“Your husband—and I.”
“Makee asked you to build a house?”
“No, Madame Bulygina,” he replies, enunciating each word. “Makee did not ask us to build a house.”
They have been working hard. It took a lot of work to build the hut. But this is not what I meant, not what Makee wants.
“It’s almost finished. We’ll move here in a few days.”
“We can’t!”
“We can.”
“We’ll never survive!”
“And why not? We’ll eat fish. Snare a few rabbits. Get some mushrooms and roots. We’ll make kvass!” He smacks his lips. “We’ll trade with the koliuzhi for anything else we need. You may not realize it, but Kozma Ovchinnikov is more than a strong and loyal man. He’s also a good carver.”
“Does Makee know what you’ve done?”
He laughs. “Why? Are you going to tattle on us if he doesn’t?”
“Does he?” I insist.
He shrugs carelessly. “Probably. There are no secrets here; he must have accepted it. He’s done nothing to prevent our little project from proceeding.”
“You shouldn’t have done this.”
He bursts into laughter. “Dear Madame Bulygina, your sanctimony is a never-ending source of entertainment. Even when circumstances are most dire, I can always depend on you to make me laugh.”
A few hours later, Makee calls out from the bench. “Anna? Please come—and ask the commander to come as well.” He’s been in conference with the three older men all afternoon.
“Why should I go?” my husband mutters.
“Get up,” I whisper. I nudge him with my knee, a little harder than I should.
Nikolai Isaakovich glares, and gets up as slowly as he can. Once up, he surveys the room as though it’s something he must map but can’t decide where to start. Lazily, he saunters over to Makee, every step defiant. When he reaches the bench, he says, “What is it—Poppy Seed?” He mispronounces Makee’s name.
Makee’s hands are folded over his cheetoolth. It rests lightly on his lap. The three men are stern. “Earlier,” Makee begins, “there was a dispute in my home.”
“We’re sorry,” I cry. “It was a misunderstanding, and it won’t happen again.”
My husband ignores my words. “Yes, there was a dispute—about how my wife is being overworked.”
“I’m not overworked,” I say. “Sorry, Makee. There’s no problem.”
“Yes, there is a problem,” my husband says. “She’s not your slave. She can’t be performing menial tasks for you. She has other obligations.”
To my surprise, Makee gives a short nod. “I understand. She’s your wife. But you hurt that girl.”
“She’s fine. She walked out of the house. I saw her.”
“She’s hurt. I saw bruises on her arms.” His spine stiffens. “She refuses to come back. Everyone is distressed. And for what? Why didn’t you come to me first? We could have worked on a resolution.”
“I told you both. There’s no problem,” I cry. “I can do whatever my husband wants—and whatever you need, Makee. There’s plenty of time in the day.”
Makee addresses me as though my husband is not here. “This is what I was trying to tell you. Whenever there are too many babathid around, the smallest feather transforms into the heaviest and most immoveable of rocks. Always.”
“Makee—I’m sorry.” I don’t dare look at my husband.
“Did he tell you about the hut in the forest?”
Heat floods my face. “It’s a mistake. Please—give us another chance.”
“How many chances should I give? Tall mountains are built of many small rocks. The tragedy is already taking shape. I have a responsibility to my people.”
“What are you saying?” my husband spits. “Speak clearly—all this talk of mountains and tragedy and responsibility—nonsense. What do you want?”
A gust of wind scatters drops of water on the roof that sound like soup on a slow boil.
“Tell me,” says Makee coldly, “what is sacred to a Russian?”
I fear Nikolai Isaakovich’s answer. I blurt, “God. God is sacred.”
“The Tsar,” says my husband as though I haven’t spoken. “The Tsar and everything he stands for is sacred.”
Makee presses his lips together and repositions the cheetoolth. When he raises his head again, he says quietly, “There is another village. They will take you.”
“What do you mean?” I cry. “We want to stay here.”
“You can stay here,” Makee says, “but the commander must go.”
“No!” I beg. “Makee, please!”
“I will slay the man who tries to separate me from my wife,” my husband declares. He raises his elbows and clenches his fists. He takes a step toward Makee and holds his ridiculous stance.
I pull his arm down. “No, Kolya. Don’t.” He jerks his arm away.
Makee remains calm. He knows Nikolai Isaakovich’s blustering will come to nothing. “There is no choice. We have decided.”
The three old men watch. Their eyes dart from corner to corner of our little triangle. They can’t know what’s being said, but they certainly understand it.
“Then I want to go too,” I say. I don’t. But Makee’s edict forces me to say I do.
“You can’t.”
“Why not?” my husband demands.
“They won’t accept more than one babathid.” He sighs. “Please go peacefully. I will try to bring you back together again—either there or here. But now it will take time. And it won’t be possible if you keep fighting and causing trouble.”
“In the name of the Tsar Alexander and the Russian Empire, I won’t go!” my husband screams. “You hear me, Poppy Seed? You can’t make me do anything! I’m in charge. Come on, Anya. We’re finished here.”
He tugs my arm so roughly that my teeth snap together. He drags me outside.
“What do you think you’re doing? Have you gone mad?” I say. I reach for my silver cross, but it’s gone. How long it’s been gone, I can’t say. Where I lost it, I don’t know. I lay my hand against my heart, feeling the shape of absence. Where will it turn up? Who will find it? Whoever it is must not forget that the fate attached to lost necklaces found in the forest was determined long ago.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“What are you crying about?” Timofei Osipovich scolds mildly. “He’ll be back.”
We’re perched on the southernmost point within sight of Makee’s village. The canoe carrying my husband—and fifteen other men and two women—disappeared in the mist a long time and a short time ago. I watched them transform from a rocking cradle of paddlers and singers to a silent, dark cylinder magically suspended against a grey background, to nothing when they slipped behind the dreary curtain.
My husband didn’t look back but if he had, he would have seen me waving my arm until it ached like it was about to snap off. When I could no longer see them, I collapsed and landed on a sharp stone, but that wasn’t what made me weep. I cried for my abandonment, for once again losing my husband. I imagined my tears channelled into a stream that ran to the sea. Salt to salt. If only I could have slid over the rocks and disappeared, too.
Timofei Osipovich found me curled up, with my head pillowed on a cold stone. The shroud of grey mist was the only thing that refused to leave me.
“Go away,” I say.
“Go away? And leave a lady in distress? The damage would stain my reputation.”
“Your reputation is well known, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
He laughs. “Ah, you must be feeling better.”
I watch the sea. The water moves gently like the ocean is breathing. Like it’s an animal waiting patiently for something that no one could ever guess.