We must withstand this ordeal. We must endure in memory of Khariton Sobachnikov. We must not let his death be in vain. By the side of this fire, with the heavens opening overhead, I press my hand into my silver cross and vow to do whatever is necessary for us to survive and make it home.
“Anna? Please come,” says Makee, in the afternoon, the rain still pounding on the roof. He’s on the bench at his end of the house with the three men with whom he often confers. His metal cheetoolth is cradled in his hands. We’ve not spoken since his sister’s been freed, and I dread this moment.
My husband glares at Makee and starts to rise. Timofei Osipovich looks at my face, then places a hand on my husband’s arm and shakes his head in warning.
I cross the floor. It takes forever. When I arrive and stand before him, I feel like a child. He must think less of me. The only question is: How much less?
“Is your sister well?” I begin.
“Yes, she’s at home. She seemed quite tired when I last saw her, but she was as well as could be expected.”
“I’m sorry I broke my promise. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”
“She’s not hurt. Thankfully. And neither are the others.”
“I know I made a promise. But I realized as soon as I saw everyone across the river that it was wrong. It was a terrible error for me to make that promise.”
Makee and the men sitting with him look away toward the fire. I turn to see what’s drawn their attention, but it’s passed. There’s only Ovchinnikov, staring at his hands, and Timofei Osipovich, his hand still resting on my husband’s arm. The fire casts very little light, but it’s enough to truly see how haggard they are, how everything between us is in disarray. It’s a miracle that only one man is dead. “We need you, Makee. No one will get home without you.” My voice cracks. “No one will survive.”
He presses his lips together and frowns. “You thought only of your people. You broke your word and jeopardized my sister’s life.”
“She’s free, isn’t she?” I mumble. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes, that’s what I wanted. But not like this,” he cries. His hand sweeps toward the fire. “What am I to do with all of you until a ship takes you away?”
“We’ll work. We’ll try to live as you do. Just as you requested. Please—we won’t be any trouble.”
He turns the cheetoolth in his hands. A carved eye stares at me. “Your people have already caused a lot of trouble.”
“It’s only until the next ship. And you said there are already two ships nearby. Please—we need your help.”
“Along the entire coastline, when there are too many babathid around, there is always trouble.”
“I’ll talk to my husband. He’s in command. I’ll tell him that everyone’s got to listen to you.”
He says something to the three men sitting beside him. One responds.
“And those who you left behind in the forest—who will tell them to leave us alone?” Makee says. “To stop shooting at us and stealing our food?”
“They’re leaving. They’re walking south. They think there’s a Russian ship—far away. They’re already gone.”
He says something else to the three men. The same one responds, then another adds his thoughts. Makee listens while I try to understand what they’re saying.
Makee speaks briefly then turns back to me. He sets his cheetoolth down on the bench.
“I forgive you, Anna. But you must speak to your husband. And from now on, I will hold you to your word.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Why should I do anything for that Poppy Seed?” my husband says.
“Nikolai Isaakovich, there’s no choice.”
“Of course there’s no choice. Anna Petrovna, we’re slaves! Prisoners! And these koliuzhi are only waiting for a chance to murder us.”
“They’re waiting for a ship—just like us.”
The sun is sinking into the ocean. The rain has ended and the heavy clouds have moved away, and now the sky is alive with pink and purple, the colour of boiled beetroot, the colour of the sea stars I saw in the pool beside the rock. There’s a brush of gold hovering over the cobalt sea. It’s a rare evening both for this sunset and for the fact that I’m watching it with my husband as though it’s a display of Chinese fireworks and we’re attending a gathering at a grand dacha outside Petersburg.
“Nikolai Isaakovich, if you don’t order the crew to cooperate, we’re never going to get out of here. Makee made me promise that we wouldn’t make any further trouble for them.”
“Make trouble—for them?” He laughs cruelly. “That Poppy Seed toyon is cunning. He has a scheme. You’ll see.”
I shake my head, no, but in the dying light—the sun is a glowing dome about to disappear into the water—he’s the one who doesn’t see.
I’ll have to find another way to fulfill my promise to Makee.
“Could I have a word with you—in private?”
Timofei Osipovich cackles. “With me? Are you sure? Whatever for?”
“We can discuss that when we’re alone.”
“Lead me where you will then,” he says. “I put myself in your lovely hands.”
I don’t want to go anywhere with him, but since my husband refuses to agree and Makee’s counting on me, I must find another way to convince the crew that cooperation with Makee is in everyone’s best interests. My husband won’t like it, but if I handle it skilfully, he need never know my part in it. I’ve seen it time after time on this trip. If I can persuade Timofei Osipovich, the others will follow, and it won’t seem like I’m undermining my husband.
I lead him down to the stony beach where the canoes rest. There are some girls and boys playing at the water’s edge not far from us. They toss fragments of dried seaweed into the wind. The seaweed floats for several seconds, then falls and scuttles along the beach until it comes to rest. The children run alongside the dark shards in a race against one another, against the seaweed. Other than a glance our way when we come to their attention, they pay us no heed.
“Timofei Ospiovich,” I begin, “I must ask for assistance concerning a matter of great importance to our future.”
“Our future? That’s a weighty subject for a pretty girl. Or did you mean our future together—yours and mine?”
“Stop your ridicule or I’ll leave.”
“Leave? No, please, I can’t live without you.” He chokes on a sob and brushes fake tears from his eyes. How dare he mock my husband?
“Wait,” he calls when I’m halfway up the beach. “Come back.”
I stop and face him, trying to determine his sincerity. He’s impossible to predict, and the fact remains that I need him. So, I plunge ahead. “Makee is concerned about having us here. He thinks we’re going to cause trouble. I told him we wouldn’t.”
“Well, that goes without question,” Timofei Osipovich says, as he strolls over to face me. “We’ve surrendered. The conquered are never in a position to declare war.” The wind blows a strand of his long hair over his face, and he brushes it back and tucks it behind his ear.
“It’s not just that. Makee expects us to live peacefully. And to work. To earn our keep until we’re rescued.”
“I’m happy to lend a hand here and there.”
“No,” I say, exasperated. “You don’t understand. Makee’s helping us and we have to help him. I’ve been collecting firewood and hauling baskets of water to the houses. This week, I’m gathering shellfish. We all have to work until we’re rescued.”
He laughs. “Tell your toyon he’ll have my full cooperation. But between us—I won’t be gathering, collecting, or hauling anything. I’m not his slave.”