The women’s bodies and their clothing are also covered with adornments, every one of which eclipses my silver cross with its single jewel. Korolki are stitched onto the fronts and hems of their skirts, often strung next to long, white beads that look like skinny bird’s bones. These white bones dangle in rows and rattle as the women move. Though most women are wearing dresses of cedar bark, there are many with clothing made of fringed animal hide with fur trim. Their skirts are white and painted with designs of fish and animals and red and black patterns that run along the hems and look like my cross-stitch.
Even Inessa wears a hide skirt; hers is painted with a repeating pattern of birds with outstretched wings that seem to fly along the hem. She also wears a beaded necklace and many bracelets. Her hair, for once, is not tightly tied back, but spills over her shoulders like a glossy waterfall.
I’ve never seen such robes, furs, and jewellery. I don’t even know where they came from—I never knew the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts had such things in the house. The sight of them is no less majestic then anything that would be seen in the grandest ballrooms of Petersburg. I would never have imagined there could be such lavish clothing in a place so remote.
When the circling man finishes his dance, some little children take his place. They are five or six years old and so their older sisters or maybe their mothers lead them in a circle while they sing, their voices nearly lost in the big, noisy house. One of the little girls wears a headdress made of the same skinny white beads that look like bird bones. The children are just like pretty, garlanded girls dancing a khorovod in the spring. My mother would get tears in her eyes watching them, and she’d always applaud wildly when they finished, sweaty and panting, for the dizzying dance is much harder than it looks.
Conversation dies down as the children attract more attention. The people watching call out, and the children pick up their pace. Just when I think they must be dizzy and about to fall, they stop. They remain in a circle, facing one another. The older women start a song, and the children join in, moving their hands up and down, their mouths Os of surprise, their eyes wide and serious. I think they might be telling a story.
As Makee had promised, some of the guests came to look at me. There was no formal ceremony. Most just passed in front of me, their eyes lowered, their glances furtive. I smiled, wanting them to meet my eye. After all, I’d prepared for this. A few stopped and stared in disbelief before saying something to one another and moving on. One woman laughed; a baby, thrust up before my face, cried.
Two men paused before me. Their faces were painted red and black and their hair, tied atop their heads, was garlanded with cedar boughs. I smiled and lowered my eyes. But not before I saw something that drew my gaze right back to them. Recognition. They had seen me before.
They spoke in low voices to one another. I studied them. They weren’t from Makee’s village. Had I seen them before? Where? Were they from the Tsar’s house?
One of the men shifted and the cedar vest he wore opened a little. His chest was slashed with a long, white scar. He adjusted his vest and when he did, I saw a missing finger and I remembered.
I remembered how, many weeks ago, he’d fondled a shackle onboard the brig. I remembered how the man beside him had hooked a long leg over the bulwark before descending to the waiting canoes. And I remembered how surprised Timofei Osipovich had been with their sudden departure and his failure to get the sea otter cape that my husband had said was ratty.
We stood for some moments staring at one another. Were they surprised to see me here? Or had they expected it? When they heard about the babathid woman, did they think it might be me? How much had changed, and yet the very unconnected threads of our lives had once again wound around each other.
“Wacush,” I said, and smiled tentatively.
The scarred man furrowed his brow and after a short pause said, “
e·e·, kwisasi
akituc! babaqiyu
u·k?”[32] I nodded but had no idea what he was saying. “u·šu·bisdakpi·dic,”[33] he continued, with a look of concern.
Finally, the tall, muscular man nudged him, and he stopped.
“I’m sorry,” I said and flushed.
They walked away, their necks bent together in conversation, the cedar boughs in their hair interlacing.
Later, I saw the scarred man speaking to Inessa, whose eyes were averted, whose brow was deeply furrowed. But it didn’t stop him from leaning in and continuing to speak to her.
For two days, the singing and dancing continued with only a brief pause at night when most people slept. There were playful dances that delighted the audience as much as the dancers themselves. There were men in masks who whirled in dark dances in which they pretended to kidnap and kill others. The Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts cried out. The stories—I concluded that’s what they were—unfolded as in an opera, and just like in an opera, I could hardly understand the narrative.
For two days, we ate all we could: trays of sour caviar, dried salmon, roasted roots, steamed leaves and stems, some bitter, some sharp like onion, and cakes of sweet, dried berries. Everything was, as usual, served with grease ladled from ornate wooden serving dishes. They were shaped like fish and four-legged animals just like the everyday serving dishes I’d been seeing in Makee’s house, but these were far larger and more decorative. Empty trays were refilled immediately, refusal being, as it is in Russia, out of the question.
Late in the afternoon of the second day, everything stops. Makee installs me beside him and a heap of objects. Attendants hover, waiting for instructions. Makee begins. He speaks and when he stops, the attendants move. One man extracts a basket from the heap. Another man takes it and lifts it above his head. He parades in a small circle, turning slowly to give everyone a look at the basket.
It’s a medium-sized basket with four red canoes woven into it as though they’re chasing one another in a circle. Around the base, a pattern that might represent waves has also been woven in. There’s a tight-fitting lid with a knobby handle. The attendant locates an older man whose sea otter robe skims the ground and hands the basket to him.
Makee speaks again. This time, the attendant pulls out a bladder filled with grease. The same man who held up the basket raises the bladder, his arms straining under the weight. Once again, a recipient is located—this time, it’s an old man with a cedar robe who accepts the gift.
Makee gives away more baskets, more bladders. Cedar mats, capes, and dresses. Beads and necklaces. Elaborately woven hats. Sea otter pelts and other animal furs and hides. Mirrors, which I’m startled to see. Several caskets of gunpowder, which I’m even more shocked to see. He gives away slabs of dried fish and roe wrapped in cedar boughs and ferns. Each item is lifted high for everyone to behold before being given to a guest.
When the pile has all but disappeared—there’s only a box, a basket, and a thick coil of rope remaining—dancers take to the floor once more. A drummer and singers join them. The attention of Makee’s attendants is drawn to the music.
Makee watches for a minute and then, without taking his eyes from the dancers, he says, “I have something for you, too.”