“And? What happened?”
“Anya—she died the very next day.”
My mother wrapped her arm around me and pulled me close. “That’s what the leshii does if you’re not careful when you go to the woods,” she whispered.
I knew my mother’s story was untrue. It was absurd. Even when I was young, I knew there were no flying serpents. I knew men didn’t appear in women’s bedchambers unless invited. I knew jewellery didn’t disappear. There were no magic incantations. And there was no leshii. As we continued along the path, her arm tight around my shoulders, I heard sounds, and when something lying on the ground ahead of us glittered, I fought the compulsion to grasp my silver cross through the thin fabric of my dress and apron and cry out, “Earth, earth…” as she’d taught me. I refused to give in to my mother’s irrational fear. The sparkle was probably just dew on the leaves where the sun struck. The sounds were probably just my father rustling around with the object that had caught his fancy that day.
Probably.
This part of the forest is just like that forest, and I feel the same sense of uncertainty as I did after my mother told her story. This time, I readily touch my silver cross, trying to bring her closer, trying to keep the leshii, in case there is one, away.
I trudge on, following Yakov, unable to elude my fears. They swarm around my head and refuse to abandon me. Much later, we emerge into a flat valley. We follow a smooth, wide trail that, if our crew had found it, might have cut our travel time by days. Mountains command the land as far as we can see; their tops disappear in the cloud.
It’s very late in the day when we finally emerge at the edge of a river too wide and deep to cross. The sky is brighter toward the west, but it won’t be long before it’s too dark to see where we’re going. The koliuzhi walk downstream toward the light until the shape of a few houses emerges.
“Where are we?” I ask.
Our koliuzhi draw close to the houses and call out, “Yi
áts
al chi íi
al xόxwa.”[24] A person appears in a doorway, and then another, and another, until many people are watching us.
We are led toward the doorway of one of the houses. Just before we enter, I look straight up into the darkening sky. Through an opening in the trees, I see Polaris valiantly trying to shine; she’ll be bright and sharp as crystal in a few more hours. I follow the others inside.
Yakov and I face a row of old men, a crowd of curious koliuzhi, and a routine whose rhythms we know well.
“Xwasáka, hόtskwa·ť,”[25] says a man with a moustache and a sea otter cape that has a hem fringed with plump fur tails.
It’s not the flickering light.
“Yakov,” I say. “It’s the toyon. The man who’s speaking. We know him.”
“Who is he?” he whispers.
“He’s from the tent. When we were on the beach. Just after we ran aground. Remember? Timofei Osipovich took Maria and me into a tent to talk with him—and then there was that battle.”
Yakov peers. “I don’t remember him.”
“That’s because he was in the tent and you were outside. Timofei Osipovich and I saw him again, later, on the beach. None of you were there. That’s him. I know it.”
We’ve returned to where we abandoned the brig. It’s only been a handful of days, but it feels like years since we were here. Was Timofei Osipovich right about it having been burnt to ash, or is there a chance it has survived? I’d like to go aboard. Would they let me? Could I sleep in my own bed? Change my clothes, comb my hair? Maybe I’d discover my missing shawl pin, fallen between the planks of the deck. What else might be left, what other precious objects escaped our frenzied destruction, and how could it be that I’d never understood how precious they were?
The toyon begins to speak. Undoubtedly, he knows who we are. How angry is he about the battle? I watch for signs.
Yakov and I are separated. We sleep at opposite ends of the moustached toyon’s house.
After we eat the next morning, movement suggests this house is not our destination. We must have farther to walk.
“Where are they taking us now?” I ask Yakov.
He shakes his head. He’s weary. Another day on the trail will not do such an old man any good.
One of the koliuzhi who travelled with us yesterday stands before me. “Ahda,” he says, and gestures.
We follow a path down to the river. Its mouth seems narrower than it did when we ferried ourselves across with our bundles and released our skiff to the mercy of the sea. Two canoes beaded with moisture from last night’s rain rest on the stony beach.
These canoes are much bigger than the other tiny canoes I’ve been in. I climb into one. It’s the schooner of canoes. When I sit, unless I stretch I can’t see over the gunwales, which are dotted with bits of luminous shell that have been polished and set into the wood. I don’t know how it will float—the river is too shallow for its size.
The moustached toyon is already seated in front of me. His sea otter cape falls in folds before my face, the hair furrowing and bristling as he shifts. Our canoe is boarded until it fills. I’m the only woman.
The canoe enters the stream, followed by a second canoe. The paddlers flick their pointed paddles as if they’re hens scratching the earth. The sea looks calm, though it still roars and crashes against the beach. The humped island plugs this river’s mouth; the trees are a jagged-edged shadow atop it.
The bow of our canoe turns toward the island. I thought we were crossing the river. We reach the turbulent place where the river and sea meet. The waves and currents slam into one another; peaks of white water form, merge, and disappear. The paddlers fight against it. Their paddles plunge in unison and they efficiently move us beyond the tumult.
The canoe turns parallel to the shore and heads north. We’re in deep water, and I feel nervous. A flock of birds rises from the ocean’s surface. After only a few minutes, I’m positive this is the place we ran aground. I recognize the stumps and stacks. But where’s the Sviatoi Nikolai? There’s nothing here. Not a mast, a plank—nothing. Not even debris washed up on the beach. Did the tides push it against the rocks until it broke apart and then pull its remains out to sea? Perhaps Timofei Osipovich was right after all when he said the koliuzhi would have burned it to ashes.
“Yakov?” I turn my head, wondering what he thinks. But he isn’t here.
I look to the other canoe. He’s not there either. Is he still on the riverbank?
No. He’s not there either. He’s gone.
“Yakov!” I shout. But no one pays any heed to my cry. The paddlers maintain their rhythm.
The canoe’s bow slices through a cresting wave. Seawater cold as a winter night sprays my cheek.
CHAPTER TEN
The sea lifts and tosses us, while the wind whistles and buffets our canoes. The paddlers struggle to find a rhythm. In each boat, the men slide long, smooth poles from the bow where they were held in place in a notch that looks like the pointed ears of a dog. They fix the poles in slots midship, and attach sails made of cedar bark—another use for the woven mats—and rigging made of bark rope. The sails swell in the gusts, just as though they were canvas, and send us careening over the choppy surface.