Where is Nikolai Isaakovich? Did he get his coat back? Is he missing me, looking for me? I pass the hours walking to and from the forest thinking about the last time I saw him, his beastly beard, without his coat, his thin shirt no shield from the cold, and the way he hung his head, impotent before the men who, only a few weeks before, had obeyed his every command. I am so disappointed for him, and, frankly, disappointed in him. But I know he’s not a coward—not really. Something’s happened with the crew to influence him, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t imagine what it might have been.
I picture his face when we meet again. How surprised he’ll be if the next time he sees me I’m hailing him from the ship that’s come to rescue all of us. How tightly we’ll embrace one another and how sweet his kisses will be when we’re finally alone again.
One grey morning, before Inessa and I head into the forest again, Makee calls me.
“I will show you the garden today,” he says. “Come.”
We head out along a path that leads away from the sea. Two men, one carrying bow and arrows, the other a spear, accompany us. The path is narrow and muddy, so we walk single file. After a long time and a short time, the sound of the surf vanishes beneath the twittering of birds and the soft breath of the wind in the trees.
It’s a relief to be in the forest with a purpose other than searching for firewood. I can nearly imagine my parents here, my father off wandering in the underbrush, my mother beginning one of her cautionary tales about the leshii. This forest is so different from the one in the hills that surround Petersburg. I wonder if she’d sense the leshii’s presence here, too.
At a bend in the path, two tiny birds flutter away when they see us. Startled, the man with the spear lifts his weapon, then lowers it when he sees there’s no danger. Around the corner, right beside the trail, grows a strange tree with a short trunk that splits into many branches that all grow straight into the sky. Together, the branches form a bowl; the tree resembles a chalice.
“How long did the Spanish live here?” I ask.
Makee shrugs. “Not long—in the end. But they intended to stay much longer than they did. They constructed houses, sheds for their cattle, and even a building where they made metal things—a whole village. After it was built, they surrounded it with cannon. I was a young boy then, but I remember there were six. All facing outward and pointed at us.”
“Why? Were you at war?”
“We should have been. They built it all on top of our houses.”
“On top? How?”
“They came when the people were away. It was summer and naturally everyone was in the forest and up in the hills. When the people came back, their village was occupied. The Spanish men didn’t care, and they even insisted the people stop trading with everyone else. But the Spanish had almost nothing anybody wanted. No one wished to restrict trading like that.”
“So what did the people do?”
“There was no choice. They had to find somewhere else to live. Some of them came to Tsoo-yess—the rest to other villages. That winter, the Spanish suffered a lot and eventually they went back to their country. And when they did, they left everything. So, the people came back to their community. They tore down the Spanish houses. They burnt what they didn’t want, or threw it in the river. The garden is all that’s left.”
We walk until, in the distance, the horizon brightens, and the sound of the sea returns. Gradually, through the trees, the ocean emerges once again. The men with us hold their weapons more casually, and the hard readiness of their arms melts away.
“This is it,” Makee says, and we stop before a tangle of vines and overgrown plants that bolted long ago. It’s hardly a garden. It lies just outside the edge of the forest, a short distance from the sea, at one end of a huge bay that’s empty except for a floating flock of black birds. A lone gull glides overhead.
I kneel and pull aside a desiccated mesh of stalks and vines. Beneath them, life is taking its course: many small plants huddle together. Their stunted leaves are dark but green, so I know they’re alive. Makee squats beside me and pulls the debris even farther back. There, nestled in pale, oversized leaves, is a tiny emerald jewel.
“Cabbage?”
“You take it. Nobody wants it—only the insects.”
The outer leaves have been nibbled at the edges. I fold them back, exposing the core, which the beetles and caterpillars haven’t yet found. I pull it out of the earth, root and all. It smells sweet, like most cabbages when just picked, but a bit sharp, too, like it’s been left in the ground too long.
Makee shows me where the onions grow. Using a pointed stick, I gouge the earth in a circle around a bulb hoping to make it easier to pull up. Makee and the two men watch.
When I rise, I fold over my apron and sling into it one cabbage and three onions with their spiky tops bent over. My cheeks feel warm from the wind and the exertion.
Makee looks overhead to the darkening sky. “Come. The clouds are aching. We should go back.”
We pass the tree that looks like a chalice, and head along the trail that crosses the forest. The wind picks up and, indeed, each minute, the sky grows darker. The air is heavy with the promise of rain. I pull my vegetable-laden apron a little closer and try to keep up with Makee.
“I’ll be giving a big feast soon,” Makee says, over his shoulder. “I’m inviting people from the nearby villages but also some people who live much farther away on the coast.”
“Will there be many guests?”
“There always are. We’re known to be generous with food, and some even call us by that name: ‘Makah,’ is how they say it. But that word comes from another language, not ours.”
“So what do you call yourselves?”
“Qwidičča
a·t
.”
“Kwee-dashch-awt?” I say, trying my best to make the sounds.
“Kwih-dihch-chuh-aht,” he says, emphasizing the syllables, and gives a short nod.
“Does it have a meaning?”
“It means that we are the People of the Cape. That we live among the gulls on this rocky land that extends into the ocean.” He stretches out an arm to take it all in. Many more words are needed to say it in Russian than in Makee’s language.
“Will I be at the feast?”
“I insist upon it! My guests will want to see you,” Makee says. “Some have seen a baba
id before, but almost no one’s ever seen a babaid woman.”
“What’s a babathid?”
“It means you—your people. The Russians and the Spanish and the Americans and all the rest of you. Who only have houses on the water and who float to different places with no particular origin or destination.” Once again, it takes many words to express in Russian. Even still, the idea is mistaken.
“I have a home,” I say. “In Russia. And another one in Novo-Arkhangelsk. And I am going back.”
“Of course you are,” Makee says.
The rain starts to fall while we’re still in the forest. My hair quickly becomes wet but my shoulders, under the cedar cape they gave me, stay dry.
When we get back to the house, I’m offered a place near the fire to prepare my vegetables. The heat helps dry my hair and the damp hem of my skirt. The women give me a sharp shell knife just like the one Maria used preparing the medicine. I use it awkwardly to cut the cabbage and onion into smaller pieces to hasten the cooking. Then, the women give me a cooking box containing water. They move rocks in and out of it until the water’s steaming. It takes many rotations until the vegetables are soft. I ladle everything into a small tray on top of a chunk of dried white fish and I shake my head, no, when they offer me the usual dollop of grease.