The slab of whale flesh that had been draped over the pole and carried to Makee’s house is on display inside near the fire. The pole is suspended between two notched timbers, and the meat is decorated with feathers, cedar boughs, and the whale’s eyeballs, still attached by the sinew that held them together. A shallow wooden tray collects drippings.
Though I’ve eaten plenty of whale grease, I’ve not tried the flesh. I take a small bite. It’s both strange and familiar. It resembles venison but smells and tastes like brined herring, and I take a second, larger bite. As I’m chewing and trying to decide whether I like it, I notice Inessa watching me. When I catch her eye, she smiles and, just as she did on the trail, she lays her hand on her stomach.
A man beside her nudges her, and she looks away and raises her smiling face to him. He takes something out of the tray and puts it in front of her. It’s the man with the scar on his chest—who came aboard the brig, who came to the last feast. She rises and walks slowly toward the cooking boxes. Her hips sway. The man’s eyes follow her.
There’s no koliuzhi celebration without singing and dancing, and this one is no exception. Makee, in his whale hat, and his wife, in a resplendent cape with two whales painted on the back, dance. To the slow beat of a drum, the two turn toward one another and circle, taking big steps. As the beat of the drum picks up, their circles grow smaller and they move closer together. When they reach the centre, they whirl around one another like they’re dancing the Polish mazurka that everyone was learning when I left Petersburg. Makee and his wife send white down spinning in all directions. When they finish, they each drink deeply from a water box that’s been decorated with feathers.
A number of women gather in the centre of the floor. Many of the cooks are among them, their faces still flushed from their labour, wisps of their hair flying loose. When the drumming starts, they circle, shuffling their feet, their hands open before them, palms up, their arms pumping in time to the beat of the drum. It seems as though they’re lifting the sky.
Next, four men carry a thick, heavy plank into the centre of the floor. The people must move to let them pass and many cry out gleefully when they notice the arrival of the plank. Drumming begins, the beat urgent and aligned with the drumming of the benches.
The four men raise the plank. Then, they let one end plummet. They tilt it, twist it, and then raise it again in big slow circles like they’re drawing figure eights in the smoky air. They move slowly, trying not to strike any of the people at the front who are watching.
Sweat glitters on the foreheads of the four men. When the plank is held at a certain angle, I notice a flash of colour. There’s a small red dot painted on it, no bigger than the size of a berry.
Makee steps into the circle. He carries a stiff white feather. People cry out.
He stops, raises the feather, and examines it. He strokes it, pressing flat its vanes. Then he begins to dance alongside the plank.
He follows it. When it rises, so does his arm. When it turns, he follows. When it falls, nearly to the floor, he drops and creeps along behind it.
The plank, I understand, is the whale. The feather is his harpoon.
With no warning, Makee aims, snaps his fingers, and throws. His aim is true. The feather hits the red dot on his first try, and bounces off the plank, fluttering to the floor. Cheers rumble off the walls like thunder.
When I go outside later to relieve myself, the sky is clear. Though I wish I had my telescope, the constellations are brilliant enough tonight. It seems proper that I look for Cetus the Whale. Her big belly is turned, as always, to Orion the Hunter. I think Makee would be pleased to know that tonight the entire sky is a mirror for his successful hunt. I say good night to my beloved Polaris before I head back along the path to the house.
This period of gruelling work and fervent celebrations lasts four days. On the morning of that last day, when there’s nothing left on the beach but the skeleton, it, too, is dismantled. Men saw apart the huge bones. The largest are laid in shallow trenches that surround the houses. Makee tells me they direct the flow of heavy rain away, while keeping leaves and needles from clogging the gutters. The big scapula that look like wings are set aside, and Makee says he’ll use them next time there’s a crack in one of the walls of his house.
“All the outside bones of the skeleton are solid, but the inside ones are quite porous. We need them, too. We can make combs and ornaments from them. And they’re good for certain tools. Spindle whorls need to be light and strong. We also use them to make a tool we need to turn the cedar bark into threads.”
“Aren’t they too fragile for tools?”
“Not really. The pores are what makes them so sturdy. They’re harder to carve than wood, and so, usually the carver decides what to make only after he sees the bone he’s working with.”
When the four days are over, everyone is full. I can hardly imagine being hungry ever again. We’ve produced many bladders plump with whale oil that are stored away in the house. At night, the foot of each building is lit up by moonlight reflected off gleaming new bones. But it’s not just tangible gifts the whale’s left behind. There’s also a mood of contentment that continues for many days.
“Anna, drop your wood,” Makee orders. His face is pale, his voice strained. He’s wearing his red jacket, his trousers, and his beaver hat. He’s come into the forest, partway along the path, to meet me. “We have to leave.” I release the bundle of wood from my arms. “Hurry.”
He strides ahead, and I scramble to follow. “What’s wrong? Where are we going?” Either he doesn’t hear or he’s ignoring me.
After a short time and a long time, we arrive at the beach where men are boarding two canoes. “Makee—excuse me—is there a ship?” Hope swells in my heart, and a powerful longing for my husband pushes every thought from my head. If there’s a ship, I’ll see him very soon.
Makee looks at me distractedly. “No. Get in. Please.”
I climb into the canoe he indicates, but he gets into the other one. There are many other men coming with us. They steer the canoes out to sea and turn south.
The ocean offers little resistance; we’re aided by a current that hurries us along. I’m less nervous than I was on my last canoe voyage. The men sing as they dig into the water, paddles plunging deeply to the song’s rhythm. We pass the same jagged-edged coastline, the same kelp-strewn beaches, the same defining headlands, the same wide-open sea that bleeds into the sky. The light on the horizon is almost gone when the canoes steer for shore. We’ll have to weave through rocky stacks lined up like chimneys along our path. There’s a flat-topped island, and behind it, the yawning mouth of a river.
I’ve returned to where the Sviatoi Nikolai ran aground—to where the moustached toyon lives. I’m like Zhuchka chasing her tail around and around.
We land just beyond the river’s mouth. These koliuzhi—I remember Makee told me they’re the Quileutes—welcome us and lead us by foot up the river to the place just inside the edge of the forest where their settlement lies.
This is where I left Yakov. He should still be here.