Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

I don’t know what they say. They don’t even wave before they disappear into the forest. They take the shattered piece of driftwood with them.

At that moment, our group appears down the beach. They’re running as fast as they are able to on loose rock, while dear Zhuchka bounds along at their side. Timofei Osipovich hollers and waves his gun in the air.

“They’re late for the party,” he says, grinning. “In such a hurry, they miss all the entertainment.” He looks to the grey sky, which is still light. “Come on. Maybe we can manage another mile or two before night.”

This cave is wet and smells like mushrooms and fermented cabbage, but we’re better off in here than out in the snow. The firewood is damp, and though we wave our caps and cloaks to direct the smoke outside, the cave has other ideas. My eyes water and old Yakov has a coughing fit—still, no one leaves the fire’s side for long. No one wants to know the exact depths of this cave and risk meeting the creatures that sprout and grow in perpetual darkness.

The mouth of the cave frames the falling snow. The flakes are as big as feathers but judging by the way they fall, they’re heavy. Snow ought to be a delight, but this fills me instead with dread. Much more of this lies ahead. It is only November, and it will only become colder.

I already miss being dry and warm under the covers of a bed where I can sleep properly. My house in Novo-Arkhangelsk is full of holes, and it leaks as bad as a barn. It’s an ugly grey block of a house, perpetually dark inside, one of many arranged so randomly they appear to have been inadvertently dropped into that outpost. The houses are clustered atop a hill dwarfed by mountains whose peaks are always concealed in cloud. The furnishings are austere and uncomfortable. But I’d rush up the rough path to its front door right now if I could, unlatch it, and enter, throw myself onto the first piece of serviceable furniture I could find and never complain again.

The men are also tired, cold, and hungry. The food we salvaged from the ship is indeed not enough. Maria’s already reduced our portions in order to stretch out what’s left. She’s asked the brooding Ovchinnikov to go hunting or fishing so she can make something instead of plain kasha and tea; he looked to Timofei Osipovich who shook his head, no. Even our prikashchik is too dejected.

The old carpenter Kurmachev emptied his flask and asked the others to share. Only Sobachnikov agreed. He poured some of his rum into the carpenter’s flask, and Kurmachev nodded his thanks before fixing himself a place away from the smoke, and quaffing a mouthful or two. Or more.

Not an hour ago, Zhuchka began to act strangely. She hovered at the opening of the cave and whined. Finally, just when John Williams offered to go see what was bothering her, something crashed outside. I looked up. A boulder landed at the mouth of the cave. It was followed by a second boulder and a third. They were falling from above the cave entrance. At first, I didn’t understand what was causing this landslide. Then my husband said, “It’s the koliuzhi again.”

“What are they doing?” grumbled the apprentice Kotelnikov.

“They’re throwing rocks.”

“Rocks again? Are they trying to kill us?” said Kotelnikov.

“No. They want to scare us,” said Timofei Osipovich. “If they wanted to hurt us, believe me, they would have done it by now. They know we’re cornered in this loathsome prison.” He picked up a loose rock and sent it flying out into the daylight. “I thought I made it perfectly clear to them…”

“It seems all you did was challenge them to a contest,” I said. “Perhaps they’re not as scared of your little gun as you think.”

He glowered but then laughed. “Clever girl.”

The falling rocks stopped. We waited. Then a rustling began outside. Zhuchka raised her hackles and growled. A koliuzhi ran by. He moved so fast, it was impossible to say anything about him—how big he was, whether he was armed, what he was wearing, whether he was somebody we’d already met. Then another man dashed by in the opposite direction. There was a third. Timofei Osipovich and Ovchinnikov raised their guns in preparation for the fourth, or even an invasion. It seemed Timofei Osipovich’s mistaken assessment of their intentions had brought into being what we most dreaded. But there wasn’t another sound, and no other koliuzhi disturbs us all night.

When we rise the next morning, it’s to discover that the snowstorm is over. The light that streams in the mouth of the cave is intense. Blinded by the brightness, I cautiously follow the others outside. No rain. Vibrant-blue sky peeps through the forest canopy. The air is as crisp as a freshly starched cuff. Patches of snow are scattered here and there. It seems most of it has already melted. I scoop up a small handful and put it in my mouth. It’s as cold as the light is bright. I scoop again and wash my face with it. It stings, but I’m revived. If this weather holds, perhaps the stars will be visible tonight.

While we’re outside exploring our surroundings and clearing our lungs of last night’s foul cave air, John Williams locates a trail. My husband announces that we’ll follow it for as long as we can, for as long as it heads in the right direction. He doesn’t mention what happened on the beach yesterday. I know he’s worried. He wants us to stay together; he also wants us to maintain a brisk pace, which is nearly impossible when crossing sand and gravel beaches. The farther south we can get, the warmer the weather will be, and hospitable weather means a better chance of survival.

Near mid-morning, our trail ends at a narrow, but deep, stream. Zhuchka is already halfway in, up to her belly, lapping up water, and snapping at debris carried from upstream. The water turns her fur nearly black, except for the white tip of her paintbrush tail, which retains its brilliance and its curl even when wet.

“Look—the track turns this way,” says John Williams. The path he indicates follows the riverbank upstream, into deeper bush.

“If there’s a path, we should take it,” says Nikolai Isaakovich.

“With caution,” Timofei Osipovich concurs. “Remain alert, men.”

We follow the path. Sunlight reaches us in fingers through the trees. Maria finds some edible mushrooms. Though slimy and well past their prime, she boils them when we stop for a meal, with some purplish berries like the ones I tasted our first day on shore. The broth is dismal, but I’m so hungry and the broth is so warm that I gulp my entire portion except for a few pinches of mushroom that I offer to Zhuchka. She gobbles them.

“I don’t know about this trail,” my husband says as we shoulder our bundles for the next stretch.

“It’s going in the right direction,” says John Williams.

“The koliuzhi trails are all like this,” says Timofei Osipovich.

We march on through the afternoon. I hobble a bit. The blisters on my heels sting, but I try to forget about them. Eventually callouses will form if I give them time. Maria walks with me. Ovchinnikov, whom Timofei Osipovich charged with guarding our backs, is the last man in our queue. Zhuchka returns periodically to insert her wet nose into my hand before plunging back into the undergrowth.

We leave the little stream. Its burbling disappears, and the trail starts to climb. Maria and I slow to a crawl. The path is muddy and uneven; gnarled roots protrude from the soil. It grows more and more slippery as it weaves up the hill in short segments that snake back and forth on one another. Maria and I stop often to catch our breaths. Ovchinnikov has no choice except to slow to match our pace. The way he watches us when we stop makes me shorten our breaks.