No.
I can smell the smoke.
“Zhuchka?” I cry. “Where are we?”
Ahead there’s a flicker. Light. A fire.
I go forward cautiously. Whose fire is this?
When I finally come to the edge of the trees and peer into the clearing, I see a row of about a dozen houses, whale bones gleaming around their perimeter, a wall of tall drying racks, stacks of firewood, canoes pulled up on the shore, and four totem poles facing the ocean, one, with wings stretched out, that resembles the Holy Cross. I understand. I understand, but I don’t believe it.
It’s Tsoo-yess. I’m back at Makee’s.
And the wolf is gone.
I stumble toward Makee’s house. When I almost reach the threshold, a figure is silhouetted against the door. It’s a woman. She screams.
It’s Inessa. She screams again.
“It’s me,” I cry. “It’s only me.”
She runs back inside, still screaming. I hear shouts—from both her and the other Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts.
I enter the house. I’m nearly blinded by the light from the fires. Everyone’s moving. Some are clustering around Inessa, others around their children, and still others have turned to the doorway or climbed the benches, so they can see. My vision returns to normal. In people’s faces, I see shock and fear.
And there he is. Nikolai Isaakovich.
Disbelief fills my heart and his eyes. I run, my arms stretched out, and throw myself against him. He enfolds me in an embrace, and only then do I believe it’s him. I let my body sink into his.
“Anya?” he says. “Where—how did you—?”
To respond is impossible. I don’t know the words to explain what happened these past four days.
I cling to him and remember all the times I’ve pressed up against him. None has been before so many people. There’s the brooding Kozma Ovchinnikov who’s almost smiling. There’s Makee’s wife. There’s the old woman who saw me unclothed and washed me in the pond. I feel far more exposed to her now. There’s the man with the scar on his chest; he has his arm around Inessa. On her left, the other girl is stroking Inessa’s hair and the instant she removes her hand and lays it against Inessa’s belly, I realize Inessa is pregnant, too.
“Where are the others?” I ask.
“Gone to the mountains to hunt,” Nikolai Isaakovich says.
“And Makee?”
“He took them. He’s with them.” He shifts and peers into my face. “Anya—I don’t understand. How did you get here?”
“Kolya—I’m exhausted.” I bury my face in his shoulder and try to shut out everyone who’s watching us. I let him lead me to our sleeping mat. He lies down with me, tucks the cedar blanket around us, curls into my back, and holds me. Mercifully, he stops talking and leaves me alone.
The next morning, I’m left alone to wander the beach. Everyone—including Nikolai Isaakovich—has eaten and gone to work. How will I explain my sudden appearance? I know what happened, but, even to me, it sounds like a fiction as dubious as any of Timofei Osipovich’s stories. Have I gone mad? Maybe. But even with Polaris, even with all the enlightened good sense in the world, I never could have found my way here on my own. That wolf was real.
The hunting party returns near midday with a commotion. The Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts rush to meet them and cry out in excitement and real pleasure. The hunters have brought back two reindeer that have been butchered into haunches and shoulders, barrels of ribs still attached to the backbone, legs with black stony hooves that look like elegant boot heels, and two heads with their antlers splayed like the crown of an oak tree.
Timofei Osipovich gapes when he sees me. But his shock flits away in an instant. He smiles and calls out, “Madame Bulygina! What a delightful surprise! It’s a good thing I brought dinner.” He raises his hands, which are caked with dried blood. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Makee doesn’t see me right away. He’s dealing with the meat. He points and gives instructions. One set of ribs is carried into his house. A man kneels beside one set of antlers and begins to saw it apart.
Finished, Makee turns toward his house. Before he reaches the door, I run up to face him.
“Anna? What are you doing here?”
“I came back last night.” I’ve said nothing false, but I already feel as guilty as if I had.
“Who brought you?”
“No one.” I redden. “Makee—I want to stay. Please let me.”
Until now, I’ve never seen him lost for words. “Give me a few minutes,” he says finally. “We shall talk.”
I pace along the length of the village while I wait, back and forth, the totem poles on one side, and the line of houses on the other. Timofei Osipovich slides into step beside me. “Congratulations!” he cries heartily.
“For what?”
“You’ve succeeded in surprising everyone.”
“That was not my intent.” I start to walk faster, but he matches my pace.
“They say it’s only seven versts to heaven, but the path is all forest. Have you arrived in your heaven?”
“They also say that a fool’s tongue runs before his feet,” I reply, and he laughs. “You haven’t moved into your hut, I see.”
“We’re waiting for our furniture to arrive from Petersburg. You must know what that’s like. It could take a while.”
A boy comes from the doorway of Makee’s house. His feet slap the earth. He stops before me and says, “Šu
uk. da·sa·
idic 
a
.”[55]
“What misfortune,” says Timofei Osipovich, “Your toyon is calling.”
“He’s not my toyon.” His laugh follows me and the boy inside.
Makee’s on the bench, holding his metal cheetoolth on his lap. He’s washed and put on fresh clothing. I approach, slowed by the weight of a hundred thoughts of what’s going to happen to me now.
“I am surprised to see you,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to find my husband.”
“You knew he was here?”
“Not exactly. I only knew he was somewhere to the north.”
I tell him most of the truth. What the promyshlenniki told me about the trade. How I ran away, hid in the forest, found Polaris, pointed myself in the right direction, followed streams—and how I stumbled upon Tsoo-yess by chance.
I say nothing about the wolf.
A silence stretches out between us. He shifts his hands on the cheetoolth, and it glints in the firelight.
“Makee—please—we’re expecting a child.” I redden.
His eyes flicker for an instant. Then, he purses his lips thoughtfully, and gives a short nod. “A child! I wish you and the commander great happiness.”
“Could I stay?” My voice comes out small and helpless, like I’m a little girl again.
“The Quileutes will be looking for you. They must be worried.”
“I’m sorry. I have to think about the baby now,” I say softly. “Try to understand.”
“A child is such happy news,” he says. “And happy news is hard to reconcile with what the toyons are saying.” He sighs deeply and says, “I will talk with them. But they won’t be pleased with me. I keep telling them the situation will improve. They don’t believe me anymore.”
“I’m very sorry, Makee. I promised you, and now all I’ve done is make more trouble.”
He sighs and sets aside the cheetoolth. “For the child’s sake, I’ll try. But the disruption your people are causing is nearly insupportable now. Order must be restored.”
After everyone’s back from work—my husband was near the rocks all day with some men harpooning octopus that they’ll use for bait tomorrow—we share the evening meaclass="underline" there’s reindeer, naturally, that was roasted in a pit near the beach. I saw the smoke spiralling gently upward and bending over the forest, and smelled the cooking meat. The bones are splintered and I suck out the marrow. We eat berries with it—the same orange berries I was picking when I escaped.