Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

Tears well up in my eyes, surely from my exhaustion, but also because I’ve never known anything as beautiful as this exists, and I realize how poor my life has been without this knowledge.

Timofei Osipovich’s trail winds through this splendour, then peters out into nothing after only a few minutes. We spread out looking for it again. I walk around a grove of ferns with brilliant green leaves on arched spines that spill over like streams of water in a fountain. Behind the ferns lie spindly branches covered in thorns. I edge around them to avoid being scratched. The ground is spongy. Cold water seeps into my shoes.

Nearby, tall Sobachnikov pushes aside another branch, and this time, when it springs back, it knocks old Yakov’s cap off his head. A small flock of birds as tiny as buttons flit overhead as though launched from slingshots.

Just ahead, Maria skirts along an old fallen log covered in moss. The log is wide like the trees that surround us. She’s dwarfed as she walks its length. Smaller trees and plants grow on top of the log as if it’s a garden. Maria has to walk some distance before she finds a place to cross over it.

“Over here!” John Williams cries. “The trail’s over here.” I head toward his voice.

Big beards of moss so long they could be braided garland the trees. Is it alive? How does it sustain itself without killing the tree? Fixed to the branches as it is, it makes the trees look like a congress of fat, bearded priests, gathered to discuss profound questions of faith and sin.

I follow the others. I walk as well as I can with one hand clutched to the neck of my bundle, and the other trying to hold closed my cedar bark cape. Most of the time, I can’t see Nikolai Isaakovich. But I yearn to be with him. I want to see his face to know if this forest surprises and moves him, too.

As I predicted on the banks of the river, it begins to rain. It’s soft, misty rain that makes me believe we’re walking through a cloud. It continues, soaking my hair and my skirt. I clutch more tightly the opening of my bark cloak. My bundle feels heavier. I wonder if the food I carry is being spoiled in the rain. But it will be even worse if my telescope and star log are becoming wet.

I enter a thicker part of the forest, and the trail grows vague again. I hear the others just ahead; I must be moving in the right direction. After a few minutes, I come upon the crew waiting in a grove. “It’s too dark to go on,” my husband says. “We’ll stop here.”

“How far do you think we’ve come?” I ask.

“We’ve made good progress,” he replies and turns to Timofei Osipovich. “What do you think?”

“I would think perhaps a good three nautical miles.”

No one smiles. Three. Leaving sixty-two more to go.

We drop our bundles and the Aleuts start to put up our tents, tying cords to the trees and branches that surround us. I walk the perimeter of our camp area. My feet sink into the mossy ground, but perhaps this is as good a place as any we might find in this drenched forest.

Timofei Osipovich sidles over and points. “Look, Madame Bulygina, here’s my supper.” Mushrooms have pushed up around a rotting log. They’re orange, with upturned caps in the shape of a jaunty hat I’d once yearned for in Petersburg. “Cook them for me, will you?” And when I frown, he adds, “You do know how to cook, don’t you?”

“Cook them yourself,” I mutter.

“They’re poisonous,” says Maria. “Don’t touch them.”

Our fire is very small—just big enough for Maria to prepare another meagre meal of kasha and tepid tea. Though we haven’t seen the koliuzhi all day, such a tiny fire won’t draw any attention should they happen to pass nearby. Still, my husband doubles the size of our watch. Four men guard us at once, four more taking their place after a few hours.

Nikolai Isaakovich sits beside me, tired and sagging toward his injury. I’m tired as well. My feet are achy and blistered. My loose, wet shoes have rubbed the skin off my heels and toes, and they bleed in several places. However, I’m so exhausted, I’m sure I’ll forget as soon as I lie down. Tonight, I’m destined to sleep the deep and bottomless slumber of little children.

Zhuchka is on my other side, pressed into my leg. Her steady breathing offers as much comfort as the heat she generates.

The night looms over us the way the mountains hang over Novo-Arkhangelsk. There are no stars to be seen overhead. It’s too overcast, and even if it wasn’t, the canopy would block any view. It will be many hours before the sun rises again. The men slouch and sigh, and if it weren’t for their full flasks—thanks to the carpenter—I’m sure they’d have given up and retired for the night.

The fire sighs and pops.

“Long ago,” Timofei Osipovich says, breaking our silence, “not near, not far, not high, not low, the Tsar sent me to sea, alone.” The American peers at him. With one hand, the carpenter stirs the fire with a stick, while he takes a swig from his flask with the other. The other men shift. “I was on a secret mission. Don’t ask for details—I’d be put before a firing squad if I were to reveal its true nature.” The men sit up.

“The winds howled, as they do, and the seas were higher than these trees, as they sometimes are, and I was forced ashore to an island so small and rarely visited that it fails to appear on any navigator’s map.” My husband stiffens and looks as though he’s being accused of incompetence, but no one’s paying any attention to him. Everyone is mesmerized by Timofei Osipovich.

“It was a merciless piece of land forsaken by God. A barren rock in the middle of nowhere. Even the birds stayed away. There was hardly anywhere to land my little baidarka. I fought the waves until I came to a stony beach, scarcely wider than this.” He holds up his hands to show us. “I didn’t think my boat would fit through the opening, but I forced it. I had no choice.

“Then, I made a horrible discovery. I’d been wrong. The island was not abandoned. A hundred men jumped out from behind a rock. They waved their swords and spears and screeched like the devil’s army as they came for me.”

Every man leans in. In the fire, a burning log collapses with a soft thud. The fire crackles and a few sparks rise and then extinguish themselves.

“I’d walked right through the gates of Hell. I couldn’t fight those savages on my own. I’d drown if I tried to go back out into the sea. I thought for certain that day I would die.

“And so, having no other choice, I raised my empty arms high above my head.” He throws his arms aloft, slapping the jaw of his loyal Ovchinnikov who doesn’t so much as wince. “I faced the charging savages. And I hoped that one of them would understand that I was surrendering, and placing my fate in their hands.

“Much to my astonishment, my assailants immediately stopped. They were no farther away from me than Ivan Kurmachev is right now.”

Every head turns to see where the carpenter is, to gauge the distance and estimate how long it would take if one had to withdraw to save his life. Kurmachev takes a nervous swig from his flask, and when he lowers it, he reveals eyes as round as full moons. Timofei Osipovich continues.

“I didn’t budge. Neither did they for a long, long time. It seemed a lifetime or two. Finally, slowly, one man at a time, they lowered their weapons. And then two of them approached. They inspected my boat. They began to take everything out, running their filthy fingers over each item, discussing the ones that interested them. You know the koliuzhi way—you’ve seen it yourselves. All the while, I did and said nothing, for fear of driving them, once again, into a savage rage.

“When they got to the end of my belongings, and seemed not to know what to do next, I realized immediately that I had to do something to distract them. Otherwise, they might think that the next best thing to do would be to kill me.”