Would my husband be irritated when he saw me in my dress? Probably. But it made no sense to refuse. I’d been wearing the same clothing for several months now. The cuffs, collar, and hem were stained and shredded. The seams had all come apart and been stitched back together. There were tears where I’d caught my sleeve or hem on branches while I was working. I repaired my clothes as often as needed, but the fabric was so thin and had torn so often that, in places, my clothes were held together by mending and nothing more.
Besides, I now found the cedar dresses, with their fringes and the patterns woven into them, to be quite pretty.
Inessa and the other girl helped me dress. They showed me where the robe should sit on my shoulders and they tied a belt around my waist to hold the dress in place. Inessa patiently untangled my hair and fixed it in a single braid that trailed down my back just like hers. I felt nearly unclothed without my chemise, and with my limbs so exposed. My cedar cape would keep my shoulders covered and assure some modesty.
They circled me when they were finished, tucking in the dress where it protruded, and my own stray hairs. The only mirror I had was their faces. My doubt was alleviated for what I saw reflected back surprised and pleased me.
Once the canoes leave the shelter of our cove, the waves lift us like we’re in a basket and set us down again on the other side. However, this canoe is so solid and heavy, it never feels like it will capsize. I sit still and low in the boat where the wind can’t reach, and I listen to the songs that carry us with the current.
We pass the stacks and stumps with their fringe of trees, and the open arms of beaches. Gulls follow us then veer back toward the shore. A compact black bird shaped like a Chinese teapot floats in groups farther out to sea. On a pan of rocks, at the base of a stack, seals bask. They raise their heads and look, but as far away as we are, they deem us unworthy of their attention, much less important than the sun.
The ocean opens on our other side to a kind of eternity that’s as timeless as the night sky, and, on a day like today, just as beautiful.
For a long time and a short time, we continue until finally, barely visible, a thread of smoke rises straight through the tops of the trees. The canoes turn toward it, toward the mouth of a river that will lead to it.
This is the Quileutes’ village. Where I last saw Maria.
Beneath the cries of the seabirds, the faint sound of drumming rises, thin as that wisp of smoke. As we draw closer to shore and it grows louder, the paddles begin to dip and pull to match its rhythm. Finally, we’re near enough to see the faces of the people waiting on the beach.
In a cluster off to one side, there’s Maria. And Ivan Kurmachev, the carpenter. There’s the American, John Williams, so pale and thin now that with his shock of red hair he looks like a candle. Do they see me? I wave. I didn’t realize they’d all be here.
Maria comes to the edge of the water, her eyes all but invisible in their deep creases, her mouth stretched wide. “You said you’d be back, but I didn’t expect it would be so soon.” I take the hand she offers and sink into her arms once again, feeling the frail bones of her back.
Timofei Osipovich is pulled into the centre of the men. They wrap their arms around him and won’t let go. Ovchinnikov and the two Aleuts are also dragged into the wild tangle. They look like a nest of octopuses. My heart swells.
And then I realize.
He’s missing. My husband is not here.
I turn to Maria. I can’t breathe.
“He’s here,” she says. “Don’t worry.”
“Where?”
“Fishing,” she says. “Down the coast.”
“When are they coming back?”
No one knows.
All the men are thinner and more worn down. They’re dirtier and their clothes are even more ragged than the last time I saw them. Still, joy lights up their faces; it eases my worry. We’re far from being the creatures we were when the brig ran aground, but the fondness they exhibit in their smiles and their embraces reminds me of their camaraderie on the ship. It renews my confidence. We will overcome this tragedy.
Maria’s the least changed of all. The most conspicuous difference is a sinew with a beaded pendant she now wears around her neck. The pendant, made of those tubular, white beads and korolki, hangs between her saggy breasts like an artifact from happier times. It’s hard not to look at that female part of her and wonder what kind of a young woman she was and what hopes she’d once nurtured.
When the men draw apart and there’s space between their words, I ask, “Where have you been? What happened?”
They look at one another, and from the fear and pride and uncertainty and confusion in their gazes, I understand, without having heard a word, that much has happened—just as it has to me—and that it’s hard to know where the story begins. The carpenter Kurmachev answers the challenge. “We were determined to stay free men,” he says, “but as you can see, we failed. We planned an escape by sea. The moon was unfriendly that night, peeking through a rent in the clouds as though taunting us. There was so little light for a sea voyage.”
They built a canoe. It capsized in the surf. They scrambled for their lives. They got back to shore. But they lost everything.
“From that moment, there was no choice,” drawls the American. “We surrendered to these koliuzhi.”
“If I’d heeded you, Madame Bulygina, that day on the river,” says Kurmachev, “I’d still have my flask. But to each his lot is given!”
Every man speaks at once. Agreeing, disagreeing, explaining, qualifying, contradicting, exaggerating, and teasing. Multiple truths are set before me, and I’m invited to choose the ones I want. Some mesh with my story and some don’t. Some are spoken quietly, others shouted with passion. I don’t know which is most deserving, or what to believe. But I feel light as a feather, lifted up by the pleasure of hearing their voices once again.
The moustached toyon’s house overflows with guests from the village as well as up and down the coast. Makee’s sister with her silver comb sits with a group of women my mother’s age on a bench near one of the posts. The Murzik has a long conversation with Timofei Osipovich. They’ve met before and I soon deduce that our prikashchik gave him the handkerchief that caused so much trouble with the Chalat Tsar. The injured eyebrow man is also here. Not only is he here but he’s the bridegroom—marrying the moustached toyon’s daughter.
He’s wearing a breechclout, but covering it, and the top half of his legs, is a decorated apron. The queer koliuzhi creatures are woven into it—a big-snouted animal like a bear or a wolf stretched out along the top, and beneath it, a toothy creature with huge eyebrows that mirror his and a checkerboard neck. The apron is big enough to cover his scar. He also wears a new, red shirt that can only have come from us.
Nikolai Isaakovich returned from fishing just after we’d finished warming ourselves before the fire. The chill of the sea voyage had left my body. Timofei Osipovich called out to him as soon as he entered, and he stopped. He smiled, hearing the familiar voice, and when he found the prikashchik’s face, he strode across the house and they embraced, pounding one another on their backs. When my husband pulled away, I had the chance to really see him. His face was ruddy, his hair wet and stringy, and he looked savage in a way that I know would have bothered his sensibilities only a few weeks ago. Timofei Osipovich said something else to him, and he looked up and found me.