Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

Judging by the crunch of gravel on my heels, Timofei Osipovich is right behind me. Each step he takes matches mine and it irritates me. I stop, and the cedar cape slides off one shoulder. When I try to pull it back into place, my bundle falls to the stones.

“Show me,” I grumble.

Timofei Osipovich looks around and picks up a twig. I allow him to adjust the cloak around my shoulders and pin it in place with the twig. The twig slides easily between the bark fibres. I redden—so simple and I didn’t think of it myself. He tugs the hem to make sure it’s secure.

“Let’s go,” is all he says.

The crew is now far ahead, beneath a rocky headland at the other end of this pebbly beach. They’ve lined up and it looks like they’ll wade into the sea to pass around it. The tide is coming in. They’ll have to go quickly if they’re to get to the other side before the opportunity is lost.

The tide is also narrowing the strand on which Timofei Osipovich and I walk. The straight path between us and the crew is being bent into an arc that lengthens as the water advances. My shoulders burn but I hurry. Each minute I’m delayed, my path grows longer. I, too, must pass the headland before the water gets too deep.

Then I slip, turn my ankle, and stumble. I throw my arms out and catch myself just before I fall.

“Steady, Madame Bulygina,” says Timofei Osipovich. “Don’t injure yourself now.”

I cautiously flex my ankle. “I’m fine,” I say. “It’s not like I’ve been speared and struck with rocks.”

He laughs. “Thank heaven for that. If you had, no doubt your husband would have ordered us to carry you. Perhaps it would have been your good fortune if he had selected me for the task.”

I bristle. “Even if I was injured, I’d do the same as any man here, the same as you. I would not add to anybody’s burden.”

I turn back to our path. The others are very far ahead now.

“What are you doing?” I cry. “Put me down!”

Timofei Osipovich has picked me up and slung me over his shoulder like I’m one of the sailcloth bundles. He laughs, and I feel it ripple through my body. His feet dig into the small stones, and we set off toward the others.

“We’re falling behind, Madame Bulygina, and we need to catch up.”

“Put me down!” I repeat and push against him. How does he manage to carry me, my bundle, and his own load all at the same time? Is this his injured side? He gives no sign that he’s in pain.

I wish Nikolai Isaakovich were here. I wish Zhuchka would come back and bite his legs. But everyone is so far ahead, no one sees us, and with the sound of the surf masking everything, no one can hear me call for help.

“I’ll put you down once we catch up with the others.” He’s fast. He trots. I bump along, my body pressed into his bony shoulder. My silver cross bounces into my mouth, and I spit it out.

“If you don’t put me down now, you’ll have to deal with my husband!”

“I have to deal with him anyway. He’s in charge. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

Then I see them. Three koliuzhi. Emerging from the forest.

“Timofei Osipovich! They’re back!”

“Who?”

“The koliuzhi!”

He stops, slides me down his shoulder and turns to look. He takes his gun in hand but doesn’t raise it. I wish he would. Our entire crew has disappeared around the rocky headland. I don’t know how Timofei Osipovich alone will be able to defend us against three koliuzhi.

The koliuzhi call out, “Liká i.” [5] Stranger!

They carry bows and arrows. They wear vests and breechclouts, but no paint, and no feathers this time. They have no shoes. How do they manage on these rocks without shoes?

I recognize one—it’s the man who was in the tent on the beach with me. The moustached toyon. He looks different without the paint and feathers, without his sea otter cape. He doesn’t limp as he approaches. It wasn’t him they carried off the beach. I think about the dead boy, again and dread creeps down my limbs.

The toyon says, “Hílich hawayishka oki i ix watili lo ” [6] You are acting like a deer in the hunters’ grounds. Timofei Osipovich frowns and squints.

“What did he say?”

He shrugs. “I think it’s about hunting.”

“I thought you understood their language.”

“Some of it. Sometimes they understand me better than I understand them.” He smiles at me. “Don’t worry. Your Timofei Osipovich also knows a thing or two about hunting.”

He asks them a question. The toyon responds. As he’s speaking, Timofei Osipovich shifts his musket and the toyon stops. We all grow still.

In a low voice, Timofei Osipovich says, “The scoundrels have been stalking us all day. I knew it.”

He asks another question and after the toyon responds, our prikashchik turns to me. “He wants to know where we’re going. I wouldn’t tell him. He also says there’s a better trail in the forest. He wants us to follow them so they can show us.”

“We can’t do that,” I cry, colour burning my cheeks. “Do they think we’re stupid?”

“Madame Bulygina, compose yourself. They can’t understand what you’re saying, but if you look and sound angry and frightened, they’re not going to respond favourably.”

He’s right. Our strength right now is our language. We can say anything we want. They won’t understand. This may help us escape, or at least hold off an attack until my husband realizes we’re missing and sends somebody back.

Timofei Osipovich turns again to the koliuzhi. I can tell the toyon is adamant about us following.

“I think this toyon needs a hunting lesson,” says Timofei Osipovich coolly. “Watch me—but stay calm, please, Madame Bulygina.”

He says something that seems to please the toyon, and they stop talking. Timofei Osipovich steps away from us and picks up a piece of driftwood. He sets it atop a larger log stretched on its side, just a short distance away. He jiggles the driftwood until it’s balanced on the big log.

“Be still, Madame Bulygina, no matter what. I’m going to step away now, but don’t worry. I’ll kill them all if anybody touches you.”

He takes a few steps away. He turns to see where he is. Then he walks farther. The stones clatter under his feet. When he’s a distance away, he turns, loads his gun, aims, and pulls the trigger.

The shot echoes through the forest. My ears ring. I understand now. He’s giving a demonstration—a demonstration to instill fear and respect—and at the same time, to signal to our group that we’re in trouble. It won’t be long before the others return.

The koliuzhi look sideways at one another but say nothing. Once Timofei Osipovich lowers his gun, they go to the driftwood. One of the men—not the moustached toyon—picks it up. There’s a hole punched through the wood. Splinters jut out at all angles like lightning. He gives it to the toyon.

Then they walk toward Timofei Osipovich who hasn’t moved. They walk with purpose—I think they’re counting their steps. They want to know how far Timofei Ospiovich’s musket can shoot. It takes more than a minute before they reach the prikashchik.