“He’ll be back.”
“Stop trying to cheer me up.” I know I sound like a child, and I wish I didn’t, but once he starts, I cannot suppress the words, cannot alter my tone.
“The sea will bring him back to you. One day soon, he’ll float back here, and a strong wave will toss him into your waiting arms. It’s inevitable—for it is impossible for a man to live without the sun, and equally impossible for him to live without his beloved!”
“Who sent you here?”
He grins again. “Your toyon is looking for you. And those slave girls you’ve befriended.”
“Will you never stop?”
“Those girls have something to show you. A new trinket. Perhaps a jewelled locket. Maybe a scrap of white lace for your bonnet.”
I lift my head, jump to my feet, and make for the path that leads to the village. His mockery follows me. “Or a bonbon from Paris. A satin ribbon for your neck? Maybe one of them has received an engagement ring. Maybe a golden—” until thankfully the wind carries away his voice and his silly sing-song chant fades to nothing.
Of course, no one is looking for me. Timofei Osipovich’s tale was a fabrication, but if he meant it only to get me to return to the house and stop pitying myself, then perhaps, grudgingly, I must give him credit.
With the improvement in the weather, my thoughts go to the ship that will rescue us. Makee assures me one will come.
“They often stop at Mokwinna’s village first. He has a reputation. Sometimes, if they find what they want, then they leave, and we never see them. They go straight to China to sell the furs.”
“Can’t we send a message to Mokwinna?”
Makee smiles. “We must never dream of it. Did you forget? He wouldn’t let Too-te-yoo-hannis Yoo-ett go—remember the American I told you about? I had to get him released. It’s better we say nothing to Mokwinna because once he’s involved, your rescue will become more complicated.”
“Is there no other way?”
“Be patient, Anna. You will get home.”
One evening, as I’m eating with Timofei Osipovich and Ovchinnikov, I say, “I think a ship will come soon.”
“Ha!” Timofei Osipovich cries. “Ships are out there every day.”
“They are?”
“Indeed they are.” A frown flits across the loyal Ovchinnikov’s face and disappears so fast I almost wonder if it was ever there.
“Then why doesn’t anybody see them? Why aren’t they coming here?”
“Who knows? Perhaps there’s no reason to stop here.”
“What about trade?” I say. “Or maybe to look for us.”
“Madame Bulygina,” he says, his mouth half full of fish. “If you want a ship so badly, you better build one.”
“Just like the hut you built?”
“No,” he says dismissively, “I’m talking about a grand enterprise like in Petropavlovsk. Just think of the ships you could build!”
“I don’t want to build a ship.”
“You don’t? Aren’t you Russian? Have you no spirit?”
“Since you’re so spirited, why don’t you build it?”
“I just might.”
“Have you ever built a ship before?”
“No! But neither have I been invited to the Tsarina’s chambers for a private visit. Nor have I ever stumbled upon a cache of gold coins big enough to feed me on cream and jam until I die. But naturally I dream about such things.”
Ovchinnikov laughs.
I say, “You’re mad. You dream too much.”
“And you, Madame Bulygina, don’t dream enough. Imagine this,” he says. “The koliuzhi cut down the trees. They make planks and beams and masts—whatever we need. Then I show them how to assemble it. And they build it. They can build one of their own while they’re at it!” He grins.
“Why should they listen to you? They already have their own boats. They don’t need Russian ships.”
He looks at me like I’m the insane one. “They certainly do.”
“Whatever for?”
“The toyons want everything we have to offer. They’re smart. They’re thinking about the future.”
That evening, when I go out to relieve myself one last time, I walk down to the beach where the trees won’t obstruct my view. It’s the first time since finding out about Main Rigger Sobachnikov’s passing that I’ve felt like looking at the stars.
The sky is clear, and the moon is waning. There’s my Polaris, everlasting and strong. Who has depended on her since I last cast my gaze upon her? Countless men, I imagine. Traders, explorers, and wanderers of all sorts.
To her side lies Draco the dragon, dim as ever. With one finger, I trace his long back bent like the keel of a ship. My imagination must be spurred on by my longing. For next I see Polaris not as the tip of Ursa Minor’s tail, but as the top of the mast to Draco’s keel.
There was a ship constellation, the Argo Navis, but half a century ago, Monsieur Nicolas-Louis de Lacaille dismantled it because he thought it took up too much of the sky. He divided it into three constellations: the Keel, the Sails, and the Stern. And then he went on to name the Compass, the Clock, and even the Telescope. I’ve seen none of them—they’re all in the southern hemisphere. Long ago, I pledged to see them myself and, one day, I will.
Without the Argo Navis, the night sky needs a ship. Has any astronomer thought to look for it in the northern hemisphere? How natural that Polaris, the Ship Star, would be part of it. How perfect that she would be the point around which the vessel’s path would revolve. Such a ship would always come back to where it started. It would always get home.
How I wish my father were here. He appreciates thoughts like this, and the discussions they spur on. He might tell me that my imagination had run amok or point out the flaws in my discovery. I know they’re there. He might say that even if the academy could ever be convinced to support my claim, the authorities at the French Royal Academy might not view it so favourably. I would know that what he really meant was that he was proud that here, in the land of the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts, a possible new constellation had just been named—by his daughter.
Dressed magnificently, the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts board the canoes. They wear clothing of fur and hide and cedar bark, much of it clattering with korolki and shells. Their dresses and robes ripple as they move, bringing to life the designs of animals and people that are woven into or painted onto their clothes. Their necks and arms are adorned with jewellery. Hats perch on men’s heads, those men’s faces, arms, and chests painted red and black. We’re going to celebrate a marriage—so Makee informed me yesterday.
Makee has a freshly brushed sea otter cape draped over his shoulders. Timofei Osipovich sits just in front of him. He’s tied back his hair with a sinew, and it hangs nearly to the middle of his back. He must have tried to trim his beard with a shell knife; it looks less disorderly than it did yesterday.
The Aleuts and Kozma Ovchinnikov are in the same canoe as me. Ovchinnikov’s followed his master’s lead and also done something with his hair and beard. I can almost see his eyes now. He and the Aleuts have paddles.
Inessa and the other girl wave from shore. They’re staying home—as are some of the older people, three new mothers and their babies, and a cluster of young men who are already strutting about the beach like roosters. They’ll watch over the village while we’re gone. One of them is the man with the scar on his chest. He’s watching Inessa wave at me.
A few days ago, when Makee told me about the wedding—and that I was to attend—he also told me I’d be given a new dress. When I later took the garment from his wife, it was much lighter than I expected. It draped over my arm like it was made of fine linen. It was much more delicate than the cedar robe I had to wear when I washed my clothing. Still, if anybody had told me in Petersburg that I’d one day own a dress made of bark, I would have thought her words in jest. I smiled. “Oo-shuk-yu—” I hesitated because I’d forgotten half the word. Enunciating each syllable, she said, “Oo-shoo-yuksh-uhlits.” I thought that one day I’d get the entire word out without help.