Zhuchka?
I fall to my knees. I touch it. It’s her tail. It’s cold and damp. The edge of the skin is straight and clean. It’s been cut with a knife.
Somebody used a knife.
“Makee,” I cry. I point to the remains of my beloved Zhuchka. “This was my dog.”
Makee looks at me with pity in his eyes and the instant he opens his mouth to reply, before he even speaks the words, I understand what happened. “Your people must have been very hungry,” he says softly and lowers his eyes.
I cover my face and bend until I’m folded over my knees and just a small ball, another layer atop the trampled grass. I wish the earth would swallow me. I want everyone to go away and leave me alone. I want this nightmare to be over.
I know none of them cared for her. None of them even looked at her other than as an tool that helped them do their work, or as something to torment when they were bored. Couldn’t they see that it was not like that for me? When I held her head in my hands, when her eyes met mine and her tail thumped on the deck, I knew she was much more than that.
What is the sense of being released? We’re never going to make it out of here on our own.
I won’t trade my new life in Tsoo-yess with the certainty of rescue for some meaningless freedom that ensures nothing except that I’ll be lost in the wilderness with those brutes until we all die.
Across the river, Timofei Osipovich shouts, “Madame Bulygina!”
Like shadows, the men emerge from the trees. Brooding Kozma Ovchinnikov is hunched over, his hair stragglier than ever. Everything about him that once scared me has diminished, and he seems pathetic now. The carpenter Kurmachev is barefoot, his cheeks so sunken he looks like an old man with no teeth. Has he still got his flask? I doubt it. He must be faring poorly without his rum. The American John Williams has stringy hair that now reaches his shoulders and a pale beard that’s growing in patches. His greatcoat is missing all its buttons. Everyone is shockingly filthy and spiritless, and for a moment, I pity them so much I almost forgive them for eating Zhuchka.
Then I catch my breath. “Where’s Kolya?” I cry.
“He’s upriver—at our camp. Not more than a versta from here,” replies Timofei Osipovich. “He’s fine.”
“Why isn’t he here?”
“He’s coming. Don’t worry.” But the men shift uneasily, and I begin to sense something is wrong. Others are missing, too. Where’s the main rigger, Khariton Sobachnikov? He’s so tall, I should be able to spot him among the men, if he’s here.
“Where is my sister?” Makee says. He’s right beside me on the riverbank. Two canoes rest on our shore, waiting for the exchange to take place. “Ask them where my sister is.”
I turn back to Timofei Osipovich. “I’ve been informed that you’ve captured three koliuzhi. Where are they?”
The prikashchik nods at his loyal Ovchinnikov. He slips behind some bushes and when he comes out, he’s pulling a cord attached to the wrists of Koliuzhi Klara, the woman who wore the silver comb in her hair, and the Murzik.
Koliuzhi Klara has a black eye.
I cry out and cover my mouth. I look to Makee. “That’s her,” he says. “She’s alive.”
I know instantly who he means. Her silver comb. His metal cheetoolth. Of course, that’s his sister.
“Anna—tell them,” Makee urges.
The captives stare dully across the river. Ovchinnikov jerks the end of the rope and they stumble together.
“Anna!” Makee cries out.
“Timofei Osipovich,” I shout. “One of those women is the sister of this toyon.” I gesture toward Makee. “His name is Makee, and he’s a fine man, a gentleman as you can see.” I point to his groomed hair, his red jacket, his trousers. “I’m living with his family, and he’s been taking good care of me. He’s a virtuous man known everywhere for his generosity and kindness and I have no doubt his sister possesses the same qualities. You must release her—and the others as well.”
“Let’s shoot them,” says Ovchinnikov. “All of them.”
Makee yelps. All the koliuzhi rush to the edge of the river and nock their arrows.
“Kozma Ovchinnikov! This toyon speaks Russian! He understands everything you say,” I cry.
“Shut up, you nattering magpie!” Timofei Osipovich slaps Ovchinnikov, who cries out, as shocked as the rest of us to see his master turn against him. He claps the hand with which he’s holding the cord over his ear. Koliuzhi Klara’s wrists are jerked up to her chin.
Timofei Osipovich slides into the language I don’t understand, his eyes fastened on Makee. Makee listens, then says something to the koliuzhi, and they lower their bows.
Timofei Osipovich reverts to Russian. “We’ll free the prisoners once the koliuzhi release you. Your husband insists that you be released first.”
“Tell him we accept,” Makee says in a low voice.
“In the name of the Emperor, I vow to finish our mission,” cries Timofei Osipovich, “and it will not be over until we get you, Madame Bulygina, home. Come now—rejoin our expedition.”
“No,” I cry. “I will not.” Ovchinnikov’s mouth gapes, opening up his bushy beard. He looks like I just kicked his shins. “I’m satisfied living with these koliuzhi,” I continue. “They’ve given me a warm place to sleep and plenty to eat. This toyon is arranging my rescue.”
I know with certainty the Kad’iak is gone. Even if it were still there waiting, there’s no chance the crew will ever reach it. A sixty-five-mile walk down this coast is not a summer stroll down Nevsky Prospekt. They’ll never survive the rest of the winter.
Tsoo-yess is not Petersburg, and I’m not a free woman while I’m there, but I’ll be comfortable enough until I can go home. If anybody can guarantee that I’ll get home, it will be Makee, and not these fools. They’re lost in many ways, some of which they can’t even fathom.
“There are two European ships travelling on this coast right now. As soon as we see them, this toyon will release me into their care, and I’ll make my way back home. So I won’t join you—and if you have sense, instead you’ll join me and these koliuzhi.
“Surrender. And release your prisoners. It’s for the best.”
The river gurgles in the silence that follows. No one dares move.
“Anna, what are you doing?” Makee says.
“Madame Bulygina, you don’t know what you’re doing!” shouts Timofei Osipovich.
“I’ve made up my mind,” I call back across the river.
“But your husband—he’s a madman ranting day and night about you. You wouldn’t speak so callously if you could see him—is this not the truth?” The others nod and grunt in agreement. “You must come. You have no choice.”
“I’ve made my choice. Now you release the prisoners.”
“Come to your senses!”
“You come to yours. Release the prisoners. And give up the delusion that you’re going to survive without the koliuzhi.”
“This—negotiation—is—not—finished,” Timofei Osipovich declares. He stomps into the forest. The others follow, pulling the prisoners behind.
“Anna, what have you done?” Makee cries.
“I’m sorry. I’m not going with them. They’re fools.”
“But you said you would. Now they won’t release my sister.”
“Don’t be so certain. They’ll release her. I know they will.”
Makee speaks to the koliuzhi men. Four of them launch the canoes and cross the river. They follow Timofei Osipovich and the others into the forest.