me?
The Tsar cries, “Wa ťa
akwόla xwόxwa!”[23] He directs these angry words not at the man who pushed me, not at the woman who produced the handkerchief, not at the Murzik—but at me. He shouts at me a long time and a short time, and when he finishes, he gives back the handkerchiefs—one to the Murzik, and the other to the woman with the baby who’s now screeching and bucking against her grip.
A hand closes around my arm and heaves me up like I’m weightless. I cry out and my sleeve tears. The furious man pulls me toward the door.
“Let go of her,” cries Kotelnikov. He leaps over and reaches for my captor’s hands. Another koliuzhi man pulls Kotelnikov away and pins his arms behind his back. “Get your shit-covered hands off me!” Kotelnikov twists.
“Be careful, Madame Bulygina! Don’t fight! You won’t win!” cries Yakov.
What he doesn’t realize is that even if I wanted to fight, I couldn’t. Every part of my body has turned to jelly.
We paddle upriver in a small canoe. I sit on the frigid keel, my hands clutching the gunwales. The blood on my lip is drying, tightening the swollen skin. The man who pushed me down is in front of me, pulling hard against the current. As our vessel slices through it, water rises up and folds over in a voluptuous, glistening lip.
We’re accompanied by two other canoes and six more koliuzhi. Why has the Tsar sent so many men? Where are we going, and why?
The river bends gently. The canoe tilts a little as they steer through the curve. Ahead, a fallen tree, half-submerged, pokes its many branches through the surface. Should I jump in? If I could reach the tree, maybe it would help me to pull myself to shore. Would they kill me first? Before I can decide, we pass the tree and it’s too late.
The river has a stony bottom that reveals itself where there’s no light reflecting off the water’s surface. A feather twirls by. Rushes lining the riverbanks bend as though bowing their heads for a passing funeral procession. Beyond, the forest is black in all directions. If this is to be my end, let it be quick and free of pain. I close my eyes. The canoe lurches forward against the current.
Then I hear a crunch, followed by another. I open my eyes. The canoes have come to shore. Ours squeaks against the reeds as it, too, stops.
From the opposite bank, a man’s voice says, “Over here!” I turn, and I can’t believe what I see.
Nikolai Isaakovich. The American. Timofei Osipovich and his loyal Kozma Ovchinnikov. Everyone is here. Everyone. Timofei Osipovich pushes through the reeds and stands at the river’s edge.
“Madame Bulygina, are you hurt?” he calls.
His voice is strong and, for once, addressing me he’s serious. I look at my husband. He stands behind the reeds and stares. His face is rutted with pain. He looks shrunken and, with his untrimmed beard, almost beastly. Where is his overcoat? His eyes are too shiny—is he about to cry?
“Fine,” I shout finally. “I’m fine. Kolya?” I begin to cry.
“Anya!” he shouts, his voice breaking. “Oh, Anya!” He stumbles to the edge of the riverbank and leans so far out I think for a moment he intends to jump in.
The entire crew looks filthy and exhausted. They all have sunken cheeks and black circles under their eyes. Their clothing is worn and ripped in new places. The Aleuts are barefoot.
I rise to my knees in the canoe and force myself to stop crying. “Nikolai Isaakovich, I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine.”
“You’re bleeding!”
I touch the newly formed crust. “It’s nothing,” I say.
“What have they done to you? Who did it? I’ll kill him.”
“It was an accident,” I say. “It doesn’t hurt.” I fear for the outcome of this meeting if he doesn’t calm himself. “Everything is fine.” I manage a small smile.
“Are the others all right?” says Timofei Osipovich.
“They’re fine. They’re back at the house. We’ve been waiting.”
Everything makes sense now. The koliuzhi are letting us go. I’m to go first, and though I don’t know why, it doesn’t matter. “Let’s go. We still have time to get to the Kad’iak. Timofei Osipovich, please tell them to bring me to shore.”
The crew begins to fidget. Something’s amiss, something that’s been set in motion by my words. And then I notice.
“Where’s Khariton Sobachnikov? And where’s Zhuchka? Zhuchka!” I call. She does not bound forward, but before I call her again, Timofei Osipovich shouts.
“Madame Bulygina, remain quiet now while we negotiate your release.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have to negotiate your release. Be patient. They’re asking a lot, but I might be able to talk them out of it.”
“Kolya?” I try to control my tone. “What’s he talking about?”
“Be quiet now, Anya.”
At the edge of the riverbank, Timofei Osipovich says, “Makuk.” I recognize this word—he used it when trading for the halibut. A man in one of the other canoes answers. Our prikashchik responds.
John Williams steps forward. His shock of red hair is plastered to his head and his cap most certainly is gone now. In his arms he cradles a fold of nankeen cotton. A string of beads is curled on top of it. He glances nervously at my husband.