As I draw near the village, I see people streaming through the doors, going in and out, some stopping to embrace one another. Where’s Inessa? Young men on the rooftops lean over and pull their friends up beside them. Once up, they pound the roofs with staves, and with so many young men on the rooftops, it’s not long before the rumble of their enormous drums thunders through the whole bay.
A crowd has gathered on the beach; Inessa must be there. They’re gazing toward the rocky headland. Out on the headland, a smaller group waits, their faces turned to the sea. When they begin to cheer and cry out, the crowd on the beach joins in. I head down to where celebrations unfold.
A canoe glides into sight. Everyone on board sings. The paddlers take two strokes then strike the gunwales. Two strokes again, then thud. When their paddles are lifted, I see how they’re as narrow as sticks, and how they end in a long point. They’re not like other paddles I’ve seen.
Another two canoes appear. A cheer swells up while the pounding on the houses grows even more frenzied. Laughing children chase one another along the beach nearly knocking me over. Gulls spiral overhead and shriek.
“Anna!” I turn. Inessa beams. 
[35]
She laughs and hugs me, then pushes me away and runs off.
At the front of the fourth canoe, Makee sits. Instead of his beaver hat, he’s wearing the kind of woven hat he gave away at the feast. It has a wide brim and a jaunty knob on top that makes it look like the lid of a basket. A rope stretches behind his canoe. Whatever they’re towing is surrounded by pale floats that bob in the water and keep the towed object just below the surface. It traces a broad wake in the grey sea.
Slowly the canoes near the shore, and men on the beach hurl themselves into the ocean. Some reach for Makee and his canoe, while others pull the tow rope and, as soon as they can, push the towed object toward land. The surf crashes around them, and the water rushes back out, each time revealing a little more of the towed object until finally it’s so close that when a wave recedes, I see.
A whale.
They’ve captured a whale.
The way the men work with the force of the sea makes me think of the day the brig ran aground and Timofei Osipovich guided us to do the same as we shuttled our belongings to shore. With each wave, they advance the animal in tiny increments, straining to prevent it from sliding back with the retreating water. Finally, a powerful wave coupled with a forceful push brings the whale up onto the beach. When the sea subsides this time, rattling the stones on its way out, the whale’s grey body is exposed.
Like a rock, the whale is speckled with barnacles. In colour and texture, it blends into the gravel beach. It’s dotted with wounds—it’s been stabbed many times. Its eye is open and glazed. Its long beak of a mouth has been sutured shut with thick cord that’s been looped around the tow rope. An incision circles the whale’s tail. There remains not a twitch of muscle. This animal has been dead a long time.
White down is scattered from baskets over the whale’s back. An older but agile man from Makee’s house hoists himself upon the carcass. With both hands, he raises a spear above his head and plunges it into the animal. The blade sinks in while blood and clear liquid dribble out. He saws through the flesh making a rectangle across the back and down the sides of the body toward the sand. Once he completes three sides of the rectangle, he abandons the spear for a much smaller knife with a wide blade, which he inserts into one of the slits. He cuts beneath, pulling away and rolling a slab of cream-coloured flesh down the animal’s side. The warm scent of fresh slaughter rises.
At the whale’s side, a man opens his hands and reaches for the roll of flesh. He guides it down, and when it’s reached the beach, he cuts the slab free and it sags to the ground in folds.
Several men heave the chunk onto a pole that rests on the shoulders of four men. The pole bows as it receives the weight. They carry the pole up to the house, navigating slowly along the path. The agile man with the spear follows them. Makee watches and I know he’s satisfied, even a little proud.
Now that he’s close, I see the pattern woven into Makee’s hat. There’s a whale, and when he twists his neck, I see the men chasing it, their canoe floating atop waves that encircle the brim. Makee calls out and another man climbs onto the whale’s back. That man also cuts off a slab of flesh, and then follows the procession as it’s carried to the houses. There’s a third man, and a fourth, and so on. Each slab disappears into a different house. When eventually the skeleton is visible and then the organs spill, the stench is powerful. It draws flocks of crows and gulls, even white-headed eagles. Overwhelmed, I leave the beach.
Outside Makee’s house, four fires blaze. Each is filled with the smooth stones used for cooking. Rosy-cheeked women laugh and joke with one another as they tend the fire and, with their tongs, move the stones around in the flames and hot coals.
Other women are helping one another carry dripping containers of water that they lift and pour into four huge vats that stand like stout men on guard. A woman with a knife calls out to Inessa, who says to me, “Šu
uk. usubi 
au· atkse·i· au.”[36]
She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the forest.
We set out along the path heading for the place where I dropped the firewood. The trail is a bit drier—it hasn’t rained since the day before yesterday. Everything is cast in a green hue as light reflects off the soft moss that coats the trees and nests in the forest floor. Just ahead, something rustles in the bushes. A russet-coloured squirrel whose fur looks like Zhuchka’s scampers across the path ahead. It leaps onto a tree trunk and scrambles up, chattering and scolding us.
When we reach the dropped wood, Inessa and I work together to divide it into two piles. As we distribute the sticks, I ask, “What does whale meat taste like?” I know she won’t understand. Even if she could, is there a comparison that would make sense?
Her eyes slide over and she waits.
“Is it good?” I point back to the beach. I pull my fingers to my lips and pretend to chew. “Does it taste nice?”
Her eyes flicker with recognition. Has she understood?
“Čabasaps. Čabu
eyiks hauk ti·kaa· du·bačeya iš wi·y 
u-sakši hauk ti·kaa,”[37] she says, her eyes enormous, one hand near her mouth, the other on her stomach. She smiles. Then she takes the larger of the piles of wood and we head back to the house.
By the time we return, steam is rising from the vats. After we drop our wood, I peek into a tub: the surface glistens. I look into the next one. It’s also shiny. I check the third. It’s no different. A woman with a shallow basket skims the surface of one vat and pours it into a different vat. I think I understand: all that grease we eat, the bladders and boxes and dishes full every single meal—how else could they get so much? It’s from the whales. We’re going to render every drop from the carcass and store it away for the months ahead. I had no notion of it, but I’ve probably been eating whale every day ever since I was captured on the river so long ago.
In the evening, the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts celebrate, and we feast. There are strips and chunks of whale meat, roasted and boiled, in soup, wrapped in leaves, covered in grease, all laid out on the best wooden dishes. There’s one dish with carved handles that resemble wings, its rim inlaid with a row of pearly teeth that twinkle when they catch the firelight. There’s a big bowl in the shape of a man lying on his back, a braid of hair dangling from the crown of his head.