It’s one of the blunt, horn-shaped tools that I’ve seen hanging from the neck and shoulders of koliuzhi men. The dead boy on the beach had one attached to a sinew. But this one is different. It’s made of burnished metal, engraved with the same eyes, mouths, and hands that are found on the totem poles, house posts, and wooden boxes.
I take it from Makee. It’s heavy, but its weight is balanced along its length. It curves with exquisite gracefulness. Other than the silver hair ornament worn by that woman in the Tsar’s village, I’ve never seen anything like it here. Only the finest metalsmiths in Petersburg, the ones who make the samovars and tea trays for princes and princesses, could have crafted it.
“What is this?”
“It’s a 
. It’s a war club.”
“Cheetoolth? Did you make it?”
“No, not me. Too-te-yoo-hannis Yoo-ett made it for me. He was going to make me a harpoon too, but Mokwinna wouldn’t let him.”
“Who was this man—this Too-te-yoo—” I hesitate.
“Too-te-yoo-hannis. He’s American. He was captured by Mokwinna long ago. He spent several years with the Mowachahts. Mokwinna wouldn’t let him go because he made so many nice metal things. Mokwinna became quite rich trading them.
“But the American wasn’t happy. He wanted to go home. And when I was visiting Yuquot, he secretly asked me to help him escape. He wrote a letter and begged me to give it to any sea captain I met. Mokwinna would have been furious if he’d known. I gave it to the captain of the Lydia. I heard later that he convinced Mokwinna to release Too-te-yoo-hannis Yoo-ett.”
I turn the object over. I believe Makee’s story.
“When could we expect the next ship?”
“It’s hard to say. There aren’t any ships in winter. The sea is too stormy; later, in the spring, they’ll be back.”
“And what about the others? My husband—and the rest of the crew.”
“Your husband is with you?”
“Of course. Could you arrange his rescue as well? Could you arrange for us all to be released?”
“I can try. If I’m not successful, perhaps you’ll be able to arrange it yourself once you’re free.”
He speaks to the four men, and then the people who’ve been watching and listening. When he finishes, they all get up—Makee included—and leave me on the bench with my now-cold bowl of tea and a feeling that everything might work out after all.
When it’s time to eat that evening, I’m ushered to Makee’s side. The moustached toyon sits on his other side. A woman with two plaits as thick as the rope on the brig sets a tray of food before me.
Makee says, “This is my wife.” She’s older than me but not as old as my mother. She has a broad and certain face, lips that turn up at the corners even when she’s not smiling, and she wears a cedar dress that covers her to her ankles. There are round shells in her earlobes and bracelets on both her wrists.
“Wacush,” I say, and she looks to Makee. He says something briefly to her, and she smiles before she returns to the cooking boxes.
The tray contains fish and grease. There’s also something brown that looks like a crooked finger. I find another, and another, barely concealed by the grease. They appear to be roots. I cautiously squeeze one. The skin opens and something dry, flaky, and white appears through the crack.
Potato. It’s roasted potato.
When I look up, Makee’s smiling.
“You may also have onion and cabbage—but you’ll have to cook it yourself. We don’t like them, and no one knows what to do with them.”
“Where do you get these vegetables?”
“We take them from the Spanish garden. They left our coast many years ago, but their garden still grows. I’ll take you there soon.”
The idea of a garden of vegetables seems as strange and wonderful as boarding a ship bound for Russia. “Thank you.”
Makee’s wife returns, then sits beside me. We start to eat, sharing the food in the tray. I watch her from the corner of my eye, aware that she’s also watching me.
Later, the young woman with the crescent-shaped scar on her hand gives me a woven mat and a soft animal skin. It’s thin and frayed at the edges. The bristly brown hair has worn off in patches and it’s too small to cover me and my legs. She indicates where I’m to make my bed. When I go outside to relieve myself, no one follows, but it’s so dark, and the sea, so much closer here, roars. I take care of my business, then locate my Polaris. She’s extra bright tonight, as if all the stars she’s made of have aligned. I bid her a good night before I run back inside.
When I wake in the morning, I notice that the moustached toyon is nowhere to be seen, and when I go outside to relieve myself, I see the canoes that brought me here have gone. They’ll carry back my news to share with the others. I only regret that they have no way to tell Maria what good fortune I’ve stumbled upon. I wish there was some way to tell Nikolai Isaakovich, too. Perhaps he’d be more resolute if he knew there was hope.
“Anna?” Makee calls me to the bench later in the morning. He flicks back his coattails before he sits and tips his hat back so his eyes are no longer hidden in the brim’s shadow. “Did you sleep comfortably?”
I nod, thinking about how Maria and I had shared bedclothes when I was with the Chalats, and how even though my covering here is so thin and small, the space I had last night was unexpectedly large.
“Good. As I said yesterday, it could be some time before a ship appears, and I can’t predict whether the captain will be willing to trade. So your rescue could take longer than any of us expect.”
“I understand the situation,” I murmur. “I’m content to wait until the circumstances are right.”
Makee smiles. “You will be treated well here and though it may not meet the expectations of a Russian noblewoman, perhaps you will be comfortable enough. You may find our ways odd. Nonetheless, you will feel better if you do as we do.”
Not far from the bench where we sit, the woman with the crescent-shaped scar on her hand watches us. She’s dressed differently than she was yesterday. Her cedar bark cape is wrapped tightly around her neck, and a cord holds it around her waist. Her skirt reaches her ankles. Her feet are bare. Her hands are folded around some coils of cords.
“Go,” Makee says, indicating the woman. “Go with—” And he says a name that sounds like Inessa.
“Go where?” I ask.
He says something to the woman and she replies briefly.
“She’ll show you where we collect wood for the fire. And after you come back, you’ll go out with her for water.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Anna, you have work to do. Today, you will gather firewood and bring water with—.” And he says the name again, but I can’t quite catch it. It still sounds like Inessa.
“But—I can’t do that. I don’t know how.”
His face looks like my father’s when he’s disappointed in me. “Even a child could do such simple tasks,” he admonishes. “But she will show you, if necessary.” He frowns when he sees my expression. “You did not expect to be idle here, did you?”
“No,” I say, aware that I sound peevish but unable to stop myself. “Isn’t there other work I could do?”
“Like what?” He waits, but I’ve seen enough of the koliuzhi way to know that my accomplishments have little meaning here. Nobody is clamouring to keep a log of the stars. Nobody is embroidering dinner napkins. Nobody is conjugating French verbs or learning the steps to the mazurka.
“If you are going to stay with us, you will have to work with us.” He rises. “Everyone here has responsibilities. You will need to do your share. Now, go with her. Go, and do whatever she does.” He heads for the door and his form disappears into the daylight.